No. III. March, 1837.
I.March, March! why the de'il don't you marchFaster than other months out of your order?You're a horrible beast, with the wind from the East,And high-hopping hail and slight sleet on your border:Now, our umbrellas spread, flutter above our head,And will not stand to our arms in good order;While, flapping and tearing, they set a man swearingRound the corner, where blasts blow away half the border!II.March, March! I am ready to faintThat St. Patrick had not his nativity's casting;I am sure, if he had, such a peaceable ladWould have never been born amid blowing and blasting:But as it was his fate, Irishmen emulateDoing what Doom, or St. Paddy may order;And if they're forced to fight through their wrongs for their right,They'll stick to their flag while a thread's in its border.III.March, March! have you no feeling,E'en for the fair sex who make us knock under?You cold-blooded divil, you're far more uncivilThan Summer himself, with his terrible thunder!Every day we meet ladies down Regent-street,Holding their handkerchiefs up in good order;But, do all that we can, the most merciful manMustsee the blue noses peep over the border.S. Lover.
I.March, March! why the de'il don't you marchFaster than other months out of your order?You're a horrible beast, with the wind from the East,And high-hopping hail and slight sleet on your border:Now, our umbrellas spread, flutter above our head,And will not stand to our arms in good order;While, flapping and tearing, they set a man swearingRound the corner, where blasts blow away half the border!
II.March, March! I am ready to faintThat St. Patrick had not his nativity's casting;I am sure, if he had, such a peaceable ladWould have never been born amid blowing and blasting:But as it was his fate, Irishmen emulateDoing what Doom, or St. Paddy may order;And if they're forced to fight through their wrongs for their right,They'll stick to their flag while a thread's in its border.
III.March, March! have you no feeling,E'en for the fair sex who make us knock under?You cold-blooded divil, you're far more uncivilThan Summer himself, with his terrible thunder!Every day we meet ladies down Regent-street,Holding their handkerchiefs up in good order;But, do all that we can, the most merciful manMustsee the blue noses peep over the border.S. Lover.
OR,THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
BY BOZ.ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE,WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE.
For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight, not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle, namely, that pocket handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board in council assembled, solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and when the long, dismal night came on, he spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep, ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane; as for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example; and, so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause therein inserted by the authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist, whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the devil himself.
Oliver escapes
Oliver escapes being bound apprentice to the Sweep
It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweeper, was wending his way adown the High-street, deeply cogitating in his mind, his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine calculation of funds could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when, passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.
"Woo!" said Mr. Gamfield, to the donkey.
The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction,— wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two, when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onwards.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's; then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master: and, having by these means turned him round, he gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again; and, having done so, walked up to the gate to read the bill.
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was just exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document, for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield.
"Yes, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile, "what of him?"
"If the parish vould like him to learn a light, pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I'm ready to take him."
"Walk in," said the gentlemen with the white waistcoat. And Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat, into the room where Oliver had first seen him.
"It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.
"Young boys have been smothered in chimneys, before now," said another gentleman.
"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in makin' a boy come down; it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, gen'lm'n, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run; it's humane too, gen'lm'n, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roastin' their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused with this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes; but in so low a tone that the words "saving of expenditure," "look well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible: and they only chanced to be heard on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
At length the whispering ceased, and the members of the board having resumed their seats, and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said,
"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it."
"Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"Decidedly not," added the other members.
As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death, already, it occurred to him that the board had perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from table.
"So you won't let me have him, gen'lmen," said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.
"No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered."
Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step he returned to the table, and said,
"What'll you give, gen'lmen, however this page all spelt as shown? Come, don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?"
"I should say three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins.
"Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"Come," said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'lmen. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!"
"Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
"Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen."
"Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
"You're desp'rate hard upon me, gen'lmen," said Gamfield, wavering.
"Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentlemen in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick now and then; it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!"
Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made, and Mr. Bumble was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval, that very afternoon.
In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread; at sight of which Oliver began to cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in this way.
"Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food, and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a-going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver."
"A 'prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling.
"Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentlemen which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own, are a-going to 'prentice you, and to set you up in life, and make a man of you, although the expenceto the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillin's!—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can love."
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath after delivering this address, in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.
"Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously; for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced. "Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.
On their way to the magistrate's, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey, the more readily as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.
