“For a Wife.”“As the prospect of my marriage has much increased lately, I am determined to take the best means to discover the lady most liberal in her esteem by giving her fourteen days more to make her quickest steps towards matrimony: from the date of this paper until eleven o’clock the next morning: and as the contest evidently will be superb, honourable, sacred, and lawfully affectionate, pray do not let false delicacy interrupt you. An eminent attorney here is lately returned from a view of my superb gates, built in the form of the Queen’s house. I have ordered him, as the next attorney here, who can satisfy you of my possession in my estate, and every desirable particular concerning it, to make you the most liberal settlement you can desire, to the vast extent of three thousand pounds.”
“For a Wife.”
“As the prospect of my marriage has much increased lately, I am determined to take the best means to discover the lady most liberal in her esteem by giving her fourteen days more to make her quickest steps towards matrimony: from the date of this paper until eleven o’clock the next morning: and as the contest evidently will be superb, honourable, sacred, and lawfully affectionate, pray do not let false delicacy interrupt you. An eminent attorney here is lately returned from a view of my superb gates, built in the form of the Queen’s house. I have ordered him, as the next attorney here, who can satisfy you of my possession in my estate, and every desirable particular concerning it, to make you the most liberal settlement you can desire, to the vast extent of three thousand pounds.”
Some verses conclude, the words being—
“A beautiful page shall hold,Your ladyship’s train surrounded with gold.”
The advertiser alludes to the forfeiture of the estates in another paper: “Pray, my young charmers, give me a fair hearing; do not let your avaricious guardians unjustly fright you into a false account of a forfeiture.” Sir John did not scatter his papers broadcast. It was only to those whom he deemed suitable ladies that he distributed his precious and grandiloquent invitations. Notwithstanding the seeming allurements of his circulars, Sir John Dinely found no nibblers for his bait. One morning the accustomed seat in St. George’s Chapel knew him no more. He was missing. The door of his lodging was forced, and in his room he was found ill and helpless. Everything about him was of the poorest and most squalid character. There was little furniture—a table and a chair or two. The room was strewed with printing type, for he printed his own bills; and in a few days Sir John Dinely was borne to the grave.
“Wise judges are we of each other,” said Claude Melnotte contemptuously to Colonel Damar when that officer remarked that he “envied” the pretended Prince of Como, and it would be well for many of us were we to remember the rebuke in forming our judgment of our fellows in connection with their pecuniary position. A very pitiful story illustrating the argument isnarrated by Charles Lamb in his essay, “Christ’s Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago.” Referring to some cartoons connected with his old school, the author writes:—
“L—— has recorded his repugnance of the school to ‘gags,’ or the fat of fresh boiled beef, and sets it down to some superstition; but these unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (children are universal fat-haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a ghoul, and held in equal detestation. There was a lad who suffered under this imputation.‘It was saidHe ate strange flesh.’“He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants left at the table (not many nor very choice fragments, you may credit me), and in an especial manner these disreputable morsels he would convey, and secretly stow, in the settle that stood at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of them, of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that on leave-days he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief, full of something. This, then, must be the accursed thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He went about moping—none spake to him. No one would play with him. He was excommunicated—put out of the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that negative punishment which is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his schoolfellows, who were determined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave day for the purpose, to enter a large worn-out building, such as there exists specimens of in Chancery Lane, which are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by stealth up four flights of stairs, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, which was opened by a poor woman meanly clad. Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim. Accusation was formally preferred, and retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. Hatherway investigated the matter. The supposed mendicants, the receivers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents of the boy. This young stork, at the expense of his own good name, had all this while been feeding the old birds.”
“L—— has recorded his repugnance of the school to ‘gags,’ or the fat of fresh boiled beef, and sets it down to some superstition; but these unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (children are universal fat-haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a ghoul, and held in equal detestation. There was a lad who suffered under this imputation.
‘It was saidHe ate strange flesh.’
“He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants left at the table (not many nor very choice fragments, you may credit me), and in an especial manner these disreputable morsels he would convey, and secretly stow, in the settle that stood at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of them, of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that on leave-days he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief, full of something. This, then, must be the accursed thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He went about moping—none spake to him. No one would play with him. He was excommunicated—put out of the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that negative punishment which is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his schoolfellows, who were determined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave day for the purpose, to enter a large worn-out building, such as there exists specimens of in Chancery Lane, which are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by stealth up four flights of stairs, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, which was opened by a poor woman meanly clad. Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim. Accusation was formally preferred, and retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. Hatherway investigated the matter. The supposed mendicants, the receivers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents of the boy. This young stork, at the expense of his own good name, had all this while been feeding the old birds.”
A striking story of the unknown resources and trials of the poverty-stricken is the following, a favourite one with that capitalraconteur, the late Julian Young.
A certain diplomatist was many years ago despatched by theEnglish Government on an embassy extraordinary to one of the continental courts, where his handsome person and the urbanity of his manners made him a general favourite. On his departure the sovereign to whom he was accredited presented him with a small box of unusual value as a mark of his esteem. It had on its lid a miniature of the king set in brilliants of great beauty. When he had retired from public life and happened to give a dinner to any of his friends, he was fond of producing it at the dessert, as it afforded him an opportunity of descanting on the king’s appreciation of his services. On one of these occasions the box was brought forth, handed by the butler to the master, and passed round. The last person into whose hands it went was an old general, who, from some failure in investments, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances.
