Adelaide KembleIn the Character ofNORMA.London. Tilt & Bogue, 86, Fleet Street.
Adelaide KembleIn the Character ofNORMA.London. Tilt & Bogue, 86, Fleet Street.
Adelaide Kemble
In the Character ofNORMA.
London. Tilt & Bogue, 86, Fleet Street.
From that time, in spite of lets and hindrances innumerable, which too generally beset the English gentlewoman undertaking a foreign artistic career, Miss Kemble has slowly and steadily advanced towards her present high position. At Venice she was applauded to the echo for her execution of Pasta's grandcavatinain "Niobe,"—at Mantua made afurore, as an actress who was "simpatica" (there is a good deal in the word, as all Italians know); later still at the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, rising to such a height of popularity, that upon her contracting an engagement for Palermo, Barbaja, "le bourru bienfaisant" broke the contract, and paid the forfeit to retain her. Her chief parts have been in the operas of "Lucia di Lammermoor," "Norma," "Elena da Feltre," "Gemma di Vergy," "La Sonnambula," and "Beatrice di Tenda." But lest the English fancy that their favourite is but asignorain disguise, be it known to them that the subject of our notice is as fine a linguist in music as the most universal of her contemporaries. We have heard her applauded to the echo by the Rhinelanders for her singing of Schubert and Beethoven:—We believe that she possesses acahierof French romances, which she cansayas well as sing, withfinesseenough to charm the fastidious ears of the Panserons and Adams who compose such dainty ware; and we know that she can do worthy homage—to Handel. The oratorio-goers may look fortheMiriam in her, and will not be disappointed.
What more remains?—save to record, that after having made her mature talent heard at the never-to-be-forgotten Polishmatinéeat Stafford House, and at a private concert, Miss Kemble made a second German journey this autumn, as we said, to the infinite delight of the Rhinelanders, who are not easy to please;—and lastly, to give the second of this month as the date of her commencing a career among her own countrymen, which, for Art's sake, as well as her own, we fervently hope will be as long as itmustbe brilliant.
R. O. D.
What more remains? By way of postscript to our dull prose, the world will, we think, be glad of half-a-dozen verses from a most accomplished pen (we would not for the world reveal its owner!) dropped by mistake in anOmnibus, on the morning after Miss Kemble's first appearance.
What more remains? By way of postscript to our dull prose, the world will, we think, be glad of half-a-dozen verses from a most accomplished pen (we would not for the world reveal its owner!) dropped by mistake in anOmnibus, on the morning after Miss Kemble's first appearance.
'Twas not Pasta—'twas not e'enThy greater name,That in charms of voice and mienTo fancy came—As thy wild impassioned laysEnthralled our ears,And the eyes that fain would gazeWere blind with tears!Whence the ray, that could impartEach subtle traceThat defines the mother's heart,The matron's grace?Whence the throes of jealousyThat struggling rise,Big with mimic agonyTo those young eyes?Love and Joy, thy gentle browIn turn caressing;Hate, with scorn or vengeance, nowIts lines possessing:On the classic pedestalAchieved by thee,Firm, and never failing, shallThy footing be!And the brightness that will stillThy name enshrine,Take thou as the boon of GodTo thee and thine!
'Twas not Pasta—'twas not e'enThy greater name,That in charms of voice and mienTo fancy came—As thy wild impassioned laysEnthralled our ears,And the eyes that fain would gazeWere blind with tears!Whence the ray, that could impartEach subtle traceThat defines the mother's heart,The matron's grace?Whence the throes of jealousyThat struggling rise,Big with mimic agonyTo those young eyes?Love and Joy, thy gentle browIn turn caressing;Hate, with scorn or vengeance, nowIts lines possessing:On the classic pedestalAchieved by thee,Firm, and never failing, shallThy footing be!And the brightness that will stillThy name enshrine,Take thou as the boon of GodTo thee and thine!
'Twas not Pasta—'twas not e'enThy greater name,That in charms of voice and mienTo fancy came—
'Twas not Pasta—'twas not e'en
Thy greater name,
That in charms of voice and mien
To fancy came—
As thy wild impassioned laysEnthralled our ears,And the eyes that fain would gazeWere blind with tears!
As thy wild impassioned lays
Enthralled our ears,
And the eyes that fain would gaze
Were blind with tears!
Whence the ray, that could impartEach subtle traceThat defines the mother's heart,The matron's grace?
Whence the ray, that could impart
Each subtle trace
That defines the mother's heart,
The matron's grace?
Whence the throes of jealousyThat struggling rise,Big with mimic agonyTo those young eyes?
Whence the throes of jealousy
That struggling rise,
Big with mimic agony
To those young eyes?
Love and Joy, thy gentle browIn turn caressing;Hate, with scorn or vengeance, nowIts lines possessing:
Love and Joy, thy gentle brow
In turn caressing;
Hate, with scorn or vengeance, now
Its lines possessing:
On the classic pedestalAchieved by thee,Firm, and never failing, shallThy footing be!
On the classic pedestal
Achieved by thee,
Firm, and never failing, shall
Thy footing be!
And the brightness that will stillThy name enshrine,Take thou as the boon of GodTo thee and thine!
And the brightness that will still
Thy name enshrine,
Take thou as the boon of God
To thee and thine!
BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.
Who that had once met Jack Gay at dinner, where'er the feast of venison and the flow of port prevailed, ever forgot him! What lady, the luckiest of her sex, ever experienced his "delicate attentions" at a quiet evening party, a quiet concert, or a quiet dance, without speaking of him from that moment, not as the most charming of acquaintances, but as a very old friend—without feeling quite sure that she had known him all her life, though she had never seen him but that once?
What spirits he had! Other men had their jovial moods, but Jack was always jovial. To be lively by fits and starts, to be delightful when the humour sets in, to emulate the fair exquisite of Pope,
"And make a lover happy—for a whim—"
"And make a lover happy—for a whim—"
"And make a lover happy—for a whim—"
"And make a lover happy—for a whim—"
is within anybody's reach. But Jack had no fits and starts; the humour flowed in one unebbing course, and his whim consisted in making everybody as happy as he was at all seasons.
His joviality never depended upon the excellence of a dinner, the choice of wines, or any accident of the hour. His high spirits and invariable urbanity were wholly independent of the arrangements of the table, the selection of the guests, and the topics of conversation. He discovered pleasant things to hearken to, and found delightful themes to chat upon, even during the dreary twenty minutes before dinner. Yes, eventhatwas a lively time to Jack. Whenever he went out it was to enjoy a pleasant evening, and he enjoyed it.
The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold,The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old,The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool,The guests were pumps, the host a fool—
The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold,The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old,The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool,The guests were pumps, the host a fool—
The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold,The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old,The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool,The guests were pumps, the host a fool—
The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold,
The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old,
The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool,
The guests were pumps, the host a fool—
but for all this Jack cared about as much as a flying-fish cares for a shower of rain. No combination of ill omens and perverse accidents ever proved a damper to him.