There the boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an hour, at the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked-hat, and said aloud,
"Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal."
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room with a great window; and behind a desk sat two old gentlemen with powdered heads, one of whom was reading the newspaper, while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk, on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men in top-boots were lounging about.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.
"This is the boy, your worship," said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve, whereupon the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.
"Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman.
"This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear."
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth, on that account.
"Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?"
"He dotes on it, your worship," replied Bumble, giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.
"And hewillbe a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman.
"If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneously, your worship," replied Bumble.
"And this man that's to be his master,—you, sir,—you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing,—will you?" said the old gentleman.
"When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
"You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villanous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind, and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.
"I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield with an ugly leer.
"I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman, fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.
It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist, who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive countenance of his future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate.
The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.
"My boy," said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at the sound,—he might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst into tears.
"My boy," said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?"
"Stand a little away from him, beadle," said the other magistrate, laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of some interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid."
Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room,—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away, with that dreadful man.
"Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity,—"Well! ofallthe artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest."
"Hold your tongue, beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.
"I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of his having heard aright,—"did your worship speak to me?"
"Yes—hold your tongue."
Mr. Bumble was stupified with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution.
The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion: he nodded significantly.
"We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
"I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins,—"I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a mere child."
"The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."
That same evening the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; to which Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him, which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description.
The next morning the public were once more informed that Oliver Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him.
OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE,MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE.
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port, which suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him; the probability being, that the skipper would either flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or knock his brains out with an iron bar,—both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission, when he encountered just at the gate no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity; his step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and shook him cordially by the hand.
"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker.
"You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a friendly manner, with his cane.
"Think so?" the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble."
"So are the coffins," replied the beadle, with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought to be, and laughed a long time without cessation, "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that,since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron bundles come by canal from Birmingham."
"Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks, and a fair profit is of course allowable."
"Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long run, you see—he! he! he!"
"Just so," said Mr. Bumble.
"Though I must say,"—continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted,—"though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage, which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest—I mean that the people who have been better off; and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a family to provide for, sir."
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject; and Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
"By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you—a porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight,—a millstone, as I may say—round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—liberal terms;"—and, as Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds," which were printed therein in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
"Gadso!" said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble; I never noticed it before."
"Yes, I think it is rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the parochial seal,—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on New-year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight."
"I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought in 'Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,'—didn't they?"
Mr. Bumble nodded.
"And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had——"
"Tush—foolery!" interposed the beadle angrily. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do."
"Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed."
"Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion,—"juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches."
"So they are," said the undertaker.
"They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
"No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker.
"I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
"So do I," rejoined the undertaker.
"And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for them."
"Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked-hat, took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked-hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice,
"Well, what about the boy?"
"Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates."
"Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?"
"Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—and so—I think I'll take the boy myself."
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes, and then it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking,"—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food in him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's, and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would besent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much, and was in a fair way of being reduced to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness for life, by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination in perfect silence, and, having had his luggage put into his hand,—which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep,—he pulled his cap over his eyes, and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark, for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should; and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master, which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.
"Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
"Pull that cap off of your eyes, and hold up your head, sir."
Although Oliver did as he was desired at once, and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one; and, withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's, he covered his face with both, and wept till the tears sprung out from between his thin and bony fingers.
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity,—"well, ofallthe ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the——"
"No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed, I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—"
"So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
"So lonely, sir—so very lonely," cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't be cross to me. I feel as if I had been cut here, sir, and it was all bleeding away;" and the child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into his companion's face with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look with some astonishment for a few seconds, hemmed three or four times in a husky manner, and, after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bid Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy; and, once more taking his hand, walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker had just put up the shutters of his shop, and was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriately dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
"Aha!" said the undertaker, looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?"
"No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here, I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow.
"Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a full glimpse of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry! will you come here a moment, my dear?"
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
"My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again.
"Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small."
"Why, heisrather small," replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he wasn't bigger; "he is small,—there's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry,—he'll grow."
"Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals, and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth: however, men always think they know best. There, get down stairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "the kitchen," wherein sat a slatternly girl in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.
"Here, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip: he hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say he isn't too dainty to eat 'em,—are you, boy?"
