path: root/old/murad10.txt

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales
#3 in our series by Maria Edgeworth


Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.  Do not remove this.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below.  We need your donations.


Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales

by Maria Edgeworth

April, 2000 [Etext #2129]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales
******This file should be named murad10.txt or murad10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, murad11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, murad10a.txt


This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1891 Cassell and Company edition.

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included.  Therefore, we do usually do NOT! keep
these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.


We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.

Please note:  neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.  To be sure you have an
up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
in the first week of the next month.  Since our ftp program has
a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
new copy has at least one byte more or less.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.  This
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text
files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+
If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly
from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an
assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few
more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we
don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person.

We need your donations more than ever!


All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law.  (CMU = Carnegie-
Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg
P. O. Box  2782
Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director:
Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>
hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .

We would prefer to send you this information by email.

******

To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser
to view http://promo.net/pg.  This site lists Etexts by
author and by title, and includes information about how
to get involved with Project Gutenberg.  You could also
download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here.  This
is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com,
for a more complete list of our various sites.

To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any
Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror
sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed
at http://promo.net/pg).

Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better.

Example FTP session:

ftp sunsite.unc.edu
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.??  [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]

***

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**

(Three Pages)


***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here?  You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault.  So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you.  It also tells you how
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement.  If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from.  If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project").  Among other
things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works.  Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects".  Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from.  If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy.  If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS".  NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
     cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
     net profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon
     University" within the 60 days following each
     date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
     your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
you can think of.  Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*





This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1891 Cassell and Company edition.





MURAD THE UNLUCKY AND OTHER TALES

by Maria Edgeworth




Contents:


Introduction
Murad the Unlucky
The Limerick Gloves
Madame de Fleury



INTRODUCTION



Maria Edgeworth came of a lively family which had settled in
Ireland in the latter part of the sixteenth century.  Her father at
the age of five-and-twenty inherited the family estates at
Edgeworths-town in 1769.  He had snatched an early marriage, which
did not prove happy.  He had a little son, whom he was educating
upon the principles set forth in Rousseau's "Emile," and a daughter
Maria, who was born on the 1st of January, 1767.  He was then
living at Hare Hatch, near Maidenhead.  In March, 1773, his first
wife died after giving birth to a daughter named Anna.  In July,
1773, he married again, Honora Sneyd, and went to live in Ireland,
taking with him his daughter Maria, who was then about six years
old.  Two years afterwards she was sent from Ireland to a school at
Derby.  In April, 1780, her father's second wife died, and advised
him upon her death-bed to marry her sister Elizabeth.  He married
his deceased wife's sister on the next following Christmas Day.
Maria Edgeworth was in that year removed to a school in London, and
her holidays were often spent with  her father's friend Thomas Day,
the author of "Sandford and Merton," an eccentric enthusiast who
lived then at Anningsley, in Surrey.

Maria Edgeworth--always a little body--was conspicuous among her
schoolfellows for quick wit, and was apt alike for study and
invention.  She was story-teller general to the community.  In
1782, at the age of fifteen, she left school and went home with her
father and his third wife, who then settled finally at
Edgeworthstown.

At Edgeworthstown Richard Lovell Edgeworth now became active in the
direct training of his children, in the improvement of his estate,
and in schemes for the improvement of the country.  His eldest
daughter, Maria, showing skill with the pen, he made her more and
more his companion and fellow-worker to good ends.  She kept
household accounts, had entrusted to her the whole education of a
little brother, wrote stories on a slate and read them to the
family, wiped them off when not approved, and copied them in ink if
they proved popular with the home public.  Miss Edgeworth's first
printed book was a plea for the education of women, "Letters to
Literary Ladies," published in 1795, when her age was eight-and-
twenty.  Next year, 1796, working with her father, she produced the
first volume of the "Parent's Assistant."  In November, 1797, when
Miss Edgeworth's age was nearly thirty-one, her father, then aged
fifty-three, lost his third wife, and he married a fourth in the
following May.  The fourth wife, at first objected to, was young
enough to be a companion and friend, and between her and Maria
Edgeworth a fast friendship came to be established.  In the year of
her father's fourth marriage Maria joined him in the production of
two volumes on "Practical Education."  Then followed books for
children, including "Harry and Lucy," which had been begun by her
father years before in partnership with his second wife, when
Thomas Day began writing "Sandford and Merton," with the original
intention that it should be worked in as a part of the whole
scheme.

In the year 1800 Miss Edgeworth, thirty-three years old, began her
independent career as a novelist with "Castle Rackrent;" and from
that time on, work followed work in illustration of the power of a
woman of genius to associate quick wit and quick feeling with sound
sense and a good reason for speaking.  Sir Walter Scott in his
frank way declared that he received an impulse from Miss
Edgeworth's example as a storyteller.  In the general preface to
his own final edition of the Waverley Novels he said that "Without
being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour,
pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact, which pervade the works of
my accomplished friend, I felt that something might be attempted
for my own country of the same kind with that which Miss Edgeworth
so fortunately achieved for Ireland--something which might
introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more
favourable light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend to
procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence for their
foibles."

Of the three stories in this volume, who--"Murad the Unlucky" and
"The Limerick Gloves"--first appeared in three volumes of "Popular
Tales," which were first published in 1804, with a short
introduction by Miss Edgeworth's father.  "Madame de Fleury" was
written a few years later.

H. M.




MURAD THE UNLUCKY




CHAPTER I



It is well known that the grand seignior amuses himself by going at
night, in disguise, through streets of Constantinople; as the
caliph Haroun Alraschid used formerly to do in Bagdad.

One moonlight night, accompanied by his grand vizier, he traversed
several of the principal streets of the city without seeing
anything remarkable.  At length, as they were passing a rope-
maker's, the sultan recollected the Arabian story of Cogia-Hassan
Alhabal, the rope-maker, and his two friends, Saad and Saadi, who
differed so much in their opinion concerning the influence of
fortune over human affairs.

"What is your opinion on this subject?" said the grand seignior to
his vizier.

"I am inclined, please your majesty," replied the vizier, "to think
that success in the world depends more upon prudence than upon what
is called luck, or fortune."

"And I," said the sultan, "am persuaded that fortune does more for
men than prudence.  Do you not every day hear of persons who are
said to be fortunate or unfortunate?  How comes it that this
opinion should prevail amongst men, if it be not justified by
experience?"

"It is not for me to dispute with your majesty," replied the
prudent vizier.

"Speak your mind freely; I desire and command it," said the sultan.

"Then I am of opinion," answered the vizier, "that people are often
led to believe others fortunate, or unfortunate, merely because
they only know the general outline of their histories; and are
ignorant of the incidents and events in which they have shown
prudence or imprudence.  I have heard, for instance, that there are
at present, in this city, two men, who are remarkable for their
good and bad fortune:  one is called Murad the Unlucky, and the
other Saladin the Lucky.  Now, I am inclined to think, if we could
hear their stories, we should find that one is a prudent and the
other an imprudent character."

"Where do these men live?" interrupted the sultan.  "I will hear
their histories from their own lips before I sleep."

"Murad the Unlucky lives in the next square," said the vizier.

The sultan desired to go thither immediately.  Scarcely had they
entered the square, when they heard the cry of loud lamentations.
They followed the sound till they came to a house of which the door
was open, and where there was a man tearing his turban, and weeping
bitterly.  They asked the cause of his distress, and he pointed to
the fragments of a china vase, which lay on the pavement at his
door.

"This seems undoubtedly to be beautiful china," said the sultan,
taking up one of the broken pieces; "but can the loss of a china
vase be the cause of such violent grief and despair?"

"Ah, gentlemen," said the owner of the vase, suspending his
lamentations, and looking at the dress of the pretended merchants,
"I see that you are strangers:  you do not know how much cause I
have for grief and despair!  You do not know that you are speaking
to Murad the Unlucky!  Were you to hear all the unfortunate
accidents that have happened to me, from the time I was born till
this instant, you would perhaps pity me, and acknowledge I have
just cause for despair."

Curiosity was strongly expressed by the sultan; and the hope of
obtaining sympathy inclined Murad to gratify it by the recital of
his adventures.  "Gentlemen," said he, "I scarcely dare invite you
into the house of such an unlucky being as I am; but if you will
venture to take a night's lodging under my roof, you shall hear at
your leisure the story of my misfortunes."

The sultan and the vizier excused themselves from spending the
night with Murad, saying that they were obliged to proceed to their
khan, where they should be expected by their companions; but they
begged permission to repose themselves for half an hour in his
house, and besought him to relate the history of his life, if it
would not renew his grief too much to recollect his misfortunes.

Few men are so miserable as not to like to talk of their
misfortunes, where they have, or where they think they have, any
chance of obtaining compassion.  As soon as the pretended merchants
were seated, Murad began his story in the following manner:-

"My father was a merchant of this city.  The night before I was
born he dreamed that I came into the world with the head of a dog
and the tail of a dragon; and that, in haste to conceal my
deformity, he rolled me up in a piece of linen, which unluckily
proved to be the grind seignior's turban; who, enraged at his
insolence in touching his turban, commanded that his head should be
struck off.

"My father awaked before he lost his head, but not before he had
lost half his wits from the terror of his dream.  He considered it
as a warning sent from above, and consequently determined to avoid
the sight of me.  He would not stay to see whether I should really
be born with the head of a dog and the tail of a dragon; but he set
out, the next morning, on a voyage to Aleppo.

"He was absent for upwards of seven years; and during that time my
education was totally neglected.  One day I inquired from my mother
why I had been named Murad the Unlucky.  She told me that this name
was given to me in consequence of my father's dream; but she added
that perhaps it might be forgotten, if I proved fortunate in my
future life.  My nurse, a very old woman, who was present, shook
her head, with a look which I shall never forget, and whispered to
my mother loud enough for me to hear, 'Unlucky he was, and is, and
ever will be.  Those that are born to ill luck cannot help
themselves; nor can any, but the great prophet, Mahomet himself, do
anything for them.  It is a folly for an unlucky person to strive
with their fate:  it is better to yield to it at once.'

"This speech made a terrible impression upon me, young as I then
was; and every accident that happened to me afterwards confirmed my
belief in my nurse's prognostic.  I was in my eighth year when my
father returned from abroad.  The year after he came home my
brother Saladin was born, who was named Saladin the Lucky, because
the day he was born a vessel freighted with rich merchandise for my
father arrived safely in port.

"I will not weary you with a relation of all the little instances
of good fortune by which my brother Saladin was distinguished, even
during his childhood.  As he grew up, his success in everything he
undertook was as remarkable as my ill luck in all that I attempted.
From the time the rich vessel arrived, we lived in splendour; and
the supposed prosperous state of my father's affairs was of course
attributed to the influence of my brother Saladin's happy destiny.

"When Saladin was about twenty, my father was taken dangerously
ill; and as he felt that he should not recover, he sent for my
brother to the side of his bed, and, to his great surprise,
informed him that the magnificence in which we had lived had
exhausted all his wealth; that his affairs were in the greatest
disorder; for, having trusted to the hope of continual success, he
had embarked in projects beyond his powers.

"The sequel was, he had nothing remaining to leave to his children
but two large china vases, remarkable for their beauty, but still
more valuable on account of certain verses inscribed upon them in
an unknown character, which were supposed to operate as a talisman
or charm in favour of their possessors.

"Both these vases my father bequeathed to my brother Saladin;
declaring he could not venture to leave either of them to me,
because I was so unlucky that I should inevitably break it.  After
his death, however, my brother Saladin, who was blessed with a
generous temper, gave me my choice of the two vases; and
endeavoured to raise my spirits by repeating frequently that he had
no faith either in good fortune or ill fortune.

"I could not be of his opinion, though I felt and acknowledged his
kindness in trying to persuade me out of my settled melancholy.  I
knew it was in vain for me to exert myself, because I was sure
that, do what I would, I should still be Murad the Unlucky.  My
brother, on the contrary, was nowise cast down, even by the poverty
in which my father left us:  he said he was sure he should find
some means of maintaining himself; and so he did.

"On examining our china vases, he found in them a powder of a
bright scarlet colour; and it occurred to him that it would make a
fine dye.  He tried it, and after some trouble, it succeeded to
admiration.

"During my father's lifetime, my mother had been supplied with rich
dresses by one of the merchants who was employed by the ladies of
the grand seignior's seraglio.  My brother had done this merchant
some trifling favours, and, upon application to him, he readily
engaged to recommend the new scarlet dye.  Indeed, it was so
beautiful, that, the moment it was seen, it was preferred to every
other colour.  Saladin's shop was soon crowded with customers; and
his winning manners and pleasant conversation were almost as
advantageous to him as his scarlet dye.  On the contrary, I
observed that the first glance at my melancholy countenance was
sufficient to disgust every one who saw me.  I perceived this
plainly; and it only confirmed me the more in my belief in my own
evil destiny.

"It happened one day that a lady, richly apparelled and attended by
two female slaves, came to my brother's house to make some
purchases.  He was out, and I alone was left to attend to the shop.
After she had looked over some goods, she chanced to see my china
vase, which was in the room.  She took a prodigious fancy to it,
and offered me any price if I would part with it; but this I
declined doing, because I believed that I should draw down upon my
head some dreadful calamity if I voluntarily relinquished the
talisman.  Irritated by my refusal, the lady, according to the
custom of her sex, became more resolute in her purpose; but neither
entreaties nor money could change my determination.  Provoked
beyond measure at my obstinacy, as she called it, she left the
house.

"On my brother's return, I related to him what had happened, and
expected that he would have praised me for my prudence; but, on the
contrary, he blamed me for the superstitious value I set upon the
verses on my vase; and observed that it would be the height of
folly to lose a certain means of advancing my fortune for the
uncertain hope of magical protection.  I could not bring myself to
be of his opinion; I had not the courage to follow the advice he
gave.  The next day the lady returned, and my brother sold his vase
to her for ten thousand pieces of gold.  This money he laid out in
the most advantageous manner, by purchasing a new stock of
merchandise.  I repented when it was too late; but I believe it is
part of the fatality attending certain persons, that they cannot
decide rightly at the proper moment.  When the opportunity has been
lost, I have always regretted that I did not do exactly the
contrary to what I had previously determined upon.  Often, whilst I
was hesitating, the favourable moment passed. {1}  Now this is what
I call being unlucky.  But to proceed with my story.

"The lady who bought my brother Saladin's vase was the favourite of
the Sultan, and all-powerful in the seraglio.  Her dislike to me,
in consequence of my opposition to her wishes, was so violent, that
she refused to return to my brother's house while I remained there.
He was unwilling to part with me; but I could not bear to be the
ruin of so good a brother.  Without telling him my design, I left
his house careless of what should become of me.  Hunger, however,
soon compelled me to think of some immediate mode of obtaining
relief.  I sat down upon a stone, before the door of a baker's
shop:  the smell of hot bread tempted me in, and with a feeble
voice I demanded charity.

"The master baker gave me as much bread as I could eat, upon
condition that I should change dresses with him and carry the rolls
for him through the city this day.  To this I readily consented;
but I had soon reason to repent of my compliance.  Indeed, if my
ill-luck had not, as usual, deprived me at this critical moment of
memory and judgment, I should never have complied with the baker's
treacherous proposal.  For some time before, the people of
Constantinople had been much dissatisfied with the weight and
quality of the bread furnished by the bakers.  This species of
discontent has often been the sure forerunner of an insurrection;
and, in these disturbances, the master bakers frequently lose their
lives.  All these circumstances I knew, but they did not occur to
my memory when they might have been useful.

"I changed dresses with the baker; but scarcely had I proceeded
through the adjoining streets with my rolls before the mob began to
gather round me with reproaches and execrations.  The crowd pursued
me even to the gates of the grand seignior's palace, and the grand
vizier, alarmed at their violence, sent out an order to have my
head struck off; the usual remedy, in such cases, being to strike
off the baker's head.

"I now fell upon my knees, and protested I was not the baker for
whom they took me; that I had no connection with him; and that I
had never furnished the people of Constantinople with bread that
was not weight.  I declared I had merely changed clothes with a
master baker for this day, and that I should not have done so but
for the evil destiny which governs all my actions.  Some of the mob
exclaimed that I deserved to lose my head for my folly; but others
took pity on me, and whilst the officer, who was sent to execute
the vizier's order, turned to speak to some of the noisy rioters,
those who were touched by my misfortune opened a passage for me
through the crowd, and thus favoured, I effected my escape.

"I quitted Constantinople; my vase I had left in the care of my
brother.  At some miles' distance from the city I overtook a party
of soldiers.  I joined them, and learning that they were going to
embark with the rest of the grand seignior's army for Egypt, I
resolved to accompany them.  'If it be,' thought I, 'the will of
Mahomet that I should perish, the sooner I meet my fate the
better.'  The despondency into which I was sunk was attended by so
great a degree of indolence, that I scarcely would take the
necessary means to preserve my existence.  During our passage to
Egypt I sat all day long upon the deck of the vessel, smoking my
pipe, and I am convinced that if a storm had risen, as I expected,
I should not have taken my pipe from my mouth, nor should I have
handled a rope to save myself from destruction.  Such is the effect
of that species of resignation, or torpor, whichever you please to
call it, to which my strong belief in fatality had reduced my mind.

"We landed, however, safely, contrary to my melancholy forebodings.
By a trifling accident, not worth relating, I was detained longer
than any of my companions in the vessel when we disembarked, and I
did not arrive at the camp till late at night.  It was moonlight,
and I could see the whole scene distinctly.  There was a vast
number of small tents scattered over a desert of white sand; a few
date-trees were visible at a distance; all was gloomy, and all
still; no sound was to be heard but that of the camels feeding near
the tents, and, as I walked on, I met with no human creature.

"My pipe was now out, and I quickened my pace a little towards a
fire which I saw near one of the tents.  As I proceeded, my eye was
caught by something sparkling in the sand:  it was a ring.  I
picked it up and put it on my finger, resolving to give it to the
public crier the next morning, who might find out its rightful
owner; but, by ill-luck, I put it on my little finger, for which it
was much too large, and as I hastened towards the fire to light my
pipe, I dropped the ring.  I stooped to search for it amongst the
provender on which a mule was feeding, and the cursed animal gave
me so violent a kick on the head that I could not help roaring
aloud.

"My cries awakened those who slept in the tent near which the mule
was feeding.  Provoked at being disturbed, the soldiers were ready
enough to think ill of me, and they took it for granted that I was
a thief, who had stolen the ring I pretended to have just found.
The ring was taken from me by force, and the next day I was
bastinadoed for having found it; the officer persisting in the
belief that stripes would make me confess where I had concealed
certain other articles of value which had lately been missed in the
camp.  All this was the consequence of my being in a hurry to light
my pipe and of my having put the ring on a finger that was too
little for it, which no one but Murad the Unlucky would have done.

"When I was able to walk again, after my wounds were healed, I went
into one of the tents distinguished by a red flag, having been told
that these were coffee-houses.  Whilst I was drinking coffee I
heard a stranger near me complaining that he had not been able to
recover a valuable ring he had lost, although he had caused his
loss to be published for three days by the public crier, offering a
reward of two hundred sequins to whoever should restore it.  I
guessed that this was the very ring which I had unfortunately
found.  I addressed myself to the stranger, and promised to point
out to him the person who had forced it from me.  The stranger
recovered his ring, and, being convinced that I had acted honestly,
he made me a present of two hundred sequins, as some amends for the
punishment which I had unjustly suffered on his account.

"Now you would imagine that this purse of gold was advantageous to
me.  Far the contrary; it was the cause of new misfortunes.

"One night, when I thought that the soldiers who were in the same
tent with me were all fast asleep, I indulged myself in the
pleasure of counting my treasure.  The next day I was invited by my
companions to drink sherbet with them.  What they mixed with the
sherbet which I drank I know not, but I could not resist the
drowsiness it brought on.  I fell into a profound slumber, and when
I awoke, I found myself lying under a date-tree, at some distance
from the camp.

"The first thing I thought of when I came to my recollection was my
purse of sequins.  The purse I found still safe in my girdle; but
on opening it, I perceived that it was filled with pebbles, and not
a single sequin was left.  I had no doubt that I had been robbed by
the soldiers with whom I had drunk sherbet, and I am certain that
some of them must have been awake the night I counted my money;
otherwise, as I had never trusted the secret of my riches to any
one, they could not have suspected me of possessing any property;
for ever since I kept company with them I had appeared to be in
great indigence.

"I applied in vain to the superior officers for redress:  the
soldiers protested they were innocent; no positive proof appeared
against them, and I gained nothing by my complaint but ridicule and
ill-will.  I called myself, in the first transport of my grief, by
that name which, since my arrival in Egypt, I had avoided to
pronounce:  I called myself Murad the Unlucky.  The name and the
story ran through the camp, and I was accosted, afterwards, very
frequently, by this appellation.  Some, indeed, varied their wit by
calling me Murad with the purse of pebbles.

"All that I had yet suffered is nothing compared to my succeeding
misfortunes.

"It was the custom at this time, in the Turkish camp, for the
soldiers to amuse themselves with firing at a mark.  The superior
officers remonstrated against this dangerous practice, but
ineffectually.  Sometimes a party of soldiers would stop firing for
a few minutes, after a message was brought them from their
commanders, and then they would begin again, in defiance of all
orders.  Such was the want of discipline in our army, that this
disobedience went unpunished.  In the meantime, the frequency of
the danger made most men totally regardless of it.  I have seen
tents pierced with bullets, in which parties were quietly seated
smoking their pipes, whilst those without were preparing to take
fresh aim at the red flag on the top.

"This apathy proceeded, in some, from unconquerable indolence of
body; in others, from the intoxication produced by the fumes of
tobacco and of opium; but in most of my brother Turks it arose from
the confidence which the belief in predestination inspired.  When a
bullet killed one of their companions, they only observed, scarcely
taking the pipes from their mouths, 'Our hour is not yet come:  it
is not the will of Mahomet that we should fall.'

"I own that this rash security appeared to me, at first,
surprising, but it soon ceased to strike me with wonder, and it
even tended to confirm my favourite opinion, that some were born to
good and some to evil fortune.  I became almost as careless as my
companions, from following the same course of reasoning.  'It is
not,' thought I, 'in the power of human prudence to avert the
stroke of destiny.  I shall perhaps die to-morrow; let me therefore
enjoy to-day.'

"I now made it my study every day to procure as much amusement as
possible.  My poverty, as you will imagine, restricted me from
indulgence and excess, but I soon found means to spend what did not
actually belong to me.  There were certain Jews who were followers
of the camp, and who, calculating on the probability of victory for
our troops, advanced money to the soldiers, for which they engaged
to pay these usurers exorbitant interest.  The Jew to whom I
applied traded with me also, upon the belief that my brother
Saladin, with whose character and circumstances he was acquainted,
would pay my debts if I should fall.  With the money I raised from
the Jew I continually bought coffee and opium, of which I grew
immoderately fond.  In the delirium it created I forgot all my
misfortunes, all fear of the future.

"One day, when I had raised my spirits by an unusual quantity of
opium, I was strolling through the camp, sometimes singing,
sometimes dancing, like a madman, and repeating that I was not now
Murad the Unlucky.  Whilst these words were on my lips, a friendly
spectator, who was in possession of his sober senses, caught me by
the arm, and attempted to drag me from the place where I was
exposing myself.  'Do you not see,' said he, 'those soldiers, who
are firing at a mark?  I saw one of them, just now, deliberately
taking aim at your turban; and observe, he is now reloading his
piece.'  My ill luck prevailed even at this instant--the only
instant in my life when I defied its power.  I struggled with my
adviser, repeating, 'I am not the wretch you take me for; I am not
Murad the Unlucky.'  He fled from the danger himself; I remained,
and in a few seconds afterwards a ball reached me, and I fell
senseless on the sand.

"The ball was cut out of my body by an awkward surgeon, who gave me
ten times more pain than was necessary.  He was particularly
hurried at this time, because the army had just received orders to
march in a few hours, and all was confusion in the camp.  My wound
was excessively painful, and the fear of being left behind with
those who were deemed incurable added to my torments.  Perhaps, if
I had kept myself quiet, I might have escaped some of the evils I
afterwards endured; but, as I have repeatedly told you, gentlemen,
it was my ill fortune never to be able to judge what was best to be
done till the time for prudence was past.

"During the day, when my fever was at the height, and when my
orders were to keep my bed, contrary to my natural habits of
indolence, I rose a hundred times, and went out of my tent in the
very heat of the day, to satisfy my curiosity as to the number of
the tests which had not been struck, and of the soldiers who had
not yet marched.  The orders to march were tardily obeyed, and many
hours elapsed before our encampment was raised.  Had I submitted to
my surgeon's orders, I might have been in a state to accompany the
most dilatory of the stragglers; I could have borne, perhaps, the
slow motion of a litter, on which some of the sick were
transported; but in the evening, when the surgeon came to dress my
wounds, he found me in such a situation that it was scarcely
possible to remove me.

"He desired a party of soldiers, who were left to bring up the
rear, to call for me the next morning.  They did so; but they
wanted to put me upon the mule which I recollected, by a white
streak on its back, to be the cursed animal that had kicked me
whilst I was looking for the ring.  I could not be prevailed upon
to go upon this unlucky animal.  I tried to persuade the soldiers
to carry me, and they took me a little way; but, soon growing weary
of their burden, they laid me down on the sand, pretending that
they were going to fill a skin with water at a spring they had
discovered, and bade me lie still, and wait for their return.

"I waited and waited, longing for the water to moisten my parched
lips; but no water came--no soldiers returned; and there I lay, for
several hours, expecting every moment to breathe my last.  I made
no effort to move, for I was now convinced my hour was come, and
that it was the will of Mahomet that I should perish in this
miserable manner, and lie unburied like a dog:  'a death,' thought
I, 'worthy of Murad the Unlucky.'

"My forebodings were not this time just; a detachment of English
soldiers passed near the place where I lay:  my groans were heard
by them, and they humanely came to my assistance.  They carried me
with them, dressed my wound, and treated me with the utmost
tenderness.  Christians though they were, I must acknowledge that I
had reason to love them better than any of the followers of
Mahomet, my good brother only excepted.

"Under their care I recovered; but scarcely had I regained my
strength before I fell into new disasters.  It was hot weather, and
my thirst was excessive.  I went out with a party, in hopes of
finding a spring of water.  The English soldiers began to dig for a
well, in a place pointed out to them by one of their men of
science.  I was not inclined to such hard labour, but preferred
sauntering on in search of a spring.  I saw at a distance something
that looked like a pool of water; and I pointed it out to my
companions.  Their man of science warned me by his interpreter not
to trust to this deceitful appearance; for that such were common in
this country, and that, when I came close to the spot, I should
find no water there.  He added, that it was at a greater distance
than I imagined; and that I should, in all probability, be lost in
the desert if I attempted to follow this phantom.

"I was so unfortunate as not to attend to his advice:  I set out in
pursuit of this accursed delusion, which assuredly was the work of
evil spirits, who clouded my reason, and allured me into their
dominion.  I went on, hour after hour, in expectation continually
of reaching the object of my wishes; but it fled faster than I
pursued, and I discovered at last that the Englishman, who had
doubtless gained his information from the people of the country,
was right; and that the shining appearance which I had taken for
water was a mere deception.