He is invited to meet (say) Johnson and Burke, and is greeted, on his entrance, with the well-known tidings that Johnson and Burke "couldn't come." Does Jack heave one sigh in compliment to the illustrious absentees, and in depreciation of the company whohaveassembled? Not he. No momentary shade of disappointment dims his smiling face. He seems as delighted to meet the little parlour-full of dull people, as though the room were crammed with Crichtons. He has the honour of being presented to little Miss Somebody, from the country, who seems shy; and he takes the same pains to show his pleasure in the introduction, and to tempt the timid stranger to talk, that he would have exerted in an effort to interest Mrs. Siddons. He sits next to a solemn ignoramus, who is facetious in expounding the humours of Squire Bog, his neighbour, or didactic in developing the character of Dogsby the great patriot in his parish; and Jack listens as complacently as though his ear were being regaled with new-born bonmots of Sheridan's, or anecdotes of the Earl of Chatham.
Jack, like some statesmen, was born to be out; and to him, as to some other statesmen, all parties were the same. The only preference he ever seemed to entertain was for the particular party that chanced at the particular moment to rejoice in his presence. He enjoyed everything that happened. Leigh Hunt, describing a servant-maid "at the play," observes, that every occurrence of the evening adds to her felicity—for she likes even the waiting between the acts, which is tiresome to others. So with Jack at a party. He enjoyed some dislocated experiments on the harp, by an astonishing child, aged only fifteen; and was the sole person in the room who encored withsinceritythat little prodigy's convulsive edition of "Bid me discourse." He listened with laudable gravity to Master Henry's recitation of "Rolla's Address," and suggested the passages in which John Kemble was rather too closely followed. He enjoyed the glasses of warm wine handed round between the songs; he liked the long flat pauses, "when nobody said nothing to his neighbour;" and he liked the sudden burst of gabble in which, at the termination of the pause, as if by preconcerted agreement, every creature eagerly joined.
He liked the persons he had never met before, and those whom he was in the habit of meeting just seven times a week. He admired the piano that was always out of tune, and the lady who, kindly consenting to play, was always out of temper. He thought the persons to whom he had not been introduced very agreeable, and all the rest extremely entertaining. He was delighted with his evening, whether it exploded in a grand supper, or went-off, flash-in-the-pan fashion, with a sandwich.
He never bottled up his best things, to uncork them in a more brilliant company the next night; he was never dull because he was expected to shine, and never, by laborious efforts to shine, succeeded in showing that dulness was his forte. He pleased everybody because he was pleased himself; and he was himself pleased, because he could not help it. Many queer-looking young men sang better, but nobody sang with such promptness and good taste; many awkward gawkies danced with more exactness and care, but nobody danced so easily to himself or so acceptably to his partner; many handsome dashing fellows were more showy and imposing in their manners, but none produced the agreeable effect that followed a few words of his, or one of his joyous laughs—nay even a kind and sprightly glance. The elaborate, and long meditated impromptu of the reputed wit fell still-born, while one of Jack's unstudied gay-hearted sallies burst like a rocket, and showered sparkles over the room.
Everybody went away convinced that there was one human being in the world whose oasis of life had no surrounding desert. Jack lived but for enjoyment. The links of the chain that bound him to existence, were of pure gold—there was no rough iron clanking between. He seemed sent into the world to show how many may be amused, cheered, comforted, by one light heart. That heart appeared to tell him, that where his fellow-creatures were, it was impossible to be dull; and the spirit of this assurance prevailed in all he said and did; for if he staid till the last half dozen dropped off, he was just as fresh and jocund as when theevening began. He never knew what it was to be tired, and as the hospitable door was at last closed upon him, you heard him go laughing away down the steps. Upon his tomb indeed might be written a paraphrase of the epitaph so gloriously earned by his illustrious namesake:—
So that the merry and the wise might say,Pressing their jolly bosoms, "HerelaughsGay!"
So that the merry and the wise might say,Pressing their jolly bosoms, "HerelaughsGay!"
So that the merry and the wise might say,Pressing their jolly bosoms, "HerelaughsGay!"
So that the merry and the wise might say,
Pressing their jolly bosoms, "HerelaughsGay!"
But did anybody, who may happen to see this page, ever see the aforesaid Jack at home?—at high-noon, or in the evening whenpreparing to go out! Behold him on the eve of departure—just going—about to plunge, at the appointed moment, into the revelries of a brilliant circle, where, if he were not, a score of sweet voices would fall to murmuring "I wish he were here!" For the admiration, the envy, the cordial liking which surely await him there, you would now be apt to substitute commiseration, regret—a bit of friendly advice to him to stop at home, and a pull at the bell for pen-and-ink that he might write an excuse.
The truth is, that Jack was a morbid, irresolute, wayward, cross-grained chap. He was kind-hearted in the main, and even generous; but his temper was often sullen, and his spirit often cynical. Catch him on a winter's afternoon, half an hour before he dressed for dinner! You would think him twenty years older, and five bottle-noses uglier. You would conclude that he was going to dine with Diogenes in his tub, or to become a partaker of a skeleton-feast in Surgeons'-hall. The last time we ever saw Jack out of company, he was in such a mood as we have hinted at. It was a November afternoon between five and six—there was no light in the room—but by the melancholy gleam of a low fire, he was to be seen seated on a music-stool with his feet on the fender, his elbows on his knees, his head resting upon his hands, and his eyes listlessly wandering over the dull coals in search of the picturesque.
"Come in!" growled the voice of the Charmer. "Can you grope your way? Dreary rooms these—and lights make 'em worse."
Then without moving his seat to give us a share of the fire, he applied the poker to the cinders, not to kindle a blaze and throw a light upon the gloom, but evidently to put out any little stray flame that might happen to be lingering there. There was just light enough to show that his face wore an air of profound sadness and despondency. To a serious inquiry as to the cause—if any thing had happened.
"Yes," murmured the Fascinator, with an amiable scowl, "the weather has happened, November has happened, and dinner will happen in another hour. Here's a night to go three miles for a slice of saddle o' mutton! My luck! Cold and wet, isn't it?" continued the Irresistible, knocking cinder after cinder into the ashes; "I'm miserable enough at home, and so forsooth, I must dress and go out. Ugh! This is what they call having a pleasant life of it. I don't know what you may think, but I look upon an invitation to dinner as nothing less than an insult. Why should I be dragged out of my wretched nook here, without an appetite, and against my will? We call this a free country, where nobody's allowed to be miserable in his own way—where every man's a slave to ceremony—a victim to his own politeness, a martyr to civil notes. Here's my saddleo' mutton acquaintance, for example; I never hurt or offended the man in all my days, and yet I must go and dine with him. I'd rather go to a funeral.—Well if you've anything to say, out with it—for my hour's come. Now mind, before I ring this bell, I predict that there's no hot water, and that my boots are damp."