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him, whose blood is ice, and whose heart is iron, could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected, and witnessed the horrible avidity with which he tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine:—there is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see him making the same sort of meal himself with the same relish.
"Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite, "have you done?"
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.
"Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way up stairs; "your bed's under the counter. You won't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose?—but it doesn't much matter whether you will or not, for you won't sleep any where else. Come; don't keep me here, all night."
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
VENATOR, AMATOR, EBRIOLUS.
Venator.Good morrow, good morrow! say whither ye go,—To the chase above, or the woods below?Brake and hollow their quarry hold,Streams are bright with backs of gold:'Twere shame to lose so fair a day,—So, whither ye wend, my masters, say.Amator.The dappled herd in peace may graze,The fish fling back the sun's bright rays;I bend no bow, I cast no line,The chase of Love alone is mine.Ebriolus.Your venison and pikeYe may get as ye like,They grace a board right well;But the sport for my shareIs the chase of old Care,When the wine-cup tolls his knell.Venator.Give ye good-den, my masters twain,I'll flout ye, when we meet again:Sad lover, lay thee down and pine;Go thou, and blink o'er thy noon-day wine;I'll to the woods. Well may ye fareWith two such deer, as Love and Care.
Venator.Good morrow, good morrow! say whither ye go,—To the chase above, or the woods below?Brake and hollow their quarry hold,Streams are bright with backs of gold:'Twere shame to lose so fair a day,—So, whither ye wend, my masters, say.
Amator.The dappled herd in peace may graze,The fish fling back the sun's bright rays;I bend no bow, I cast no line,The chase of Love alone is mine.
Ebriolus.Your venison and pikeYe may get as ye like,They grace a board right well;But the sport for my shareIs the chase of old Care,When the wine-cup tolls his knell.
Venator.Give ye good-den, my masters twain,I'll flout ye, when we meet again:Sad lover, lay thee down and pine;Go thou, and blink o'er thy noon-day wine;I'll to the woods. Well may ye fareWith two such deer, as Love and Care.
A LEGEND OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE.
Freely translated from an undeciphered MS. of Con-fuse-us,[49]and dedicated to Colonel Bolsover, (of the Horse Marines,) by C. J. Davids, Esq.
I.A desperate dragon, of singular size,—(His name wasWing-Fang-Scratch-Claw-Fum,)—Flew up one day to the top of the skies,While all the spectators with terror were dumb.The vagabond vow'd, as he sported his tail,He'd have asky lark, and some glorious fun;For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail,By causing atotal eclipse of the sun![50]He collected a crowd by his impudent boast,(Some decently dress'd—some with hardly a rag on,)Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost,Unless they could compass the death of thedragon.II.The emperor came with the whole of his court,—(His majesty's name wasDing-Dong-Junk)—And he said—to delight in such profligate sport,The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk.He call'd on the army: the troops to a manDeclar'd—though they didn't feel frighten'd the least—They never could think it a sensible planTo go within reach of so ugly a beast.So he offer'd his daughter, the lovelyNan-Keen,And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on,To any brave knight who would step in betweenThesolar eclipseand the dare-devildragon.III.Presently came a reverend bonze,—(His name, I'm told, wasLong-Chin-Joss,)—With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze;And for suitable words he was quite at a loss.But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox wayTo succour thesun, and to bother the foe,Was to make a new church-rate without more delay,As the clerical funds were deplorably low.Though he coveted nothing at all for himself,(A virtue he always delighted to brag on,)He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf,It might hasten the doom of this impiousdragon.IV.The next that spoke was the court buffoon,—(The name of this buffer wasWhim-Wham-Fun,)—Who carried a salt-box, and large wooden spoon,With which, he suggested, the job might be done.Said the jester, "I'll wager my rattle and bells,Your pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall:If you make many more of your damnable yells,I know a good method to make you sing small!"And, when he had set all the place in a roar,As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on,He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore,By putting somesalton thetailof thedragon!V.At length appear'd a brisk young knight,—(The far-fam'd warrior,Bam-Boo-Gong,)—Who threaten'd to burke the big blackguard outright,And have the deed blazon'd in story and song.With an excellent shot from a verylong bowHe damag'd the dragon by cracking his crown;When he fell to the ground (as my documents show)With a smash that was heard many miles out of town.His death was the signal for frolic and spree—They carried the corpse in a common stage-waggon;And the hero was crown'd with the leaves of green tea,For saving thesunfrom the jaws of thedragon.VI.A poet, whose works were all the rage,—(This gentleman's name wasSing-Song-Strum,)—Told the terrible tale on his popular page:(Compar'd withhisverses,myrhymes are but rum!)The Royal Society claim'd, as their right,The spoils of the vanquish'd—his wings, tail, and claws;And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight,Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause."The valiantBam-Boo" was a favourite toast,And a topic for future historians to fag on,Which, when it had reach'd to the Middlesex coast,Gave rise to the legend of "George and the Dragon."