In due course all rose to join the ladies, and in so doing the owner of the snuff-box looked round for it in order that it might be replaced in the cabinet. Not seeing the box, the owner immediately made inquiries concerning it, and asked the gentlemen to make search for it, suggesting that it was possible that some one in a fit of absence might have placed it in his pocket. Everybody denied having any knowledge of it, though one or two present declared that the old general was the last person in whose hands they remembered to have seen it. “Having seen it before,” the old general said, “he had but bestowed a cursory glance upon it and then placed it in the centre.” The strictest search about the room was then made, but only with fruitless results. The owner of the box assumed much gravity of manner, and having referred to the seriousness of the loss, said, “I suspect no one, and that I may have no cause to do so, I must ask you to let me search you all without distinction.” Two or three rose to depart, but they were anticipated by their entertainer, who put his back against the door and refused egress to any one. The old general stepped forward and said, “Sir, do you mean to insult us because we have drunk your wine? If any one dares to oppose my exit from this room, I shall call him to account.” The old grizzled warrior strode out with a firm and defiant air. Known to be poor, and from his determined departure on the occasion of the proposed search, the general was coldly and shyly regarded by those who knew the circumstances, and by those who afterwards heard of them.
Some time later, at the same host’s table, the butler, hearing the story of the lost snuff-box, informed his master that on the occasion alluded to be had taken it up and deposited it in a little drawer at the end of a sideboard, where it had been occasionally kept, and the butler went to the drawer and found the lost treasure.
As quickly as possible the next morning the owner of the snuff-box sought the old general, told him everything, and made him an ample apology. They were at once friendly as of old. After some conversation, the owner of the snuff-box said, “But may I ask you why you so resolutely refused to be searched?” “Alas!” said the soldier, “I refused to be searched because, though I had not stolen your snuff-box, I had stolen your food. I blush to own, sir, that the greater part of every morsel put upon my plate was transferred to a pocket-handkerchief (spread upon my knee beneath the table), and taken home to a starving wife and family.”
Equally, if not more romantic is another military story, also related by Julian Young, which, were it not for the unquestionablebona fidesof that gentleman, might well be questioned, so suggestive is it of a page from a novel.
An aristocratic lady residing on the family estate in Ireland advertised for a governess for her daughters. The successful candidate was a young French lady of talent and fascinating manners. She had not long taken up her residence with the lady and her daughters when she inspired the nephew of her mistress with a tender passion. A gentleman of principle, and only possessing slender means, he resolved to control his sentiment and in no way reveal it.
Some months elapsed, and one morning while the family were at breakfast, they were surprised by the entrance of a servant, who inquired of the lady of the house if she could see visitors. Asking who they were, she was informed that the party consisted of two gentlemen, who had travelled there in a coach-and-four, attended by a livery servant, evidently a foreigner. Thinking that visitors at such an early hour must have important business, the servant was told by his mistress that she would at once see them. She remained with the visitors some little time, and then returned, informing the governess that her presence was immediately required by the two gentlemen, who had come on important business.
The governess was absent more than half an hour, and on her return to the breakfast-room appeared to be labouring under strong excitement. She then begged Lady E—— to be kind enough to step into the library to speak to two friends of hers, who had something of great importance to communicate. The mistress of the establishment complied, and the governess, left with her pupils, was interrogated with much amusing curiosity by them on the strange visit of two gentlemen at such an early hour in the day. The governess, in a tremor of nervousness, answered nothing, left her pupils, and going to her own apartment, locked herself in.
The interview between Lady E—— and the strangers was exceedingly interesting. One of the visitors spoke to her in French, and at great length. Having prefaced what he had to say by apologising for the seeming intrusion, Lady E—— was informed that he was delegated by the governess to perform a duty which rightly devolved upon herself, but which she had not the moral courage to discharge. It was also stated by the speaker that Mademoiselle H—— acknowledged gratefully the extraordinary kindness with which she had been treated. Lady E—— was then told that in pretending to be dependent on her own exertions for bread, the governess had imposed on her mistress. She was, it was said, as well born as Lady E——, and almost as opulent. It was at the request of the visitors that Mademoiselle H—— had answered the advertisement, for the reason that perhaps under such a roof as Lady E——’s the young lady would be spared the persecution of an unscrupulous kinsman, who conceived that his cousin was endeavouring to supplant him in the good graces of a relative whose favours he had forfeited solely by misconduct. The older kinsman alluded to had just died, and had bequeathed his sole possessions to the governess. She was mistress of a château in Southern France, in addition to an unencumbered rent-roll of £7000 a year. In conclusion, the gentleman in his own name and that of his fellow trustee begged to state that in a month’s time the presence of Mademoiselle H—— would be imperative, for the purpose of hearing the will read, and to meet the avocat, the executors, and certain other persons interested. Complimenting the mistress of the Irish mansion upon her urbanity, the visitors withdrew, jumped into their carriage, and were driven away as rapidly as they came.
The daughters of Lady E—— and her nephew were made acquainted with the good fortune of the French governess. She had won the affections of her pupils, and they regretted parting with her. However, they rejoiced at her prosperity. The nephew’s heart glowed with hope and affection. Had he been richer he would before have declared his passion. On hearing his aunt’s recital of the governess’s actual position he at once resolved to press his suit. When Mademoiselle H—— had listened to his declaration of love, she met it with haughty demeanour and frigid words, stating that she suspected her money had more attraction for him than her person, assigning as her reason for such impression that he had shunned her while he thought her poor, but had sought her as soon as he had found her to be rich. He assured her that he had loved her at first sight, but had been deterred by honourable motives and the smallness of his fortune from thinking of matrimony; that he had purposely kept out of danger’s way, but that as to wishing to marry her for the sake of her money, it was a cruel imputation, and stung him to the quick. He then quitted her soon afterwards, mounted a horse, rode away and found a notary public. When he again saw Mademoiselle H—— he put into her hands a document by which he conveyed to her unconditionally and absolutely every farthing he had in the world. In return for it he asked for the lady’s hand and heart. He added that if he proved unworthy of her, her money would be in her own power, and that if he lived to deserve her love, he was sure she would never let him want. She yielded to his solicitations, and they eloped.