The difference between Jack at six, and Jack at seven, was the difference between a clock down and a clock wound up—between a bird in the shell, and a bird on the wing—between a bowl of punch before, and after, the spirit is poured in,—it was the difference between Philip drunk and Philip sober (or the reverse if you will)—between a lord mayor in his plain blue-coat and kerseys, and a lord mayor in his state robes;—between Grimaldi at the side-scene waiting to go on, with that most melancholy shadow on his face which tradition has so touchingly painted, and Grimaldi on the stage, in view of the convulsed spectators, the illuminator of congregated dulness, the instantaneous disperser of the blues, the explorer of every crevice of the heart wherein care can lurk—an embodied grin. It was the difference, to speak more exactly still, between Sappho at her toilet, and Sappho at an evening mask.
To see Jack when just beginning to prepare for a drop-in somewhere, late at night—between ten and twelve—was almost as good as seeing him when arrived there. The rash promise made, he always contrived to fulfil it—though it was often ten chances to one that he did not, and he appeared to keep his engagements by miracle. As the hour drew nigh, you would imagine that he had just received tidings of the dreadful loss of several relatives per railroad, or that half his income had been swallowed up in a mine, or forged exchequer-bills. It would be impossible to conjecture that his shrugs and sighs, peevish gestures and muttered execrations, were but the dark shadows of a brilliant "coming event"—that discontent and mortification were the forerunners of the gay Hours, and that bitter moroseness, limping and growling, announced the approach of the dancing Pleasures!
So it was; for Jack at that moment, instead of hailing these dancing Pleasures by anticipation, and meeting them at least half-way, would gladly have ridden ten miles in any other direction. He could make himself tolerably comfortable anywhere, save at the place to which he was ruthlessly, imperiously bound—with anybody, save with the people who were anxiously waiting for a glimpse of his good-humoured visage. He was fully bent on going, in fact he felt that he must; yet he raised every obstacle that ill-temper could invent, knowing all the while that he should be obliged to surmount them.
He would even allow his reluctance to stir, to prevail so far over the gentlemanly principle of his nature, as to question secretly within himself whether heoughtto go, while he entertained a suspicion that the people who had again invited him were notquiteprudent in giving so many expensive parties!
He would catch hold of any rag of an acquaintance just then, to cover his loneliness, and to save him from utter solitude; to give him an excuse for procrastinating, and an opportunity of grumbling out his regrets at stripping from head to foot, not to go to bed, but to goout; at beingdoomed to shake off his quiet moping mood, and plunge head-foremost into festivity. And then, when the effort had been made, when the last obstacle had been overcome, when he was arrayed from top to toe, and could no longer complain of this thing not in readiness, and that thing mislaid, or the glove that split in drawing it on, or the cab that was not (and never was) on the stand when he wanted one, he would ask himself with a deep-drawn sigh the melancholy question: "Isn't it hard that a manmustgo out, with a broken heart, to take an hour or two's jollification at this time of night!"
Off went Jack Gay; and until four in the morning the merry Hours lagged far behind his joyous spirits. Hospitality put on his magic boots to run a race with him, and the bewitching eyes of Pleasure herself looked grave and sleepy compared with the glistening orbs of her votary!
BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.
The noble King of BrentfordWas old and very sick;He summoned his physiciansTo wait upon him quick;They stepped into their coaches,And brought their best physick.They crammed their gracious masterWith potion and with pill;They drenched him and they bled him:They could not cure his ill."Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,I'd better make my will."The monarch's royal mandateThe lawyer did obey;The thought of six-and-eightpenceDid make his heart full gay."What is't," says he, "your majestyWould wish of me to-day?""The doctors have belaboured meWith potion and with pill;My hours of life are counted,O man of tape and quill!Sit down and mend a pen or two,I want to make my will."O'er all the land of BrentfordI'm lord, and eke of Kew;I've three per cents., and five per cents.;My debts are but a few;And to inherit after meI have but children two."Prince Thomas is my eldest son,A sober prince is he,And from the day we breeched himTill now he's twenty-three,He never caused disquietTo his poor mama or me."At school they never flogged him,At college, though not fast,Yet his little go and great goHe creditably passed,And made his year's allowanceFor eighteen months to last."He never owed a shilling,Went never drunk to bed;He has not two ideasWithin his honest head;—In all respects he differsFrom my second son, Prince Ned."When Tom has half his incomeLaid by at the year's end,Poor Ned has ne'er a stiverThat rightly he may spend;But spunges on a tradesman,Or borrows from a friend."While Tom his legal studiesMost soberly pursues,Poor Ned must pass his morningsA-dawdling with the muse;While Tom frequents his banker,Young Ned frequents the Jews."Ned drives about in buggies,Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;Ah! cruel Fate, why made youMy children differ thus?Why make of Tom adullard,And Ned agenius?""You'll cut him with a shilling,"Exclaimed the man of writs;—"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,"Sir Lawyer, as befits;And portion both their fortunesUnto their several wits.""Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said,"On your commands I wait.""Be silent, sir," says Brentford,"A plague upon your prate!Come, take your pens and paper,And write as I dictate."The will as Brentford spoke itWas writ, and signed, and closed;He bade the lawyer leave him,And turned him round and dozed;And next week in the churchyardThe good old king reposed.Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band,Of mourners was the chief;In bitter self-upbraidingsPoor Edward showed his grief;Tom hid his fat white countenanceIn his pocket-handkerchief.Ned's eyes were full of weeping,He faltered in his walk;Tom never shed a tear,But onwards he did stalk,As pompous, black, and solemn,As any catafalque.And when the bones of Brentford,That gentle king and just,With bell, and book, and candle,Were duly laid in dust,"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,"Let business be discussed."When late our sire belovedWas taken deadly ill,Sir Lawyer, you attended him(I mean to tax your bill);And as you signed and wrote it,I pr'ythee read the will."The lawyer wiped his spectacles,And drew the parchment out;And all the Brentford familySate eager round about.Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,But Tom had ne'er a doubt."My son, as I make readyTo seek my last long home,Some cares I feel for Neddy,But none for thee, my Tom;Sobriety and orderYou ne'er departed from."Ned hath a brilliant genius,And thou a plodding brain;On thee I think with pleasure,On him with doubt and pain.""You see, good Ned," says Thomas,"What he thought about us twain.""Tho' small was your allowance,You saved a little store,And those who save a littleShall get a plenty more;"As the lawyer read this compliment,Tom's eyes were running o'er."The tortoise and the hare, Tom,Set out at each his pace;The hare it was the fleeter,The tortoise won the race;And since the world's beginningThis ever was the case."Ned's genius, blithe and singing,Steps gaily o'er the ground;As steadily you trudge it,He clears it with a bound;But dulness has stout legs, Tom,And wind that's wondrous sound."O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,You pass with plodding feet;You heed not one nor t'other,But onwards go your beat:While Genius stops to loiterWith all that he may meet;"And ever as he wandersWill have a pretext fineFor sleeping in the morning,Or loitering to dine,Or dozing in the shade,Or basking in the shine."Your little steady eyes, Tom,Though not so bright as thoseThat restless round about himYour flashing genius throws,Are excellently suitedTo look before your nose."Thank heaven then for the blinkersIt placed before your eyes;The stupidest are steadiest,The witty are not wise;O bless your good stupidity,It is your dearest prize!"And though my lands are wide,And plenty is my gold,Still better gifts from nature,My Thomas, do you hold—A brain that's thick and heavy,A heart that's dull and cold—"Too dull to feel depression,Too hard to heed distress,Too cold to yield to passion,Or silly tenderness.March on; your road is openTo wealth, Tom, and success."Ned sinneth in extravagance,And you in greedy lust."("I'faith," says Ned, "our fatherIs less polite than just.")"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,But Ned I cannot trust."Wherefore my lease and copyholds,My lands and tenements,My parks, my farms, and orchards,My houses and my rents;My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,My five and three per cents.;"I leave to you, my Thomas."