I.A desperate dragon, of singular size,—(His name wasWing-Fang-Scratch-Claw-Fum,)—Flew up one day to the top of the skies,While all the spectators with terror were dumb.The vagabond vow'd, as he sported his tail,He'd have asky lark, and some glorious fun;For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail,By causing atotal eclipse of the sun![50]He collected a crowd by his impudent boast,(Some decently dress'd—some with hardly a rag on,)Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost,Unless they could compass the death of thedragon.
II.The emperor came with the whole of his court,—(His majesty's name wasDing-Dong-Junk)—And he said—to delight in such profligate sport,The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk.He call'd on the army: the troops to a manDeclar'd—though they didn't feel frighten'd the least—They never could think it a sensible planTo go within reach of so ugly a beast.So he offer'd his daughter, the lovelyNan-Keen,And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on,To any brave knight who would step in betweenThesolar eclipseand the dare-devildragon.
III.Presently came a reverend bonze,—(His name, I'm told, wasLong-Chin-Joss,)—With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze;And for suitable words he was quite at a loss.But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox wayTo succour thesun, and to bother the foe,Was to make a new church-rate without more delay,As the clerical funds were deplorably low.Though he coveted nothing at all for himself,(A virtue he always delighted to brag on,)He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf,It might hasten the doom of this impiousdragon.
IV.The next that spoke was the court buffoon,—(The name of this buffer wasWhim-Wham-Fun,)—Who carried a salt-box, and large wooden spoon,With which, he suggested, the job might be done.Said the jester, "I'll wager my rattle and bells,Your pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall:If you make many more of your damnable yells,I know a good method to make you sing small!"And, when he had set all the place in a roar,As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on,He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore,By putting somesalton thetailof thedragon!
V.At length appear'd a brisk young knight,—(The far-fam'd warrior,Bam-Boo-Gong,)—Who threaten'd to burke the big blackguard outright,And have the deed blazon'd in story and song.With an excellent shot from a verylong bowHe damag'd the dragon by cracking his crown;When he fell to the ground (as my documents show)With a smash that was heard many miles out of town.His death was the signal for frolic and spree—They carried the corpse in a common stage-waggon;And the hero was crown'd with the leaves of green tea,For saving thesunfrom the jaws of thedragon.
VI.A poet, whose works were all the rage,—(This gentleman's name wasSing-Song-Strum,)—Told the terrible tale on his popular page:(Compar'd withhisverses,myrhymes are but rum!)The Royal Society claim'd, as their right,The spoils of the vanquish'd—his wings, tail, and claws;And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight,Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause."The valiantBam-Boo" was a favourite toast,And a topic for future historians to fag on,Which, when it had reach'd to the Middlesex coast,Gave rise to the legend of "George and the Dragon."
BY GEORGE HOGARTH.
M. de Beaumarchais, the celebrated French dramatist, was one of the most remarkable men of his time, though his fame now rests in a great measure on his two comedies,Le Barbier de Seville, andLe Mariage de Figaro; and even these titles are now-a-days much more generally associated with the names of Rossini and Mozart, than with that of Beaumarchais. Few comedies, however, have been more popular on the French stage than these delightful productions. The character of Susanna was thechef d'œreof the fascinating Mademoiselle Contat; and has preserved its attractions, almost down to the present time, in the hands of her evergreen successor, the inimitable Mars. The Count and Countess Almaviva, Susanna, Figaro, and Cherubino, have now become the property of Italian singers; and, in this musical age, even the French public have been content to give up the wit, satire, point, and playfulness of the original comedies, for those meagre outlines which have been made the vehicles for the most charming dramatic music in the world. Not thatIl Barbiere di SivigliaandLe Nozze di Figaroare not lively and amusing, considered as operas; but thevis comicaof Beaumarchais has almost entirely evaporated in the process of transmutation.