"I was now exhausted with fatigue:  I looked back in vain after the
companions I had left; I could see neither men, animals, nor any
trace of vegetation in the sandy desert.  I had no resource but,
weary as I was, to measure back my footsteps, which were imprinted
in the sand.

"I slowly and sorrowfully traced them as my guides in this unknown
land.  Instead of yielding to my indolent inclinations, I ought,
however, to have made the best of my way back, before the evening
breeze sprang up.  I felt the breeze rising, and, unconscious of my
danger, I rejoiced, and opened my bosom to meet it; but what was my
dismay when I saw that the wind swept before it all trace of my
footsteps in the sand.  I knew not which way to proceed; I was
struck with despair, tore my garments, threw off my turban, and
cried aloud; but neither human voice nor echo answered me.  The
silence was dreadful.  I had tasted no food for many hours, and I
now became sick and faint.  I recollected that I had put a supply
of opium into the folds of my turban; but, alas! when I took my
turban up, I found that the opium had fallen out.  I searched for
it in vain on the sand, where I had thrown the turban.

"I stretched myself out upon the ground, and yielded without
further struggle to my evil destiny.  What I suffered from thirst,
hunger, and heat cannot be described.  At last I fell into a sort
of trance, during which images of various kinds seemed to flit
before my eyes.  How long I remained in this state I know not:  but
I remember that I was brought to my senses by a loud shout, which
came from persons belonging to a caravan returning from Mecca.
This was a shout of joy for their safe arrival at a certain spring,
well known to them in this part of the desert.

"The spring was not a hundred yards from the spot where I lay; yet,
such had been the fate of Murad the Unlucky, that he missed the
reality, whilst he had been hours in pursuit of the phantom.
Feeble and spiritless as I was, I sent forth as loud a cry as I
could, in hopes of obtaining assistance; and I endeavoured to crawl
to the place from which the voices appeared to come.  The caravan
rested for a considerable time whilst the slaves filled the skins
with water, and whilst the camels took in their supply.  I worked
myself on towards them; yet, notwithstanding my efforts, I was
persuaded that, according to my usual ill-fortune, I should never
be able to make them hear my voice.  I saw them mount their camels!
I took off my turban, unrolled it, and waved it in the air.  My
signal was seen!  The caravan came towards me!

"I had scarcely strength to speak; a slave gave me some water, and,
after I had drunk, I explained to them who I was, and how I came
into this situation.

"Whilst I was speaking, one of the travellers observed the purse
which hung to my girdle:  it was the same the merchant for whom I
recovered the ring had given to me; I had carefully preserved it,
because the initials of my benefactor's name and a passage from the
Koran were worked upon it.  When he give it to me, he said that
perhaps we should meet again in some other part of the world, and
he should recognise me by this token.  The person who now took
notice of the purse was his brother; and when I related to him how
I had obtained it, he had the goodness to take me under his
protection.  He was a merchant, who was now going with the caravan
to Grand Cairo:  he offered to take me with him, and I willingly
accepted the proposal, promising to serve him as faithfully as any
of his slaves.  The caravan proceeded, and I was carried with it.



CHAPTER II



The merchant, who was become my master, treated me with great
kindness; but on hearing me relate the whole series of my
unfortunate adventures, he exacted a promise from me that I would
do nothing without first consulting him.  'Since you are so
unlucky, Murad,' said he, 'that you always choose for the worst
when you choose for yourself, you should trust entirely to the
judgment of a wiser or a more fortunate friend.'

"I fared well in the service of this merchant, who was a man of a
mild disposition, and who was so rich that he could afford to be
generous to all his dependants.  It was my business to see his
camels loaded and unloaded at proper places, to count his bales of
merchandise, and to take care that they were not mixed with those
of his companions.  This I carefully did till the day we arrived at
Alexandria; when, unluckily, I neglected to count the bales, taking
it for granted that they were all right, as I had found them so the
preceding day.  However, when we were to go on board the vessel
that was to take us to Cairo, I perceived that three bales of
cotton were missing.

"I ran to inform my master, who, though a good deal provoked at my
negligence, did not reproach me as I deserved.  The public crier
was immediately sent round the city, to offer a reward for the
recovery of the merchandise; and it was restored by one of the
merchants' slaves with whom we had travelled.  The vessel was now
under sail; my master and I and the bales of cotton were obliged to
follow in a boat; and when we were taken on board, the captain
declared he was so loaded, that he could not tell where to stow the
bales of cotton.  After much difficulty, he consented to let them
remain upon deck; and I promised my master to watch them night and
day.

"We had a prosperous voyage, and were actually in sight of shore,
which the captain said we could not fail to reach early the next
morning.  I stayed, as usual, this night upon deck, and solaced
myself by smoking my pipe.  Ever since I had indulged in this
practice at the camp at El Arish, I could not exist without opium
and tobacco.  I suppose that my reason was this night a little
clouded with the dose I took; but towards midnight I was sobered by
terror.  I started up from the deck on which I had stretched
myself; my turban was in flames--the bale of cotton on which I had
rested was all on fire.  I awakened two sailors, who were fast
asleep on deck.  The consternation became general, and the
confusion increased the danger.  The captain and my master were the
most active, and suffered the most, in extinguishing the flames--my
master was terribly scorched.

"For my part, I was not suffered to do anything; the captain
ordered that I should be bound to the mast; and when at last the
flames were extinguished, the passengers, with one accord, besought
him to keep me bound hand and foot, lest I should be the cause of
some new disaster.  All that had happened was, indeed, occasioned
by my ill-luck.  I had laid my pipe down, when I was falling
asleep, upon the bale of cotton that was beside me.  The fire from
my pipe fell out and set the cotton in flames.  Such was the
mixture of rage and terror with which I had inspired the whole
crew, that I am sure they would have set me ashore on a desert
island rather than have had me on board for a week longer.  Even my
humane master, I could perceive, was secretly impatient to get rid
of Murad the Unlucky and his evil fortune.

"You may believe that I was heartily glad when we landed, and when
I was unbound.  My master put a purse containing fifty sequins into
my hand, and bade me farewell.  'Use this money prudently, Murad,
if you can,' said he, 'and perhaps your fortune may change.'  Of
this I had little hopes, but determined to lay out my money as
prudently as possible.

"As I was walking through the streets of Grand Cairo, considering
how I should lay out my fifty sequins to the greatest advantage, I
was stopped by one who called me by my name, and asked me if I
could pretend to have forgotten his face.  I looked steadily at
him, and recollected to my sorrow that he was the Jew Rachub, from
whom I had borrowed certain sums of money at the camp at El Arish.
What brought him to Grand Cairo, except it was my evil destiny, I
cannot tell.  He would not quit me; he would take no excuses; he
said he knew that I had deserted twice, once from the Turkish and
once from the English army; that I was not entitled to any pay; and
that he could not imagine it possible that my brother Saladin would
own me or pay my debts.

"I replied, for I was vexed by the insolence of this Jewish dog,
that I was not, as he imagined, a beggar:  that I had the means of
paying him my just debt, but that I hoped he would not extort from
me all that exorbitant interest which none but a Jew could exact.
He smiled, and answered that if a Turk loved opium better than
money this was no fault of his; that he had supplied me with what I
loved best in the world, and that I ought not to complain when he
expected I should return the favour.

"I will not weary you, gentlemen, with all the arguments that
passed between me and Rachub.  At last we compromised matters; he
would take nothing less than the whole debt:  but he let me have at
a very cheap rate a chest of second-hand clothes, by which he
assured me I might make my fortune.  He brought them to Grand
Cairo, he said, for the purpose of selling them to slave merchants,
who, at this time of the year, were in want of them to supply their
slaves; but he was in haste to get home to his wife and family at
Constantinople, and, therefore, he was willing to make over to a
friend the profits of this speculation.  I should have distrusted
Rachub's professions of friendship, and especially of
disinterestedness, but he took me with him to the khan where his
goods were, and unlocked the chest of clothes to show them to me.
They were of the richest and finest materials, and had been but
little worn.  I could not doubt the evidence of my senses; the
bargain was concluded, and the Jew sent porters to my inn with the
chest.

"The next day I repaired to the public market-place; and, when my
business was known, I had choice of customers before night--my
chest was empty, and my purse was full.  The profit I made upon the
sale of these clothes was so considerable, that I could not help
feeling astonishment at Rachub's having brought himself so readily
to relinquish them.

"A few days after I had disposed of the contents of my chest, a
Damascene merchant, who had bought two suits of apparel from me,
told me, with a very melancholy face, that both the female slaves
who had put on these clothes were sick.  I could not conceive that
the clothes were the cause of their sickness; but soon afterwards,
as I was crossing the market, I was attacked by at least a dozen
merchants, who made similar complaints.  They insisted upon knowing
how I came by the garments, and demanded whether I had worn any of
them myself.  This day I had, for the first time, indulged myself
with wearing a pair of yellow slippers, the only finery I had
reserved for myself out of all the tempting goods.  Convinced by my
wearing these slippers that I could have had no insidious designs,
since I shared the danger, whatever it might be, the merchants were
a little pacified; but what was my terror and remorse the next day,
when one of them came to inform me that plague-boils had broken out
under the arms of all the slaves who had worn this pestilential
apparel!  On looking carefully into the chest, we found the word
'Smyrna' written, and half effaced, upon the lid.  Now, the plague
had for some time raged at Smyrna; and, as the merchants suspected,
these clothes had certainly belonged to persons who had died of
that distemper.  This was the reason why the Jew was willing to
sell them to me so cheap; and it was for this reason that he would
not stay at Grand Cairo himself to reap the profits of his
speculation.  Indeed, if I had paid attention to it at the proper
time, a slight circumstance might have revealed the truth to me.
Whilst I was bargaining with the Jew, before he opened the chest,
he swallowed a large dram of brandy, and stuffed his nostrils with
sponge dipped in vinegar; he told me, he did to prevent his
perceiving the smell of musk, which always threw him into
convulsions.

"The horror I felt when I discovered that I had spread the
infection of the plague, and that I had probably caught it myself,
overpowered my senses--a cold dew spread over all my limbs, and I
fell upon the lid of the fatal chest in a swoon.  It is said that
fear disposes people to take the infection; however this may be, I
sickened that evening, and soon was in a raging fever.  It was
worse for me whenever the delirium left me, and I could reflect
upon the miseries my ill-fortune had occasioned.  In my first lucid
interval I looked round, and saw that I had been removed from the
khan to a wretched hut.  An old woman, who was smoking her pipe in
the farthest corner of my room, informed me that I had been sent
out of the town of Grand Cairo by order of the cadi, to whom the
merchants had made their complaint.  The fatal chest was burnt, and
the house in which I had lodged razed to the ground.  'And if it
had not been for me,' continued the old woman, 'you would have been
dead probably at this instant; but I have made a vow to our great
Prophet that I would never neglect an opportunity of doing a good
action; therefore, when you were deserted by all the world, I took
care of you.  Here, too, is your purse, which I saved from the
rabble--and, what is more difficult, from the officers of justice.
I will account to you for every part that I have expended; and
will, moreover, tell you the reason of my making such an
extraordinary vow.'

"As I believed that this benevolent old woman took great pleasure
in talking, I made an inclination of my head to thank her for her
promised history, and she proceeded; but I must confess I did not
listen with all the attention her narrative doubtless deserved.
Even curiosity, the strongest passion of us Turks, was dead within
me.  I have no recollection of the old woman's story.  It is as
much as I can do to finish my own.

"The weather became excessively hot; it was affirmed by some of the
physicians that this heat would prove fatal to their patients; but,
contrary to the prognostics of the physicians, it stopped the
progress of the plague.  I recovered, and found my purse much
lightened by my illness.  I divided the remainder of my money with
my humane nurse, and sent her out into the city to inquire how
matters were going on.

"She brought me word that the fury of the plague had much abated,
but that she had met several funerals, and that she had heard many
of the merchants cursing the folly of Murad the Unlucky, who, as
they said, had brought all this calamity upon the inhabitants of
Cairo.  Even fools, they say, learn by experience.  I took care to
burn the bed on which I had lain and the clothes I had worn; I
concealed my real name, which I knew would inspire detestation, and
gained admittance, with a crowd of other poor wretches, into a
lazaretto, where I performed quarantine and offered up prayers
daily for the sick.

"When I thought it was impossible I could spread the infection, I
took my passage home.  I was eager to get away from Grand Cairo,
where I knew I was an object of execration.  I had a strange fancy
haunting my mind; I imagined that all my misfortunes, since I left
Constantinople, had arisen from my neglect of the talisman upon the
beautiful china vase.  I dreamed three times, when I was recovering
from the plague, that a genius appeared to me, and said, in a
reproachful tone, 'Murad, where is the vase that was entrusted to
thy care?'

"This dream operated strongly upon my imagination.  As soon as we
arrived at Constantinople, which we did, to my great surprise,
without meeting with any untoward accidents, I went in search of my
brother Saladin to inquire for my vase.  He no longer lived in the
house in which I left him, and I began to be apprehensive that he
was dead, but a porter, hearing my inquiries, exclaimed, 'Who is
there in Constantinople that is ignorant of the dwelling of Saladin
the Lucky?  Come with me, and I will show it to you.'

"The mansion to which he conducted me looked so magnificent that I
was almost afraid to enter lest there should be some mistake.  But
whilst I was hesitating the doors opened, and I heard my brother
Saladin's voice.  He saw me almost at the same instant that I fixed
my eyes upon him, and immediately sprang forward to embrace me.  He
was the same good brother as ever, and I rejoiced in his prosperity
with all my heart.  'Brother Saladin,' said I, 'can you now doubt
that some men are born to be fortunate and others to be
unfortunate?  How often you used to dispute this point with me!'

"'Let us not dispute it now in the public street,' said he,
smiling; 'but come in and refresh yourself, and we will consider
the question afterwards at leisure.'

"'No, my dear brother,' said I, drawing back, 'you are too good:
Murad the Unlucky shall not enter your house, lest he should draw
down misfortunes upon you and yours.  I come only to ask for my
vase.'

"'It is safe,' cried he; 'come in, and you shall see it:  but I
will not give it up till I have you in my house.  I have none of
these superstitious fears:  pardon me the expression, but I have
none of these superstitious fears.'

"I yielded, entered his house, and was astonished at all I saw.  My
brother did not triumph in his prosperity; but, on the contrary,
seemed intent only upon making me forget my misfortunes:  he
listened to the account of them with kindness, and obliged me by
the recital of his history:  which was, I must acknowledge, far
less wonderful than my own.  He seemed, by his own account, to have
grown rich in the common course of things; or rather, by his own
prudence.  I allowed for his prejudices, and, unwilling to dispute
farther with him, said, 'You must remain of your opinion, brother,
and I of mine; you are Saladin the Lucky, and I Murad the Unlucky;
and so we shall remain to the end of our lives.'

"I had not been in his house four days when an accident happened,
which showed how much I was in the right.  The favourite of the
sultan, to whom he had formerly sold his china vase, though her
charms were now somewhat faded by time, still retained her power
and her taste for magnificence.  She commissioned my brother to
bespeak for her, at Venice, the most splendid looking-glass that
money could purchase.  The mirror, after many delays and
disappointments, at length arrived at my brother's house.  He
unpacked it, and sent to let the lady know it was in perfect
safety.  It was late in the evening, and she ordered it should
remain where it was that night, and that it should be brought to
the seraglio the next morning.  It stood in a sort of ante-chamber
to the room in which I slept; and with it were left some packages,
containing glass chandeliers for an unfinished saloon in my
brother's house.  Saladin charged all his domestics to be vigilant
this night, because he had money to a great amount by him, and
there had been frequent robberies in our neighbourhood.  Hearing
these orders, I resolved to be in readiness at a moment's warning.
I laid my scimitar beside me upon a cushion, and left my door half
open, that I might hear the slightest noise in the ante-chamber or
the great staircase.  About midnight I was suddenly awakened by a
noise in the ante-chamber.  I started up, seized my scimitar, and
the instant I got to the door, saw, by the light of the lamp which
was burning in the room, a man standing opposite to me, with a
drawn sword in his hand.  I rushed forward, demanding what he
wanted, and received no answer; but seeing him aim at me with his
scimitar, I gave him, as I thought, a deadly blow.  At this instant
I heard a great crash; and the fragments of the looking-glass,
which I had shivered, fell at my feet.  At the same moment
something black brushed by my shoulder:  I pursued it, stumbled
over the packages of glass, and rolled over them down the stairs.

"My brother came out of his room to inquire the cause of all this
disturbance; and when he saw the fine mirror broken, and me lying
amongst the glass chandeliers at the bottom of the stairs, he could
not forbear exclaiming, 'Well, brother! you are indeed Murad the
Unlucky.'

"When the first emotion was over, he could not, however, forbear
laughing at my situation.  With a degree of goodness, which made me
a thousand times more sorry for the accident, he came downstairs to
help me up, gave me his hand, and said, 'Forgive me if I was angry
with you at first.  I am sure you did not mean to do me any injury;
but tell me how all this has happened?'

"Whilst Saladin was speaking, I heard the same kind of noise which
had alarmed me in the ante-chamber; but, on looking back, I saw
only a black pigeon, which flew swiftly by me, unconscious of the
mischief he had occasioned.  This pigeon I had unluckily brought
into the house the preceding day; and had been feeding and trying
to tame it for my young nephews.  I little thought it would be the
cause of such disasters.  My brother, though he endeavoured to
conceal his anxiety from me, was much disturbed at the idea of
meeting the favourite's displeasure, who would certainly be
grievously disappointed by the loss of her splendid looking-glass.
I saw that I should inevitably be his ruin if I continued in his
house; and no persuasions could prevail upon me to prolong my stay.
My generous brother, seeing me determined to go, said to me, 'A
factor, whom I have employed for some years to sell merchandise for
me, died a few days ago.  Will you take his place?  I am rich
enough to bear any little mistakes you may fall into from ignorance
of business; and you will have a partner who is able and willing to
assist you.'

"I was touched to the heart by this kindness, especially at such a
time as this.  He sent one of his slaves with me to the shop in
which you now see me, gentlemen.  The slave, by my brother's
directions, brought with us my china vase, and delivered it safely
to me, with this message:  'The scarlet dye that was found in this
vase, and in its fellow, was the first cause of Saladin's making
the fortune he now enjoys:  he therefore does no more than justice
in sharing that fortune with his brother Murad.'

"I was now placed in as advantageous a situation as possible; but
my mind was ill at ease when I reflected that the broken mirror
might be my brother's ruin.  The lady by whom it had been bespoken
was, I well knew, of a violent temper; and this disappointment was
sufficient to provoke her to vengeance.  My brother sent me word
this morning, however, that though her displeasure was excessive,
it was in my power to prevent any ill consequences that might
ensue.  'In my power!' I exclaimed; 'then, indeed, I am happy!
Tell my brother there is nothing I will not do to show him my
gratitude and to save him from the consequences of my folly.'

"The slave who was sent by my brother seemed unwilling to name what
was required of me, saying that his master was afraid I should not
like to grant the request.  I urged him to speak freely, and he
then told me the favourite declared nothing would make her amends
for the loss of the mirror but the fellow-vase to that which she
had bought from Saladin.  It was impossible for me to hesitate;
gratitude for my brother's generous kindness overcame my
superstitious obstinacy, and I sent him word I would carry the vase
to him myself.

"I took it down this evening from the shelf on which it stood; it
was covered with dust, and I washed it, but, unluckily, in
endeavouring to clean the inside from the remains of the scarlet
powder, I poured hot water into it, and immediately I heard a
simmering noise, and my vase, in a few instants, burst asunder with
a loud explosion.  These fragments, alas! are all that remain.  The
measure of my misfortunes is now completed!  Can you wonder,
gentlemen, that I bewail my evil destiny?  Am I not justly called
Murad the Unlucky?  Here end all my hopes in this world!  Better
would it have been if I had died long ago!  Better that I had never
been born!  Nothing I ever have done or attempted has prospered.
Murad the Unlucky is my name, and ill-fate has marked me for her
own."



CHAPTER III



The lamentations of Murad were interrupted by the entrance of
Saladin.  Having waited in vain for some hours, he now came to see
if any disaster had happened to his brother Murad.  He was
surprised at the sight of the two pretended merchants, and could
not refrain from exclamations on beholding the broken vase.
However, with his usual equanimity and good-nature, he began to
console Murad; and, taking up the fragments, examined them
carefully, one by one joined them together again, found that none
of the edges of the china were damaged, and declared he could have
it mended so as to look as well as ever.

Murad recovered his spirits upon this.  "Brother," said he, "I
comfort myself for being Murad the Unlucky when I reflect that you
are Saladin the Lucky.  See, gentlemen," continued he, turning to
the pretended merchants, "scarcely has this most fortunate of men
been five minutes in company before he gives a happy turn to
affairs.  His presence inspires joy:  I observe your countenances,
which had been saddened by my dismal history, have brightened up
since he has made his appearance.  Brother, I wish you would make
these gentlemen some amends for the time they have wasted in
listening to my catalogue of misfortunes by relating your history,
which, I am sure, they will find rather more exhilarating."

Saladin consented, on condition that the strangers would accompany
him home and partake of a social banquet.  They at first repeated
the former excuse of their being obliged to return to their inn;
but at length the sultan's curiosity prevailed, and he and his
vizier went home with Saladin the Lucky, who, after supper, related
his history in the following manner:-

"My being called Saladin the Lucky first inspired me with
confidence in myself; though I own that I cannot remember any
extraordinary instances of good luck in my childhood.  An old nurse
of my mother's, indeed, repeated to me twenty times a day that
nothing I undertook could fail to succeed, because I was Saladin
the Lucky.  I became presumptuous and rash; and my nurse's
prognostics might have effectually prevented their accomplishment
had I not, when I was about fifteen, been roused to reflection
during a long confinement, which was the consequence of my youthful
conceit and imprudence.

"At this time there was at the Porte a Frenchman, an ingenious
engineer, who was employed and favoured by the sultan, to the great
astonishment of many of my prejudiced countrymen.  On the grand
seignior's birthday he exhibited some extraordinarily fine
fireworks; and I, with numbers of the inhabitants of
Constantinople, crowded to see them.  I happened to stand near the
place where the Frenchman was stationed; the crowd pressed upon
him, and I amongst the rest; he begged we would, for our own sakes,
keep at a greater distance, and warned us that we might be much
hurt by the combustibles which he was using.  I, relying upon my
mood fortune, disregarded all these cautions; and the consequence
was that, as I touched some of the materials prepared for the
fireworks, they exploded, dashed me upon the ground with great
violence, and I was terribly burnt.

"This accident, gentlemen, I consider as one of the most fortunate
circumstances of my life; for it checked and corrected the
presumption of my temper.  During the time I was confined to my bed
the French gentleman came frequently to see me.  He was a very
sensible man; and the conversations he had with me enlarged my mind
and cured me of many foolish prejudices, especially of that which I
had been taught to entertain concerning the predominance of what is
called luck or fortune in human affairs.  'Though you are called
Saladin the Lucky,' said he, 'you find that your neglect of
prudence has nearly brought you to the grave even in the bloom of
youth.  Take my advice, and henceforward trust more to prudence
than to fortune.  Let the multitude, if they will, call you Saladin
the Lucky; but call yourself, and make yourself, Saladin the
Prudent.'

"These words left an indelible impression on my mind, and gave a
new turn to my thoughts and character.  My brother, Murad, his
doubtless told you our difference of opinion on the subject of
predestination produced between us frequent arguments; but we could
never convince one another, and we each have acted, through life,
in consequence of our different beliefs.  To this I attribute my
success and his misfortunes.

"The first rise of my fortune, as you have probably heard from
Murad, was owing to the scarlet dye, which I brought to perfection
with infinite difficulty.  The powder, it is true, was accidentally
found by me in our china vases; but there it might have remained to
this instant, useless, if I had not taken the pains to make it
useful.  I grant that we can only partially foresee and command
events; yet on the use we make of our own powers, I think, depends
our destiny.  But, gentlemen, you would rather hear my adventures,
perhaps, than my reflections; and I am truly concerned, for your
sakes, that I have no wonderful events to relate.  I am sorry I
cannot tell you of my having been lost in a sandy desert.  I have
never had the plague, nor even been shipwrecked:  I have been all
my life an inhabitant of Constantinople, and have passed my time in
a very quiet and uniform manner.

"The money I received from the sultan's favourite for my china
vase, as my brother may have told you, enabled me to trade on a
more extensive scale.  I went on steadily with my business, and
made it my whole study to please my employers by all fair and
honourable means.  This industry and civility succeeded beyond my
expectations:  in a few years I was rich for a man in my way of
business.

"I will not proceed to trouble you with the journal of a petty
merchant's life; I pass on to the incident which made a
considerable change in my affairs.

"A terrible fire broke out near the walls of the grand seignior's
seraglio.  As you are strangers, gentlemen, you may not have heard
of this event, though it produced so great a sensation in
Constantinople.  The vizier's superb palace was utterly consumed,
and the melted lead poured down from the roof of the mosque of St.
Sophia.  Various were the opinions formed by my neighbours
respecting the cause of the conflagration.  Some supposed it to be
a punishment for the sultan's having neglected one Friday to appear
it the mosque of St. Sophia; others considered it as a warning sent
by Mahomet to dissuade the Porte from persisting in a war in which
we were just engaged.  The generality, however, of the coffee-house
politicians contented themselves with observing that it was the
will of Mahomet that the palace should be consumed.  Satisfied by
this supposition, they took no precaution to prevent similar
accidents in their own houses.  Never were fires so common in the
city as at this period; scarcely a night passed without our being
wakened by the cry of fire.

"These frequent fires were rendered still more dreadful by
villains, who were continually on the watch to increase the
confusion by which they profited, and to pillage the houses of the
sufferers.  It was discovered that these incendiaries frequently
skulked, towards evening, in the neighbourhood of the bezestein,
where the richest merchants store their goods.  Some of these
wretches were detected in throwing coundaks, or matches, into the
windows; and if these combustibles remained a sufficient time, they
could not fail to set the house on fire.

"Notwithstanding all these circumstances, many even of those who
had property to preserve continued to repeat, 'It is the will of
Mahomet,' and consequently to neglect all means of preservation.
I, on the contrary, recollecting the lesson I had learned from the
sensible foreigner, neither suffered my spirits to sink with
superstitious fears of ill-luck, nor did I trust presumptuously to
my good fortune.  I took every possible means to secure myself.  I
never went to bed without having seen that all the lights and fires
in the house were extinguished, and that I had a supply of water in
the cistern.  I had likewise learned from my Frenchman that wet
mortar was the most effectual thing for stopping the progress of
flames.  I, therefore, had a quantity of mortar made up in one of
my outhouses, which I could use at a moment's warning.  These
precautions were all useful to me.  My own house, indeed, was never
actually on fire; but the houses of my next-door neighbours were no
less than five times in flames in the course of one winter.  By my
exertions, or rather by my precautions, they suffered but little
damage, and all my neighbours looked upon me as their deliverer and
friend; they loaded me with presents, and offered more, indeed,
than I would accept.  All repeated that I was Saladin the Lucky.
This compliment I disclaimed, feeling more ambitious of being
called Saladin the Prudent.  It is thus that what we call modesty
is often only a more refined species of pride.  But to proceed with
my story.