("What, all?" poor Edward said;"Well, well, I should have spent them,And Tom's a prudent head.")"I leave to you, my Thomas—To you,IN TRUSTfor Ned."The wrath and consternationWhat poet e'er could trace,That at this fatal passageCame o'er Prince Tom his face;The wonder of the company,And honest Ned's amaze!"'Tis surely some mistake,"Good-naturedly cries Ned;The lawyer answered gravely,"'Tis even as I said;'Twas thus his gracious majestyOrdained on his death-bed."See here, the will is witnessed,here's his autograph.""In truth our father's writing,"Says Edward with a laugh;"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,We'll share it half-and-half.""Alas! my kind young gentleman,This sharing may not be;'Tis written in the testamentThat Brentford spoke to me:'I do forbid Prince Ned to givePrince Tom a halfpenny."'He hath a store of money,But ne'er was known to lend it;He never helped his brother,The poor he ne'er befriended;He hath no need of propertyWho knows not how to spend it."'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,And thrifty Tom to hoard;Let Thomas be the steward then,And Edward be the lord;And as the honest labourerIs worthy his reward,"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,And my successor dear,To pay to his intendantFive hundred pounds a-year;And to think of his old father,And live and make good cheer."Such was old Brentford's honest testament.He did devise his moneys for the best,And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.He did; young Thomas lent at interest,And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.Long time the famous reign of Ned enduredO'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.And when both died, as mortal men will do,'Twas commonly reported that the stewardWas a deuced deal the richer of the two.
The noble King of BrentfordWas old and very sick;He summoned his physiciansTo wait upon him quick;They stepped into their coaches,And brought their best physick.They crammed their gracious masterWith potion and with pill;They drenched him and they bled him:They could not cure his ill."Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,I'd better make my will."The monarch's royal mandateThe lawyer did obey;The thought of six-and-eightpenceDid make his heart full gay."What is't," says he, "your majestyWould wish of me to-day?""The doctors have belaboured meWith potion and with pill;My hours of life are counted,O man of tape and quill!Sit down and mend a pen or two,I want to make my will."O'er all the land of BrentfordI'm lord, and eke of Kew;I've three per cents., and five per cents.;My debts are but a few;And to inherit after meI have but children two."Prince Thomas is my eldest son,A sober prince is he,And from the day we breeched himTill now he's twenty-three,He never caused disquietTo his poor mama or me."At school they never flogged him,At college, though not fast,Yet his little go and great goHe creditably passed,And made his year's allowanceFor eighteen months to last."He never owed a shilling,Went never drunk to bed;He has not two ideasWithin his honest head;—In all respects he differsFrom my second son, Prince Ned."When Tom has half his incomeLaid by at the year's end,Poor Ned has ne'er a stiverThat rightly he may spend;But spunges on a tradesman,Or borrows from a friend."While Tom his legal studiesMost soberly pursues,Poor Ned must pass his morningsA-dawdling with the muse;While Tom frequents his banker,Young Ned frequents the Jews."Ned drives about in buggies,Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;Ah! cruel Fate, why made youMy children differ thus?Why make of Tom adullard,And Ned agenius?""You'll cut him with a shilling,"Exclaimed the man of writs;—"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,"Sir Lawyer, as befits;And portion both their fortunesUnto their several wits.""Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said,"On your commands I wait.""Be silent, sir," says Brentford,"A plague upon your prate!Come, take your pens and paper,And write as I dictate."The will as Brentford spoke itWas writ, and signed, and closed;He bade the lawyer leave him,And turned him round and dozed;And next week in the churchyardThe good old king reposed.Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band,Of mourners was the chief;In bitter self-upbraidingsPoor Edward showed his grief;Tom hid his fat white countenanceIn his pocket-handkerchief.Ned's eyes were full of weeping,He faltered in his walk;Tom never shed a tear,But onwards he did stalk,As pompous, black, and solemn,As any catafalque.And when the bones of Brentford,That gentle king and just,With bell, and book, and candle,Were duly laid in dust,"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,"Let business be discussed."When late our sire belovedWas taken deadly ill,Sir Lawyer, you attended him(I mean to tax your bill);And as you signed and wrote it,I pr'ythee read the will."The lawyer wiped his spectacles,And drew the parchment out;And all the Brentford familySate eager round about.Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,But Tom had ne'er a doubt."My son, as I make readyTo seek my last long home,Some cares I feel for Neddy,But none for thee, my Tom;Sobriety and orderYou ne'er departed from."Ned hath a brilliant genius,And thou a plodding brain;On thee I think with pleasure,On him with doubt and pain.""You see, good Ned," says Thomas,"What he thought about us twain.""Tho' small was your allowance,You saved a little store,And those who save a littleShall get a plenty more;"As the lawyer read this compliment,Tom's eyes were running o'er."The tortoise and the hare, Tom,Set out at each his pace;The hare it was the fleeter,The tortoise won the race;And since the world's beginningThis ever was the case."Ned's genius, blithe and singing,Steps gaily o'er the ground;As steadily you trudge it,He clears it with a bound;But dulness has stout legs, Tom,And wind that's wondrous sound."O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,You pass with plodding feet;You heed not one nor t'other,But onwards go your beat:While Genius stops to loiterWith all that he may meet;"And ever as he wandersWill have a pretext fineFor sleeping in the morning,Or loitering to dine,Or dozing in the shade,Or basking in the shine."Your little steady eyes, Tom,Though not so bright as thoseThat restless round about himYour flashing genius throws,Are excellently suitedTo look before your nose."Thank heaven then for the blinkersIt placed before your eyes;The stupidest are steadiest,The witty are not wise;O bless your good stupidity,It is your dearest prize!"And though my lands are wide,And plenty is my gold,Still better gifts from nature,My Thomas, do you hold—A brain that's thick and heavy,A heart that's dull and cold—"Too dull to feel depression,Too hard to heed distress,Too cold to yield to passion,Or silly tenderness.March on; your road is openTo wealth, Tom, and success."Ned sinneth in extravagance,And you in greedy lust."("I'faith," says Ned, "our fatherIs less polite than just.")"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,But Ned I cannot trust."Wherefore my lease and copyholds,My lands and tenements,My parks, my farms, and orchards,My houses and my rents;My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,My five and three per cents.;"I leave to you, my Thomas."("What, all?" poor Edward said;"Well, well, I should have spent them,And Tom's a prudent head.")"I leave to you, my Thomas—To you,IN TRUSTfor Ned."The wrath and consternationWhat poet e'er could trace,That at this fatal passageCame o'er Prince Tom his face;The wonder of the company,And honest Ned's amaze!"'Tis surely some mistake,"Good-naturedly cries Ned;The lawyer answered gravely,"'Tis even as I said;'Twas thus his gracious majestyOrdained on his death-bed."See here, the will is witnessed,here's his autograph.""In truth our father's writing,"Says Edward with a laugh;"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,We'll share it half-and-half.""Alas! my kind young gentleman,This sharing may not be;'Tis written in the testamentThat Brentford spoke to me:'I do forbid Prince Ned to givePrince Tom a halfpenny."'He hath a store of money,But ne'er was known to lend it;He never helped his brother,The poor he ne'er befriended;He hath no need of propertyWho knows not how to spend it."'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,And thrifty Tom to hoard;Let Thomas be the steward then,And Edward be the lord;And as the honest labourerIs worthy his reward,"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,And my successor dear,To pay to his intendantFive hundred pounds a-year;And to think of his old father,And live and make good cheer."Such was old Brentford's honest testament.He did devise his moneys for the best,And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.He did; young Thomas lent at interest,And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.Long time the famous reign of Ned enduredO'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.And when both died, as mortal men will do,'Twas commonly reported that the stewardWas a deuced deal the richer of the two.