None of the other dramatic works of Beaumarchais are comparable to these. Some of them bear marks of immature genius; and his last play,La Mère Coupable, the conclusion of the history of the Almaviva family, was written after a long interval, and when advanced age, and a life of cares and troubles, appear to have extinguished the author's gaiety, and changed the tone of his feelings. The play is written with power, but it is gloomy, and even tragical; succeeding its lively and brilliant precursors as a sunset of clouds and darkness closes a bright and smiling day. It painfully disturbs the agreeable associations produced by the names of its characters; and, for the sake of these associations, every one who reads it must wish to forget it.
But it is not so much to the writings of Beaumarchais, as to himself, that we wish at present to direct the attention of our readers. His life was anything but that of a man of letters. He possessed extraordinary talents for affairs; and, during his whole life, was deeply engaged in important pursuits both of a private and public nature. Extensive commercial enterprises, lawsuits of singular complication, and missions of great moment as a political agent, withdrew him from the walks of literature, and probably prevented him (as one of his biographers has remarked) from enriching the French stage with twenty dramatic masterpieces, instead of two or three. In this respect he resembled our Sheridan, as well as in the character of his genius; for we know of no plays that are more akin to each other, in many remarkable features, thanThe School for ScandalandLe Mariage de Figaro.
It is a remarkable circumstance in the history of Beaumarchais, that a considerable portion of his literary fame was derived from a species of composition from which anything of the kind could hardly have been expected,—the pleadings, or law-papers, in the variouscauses in which he was involved. The proceedings in the French parliaments, or high courts of justice, were totally different from those with which we are acquainted in England; though they were similar to those which were practised in the Scottish court of session, (a tribunal formed on the French model,) before that court came in for its share in the general progress of reform. There were no juries; the proceedings were conducted under the direction of a single judge, whose business it was to prepare the cause for decision, and then to make a report upon it to the whole court, by whom the judgment was given. A favourable view of the case from the reporting judge was, of course, an object of much importance; and the most urgent solicitations by the litigants and their friends—nay, even bribes—were often employed to obtain it. A charge against Beaumarchais,—a groundless one, however,—of having attempted to bribe the wife of one of these judges, exposed him to a long and violent persecution. Among his enemies were men of rank and power; the grossest calumnies against him were circulated in the highest quarters, and countenanced by the court in which he was a litigant; the bar became afraid to support him, and he could no longer find an advocate. In these forlorn circumstances the energy of his character did not abandon him, and he resolved to become his own advocate.
The pleadings in the French courts of those days were all written. The cause was debated inmémoires, or memorials, in which the pleas of the parties were stated without any of our technical formality. Law, logic, eloquence, pathos, and sarcasm, were all employed, in whatever way the pleader thought most advantageous. The paper was printed and distributed, not only among the judges, but among the friends and connexions of the parties; and when the case excited much interest, the distribution was often so extensive as almost to amount to publication. Beaumarchais, deserted by his former advocates, began to compose his own memorials, to which he found means to obtain the mere signature of some member of the bar. In this manner he fought a long and desperate battle, in which, after some severe reverses, (one of which was the burning of a series of his memorials by the common hangman, pursuant to a sentence of the court,) he at length achieved a complete and signal victory over all his enemies, whom he not only defeated on the immediate subjects of dispute, but overwhelmed with universal ridicule and contempt.
In the mean time thesemémoiresproduced an extraordinary sensation throughout France. When a new one appeared, it flew from hand to hand like lightning. The causes in which Beaumarchais was involved were so interesting in themselves, and connected with such strange occurrences, that, had they belonged to the period of theCauses Célèbres, they would have made a remarkable figure in that famous collection. Their interest was increased a thousand-fold by the memorials of Beaumarchais. "The genius," says a French writer, "with which they are marked, the originality of the style, the dramatic form of the narrative, mingled with fine bursts of eloquence, keep the attention always awake; while the logical clearness of the reasoning, and the art of accompanying every statement of facts with striking and conclusive evidence, lay hold of the mind, and interest and instruct, without fatiguing the reader. But their most remarkable feature is the noble firmness of mind which they display; theserenity of a lofty spirit which the most terrible and unforeseen reverses were unable to subdue or intimidate; the stamp, in short, of a great character which is impressed upon them." These writings of Beaumarchais are spoken of in terms of admiration by the most eminent literati of that day, especially by Voltaire, in many parts of his correspondence; they attracted the notice of the government, and procured for their author several political missions, the results of which had no small influence on the public affairs of the time.