Scarcely had the honeymoon run its course when the husband discovered that he was united to a penniless woman. In spite of his reserve the governess had detected his passion, and by the aid of confederates and her own adroitness had made herself possessor of his patrimony. The victim sought to repair his fortune at the sword’s point in the Crimean war, where he obtained considerable distinction.
Incredible as this narrative may seem, there is a yet more marvellous one which must be true, since “it was in the papers.”
In the autumn of 1827 two men were examined at the Marylebone police-court under circumstances of a peculiar and suspicious nature. The night previously a patrol in the NewRoad watched the men, and subsequently saw them deep in conversation by a lamp-post, and soon afterwards one man deliberately began to tie his companion up to the lamp-post, the suspended man offering no resistance to the labours of the improvised Jack Ketch. The patrol interfered, and both men proceeded to beat him with great violence. Some watchmen of the district hearing the cries of the assailed constable hastened to the spot, and the constable’s assailants were secured. While being examined before the magistrate, the men stated that they had been gambling by the light from the lamp, and that one of them had lost all his money to the other, and had then staked his clothes. The winner demurred to continue playing for the reason that if he again won he should not care to strip the loser of his habiliments. His enthusiastic companion rejoined that should he again lose, life would be worthless to him. A bargain was made to again play, it being understood that the unsuccessful gambler if again unlucky should be hung by his companion, who should strip him when dead. The fellow lost, and informed the magistrate that he was only submitting to the terms of the treaty when the patrol came up and interfered with himself and his companion. The magistrate concluding they had been intoxicated, discharged them with a caution.
A remarkably grim passage this in a gambler’s life, and unfortunately most of the selections in this section of the subject are more or less sombre, for romance is naturally more associated with tragedy than comedy. “Pitiful, wondrous pitiful,” is my next illustration, which is related by Sir Walter Scott, who when attending Dugald Stewart’s lectures on Moral Philosophy used to sit by the side of an amiable youth, in whose society he afterwards took great interest. They became companions, and frequently used to stroll out beyond the city, enjoying the charms of road and stream. One day during the perambulation they met a singularly venerable “Blue Gown,” a beggar of the Edie Ochiltree stamp, clean and ruddy. The beggar had three or four times previously encountered Scott, who with his usual good-heartedness had relieved him in answer to solicitation. When Mr. Scott and his fellow-student passed the old man, the companion of Scott exhibited peculiar restlessness and confusion. The beggar again had something dropped into his hand by Scott, who said soon afterwards to his companion, “Do you know anything to thedishonour of the old beggar?” “God forbid!” said the youth, and bursting into tears added, “I am ashamed to speak to him; he is my father! He has laid by for himself, but he stands bleaching his head in the wind, that he may get means to pay for my education.” Scott spoke words of tenderness and sympathy to the mendicant’s son, and kept his secret.
Some time afterwards he again met the hale “Blue Gown.” “God bless you!” said the old man; “you have been kind to Willie. He has often spoken of it. Come to our roof, for my boy has been ill. It will strengthen him, if you will go and see him.” At 2 o’clock on the following Saturday, Willie’s old fellow-student found the old man and his son waiting to receive him at their little cottage outside the city. It was a modest little tenement, and Willie sat on a bench before the door to enjoy the sunshine. The son of the voluntary mendicant looked wan and emaciated. He had been very ill. There was a dinner of mutton, potatoes and whisky. They all enjoyed themselves, and during their conversation the old man said, “Please God I may live to see my bairn wag his head in a pulpit yet.” Scott left them with tokens of good will and friendship. He communicated the story to his mother, who informed her husband, and it was at no distant time that Dr. Erskine’s influence (through the good offices of Mr. and Mrs. Scott) obtained the old man’s son a tutorship in the north of Scotland.
To quit the pathetic for a moment, it would scarcely be thought likely that that necessary but extremely practical article—blacking—has ever been associated with romance; but Mr. Smiles tells the story of a poor soldier having one day called at the shop of a hairdresser who was busy with his customers and asked relief, stating that he had stayed beyond his leave of absence, and unless he could get a lift on the coach, fatigue and severe punishment awaited him. The hairdresser listened to his story respectfully, and gave him a guinea. “God bless you, sir!” exclaimed the soldier, astonished at the amount. “How can I repay you? I have nothing in the world but this,” pulling out a dirty piece of paper from his pocket; “it is a receipt for making blacking—it is the best that was ever seen; many a half-guinea I have had for it from the officers, and many bottles I have sold. May you be able to get something for it to repay you for your kindness to the poor soldier!” Oddly enough that dirty piece of paper proved worth half a million ofmoney to the hairdresser. It was no less than a receipt for the famous Day and Martin’s blacking, the hairdresser being the late Mr. Day.