The noble King of BrentfordWas old and very sick;He summoned his physiciansTo wait upon him quick;They stepped into their coaches,And brought their best physick.
The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick;
He summoned his physicians
To wait upon him quick;
They stepped into their coaches,
And brought their best physick.
They crammed their gracious masterWith potion and with pill;They drenched him and they bled him:They could not cure his ill."Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,I'd better make my will."
They crammed their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drenched him and they bled him:
They could not cure his ill.
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,
I'd better make my will."
The monarch's royal mandateThe lawyer did obey;The thought of six-and-eightpenceDid make his heart full gay."What is't," says he, "your majestyWould wish of me to-day?"
The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, "your majesty
Would wish of me to-day?"
"The doctors have belaboured meWith potion and with pill;My hours of life are counted,O man of tape and quill!Sit down and mend a pen or two,I want to make my will.
"The doctors have belaboured me
With potion and with pill;
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.
"O'er all the land of BrentfordI'm lord, and eke of Kew;I've three per cents., and five per cents.;My debts are but a few;And to inherit after meI have but children two.
"O'er all the land of Brentford
I'm lord, and eke of Kew;
I've three per cents., and five per cents.;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.
"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,A sober prince is he,And from the day we breeched himTill now he's twenty-three,He never caused disquietTo his poor mama or me.
"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober prince is he,
And from the day we breeched him
Till now he's twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor mama or me.
"At school they never flogged him,At college, though not fast,Yet his little go and great goHe creditably passed,And made his year's allowanceFor eighteen months to last.
"At school they never flogged him,
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little go and great go
He creditably passed,
And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.
"He never owed a shilling,Went never drunk to bed;He has not two ideasWithin his honest head;—In all respects he differsFrom my second son, Prince Ned.
"He never owed a shilling,
Went never drunk to bed;
He has not two ideas
Within his honest head;—
In all respects he differs
From my second son, Prince Ned.
"When Tom has half his incomeLaid by at the year's end,Poor Ned has ne'er a stiverThat rightly he may spend;But spunges on a tradesman,Or borrows from a friend.
"When Tom has half his income
Laid by at the year's end,
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver
That rightly he may spend;
But spunges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.
"While Tom his legal studiesMost soberly pursues,Poor Ned must pass his morningsA-dawdling with the muse;While Tom frequents his banker,Young Ned frequents the Jews.
"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the muse;
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.
"Ned drives about in buggies,Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;Ah! cruel Fate, why made youMy children differ thus?Why make of Tom adullard,And Ned agenius?"
"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah! cruel Fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom adullard,
And Ned agenius?"
"You'll cut him with a shilling,"Exclaimed the man of writs;—"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,"Sir Lawyer, as befits;And portion both their fortunesUnto their several wits."
"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
Exclaimed the man of writs;—
"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
"Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several wits."
"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said,"On your commands I wait.""Be silent, sir," says Brentford,"A plague upon your prate!Come, take your pens and paper,And write as I dictate."
"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said,
"On your commands I wait."
"Be silent, sir," says Brentford,
"A plague upon your prate!
Come, take your pens and paper,
And write as I dictate."
The will as Brentford spoke itWas writ, and signed, and closed;He bade the lawyer leave him,And turned him round and dozed;And next week in the churchyardThe good old king reposed.
The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ, and signed, and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turned him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old king reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band,Of mourners was the chief;In bitter self-upbraidingsPoor Edward showed his grief;Tom hid his fat white countenanceIn his pocket-handkerchief.
Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed his grief;
Tom hid his fat white countenance
In his pocket-handkerchief.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,He faltered in his walk;Tom never shed a tear,But onwards he did stalk,As pompous, black, and solemn,As any catafalque.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
He faltered in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onwards he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.
And when the bones of Brentford,That gentle king and just,With bell, and book, and candle,Were duly laid in dust,"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,"Let business be discussed.
And when the bones of Brentford,
That gentle king and just,
With bell, and book, and candle,
Were duly laid in dust,
"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,
"Let business be discussed.
"When late our sire belovedWas taken deadly ill,Sir Lawyer, you attended him(I mean to tax your bill);And as you signed and wrote it,I pr'ythee read the will."
"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill);
And as you signed and wrote it,
I pr'ythee read the will."
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,And drew the parchment out;And all the Brentford familySate eager round about.Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,But Tom had ne'er a doubt.
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sate eager round about.
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.
"My son, as I make readyTo seek my last long home,Some cares I feel for Neddy,But none for thee, my Tom;Sobriety and orderYou ne'er departed from.
"My son, as I make ready
To seek my last long home,
Some cares I feel for Neddy,
But none for thee, my Tom;
Sobriety and order
You ne'er departed from.
"Ned hath a brilliant genius,And thou a plodding brain;On thee I think with pleasure,On him with doubt and pain.""You see, good Ned," says Thomas,"What he thought about us twain."
"Ned hath a brilliant genius,
And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
On him with doubt and pain."
"You see, good Ned," says Thomas,
"What he thought about us twain."