We have given this sketch of the character of Beaumarchais by way of introduction to an account of a remarkable incident of his life, taken from one of those extraordinary productions. Among other calumnies, he had been charged, at one time with a series of atrocities committed in Spain ten years before; and, among other things, with having endeavoured to bully a Spanish gentleman into a marriage with his sister, whom that gentleman had kept as a mistress; and it was added that he had been expelled from Spain in disgrace. In one of hismémoireshe answers these accusations, by giving a narrative of his residence in Spain during the period in question. It is a leaf of "the romance of real life," and the interest of the story is heightened by the conviction of its entire truth; for every fact is confirmed by evidence, and the smallest incorrectness, as the writer knew, would be laid hold of by his enemies. Goethe, it is not immaterial to add, has made it the subject of his tragedy ofClavijo, the characters of which consist of Beaumarchais himself, and the other persons introduced into his narrative; though the great German dramatist has taken some poetical liberties with the story, especially in its tragical catastrophe.
The following narrative is acondensationof the original, which contains minute details and pieces of evidence, of great importance to M. de Beaumarchais' object at the time,—a conclusive vindication of his character, but not at all conducive to the interest of the story.
"For some years I had enjoyed the happiness of living in the bosom of my family; and our domestic union consoled me for all I suffered through the malice of my enemies. I had five sisters. Two of them had been committed by my father, at a very early age, to the care of one of his correspondents in Spain, so that I had only that faint but pleasant remembrance of them which is associated with our days of childhood. This remembrance, however, was kept alive by frequent correspondence.
"In February 1764, my father received from his eldest daughter a letter of very painful import. 'My sister,' she wrote, 'has been grossly abused by a powerful and dangerous man. Twice, when on the point of marrying her, he has broken his word, and withdrawn without condescending to assign any reason for his conduct; and my poor sister's wounded feelings have thrown her into a state of depression from which we have faint hopes of her recovery. For these six days she has not spoken a word. Under this unmerited stigma, we are living in the deepest retirement. I weep night and day, and endeavour to offer the unhappy girl comfort which I cannot find myself.'
"My father put his daughter's letter into my hands, 'Try, my son,' he said, 'what you can do for these poor girls. They are your sisters as well as the others.'
"'Alas, my dear father,' I said, 'what can I do for them? What assistance shall I ask? Who knows but they may have brought this disgrace upon themselves by some fault of their own?'
"My father showed me some letters from our ambassador to my elder sister, in which he spoke of both of them in terms of the highest esteem. I read these letters. They gave me courage; and my father's phrase, 'They are your sisters as well as the others,' had sunk into my heart. 'Console yourself,' I said to him, 'I am going to adopt a course that may surprise you; but it appears to me the surest and the most prudent. My eldest sister mentions several respectable persons in Paris who can give testimony to the good conduct and virtue of her sister. I will see them; and if their testimony is as honourable as that of our ambassador, I shall instantly set out for Madrid, and either punish the traitor who has outraged them, or bring them back with me to share my humble fortune.'
"My inquiries were completely satisfactory. I immediately returned to Versailles, and informed my august patronesses,[51]that business, no less painful than urgent, demanded my immediate presence at Madrid. I showed them my sister's letter, and received their permission to depart, in terms of the kindest encouragement. My preparations were soon made, as I dreaded that I might not arrive in time to save my poor sister's life. I obtained the strongest letters of recommendation to our ambassador at Madrid; and my ancient friend, M. Duvernay, gave me a credit on himself to the amount of two hundred thousand francs, to enable me to transact a piece of commercial business, and at the same time to increase my personal consideration. I was accompanied by one of my friends, a merchant, who had some business in Spain; but who went also partly on my account.
"We travelled day and night, and arrived in Madrid on the 18th of May 1764. I had been expected for some days, and found my sisters in the midst of their friends. As soon as the feelings, caused by a meeting between a brother and his sisters, so long separated, and seeing each other once more under such circumstances, had subsided, I earnestly conjured them to give me an exact account of all that had happened, in order that I might be able to serve them effectually. The story was long and minute. When I had heard it to an end, I embraced my young sister:
"'Now that know all, my dear girl,' I said, 'keep your mind at ease. I am delighted to see that you no longer love this man, and my part is all the easier on that account. All that I want now, is to know where I can find him.'