The picture of little ones asking for bread and the parents finding none in the cupboard is a very old story. Domestic affection, struggling amidst difficulties and distress, has produced heroes and martyrs innumerable, but few more interesting than Peter Stokes, famous in years gone by as the “Flying Pieman.” Every day at the beginning of the present century (excepting when it rained) the familiar figure of that now historic personage might have been seen in the steep thoroughfare between Staple’s Inn and Field Lane. Peter obtained thesobriquetof “Flying Pieman” from the celerity of his movements. There was some slight mistake concerning his nickname, for Peter Stokes sold baked plum pudding, not pies. Stokes was one of the celebrated old-fashioned London characters, as well known to cockneys of that period as Billy Waters or the negro crossing-sweeper at the foot of Ludgate Hill.
Soon after the clock of St. Andrew’s Church struck twelve, Stokes used to turn out of Fetter Lane with a tray of smoking hot plum pudding, the pudding cut into twelve slices, the price of each being a penny. Peter carried his tray in one hand and a bright silver scapula in the other. The customer received his slice of pudding from the scapula after a penny had been deposited upon the tray (Peter never gave change), the “Flying Pieman,” as he perambulated or as he stopped, never being known to utter any other word than “Buy, buy, buy.” He always wore a black vest, swallow-tailed coat, stout silk stockings, and shoes with bright silver buckles, while a snowy white apron and faultlessly frilled shirt completed a modish and impressive costume. No hat or cap adorned his head, the hair of which was close cropped and powdered.
Peter Stokes was sometimes known to have disposed of fifty rounds of puddingper diem. His customers have often included aldermen, ladies of quality, and blue blood bucks, but they received no more attention than did rougher and humbler patrons. The “Flying Pieman” was attentive to everybody, but he never turned back for anybody. Making his way deftly through crowds of pedestrians, hackney coaches or waggons, the “Flying Pieman” went straight on, calling out “Buy,” and only stopped for theproffered penny; but his real history was indeed a curious one. Contemporary with him was a portrait painter in Rathbone Place. The artist painted with great assiduity in the morning, and his evening parties though homely, were pleasant and refined. A devoted wife and affectionate children cheered the life of the amiable and industrious artist. He was a genial-faced man, with dark brown hair. This artist and Peter Stokes were identical. When young, Stokes made a love-match, married upon next to nothing, and in a few years found himself the father of several children. A modest, industrious, painstaking artist, he found but few to sit to him for a portrait. Things grew exceedingly bad with him.
One day he heard one of his boys crying for something to eat, and the artist found that his wife had no bread to give the hungry child. Peter Stokes hurried from his home with an almost wet picture, which he deposited at a neighbouring pawnbroker’s. Returning, the needy artist saw at a street-corner a boy selling baked potatoes, and moreover the artist observed that the boy was doing a busy trade. Crushing pride, and taking his faithful and devoted wife into close confidence, Peter unfolded a plan by which he too might sell something profitable in the street. Mrs. Stokes seconded the suggestion, and Peter soon commenced his career as a vendor of baked plum pudding. He threw a desperate card, but it turned up trumps. Stokes’s portraits have gone to the limbo of oblivion, but the peculiar method by which he impressed the crowd with his tray of baked plum pudding shows at any rate that its vendor had a good eye for artistic effect.
If it were, as some will doubtless say, “a sin and shame” that an artist of Peter Stokes’s ability should have to turn itinerant vendor of pennyworths of pudding, the old adage “Be sure your sin will find you out” was at fault for once; but to make up for the omission in his case, how wonderfully true was the proverb in the romantic history of Lord Chief Justice Holt, whose impecuniosity caused him to commit an act that resulted in a truly tragicfinale.
Sir John Holt, famous for his integrity, firmness, and great legal knowledge, who filled the office of Recorder of London for a year and a half, losing it in consequence of his uncompromising opposition to the abolition of the “Test” Act, and whose upright discharge of the important duties of Lord Chief Justice gainedhim the highest honour and esteem, was as a youth wilful and dissipated. In some respects his deeds at that period bore likeness to those of the madcap Prince Hal, when that personage was the associate of Falstaff. He was a roysterer, gambler and, according to some, highwayman. To use Lord Campbell’s words, “They even relate, many years after that, when he was going the circuit as Chief Justice, he recognised a man convicted capitally before him as one of his own accomplices in a robbery, and that having visited him in gaol, and inquired after the rest of the gang, he received this answer: ‘Ah! my lord, they are all hanged but myself and your lordship.’”
On one occasion, Holt, with a band of dissolute and reckless companions, found himself participator in the perplexing results of a common bankruptcy. They were without the prospect of obtaining a supper. It was then agreed that they should make their way singly, each individual to do the best he could for himself. The band of roysterers separated, Holt finding himself on a lonely and cheerless road. He was intrepid, nimble witted, and full of self-possession. Spurring his horse, he set off at a gallop. Arriving in front of a little hostelry, he alighted from his steed, handed it over to the care of an ostler, and without more ado went into the house and ordered the best entertainment that it could afford.
Whatever hardships he had undergone, Holt had now the pleasing expectation of a savoury supper and comfortable lodgment. Waiting for a smoking dish, the odour from which pleasantly saluted his nostrils, he carelessly strolled from the chamber where he had been sitting into the kitchen. There the hostess was busy in her culinary labours, while near the blazing fire sat a girl about thirteen years old, pale, haggard, and shivering in an ague fit. John Holt, though a “ne’er do weel,” and a wild impetuous fellow was not without the instinct of a compassionate heart. He asked many questions concerning the malady of the young girl as she moaned and rocked herself in the warmth of the ruddy embers. The mother replied that for a year her daughter had been stricken by the ague, that the labour of the doctors trying to cure her had been in vain, and that their charges had nearly brought the fortunes of the house to ruin.