"One night I had been later than usual at supper at a friend's
house; none but the watch were in the streets, and even they, I
believe, were asleep.

"As I passed one of the conduits which convey water to the city, I
heard a trickling noise; and, upon examination, I found that the
cook of the water-spout was half turned, so that the water was
running out.  I turned it back to its proper place, thought it had
been left unturned by accident, and walked on; but I had not
proceeded far before I came to another spout, and another, which
were in the same condition.  I was convinced that this could not be
the effect merely of accident, and suspected that some ill-
intentioned persons designed to let out and waste the water of the
city, that there might be none to extinguish any fire that should
break out in the course of the night.

"I stood still for a few moments, to consider how it would be most
prudent to act.  It would be impossible for me to run to all parts
of the city, that I might stop the pipes that were running to
waste.  I first thought of wakening the watch and the firemen, who
were most of them slumbering at their stations; but I reflected
that they were perhaps not to be trusted, and that they were in a
confederacy with the incendiaries, otherwise they would certainly
before this hour have observed and stopped the running of the
sewers in their neighbourhood.  I determined to waken a rich
merchant, called Damat Zade, who lived near me, and who had a
number of slaves whom he could send to different parts of the city,
to prevent mischief and give notice to the inhabitants of their
danger.

"He was a very sensible, active man, and one that could easily be
wakened; he was not like some Turks, an hour in recovering their
lethargic senses.  He was quick in decision and action; and his
slaves resembled their master.  He despatched a messenger
immediately to the grand vizier, that the sultan's safety might be
secured, and sent others to the magistrates in each quarter of
Constantinople.  The large drums in the janissary aga's tower beat
to rouse the inhabitants; and scarcely had they been heard to beat
half an hour before the fire broke out in the lower apartments of
Damat Zade's house, owing to a coundak which had been left behind
one of the doors.

"The wretches who had prepared the mischief came to enjoy it, and
to pillage; but they were disappointed.  Astonished to find
themselves taken into custody, they could not comprehend how their
designs had been frustrated.  By timely exertions, the fire in my
friend's house was extinguished; and though fires broke out during
the night in many parts of the city, but little damage was
sustained, because there was time for precautions, and, by the
stopping of the spouts, sufficient water was preserved.  People
were awakened and warned of the danger, and they consequently
escaped unhurt.

"The next day, as soon as I made my appearance at the bezestein,
the merchants crowded round, called me their benefactor, and the
preserver of their lives and fortunes.  Damat Zade, the merchant
whom I had awakened the preceding night, presented to me a heavy
purse of gold, and put upon my finger a diamond ring of
considerable value; each of the merchants followed his example in
making me rich presents; the magistrates also sent me tokens of
their approbation; and the grand vizier sent me a diamond of the
first water, with a line written by his own hand, 'To the man who
has saved Constantinople.'  Excuse me, gentlemen, for the vanity I
seem to show in mentioning these circumstances.  You desired to
hear my history, and I cannot, therefore, omit the principal
circumstance of my life.  In the course of four-and-twenty hours I
found myself raised, by the munificent gratitude of the inhabitants
of this city, to a state of affluence far beyond what I had ever
dreamed of attaining.

"I now took a house suited to my circumstances, and bought a few
slaves.  As I was carrying my slaves home, I was met by a Jew, who
stopped me, saying, in his language, 'My lord, I see, has been
purchasing slaves; I could clothe them cheaply.'  There was
something mysterious in the manner of this Jew, and I did not like
his countenance; but I considered that I ought not to be governed
by caprice in my dealings, and that, if this man could really
clothe my slaves more cheaply than another, I ought not to neglect
his offer merely because I took a dislike to the cut of his beard,
the turn of his eye, or the tone of his voice.  I, therefore, bade
the Jew follow me home, saying that I would consider of his
proposal.

"When we came to talk over the matter, I was surprised to find him
so reasonable in his demands.  On one point, indeed, he appeared
unwilling to comply.  I required not only to see the clothes I was
offered, but also to know how they came into his possession.  On
this subject he equivocated; I, therefore, suspected there must be
something wrong.  I reflected what it could be, and judged that the
goods had been stolen, or that they had been the apparel of persons
who had died of some contagious distemper.  The Jew showed me a
chest, from which he said I might choose whatever suited me best.
I observed that, as he was going to unlock the chest, he stuffed
his nose with some aromatic herbs.  He told me that he did so to
prevent his smelling the musk with which the chest was perfumed;
musk, he said, had an extraordinary effect upon his nerves.  I
begged to have some of the herbs which he used himself, declaring
that musk was likewise offensive to me.

"The Jew, either struck by his own conscience or observing my
suspicions, turned as pale as death.  He pretended he had not the
right key, and could not unlock the chest; said he must go in
search of it, and that he would call on me again.

"After he had left me, I examined some writing upon the lid of the
chest that had been nearly effaced.  I made out the word 'Smyrna,'
and this was sufficient to confirm all my suspicions.  The Jew
returned no more; he sent some porters to carry away the chest, and
I heard nothing of him for some time, till one day, when I was at
the house of Damat Zade, I saw a glimpse of the Jew passing hastily
through one of the courts, as if he wished to avoid me.  'My
friend,' said I to Damat Zade, 'do not attribute my question to
impertinent curiosity, or to a desire to intermeddle with your
affairs, if I venture to ask the nature of your business with the
Jew who has just now crossed your court?'

"'He has engaged to supply me with clothing for my slaves,' replied
my friend, 'cheaper than I can purchase it elsewhere.  I have a
design to surprise my daughter Fatima, on her birthday, with an
entertainment in the pavilion in the garden, and all her female
slaves shall appear in new dresses on the occasion.'

"I interrupted my friend, to tell him what I suspected relative to
this Jew and his chest of clothes.  It is certain that the
infection of the plague can be communicated by clothes, not only
after months, but after years have elapsed.  The merchant resolved
to have nothing more to do with this wretch, who could thus hazard
the lives of thousands of his follow-creatures for a few pieces of
gold.  We sent notice of the circumstance to the cadi, but the cadi
was slow in his operations; and before he could take the Jew into
custody the cunning fellow had effected his escape.  When his house
was searched, he and his chest had disappeared.  We discovered that
he sailed for Egypt, and rejoiced that we had driven him from
Constantinople.

"My friend, Damat Zade, expressed the warmest gratitude to me.
'You formerly saved my fortune; you have now saved my life, and a
life yet dearer than my own:  that of my daughter Fatima.'

"At the sound of that name I could not, I believe, avoid showing
some emotion.  I had accidentally seen this lady, and I had been
captivated by her beauty and by the sweetness of her countenance;
but as I knew she was destined to be the wife of another, I
suppressed my feeling, and determined to banish the recollection of
the fair Fatima for ever from my imagination.  Her father, however,
at this instant threw into my way a temptation which it required
all my fortitude to resist.  'Saladin,' continued he, 'it is but
just that you, who have saved our lives, should share our
festivity.  Come here on the birthday of my Fatima; I will place
you in a balcony which overlooks the garden, and you shall see the
whole spectacle.  We shall have a feast of tulips, in imitation of
that which, as you know, is held in the grand seignior's gardens.
I assure you the sight will be worth seeing; and besides, you will
have a chance of beholding my Fatima, for a moment, without her
veil.'

"'That,' interrupted I, 'is the thing I most wish to avoid.  I dare
not indulge myself in a pleasure which might cost me the happiness
of my life.  I will conceal nothing from you, who treat me with so
much confidence.  I have already beheld the charming countenance of
your Fatima, but I know that she is destined to be the wife of a
happier man.'

"Damat Zade seemed much pleased by the frankness with which I
explained myself; but he would not give up the idea of my sitting
with him in the balcony on the day of the feast of tulips; and I,
on my part, could not consent to expose myself to another view of
the charming Fatima.  My friend used every argument, or rather
every sort of persuasion, he could imagine to prevail upon me; he
then tried to laugh me out of my resolution; and, when all failed,
he said, in a voice of anger, 'Go, then, Saladin:  I am sure you
are deceiving me; you have a passion for some other woman, and you
would conceal it from me, and persuade me you refuse the favour I
offer you from prudence, when, in fact, it is from indifference and
contempt.  Why could you not speak the truth of your heart to me
with that frankness with which one friend should treat another?'

"Astonished at this unexpected charge, and at the anger which
flashed from the eyes of Damat Zade, who till this moment had
always appeared to me a man of a mild and reasonable temper, I was
for an instant tempted to fly into a passion and leave him; but
friends, once lost, are not easily regained.  This consideration
had power sufficient to make me command my temper.  'My friend,'
replied I, 'we will talk over this affair to-morrow.  You are now
angry, and cannot do me justice, but to-morrow you will be cool;
you will then be convinced that I have not deceived you, and that I
have no design but to secure my own happiness, by the most prudent
means in my power, by avoiding the sight of the dangerous Fatima.
I have no passion for any other woman.'

"'Then,' said my friend, embracing me, and quitting the tone of
anger which he had assumed only to try my resolution to the utmost,
'Then, Saladin, Fatima is yours.'

"I scarcely dared to believe my senses; I could not express my joy!
'Yes, my friend,' continued the merchant, 'I have tried your
prudence to the utmost, it has been victorious, and I resign my
Fatima to you, certain that you will make her happy.  It is true I
had a greater alliance in view for her--the Pacha of Maksoud has
demanded her from me; but I have found, upon private inquiry, he is
addicted to the intemperate use of opium, and my daughter shall
never be the wife of one who is a violent madman one-half the day
and a melancholy idiot during the remainder.  I have nothing to
apprehend from the pacha's resentment, because I have powerful
friends with the grand vizier, who will oblige him to listen to
reason, and to submit quietly to a disappointment he so justly
merits.  And now, Saladin, have you any objection to seeing the
feast of tulips?'

"I replied only by falling at the merchant's feet, and embracing
his knees.  The feast of tulips came and on that day I was married
to the charming Fatima!  The charming Fatima I continue still to
think her, though she has now been my wife some years.  She is the
joy and pride of my heart; and, from our mutual affection, I have
experienced more felicity than from all the other circumstances of
my life, which are called so fortunate.  Her father gave me the
house in which I now live, and joined his possessions to ours; so
that I have more wealth even than I desire.  My riches, however,
give me continually the means of relieving the wants of others; and
therefore I cannot affect to despise them.  I must persuade my
brother Murad to share them with me, and to forget his misfortunes:
I shall then think myself completely happy.  As to the sultana's
looking-glass and your broken vase, my dear brother," continued
Saladin, "we must think of some means--"

"Think no more of the sultana's looking-glass or of the broken
vase," exclaimed the sultan, throwing aside his merchant's habit,
and showing beneath it his own imperial vest.  "Saladin, I rejoice
to have heard, from your own lips, the history of your life.  I
acknowledge, vizier, I have been in the wrong in our argument,"
continued the sultan, turning to his vizier.  "I acknowledge that
the histories of Saladin the Lucky and Murad the Unlucky favour
your opinion, that prudence has more influence than chance in human
affairs.  The success and happiness of Saladin seem to me to have
arisen from his prudence:  by that prudence Constantinople has been
saved from flames and from the plague.  Had Murad possessed his
brother's discretion, he would not have been on the point of losing
his head, for selling rolls which he did not bake:  he would not
have been kicked by a mule or bastinadoed for finding a ring:  he
would not have been robbed by one party of soldiers, or shot by
another:  he would not have been lost in a desert, or cheated by a
Jew:  he would not have set a ship on fire; nor would he have
caught the plague, and spread it through Grand Cairo:  he would not
have run my sultana's looking-glass through the body, instead of a
robber:  he would not have believed that the fate of his life
depended on certain verses on a china vase:  nor would he, at last,
have broken this precious talisman, by washing it with hot water.
Henceforward, let Murad the Unlucky be named Murad the Imprudent:
let Saladin preserve the surname he merits, and be henceforth
called Saladin the Prudent."

So spake the sultan, who, unlike the generality of monarchs, could
bear to find himself in the wrong, and could discover his vizier to
be in the right without cutting off his head.  History farther
informs us that the sultan offered to make Saladin a pacha, and to
commit to him the government of a province; but, Saladin the
Prudent declined this honour, saying he had no ambition, was
perfectly happy in his present situation, and that, when this was
the case, it would be folly to change, because no one can be more
than happy.  What farther adventures befell Murad the Imprudent are
not recorded; it is known only that he became a daily visitor to
the Teriaky, and that he died a martyr to the immoderate use of
opium.




THE LIMERICK GLOVES




It was Sunday morning, and a fine day in autumn; the bells of
Hereford Cathedral rang, and all the world, smartly dressed, were
flocking to church.

"Mrs. Hill!  Mrs. Hill!--Phoebe! Phoebe!  There's the cathedral
bell, I say, and neither of you ready for church, and I a verger,"
cried Mr. Hill, the tanner, as he stood at the bottom of his own
staircase.  "I'm ready, papa," replied Phoebe; and down she came,
looking so clean, so fresh, and so gay, that her stern father's
brows unbent, and he could only say to her, as she was drawing on a
new pair of gloves, "Child, you ought to have had those gloves on
before this time of day."

"Before this time of day!" cried Mrs. Hill, who was now coming
downstairs completely equipped--"before this time of day!  She
should know better, I say, than to put on those gloves at all:
more especially when going to the cathedral."

"The gloves are very good gloves, as far as I see," replied Mr.
Hill.  "But no matter now.  It is more fitting that we should be in
proper time in our pew, to set an example, as becomes us, than to
stand here talking of gloves and nonsense."

He offered his wife and daughter each an arm, and set out for the
cathedral; but Phoebe was too busy in drawing on her new gloves,
and her mother was too angry at the sight of them, to accept of Mr.
Hill's courtesy.  "What I say is always nonsense, I know, Mr.
Hill," resumed the matron:  "but I can see as far into a millstone
as other folks.  Was it not I that first gave you a hint of what
became of the great dog that we lost out of our tan-yard last
winter?  And was it not I who first took notice to you, Mr. Hill,
verger as you are, of the hole under the foundation of the
cathedral?  Was it not, I ask you, Mr. Hill?"

"But, my dear Mrs. Hill, what has all this to do with Phoebe's
gloves?"

"Are you blind, Mr. Hill?  Don't you see that they are Limerick
gloves?"

"What of that?" said Mr. Hill, still preserving his composure, as
it was his custom to do as long as he could, when he saw his wife
was ruffled.

"What of that, Mr. Hill! why, don't you know that Limerick is in
Ireland, Mr. Hill?"

"With all my heart, my dear."

"Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would see
our cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own
daughter married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr.
Hill."

"God forbid!" cried Mr, Hill; and he stopped short and settled his
wig.  Presently recovering himself, he added, "But, Mrs. Hill, the
cathedral is not yet blown up; and our Phoebe is not yet married."

"No; but what of that, Mr. Hill?  Forewarned is forearmed, as I
told you before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me,
and you see how it turned out in that case; and so it will in this
case, you'll see, Mr. Hill."

"But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill," said
the verger, again settling his wig.  "IN THAT CASE AND IN THIS
CASE!  I can't understand a syllable of what you've been saying to
me this half-hour.  In plain English, what is there the matter
about Phoebe's gloves?"

"In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing
else, please to ask your daughter Phoebe who gave her those gloves.
Phoebe, who gave you those gloves?"

"I wish they were burnt," said the husband, whose patience could
endure no longer.  "Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phoebe?"

"Papa," answered Phoebe, in a low voice, "they were a present from
Mr. Brian O'Neill."

"The Irish glover!" cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

"Yes," resumed the mother; "very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you.
Now, you see, I had my reasons."

"Take off the gloves directly:  I order you, Phoebe," said her
father, in his most peremptory tone.  "I took a mortal dislike to
that Mr. Brian O'Neill the first time I ever saw him.  He's an
Irishman, and that's enough, and too much for me.  Off with the
gloves, Phoebe!  When I order a thing, it must be done."

Phoebe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves,
and gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral
without them.  This objection was immediately removed by her
mother's pulling from her pocket a pair of mittens, which had once
been brown, and once been whole, but which were now rent in sundry
places; and which, having been long stretched by one who was twice
the size of Phoebe, now hung in huge wrinkles upon her well-turned
arms.

"But, papa," said Phoebe, "why should we take a dislike to him
because he is an Irishman?  Cannot an Irishman be a good man?"

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after
it was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done
ringing; and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill,
with a significant look at Phoebe, remarked that it was no proper
time to talk or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any
men, especially for a verger's daughter.

We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by
several of the congregation concerning the reason why Miss Phoebe
Hill should appear in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a
Sunday.  After service was ended, the verger went, with great
mystery, to examine the hole under the foundation of the cathedral;
and Mrs. Hill repaired, with the grocer's and the stationer's
ladies, to take a walk in the Close, where she boasted to all her
female acquaintance, whom she called her friends, of her maternal
discretion in prevailing upon Mr. Hill to forbid her daughter
Phoebe to wear the Limerick gloves.

In the meantime, Phoebe walked pensively homewards, endeavouring to
discover why her father should take a mortal dislike to a man at
first sight, merely because he was an Irishman:  and why her mother
had talked so much of the great dog which had been lost last year
out of the tan-yard; and of the hole under the foundation of the
cathedral!  "What has all this to do with my Limerick gloves?"
thought she.  The more she thought, the less connection she could
perceive between these things:  for as she had not taken a dislike
to Mr. Brian O'Neill at first sight, because he was an Irishman,
she could not think it quite reasonable to suspect him of making
away with her father's dog, nor yet of a design to blow up Hereford
Cathedral.  As she was pondering upon these matters, she came
within sight of the ruins of a poor woman's house, which a few
months before this time had been burnt down.  She recollected that
her first acquaintance with her lover began at the time of this
fire; and she thought that the courage and humanity he showed, in
exerting himself to save this unfortunate woman and her children,
justified her notion of the possibility that an Irishman might be a
good man.

The name of the poor woman whose house had been burnt down was
Smith:  she was a widow, and she now lived at the extremity of a
narrow lane in a wretched habitation.  Why Phoebe thought of her
with more concern than usual at this instant we need not examine,
but she did; and, reproaching herself for having neglected it for
some weeks past, she resolved to go directly to see the widow
Smith, and to give her a crown which she had long had in her
pocket, with which she had intended to have bought play tickets.

It happened that the first person she saw in the poor widow's
kitchen was the identical Mr. O'Neill.  "I did not expect to see
anybody here but you, Mrs. Smith," said Phoebe, blushing.

"So much the greater the pleasure of the meeting; to me, I mean,
Miss Hill," said O'Neill, rising, and putting down a little boy,
with whom he had been playing.  Phoebe went on talking to the poor
woman; and, after slipping the crown into her hand, said she would
call again.  O'Neill, surprised at the change in her manner,
followed her when she left the house, and said, "It would be a
great misfortune to me to have done anything to offend Miss Hill,
especially if I could not conceive how or what it was, which is my
case at this present speaking."  And as the spruce glover spoke, he
fixed his eyes upon Phoebe's ragged gloves.  She drew them up in
vain; and then said, with her natural simplicity and gentleness,
"You have not done anything to offend me, Mr. O'Neill; but you are
some way or other displeasing to my father and mother, and they
have forbid me to wear the Limerick gloves."

"And sure Miss Hill would not be after changing her opinion of her
humble servant for no reason in life but because her father and
mother, who have taken a prejudice against him, are a little
contrary."

"No," replied Phoebe; "I should not change my opinion without any
reason; but I have not yet had time to fix my opinion of you, Mr.
O'Neill."

"To let you know a piece of my mind, then, my dear Miss Hill,"
resumed he, "the more contrary they are, the more pride and joy it
would give me to win and wear you, in spite of 'em all; and if
without a farthing in your pocket, so much the more I should
rejoice in the opportunity of proving to your dear self, and all
else whom it may consarn, that Brian O'Neill is no fortune-hunter,
and scorns them that are so narrow-minded as to think that no other
kind of cattle but them there fortune-hunters can come out of all
Ireland.  So, my dear Phoebe, now we understand one another, I hope
you will not be paining my eyes any longer with the sight of these
odious brown bags, which are not fit to be worn by any Christian
arms, to say nothing of Miss Hill's, which are the handsomest,
without any compliment, that ever I saw, and, to my mind, would
become a pair of Limerick gloves beyond anything:  and I expect
she'll show her generosity and proper spirit by putting them on
immediately."

"You expect, sir!" repeated Miss Hill, with a look of more
indignation than her gentle countenance had ever before been seen
to assume.  "Expect!"  "If he had said hope," thought she, "it
would have been another thing:  but expect! what right has he to
expect?"

Now Miss Hill, unfortunately, was not sufficiently acquainted with
the Irish idiom to know that to expect, in Ireland, is the same
thing as to hope in England; and, when her Irish admirer said "I
expect," he meant only, in plain English, "I hope."  But thus it is
that a poor Irishman, often, for want of understanding the niceties
of the English language, says the rudest when he means to say the
civillest things imaginable.

Miss Hill's feelings were so much hurt by this unlucky "I expect"
that the whole of his speech, which had before made some favourable
impression upon her, now lost its effect:  and she replied with
proper spirit, as she thought, "You expect a great deal too much,
Mr. O'Neill; and more than ever I gave you reason to do.  It would
be neither pleasure nor pride to me to be won and worn, as you were
pleased to say, in spite of them all; and to be thrown, without a
farthing in my pocket, upon the protection of one who expects so
much at first setting out.--So I assure you, sir, whatever you may
expect, I shall not put on the Limerick gloves."

Mr. O'Neill was not without his share of pride and proper spirit;
nay, he had, it must be confessed, in common with some others of
his countrymen, an improper share of pride and spirit.  Fired by
the lady's coldness, he poured forth a volley of reproaches; and
ended by wishing, as he said, a good morning, for ever and ever, to
one who could change her opinion, point blank, like the
weathercock.  "I am, miss, your most obedient; and I expect you'll
never think no more of poor Brian O'Neill and the Limerick gloves."

If he had not been in too great a passion to observe anything, poor
Brian O'Neill would have found out that Phoebe was not a
weathercock:  but he left her abruptly, and hurried away, imagining
all the while that it was Phoebe, and not himself, who was in a
rage.  Thus, to the horseman who is galloping at full speed, the
hedges, trees, and houses seem rapidly to recede, whilst, in
reality, they never move from their places.  It is he that flies
from them, and not they from him.

On Monday morning Miss Jenny Brown, the perfumer's daughter, came
to pay Phoebe a morning visit, with face of busy joy.

"So, my dear!" said she:  "fine doings in Hereford!  But what makes
you look so downcast?  To be sure you are invited, as well as the
rest of us."

"Invited where?" cried Mrs. Hill, who was present, and who could
never endure to hear of an invitation in which she was not
included.  "Invited where, pray, Miss Jenny?"

"La! have not you heard?  Why, we all took it for granted that you
and Miss Phoebe would have been the first and foremost to have been
asked to Mr. O'Neill's ball."

"Ball!" cried Mrs. Hill; and luckily saved Phoebe, who was in some
agitation, the trouble of speaking.  "Why, this is a mighty sudden
thing:  I never heard a tittle of it before."

"Well, this is really extraordinary!  And, Phoebe, have you not
received a pair of Limerick gloves?"

"Yes, I have," said Phoebe, "but what then?  What have my Limerick
gloves to do with the ball?"

"A great deal," replied Jenny.  "Don't you know that a pair of
Limerick gloves is, as one may say, a ticket to this ball? for
every lady that has been asked has had a pair sent to her along
with the card; and I believe as many as twenty, besides myself,
have been asked this morning."

Jenny then produced her new pair of Limerick gloves, and as she
tried them on, and showed how well they fitted, she counted up the
names of the ladies who, to her knowledge, were to be at this ball.
When she had finished the catalogue, she expatiated upon the grand
preparations which it was said the widow O'Neill, Mr. O'Neill's
mother, was making for the supper, and concluded by condoling with
Mrs. Hill for her misfortune in not having been invited.  Jenny
took her leave to get her dress in readiness:  "for," added she,
"Mr. O'Neill has engaged me to open the ball in case Phoebe does
not go; but I suppose she will cheer up and go, as she has a pair
of Limerick gloves as well as the rest of us."

There was a silence for some minutes after Jenny's departure, which
was broken by Phoebe, who told her mother that, early in the
morning, a note had been brought to her, which she had returned
unopened, because she knew, from the handwriting of the direction,
that it came from Mr. O'Neill.

We must observe that Phoebe had already told her mother of her
meeting with this gentleman at the poor widow's, and of all that
had passed between them afterwards.  This openness on her part had
softened the heart of Mrs. Hill, who was really inclined to be
good-natured, provided people would allow that she had more
penetration than any one else in Hereford.  She was, moreover, a
good deal piqued and alarmed by the idea that the perfumer's
daughter might rival and outshine her own.  Whilst she had thought
herself sure of Mr. O'Neill's attachment to Phoebe, she had looked
higher, especially as she was persuaded by the perfumer's lady to
think that an Irishman could not but be a bad match; but now she
began to suspect that the perfumer's lady had changed her opinion
of Irishmen, since she did not object to her own Jenny's leading up
the ball at Mr. O'Neill's.

All these thoughts passed rapidly in the mother's mind, and, with
her fear of losing an admirer for her Phoebe, the value of that
admirer suddenly rose in her estimation.  Thus, at an auction, if a
lot is going to be knocked down to a lady who is the only person
that has bid for it, even she feels discontented, and despises that
which nobody covets; but if, as the hammer is falling, many voices
answer to the question, "Who bids more?" then her anxiety to secure
the prize suddenly rises, and, rather than be outbid, she will give
far beyond its value.

"Why, child," said Mrs. Hill, "since you have a pair of Limerick
gloves; and since certainly that note was an invitation to us to
this ball; and since it is much more fitting that you should open
the ball than Jenny Brown; and since, after all, it was very
handsome and genteel of the young man to say he would take you
without a farthing in your pocket, which shows that those were
misinformed who talked of him as an Irish adventurer; and since we
are not certain 'twas he made away with the dog, although he said
its barking was a great nuisance; there is no great reason to
suppose he was the person who made the hole under the foundation of
the cathedral, or that he could have such a wicked thought as to
blow it up; and since he must be in a very good way of business to
be able to afford giving away four or five guineas' worth of
Limerick gloves, and balls and suppers; and since, after all, it is
no fault of his to be an Irishman, I give it as my vote and
opinion, my dear, that you put on your Limerick gloves and go to
this ball; and I'll go and speak to your father, and bring him
round to our opinion, and then I'll pay the morning visit I owe to
the widow O'Neill and make up your quarrel with Brian.  Love
quarrels are easy to make up, you know, and then we shall have
things all upon velvet again, and Jenny Brown need not come with
her hypocritical condoling face to us any more."