"Our friends began eagerly to advise me to go, first of all, to Aranjuez, and wait upon the French ambassador, in order to obtain his protection against a man whose official situation gave him so much influence with people in power. But I had made up my mind to follow a different course; and, without giving any intimation of my intention, I merely begged that my arrival might be kept a secret till my return from Aranjuez.
"I immediately changed my travelling dress, and found my way to the residence of Don Joseph Clavijo, keeper of the archives of thecrown. He was from home, but I went in search of him; and it was in the drawing-room of a lady whom he had gone to visit that I told him, that, having just arrived from France, and being intrusted with some commissions for him, I was anxious to have an interview with him as soon as possible. He asked me to breakfast the following morning; and I accepted the invitation for myself and the French merchant who was along with me.
"Next morning, I was with him at half-past eight o'clock. I found him in a splendid house, which, he said, belonged to Don Antonio Portugues, the highly-respected head of one of the government offices, and so much his friend, that in his absence he used the house as if it were his own.
"'I am commissioned, sir,' I began, 'by a society of men of letters, to establish, in the different towns which I visit, a literary correspondence with the most distinguished men of the place; and I am sure that I cannot serve my friends more effectually than by opening a correspondence between them and the distinguished author of the papers published under the title of the 'Pensador'.[52]
"He seemed delighted with the proposal. That I might the better know my man, I allowed him to expatiate on the advantages which different countries might derive from this kind of literary intercourse. His manner became quite affectionate; he talked like on oracle; and was all smiles and self-satisfaction. At last he bethought himself of asking what business of my own had brought me to Spain, politely expressing his wish to be of service to me.
"'I accept,' I said, 'your kind offers with much gratitude, and assure you, sir, that I shall explain my business very openly.'
"With the view of throwing him into a state of perplexity in which I intended him to remain till it should be cleared up by the conclusion of what I had to say, I again introduced my friend to him, telling him that the gentleman was not unacquainted with the matter, and that his presence would do no harm. At this exordium, Clavijo turned his eyes on my friend with an air of curiosity. I began:
"'A French merchant, who had a numerous family and a narrow fortune, had several correspondents in Spain. One of the richest of them, happening to be at Paris nine or ten years ago, proposed to adopt two of his daughters. He would take them, he said, to Madrid; he was an old bachelor; they should be to him as children, and be the comfort of his old age; and after his death they should succeed to his mercantile establishment. The two eldest daughters were committed to his care. Two years afterwards he died, leaving the Frenchwomen without any other advantage than the burden of carrying on an embarrassed commercial house. Their good conduct, however, and amiable qualities, gained them many friends, who exerted themselves to increase their credit and improve their circumstances.'
"I observed Clavijo become very attentive.
"'About this time, a young man, a native of the Canaries, got an introduction to their house.'
"Clavijo's gaiety of countenance vanished.
"'Anxious to make himself known, this young gentleman conceived the idea of giving Madrid a pleasure of a novel description inSpain, by establishing a periodical paper in the style of the EnglishSpectator. He received encouragement and assistance, and nobody doubted that his undertaking would be fully successful. It was then that, animated by the hope of reputation and fortune, he made a proposal of marriage to the younger of the French ladies. The elder told him, that he should first endeavour to succeed in the world; and that as soon as some regular employment, or other means of honourable subsistence, should give him a right to think of her sister, her consent, if he gained her sister's affections, should not be wanting.'
"He became restless and agitated. Without seeming to notice his manner, I went on.
"'The younger sister, touched by her admirer's merit, refused several advantageous proposals; and, preferring to wait till he who had loved her, for four years, should realise the hopes which he and his friends entertained, encouraged him to publish the first number of his journal under the imposing title of thePensador.'
"Clavijo looked as if he were going to faint.
"'The work,' I continued with the utmost coldness, 'had a prodigious success. The king, delighted with so charming a production, gave the author public marks of favour; and he was promised the first honourable employment that should be vacant. He then removed, by an open prosecution of his suit, every other person who had sought my sister's hand. The marriage was delayed only till the promised post should be obtained. At six months' end the post made its appearance, but the man vanished.'