The young student having listened to the story of the mother’s misfortune, then spoke in contemptuous terms of doctors allround, bade her take courage and be of good cheer, for he was acquainted with a specific that would speedily take away her daughter’s ague. “Indeed,” said Holt, “you need be under no further concern, for you may assure yourself the girl shall never have another fit.” Taking a piece of parchment from his breast pocket, he with much gravity and deliberation proceeded to inscribe some Greek characters on the scrap, and having concluded his work, charged the mother to bind the parchment upon her daughter’s wrist, allowing it to remain there until the ague departed. By some strange coincidence, or by the effects wrought upon the sympathies of the girl at the appearance and touch of the supposed charm, her ague did depart, and returned no more, at least not during the week John Holt remained the guest of mine hostess.
When he deemed it prudent or convenient to depart, he asked for his bill with that confidence so often masking the demeanour of the bold adventurer reduced to impecuniosity. But the hostess, smiling and embarrassed, said she could make no demand for payment, and further added that she rather felt in the position of one owing something, than as one having something to receive. Indeed, she expressed sorrowfully that she could in no way compensate her guest for the miraculous cure which he had wrought, and that had she but known him sooner the expense of forty pounds would not have been swallowed up by theposseof useless doctors. Overcome by the profuse thanks and grateful acknowledgments of his hostess John Holt condescended to waive paying his week’s bill, and departed with much hilarity on his journey.
As months and years rolled away, the incidents of a busy life and the assiduous practice of his profession crowded out of John Holt’s memory the recollection of his strange and facetious adventure at the hostelry on the Oxford road. Holt’s habits changed. He became the wise and impartial judge, so admirable and so competent, that even his stern Tory father (spite of the son’s Liberal politics) grew proud of the man who in his youthful career at Oxford had been the wildest of the wild, and the most erring of the erring. The years have gone on, and when we turn again to John Holt, he is approaching his sixtieth year. The scene is still in the county of Oxford, but this time in one of the principal towns. The Summer Assizes are being held, andthe judges are sitting in all wonted solemnity and state. In the Criminal Court a cause of unusual interest is being heard.
At the bar there stands a poor, miserable and decrepit old woman. As she looks at the grave and dignified judge she shakes with terror. The causes of her fear are solemn and significant, for she is about to be tried for her life, on the charge of being a witch. In those days of which I am writing, there existed a terrible superstition in the popular mind concerning witchcraft, believed as it was to be the crime of all others the most destructive to man and the most impious in the sight of God. The comely, dignified and shrewd-eyed judge excites the keenest interest in the crowded court, for he is one of the “men of mark” of his age, the profound lawyer, the incorruptible dispenser of justice, and the champion of truth and freedom.
Witnesses are called. They give their evidence in a plain unpretentious manner, and it is certain that they possess a firm faith in what they allege against the miserable prisoner. The principal accusation against her is that she holds in her possession a potent and mysterious charm. It enables her to spread disease, or to cure it, and it is further stated that she has lately been detected using it. “Has anybody seen it?” inquires the judge. “Yes, please you, my lord, and it is now here ready to be produced.” His lordship directs that it shall be handed to him, and his order is obeyed. Behold! nothing but a dirty ball wrapped round with rag and pack-thread. Removing these, he discovers a scrap of stained and time-worn parchment inscribed with characters in his own handwriting. Chief Justice Holt, after the lapse of forty years, recognises the Greek letters which he had scrawled in the inn kitchen situate on the Oxford road.
Deep silence reigns in the crowded court-house, and every eye is turned on the judge. Lifting his head from his hands, in which it had been buried for a few moments, he says to the jury,—
“Gentlemen, I must now relate an incident of my life which ill-suits my position. To conceal that incident would be to increase the awful folly which I must atone. Did I conceal that folly of which I was guilty, I should endanger innocence and countenance superstition. This so-called charm which these poor ignorant people suppose to have the power of life and death is a senseless piece of parchment, on which with my own hand I wroteand gave the poor woman. This poor woman for no other reason stands before me accused of witchcraft.” Chief Justice Holt then narrated the whole story of his adventure in his early years at the woman’s hostelry on the Oxford road, and the recital produced such an effect upon the minds of the jury that his old hostess was not only acquitted, but was one of the last persons tried for the crime of witchcraft in this country.
I turn to another country and to incidents enveloped in a brighter and pleasanter atmosphere. Readers of the older French literature are familiar with the notes, verses, and dramas of Alexis Piron. The Burgundianbon-vivantknew many adventures and much impecuniosity; but notwithstanding Fortune’s buffets he retained “a revenue of good spirits,” and when turned fifty years of age he participated in a bit of romance.
One evening after supper he went to the shop of a grocer, Gallet, a song-writer and boon companion. A female entered the shop and asked for some coffee and matches. Gallet was away, so the poet undertook to serve the lady, saying to her, “Is that all you want?” The grocer entering added, “Mademoiselle ought to have a husband in the bargain.” “Excellent,” said Piron, “if the damsel will take up with any kind of wood for her arrow.” A blush suffused the lady’s cheeks, and she departed without making rejoinder.
Next morning she visited the poet. “Monsieur,” said she with trepidation, “we are two children of Burgundy. I have long wanted to see a man of so much wit, and having learned yesterday that it was you with whom I had to do in M. Gallet’s shop, I have come to-day without ceremony to pay you a visit. How weary you must grow here! I was very much afraid of finding some handsome lady from the theatre, but, heaven be praised!”—with a glance at the extreme poverty of his surroundings—“you live like a Trappist. Have you never thought of making an end of this?” Said Piron: “I leave the care of that to la Camarde; but if you please, what do you mean?” “I wish to say, have you ever thought of marriage?” “Not much. Mademoiselle, pray sit down while I light the fire.” “You don’t know, Monsieur Piron! it will make you laugh.” “So much the worse.” “I shall speak plainly. If your heart, has the same sentiment as mine”—the poet was wonder-stricken, and looked at the lady in silence—“in a word, Monsieur Piron, I come to offer you myhand and heart, not forgetting my life-annuity of two thousand livres.”