After running this speech glibly off, Mrs. Hill, without waiting to
hear a syllable from poor Phoebe, trotted off in search of her
consort.  It was not, however, quite so easy a task as his wife
expected, to bring Mr. Hill round to her opinion.  He was slow in
declaring himself of any opinion; but when once he had said a
thing, there was but little chance of altering his notions.  On
this occasion Mr. Hill was doubly bound to his prejudice against
our unlucky Irishman; for he had mentioned with great solemnity at
the club which he frequented the grand affair of the hole under the
foundation of the cathedral, and his suspicions that there was a
design to blow it up.  Several of the club had laughed at this
idea; others, who supposed that Mr. O'Neill was a Roman Catholic,
and who had a confused notion that a Roman Catholic must be a very
wicked, dangerous being, thought that there might be a great deal
in the verger's suggestions, and observed that a very watchful eye
ought to be kept upon this Irish glover, who had come to settle at
Hereford nobody knew why, and who seemed to have money at command
nobody knew how.

The news of this ball sounded to Mr. Hill's prejudiced imagination
like the news of a conspiracy.  "Ay! ay!" thought he; "the Irishman
is cunning enough!  But we shall be too many for him:  he wants to
throw all the good sober folks of Hereford off their guard by
feasting, and dancing, and carousing, I take it, and so to
perpetrate his evil design when it is least suspected; but we shall
be prepared for him, fools as he takes us plain Englishmen to be, I
warrant."

In consequence of these most shrewd cogitations, our verger
silenced his wife with a peremptory nod when she came to persuade
him to let Phoebe put on the Limerick gloves and go to the ball.
"To this ball she shall not go, and I charge her not to put on
those Limerick gloves as she values my blessing," said Mr. Hill.
"Please to tell her so, Mrs. Hill, and trust to my judgment and
discretion in all things, Mrs. Hill.  Strange work may be in
Hereford yet:  but I'll say no more; I must go and consult with
knowing men who are of my opinion."

He sallied forth, and Mrs. Hill was left in a state which only
those who are troubled with the disease of excessive curiosity can
rightly comprehend or compassionate.  She hied her back to Phoebe,
to whom she announced her father's answer, and then went gossiping
to all her female acquaintance in Hereford, to tell them all that
she knew, and all that she did not know, and to endeavour to find
out a secret where there was none to be found.

There are trials of temper in all conditions, and no lady, in high
or low life, could endure them with a better grace than Phoebe.
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Hill were busied abroad, there came to see
Phoebe one of the widow Smith's children.  With artless expressions
of gratitude to Phoebe this little girl mixed the praises of
O'Neill, who, she said, had been the constant friend of her mother,
and had given her money every week since the fire happened.  "Mammy
loves him dearly for being so good-natured," continued the child;
"and he has been good to other people as well as to us."

"To whom?" said Phoebe.

"To a poor man who has lodged for these few days past next door to
us," replied the child; "I don't know his name rightly, but he is
an Irishman, and he goes out a-haymaking in the daytime along with
a number of others.  He knew Mr. O'Neill in his own country, and he
told mammy a great deal about his goodness."

As the child finished these words, Phoebe took out of a drawer some
clothes, which she had made for the poor woman's children, and gave
them to the little girl.  It happened that the Limerick gloves had
been thrown into this drawer; and Phoebe's favourable sentiments of
the giver of those gloves were revived by what she had just heard,
and by the confession Mrs. Hill had made, that she had no reasons,
and but vague suspicious, for thinking ill of him.  She laid the
gloves perfectly smooth, and strewed over them, whilst the little
girl went on talking of Mr. O'Neill, the leaves of a rose which she
had worn on Sunday.

Mr. Hill was all this time in deep conference with those prudent
men of Hereford who were of his own opinion, about the perilous
hole under the cathedral.  The ominous circumstance of this ball
was also considered, the great expense at which the Irish glover
lived, and his giving away gloves, which was a sure sign he was not
under any necessity to sell them, and consequently a proof that,
though he pretended to be a glover, he was something wrong in
disguise.  Upon putting all these things together, it was resolved
by these over-wise politicians that the best thing that could be
done for Hereford, and the only possible means of preventing the
immediate destruction of its cathedral, would be to take Mr.
O'Neill into custody.  Upon recollection, however, it was perceived
that there was no legal ground on which he could be attacked.  At
length, after consulting an attorney, they devised what they
thought an admirable mode of proceeding.

Our Irish hero had not that punctuality which English tradesmen
usually observe in the payment of bills; he had, the preceding
year, run up a long bill with a grocer in Hereford, and, as he had
not at Christmas cash in hand to pay it, he had given a note,
payable six months after date.  The grocer, at Mr. Hill's request,
made over the note to him, and it was determined that the money
should be demanded, as it was now due, and that, if it was not paid
directly, O'Neill should be that night arrested.  How Mr. Hill made
the discovery of this debt to the grocer agree with his former
notion that the Irish glover had always money at command we cannot
well conceive, but anger and prejudice will swallow down the
grossest contradictions without difficulty.

When Mr. Hill's clerk went to demand payment of the note, O'Neill's
head was full of the ball which he was to give that evening.  He
was much surprised at the unexpected appearance of the note:  he
had not ready money by him to pay it; and after swearing a good
deal at the clerk, and complaining of this ungenerous and
ungentleman-like behaviour in the grocer and the tanner, he told
the clerk to be gone, and not to be bothering him at such an
unseasonable time:  that he could not have the money then, and did
not deserve to have it at all.

This language and conduct were rather new to the English clerk's
mercantile ears:  we cannot wonder that it should seem to him, as
he said to his master, more the language of a madman than a man of
business.  This want of punctuality in money transactions, and this
mode of treating contracts as matters of favour and affection,
might not have damned the fame of our hero in his own country,
where such conduct is, alas! too common; but he was now in a
kingdom where the manners and customs are so directly opposite,
that he could meet with no allowance for his national faults.  It
would be well for his countrymen if they were made, even by a few
mortifications, somewhat sensible of this important difference in
the habits of Irish and English traders before they come to settle
in England.

But to proceed with our story.  On the night of Mr. O'Neill's grand
ball, as he was seeing his fair partner, the perfumer's daughter,
safe home, he felt himself tapped on the shoulder by no friendly
hand.  When he was told that he was the king's prisoner, he
vociferated with sundry strange oaths, which we forbear to repeat.
"No, I am not the king's prisoner!  I am the prisoner of that
shabby, rascally tanner, Jonathan Hill.  None but he would arrest a
gentleman in this way, for a trifle not worth mentioning."

Miss Jenny Brown screamed when she found herself under the
protection of a man who was arrested; and, what between her screams
and his oaths, there was such a disturbance that a mob gathered.

Among this mob there was a party of Irish hay-makers, who, after
returning late from a hard day's work, had been drinking in a
neighbouring ale-house.  With one accord they took part with their
countryman, and would have rescued him from the civil officers with
all the pleasure in life if he had not fortunately possessed just
sufficient sense and command of himself to restrain their party
spirit, and to forbid them, as they valued his life and reputation,
to interfere, by word or deed, in his defence.

He then despatched one of the haymakers home to his mother, to
inform her of what had happened, and to request that she would get
somebody to be bail for him as soon as possible, as the officers
said they could not let him out of their sight till he was bailed
by substantial people, or till the debt was discharged.

The widow O'Neill was just putting out the candles in the ball-room
when this news of her son's arrest was brought to her.  We pass
over Hibernian exclamations:  she consoled her pride by reflecting
that it would certainly be the most easy thing imaginable to
procure bail for Mr. O'Neill in Hereford, where he had so many
friends who had just been dancing at his house; but to dance at his
house she found was one thing and to be bail for him quite another.
Each guest sent excuses, and the widow O'Neill was astonished at
what never fails to astonish everybody when it happens to
themselves.  "Rather than let my son be detained in this manner for
a paltry debt," cried she, "I'd sell all I have within half an hour
to a pawnbroker."  It was well no pawnbroker heard this
declaration:  she was too warm to consider economy.  She sent for a
pawnbroker, who lived in the same street, and, after pledging goods
to treble the amount of the debt, she obtained ready money for her
son's release.

O'Neill, after being in custody for about an hour and a half, was
set at liberty upon the payment of his debt.  As he passed by the
cathedral in his way home, he heard the clock strike; and he called
to a man, who was walking backwards and forwards in the churchyard,
to ask whether it was two or three that the clock struck.  "Three,"
answered the man; "and, as yet, all is safe."

O'Neill, whose head was full of other things, did not stop to
inquire the meaning of these last words.  He little suspected that
this man was a watchman whom the over-vigilant verger had stationed
there to guard the Hereford Cathedral from his attacks.  O'Neill
little guessed that he had been arrested merely to keep him from
blowing up the cathedral this night.  The arrest had an excellent
effect upon his mind, for he was a young man of good sense:  it
made him resolve to retrench his expenses in time, to live more
like a glover and less like a gentleman; and to aim more at
establishing credit, and less at gaining popularity.  He found,
from experience, that good friends will not pay bad debts.



CHAPTER II



On Thursday morning our verger rose in unusually good spirits,
congratulating himself upon the eminent service he had done to the
city of Hereford by his sagacity in discovering the foreign plot to
blow up the Cathedral, and by his dexterity in having the enemy
held in custody, at the very hour when the dreadful deed was to
have been perpetrated.  Mr. Hill's knowing friends farther agreed
it would be necessary to have a guard that should sit up every
night in the churchyard; and that as soon as they could, by
constantly watching the enemy's motions, procure any information
which the attorney should deem sufficient grounds for a legal
proceeding, they should lay the whole business before the mayor.

After arranging all this most judiciously and mysteriously with
friends who were exactly of his own opinion, Mr. Hill laid aside
his dignity of verger, and assuming his other character of a
tanner, proceeded to his tan-yard.  What was his surprise and
consternation, when he beheld his great rick of oak bark levelled
to the ground; the pieces of bark were scattered far and wide, some
over the close, some over the fields, and some were seen swimming
upon the water!  No tongue, no pen, no muse can describe the
feelings of our tanner at this spectacle--feelings which became the
more violent from the absolute silence which he imposed on himself
upon this occasion.  He instantly decided in his own mind that this
injury was perpetrated by O'Neill, in revenge for his arrest; and
went privately to the attorney to inquire what was to be done, on
his part, to secure legal vengeance.

The attorney unluckily--or at least, as Mr. Hill thought,
unluckily--had been sent for, half an hour before, by a gentleman
at some distance from Hereford, to draw up a will:  so that our
tanner was obliged to postpone his legal operations.

We forbear to recount his return, and how many times he walked up
and down the close to view his scattered bark, and to estimate the
damage that had been done to him.  At length that hour came which
usually suspends all passions by the more imperious power of
appetite--the hour of dinner:  an hour of which it was never
needful to remind Mr. Hill by watch, clock, or dial; for he was
blessed with a punctual appetite, and powerful as punctual:  so
powerful, indeed, that it often excited the spleen of his more
genteel or less hungry wife.  "Bless my stars!  Mr. Hill," she
would oftentimes say, "I am really downright ashamed to see you eat
so much; and when company is to dine with us, I do wish you would
take a snack by way of a damper before dinner, that you may not
look so prodigious famishing and ungenteel."

Upon this hint, Mr. Hill commenced a practice, to which he ever
afterwards religiously adhered, of going, whether there was to be
company or no company, into the kitchen regularly every day, half
an hour before dinner, to take a slice from the roast or the boiled
before it went up to table.  As he was this day, according to his
custom, in the kitchen, taking his snack by way of a damper, he
heard the housemaid and the cook talking about some wonderful
fortune-teller, whom the housemaid had been consulting.  This
fortune-teller was no less a personage than the successor to
Bampfylde Moore Carew, king of the gipsies, whose life and
adventures are probably in many, too many, of our readers' hands.
Bampfylde, the second king of the gipsies, assumed this title, in
hopes of becoming as famous, or as infamous, as his predecessor:
he was now holding his court in a wood near the town of Hereford,
and numbers of servant-maids and 'prentices went to consult him--
nay, it was whispered that he was resorted to, secretly, by some
whose education might have taught them better sense.

Numberless were the instances which our verger heard in his kitchen
of the supernatural skill of this cunning man; and whilst Mr. Hill
ate his snack with his wonted gravity, he revolved great designs in
his secret soul.  Mrs. Hill was surprised, several times during
dinner, to see her consort put down his knife and fork, and
meditate.  "Gracious me, Mr. Hill! what can have happened to you
this day?  What can you be thinking of, Mr. Hill, that can make you
forget what you have upon your plate?"

"Mrs. Hill," replied the thoughtful verger, "our grandmother Eve
had too much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead to good.
What I am thinking of will be known to you in due time, but not
now, Mrs. Hill; therefore, pray, no questions, or teasing, or
pumping.  What I think, I think; what I say, I say; what I know, I
know; and that is enough for you to know at present:  only this,
Phoebe, you did very well not to put on the Limerick gloves, child.
What I know, I know.  Things will turn out just as I said from the
first.  What I say, I say; and what I think, I think; and this is
enough for you to know at present."

Having finished dinner with this solemn speech, Mr. Hill settled
himself in his arm-chair, to take his after-dinner's nap:  and he
dreamed of blowing up cathedrals, and of oak bark floating upon the
waters; and the cathedral was, he thought, blown up by a man
dressed in a pair of woman's Limerick gloves, and the oak bark
turned into mutton steaks, after which his great dog Jowler was
swimming; when, all on a sudden, as he was going to beat Jowler for
eating the bark transformed into mutton steaks, Jowler became
Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies; and putting a horse-whip
with a silver handle into Hill's hand, commanded him three times,
in a voice as loud as the town-crier's, to have O'Neill whipped
through the market-place of Hereford:  but just as he was going to
the window to see this whipping, his wig fell off, and he awoke.

It was difficult, even for Mr. Hill's sagacity, to make sense of
this dream:  but he had the wise art of always finding in his
dreams something that confirmed his waking determinations.  Before
he went to sleep, he had half resolved to consult the king of the
gipsies, in the absence of the attorney; and his dream made him now
wholly determined upon this prudent step.  "From Bampfylde the
Second," thought he, "I shall learn for certain who made the hole
under the cathedral, who pulled down my rick of bark, and who made
away with my dog Jowler; and then I shall swear examinations
against O'Neill, without waiting for attorneys.  I will follow my
own way in this business:  I have always found my own way best."

So, when the dusk of the evening increased, our wise man set out
towards the wood to consult the cunning man.  Bampfylde the Second,
king of the gipsies, resided in a sort of hut made of the branches
of trees; the verger stooped, but did not stoop low enough, as he
entered this temporary palace, and, whilst his body was almost bent
double, his peruke was caught upon a twig.  From this awkward
situation he was relieved by the consort of the king; and he now
beheld, by the light of some embers, the person of his gipsy
majesty, to whose sublime appearance this dim light was so
favourable that it struck a secret awe into our wise man's soul;
and, forgetting Hereford Cathedral, and oak bark, and Limerick
gloves, he stood for some seconds speechless.  During this time,
the queen very dexterously disencumbered his pocket of all
superfluous articles.  When he recovered his recollection, he put
with great solemnity the following queries to the king of the
gipsies, and received the following answers:-

"Do you know a dangerous Irishman of the name of O'Neill, who has
come, for purposes best known to himself, to settle at Hereford?"

"Yes, we know him well."

"Indeed!  And what do you know of him?"

"That he is a dangerous Irishman."

"Right!  And it was he, was it not, that pulled down, or caused to
be pulled down, my rick of oak bark?"

"It was."

"And who was it that made away with my dog Jowler, that used to
guard the tan-yard?"

"It was the person that you suspect."

"And was it the person whom I suspect that made the hole under the
foundation of our cathedral?"

"The same, and no other."

"And for what purpose did he make that hole?"

"For a purpose that must not be named," replied the king of the
gipsies, nodding his head in a mysterious manner.

"But it may be named to me," cried the verger, "for I have found it
out, and I am one of the vergers; and is it not fit that a plot to
blow up the Hereford Cathedral should be known TO me, and THROUGH
me?"


"Now, take my word,
Wise men of Hereford,
None in safety may be,
Till the bad man doth flee."


These oracular verses, pronounced by Bampfylde with all the
enthusiasm of one who was inspired, had the desired effect upon our
wise man; and he left the presence of the king of the gipsies with
a prodigiously high opinion of his majesty's judgment and of his
own, fully resolved to impart, the next morning, to the mayor of
Hereford his important discoveries.

Now it happened that, during the time Mr. Hill was putting the
foregoing queries to Bampfylde the Second, there came to the door
or entrance of the audience chamber an Irish haymaker who wanted to
consult the cunning man about a little leathern purse which he had
lost whilst he was making hay in a field near Hereford.  This
haymaker was the same person who, as we have related, spoke so
advantageously of our hero O'Neill to the widow Smith.  As this
man, whose name was Paddy M'Cormack, stood at the entrance of the
gipsies' hut, his attention was caught by the name of O'Neill; and
he lost not a word of all that pasted.  He had reason to be
somewhat surprised at hearing Bampfylde assert it was O'Neill who
had pulled down the rick of bark.  "By the holy poker!" said he to
himself, "the old fellow now is out there.  I know more o' that
matter than he does--no offence to his majesty; he knows no more of
my purse, I'll engage now, than he does of this man's rick of bark
and his dog:  so I'll keep my tester in my pocket, and not be
giving it to this king o' the gipsies, as they call him:  who, as
near as I can guess, is no better than a cheat.  But there is one
secret which I can be telling this conjuror himself:  he shall not
find it such an easy matter to do all what he thinks; he shall not
be after ruining an innocent countryman of my own whilst Paddy
M'Cormack has a tongue and brains."

Now, Paddy M'Cormack had the best reason possible for knowing that
Mr. O'Neill did not pull down Mr. Hill's rick of bark; it was
M'Cormack himself who, in the heat of his resentment for the
insulting arrest of his countryman in the streets of Hereford, had
instigated his fellow haymakers to this mischief; he headed them,
and thought he was doing a clever, spirited action.

There is a strange mixture of virtue and vice in the minds of the
lower class of Irish:  or rather, a strange confusion in their
ideas of right and wrong, from want of proper education.  As soon
as poor Paddy found out that his spirited action of pulling down
the rick of bark was likely to be the ruin of his countryman, he
resolved to make all the amends in his power for his folly--he went
to collect his fellow haymakers, and persuaded them to assist him
this night in rebuilding what they had pulled down.

They went to this work when everybody except themselves, as they
thought, was asleep in Hereford.  They had just completed the
stack, and were all going away except Paddy, who was seated at the
very top, finishing the pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out,
"Here they are!  Watch!  Watch!"

Immediately all the haymakers who could, ran off as fast as
possible.  It was the watch who had been sitting up at the
cathedral who gave the alarm.  Paddy was taken from the top of the
rick and lodged in the watch-house till morning.  "Since I'm to be
rewarded this way for doing a good action, sorrow take me," said
he, "if they catch me doing another the longest day ever I live."

Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr.
Marshal!  He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties of
his office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst of
contradictory evidence, and the happy art of soothing or laughing
the angry passions into good-humour.  It was a common saying in
Hereford that no one ever came out of Justice Marshal's house as
angry as he went into it.

Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted when he was informed that Mr.
Hill, the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost
importance.  Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and, with gloomy
solemnity, took a seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.

"Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Marshal!  Sad doings, sir."

"Sad doings?  Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford.  A
ball the night before last, as I heard."

"So much the worse, Mr. Marshal--so much the worse:  as those think
with reason that see as far into things as I do."

"So much the better, Mr. Hill," said Mr. Marshal, laughing, "so
much the better:  as those think with reason that see no farther
into things than I do."

"But, sir," said the verger, still more solemnly, "this is no
laughing matter, nor time for laughing, begging your pardon.  Why,
sir, the night of that there diabolical ball our Hereford
Cathedral, sir, would have been blown up--blown up from the
foundation, if it had not been for me, sir!"

"Indeed, Mr. Verger!  And pray how, and by whom, was the cathedral
to be blown up? and what was there diabolical in this ball?"

Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early
dislike to O'Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first
moment he saw him in Hereford:  related in the most prolix manner
all that the reader knows already, and concluded by saying that, as
he was now certain of his facts, he was come to swear examinations
against this villanous Irishman, who, he hoped, would be speedily
brought to justice, as he deserved.

"To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves," said Mr. Marshal;
"but before I write, and before you swear, will you have the
goodness to inform me how you have made yourself as certain, as you
evidently are, of what you call your facts?"

"Sir, that is a secret," replied our wise man, "which I shall trust
to you alone;" and he whispered into Mr. Marshal's ear that, his
information came from Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.

Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself,
said:  "My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no
farther in this business; and that no one in Hereford, beside
myself, knows that you were on the point of swearing examinations
against a man on the evidence of Bampfylde the Second, king of the
gipsies.  My dear sir, it would be a standing joke against you to
the end of your days.  A grave man like Mr. Hill! and a verger too!
Why you would be the laughing-stock of Hereford!"

Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was
talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at.
Mr. Hill coloured all over his face, and, pushing back his wig by
way of settling it, showed that he blushed not only all over his
face, but all over his head.

"Why, Mr. Marshal, sir," said he, "as to my being laughed at, it is
what I did not look for, being, as there are, some men in Hereford
to whom I have mentioned that hole in the cathedral, who have
thought it no laughing matter, and who have been precisely of my
own opinion thereupon."

"But did you tell these gentlemen that you had been consulting the
king of the gipsies?"

"No, sir, no:  I can't say that I did."

"Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will."

Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the
cathedral and his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of
bark and his dog Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog,
and now of the rick of bark; and when he had exhausted all he had
to say upon these subjects, Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards
the window, and putting a spy-glass into his hand, bade him look
towards his own tan-yard, and tell him what he saw.  To his great
surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of bark re-built.  "Why, it was not
there last night," exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes.  "Why, some
conjuror must have done this."

"No," replied Mr. Marshal, "no conjuror did it:  but your friend
Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its
being re-built; and here is the man who actually pulled it down,
and who actually re-built it."

As he said these words Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining
room and beckoned to the Irish hay-maker, who had been taken into
custody about an hour before this time.  The watch who took Paddy
had called at Mr. Hill's house to tell him what had happened, but
Mr. Hill was not then at home.

It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth
from this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O'Neill
was innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other
ground of suspicion, the loss of his dog.

The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist
of the hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can
picture to themselves, said, "Plase your honour's honour, I have a
little word to say too about the dog."

"Say it, then," said Mr. Marshal.

"Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let off
for pulling down the jontleman's stack, I might be able to tell him
what I know about the dog."

"If you can tell me anything about my dog," said the tanner, "I
will freely forgive you for pulling down the rick:  especially as
you have built it up again.  Speak the truth, now:  did not O'Neill
make away with the dog?"

"Not at all, at all, plase your honour," replied the haymaker:
"and the truth of the matter is, I know nothing of the dog, good or
bad; but I know something of his collar, if your name, plase your
honour, is Hill, as I take it to be."

"My name is Hill:  proceed," said the tanner, with great eagerness.
"You know something about the collar of my dog Jowler?"

"Plase your honour, this much I know, any way, that it is now, or
was the night before last, at the pawnbroker's there, below in
town; for, plase your honour, I was sent late at night (that night
that Mr. O'Neill, long life to him! was arrested) to the
pawnbroker's for a Jew by Mrs. O'Neill, poor creature!  She was in
great trouble that same time."

"Very likely," interrupted Mr. Hill:  "but go on to the collar;
what of the collar?"

"She sent me--I'll tell you the story, plase your honour, out of
the face--she sent me to the pawnbroker's for the Jew; and, it
being so late at night, the shop was shut, and it was with all the
trouble in life that I got into the house any way:  and, when I got
in, there was none but a slip of a boy up; and he set down the
light that he had in his hand, and ran up the stairs to waken his
master:  and, whilst he was gone, I just made bold to look round at
what sort of a place I was in, and at the old clothes and rags and
scraps; there was a sort of a frieze trusty."

"A trusty!" said Mr. Hill; "what is that, pray?"

"A big coat, sure, plase your honour:  there was a frieze big coat
lying in a corner, which I had my eye upon, to trate myself to:  I
having, as I then thought, money in my little purse enough for it.
Well, I won't trouble your honour's honour with telling of you now
how I lost my purse in the field, as I found after; but about the
big coat--as I was saying, I just lifted it off the ground to see
would it fit me; and, as I swung it round, something, plase your
honour, hit me a great knock on the shins:  it was in the pocket of
the coat, whatever it was, I knew; so I looks into the pocket to
see what was it, plase your honour, and out I pulls a hammer and a
dog-collar:  it was a wonder, both together, they did not break my
shins entirely:  but it's no matter for my shins now; so, before
the boy came down, I just out of idleness spelt out to myself the
name that was upon the collar:  there were two names, plase your
honour, and out of the first there were so many letters hammered
out I could make nothing of it at all, at all; but the other name
was plain enough to read, any way, and it was Hill, plase your
honour's honour, as sure as life:  Hill, now."

This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and
strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our
verger gave way to laughter.

Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker, that he might learn
from him how he came by the dog-collar.  The pawnbroker, when he
found from Mr. Marshal that he could by no other means save himself
from being committed to prison, confessed that the collar had been
sold to him by Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.

A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty; and Mr. Hill
was a good deal alarmed by the fear of its being known in Hereford
that he was on the point of swearing examinations against an
innocent man upon the evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.

Bampfylde the Second made no sublime appearance when he was brought
before Mr. Marshal, nor could all his astrology avail upon this
occasion.  The evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive as to the
fact of his having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no
resource left for Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill's mercy.  He
fell on his knees, and confessed that it was he who stole the dog,
which used to bark at him at night so furiously, that he could not
commit certain petty depredations by which, as much as by telling
fortunes, he made his livelihood

"And so," said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner which till
now he had never shown, "to screen yourself, you accused an
innocent man; and by your vile arts would have driven him from
Hereford, and have set two families for ever at variance, to
conceal that you had stolen a dog."

The king of the gipsies was, without further ceremony, committed to
the house of correction.  We should not omit to mention that, on
searching his hat, the Irish haymaker's purse was found, which some
of his majesty's train had emptied.  The whole set of gipsies
decamped upon the news of the apprehension of their monarch.

Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick,
whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the Second.  The
fear of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of
his temper.  He was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being
taken in by the king of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the
same time, he was unwilling to give up his prejudice against the
Irish glover.

"But, Mr. Marshal," cried he, after a long silence, "the hole under
the foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted for--that
is, was, and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and I never can
have a good opinion of this Irishman till it is cleared up, nor can
I think the cathedral in safety."

"What!" said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, "I suppose the verses
of the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr. Hill.  They are
excellent in their kind.  I must have them by heart, that when I am
asked the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an aversion to an Irish
glover, I may be able to repeat them:-


"Now, take my word,
Wise men of Hereford,
None in safety may be,
Till the bad man doth flee."