"Here my listener heaved an involuntary sigh, and, perceiving what he had done, reddened with confusion. I went on without interruption.
"'The matter had gone too far to be allowed to drop in this manner. A suitable house had been taken; the bans had been published. The common friends of the parties were indignant at such an outrage; the ambassador of France interfered; and when this man saw that the French ladies had protectors whose influence might be greater than his own, and might even destroy his opening prospects, he returned to throw himself at the feet of his offended mistress. He got her friends to intercede for him; and as the anger of a forsaken woman has generally love at the bottom, a reconciliation soon took place. The marriage preparations were resumed; the bans were re-published; the ceremony was to take place in three days. The reconciliation had made as much noise as the rupture. The lover set out for St. Ildefonso to ask the minister's consent to his marriage; entreating his friends to preserve for him till his return the now precarious affection of his mistress, and to arrange everything for the immediate performance of the ceremony.'
"In the horrible state into which he was thrown by this recital, but yet uncertain whether I might not be telling a story in which I had no personal interest, Clavijo from time to time fixed his eyes on my friend, whosesangfroidwas no less puzzling than mine. I now looked him steadily in the face, and went on in a sterner tone.
"'Two days afterwards he returned indeed from court; but, instead of leading his victim to the altar, he sent word to the poor girl that he had once more changed his mind, and would not marry her. Her indignant friends hastened to his house. The villain no longer keptany measures with them, but defied them to hurt him, telling them that if the Frenchwomen were disposed to give him any trouble, they had better take care of themselves. On hearing this intelligence, the young woman fell into convulsions so violent, that her life was long despaired of. In the midst of their desolation, the elder wrote to France an account of the public affront that they had received. They had a brother, who, deeply moved by the story, flew to Madrid, determined to investigate the affair to the bottom.Iam that brother.It is Iwho have left everything—my country, my family, my duties—to avenge in Spain the cause of an innocent and unhappy sister.It is Iwho come, armed with justice and resolution, to unmask and punish a villain; andit is youwho are that villain.'
"It is easier to imagine than describe the appearance of this man by the time I had concluded my speech. His mouth opened from time to time, and inarticulate sounds died away on his tongue. His countenance, at first so radiant with complacency and satisfaction, gradually darkened; his eyes became dim, his features lengthened, his complexion pale and haggard.
"He tried to stammer out some phrases by way of justification. 'Do not interrupt me, sir,' I said; 'you have nothing to say to me, and much to hear from me. In the first place, have the goodness to declare before this gentleman, who has accompanied me from France on account of this very business, whether, owing to any want of faith, levity, weakness, ill-temper, or any other fault, my sister has deserved the double outrage she has received from you.'
"'No, sir; I acknowledge Donna Maria, your sister, to be a young lady full of charms, accomplishments, and virtues.'
"'Has she ever, since you have known her, given you any ground of complaint?'
"'No, never.'
"'Well, then, monster that you are! why have you had the barbarity to bring a poor girl to death's door, merely because her heart gave you the preference over half a dozen other persons more respectable and better than you?'
"'Ah, sir, I have been advised, instigated: if you knew——'
"I interrupted him: 'That is quite sufficient,' I said. Then, turning to my friend, 'You have heard my sister's justification; pray go, and make it known. What I have further to say to this gentleman requires no witness.'
"My friend left the room. Clavijo rose, but I made him resume his seat.
"'It does not suit my views, any more than yours, that you should marry my sister; and you are probably aware that I am not come here to play the brother's part in a comedy, who desires to bring about his sister's happiness, as it is called. You have thought fit to insult a respectable young woman, because you thought her friendless in a strange land; your conduct has been base and dishonourable. You will please, therefore, to begin by acknowledging, under your hand, at perfect freedom, with all your doors open and all your domestics in the room, (who will not understand us, as we shall speak French,) that you have causelessly deceived, betrayed, insulted my sister. With this declaration in my hand I shall hasten to Aranjuez, where our ambassador is; I shall show him the paper, andthen have it printed; to-morrow it shall be abundantly circulated through the court and the city. I have some credit here—I have time and money; all shall be employed to deprive you of your place, and to pursue you without respite, and in every possible way, till my sister herself shall entreat me to forbear.'