The poet controlled his merry temper, and was touched when he thought what a compassionate friend had been vouchsafed to him. He saw the woman’s eyes moist with tears, and he embraced her. “I leave to you,” said he, “all the preparations for the wedding. Gallet will write the epithalamium.” “You will make me, Monsieur Piron, the happiest person in the world I did not hope for so happy a conclusion, for—I do not wish to conceal anything from you—I amfifty-five!” “Well,” said Piron, with a slight shrug, “we have over a hundred years between us. We would have done well to have met sooner.”
This marriage took place amid festivity. The old maid had a good heart and an amiable temper. She proved a faithful sister, friend, and servant to Piron. He had aromatic coffee in the morning, the beverage being all the more palatable, as it was accompanied by the maker’s cheerful gossip in the chimney-corner. Madame Piron expressed herself enthusiastically about her husband’s writings, and Piron felt no longer alone, was able to refuse going out to dinner in bad weather, and had a crown in his pocket when he sauntered in the sunshine. He was well off enough to occasionally give alms, and at last he could receive friends at his hearth. This episode in the life of Piron is one of the brightest romances of impecuniosity.
Scarcely less happy is an anecdote of Quin the actor, who, if he said many spiteful things, was not incapable of a generous action. James Thomson, another of the brotherhood of genius, found himself immured in a sponging-house. In his dolorous and solitary condition he was one evening surprised by a visit from Quin. They cracked a bottle, and as the night wore away a choice supper was served by one of the attendants of the prison. Thomson, a sensitive nervous man, partook of the dishes with indifferent appetite, for his thoughts wandered to the payment of the bill. Another bottle of claret was drunk, and the visitor rose to depart. “Mr. Thomson,” said Quin, “before I go, let me say that there is an account between us.” Thomson was alarmed, and stammered out that he was unaware of any obligations. “They are mine,” replied Quin. “I have received so much delight from the writings of James Thomson, that I consider myself his debtor at least for a hundred pounds.” Saying this, heplaced a note for that amount on the table, shook the astonished poet by the hand, and bowed himself out.
I will conclude the selections of romantic impecuniosity with the case of Thomas De Quincey, who, according to some authorities, being afraid of an oral examination at Oxford College, left the university by stealth and wandered away, his stock of money being scant and his whereabouts quite unknown to his friends. He wandered about Denbighshire, Merionethshire, and Carnarvonshire. Lodging at some place, De Quincey took affront at something said by a landlady, and abruptly left his quarters. In his “Confessions of an Opium Eater” he says,—
“This leaving the lodgings turned out a very unfortunate occurrence for me, because living henceforward at inns, I was drained of my money very rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to short allowance, that is I could allow myself only one meal a day. From the keen appetite produced by constant exercise and mountain air acting on a youthful stomach I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender regimen, for the single meal which I could venture to order was coffee or tea. This, however, was at length withdrawn, and afterwards so long as I remained in Wales I subsisted either on blackberries, hips, haws, etc., or on the usual hospitalities which I now and then received for such little services as I had an opportunity of rendering. Sometimes I wrote letters of business for cottagers who happened to have relations in Liverpool or London. More often I wrote love-letters to their sweethearts for young women who had lived as servants in Shrewsbury or any other towns on the English border. On all such occasions I gave great satisfaction to my humble friends, and was generally treated with hospitality; and once in particular near the village of Llan-y-styndw (or some such name), in a sequestered part of Merionethshire, I was entertained for upwards of three days by a family of young people with an affectionate and fraternal kindness that left an impression upon my heart not yet impaired. The family consisted at that time of four sisters and three brothers, all grown up, and all remarkable for elegance and delicacy of manners. So much beauty and so much native good breeding and refinement I do not remember to have seen before or since, in any cottage, except once or twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, an accomplishment not often met with in so many members of one family, especially in villages remote from the high road. There I wrote, in my first introduction, a letter about prize-money for one of the brothers, who had served on board an English man-of-war, and more privately, two love-letters for two of the sisters. They were both interesting-looking girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In the midst of their confusion and blushes whilst dictating, or rather giving me general instructions, it did not require any great penetration to discover that what they wished was “that their letters should be as kind as was consistent with proper maidenly pride.” I continued so to temper myexpressions as to reconcile the gratification of both feelings, and they were as much pleased with the way in which I expressed their thoughts as, in their simplicity, they were astonished at my having so readily discovered them. The reception one meets with from the women of a family generally determines the tenor of one’s whole entertainment. In this case I had discharged my confidential duties as secretary so much to the general satisfaction, perhaps also amusing them with my conversation, that I was pressed to stay with a cordiality which I had little inclination to resist. I slept with the brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing in the apartment of the young women; but in all other points they treated me with a respect not usually paid to purses as light as mine, as if my scholarship were sufficient evidence that I was of gentle blood.”