"You'll oblige me, sir," said the verger, "if you would never
repeat those verses, sir, nor mention, in any company, the affair
of the king of the gipsies."

"I will oblige you," replied Mr. Marshal, "if you will oblige me.
Will you tell me honestly whether, now that you find this Mr.
O'Neill is neither a dog-killer nor a puller-down of bark-ricks,
you feel that you could forgive him for being an Irishman, if the
mystery, as you call it, of the hole under the cathedral was
cleared up?"

"But that is not cleared up, I say, sir," cried Mr. Hill, striking
his walking-stick forcibly upon the ground with both his hands.
"As to the matter of his being an Irishman, I have nothing to say
to it; I am not saying anything about that, for I know we all are
born where it pleases God, and an Irishman may be as good as
another.  I know that much, Mr. Marshal, and I am not one of those
illiberal-minded, ignorant people that cannot abide a man that was
not born in England.  Ireland is now in his majesty's dominions.  I
know very well, Mr. Marshal; and I have no manner of doubt, as I
said before, that an Irishman born may be as good, almost, as an
Englishman born."

"I am glad," said Mr. Marshal, "to hear you speak--almost as
reasonably as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and
I am convinced that you have too much English hospitality to
persecute an inoffensive stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to
our justice and good nature."

"I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!" replied the verger,
"if he was, as you say, inoffensive."

"And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every service
in his power to those who are in want of his assistance, we should
not return evil for good, should we?"

"That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and, moreover, a scandal,"
said the verger.

"Then," said Mr. Marshal, "will you walk with me as far as the
Widow Smith's, the poor woman whose house was burnt last winter?
This haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the way to her
present abode."

During his examination of Paddy M'Cormack, who would tell his whole
history, as he called it, out of the face, Mr. Marshal heard
several instances of the humanity and goodness of O'Neill, which
Paddy related to excuse himself for that warmth of attachment to
his cause that had been manifested so injudiciously by pulling down
the rick of bark in revenge for the rest.  Amongst other things,
Paddy mentioned his countryman's goodness to the Widow Smith.  Mr.
Marshal was determined, therefore, to see whether he had, in this
instance, spoken the truth; and he took Hill with him, in hopes of
being able to show him the favourable side of O'Neill's character.

Things turned out just as Mr. Marshal expected.  The poor widow and
her family, in the most simple and affecting manner, described the
distress from which they had been relieved by the good gentleman;
and lady--the lady was Phoebe Hill; and the praises that were
bestowed upon Phoebe were delightful to her father's ear, whose
angry passions had now all subsided.

The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill's
heart was touched, and exclaimed, "I must be acquainted with this
Mr. O'Neill.  I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show some
hospitality to a stranger who has so much humanity.  Mr. Hill, will
you dine with him to-morrow at my house?"

Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the
recollection of all he had said to his club about the hole under
the cathedral came across him, and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he
whispered, "But, sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the
cathedral has not been cleared up yet."

At this instant the Widow Smith exclaimed, "Oh! here comes my
little Mary" (one of her children, who came running in); "this is
the little girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good.  Make your
curtsey, child.  Where have you been all this while?"

"Mammy," said the child, "I've been showing the lady my rat."

"Lord bless her!  Gentlemen, the child has been wanting me this
many a day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never
get time, never--and I wondered, too, at the child's liking such a
creature.  Tell the gentlemen, dear, about your rat.  All I know is
that, let her have but never such a tiny bit of bread for breakfast
or supper, she saves a little of that little for this rat of hers;
she and her brothers have found it out somewhere by the cathedral."

"It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral," said one
of the older boys; "and we have diverted ourselves watching it, and
sometimes we have put victuals for it--so it has grown, in a
manner, tame-like."

Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech;
and the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he
apprehended that, after all he had said, the mountain might at last
bring forth--a rat.  Mr. Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in
the verger's mind, relieved him from this fear by refraining even
from a smile on this occasion.  He only said to the child, in a
grave manner, "I am afraid, my dear, we shall be obliged to spoil
your diversion.  Mr. Verger, here, cannot suffer rat-holes in the
cathedral; but, to make you amends for the loss of your favourite,
I will give you a very pretty little dog, if you have a mind."

The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal's
desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral,
and they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole
which had created so much disturbance.  The child soon brought the
dreadful enemy to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said,
"I'm glad it's no worse, but there were many in our club who were
of my opinion; and, if they had not suspected O'Neill too, I am
sure I should never have given you so much trouble, sir, as I have
done this morning.  But I hope, as the club know nothing about that
vagabond, that king of the gipsies, you will not let any one know
anything about the prophecy, and all that?  I am sure I am very
sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr. Marshal."

Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he
had spent in endeavouring to clear up all those mysteries and
suspicions; and Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet
O'Neill at his house the next day.  No sooner had Mr. Marshal
brought one of the parties to reason and good humour than he went
to prepare the other for a reconciliation.  O'Neill and his mother
were both people of warm but forgiving tempers--the arrest was
fresh in their minds; but when Mr. Marshal represented to them the
whole affair, and the verger's prejudices, in a humorous light,
they joined in the good-natured laugh; and O'Neill declared that,
for his part, he was ready to forgive and to forget everything if
he could but see Miss Phoebe in the Limerick gloves.

Phoebe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal's, in the Limerick
gloves; and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the
smell of the rose-leaves in which they had been kept.

Mr. Marshal had the benevolent pleasure of reconciling the two
families.  The tanner and the glover of Hereford became, from
bitter enemies, useful friends to each other; and they were
convinced by experience that nothing could be more for their mutual
advantage than to live in union.




MADAME DE FLEURY




CHAPTER I



"There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall -
How can you, mothers, vex your infants so?"--POPE

"D'abord, madame, c'est impossible!--Madame ne descendra pas ici?"
said Francois, the footman of Madame de Fleury, with a half
expostulatory, half indignant look, as he let down the step of her
carriage at the entrance of a dirty passage, that led to one of the
most miserable-looking houses in Paris.

"But what can be the cause of the cries which I hear in this
house?" said Madame de Fleury.

"'Tis only some child who is crying," replied Francois; and he
would have put up the step, but his lady was not satisfied.

"'Tis nothing in the world," continued he, with a look of appeal to
the coachman, "it CAN be nothing, but some children who are locked
up there above.  The mother, the workwoman my lady wants, is not at
home:  that's certain."

"I must know the cause of these cries; I must see these children"
said Madame de Fleury, getting out of her carriage.

Francois held his arm for his lady as she got out.

"Bon!" cried he, with an air of vexation. "Si madame la vent
absolument, a la bonne heure!--Mais madame sera abimee.  Madame
verra que j'ai raison.  Madame ne montera jamais ce vilain
escalier.  D'ailleurs c'est au cinquieme.  Mais, madame, c'est
impossible."

Notwithstanding the impossibility, Madame de Fleury proceeded; and
bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up
the dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries
increasing every instant, till, as she reached the fifth storey,
she heard the shrieks of one in violent pain.  She hastened to the
door of the room from which the cries proceeded; the door was
fastened, and the noise was so great that, though she knocked as
loud as she was able, she could not immediately make herself heard.
At last the voice of a child from within answered, "The door is
locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won't be home till
night; and here's Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big
press, and it is she that is shrieking so."

Madame de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so
much difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the
entry, despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to
obtain from some people who lodged in the house assistance to force
open the door of the room in which the children were confined.

On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly
that he did not hear the screams of the children.  When his door
was pushed open, and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared
to him, his astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of
comprehending what she said.  In a strong provincial accent he
repeated, "Plait-il?" and stood aghast till she had explained
herself three times; then suddenly exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he
collected his tools precipitately, and followed to obey her orders.
The door of the room was at last forced half open, for a press that
had been overturned prevented its opening entirely.  The horrible
smells that issued did not overcome Madame de Fleury's humanity:
she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the fallen press saw
three little children:  the youngest, almost an infant, ceased
roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight
years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on
his knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify,
but who struggled most violently and screamed incessantly,
regardless of Madame de Fleury, to whose questions she made no
answer.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a
soothing voice.  "Only tell me where you feel pain?"

The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is
this that is hurt--but it was not I did it."

"It was, it WAS!" cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate:
"it was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press."

"No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell
backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady."

"I can't," said the girl.

"She won't," said the boy.

"She cannot," said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it.
"She cannot move it; I am afraid that it is broken."

"Don't touch it! don't touch it!" cried the girl, screaming more
violently.

"Ma'am, she screams that way for nothing often," said the boy.
"Her arm is no more broke than mine, I'm sure; she'll move it well
enough when she's not cross."

"I am afraid," said Madame de Fleury, "that her arm is broken."

"Is it indeed?" said the boy, with a look of terror.

"Oh! don't touch it--you'll kill me; you are killing me," screamed
the poor girl, whilst Madame de Fleury with the greatest care
endeavoured to join the bones in their proper place, and resolved
to hold the arm till the arrival of the surgeon.

From the feminine appearance of this lady, no stranger would have
expected such resolution; but with all the natural sensibility and
graceful delicacy of her sex, she had none of that weakness or
affection which incapacitates from being useful in real distress.
In most sudden accidents, and in all domestic misfortunes, female
resolution and presence of mind are indispensably requisite:
safety, health, and life often depend upon the fortitude of women.
Happy they who, like Madame de Fleury, possess strength of mind
united with the utmost gentleness of manner and tenderness of
disposition!

Soothed by this lady's sweet voice, the child's rage subsided; and
no longer struggling, the poor little girl sat quietly on her lap,
sometimes writhing and moaning with pain.

The surgeon at length arrived:  her arm was set:  and he said "that
she had probably been saved much future pain by Madame de Fleury's
presence of mind."

"Sir,--will it soon be well?" said Maurice to the surgeon.

"Oh yes, very soon, I dare say," said the little girl.  "To-morrow,
perhaps; for now that it is tied up it does not hurt me to signify-
-and after all, I do believe, Maurice, it was not you threw me
down."

As she spoke, she held up her face to kiss her brother.--"That is
right," said Madame de Fleury; "there is a good sister."

The little girl put out her lips, offering a second kiss, but the
boy turned hastily away to rub the tears from his eyes with the
back of his hand.

"I am not cross now:  am I, Maurice?"

"No, Victoire; I was cross myself when I said THAT."

As Victoire was going to speak again, the surgeon imposed silence,
observing that she must be put to bed, and should be kept quiet.
Madame de Fleury laid her upon the bed, as soon as Maurice had
cleared it of the things with which it was covered; and as they
were spreading the ragged blanket over the little girl, she
whispered a request to Madame de Fleury that she would "stay till
her mamma came home, to beg Maurice off from being whipped, if
mamma should be angry."

Touched by this instance of goodness, and compassionating the
desolate condition of these children, Madame de Fleury complied
with Victoire's request; resolving to remonstrate with their mother
for leaving them locked up in this manner.  They did not know to
what part of the town their mother was gone; they could tell only
"that she was to go to a great many different places to carry back
work, and to bring home more, and that she expected to be in by
five."  It was now half after four.

Whilst Madame de Fleury waited, she asked the boy to give her a
full account of the manner in which the accident had happened.

"Why, ma'am," said Maurice, twisting and untwisting a ragged
handkerchief as he spoke, "the first beginning of all the mischief
was, we had nothing to do, so we went to the ashes to make dirt
pies; but Babet would go so close that she burnt her petticoat, and
threw about all our ashes, and plagued us, and we whipped her.  But
all would not do, she would not be quiet; so to get out of her
reach, we climbed up by this chair on the table to the top of the
press, and there we were well enough for a little while, till
somehow we began to quarrel about the old scissors, and we
struggled hard for them till I got this cut."

Here he unwound the handkerchief, and for the first time showed the
wound, which he had never mentioned before.

"Then," continued he, "when I got the cut, I shoved Victoire, and
she pushed at me again, and I was keeping her off, and her foot
slipped, and down she fell, and caught by the press-door, and
pulled it and me after her, and that's all I know."

"It is well that you were not both killed," said Madame de Fleury.
"Are you often left locked up in this manner by yourselves, and
without anything to do?"

"Yes, always, when mamma is abroad, except sometimes we are let out
upon the stairs or in the street; but mamma says we get into
mischief there."

This dialogue was interrupted by the return of the mother.  She
came upstairs slowly, much fatigued, and with a heavy bundle under
her arm.

"How now!  Maurice, how comes my door open?  What's all this?"
cried she, in an angry voice; but seeing a lady sitting upon her
child's bed, she stopped short in great astonishment.  Madame de
Fleury related what had happened, and averted her anger from
Maurice by gently expostulating upon the hardship and hazard of
leaving her young children in this manner during so many hours of
the day.

"Why, my lady," replied the poor woman, wiping her forehead, "every
hard-working woman in Paris does the same with her children; and
what can I do else?  I must earn bread for these helpless ones, and
to do that I must be out backwards and forwards, and to the
furthest parts of the town, often from morning till night, with
those that employ me; and I cannot afford to send the children to
school, or to keep any kind of a servant to look after them; and
when I'm away, if I let them run about these stairs and entries, or
go into the sheets, they do get a little exercise and air, to be
sure, such as it is on which account I do let them out sometimes;
but then a deal of mischief comes of that, too:  they learn all
kinds of wickedness, and would grow up to be no better than
pickpockets, if they were let often to consort with the little
vagabonds they find in the streets.  So what to do better for them
I don't know."

The poor mother sat down upon the fallen press, looked at Victoire,
and wept bitterly.  Madame de Fleury was struck with compassion;
but she did not satisfy her feelings merely by words or comfort or
by the easy donation of some money--she resolved to do something
more, and something better.



CHAPTER II



"Come often, then; for haply in my bower
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom, thou may'st gain:
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain."--BEATTIE.

It is not so easy to do good as those who have never attempted it
may imagine; and they who without consideration follow the mere
instinct of pity, often by their imprudent generosity create evils
more pernicious to society than any which they partially remedy.
"Warm Charity, the general friend," may become the general enemy,
unless she consults her head as well as her heart.  Whilst she
pleases herself with the idea that she daily feeds hundreds of the
poor, she is perhaps preparing want and famine for thousands.
Whilst she delights herself with the anticipation of gratitude for
her bounties, she is often exciting only unreasonable expectations,
inducing habits of dependence and submission to slavery.

Those who wish to do good should attend to experience, from whom
they may receive lessons upon the largest scale that time and
numbers can afford.

Madame de Fleury was aware that neither a benevolent disposition
nor a large fortune were sufficient to enable her to be of real
service, without the constant exercise of her judgment.  She had,
therefore, listened with deference to the conversation of well-
informed men upon those subjects on which ladies have not always
the means or the wish to acquire extensive and accurate knowledge.
Though a Parisian belle, she had read with attention some of those
books which are generally thought too dry or too deep for her sex.
Consequently, her benevolence was neither wild in theory nor
precipitate nor ostentatious in practice.

Touched with compassion for a little girl whose arm had been
accidentally broken, and shocked by the discovery of the
confinement and the dangers to which numbers of children in Paris
were doomed, she did not make a parade of her sensibility.  She did
not talk of her feelings in fine sentences to a circle of opulent
admirers, nor did she project for the relief of the little
sufferers some magnificent establishment which she could not
execute or superintend.  She was contented with attempting only
what she had reasonable hopes of accomplishing.

The gift of education she believed to be more advantageous than the
gift of money to the poor, as it ensures the means both of future
subsistence and happiness.  But the application even of this
incontrovertible principle requires caution and judgment.  To crowd
numbers of children into a place called a school, to abandon them
to the management of any person called a schoolmaster or a
schoolmistress, is not sufficient to secure the blessings of a good
education.  Madame de Fleury was sensible that the greatest care is
necessary in the choice of the person to whom young children are to
be entrusted; she knew that only a certain number can be properly
directed by one superintendent, and that, by attempting to do too
much, she might do nothing, or worse than nothing.  Her school was
formed, therefore, on a small scale, which she could enlarge to any
extent, if it should be found to succeed.  From some of the
families of poor people, who, in earning their bread, are obliged
to spend most of the day from home, she selected twelve little
girls, of whom Victoire was the eldest, and she was between six and
seven.

The person under whose care Madame de Fleury wished to place these
children was a nun of the Soeurs de la Charite, with whose
simplicity of character, benevolence, and mild, steady temper she
was thoroughly acquainted.  Sister Frances was delighted with the
plan.  Any scheme that promised to be of service to her follow-
creatures was sure of meeting with her approbation; but this suited
her taste peculiarly, because she was extremely fond of children.
No young person had ever boarded six months at her convent without
becoming attached to good Sister Frances.

The period of which we are writing was some years before convents
were abolished; but the strictness of their rules had in many
instances been considerably relaxed.  Without much difficulty,
permission was obtained from the abbess for our nun to devote her
time during the day to the care of these poor children, upon
condition that she should regularly return to her convent every
night before evening prayers.  The house which Madame de Fleury
chose for her little school was in an airy part of the town; it did
not face the street, but was separated from other buildings at the
back of a court, retired from noise and bustle.  The two rooms
intended for the occupation of the children were neat and clean,
but perfectly simple, with whitewashed walls, furnished only with
wooden stools and benches, and plain deal tables.  The kitchen was
well lighted (for light is essential to cleanliness), and it was
provided with utensils; and for these appropriate places were
allotted, to give the habit and the taste of order.  The schoolroom
opened into a garden larger than is usually seen in towns.  The
nun, who had been accustomed to purchase provisions for her
convent, undertook to prepare daily for the children breakfast and
dinner; they were to sup and sleep at their respective homes.
Their parents were to take them to Sister Frances every morning
when they went out to work, and to call for them upon their return
home every evening.  By this arrangement, the natural ties of
affection and intimacy between the children and their parents would
not be loosened; they would be separate only at the time when their
absence must be inevitable.  Madame de Fleury thought that any
education which estranges children entirely from their parents must
be fundamentally erroneous; that such a separation must tend to
destroy that sense of filial affection and duty, and those
principles of domestic subordination, on which so many of the
interests and much of the virtue and happiness of society depend.
The parents of these poor children were eager to trust them to her
care, and they strenuously endeavoured to promote what they
perceived to be entirely to their advantage.  They promised to take
their daughters to school punctually every morning--a promise which
was likely to be kept, as a good breakfast was to be ready at a
certain hour, and not to wait for anybody.  The parents looked
forward with pleasure, also, to the idea of calling for their
little girls at the end of their day's labour, and of taking them
home to their family supper.  During the intermediate hours the
children were constantly to be employed, or in exercise.  It was
difficult to provide suitable employments for their early age; but
even the youngest of those admitted could be taught to wind balls
of cotton, thread, and silk for haberdashers; or they could shell
peas and beans, &c., for a neighbouring traiteur; or they could
weed in a garden.  The next in age could learn knitting and plain
work, reading, writing, and arithmetic.  As the girls should grow
up, they were to be made useful in the care of the house.  Sister
Frances said she could teach them to wash and iron, and that she
would make them as skilful in cookery as she was herself.  This
last was doubtless a rash promise; for in most of the mysteries of
the culinary art, especially in the medical branches of it, in
making savoury messes palatable to the sick, few could hope to
equal the neat-handed Sister Frances.  She had a variety of other
accomplishments; but her humility and good sense forbade her upon
the present occasion to mention these.  She said nothing of
embroidery, or of painting, or of cutting out paper, or of carving
in ivory, though in all these she excelled:  her cuttings-out in
paper were exquisite as the finest lace; her embroidered
housewives, and her painted boxes, and her fan-mounts, and her
curiously-wrought ivory toys, had obtained for her the highest
reputation in the convent amongst the best judges in the world.
Those only who have philosophically studied and thoroughly
understand the nature of fame and vanity can justly appreciate the
self-denial or magnanimity of Sister Frances, in forbearing to
enumerate or boast of these things.  She alluded to them but once,
and in the slightest and most humble manner.

"These little creatures are too young for us to think of teaching
them anything but plain work at present; but if hereafter any of
them should show a superior genius we can cultivate it properly.
Heaven has been pleased to endow me with the means--at least, our
convent says so."

The actions of Sister Frances showed as much moderation as her
words; for though she was strongly tempted to adorn her new
dwelling with those specimens of her skill which had long been the
glory of her apartment in the convent, yet she resisted the
impulse, and contented herself with hanging over the chimney-piece
of her schoolroom a Madonna of her own painting.

The day arrived when she was to receive her pupils in their new
habitation.  When the children entered the room for the first time,
they paid the Madonna the homage of their unfeigned admiration.
Involuntarily the little crowd stopped short at the sight of the
picture.  Some dormant emotions of human vanity were now awakened--
played for a moment about the heart of Sister Frances--and may be
forgiven.  Her vanity was innocent and transient, her benevolence
permanent and useful.  Repressing the vain-glory of an artist, as
she fixed her eyes upon the Madonna, her thoughts rose to higher
objects, and she seized this happy moment to impress upon the minds
of her young pupils their first religious ideas and feelings.
There was such unaffected piety in her manner, such goodness in her
countenance, such persuasion in her voice, and simplicity in her
words, that the impression she made was at once serious, pleasing,
and not to be effaced.  Much depends upon the moment and the manner
in which the first notions of religion are communicated to
children; if these ideas be connected with terror, and produced
when the mind is sullen or in a state of dejection, the future
religious feelings are sometimes of a gloomy, dispiriting sort; but
if the first impression be made when the heart is expanded by hope
or touched by affection, these emotions are happily and permanently
associated with religion.  This should be particularly attended to
by those who undertake the instruction of the children of the poor,
who must lead a life of labour, and can seldom have leisure or
inclination, when arrived at years of discretion, to re-examine the
principles early infused into their minds.  They cannot in their
riper age conquer by reason those superstitions terrors, or bigoted
prejudices, which render their victims miserable, or perhaps
criminal.  To attempt to rectify any errors in the foundation after
an edifice has been constructed is dangerous:  the foundation,
therefore, should be laid with care.  The religious opinions of
Sister Frances were strictly united with just rules of morality,
strongly enforcing, as the essential means of obtaining present and
future happiness, the practice of the social virtues, so that no
good or wise persons, however they might differ from her in modes
of faith, could doubt the beneficial influence of her general
principles, or disapprove of the manner in which they were
inculcated.

Detached from every other worldly interest, this benevolent nun
devoted all her earthly thoughts to the children of whom she had
undertaken the charge.  She watched over them with unceasing
vigilance, whilst diffidence of her own abilities was happily
supported by her high opinion of Madame de Fleury's judgment.  This
lady constantly visited her pupils every week; not in the hasty,
negligent manner in which fine ladies sometimes visit charitable
institutions, imagining that the honour of their presence is to
work miracles, and that everything will go on rightly when they
have said, "LET IT BE SO," or, "I MUST HAVE IT SO."  Madame de
Fleury's visits were not of this dictatorial or cursory nature.
Not minutes, but hours, she devoted to these children--she who
could charm by the grace of her manners, and delight by the
elegance of her conversation, the most polished circles and the
best-informed societies of Paris, preferred to the glory of being
admired the pleasure of being useful:-

"Her life, as lovely as her face,
Each duty mark'd with every grace;
Her native sense improved by reading,
Her native sweetness by good breeding."



CHAPTER III



"Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be;
But if that pride it be which thus inspires,
Beware, ye dames! with nice discernment see
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires."
SHENSTONE.

By repeated observation, and by attending to the minute reports of
Sister Frances, Madame de Fleury soon became acquainted with the
habits and temper of each individual in this little society.  The
most intelligent and the most amiable of these children was
Victoire.  Whence her superiority arose, whether her abilities were
naturally more vivacious than those of her companions, or whether
they had been more early developed by accidental excitation, we
cannot pretend to determine, lest we should involve ourselves in
the intricate question respecting natural genius--a metaphysical
point, which we shall not in this place stop to discuss.  Till the
world has an accurate philosophical dictionary (a work not to be
expected in less than half a dozen centuries), this question will
never be decided to general satisfaction.  In the meantime we may
proceed with our story.

Deep was the impression made on Victoire's heart by the kindness
that Madame de Fleury showed her at the time her arm was broken;
and her gratitude was expressed with all the enthusiastic fondness
of childhood.  Whenever she spoke or heard of Madame de Fleury her
countenance became interested and animated in a degree that would
have astonished a cool English spectator.  Every morning her first
question to Sister Frances was:  "Will SHE come to-day?"  If Madame
de Fleury was expected, the hours and the minutes were counted, and
the sand in the hour-glass that stood on the schoolroom table was
frequently shaken.  The moment she appeared Victoire ran to her,
and was silent; satisfied with standing close beside her, holding
her gown when unperceived, and watching, as she spoke and moved,
every turn of her countenance.  Delighted by these marks of
sensibility, Sister Frances would have praised the child, but was
warned by Madame de Fleury to refrain from injudicious eulogiums,
lest she should teach her affectation.

"If I must not praise, you will permit me at least to love her,"
said Sister Frances.

Her affection for Victoire was increased by compassion:  during two
months the poor child's arm hung in a sling, so that she could not
venture to play with her companions.  At their hours of recreation
she used to sit on the schoolroom steps, looking down into the
garden at the scene of merriment in which she could not partake.

For those who know how to find it, there is good in everything.
Sister Frances used to take her seat on the steps, sometimes with
her work and sometimes with a book; and Victoire, tired of being
quite idle, listened with eagerness to the stories which Sister
Frances read, or watched with interest the progress of her work;
soon she longed to imitate what she saw done with so much pleasure,
and begged to be taught to work and read.  By degrees she learned
her alphabet, and could soon, to the amazement of her
schoolfellows, read the names of all the animals in Sister Frances'
picture-book.  No matter how trifling the thing done, or the
knowledge acquired, a great point is gained by giving the desire
for employment.  Children frequently become industrious from
impatience of the pains and penalties of idleness.  Count Rumford
showed that he understood childish nature perfectly well when, in
his House of Industry at Munich, he compelled the young children to
sit for some time idle in a gallery round the hall, where others a
little older than themselves were busied at work.  During
Victoire's state of idle convalescence she acquired the desire to
be employed, and she consequently soon became more industrious than
her neighbours.  Succeeding in her first efforts, she was praised--
was pleased, and persevered till she became an example of activity
to her companions.  But Victoire, though now nearly seven years
old, was not quite perfect.  Naturally, or accidentally, she was
very passionate, and not a little self-willed.

One day being mounted, horsemanlike, with whip in hand, upon the
banister of the flight of stairs leading from the schoolroom to the
garden, she called in a tone of triumph to her playfellows,
desiring them to stand out of the way, and see her slide from top
to bottom.  At this moment Sister Frances came to the schoolroom
door and forbade the feat; but Victoire, regardless of all
prohibition, slid down instantly, and moreover was going to repeat
the glorious operation, when Sister Frances, catching hold of her
arm, pointed to a heap of sharp stones that lay on the ground upon
the other side of the banisters.

"I am not afraid," said Victoire.

"But if you fall there, you may break your arm again."

"And if I do, I can bear it," said Victoire.  "Let me go, pray let
me go:  I must do it."

"No; I forbid you, Victoire, to slide down again.  Babet and all
the little ones would follow your example, and perhaps break their
necks."