"Tho' small was your allowance,You saved a little store,And those who save a littleShall get a plenty more;"As the lawyer read this compliment,Tom's eyes were running o'er.
"Tho' small was your allowance,
You saved a little store,
And those who save a little
Shall get a plenty more;"
As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom's eyes were running o'er.
"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,Set out at each his pace;The hare it was the fleeter,The tortoise won the race;And since the world's beginningThis ever was the case.
"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
Set out at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning
This ever was the case.
"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,Steps gaily o'er the ground;As steadily you trudge it,He clears it with a bound;But dulness has stout legs, Tom,And wind that's wondrous sound.
"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gaily o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,
He clears it with a bound;
But dulness has stout legs, Tom,
And wind that's wondrous sound.
"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,You pass with plodding feet;You heed not one nor t'other,But onwards go your beat:While Genius stops to loiterWith all that he may meet;
"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other,
But onwards go your beat:
While Genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;
"And ever as he wandersWill have a pretext fineFor sleeping in the morning,Or loitering to dine,Or dozing in the shade,Or basking in the shine.
"And ever as he wanders
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.
"Your little steady eyes, Tom,Though not so bright as thoseThat restless round about himYour flashing genius throws,Are excellently suitedTo look before your nose.
"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
Your flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited
To look before your nose.
"Thank heaven then for the blinkersIt placed before your eyes;The stupidest are steadiest,The witty are not wise;O bless your good stupidity,It is your dearest prize!
"Thank heaven then for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are steadiest,
The witty are not wise;
O bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!
"And though my lands are wide,And plenty is my gold,Still better gifts from nature,My Thomas, do you hold—A brain that's thick and heavy,A heart that's dull and cold—
"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from nature,
My Thomas, do you hold—
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold—
"Too dull to feel depression,Too hard to heed distress,Too cold to yield to passion,Or silly tenderness.March on; your road is openTo wealth, Tom, and success.
"Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cold to yield to passion,
Or silly tenderness.
March on; your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.
"Ned sinneth in extravagance,And you in greedy lust."("I'faith," says Ned, "our fatherIs less polite than just.")"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,But Ned I cannot trust.
"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust."
("I'faith," says Ned, "our father
Is less polite than just.")
"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.
"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,My lands and tenements,My parks, my farms, and orchards,My houses and my rents;My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,My five and three per cents.;
"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents;
My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents.;
"I leave to you, my Thomas."("What, all?" poor Edward said;"Well, well, I should have spent them,And Tom's a prudent head.")"I leave to you, my Thomas—To you,IN TRUSTfor Ned."
"I leave to you, my Thomas."
("What, all?" poor Edward said;
"Well, well, I should have spent them,
And Tom's a prudent head.")
"I leave to you, my Thomas—
To you,IN TRUSTfor Ned."
The wrath and consternationWhat poet e'er could trace,That at this fatal passageCame o'er Prince Tom his face;The wonder of the company,And honest Ned's amaze!
The wrath and consternation
What poet e'er could trace,
That at this fatal passage
Came o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
And honest Ned's amaze!
"'Tis surely some mistake,"Good-naturedly cries Ned;The lawyer answered gravely,"'Tis even as I said;'Twas thus his gracious majestyOrdained on his death-bed.
"'Tis surely some mistake,"
Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
"'Tis even as I said;
'Twas thus his gracious majesty
Ordained on his death-bed.
"See here, the will is witnessed,here's his autograph.""In truth our father's writing,"Says Edward with a laugh;"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,We'll share it half-and-half."
"See here, the will is witnessed,
here's his autograph."
"In truth our father's writing,"
Says Edward with a laugh;
"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,
We'll share it half-and-half."
"Alas! my kind young gentleman,This sharing may not be;'Tis written in the testamentThat Brentford spoke to me:'I do forbid Prince Ned to givePrince Tom a halfpenny.
"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing may not be;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me:
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.
"'He hath a store of money,But ne'er was known to lend it;He never helped his brother,The poor he ne'er befriended;He hath no need of propertyWho knows not how to spend it.
"'He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother,
The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it.
"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,And thrifty Tom to hoard;Let Thomas be the steward then,And Edward be the lord;And as the honest labourerIs worthy his reward,
"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest labourer
Is worthy his reward,
"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,And my successor dear,To pay to his intendantFive hundred pounds a-year;And to think of his old father,And live and make good cheer."
"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds a-year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer."
Such was old Brentford's honest testament.He did devise his moneys for the best,And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.He did; young Thomas lent at interest,And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.
Such was old Brentford's honest testament.
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did; young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.
Long time the famous reign of Ned enduredO'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.And when both died, as mortal men will do,'Twas commonly reported that the stewardWas a deuced deal the richer of the two.
Long time the famous reign of Ned endured
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do,
'Twas commonly reported that the steward
Was a deuced deal the richer of the two.
BY BOWMAN TILLER.
CHAPTER IX.
When lawyer Brady was first taken into custody he seemed to treat the matter very lightly, for he relied greatly on his own sagacity in keeping his schemes from the knowledge of all except immediate confidants, who would, he trusted, render him every assistance for the purpose of dragging him through the difficulties in which he found himself involved. Amongst the most prominent of these was Mr. Acteon Shaft, to whom he promptly communicated his situation; but as no one was allowed to have a private interview with the prisoner, previously to his examination, Mr. Shaft forbore visiting him till after his committal for trial to Cold Bath Fields prison—at that time called the Bastille by the disaffected. He found Brady utterly subdued by the weight of evidence which hadbeen brought against him, and wholly at a loss to account for the accuracy by which it had been got up. The cunning of the lawyer had been completely foiled, and Frank's inauspicious appearance and testimony had almost overwhelmed him, whilst the dependence he had placed on old associates met with the disappointment which generally follows the unseemly combinations of disreputable characters,—he found himself abandoned by nearly all his former parasites and admirers, with the additional mortification of suspecting that some amongst them had been the medium through which his proceedings had been betrayed. In this frame of mind it cannot be expected that he was very communicative—in fact, he knew not on whom to fix; Shaft himself might be the individual who had given the information, and therefore he felt that it behoved him to exercise caution: their interview, consequently, was of short duration, and terminated abruptly, both apparently weary of the other.
To the clear view of the lawyer there seemed to be but one chance for his life, and that was escape from prison. Shipkins still adhered to his master, and was the supposed channel of correspondence between the latter and an eminent barrister, who, it was alleged, had undertaken Brady's cause, but for the present remained in the background. It is true that the clerk was suspected, and a watch was set upon them when together; but their conversation was generally carried on in too low a tone to be distinctly overheard or understood, though not unfrequently their gestures manifested warm disputes, if not downright quarrels, and muttered threats and menaces were exchanged, which usually terminated in earnest appeals from the master, and the seeming acquiescence of the clerk.