“This leaving the lodgings turned out a very unfortunate occurrence for me, because living henceforward at inns, I was drained of my money very rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to short allowance, that is I could allow myself only one meal a day. From the keen appetite produced by constant exercise and mountain air acting on a youthful stomach I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender regimen, for the single meal which I could venture to order was coffee or tea. This, however, was at length withdrawn, and afterwards so long as I remained in Wales I subsisted either on blackberries, hips, haws, etc., or on the usual hospitalities which I now and then received for such little services as I had an opportunity of rendering. Sometimes I wrote letters of business for cottagers who happened to have relations in Liverpool or London. More often I wrote love-letters to their sweethearts for young women who had lived as servants in Shrewsbury or any other towns on the English border. On all such occasions I gave great satisfaction to my humble friends, and was generally treated with hospitality; and once in particular near the village of Llan-y-styndw (or some such name), in a sequestered part of Merionethshire, I was entertained for upwards of three days by a family of young people with an affectionate and fraternal kindness that left an impression upon my heart not yet impaired. The family consisted at that time of four sisters and three brothers, all grown up, and all remarkable for elegance and delicacy of manners. So much beauty and so much native good breeding and refinement I do not remember to have seen before or since, in any cottage, except once or twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire. They spoke English, an accomplishment not often met with in so many members of one family, especially in villages remote from the high road. There I wrote, in my first introduction, a letter about prize-money for one of the brothers, who had served on board an English man-of-war, and more privately, two love-letters for two of the sisters. They were both interesting-looking girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In the midst of their confusion and blushes whilst dictating, or rather giving me general instructions, it did not require any great penetration to discover that what they wished was “that their letters should be as kind as was consistent with proper maidenly pride.” I continued so to temper myexpressions as to reconcile the gratification of both feelings, and they were as much pleased with the way in which I expressed their thoughts as, in their simplicity, they were astonished at my having so readily discovered them. The reception one meets with from the women of a family generally determines the tenor of one’s whole entertainment. In this case I had discharged my confidential duties as secretary so much to the general satisfaction, perhaps also amusing them with my conversation, that I was pressed to stay with a cordiality which I had little inclination to resist. I slept with the brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing in the apartment of the young women; but in all other points they treated me with a respect not usually paid to purses as light as mine, as if my scholarship were sufficient evidence that I was of gentle blood.”
Farther on he says,—
“The only friend I had in this strange poverty of mine on first coming to London was a young woman. She was one of that unhappy class who belong to the outcasts and pariahs of our female population. For many weeks I had walked at night with this poor friendless girl up and down Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps, or under the shelter of porticoes. One night when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I had felt unusually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went, and we sat down on the steps of a house which to this hour I never pass without a pang of grief and an inner act of homage to the spirit of the unhappy girl in memory of the noble act she performed. Suddenly as we sat I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her bosom. I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. Uttering a cry of terror, but without a moment’s delay, she ran off into Oxford Street, and in less time than could be imagined returned to me with a glass of port wine and spices that acted upon my empty stomach, which at that time would have rejected all solid food, with an instantaneous power of restoration, and for this glass the generous girl without a murmur paid out of her own humble purse, at a time, be it remembered, when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever be able to reimburse her.”
“The only friend I had in this strange poverty of mine on first coming to London was a young woman. She was one of that unhappy class who belong to the outcasts and pariahs of our female population. For many weeks I had walked at night with this poor friendless girl up and down Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps, or under the shelter of porticoes. One night when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I had felt unusually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went, and we sat down on the steps of a house which to this hour I never pass without a pang of grief and an inner act of homage to the spirit of the unhappy girl in memory of the noble act she performed. Suddenly as we sat I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her bosom. I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. Uttering a cry of terror, but without a moment’s delay, she ran off into Oxford Street, and in less time than could be imagined returned to me with a glass of port wine and spices that acted upon my empty stomach, which at that time would have rejected all solid food, with an instantaneous power of restoration, and for this glass the generous girl without a murmur paid out of her own humble purse, at a time, be it remembered, when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever be able to reimburse her.”
I will conclude this chapter with two most truly remarkable stories. The first is one which Sir Walter Scott used to relate with his own inimitable powers of story-telling, and which, as the victim was his own cousin, the narrative on the lips of the novelist ever excited profound interest in the minds of listeners. It would seem that as a midshipman his cousin Watty was extremely popular on ship-board and on shore. He was a bit of a rip, but generous to a fault, handsome, merry and reckless. After one memorable long voyage he put in with others at Portsmouth, and enjoyed those roysterings, lovepassages, tavern pleasures, and adventures so dear to the heart of “Jack ashore.” With a couple of companions Watty Scott was in the unenviable position of being left high and dry on the strand of impecuniosity. Moreover the three jolly sailors had run up an immense bill at a tavern on the Point, the settlement of which haunted them by day and by night. In their recklessness, almost amounting to despair, they still went on living high, and steeping recollection of their liabilities in the fumes of baccy and the odours of the flowing bowl.
At last came the fatal and imperative orders from official quarters that they must “ship off.” Summoning up their best graces and most insinuating powers of expression in the way of eloquence, they sought an interview with their hostess, and acquainted her with their foolish but unfortunate position; to which account she listened with attention and deep interest. She was informed not only of their perfect inability to meet the bill, but that in a short period they were bound to be on board ship. Their caterer turned a deaf ear to the revelation of their poverty, and in the most virago-like manner fiercely informed them “that they could not budge an inch.” The sailors pleaded in earnest tones for her mercy, but in the course of an hour they found themselves guarded by bailiffs, and in one of the parlours of the hostelry the three youths, for they were nothing more, sat in moody contemplation of their impending disgrace.