The nun, as she spoke, attempted to compel Victoire to dismount;
but she was so much of a heroine, that she would do nothing upon
compulsion.  Clinging fast to the banisters, she resisted with all
her might; she kicked and screamed, and screamed and kicked, but at
last her feet were taken prisoners; then grasping the railway with
one hand, with the other she brandished high the little whip.

"What!" said the mild nun, "would you strike me with that ARM?"

The arm dropped instantly--Victoire recollected Madame de Fleury's
kindness the day when the arm was broken; dismounting immediately,
she threw herself upon her knees in the midst of the crowd of young
spectators, and begged pardon of Sister Frances.  For the rest of
the day she was as gentle as a lamb; nay, some assert that the
effects of her contrition were visible during the remainder of the
week.

Having thus found the secret of reducing the little rebel to
obedience by touching her on the tender point of gratitude, the nun
had recourse to this expedient in all perilous cases; but one day,
when she was boasting of the infallible operation of her charm,
Madame de Fleury advised her to forbear recurring to it frequently,
lest she should wear out the sensibility she so much loved.  In
consequence of this counsel, Victoire's violence of temper was
sometimes reduced by force and sometimes corrected by reason; but
the principle and the feeling of gratitude were not exhausted or
weakened in the struggle.  The hope of reward operated upon her
generous mind more powerfully than the fear of punishment; and
Madame de Fleury devised rewards with as much ability as some
legislators invent punishments.

Victoire's brother Maurice, who was now of an age to earn his own
bread, had a strong desire to be bound apprentice to the smith who
worked in the house where his mother lodged.  This most ardent wish
of his soul he had imparted to his sister; and she consulted her
benefactress, whom she considered as all-powerful in this, as in
every other affair.

"Your brother's wish shall be gratified," replied Madame de Fleury,
"if you can keep your temper one month.  If you are never in a
passion for a whole month, I will undertake that your brother shall
be bound apprentice to his friend the smith.  To your companions,
to Sister Frances, and above all to yourself, I trust, to make me a
just report this day month."



CHAPTER IV



"You she preferred to all the gay resorts,
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts."
LYTTELTON.

At the end of the time prescribed, the judges, including Victoire
herself, who was the most severe of them all, agreed she had justly
deserved her reward.  Maurice obtained his wish; and Victoire's
temper never relapsed into its former bad habits--so powerful is
the effect of a well-chosen motive!  Perhaps the historian may be
blamed for dwelling on such trivial anecdotes; yet a lady, who was
accustomed to the conversation of deep philosophers and polished
courtiers, listened without disdain to these simple annals.
Nothing appeared to her a trifle that could tend to form the habits
of temper, truth, honesty, order, and industry:  habits which are
to be early induced, not by solemn precepts, but by practical
lessons.  A few more examples of these shall be recorded,
notwithstanding the fear of being tiresome.

One day little Babet, who was now five years old, saw, as she was
coming to school, an old woman sitting at a corner of the street
beside a large black brazier full of roasted chestnuts.  Babet
thought that the chestnuts looked and smelled very good; the old
woman was talking earnestly to some people, who were on her other
side; Babet filled her work-bag with chestnuts, and then ran after
her mother and sister, who, having turned the corner of the street,
had not seen what passed.  When Babet came to the schoolroom, she
opened her bag with triumph, displayed her treasure, and offered to
divide it with her companions.  "Here, Victoire," said she, "here
is the largest chestnut for you."

But Victoire would not take it; for she staid that Babet had no
money, and that she could not have come honestly by these
chestnuts.  She spoke so forcibly upon this point that even those
who had the tempting morsel actually at their lips forbore to bite;
those who had bitten laid down their half-eaten prize; and those
who had their hands full of chestnuts rolled them back again
towards the bag.  Babet cried with vexation.

"I burned my fingers in getting them for you, and now you won't eat
them!--And I must not eat them!" said she:  then curbing her
passion, she added, "But at any rate, I won't be a thief.  I am
sure I did not think it was being a thief just to take a few
chestnuts from an old woman who had such heaps and heaps; but
Victoire says it is wrong, and I would not be a thief for all the
chestnuts in the world--I'll throw them all into the fire this
minute!"

"No; give them back again to the old woman," said Victoire.

"But, may be, she would scold me for having taken them," said
Babet; "or who knows but she might whip me?"

"And if she did, could you not bear it?" said Victoire.  "I am sure
I would rather bear twenty whippings than be a thief."

"Twenty, whippings! that's a great many," said Babet; "and I am so
little, consider--and that woman has such a monstrous arm!--Now, if
it was Sister Frances, it would be another thing.  But come! if you
will go with me, Victoire, you shall see how I will behave."

"We will all go with you," said Victoire.

"Yes, all!" said the children; "And Sister Frances, I dare say,
would go, if you asked her."

Babet ran and told her, and she readily consented to accompany the
little penitent to make restitution.  The chestnut woman did not
whip Babet, nor even scold her, but said she was sure that since
the child was so honest as to return what she had taken, she would
never steal again.  This was the most glorious day of Babet's life,
and the happiest.  When the circumstance was told to Madame de
Fleury, she gave the little girl a bag of the best chestnuts the
old women could select, and Babet with great delight shared her
reward with her companions.

"But, alas! these chestnuts are not roasted.  Oh, if we could but
roast them!" said the children.

Sister Frances placed in the middle of the table on which the
chestnuts were spread a small earthenware furnace--a delightful
toy, commonly used by children in Paris to cook their little
feasts.

"This can be bought for sixpence," said she:  "and if each of you
twelve earn one halfpenny apiece to-day, you can purchase it
tonight, and I will put a little fire into it, and you will then be
able to roast your chestnuts."

The children ran eagerly to their work--some to wind worsted for a
woman who paid them a liard for each ball, others to shell peas for
a neighbouring traiteur--all rejoicing that they were able to earn
something.  The older girls, under the directions and with the
assistance of Sister Frances, completed making, washing, and
ironing, half a dozen little caps, to supply a baby-linen
warehouse.  At the end of the day, when the sum of the produce of
their labours was added together, they were surprised to find that,
instead of one, they could purchase two furnaces.  They received
and enjoyed the reward of their united industry.  The success of
their first efforts was fixed in their memory:  for they were very
happy roasting the chestnuts, and they were all (Sister Frances
inclusive) unanimous in opinion that no chestnuts ever were so
good, or so well roasted.  Sister Frances always partook in their
little innocent amusements; and it was her great delight to be the
dispenser of rewards which at once conferred present pleasure and
cherished future virtue.



CHAPTER V



"To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start."
ROGERS.

Victoire, who gave constant exercise to the benevolent feelings of
the amiable nun, became every day more dear to her.  Far from
having the selfishness of a favourite, Victoire loved to bring into
public notice the good actions of her companions.  "Stoop down your
ear to me, Sister Frances," said she, "and I will tell you a
secret--I will tell you why my friend Annette is growing so thin--I
found it out this morning--she does not eat above half her soup
every day.  Look, there's her porringer covered up in the corner--
she carries it home to her mother, who is sick, and who has not
bread to eat."

Madame de Fleury came in whilst Sister Frances was yet bending down
to hear this secret; it was repeated to her, and she immediately
ordered that a certain allowance of bread should be given to
Annette every day to carry to her mother during her illness.

"I give it in charge to you, Victoire, to remember this, and I am
sure it will never be forgotten.  Here is an order for you upon my
baker:  run and show it to Annette.  This is a pleasure you
deserve; I am glad that you have chosen for your friend a girl who
is so good a daughter.  Good daughters make good friends."

By similar instances of goodness Victoire obtained the love and
confidence of her companions, notwithstanding her manifest
superiority.  In their turn, they were eager to proclaim her
merits; and, as Sister Frances and Madame de Fleury administered
justice with invariable impartiality, the hateful passions of envy
and jealousy were never excited in this little society.  No servile
sycophant, no malicious detractor, could rob or defraud their
little virtues of their due reward.

"Whom shall I trust to take this to Madame de Fleury?" said Sister
Frances, carrying into the garden where the children were playing a
pot of fine jonquils, which she had brought from her convent.--
"These are the first jonquils I have seen this year, and finer I
never beheld!  Whom shall I trust to take them to Madame de Fleury
this evening?--It must be some one who will not stop to stare about
on the way, but who will be very, very careful--some one in whom I
can place perfect dependence."

"It must be Victoire, then," cried every voice.

"Yes, she deserves it to-day particularly," said Annette eagerly;
"because she was not angry with Babet when she did what was enough
to put anybody in a passion.  Sister Frances, you know this cherry-
tree which you grafted for Victoire last year, and that was
yesterday so full of blossoms--now you see, there is not a blossom
left!--Babet plucked them all this morning to make a nosegay."

"But she did not know," said Victoire, "that pulling off the
blossoms would prevent my having any cherries."

"Oh, I am very sorry I was so foolish," said Babet; "Victoire did
not even say a cross word to me."

"Though she was excessively anxious about the cherries," pursued
Annette, "because she intended to have given the first she had to
Madame de Fleury."

"Victoire, take the jonquils--it is but just," said Sister Frances.
"How I do love to hear them all praise her!--I knew what she would
be from the first."

With a joyful heart Victoire took the jonquils, promised to carry
them with the utmost care, and not to stop to stare on the way.
She set out to Madame de Fleury's hotel, which was in La Place de
Louis Quinze.  It was late in the evening, the lamps were lighting,
and as Victoire crossed the Pont de Louis Seize, she stopped to
look at the reflection of the lamps in the water, which appeared in
succession, as they were lighted, spreading as if by magic along
the river.  While Victoire leaned over the battlements of the
bridge, watching the rising of these stars of fire, a sudden push
from the elbow of some rude passenger precipitated her pot of
jonquils into the Seine.  The sound it made in the water was
thunder to the ear of Victoire; she stood for an instant vainly
hoping it would rise again, but the waters had closed over it for
ever.


"Dans cet etat affreux, que faire?
. . . Mon devoir."


Victoire courageously proceeded to Madame de Fleury's, and desired
to see her.

"D'abord c'est impossible--madame is dressing to go to a concert,"
said Francois.  "Cannot you leave your message?"

"Oh no," said Victoire; "it is of great consequence--I must see her
myself; and she is so good, and you too, Monsieur Francois, that I
am sure you will not refuse."

"Well, I remember one day you found the seal of my watch, which I
dropped at your school-room door--one good turn deserves another.
If it is possible it shall be done--I will inquire of madame's
woman."--"Follow me upstairs," said he, returning in a few minutes;
"madame will see you."

She followed him up the large staircase, and through a suite of
apartments sufficiently grand to intimidate her young imagination.

"Madame est dans son cabinet.  Entrez--mais entrez donc, entrez
toujours."

Madame de Fleury was more richly dressed than usual; and her image
was reflected in the large looking-glass, so that at the first
moment Victoire thought she saw many fine ladies, but not one of
them the lady she wanted.

"Well, Victoire, my child, what is the matter?"

"Oh, it is her voice!--I know you now, madame, and I am not afraid-
-not afraid even to tell you how foolish I have been.  Sister
Frances trusted me to carry for you, madame, a beautiful pot of
jonquils, and she desired me not to stop on the way to stare; but I
did stop to look at the lamps on the bridge, and I forgot the
jonquils, and somebody brushed by me and threw them into the river-
-and I am very sorry I was so foolish."

"And I am very glad that you are so wise as to tell the truth,
without attempting to make any paltry excuses.  Go home to Sister
Frances, and assure her that I am more obliged to her for making
you such an honest girl than I could be for a whole bed of
jonquils."

Victoire's heart was so full that she could not speak--she kissed
Madame de Fleury's hand in silence, and then seemed to be lost in
contemplation of her bracelet.

"Are you thinking, Victoire, that you should be much happier if you
had such bracelets as these?  Believe me, you are mistaken if you
think so; many people are unhappy who wear fine bracelets; so, my
child, content yourself."

"Myself!  Oh, madame, I was not thinking of myself--I was not
wishing for bracelets; I was only thinking that--"

"That what?"

"That it is a pity you are so very rich; you have everything in
this world that you want, and I can never be of the least use to
YOU--all my life I shall never be able to do YOU any good--and
what," said Victoire, turning away to hide her tears, "what
signifies the gratitude of such a poor little creature as I am?"

"Did you never hear the fable of the lion and the mouse, Victoire?"

"No, madame--never!"

"Then I will tell it to you."

Victoire looked up with eyes of eager expectation--Francois opened
the door to announce that the Marquis de M- and the Comte de S-
were in the saloon; but Madame de Fleury stayed to tell Victoire
her fable--she would not lose the opportunity of making an
impression upon this child's heart.

It is whilst the mind is warm that the deepest impressions can be
made.  Seizing the happy moment sometimes decides the character and
the fate of a child.  In this respect, what advantages have the
rich and great in educating the children of the poor! they have the
power which their rank and all its decorations obtain over the
imagination.  Their smiles are favours; their words are listened to
as oracular; they are looked up to as beings of a superior order.
Their powers of working good are almost as great, though not quite
so wonderful, as those formerly attributed to beneficent, fairies.



CHAPTER VI



"Knowledge for them unlocks her USEFUL page,
And virtue blossoms for a better age."--BARBAULD.

A few days after Madame de Fleury had told Victoire the fable of
the lion and the mouse, she was informed by Sister Frances that
Victoire had put the fable into verse.  It was wonderfully well
done for a child of nine years old, and Madame de Fleury was
tempted to praise the lines; but, checking the enthusiasm of the
moment, she considered whether it would be advantageous to
cultivate her pupil's talent for poetry.  Excellence in the poetic
art cannot be obtained without a degree of application for which a
girl in her situation could not have leisure.  To encourage her to
become a mere rhyming scribbler, without any chance of obtaining
celebrity or securing subsistence, would be folly and cruelty.
Early prodigies in the lower ranks of life are seldom permanently
successful; they are cried up one day, and cried down the next.
Their productions rarely have that superiority which secures a fair
preference in the great literary market.  Their performances are,
perhaps, said to be WONDERFUL, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, &C.
Charitable allowances are made; the books are purchased by
associations of complaisant friends or opulent patrons; a kind of
forced demand is raised, but this can be only temporary and
delusive.  In spite of bounties and of all the arts of protection,
nothing but what is intrinsically good will long be preferred, when
it must be purchased.  But granting that positive excellence is
attained, there is always danger that for works of fancy the taste
of the public may suddenly vary:  there is a fashion in these
things; and when the mode changes, the mere literary manufacturer
is thrown out of employment; he is unable to turn his hand to
another trade, or to any but his own peculiar branch of the
business.  The powers of the mind are often partially cultivated in
these self-taught geniuses.  We often see that one part of their
understanding is nourished to the prejudice of the rest--the
imagination, for instance, at the expense of the judgment:  so that
whilst they have acquired talents for show they have none for use.
In the affairs of common life they are utterly ignorant and
imbecile--or worse than imbecile.  Early called into public notice,
probably before their moral habits are formed, they are extolled
for some play of fancy or of wit, as Bacon calls it, some juggler's
trick of the intellect; they immediately take an aversion to
plodding labour, they feel raised above their situation; possessed
by the notion that genius exempts them not only from labour, but
from vulgar rules of prudence, they soon disgrace themselves by
their conduct, are deserted by their patrons, and sink into despair
or plunge into profligacy.

Convinced of these melancholy truths, Madame de Fleury was
determined not to add to the number of those imprudent or
ostentatious patrons, who sacrifice to their own amusement and
vanity the future happiness of their favourites.  Victoire's verses
were not handed about in fashionable circles, nor was she called
upon to recite them before a brilliant audience, nor was she
produced in public as a prodigy; she was educated in private, and
by slow and sure degrees, to be a good, useful, and happy member of
society.  Upon the same principles which decided Madame de Fleury
against encouraging Victoire to be a poetess, she refrained from
giving any of her little pupils accomplishments unsuited to their
situation.  Some had a fine ear for music, others showed powers of
dancing; but they were taught neither dancing nor music--talents
which in their station were more likely to be dangerous than
serviceable.  They were not intended for actresses or opera-girls,
but for shop-girls, mantua-makers, work-women, and servants of
different sorts; consequently they were instructed in things which
would be most necessary and useful to young women in their rank of
life.  Before they were ten years old they could do all kinds of
plain needlework, they could read and write well, and they were
mistresses of the common rules of arithmetic.  After this age they
were practised by a writing-master in drawing out bills neatly,
keeping accounts, and applying to every-day use their knowledge of
arithmetic.  Some were taught by a laundress to wash and get up
fine linen and lace; others were instructed by a neighbouring
traiteur in those culinary mysteries with which Sister Frances was
unacquainted.  In sweetmeats and confectioneries she yielded to no
one; and she made her pupils as expert as herself.  Those who were
intended for ladies' maids were taught mantua-making, and had
lessons from Madame de Fleury's own woman in hairdressing.

Amongst her numerous friends and acquaintances, and amongst the
shopkeepers whom she was in the habit of employing, Madame de
Fleury had means of placing and establishing her pupils suitably
and advantageously:  of this, both they and their parents were
aware, so that there was a constant and great motive operating
continually to induce them to exert themselves, and to behave well.
This reasonable hope of reaping the fruits of their education, and
of being immediately rewarded for their good conduct; this
perception of the connection between what they are taught and what
they are to become, is necessary to make young people assiduous;
for want of attending to these principles many splendid
establishments have failed to produce pupils answerable to the
expectations which had been formed of them.

During seven years that Madame de Fleury persevered uniformly on
the same plan, only one girl forfeited her protection--a girl of
the name of Manon; she was Victoire's cousin, but totally unlike
her in character.

When very young, her beautiful eyes and hair caught the fancy of a
rich lady, who took her into her family as a sort of humble
playfellow for her children.  She was taught to dance and to sing:
she soon excelled in these accomplishments, and was admired, and
produced as a prodigy of talent.  The lady of the house gave
herself great credit for having discerned, and having brought
forward, such talents.  Manon's moral character was in the meantime
neglected.  In this house, where there was a constant scene of
hurry and dissipation, the child had frequent opportunities and
temptations to be dishonest.  For some time she was not detected;
her caressing manners pleased her patroness, and servile compliance
with the humours of the children of the family secured their
goodwill.  Encouraged by daily petty successes in the art of
deceit, she became a complete hypocrite.  With culpable negligence,
her mistress trusted implicitly to appearances; and without
examining whether she were really honest, she suffered her to have
free access to unlocked drawers and valuable cabinets.  Several
articles of dress were missed from time to time; but Manon managed
so artfully, that she averted from herself all suspicion.
Emboldened by this fatal impunity, she at last attempted
depredations of more importance.  She purloined a valuable snuff-
box--was detected in disposing of the broken parts of it at a
pawnbroker's, and was immediately discarded in disgrace; but by her
tears and vehement expressions of remorse she so far worked upon
the weakness of the lady of the house as to prevail upon her to
conceal the circumstance that occasioned her dismissal.  Some
months afterwards, Manon, pleading that she was thoroughly
reformed, obtained from this lady a recommendation to Madame de
Fleury's school.  It is wonderful that, people, who in other
respects profess and practise integrity, can be so culpably weak as
to give good characters to those who do not deserve them:  this is
really one of the worst species of forgery.  Imposed upon by this
treacherous recommendation, Madame de Fleury received into the
midst of her innocent young pupils one who might have corrupted
their minds secretly and irrecoverably.  Fortunately a discovery
was made in time of Manon's real disposition.  A mere trifle led to
the detection of her habits of falsehood.  As she could not do any
kind of needlework, she was employed in winding cotton; she was
negligent, and did not in the course of the week wind the same
number of balls as her companions; and to conceal this, she
pretended that she had delivered the proper number to the woman,
who regularly called at the end of the week for the cotton.  The
woman persisted in her account, and the children in theirs; and
Manon would not retract her assertion.  The poor woman gave up the
point; but she declared that she would the next time send her
brother to make up the account, because he was sharper than
herself, and would not be imposed upon so easily.  The ensuing week
the brother came, and he proved to be the very pawnbroker to whom
Manon formerly offered the stolen box:  he knew her immediately; it
was in vain that she attempted to puzzle him, and to persuade him
that she was not the same person.  The man was clear and firm.
Sister Frances could scarcely believe what she heard.  Struck with
horror, the children shrank back from Manon, and stood in silence.
Madame de Fleury immediately wrote to the lady who had recommended
this girl, and inquired into the truth of the pawnbroker's
assertions.  The lady, who had given Manon a false character, could
not deny the facts, and could apologise for herself only by saying
that "she believed the girl to be partly reformed, and that she
hoped, under Madame de Fleury's judicious care, she would become an
amiable and respectable woman."

Madame de Fleury, however, wisely judged that the hazard of
corrupting all her pupils should not be incurred for the slight
chance of correcting one, whose bad habits wore of such long
standing.  Manon was expelled from this happy little community--
even Sister Frances, the most mild of human beings, could never
think of the danger to which they had been exposed without
expressing indignation against the lady who recommended such a girl
as a fit companion for her blameless and beloved pupils.



CHAPTER VII



"Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play:
No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day."--GRAY.

Good legislators always attend to the habits, and what is called
the genius, of the people they have to govern.  From youth to age,
the taste for whatever is called une fete pervades the whole French
nation.  Madame de Fleury availed herself judiciously of this
powerful motive, and connected it with the feelings of affection
more than with the passion for show.  For instance, when any of her
little people had done anything particularly worthy of reward, she
gave them leave to invite their parents to a fete prepared for them
by their children, assisted by the kindness of Sister Frances.

One day--it was a holiday obtained by Victoire's good conduct--all
the children prepared in their garden a little feast for their
parents.  Sister Frances spread the table with a bountiful hand,
the happy fathers and mothers were waited upon by their children,
and each in their turn heard with delight from the benevolent nun
some instance of their daughter's improvement.  Full of hope for
the future and of gratitude for the past, these honest people ate
and talked, whilst in imagination they saw their children all
prosperously and usefully settled in the world.  They blessed
Madame de Fleury in her absence, and they wished ardently for her
presence.

"The sun is setting, and Madame de Fleury is not yet come," cried
Victoire; "she said she would be here this evening--What can be the
matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, you may be sure," said Babet; "but that she
has forgotten us--she has so many things to think of."

"Yes; but I know she never forgets us," said Victoire; "and she
loves so much to see us all happy together, that I am sure it must
be something very extraordinary that detains her."

Babet laughed at Victoire's fears; but presently even she began to
grow impatient; for they waited long after sunset, expecting every
moment that Madame de Fleury would arrive.  At last she appeared,
but with a dejected countenance, which seemed to justify Victoire's
foreboding.  When she saw this festive company, each child sitting
between her parents, and all at her entrance looking up with
affectionate pleasure, a faint smile enlivened her countenance for
a moment; but she did not speak to them with her usual ease.  Her
mind seemed preoccupied by some disagreeable business of
importance.  It appeared that it had some connection with them; for
as she walked round the table with Sister Frances, she said, with a
voice and look of great tenderness, "Poor children! how happy they
are at this moment!--Heaven only knows how soon they may be
rendered, or may render themselves, miserable!"

None of the children could imagine what this meant; but their
parents guessed that it had some allusion to the state of public
affairs.  About this time some of those discontents had broken out
which preceded the terrible days of the Revolution.  As yet, most
of the common people, who were honestly employed in earning their
own living, neither understood what was going on nor foresaw what
was to happen.  Many of their superiors were not in such happy
ignorance--they had information of the intrigues that were forming;
and the more penetration they possessed, the more they feared the
consequences of events which they could not control.  At the house
of a great man, with whom she had dined this day, Madame de Fleury
had heard alarming news.  Dreadful public disturbances, she saw,
were inevitable; and whilst she trembled for the fate of all who
were dear to her, these poor children had a share in her anxiety.
She foresaw the temptations, the dangers, to which they must be
exposed, whether they abandoned, or whether they abided by the
principles their education had instilled.  She feared that the
labour of years would perhaps be lost in an instant, or that her
innocent pupils would fall victims even to their virtues.

Many of these young people were now of an age to understand and to
govern themselves by reason; and with these she determined to use
those preventive measures which reason affords.  Without meddling
with politics, in which no amiable or sensible woman can wish to
interfere, the influence of ladies in the higher ranks of life may
always be exerted with perfect propriety, and with essential
advantage to the public, in conciliating the inferior classes of
society, explaining to them their duties and their interests, and
impressing upon the minds of the children of the poor sentiments of
just subordination and honest independence.  How happy would it
have been for France if women of fortune and abilities had always
exerted their talents and activity in this manner, instead of
wasting their powers in futile declamations, or in the intrigues of
party!



CHAPTER VIII



"E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done."
GOLDSMITH.

Madame de Fleury was not disappointed in her pupils.  When the
public disturbances began, these children were shocked by the
horrible actions they saw.  Instead of being seduced by bad
example, they only showed anxiety to avoid companions of their own
age who were dishonest, idle, or profligate.  Victoire's cousin
Manon ridiculed these absurd principles, as she called them, and
endeavoured to persuade Victoire that she would be much happier if
she followed the fashion.

"What!  Victoire, still with your work-bag on your arm, and still
going to school with your little sister, though you are but a year
younger than I am, I believe!--thirteen last birthday, were not
you?--Mon Dieu!  Why, how long do you intend to be a child? and why
don't you leave that old nun, who keeps you in leading-strings?--I
assure you, nuns, and school-mistresses, and schools, and all that
sort of thing, are out of fashion now--we have abolished all that--
we are to live a life of reason now--and all soon to be equal, I
can tell you; let your Madame de Fleury look to that, and look to
it yourself; for with all your wisdom, you might find yourself in
the wrong box by sticking to her, and that side of the question.--
Disengage yourself from her, I advise you, as soon as you can.--My
dear Victoire! believe me, you may spell very well--but you know
nothing of the rights of man, or the rights of woman."

"I do not pretend to know anything of the rights of men, or the
rights of women," cried Victoire; "but this I know:  that I never
can or will be ungrateful to Madame de Fleury.  Disengage myself
from her!  I am bound to her for ever, and I will abide by her till
the last hour I breathe."

"Well, well! there is no occasion to be in a passion--I only speak
as a friend, and I have no more time to reason with you; for I must
go home, and get ready my dress for the ball to-night."

"Manon, how can you afford to buy a dress for a ball?"

"As you might, if you had common sense, Victoire--only by being a
good citizen.  I and a party of us denounced a milliner and a
confectioner in our neighbourhood, who were horrible aristocrats;
and of their goods forfeited to the nation we had, as was our just
share, such delicious marangues and charming ribands!--Oh,
Victoire, believe me, you will never get such things by going to
school, or saying your prayers either.  You may look with as much
scorn and indignation as you please, but I advise you to let it
alone, for all that is out of fashion, and may, moreover, bring you
into difficulties.  Believe me, my dear Victoire, your head is not
deep enough to understand these things--you know nothing of
politics."

"But I know the difference between right and wrong, Manon:
politics can never alter that, you know."

"Never alter that! there you are quite mistaken," said Manon.  "I
cannot stay to convince you now--but this I can tell you:  that I
know secrets that you don't suspect."