The apartment[17]occupied by Brady was one of those appropriated to state prisoners—and the lawyer was well acquainted with its locality, having frequently visited this particular part, to hold consultations with his clients, who were confined for political offences. Its dimensions were about twelve feet by eight; but one corner was occupied by the fire-place so as to face the opposite angle of the room, and as many indulgences were allowed by the authorities, and others were procured by the aid and connivance of turnkeys, there was an air of comfort about it which was rendered more striking by comparison with other parts of the building. There were two strongly-grated windows facing the north, and as the room was thirty feet from the ground it commanded a distant view of Highgate and the neighbouring upland, whilst the adjacent grounds—now nearly covered with houses—were at that time open fields.
In his visits Shipkins had contrived to furnish Brady with extremely sharp files, and the latter occupied himself, during several nights, in cutting through the bars of one of the windows, which after nearly a fortnight's labour he successfully effected, and from his general demeanour during the day no suspicion was excited. On the night which he had fixed for his escape, he was locked up at the usual hour, and anxiously did he await the time he had appointed with Shipkins to make the trial. Brady was not deficient in courage; but when he heard the deep sonorousand lengthened tones of St. Paul's clock, as they came swelling on the breeze, a sickening sensation crept over him. Watt had recently been executed at Edinburgh for treason, under somewhat similar charges as those brought against Brady, but not of so aggravated a nature. The lawyer was aware of this, and being a clever man in his profession, he knew his case to be so glaring, that he could expect nothing but conviction, without a shadow of mercy. His present attempt, therefore, was for the preservation of his existence, and every stroke of the cathedral clock was to him as a death-knell, to warn him of his future fate, should his endeavours fail.
The sounds proclaiming the midnight hour had ceased—the wind from the south came in fitful gusts through the long passages and up the winding staircase, and its moaning noise resembled the wail of lamentation from those who were suffering the punishment for crime. Brady listened for a moment, and then his energies reviving, he wrenched away the bars from their slight hold, and cautiously placed them in the room. A coil of sash-line doubled and knotted was drawn forth from beneath his bed—one end was thrown over the projecting frieze of the side wall, which flanked his window, the other he held in his hand; but hardened as the man was, and thus peculiarly situated, he breathed forth a prayer to Heaven for deliverance. His descent was easy, but just as he had gained the ground, a lurid light was suddenly spread around him—and in the impulse of the moment, the villain, who but a minute or two before had been petitioning the Omnipotent to save him, now drew forth a sharp-pointed stiletto, determined to perpetrate murder should there be only one to oppose him. The light, however, disappeared, and he felt disposed to ridicule his own alarm, as he called to recollection that it emanated from a rocket which had been sent up from that noted and much-frequented place of amusement, Bagnigge Wells. Without further delay, he proceeded to the outer wall, about fifty yards distant, and here, at a particular spot, he found that a rope-ladder, with a stone attached to the end, had been thrown over, which satisfied him that his confederate Shipkins had not deserted him. In a few minutes he was on the summit of the wall, and could perceive a dark moving mass below; he looked over the dim expanse, and gloomy as it was in the dreariness of night, it reminded him of freedom. In a short time the rope was secured, by working it in between the coping stones, so that a knot could not be drawn through, and after trying his weight he descended totally unobserved, and found his ally awaiting him. The Fleet river, which flowed by the western wall, was passed, a hackney-coach was at hand in the road, and they drove off in the direction of Islington.
A few days subsequently Brady got down upon the coast, and obtained a passage across to France, where he remained a spectator of, and often an actor in, the revolutionary atrocities that marked this eventful era. Reports, however, were prevalent that he had returned to England—the police were directed to be on the alert; but though it was repeatedly averred that he had been seen in London and its precincts, he contrived to escape the vigilance of all.
CHAPTER X.
When Frank Heartwell visited the estate of Mr. Wendover, near Fowey, and had an interview with Helen, the merchant had journeyed to the metropolis to examine the property that had been so strangely discovered in the cottage at Finchley, and which had been deposited for security in his mansion; for his steward had discovered amongst the papers, deeds involving a vast amount, together with several thousand pounds in bank-notes, the whole belonging, he had every reason to believe, to a person then in existence. Mr. Wendover went down to Finchley, and ascertained by a registry of names and documentary evidence, that an extensive conspiracy, connected with the revolutionary societies of the day, had been in fearful progress, and that one of the principal leaders and agents had formerly been in possession of the cottage, where arms and ammunition had been collected to carry out their traitorous designs; but the promptitude of the government had arrested some of the chiefs in the intended insurrection, and the voice of the nation had so unequivocally declared against revolution, that the plan had been abandoned, and the arms remained in concealment. On examining the deeds, he was much struck by reading in numerous places the name of Heartwell; and even the parcels of bank-notes which were found in a tin-box had similar superscriptions on the envelopes which inclosed them; with only this difference, that the christened name in the former was Thomas, and on the latter Frank.
Mr. Wendover was well acquainted with Mrs. Heartwell's affecting history, and he could not help connecting the discovery of the wealth with the great loss she had sustained, especially as frequent mention was made of Calcutta, where a valuable property was situated; still there was nothing of a definite nature to prove the fact. The merchant, though fond of money, was also an honourable man: he might have appropriated the treasure to his own use, but he determined to institute a rigid investigation, and then act with integrity. He accordingly waited on Mrs. Heartwell, and minutely inquired into every circumstance of her melancholy story; from thence he repaired to the agent and banker, through whose hands the documents had passed; and here at once his doubts were set at rest, for most of the papers were identified by the clerk (now a partner in the firm), who had delivered them up in Brady's office, and produced the acknowledgment of their being received, in which the whole were distinctly noted and set forth, so as accurately to correspond with those which were found; and on referring to the books, the very numbers of the bank-notes were ascertained.
All was thus far perfectly satisfactory, and Mr. Wendover lost no time in communicating the intelligence to Mrs. Heartwell, to whom the acquisition of riches was only acceptable, as tending to promote the welfare of her son. Everything was put in proper train to secure her right, and she now experienced a melancholy satisfaction in returning to the cottage, as she cherished a fervent hope that there the mystery which hung over the fate of her husband would be solved. At no time had she yielded to utter despondency; but the merchant strongly suspected thatthe lieutenant had been decoyed or forced to the cottage, murdered, and his remains deposited in some of the vaults underground, which (under pretence of requiring repairs, so as not to wound Mrs. Heartwell's feelings) were immediately ordered to be cleared, and every part strictly examined. This was faithfully executed, but nothing whatever was discovered to elucidate the affair, beyond the fact, that the former occupants were men of daring and desperate character, whose names were unknown in the neighbourhood.
Mr. Wendover returned to Cornwall for the purpose of removing his family to the metropolis; he promised Mrs. Heartwell to inform her son of the events which had transpired, and if possible to put into Plymouth and perform it personally. After some delay the anxious mother wrote all the particulars to the young officer, and the letter reached Plymouth on the very day that Frank sailed for the Mediterranean, so that he departed wholly ignorant of his good fortune.