Towards evening their creditor sought them with a less fierce aspect and uttered words less bitter and explosive than those of which she had delivered herself in the morning. She told her debtors she would give them a chance, and proposed a plan by which her claim could be cancelled. The sailors were told by her that she was a lone woman and had long wanted a marriage certificate “to give her a respectable position in her calling,” that one of them must marry her—which one she didn’t care a curse—but by all that was holy if she didn’t marry one of them, all three should be packed off to gaol, and the ship must go without them. Remonstrance, promises to pay in a few months, the unreasonableness of the request, in fact everything said by the discomfited sailors was in vain. It was impossible to pacify her, and the victims of impecuniosity saw that the woman’s proposal was the only means of escaping from disgrace and humiliation. After taking counsel among themselves, the three sailors drew lots forthe hymeneal martyrdom, and the ill-luck fell on Watty Scott. Next morning the midshipman and the landlady were spliced, and returned to the tavern, where a rich and liberal dinner awaited the newly married couple and the two fortunate companions of the bridegroom; and in the afternoon the three sailors were tumbled into a wherry, and were soon aboard ship. The marriage was kept a secret, and the first to reveal it was Watty Scott, who one day at a town in Jamaica, reading a newspaper, saw an account of a trial for murder and robbery in connection with a Portsmouth tavern, and having read all particulars, exclaimed, “Thank God, my wife’s hanged!”
The other anecdote is more appalling in detail than anything I can remember, and is recorded of a German nobleman who was a contemporary of the first Napoleon.
The story opens in the solitary chamber of a dilapidated château situated on the skirts of the Black Forest in Germany. In a corner of the chamber sits a young man of aristocratic mien and military garb, his face buried in his hands, and his whole demeanour indicating the most intense hopelessness and sorrow. The courtyard and gardens of the château, as they may be seen from the windows of the room in which the young man has sunk upon a seat, are everywhere pervaded by an air of desolation. Tokens of past opulence and taste may be observed in dismantled and untended flower-beds, fallen vases and statues, and in the unhinged and rusting iron gates. Forlorn as is the appearance of the interior and exterior of the once beautiful château, it is not more forlorn and desolate than the heart of the young soldier, sole tenant of the silent and deserted chamber. The young man’s history had been most melancholy. His mother, harshly used by the man who at the altar had sworn to love and cherish her, had died when he was only nineteen years of age. Her death was caused by a broken heart, and the son, finding that he held no place in the esteem or affections of the surviving parent, gladly accepted the offer of a commission in an Austrian company of hussars.
After five years of hard and active service, respite and tranquil leisure fell to the lot of the young soldier, and with the instincts of a loyal and affectionate heart, he set out in the direction of his father’s residence on horseback, attended by his ordinary military servant.
On the second day’s journey while going in the direction of the parental home he found himself benighted in the midst of the Black Forest. It was a perilous and wearisome journey, which, however, found relief by the appearance of lights in what seemed to be some kind of human habitation.
It proved to be a rough and isolated inn, where the officer and his orderly were soon housed, after accommodation had been found for their horses. Everything about the cabaret was rough, uncomfortable, and unprepossessing. The only man in attendance was of ruffianly and sinister aspect. The orderly after supper was requested by his master to sleep (ready for call) near the horses under the manger in the stable, and afterwards the officer (carefully concealing a pair of pistols under his cloak) requested to be shown to his sleeping apartment, which proved to be little better than a loft. He placed the oil lamp on a chair, laid his sword by it, and threw himself down on the rude pallet-bed without taking off his clothes. Not feeling sleepy he turned his pillow, and found that it was stained with blood recently shed, and which strengthening the apprehensions formed on his entrance into the house, at once impelled him to cock his pistols and draw his sword.
For an hour or two the house seemed to be wrapped in profound silence, and just as the wearied guest found that drowsiness was stealing over him he cast his eyes across the room and noticed that a portion of the flooring heaved and rose. The officer crept from the bed and stood sword in hand watching a trap-door which had been quietly raised by a hand. With all the strength he could command and with all the quickness he could exercise he smote the hand, when the trap closed, and beneath it he heard a smothered cry. Hurrying down stairs, he reached the front door, unbarred it, made his way to the stable, and roused the servant. In a short time master and man were galloping away on the road, and the rest of their journey was secure and without adventure. On the third day he reached the château of his father. It was the soldier’s birthplace, and his heart filled with grief when he saw that his once-loved home was deserted and seemingly tenantless. Decay seemed to have invaded everything. No summons awaited their thundering knocks at the hall-door, but at one of the windows could be seen the pallid, ghastly visage of a man watching. Master and man made a forcible entryinto the house, and sought the room at the window of which had peered the strange and repulsive face. On entering the room the young soldier recognised his father, haggard and scowling, who when he saw his son’s extended hand held up a mutilated stump and said, “That’s your answer.” The father, ruined by reckless living, had, owing to his impecuniosity, joined a lawless gang frequenting the cabaret, and had sought to rob and murder his own son.
THE END
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
Footnotes:
[1]The elder D’Israeli in summing up the character of this extraordinary man, who left behind him more than 6000 MSS., says, “A scholar of great acquirements and of no mean genius; hardy and inventive, eloquent and witty; he might have been an ornament to literature, which he made ridiculous; and the pride of the pulpit which he so egregiously disgraced; but having blunted and worn out that interior feeling which is the instinct of the good man, and the wisdom of the wise, there was no balance in his passions, and the decorum of life was sacrificed to its selfishness. He condescended to live on the follies of the people, and his sordid nature had changed him till he crept, ‘licking the dust with the serpent.’”
[2]Many struggles had to be endured, however, before this pinnacle of prosperity was attained.