"I do not wish to know any of your secrets, Manon," said Victoire,
proudly.

"Your pride may be humbled, Citoyenne Victoire, sooner than you
expect," exclaimed Manon, who was now so provoked by her cousin's
contempt that she could not refrain from boasting of her political
knowledge.  "I can tell you that your fine friends will in a few
days not be able to protect you.  The Abbe Tracassier is in love
with a dear friend of mine, and I know all the secrets of state
from her--and I know what I know.  Be as incredulous as you please,
but you will see that, before this week is at end, Monsieur de
Fleury will be guillotined, and then what will become of you?  Good
morning, my proud cousin."

Shocked by what she had just heard, Victoire could scarcely believe
that Manon was in earnest; she resolved, however, to go immediately
and communicate this intelligence, whether true or false, to Madame
de Fleury.  It agreed but too well with other circumstances, which
alarmed this lady for the safety of her husband.  A man of his
abilities, integrity, and fortune, could not in such times hope to
escape persecution.  He was inclined to brave the danger; but his
lady represented that it would not be courage, but rashness and
folly, to sacrifice his life to the villainy of others, without
probability or possibility of serving his country by his fall.

Monsieur de Fleury, in consequence of these representations, and of
Victoire's intelligence, made his escape from Paris; and the very
next day placards were put up in every street, offering a price for
the head of Citoyen Fleury, SUSPECTED OF INCIVISME.

Struck with terror and astonishment at the sight of these placards,
the children read them as they returned in the evening from school;
and little Babet in the vehemence of her indignation mounted a
lamplighter's ladder, and tore down one of the papers.  This
imprudent action did not pass unobserved:  it was seen by one of
the spies of Citoyen Tracassier, a man who, under the pretence of
zeal pour la chose publique, gratified without scruple his private
resentments and his malevolent passions.  In his former character
of an abbe, and a man of wit, he had gained admittance into Madame
de Fleury's society.  There he attempted to dictate both as a
literary and religious despot.  Accidentally discovering that
Madame de Fleury had a little school for poor children, he thought
proper to be offended, because he had not been consulted respecting
the regulations, and because he was not permitted, as he said, to
take the charge of this little flock.  He made many objections to
Sister Frances, as being an improper person to have the spiritual
guidance of these young people; but as he was unable to give any
just reason for his dislike, Madame de Fleury persisted in her
choice, and was at last obliged to assert, in opposition to the
domineering abbe, her right to judge and decide in her own affairs.
With seeming politeness, he begged ten thousand pardons for his
conscientious interference.  No more was said upon the subject; and
as he did not totally withdraw from her society till the revolution
broke out, she did not suspect that she had anything to fear from
his resentment.  His manners and opinions changed suddenly with the
times; the mask of religion was thrown off; and now, instead of
objecting to Sister Frances as not being sufficiently strict and
orthodox in her tenets, he boldly declared that a nun was not a fit
person to be intrusted with the education of any of the young
citizens--they should all be des eleves de la patrie.  The abbe,
become a member of the Committee of Public Safety, denounced Madame
de Fleury, in the strange jargon of the day, as "the fosterer of a
swarm of bad citizens, who were nourished in the anticivic
prejudices de l'ancien regime, and fostered in the most detestable
superstitions, in defiance of the law."  He further observed, that
he had good reason to believe that some of these little enemies to
the constitution had contrived and abetted Monsieur de Fleury's
escape.  Of their having rejoiced at it in a most indecent manner,
he said he could produce irrefragable proof.  The boy who saw Babet
tear down the placard was produced and solemnly examined; and the
thoughtless action of this poor little girl was construed into a
state crime of the most horrible nature.  In a declamatory tone,
Tracassier reminded his fellow-citizens, that in the ancient
Grecian times of virtuous republicanism (times of which France
ought to show herself emulous), an Athenian child was condemned to
death for having made a plaything of a fragment of the gilding that
had fallen from a public statue.  The orator, for the reward of his
eloquence, obtained an order to seize everything in Madame de
Fleury's school-house, and to throw the nun into prison.



CHAPTER IX



"Who now will guard bewildered youth
Safe from the fierce assault of hostile rage? -
Such war can Virtue wage?"

At the very moment when this order was going to be put in
execution, Madame de Fleury was sitting in the midst of the
children, listening to Babet, who was reading AEsop's fable of THE
OLD MAN AND HIS SONS.  Whilst her sister was reading, Victoire
collected a number of twigs from the garden:  she had just tied
them together; and was going, by Sister Frances' desire, to let her
companions try if they could break the bundle, when the attention
to the moral of the fable was interrupted by the entrance of an old
woman, whose countenance expressed the utmost terror and haste, to
tell what she had not breath to utter.  To Madame de Fleury she was
a stranger; but the children immediately recollected her to be the
chestnut woman to whom Babet had some years ago restored certain
purloined chestnuts.

"Fly!" said she, the moment she had breath to speak:  "Fly!--they
are coming to seize everything here--carry off what you can--make
haste--make haste!--I came through a by-street.  A man was eating
chestnuts at my stall, and I saw him show one that was with him the
order from Citoyen Tracassier.  They'll be here in five minutes--
quick!--quick!--You, in particular," continued she, turning to the
nun, "else you'll be in prison."

At these words, the children, who had clung round Sister Frances,
loosed their hold, exclaiming, "Go! go quick:  but where? where?--
we will go with her."

"No, no!" said Madame de Fleury, "she shall come home with me--my
carriage is at the door."

"Ma belle dame!" cried the chestnut woman, "your house is the worst
place she can go to--let her come to my cellar--the poorest cellar
in these days is safer than the grandest palace."

So saying, she seized the nun with honest roughness, and hurried
her away.  As soon as she was gone, the children ran different
ways, each to collect some favourite thing, which they thought they
could not leave behind.  Victoire alone stood motionless beside
Madame de Fleury; her whole thoughts absorbed by the fear that her
benefactress would be imprisoned.  "Oh, madame! dear, dear Madame
de Fleury, don't stay! don't stay!"

"Oh, children, never mind these things."

"Don't stay, madame, don't stay!  I will stay with them--I will
stay--do you go."

The children hearing these words, and recollecting Madame de
Fleury's danger, abandoned all their little property, and instantly
obeyed her orders to go home to their parents.  Victoire at last
saw Madame de Fleury safe in her carriage.  The coachman drove off
at a great rate; and a few minutes afterwards Tracassier's
myrmidons arrived at the schoolhouse.  Great was their surprise
when they found only the poor children's little books, unfinished
samplers, and half-hemmed handkerchiefs.  They ran into the garden
to search for the nun.  They were men of brutal habits, yet as they
looked at everything round them, which bespoke peace, innocence,
and childish happiness, they could not help thinking it was a pity
to destroy what could do the nation no great harm after all.  They
were even glad that the nun had made her escape, since they were
not answerable for it; and they returned to their employer
satisfied for once without doing any mischief; but Citizen
Tracassier was of too vindictive a temper to suffer the objects of
his hatred thus to elude his vengeance.  The next day Madame de
Fleury was summoned before his tribunal and ordered to give up the
nun, against whom, as a suspected person, a decree of the law had
been obtained.

Madame de Fleury refused to betray the innocent woman; the gentle
firmness of this lady's answers to a brutal interrogatory was
termed insolence--she was pronounced a refractory aristocrat,
dangerous to the state; and an order was made out to seal up her
goods, and to keep her a prisoner in her own house.



CHAPTER X



"Alas! full oft on Guilt's victorious car
The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne,
While the fair captive, marked with many a scar,
In lone obscurity, oppressed, forlorn,
Resigns to tears her angel form."--BEATTIE.

A close prisoner in her own house, Madame de Fleury was now guarded
by men suddenly become soldiers, and sprung from the dregs of the
people; men of brutal manners, ferocious countenances, and more
ferocious minds.  They seemed to delight in the insolent display of
their newly-acquired power.  One of those men had formerly been
convicted of some horrible crime, and had been sent to the galleys
by M. de Fleury.  Revenge actuated this wretch under the mask of
patriotism, and he rejoiced in seeing the wife of the man he hated
a prisoner in his custody.  Ignorant of the facts, his associates
were ready to believe him in the right, and to join in the
senseless cry against all who were their superiors in fortune,
birth, and education.  This unfortunate lady was forbidden all
intercourse with her friends, and it was in vain she attempted to
obtain from her gaolers intelligence of what was passing in Paris.

"Tu verras--Tout va bien--Ca ira," were the only answers they
deigned to make; frequently they continued smoking their pipes in
obdurate silence.  She occupied the back rooms of her house,
because her guards apprehended that she might from the front
windows receive intelligence from her friends.  One morning she was
awakened by an unusual noise in the streets; and, upon her
inquiring the occasion of it, her guards told her she was welcome
to go to the front windows and satisfy her curiosity.  She went,
and saw an immense crowd of people surrounding a guillotine that
had been erected the preceding night.  Madame de Fleury started
back with horror--her guards burst into an inhuman laugh, and asked
whether her curiosity was satisfied.  She would have left the room;
but it was now their pleasure to detain her, and to force her to
continue the whole day in this apartment.  When the guillotine
began its work, they had even the barbarity to drag her to the
window, repeating, "It is there you ought to be!--It is there your
husband ought to be!--You are too happy, that your husband is not
there this moment.  But he will be there--the law will overtake
him--he will be there in time--and you too!"

The mild fortitude of this innocent, benevolent woman made no
impression upon these cruel men.  When at night they saw her
kneeling at her prayers, they taunted her with gross and impious
mockery; and when she sank to sleep, they would waken her by their
loud and drunken orgies--if she remonstrated, they answered, "The
enemies of the constitution should have no rest."

Madame de Fleury was not an enemy to any human being; she had never
interfered in politics; her life had been passed in domestic
pleasures, or employed for the good of her fellow-creatures.  Even
in this hour of personal danger she thought of others more than of
herself:  she thought of her husband, an exile in a foreign
country, who might be reduced to the utmost distress now that she
was deprived of all means of remitting him money.  She thought of
her friends, who, she knew, would exert themselves to obtain her
liberty, and whose zeal in her cause might involve them and their
families in distress.  She thought of the good Sister Frances, who
had been exposed by her means to the unrelenting persecution of the
malignant and powerful Tracassier.  She thought of her poor little
pupils, now thrown upon the world without a protector.  Whilst
these ideas were revolving in her mind one night as she lay awake,
she heard the door of her chamber open softly, and a soldier, one
of her guards, with a light in his hand, entered; he came to the
foot of her bed, and, as she started up, laid his finger upon his
lips.

"Don't make the least noise," said he in a whisper; "those without
are drunk, and asleep.  Don't you know me?--don't you remember my
face?"

"Not in the least; yet I have some recollection of your voice."

The man took off the bonnet-rouge--still she could not guess who he
was.  "You never saw me in a uniform before nor without a black
face."

She looked again, and recollected the smith to whom Maurice was
bound apprentice, and remembered his patois accent.

"I remember you," said he, "at any rate; and your goodness to that
poor girl the day her arm was broken, and all your goodness to
Maurice.  But I've no time for talking of that now--get up, wrap
this great coat round you--don't be in a hurry, but make no noise--
and follow me."

She followed him; and he led her past the sleeping sentinels,
opened a back door into the garden, hurried her (almost carried
her) across the garden to a door at the furthest end of it, which
opened into Les Champs Elysees--"La voila!" cried he, pushing her
through the half-opened door.  "God be praised!" answered a voice,
which Madame de Fleury knew to be Victoire's, whose arms were
thrown round her with a transport of joy.

"Softly; she is not safe yet--wait till we get her home, Victoire,"
said another voice, which she knew to be that of Maurice.  He
produced a dark lantern, and guided Madame de Fleury across the
Champs Elysees, and across the bridge, and then through various by-
streets, in perfect silence, till they arrived safely at the house
where Victoire's mother lodged, and went up those very stairs which
she had ascended in such different circumstances several years
before.  The mother, who was sitting up waiting most anxiously for
the return of her children, clasped her hands in an ecstasy when
she saw them return with Madame de Fleury.

"Welcome, madame!  Welcome, dear madame! but who would have thought
of seeing you here in such a way?  Let her rest herself--let her
rest; she is quite overcome.  Here, madame, can you sleep on this
poor bed?"

"The very same bed you laid me upon the day my arm was broken,"
said Victoire.

"Ay, Lord bless her!" said the mother; "and though it's seven good
years ago, it seemed but yesterday that I saw her sitting on that
bed beside my poor child looking like an angel.  But let her rest,
let her rest--we'll not say a word more, only God bless her; thank
Heaven, she's safe with us at last!"

Madame de Fleury expressed unwillingness to stay with these good
people, lest she should expose them to danger; but they begged most
earnestly that she would remain with them without scruple.

"Surely, madame," said the mother, "you must think that we have
some remembrance of all you have done for us, and some touch of
gratitude."

"And surely, madame, you can trust us, I hope," said Maurice.

"And surely you are not too proud to let us do something for you.
The lion was not too proud to be served by the poor little mouse,"
said Victoire.  "As to danger for us," continued she, "there can be
none; for Maurice and I have contrived a hiding-place for you,
madame, that can never be found out--let them come spying here as
often as they please, they will never find her out, will they,
Maurice?  Look, madame, into this lumber-room; you see it seems to
be quite full of wood for firing; well, if you creep in behind, you
can hide yourself quite sung in the loft above, and here's a trap-
door into the loft that nobody ever would think of, for we have
hung these old things from the top of it, and who could guess it
was a trap-door?  So you see, dear madame, you may sleep in peace
here, and never fear for us."

Though but a girl of fourteen, Victoire showed at this time all the
sense and prudence of a woman of thirty.  Gratitude seemed at once
to develop all the powers of her mind.  It was she and Maurice who
had prevailed upon the smith to effect Madame de Fleury's escape
from her own house.  She had invented, she had foreseen, she had
arranged everything; she had scarcely rested night or day since the
imprisonment of her benefactress, and now that her exertions had
fully succeeded, her joy seemed to raise her above all feeling of
fatigue; she looked as fresh and moved as briskly, her mother said,
as if she were preparing to go to a ball.

"Ah! my child," said she, "your cousin Manon, who goes to those
balls every night, was never so happy as you are this minute."

But Victoire's happiness was not of long continuance; for the next
day they were alarmed by intelligence that Tracassier was enraged
beyond measure at Madame de Fleury's escape, that all his
emissaries were at work to discover her present hiding-place, that
the houses of all the parents and relations of her pupils were to
be searched, and that the most severe denunciations were issued
against all by whom she should be harboured.  Manon was the person
who gave this intelligence, but not with any benevolent design; she
first came to Victoire, to display her own consequence; and to
terrify her, she related all she knew from a soldier's wife, who
was M. Tracassier's mistress.  Victoire had sufficient command over
herself to conceal from the inquisitive eyes of Manon the agitation
of her heart; she had also the prudence not to let any one of her
companions into her secret, though, when she saw their anxiety, she
was much tempted to relieve them, by the assurance that Madame de
Fleury was in safety.  All the day was passed in apprehension.
Madame de Fleury never stirred from her place of concealment:  as
the evening and the hour of the domiciliary visits approached,
Victoire and Maurice were alarmed by an unforeseen difficulty.
Their mother, whose health had been broken by hard work, in vain
endeavoured to suppress her terror at the thoughts of this
domiciliary visit; she repeated incessantly that she knew they
should all be discovered, and that her children would be dragged to
the guillotine before her face.  She was in such a distracted
state, that they dreaded she would, the moment she saw the
soldiers, reveal all she knew.

"If they question me, I shall not know what to answer," cried the
terrified woman.  "What can I say?--What can I do?"

Reasoning, entreaties, all were vain; she was not in a condition to
understand, or even to listen to, anything that was said.  In this
situation they were when the domiciliary visitors arrived--they
heard the noise of the soldiers' feet on the stairs--the poor woman
sprang from the arms of her children; but at the moment the door
was opened, and she saw the glittering of the bayonets, she fell at
full length in a swoon on the floor--fortunately before she had
power to utter a syllable.  The people of the house knew, and said,
that she was subject to fits on any sudden alarm; so that her being
affected in this manner did not appear surprising.  They threw her
on a bed, whilst they proceeded to search the house:  her children
stayed with her; and, wholly occupied in attending to her, they
were not exposed to the danger of betraying their anxiety about
Madame de Fleury.  They trembled, however, from head to foot when
they heard one of the soldiers swear that all the wood in the
lumber-room must be pulled out, and that he would not leave the
house till every stick was moved; the sound of each log, as it was
thrown out, was heard by Victoire; her brother was now summoned to
assist.  How great was his terror when one of the searchers looked
up to the roof, as if expecting to find a trap door; fortunately,
however, he did not discover it.  Maurice, who had seized the
light, contrived to throw the shadows so as to deceive the eye.
The soldiers at length retreated; and with inexpressible
satisfaction Maurice lighted them down stairs, and saw them fairly
out of the house.  For some minutes after they were in safety, the
terrified mother, who had recovered her senses, could scarcely
believe that the danger was over.  She embraced her children by
turns with wild transport; and with tears begged Madame de Fleury
to forgive her cowardice, and not to attribute it to ingratitude,
or to suspect that she had a bad heart.  She protested that she was
now become so courageous, since she found that she had gone through
this trial successfully, and since she was sure that the hiding-
place was really so secure, that she should never be alarmed at any
domiciliary visit in future.  Madame de Fleury, however, did not
think it either just or expedient to put her resolution to the
trial.  She determined to leave Paris; and, if possible, to make
her escape from France.  The master of one of the Paris diligences
was brother to Francois, her footman:  he was ready to assist her
at all hazards, and to convey her safely to Bourdeaux, if she could
disguise herself properly; and if she could obtain a pass from any
friend under a feigned name.

Victoire--the indefatigable Victoire--recollected that her friend
Annette had an aunt, who was nearly of Madame de Fleury's size, and
who had just obtained a pass to go to Bourdeaux, to visit some of
her relations.  The pass was willingly given up to Madame de
Fleury; and upon reading it over it was found to answer tolerably
well--the colour of the eyes and hair at least would do; though the
words un nez gros were not precisely descriptive of this lady's.
Annette's mother, who had always worn the provincial dress of
Auvergne, furnished the high cornette, stiff stays, bodice, &c.;
and equipped in these, Madame de Fleury was so admirably well
disguised, that even Victoire declared she should scarcely have
known her.  Money, that most necessary passport in all countries,
was still wanting:  as seals had been put upon all Madame de
Fleury's effects the day she had been first imprisoned in her own
house, she could not save even her jewels.  She had, however, one
ring on her finger of some value.  How to dispose of it without
exciting suspicion was the difficulty.  Babet, who was resolved to
have her share in assisting her benefactress, proposed to carry the
ring to a colporteur--a pedlar, or sort of travelling jeweller--who
had come to lay in a stock of hardware at Paris:  he was related to
one of Madame de Fleury's little pupils, and readily disposed of
the ring for her:  she obtained at least two-thirds of its value--a
great deal in those times.

The proofs of integrity, attachment, and gratitude which she
received in these days of peril, from those whom she had obliged in
her prosperity, touched her generous heart so much, that she has
often since declared she could not regret having been reduced to
distress.  Before she quitted Paris she wrote letters to her
friends, recommending her pupils to their protection; she left
these letters in the care of Victoire, who to the last moment
followed her with anxious affection.  She would have followed her
benefactress into exile, but that she was prevented by duty and
affection from leaving her mother, who was in declining health.

Madame de Fleury successfully made her escape from Paris.  Some of
the municipal officers in the towns through which she passed on her
road were as severe as their ignorance would permit in scrutinising
her passport.  It seldom happened that more than one of these petty
committees of public safety could read.  One usually spelled out
the passport as well as he could, whilst the others smoked their
pipes, and from time to time held a light up to the lady's face to
examine whether it agreed with the description.

"Mais toi! tu n'as pas le nez gros!" said one of her judges to her.
"Son nez est assez gros, et c'est moi qui le dit," said another.
The question was put to the vote; and the man who had asserted what
was contrary to the evidence of his senses was so vehement in
supporting his opinion, that it was carried in spite of all that
could be said against it.  Madame de Fleury was suffered to proceed
on her journey.  She reached Bordeaux in safety.  Her husband's
friends--the good have always friends in adversity--her husband's
friends exerted themselves for her with the most prudent zeal.  She
was soon provided with a sum of money sufficient for her support
for some time in England; and she safely reached that free and
happy country, which has been the refuge of so many illustrious
exiles.



CHAPTER XI



"Cosi rozzo diamante appena splende
Dalla rupe natia quand' esce fuora,
E a poco a poco lucido se rende
Sotto l'attenta che lo lavora."

Madame de Fleury joined her husband, who was in London, and they
both lived in the most retired and frugal manner.  They had too
much of the pride of independence to become burthensome to their
generous English friends.  Notwithstanding the variety of
difficulties they had to encounter, and the number of daily
privations to which they were forced to submit, yet they were
happy--in a tranquil conscience, in their mutual affection, and the
attachment of many poor but grateful friends.  A few months after
she came to England, Madame de Fleury received, by a private hand,
a packet of letters from her little pupils.  Each of them, even the
youngest, who had but just begun to learn joining-hand, would write
a few lines in this packet.

In various hands, of various sizes, the changes were rung upon
these simple words:-


"MY DEAR MADAME DE FLEURY,

"I love you--I wish you were here again--I will be VERY VERY good
whilst you are away.  If you stay away ever so long, I shall never
forget you, nor your goodness; but I hope you will soon be able to
come back, and this is what I pray for every night.  Sister Frances
says I may tell you that I am very good, and Victoire thinks so
too."


This was the substance of several of their little letters.
Victoire's contained rather more information:-

"You will be glad to learn that dear Sister Frances is safe, and
that the good chestnut-woman, in whose cellar she took refuge, did
not get into any difficulty.  After you were gone, M. T- said that
he did not think it worth while to pursue her, as it was only you
he wanted to humble.  Manon, who has, I do not know how, means of
knowing, told me this.  Sister Frances is now with her abbess, who,
as well as everybody else that knows her, is very fond of her.
What was a convent is no longer a convent--the nuns are turned out
of it.  Sister Frances' health is not so good as it used to be,
though she never complains.  I am sure she suffers much; she has
never been the same person since that day when we were driven from
our happy school-room.  It is all destroyed--the garden and
everything.  It is now a dismal sight.  Your absence also afflicts
Sister Frances much, and she is in great anxiety about all of us.
She has the six little ones with her every day in her own
apartment, and goes on teaching them as she used to do.  We six
eldest go to see her as often as we can.  I should have begun, my
dear Madame de Fleury, by telling you, that, the day after you left
Paris, I went to deliver all the letters you were so very kind to
write for us in the midst of your hurry.  Your friends have been
exceedingly good to us, and have got places for us all.  Rose is
with Madame la Grace, your mantua-maker, who says she is more handy
and more expert at cutting out than girls she has had these three
years.  Marianne is in the service of Madame de V-, who has lost a
great part of her large fortune, and cannot afford to keep her
former waiting-maid.  Madame de V- is well pleased with Marianne,
and bids me tell you that she thanks you for her.  Indeed,
Marianne, though she is only fourteen, can do everything her lady
wants.  Susanne is with a confectioner.  She gave Sister Frances a
box of bonbons of her own making this morning; and Sister Frances,
who is a judge, says they are excellent--she only wishes you could
taste them.  Annette and I (thanks to your kindness!) are in the
same service with Madame Feuillot, the brodeuse, to whom you
recommended us.  She is not discontented with our work, and,
indeed, sent a very civil message yesterday to Sister Frances on
this subject; but believe it is too flattering for me to repeat in
this letter.  We shall do our best to give her satisfaction.  She
is glad to find that we can write tolerably, and that we can make
out bills and keep accounts, this being particularly convenient to
her at present, as the young man she had in the shop is become an
orator, and good for nothing but la chose publique; her son, who
could have supplied his place, is ill; and Madame Feuillot herself,
not having had, as she says, the advantage of such a good education
as we have been blessed with, writes but badly, and knows nothing
of arithmetic.  Dear Madame de Fleury, how much, how very much we
are obliged to you!  We feel it every day more and more; in these
times what would have become of us if we could do nothing useful?
Who would, who could be burdened with us?  Dear madame, we owe
everything to you--and we can do nothing, not the least thing for
you!  My mother is still in bad health, and I fear will never
recover; Babet is with her always, and Sister Frances is very good
to her.  My brother Maurice is now so good a workman that he earns
a louis a week.  He is very steady to his business, and never goes
to the revolutionary meetings, though once he had a great mind to
be an orator of the people, but never since the day that you
explained to him that he knew nothing about equality and the rights
of men, &c.  How could I forget to tell you, that his master the
smith, who was one of your guards, and who assisted you to escape,
has returned without suspicion to his former trade? and he declares
that he will never more meddle with public affairs.  I gave him the
money you left with me for him.  He is very kind to my brother.
Yesterday Maurice mended for Annette's mistress the lock of an
English writing-desk, and he mended it so astonishingly well, that
an English gentleman, who saw it, could not believe the work was
done by a Frenchman; so my brother was sent for, to prove it, and
they were forced to believe it.  To-day he has more work than he
can finish this twelve-month--all this we owe to you.  I shall
never forget the day when you promised that you would grant my
brother's wish to be apprenticed to the smith, if I was not in a
passion for a month; that cured me of being so passionate.

"Dear Madame de Fleury, I have written you too long a letter, and
not so well as I can write when I am not in a hurry; but I wanted
to tell you everything at once, because, may be, I shall not for a
long time have so safe an opportunity of sending a letter to you.

"VICTOIRE."


Several months elapsed before Madame do Fleury received another
letter from Victoire; it was short and evidently written in great
distress of mind.  It contained an account of her mother's death.
She was now left at the early age of sixteen an orphan.  Madame
Feuillot, the brodeuse, with whom she lived, added few lines to her
letter, penned with difficulty and strangely spelled, but,
expressive of her being highly pleased with both the girls
recommended to her by Madame de Fleury, especially Victoire, who
she said was such a treasure to her, that she would not part with
her on any account, and should consider her as a daughter.  "I tell
her not to grieve so much; for though she has lost one mother she
has gained another for herself, who will always love her; and
besides she is so useful, and in so many ways, with her pen and her
needle, in accounts, and everything that is wanted in a family or a
shop; she can never want employment or friends in the worst times,
and none can be worse than these, especially for such pretty girls
as she is, who have all their heads turned, and are taught to
consider nothing a sin that used to be sins.  Many gentlemen, who
come to our shop, have found out that Victoire is very handsome,
and tell her so; but she is so modest and prudent that I am not
afraid for her.  I could tell you, madame, a good anecdote on this
subject, but my paper will not allow, and, besides, my writing is
so difficult."

Above a year elapsed before Madame de Fleury received another
letter from Victoire:  this was in a parcel, of which an emigrant
took charge; it contained a variety of little offerings from her
pupils, instances of their ingenuity, their industry, and their
affection; the last thing in the packet was a small purse labelled
in this manner -

"Savings from our wages and earnings for her who taught us all we
know."