Young Heartwell's breast glowed with warm and joyous feelings, when the thoughts of his having rescued Helen from death dwelt upon his mind:—and when did he forget it? He had shown her proud father that he was not undeserving of friendship and patronage, and he had again proved to Helen the devotedness of his regard. The Mediterranean offered a fair field for promotion to those who were determined to merit it; for Nelson was there, and his name carried with it a conviction that daring achievements and good conduct would not be suffered to sink into oblivion.
The frigate made a quick passage to Gibraltar, where she was suffered to remain only a few hours, and was then directed to pursue her way with despatches for Sir Horatio Nelson. It was known that the French fleet was out from Toulon, and the gallant admiral in pursuit, but his exact situation rested on conjecture. With a fine breeze the captain steered for Sicily, and found the fleet at Syracuse, preparing to get under weigh; the despatches were delivered, the supernumeraries of the frigate were transferred to the flag-ship—the Vanguard; and thus Frank and his two humble friends, Ben and Sambo, had the honour of being within the same heart-of-oak with the gallant hero whose fame has been immortalised throughout the world, and whose name is sanctified by a nation's gratitude. Nelson was ever kind and considerate to young officers,—he looked upon them as under his immediate protection and care, and Frank's appearance and manners very soon attracted his notice; he inquired relative to his future prospects—learned the story of his life—had been acquainted with his father, and he now promised to befriend the son, should the young man prove deserving of his patronage. As a pledge of his future intentions, he promoted a meritorious midshipman to the rank of lieutenant, and gave Frank the vacant rating, "in order," as the admiral said, "to give him a stronger claim upon the Admiralty when they had captured or destroyed the fleet of the enemy," for he entertained no doubt of the result could he but fall in with them.
The Battle of the Nile is a matter recorded in the pages of history, and no Englishman can be ignorant of its details—therefore description will be unnecessary here. Ben was in his glory, and though his gun was twice nearly cleared of men, and himself severely wounded, he continuednobly performing his duty, taking a steady aim in the darkness by the fire of their opponents, the Spartiate and Aquilon—exclaiming as he applied the match to the priming, "Hurrah! there it goes, my boys! What's the odds so as you're happy?"
Frank was on the quarter-deck near the undaunted chief when he fell wounded into the arms of Captain Berry, and Nelson's face was instantly covered with blood that deprived his remaining eye of sight—a piece of langridge having struck him across the forehead and cut away a portion of skin, that hung down like a flap. Frank assisted in carrying the brave admiral to the cockpit, and was witness to his magnanimity, when he refused to have his own wounds dressed until those who had precedence of him were attended to. He recognised the midshipman by his voice—pressed his hand—requested Captain Berry not to forget his interests, and bade the young man "farewell," for Nelson believed that he was dying. Happily for his country, the hero lived—the enemy was beaten, and Frank, with strong certificates and recommendation, was sent home in one of the captured ships that he might be enabled to pass his examination at Somerset House, and avail himself of Nelson's kind intentions. It would be impossible to describe the emotions that agitated the young officer when apprised on his arrival of the events that had occurred to advance his good fortune, and the prospect of a favourable consideration in the esteem of Mr. Wendover, which promised him future happiness with the dear girl he so ardently loved.
As soon as possible he obtained leave of absence, and Ben, whose wounds required attention, accompanied him to London. The meeting with his mother and Helen was joyous and delightful; but still there came painful thoughts of his father blending with those of a happier mood, and, like Mr. Wendover, he connected circumstances together till something like conviction had established itself that the cottage was the spot in which his parent had been plundered and destroyed.
Helen was no longer forbidden to hold intercourse with Frank—the merchant himself now sanctioned the intimacy, and never ceased expressing his admiration at the young man's conduct when his yacht was wrecked. Ben found an asylum at the cottage; but when commiserated on account of the injuries he had sustained, he declared that he was proud of his "honourable scars."—"They were gained," he would say, "under Nelson, fighting for my king and country—and what's the odds so as you're happy?"
Frank passed his examination very creditably—he was not forgotten by Earl Chatham—his testimonials were excellent, and three days afterwards he was presented with a lieutenant's commission, appointing him to a seventy-four, recently launched at Woolwich; he joined without delay, as the duties would not prevent his frequent visits to Finchley. It was at the close of a dull November afternoon that he sat in the parlour of the cottage alone; for on his arrival about an hour previous, he ascertained that his mother and Ben had suddenly been summoned to the City on business of importance, and the servant-man had driven them to town in her own little carriage—the gardener had been sent for to the manor-house, and no one remained but the maid-servant and a young girl.More than once the lieutenant rose from his seat, and taking his hat, prepared to set out, and pass an hour or two with Helen, but, anxious to learn the purport of his mother's embassy, and conjecturing that she would not be long before she made her appearance, he again seated himself in restless anxiety.
The early shades of evening began to fall heavily, and there was a sickly yellow mistiness in the atmosphere that gave a jaundiced complexion to the visions of the mind. Frank felt its influences, and was growing somewhat melancholy, when a stranger alighted from his horse at the gate, rung the bell, and having inquired for Mrs. Heartwell, rather intrusively walked into the house, and entered the parlour; but observing the lieutenant, he became evidently embarrassed, though, instantly recovering himself, he made a suitable apology in homely language. His dress and manners were those of a plain elderly country farmer—a drab great-coat with its cape encompassed his person, a capacious silk handkerchief was round his neck, his hair was cropped and grizzly, surmounted by a broad-brimmed hat, and he carried a hunting whip in his hand. Frank stirred the fire so as to throw a stronger light into the room, and having requested the stranger to take a chair, politely required his business. "You are, I understand, young gentleman, about to quit this cottage," replied he, "and as I am retiring from farming, and like the situation, I should be happy to take it off your hands—either as tenant, or by purchase."
"I am utterly unable, sir, to afford you any satisfactory answer on the subject," said Frank; "the cottage belongs to Mr. Wendover, the lord of the manor, and I am not yet certain that our quitting it has been decided upon, though I admit it may take place."
"In the event of your leaving, would the gentleman you have named feel disposed to part with it, think you?" inquired the stranger. "I would give him a handsome price—for in fact there are early associations connected with the place that attach me to it. You, perhaps, would exercise your influence in my favour?"
The mention of early associations aroused Frank's curiosity, he rang the bell, and ordered candles to be brought, and as soon as they were placed upon the table, he once more adverted to the pleasantness of the cottage, and then enquired, "Pray, sir, is it long ago since you resided here?"
"Yes—yes—I may say it is seventeen or eighteen years," responded the stranger. "I lived with a relation then, and admire the situation so much that I should like to pass the rest of my days upon the spot."
The lieutenant felt his blood tingle down to his fingers' ends at the mention of the period—it was one full of deep interest to him, and casting a searching look at the man, he demanded, "You must know Brady, then?"