CHAPTER XII



"Dans sa pompe elegante, admirez Chantilly,
De heros en heros, d'age en age, embelli."--DE LILLE.

The health of the good Sister Frances, which had suffered much from
the shock her mind received at the commencement of the revolution,
declined so rapidly in the course of the two succeeding years, that
she was obliged to leave Paris, and she retired to a little village
in the neighbourhood of Chantilly.  She chose this situation
because here she was within a morning's walk of Madame de Fleury's
country-seat.  The Chateau de Fleury had not yet been seized as
national property, nor had it suffered from the attacks of the mob,
though it was in a perilous situation, within view of the high road
to Paris.  The Parisian populace had not yet extended their
outrages to this distance from the city, and the poor people who
lived on the estate of Fleury, attached from habit, principle, and
gratitude, to their lord, were not disposed to take advantage of
the disorder of the times, to injure the property of those from
whom they had all their lives received favours and protection.  A
faithful old steward had the care of the castle and the grounds.
Sister Frances was impatient to talk to him and to visit the
chateau, which she had never seen; but for some days after her
arrival in the village she was so much fatigued and so weak that
she could not attempt so long a walk.  Victoire had obtained
permission from her mistress to accompany the nun for a few days to
the country, as Annette undertook to do all the business of the
shop during the absence of her companion.  Victoire was fully as
eager as Sister Frances to see the faithful steward and the Chateau
de Fleury, and the morning was now fixed for their walk; but in the
middle of the night they were awakened by the shouts of a mob, who
had just entered the village fresh from the destruction of a
neighbouring castle.  The nun and Victoire listened; but in the
midst of the horrid yells of joy no human voice, no intelligible
word could be distinguished; they looked through a chink in the
window-shutter and they saw the street below filled with a crowd of
men, whose countenances were by turns illuminated by the glare of
the torches which they brandished.

"Good Heavens!" whispered the nun to Victoire:  "I should know the
face of that man who is loading his musket--the very man whom I
nursed ten years ago when he was ill with a gaol fever!"

This man, who stood in the midst of the crowd, taller by the head
than the others, seemed to be the leader of the party; they were
disputing whether they should proceed further, spend the remainder
of the night in the village alehouse, or return to Paris.  Their
leader ordered spirits to be distributed to his associates, and
exhorted them in a loud voice to proceed in their glorious work.
Tossing his firebrand over his head he declared that he would never
return to Paris till he had razed to the ground the Chateau de
Fleury.  At these words, Victoire, forgetful of all personal
danger, ran out into the midst of the mob, pressed her way up to
the leader of these ruffians, caught him by the arm, exclaiming,
"You will not touch a stone in the Chateau de Fleury--I have my
reasons--I say you will not suffer a stone in the Chateau de Fleury
to be touched."

"And why not?" cried the man, turning astonished; "and who are you
that I should listen to you?"

"No matter who I am," said Victoire; "follow me and I will show you
one to whom you will not refuse to listen.  Here!--here she is,"
continued Victoire, pointing to the nun, who had followed her in
amazement; here is one to whom you will listen--yes, look at her
well:  hold the light to her face."

The nun, in a supplicating attitude, stood in speechless
expectation.

"Ay, I see you have gratitude, I know you will have mercy," cried
Victoire, watching the workings in the countenance of the man; "you
will save the Chateau de Fleury for her sake--who saved your life."

"I will," cried this astonished chief of a mob, fired with sudden
generosity.  "By my faith you are a brave girl, and a fine girl,
and know how to speak to the heart, and in the right moment.
Friends, citizens, this nun, though she is a nun, is good for
something.  When I lay ill with a fever, and not a soul else to
help me, she came and gave me medicines and food--in short, I owe
my life to her.  'Tis ten years ago, but I remember it well, and
now it is our turn to rule, and she shall be paid as she deserves.
Not a stone of the Chateau de Fleury shall be touched!"

With loud acclamations the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm of
the moment and followed their leader peaceably out of the village.
All this passed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the
impression of reality upon the mind.  As soon as the sun rose in
the morning Victoire looked out for the turrets of the Chateau de
Fleury, and she saw that they were safe--safe in the midst of the
surrounding devastation.  Nothing remained of the superb palace of
Chantilly but the white arches of its foundation.



CHAPTER XIII



"When thy last breath, ere Nature sank to rest
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave -
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,
Th' inspiring voice of innocence and truth!"--ROGERS.

The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the
shock of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Chateau
de Fleury.  The gates were opened for them by the old steward and
his son Basile, who welcomed them with all the eagerness with which
people welcome friends in time of adversity.  The old man showed
them the place; and through every apartment of the castle went on
talking of former times, and with narrative fondness told anecdotes
of his dear master and mistress.  Here his lady used to sit and
read--here was the table at which she wrote--this was the sofa on
which she and the ladies sat the very last day she was at the
castle, at the open windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and
people of the village were dancing on the green.

"Ay, those were happy times," said the old man; "but they will
never return."

"Never!  Oh do not say so," cried Victoire.

"Never during my life, at least," said the nun in a low voice, and
with a look of resignation.

Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his
arm against the chord of Madame de Fleury's harp, and the sound
echoed through the room.

"Before this year is at an end," cried Victoire, "perhaps that harp
will be struck again in this Chateau by Madame de Fleury herself.
Last night we could hardly have hoped to see these walls standing
this morning, and yet it is safe--not a stone touched!  Oh, we
shall all live, I hope, to see better times!"

Sister Frances smiled, for she would not depress Victoire's
enthusiastic hope:  to please her, the good nun added, that she
felt better this morning than she had felt for months, and Victoire
was happier than she had been since Madame de Fleury left France.
But, alas! it was only a transient gleam.  Sister Frances relapsed
and declined so rapidly, that even Victoire, whose mind was almost
always disposed to hope, despaired of her recovery.  With placid
resignation, or rather with mild confidence, this innocent and
benevolent creature met the approach of death.  She seemed attached
to earth only by affection for those whom she was to leave in this
world.  Two of the youngest of the children who had formerly been
placed under her care, and who were not yet able to earn their own
subsistence, she kept with her, and in the last days of her life
she continued her instructions to them with the fond solicitude of
a parent.  Her father confessor, an excellent man, who never even
in these dangerous times shrank from his duty, came to Sister
Frances in her last moments, and relieved her mind from all
anxiety, by promising to place the two little children with the
lady who had been abbess of her convent, who would to the utmost of
her power protect and provide for them suitably.  Satisfied by this
promise, the good Sister Frances smiled upon Victoire, who stood
beside her bed, and with that smile upon her countenance expired.--
It was some time before the little children seemed to comprehend,
or to believe, that Sister Frances was dead:  they had never before
seen any one die; they had no idea what it was to die, and their
first feeling was astonishment; they did not seem to understand why
Victoire wept.  But the next day when no Sister Frances spoke to
them, when every hour they missed some accustomed kindness from
her,--when presently they saw the preparations for her funeral,--
when they heard that she was to be buried in the earth, and that
they should never see her more,--they could neither play nor eat,
but sat in a corner holding each other's hands, and watching
everything that was done for the dead by Victoire.

In those times, the funeral of a nun, with a priest attending,
would not have been permitted by the populace.  It was therefore
performed as secretly as possible:  in the middle of the night the
coffin was carried to the burial-place of the Fleury family; the
old steward, his son Basile, Victoire, and the good father
confessor, were the only persons present.  It is necessary to
mention this, because the facts were afterwards misrepresented.



CHAPTER XIV



"The character is lost!
Her head adorned with lappets, pinned aloft,
And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand
For more than half the tresses it sustains."--COWPER.

Upon her return to Paris, Victoire felt melancholy; but she exerted
herself as much as possible in her usual occupation; finding that
employment and the consciousness of doing her duty were the best
remedies for sorrow.

One day as she was busy settling Madame Feuillot's accounts a
servant came into the shop and inquired for Mademoiselle Victoire:
he presented her a note, which she found rather difficult to
decipher.  It was signed by her cousin Manon, who desired to see
Victoire at her hotel.  "HER HOTEL!" repeated Victoire with
astonishment.  The servant assured her that one of the finest
hotels in Paris belonged to his lady, and that he was commissioned
to show her the way to it.  Victoire found her cousin in a
magnificent house, which had formerly belonged to the Prince de
Salms.  Manon, dressed in the disgusting, indecent extreme of the
mode, was seated under a richly-fringed canopy.  She burst into a
loud laugh as Victoire entered.

"You look just as much astonished as I expected," cried she.
"Great changes have happened since I saw you last--I always told
you, Victoire, I knew the world better than you did.  What has come
of all your schooling, and your mighty goodness, and your gratitude
truly?  Your patroness is banished and a beggar, and you a drudge
in the shop of a brodeuse, who makes you work your fingers to the
bone, no doubt.  Now you shall see the difference.  Let me show you
my house; you know it was formerly the hotel of the Prince de
Salms, he that was guillotined the other day; but you know nothing,
for you have been out of Paris this month, I understand.  Then I
must tell you that my friend Villeneuf has acquired an immense
fortune! by assignats made in the course of a fortnight.  I say an
immense fortune! and has bought this fine house.  Now do you begin
to understand?"

"I do not clearly know whom you mean by 'your friend Villeneuf,'"
said Victoire.

"The hairdresser who lived in our street," said Manon; "he became a
great patriot, you know, and orator; and, what with his eloquence
and his luck in dealing in assignats, he has made his fortune and
mine."

"And yours! then he is your husband?"

"That does not follow--that is not necessary--but do not look so
shocked--everybody goes on the sane way now; besides, I had no
other resource--I must have starved--I could not earn my bread as
you do.  Besides, I was too delicate for hard work of any sort--and
besides--but come, let me show you my house--you have no idea how
fine it is."

With anxious ostentation Manon displayed all her riches to excite
Victoire's envy.

"Confess, Victoire," said she at last, "that you think me the
happiest person you have ever known.--You do not answer; whom did
you ever know that was happier?"

"Sister Frances, who died last week, appeared to be much happier,"
said Victoire.

"The poor nun!" said Manon, disdainfully.  "Well, and whom do you
think the next happiest?"

"Madame de Fleury."

"An exile and a beggar!--Oh, you are jesting now, Victoire--or--
envious.  With that sanctified face, citoyenne--perhaps I should
say Mademoiselle--Victoire you would be delighted to change places
with me this instant.  Come, you shall stay with me a week to try
how you like it."

"Excuse me," said Victoire, firmly; "I cannot stay with you, Manon;
you have chosen one way of life and I another--quite another.  I do
not repent my choice--may you never repent yours!--Farewell!"

"Bless me! what airs! and with what dignity she looks!  Repent of
my choice!--a likely thing, truly.  Am not I at the top of the
wheel?"

"And may not the wheel turn?" said Victoire.

"Perhaps it may," said Manon; "but till it does I will enjoy
myself.  Since you are of a different humour, return to Madame
Feuillot, and figure upon cambric and muslin, and make out bills,
and nurse old nuns all the days of your life.  You will never
persuade me, however, that you would not change places with me if
you could.  Stay till you are tried, Mademoiselle Victoire.  Who
was ever in love with you or your virtues?--Stay till you are
tried."



CHAPTER XV



"But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree,
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye
To save her blossoms, or defend her fruit."--MILTON.

The trial was nearer than either Manon or Victoire expected.  Manon
had scarcely pronounced the last words when the ci-devant
hairdresser burst into the room, accompanied by several of his
political associates, who met to consult measures for the good of
the nation.  Among these patriots was the Abbe Tracassier.

"Who is that pretty girl who is with you, Manon?" whispered he; "a
friend of yours, I hope?"

Victoire left the room immediately, but not before the profligate
abbe had seen enough to make him wish to see more.  The next day he
went to Madame Feuillot's under pretence of buying some embroidered
handkerchiefs; he paid Victoire a profusion of extravagant
compliments, which made no impression upon her innocent heart, and
which appeared ridiculous to her plain good sense.  She did not
know who he was, nor did Madame Feuillot; for though she had often
heard of the abbe, yet she had never seen him.  Several succeeding
days he returned, and addressed himself to Victoire, each time with
increasing freedom.  Madame Feuillot, who had the greatest
confidence in her, left her entirely to her own discretion.
Victoire begged her friend Annette to do the business of the shop,
and stayed at work in the back parlour.  Tracassier was much
disappointed by her absence; but as he thought no great ceremony
necessary in his proceedings, he made his name known in a haughty
manner to Madame de Feuillot, and desired that he might be admitted
into the back parlour, as he had something of consequence to say to
Mademoiselle Victoire in private.  Our readers will not require to
have a detailed account of this tete-a-tete; it is sufficient to
say that the disappointed and exasperated abbe left the house
muttering imprecations.  The next morning a note came to Victoire
apparently from Manon:  it was directed by her, but the inside was
written by an unknown hand, and continued these words:-

"You are a charming, but incomprehensible girl--since you do not
like compliments, you shall not be addressed with empty flattery.
It is in the power of the person who dictates this, not only to
make you as rich and great as your cousin Manon, but also to
restore to fortune and to their country the friends for whom, you
are most interested.  Their fate as well as your own is in your
power:  if you send a favourable answer to this note, the persons
alluded to will, to-morrow, be struck from the list of emigrants,
and reinstated in their former possessions.  If your answer is
decidedly unfavourable, the return of your friends to France will
be thenceforward impracticable, and their chateau, as well as their
house in Paris, will be declared national property, and sold
without delay to the highest bidder.  To you, who have as much
understanding as beauty, it is unnecessary to say more.  Consult
your heart, charming Victoire! be happy, and make others happy.
This moment is decisive of your fate and of theirs, for you have to
answer a man of a most decided character."

Victoire's answer was as follows:-

"My friends would not, I am sure, accept of their fortune, or
consent to return to their country, upon the conditions proposed;
therefore I have no merit in rejecting them."

Victoire had early acquired good principles, and that plain steady
good sense, which goes straight to its object, without being
dazzled or imposed upon by sophistry.  She was unacquainted with
the refinements of sentiment, but she distinctly knew right from
wrong, and had sufficient resolution to abide by the right.
Perhaps many romantic heroines might have thought it a generous
self-devotion to have become in similar circumstances the mistress
of Tracassier; and those who are skilled "to make the worst appear
the better cause" might have made such an act of heroism the
foundation of an interesting, or at least a fashionable novel.
Poor Victoire had not received an education sufficiently refined to
enable her to understand these mysteries of sentiment.  She was
even simple enough to flatter herself that this libertine patriot
would not fulfil his threats, and that these had been made only
with a view to terrify her into compliance.  In this opinion,
however, she found herself mistaken.  M. Tracassier was indeed a
man of the most decided character, if this form may properly be
applied to those who act uniformly in consequence of their ruling
passion.  The Chateau de Fleury was seized as national property.
Victoire heard this bad news from the old steward, who was turned
out of the castle, along with his son, the very day after her
rejection of the proposed conditions.

"I could not have believed that any human creature could be so
wicked!" exclaimed Victoire, glowing with indignation:  but
indignation gave way to sorrow.

"And the Chateau de Fleury is really seized?--and you, good old
man, are turned out of the place where you were born?--and you too,
Basile?--and Madame de Fleury will never come back again!--and
perhaps she may be put into prison in a foreign country, and may
die for want--and I might have prevented all this!"

Unable to shed a tear, Victoire stood in silent consternation,
whilst Annette explained to the good steward and his son the whole
transaction.  Basile, who was naturally of an impetuous temper, was
so transported with indignation, that he would have gone instantly
with the note from Tracassier to denounce him before the whole
National Convention, if he had not been restrained by his more
prudent father.  The old steward represented to him, that as the
note was neither signed nor written by the hand of Tracassier, no
proof could be brought home to him, and the attempt to convict one
of so powerful a party would only bring certain destruction upon
the accusers.  Besides, such was at this time the general depravity
of manners, that numbers would keep the guilty in countenance.
There was no crime which the mask of patriotism could not cover.
"There is one comfort we have in our misfortunes, which these men
can never have," said the old man; "when their downfall comes, and
come it will most certainly, they will not feel as we do, INNOCENT.
Victoire, look up! and do not give way to despair--all will yet be
well."

"At all events, you have done what is right--so do not reproach
yourself," said Basile.  "Everybody--I mean everybody who is good
for anything--must respect, admire, and love you, Victoire."



CHAPTER XVI



"Ne mal cio che v'annoja,
Quello e vero gioire
Che nasce da virtude dopo il soffrire."

Basile had not seen without emotion the various instances of
goodness which Victoire showed during the illness of Sister
Frances.  Her conduct towards M. Tracassier increased his esteem
and attachment; but he forbore to declare his affection, because he
could not, consistently with prudence, or with gratitude to his
father, think of marrying, now that he was not able to maintain a
wife and family.  The honest earnings of many years of service had
been wrested from the old steward at the time the Chateau de Fleury
was seized, and he now depended on the industry of his son for the
daily support of his age.  His dependence was just, and not likely
to be disappointed; for he had given his son an education suitable
to his condition in life.  Basile was an exact arithmetician, could
write an excellent hand, and was a ready draughtsman and surveyor.
To bring these useful talents into action, and to find employment
for them with men by whom they would be honestly rewarded, was the
only difficulty--a difficulty which Victoire's brother Maurice soon
removed.  His reputation as a smith had introduced him, among his
many customers, to a gentleman of worth and scientific knowledge,
who was at this time employed to make models and plans of all the
fortified places in Europe; he was in want of a good clerk and
draughtsman, of whose integrity he could be secure.  Maurice
mentioned his friend Basile; and upon inquiry into his character,
and upon trial of his abilities, he was found suited to the place,
and was accepted.  By his well-earned salary he supported himself
and his father; and began, with the sanguine hopes of a young man,
to flatter himself that he should soon be rich enough to marry, and
that then he might declare his attachment to Victoire.
Notwithstanding all his boasted prudence, he had betrayed
sufficient symptoms of his passion to have rendered a declaration
unnecessary to any clear-sighted observer:  but Victoire was not
thinking of conquests; she was wholly occupied with a scheme of
earning a certain sum of money for her benefactress, who was now,
as she feared, in want.  All Madame de Fleury's former pupils
contributed their share to the common stock; and the mantua-maker,
the confectioner, the servants of different sorts, who had been
educated at her school, had laid by, during the years of her
banishment, an annual portion of their wages and savings:  with the
sum which Victoire now added to the fund, it amounted to ten
thousand livres.  The person who undertook to carry this money to
Madame de Fleury, was Francois, her former footman, who had
procured a pass to go to England as a hairdresser.  The night
before he set out was a happy night for Victoire, as all her
companions met, by Madame Feuillot's invitation, at her house; and
after tea they had the pleasure of packing up the little box, in
which each, besides the money, sent some token their gratitude, and
some proof of their ingenuity.  They would with all their hearts
have sent twice as many souvenirs as Francois could carry.

"D'abord c'est impossible!" cried he, when he saw the box that was
prepared for him to carry to England:  but his good nature was
unable to resist the entreaties of each to have her offering
carried, "which would take up no room."

He departed--arrived safe in England--found out Madame de Fleury,
who was in real distress, in obscure lodgings at Richmond.  He
delivered the money, and all the presents of which he had taken
charge:  but the person to whom she entrusted a letter, in answer
to Victoire, was not so punctual, or was more unlucky:  for the
letter never reached her, and she and her companions were long
uncertain whether their little treasure had been received.  They
still continued, however, with indefatigable gratitude, to lay by a
portion of their earnings for their benefactress; and the pleasure
they had in this perseverance made them more than amends for the
loss of some little amusements, and for privations to which they
submitted in consequence of their resolution.

In the meantime, Basile, going on steadily with his employments,
advanced every day in the favour of his master, and his salary was
increased in proportion to his abilities and industry; so that he
thought he could now, without any imprudence, marry.  He consulted
his father, who approved of his choice; he consulted Maurice as to
the probability of his being accepted by Victoire; and encouraged
by both his father and his friend, he was upon the eve of
addressing himself to Victoire, when he was prevented by a new and
unforeseen misfortune.  His father was taken up, by an emissary of
Tracassier's, and brought before one of their revolutionary
committees, where he was accused of various acts of incivisme.
Among other things equally criminal, it was proved that one Sunday,
when he went to see Le Petit Trianon, then a public-house, he
exclaimed, "C'est ici que le canaille danse, et que les honnetes
gens pleurent!"

Basile was present at this mock examination of his father--he saw
him on the point of being dragged to prison--when a hint was given
that he might save his father by enlisting immediately, and going
with the army out of France.  Victoire was full in Basile's
recollection; but there was no other means of saving his father.
He enlisted, and in twenty-four hours left Paris.

What appear to be the most unfortunate circumstances of life often
prove ultimately the most advantageous--indeed, those who have
knowledge, activity, and integrity, can convert the apparent blanks
in the lottery of fortune into prizes.  Basile was recommended to
his commanding officer by the gentleman who had lately employed him
as a clerk; his skill in drawing plans, and in taking rapid surveys
of the country through which they passed, was extremely useful to
his general, and his integrity made it safe to trust him as a
secretary.  His commanding officer, though a brave man, was
illiterate, and a secretary was to him a necessary of life.  Basile
was not only useful, but agreeable; without any mean arts, or
servile adulation, he pleased by simply showing the desire to
oblige and the ability to serve.

"Diable!" exclaimed the general one day, as he looked at Basile's
plan of a town which the army was besieging.  "How comes it that
you are able to do all these things?  But you have a genius for
this sort of work, apparently."

"No, sir," said Basile, "these things were taught to me when I was
a child by a good friend."

"A good friend he was, indeed! he did more for you than if he had
given you a fortune; for, in these times, that might have been soon
taken from you; but now you have the means of making a fortune for
yourself."

This observation of the general's, obvious as it may seem, is
deserving of the serious consideration of those who have children
of their own to educate, or who have the disposal of money for
public charities.  In these times no sensible person will venture
to pronounce that a change of fortune and station may not await the
highest and the lowest; whether we rise or fall in the scale of
society, personal qualities and knowledge will be valuable.  Those
who fall cannot be destitute, and those who rise cannot be
ridiculous or contemptible, if they have been prepared for their
fortune by proper education.  In shipwreck those who carry their
all in their minds are the most secure.

But to return to Basile.  He had sense enough not to make his
general jealous of him by any unseasonable display of his talents,
or any officious intrusion of advice, even upon subjects which he
best understood.

The talents of the warrior and the secretary were in such different
lines, that there was no danger of competition; and the general,
finding in his secretary the soul of all the arts, good sense,
gradually acquired the habit of asking his opinion on every subject
that came within his department.  It happened that the general
received orders from the Directory at Paris to take a certain town,
let it cost what it would, within a given time:  in his perplexity
he exclaimed before Basile against the unreasonableness of these
orders, and declared his belief that it was impossible he should
succeed, and that this was only a scheme of his enemies to prepare
his ruin.  Basile had attended to the operations of the engineer
who acted under the general, and perfectly recollected the model of
the mines of this town, which he had seen when he was employed as
draughtsman by his Parisian friend.  He remembered that there was
formerly an old mine that had been stopped up somewhere near the
place where the engineer was at work; he mentioned in private his
suspicions to the general, who gave orders in consequence.  The old
mine was discovered, cleared out, and by these means the town was
taken the day before the time appointed.  Basile did not arrogate
to himself any of the glory of this success; he kept his general's
secret and his confidence.  Upon their return to Paris, after a
fortunate campaign, the general was more grateful than some others
have been, perhaps because more room was given by Basile's prudence
for the exercise of this virtue.

"My friend," said he to Basile, "you have done me a great service
by your counsel, and a greater still by holding your tongue.  Speak
now, and tell me freely if there is anything I can do for you.  You
see, as a victorious general, I have the upper hand amongst these
fellows--Tracassier's scheme to ruin me missed--whatever I ask will
at this moment be granted; speak freely, therefore."

Basile asked what he knew Victoire most desired--that Monsieur and
Madame de Fleury should be struck from the list of emigrants, and
that their property now in the hands of the nation should be
restored to them.  The general promised that this should be done.
A warm contest ensued upon the subject between him and Tracassier,
but the general stood firm; and Tracassier, enraged, forgot his
usual cunning, and quarrelling irrevocably with a party now more
powerful than his own, he and his adherents were driven from that
station in which they had so long tyrannised.  From being the
rulers of France, they in a few hours became banished men, or, in
the phrase of the times, des deportes.

We must not omit to mention the wretched end of Manon.  The man
with whom she lived perished by the guillotine.  From his splendid
house she went upon the stage, did not succeed, sank from one
degree of profligacy to another, and at last died in an hospital.

In the meantime, the order for the restoration of the Fleury
property, and for permission for the Fleury family to return to
France, was made out in due form, and Maurice begged to be the
messenger of these good tidings--he set out for England with the
order.

Victoire immediately went down to the Chateau de Fleury, to get
everything in readiness for the reception of the family.

Exiles are expeditious in their return to their native country.
Victoire had but just time to complete her preparations, when
Monsieur and Madame de Fleury arrived at Calais.  Victoire had
assembled all her companions, all Madame de Fleury's former pupils;
and the hour when she was expected home, they, with the peasants of
the neighbourhood, were all in their holiday clothes, and,
according to the custom of the country, singing and dancing.
Without music and dancing there is no perfect joy in France.  Never
was fete du village or fete du Seigneur more joyful than this.

The old steward opened the gate, the carriage drove in.  Madame de
Fleury saw that home which she had little expected evermore to
behold, but all other thoughts were lost in the pleasure of meeting
her beloved pupils.

"My children!" cried she, as they crowded round her the moment she
got out of her carriage--"my dear, GOOD children!"

It was all she could say.  She leaned on Victoire's arm as she went
into the house, and by degrees recovering from the almost painful
excess of pleasure, began to enjoy what she yet only confusedly
felt.

Several of her pupils were so much grown and altered in their
external appearance, that she could scarcely recollect them till
they spoke, and then their voices and the expression of their
countenances brought their childhood fully to her memory.
Victoire, she thought, was changed the least, and at this she
rejoiced.

The feeling and intelligent reader will imagine all the pleasure
that Madame de Fleury enjoyed this day; nor was it merely the
pleasure of a day.  She heard from all her friends, with prolonged
satisfaction, repeated accounts of the good conduct of these young
people during her absence.  She learned with delight how her
restoration to her country and her fortune had been effected; and
is it necessary to add, that Victoire consented to marry Basile,
and that she was suitably portioned, and, what is better still,
that she was perfectly happy?  Monsieur de Fleury rewarded the
attachment and good conduct of Maurice by taking him into his
service, and making him his manager under the old steward at the
Chateau de Fleury.

On Victoire's wedding-day Madame de Fleury produced all the little
offerings of gratitude which she had received from her and her
companions during her exile.  It was now her turn to confer
favours, and she knew how to confer them both with grace and
judgment.

"No gratitude in human nature!  No gratitude in the lower classes
of the people!" cried she; "how much those are mistaken who think
so!  I wish they could know my history, and the history of these my
children, and they would acknowledge their error."



Footnotes:

{1}  "Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first deprive of
understanding."





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales