LOVE HAS LEGS.

Mrs. Heartwell and Frank's first interview with Mr. Brady.London, Tilt & Bogue, Fleet Street

Mrs. Heartwell and Frank's first interview with Mr. Brady.

London, Tilt & Bogue, Fleet Street

"You are labouring under error, my dear lady," said the lawyer mildly; "I did not say that he was intoxicated, but merely elevated—a single glass of wine when joy is overpowering the heart will oftentimesproduce the semblance of inebriety. I know you are not aware of the whole fact, for he mentioned his intention to surprise you, and great was his gratification at the thoughts of it—the property of his uncle exceeded his expectations—the whole was converted into gold, and notes, and securities, to the amount of many thousand pounds; he received it in this office from an agent of the bank, and at nine o'clock last night, both himself and the bags were deposited in a hackney-coach—the number of which, I dare say, can be ascertained—though, probably, my clerk, who is very particular in all matters of business, may recollect it—and the coachman was ordered to drive to Ormond Street." The lawyer touched a bell, and the clerk entered. "Pray, Mr. Shipkins, do you remember the number of the coach in which Mr. Heartwell left here last night?"

"Four hundred and seventy-five," replied the clerk; "coachman, red face, carbuncle nose—small eyes—drab box-coat, with seven capes; each cape bound with scarlet,—he held the light whilst we put in the bags."

The superior nodded, and the clerk withdrew. "Thus far then, my dear lady, it will not be difficult to trace your husband's progress; but it is necessary that we should claim the assistance of a magistrate."

Whilst these explanations were going on, Mrs. Heartwell felt almost crushed beneath the weight of perplexity that appeared to accumulate at every step. The mention of many thousand pounds as being in the possession of her husband had conjured up fearful visions; but when, in addition to this, she found that he was sent away in a coach alone, and that too in at least a state of elevation, her mind was wrought up to a pitch of indescribable anguish; she sprang from her chair, and wildly exclaimed, "It is but too plain, sir—it is but too plain! You send him in a coach with large sums of money. When he left me he mentioned his intention to surprise me—he would have returned—delightedly returned; but he has never been home—Oh my God, sustain me—he is dead—he is murdered!" and sinking back into her chair, she buried her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed hysterically, whilst little Frank clung to his mother, and fixing his tearful eyes upon Mr. Brady, who he supposed had caused her distress, he observed a twitching spasm convulse the lawyer's face, and a peculiar cast in one of his eyes, which had so fierce an expression as to terrify the lad, and which from that moment was never forgotten. The whole did but occupy a passing instant—the lawyer's face resumed its usual expression as he uttered,

"No, no, no; do not think that, my dear lady—do not give way to so horrid a thought. But come, no time should be lost." He started from the table and put on his hat. "We will walk to the nearest coach-stand, and proceed to Bow Street."

In accordance with this proposition they left the office; and Ben was despatched back to Ormond Street for the purpose of ascertaining whether anything had transpired during their absence, and with instructions to join his mistress with all expedition at Bow Street. The mother and son, with Mr. Brady, hastened to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where they found the very coach 475, in which the clerk had stated that the lieutenant had quitted the office the night before. The quick eye of Frank was the first to detect this; and he directly pointed it out to his mother, who atthe first glance saw that the coachman perfectly answered the description given by Shipkins; and she would have instantly questioned him but for the request of Mr. Brady, who cautioned her to take no notice lest it might excite his suspicion. He called him off the stand to receive a fare.

"To Bow Street Police Office," said the lawyer, as the coachman stood waiting for orders; and the door was closed, the box mounted, and off he drove. But who can describe the sensations of the agitated wife as she entered and took her seat in the very vehicle in which it was alleged that her husband had been conveyed from the office of the lawyer! her whole frame trembled and her heart grew sick. Mr. Brady was not idle—he examined every nook and corner of the interior of the carriage in which the lady assisted him, and every spot on the padded cushions raised a horrible terror in her breast as she fancied that it might be blood; but they discovered nothing that could in the slightest degree elucidate the matter. On reaching their destination, the coachman was directed to wait for the purpose of conveying them back again.

The doors of the office were thronged with a miscellaneous assemblage of characters, principally of the lower classes; but there were also many well-dressed persons in the crowd, for the notorious pickpocket George Waldron, or, as he named himself, George Barrington, had that morning been brought up for examination, charged with stealing a purse of money and a gold watch from the person of a gentleman in Drury Lane Theatre, and numbers of curious individuals of all ranks were desirous of beholding a man who by education and manners was the finished gentleman, but in habit a confirmed thief.

Through this crowd the lawyer and his party pushed their way into the outer office; and what a scene was presented there!—squalid poverty in rags—maudlin sensibility awaking from intoxication, and feverish from the night's debauch—the bucks of fashion, as the dandies of that day were called, still labouring under the influence of liquor, and detained to answer for a midnight spree—the detected pickpocket glorying in the mechanism of his profession, and only ashamed that he should have practised the art so clumsily as to be caught: these and numerous others occupied distinct portions to themselves—attended by the various peace-officers and watchmen, who hoped to profit, and largely too, by their earnest zeal in protecting his Majesty's liege subjects from let, hindrance, and molestation.

The first object of Mr. Brady was to detain the coachman; and on applying to one of the superiors, an officer was promptly set to watch his movements, with orders to take him into custody should he attempt to drive away. But the jarvey did not manifest the slightest intention to depart, for he sat apparently contented on his seat eyeing the different groups, and perhaps moralising on the instability of human affairs—for men of sedentary habits are generally found to be moralists, however humble their pretensions.

The urgency of Mrs. Heartwell's case procured an immediate admission to the office where the magistrates were sitting; but as they were at that moment busily engaged, the party was requested to stand aside till the hearing was disposed of.

At the bar was a tall man of very genteel appearance, whose habit and demeanour might readily have introduced him to society as a highly respectable clergyman. He appeared to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was sedate and indicative of benevolence; but there was at the same time an arch look in his small sharp eyes that evidenced pleasantry and wit. His hair was frizzed out and powdered according to the fashion of the times, and a queue with a plentiful expenditure of black silk hung down behind. His left hand was raised to his face, and displayed amazingly long fingers ornamented with rings, and he bowed occasionally in the most graceful manner to Mr. Bond, the sitting magistrate, when he had to reply to questions that were put to him. At the entrance of Mrs. Heartwell, he had turned and cast a rapid but sharp glance at the lady; and for the moment his dark sallow complexion assumed a more sickly hue; but finding that she was a stranger, he politely inclined his head, and resumed his position.

This was Barrington, the notorious pickpocket; and near him stood, in remarkable contrast, a smart well-made dapper little man, sprucely dressed, with silver buckles in his shoes, both of which were brightly polished; his head combed smooth and straight, so that not a hair was misplaced or out of order, but with a "natty curl" on each side—much in the same way as in after years the friseur was accustomed to ornament his brown wig;—his eyes were keen and hawk-like; and diminutive as he was, there was a something in his manner which strongly marked him as a man not to be trifled with. This was the afterwards celebrated Townsend.

On the bench with the magistrates, were two or three noblemen and gentlemen in high life, who had been summoned to give evidence; and amongst them was the well-known Major Hanger and General St. John, who deposed to "the previous capture of the pickpocket at the Theatre, his being taken to the lobby and searched, and the purse and watch found upon him."

"Pardon me, General," said the prisoner, respectfully bowing; "your memory has not served you correctly—neither purse nor watch was found upon my person, for this very simple but convincing reason—they had never been there."

"I remember now," resumed the General; "they were not found upon your person, but upon the floor close to where you were taken into custody."

"And I saw you drop them," exclaimed Major Hanger, hastily interrupting the witness.

Barrington bowed his head in the most bland manner, and gracefully waving his hand, uttered with much seeming good-humour, "One at a time, gentlemen, if you please—it is neither fair nor honourable to try and crush a man whom misfortune loves to sport with."

It is not necessary to go through the whole of the examination, which proved that from the Theatre, Barrington had been conveyed to the Brown Bear in Bow Street, where he contrived to escape from the charge of the constable, and since then had been levying contributions in different parts of the country, assuming a variety of characters as best suited his purpose.

He was subsequently detected in a northern town, mingling in the first circles, and dexterously carrying on his depredations; from thence he was conveyed to the metropolis. The charge was considered sufficientlyproven to commit; and this "king of thieves" was removed from the bar without evincing outwardly the slightest want of self-command.

As soon as he was gone, and the buzz arising from the conversation of the noblemen and gentlemen had subsided by their taking their departure, the next case was about to be called, when Mr. Brady earnestly solicited the private hearing of the magistrates for a few minutes, on a charge of some magnitude, involving, as it was supposed, the life and property of an officer in his Majesty's navy.

This was not spoken aloud, but only within the hearing of a few of the officers, and the request was promptly granted; Mr. Bond passed into a private room, where Mr. Brady having stated the case, Mrs. Heartwell was called in to give her deposition, which narrated every circumstance relative to the lieutenant's quitting his home the afternoon before, and promising "to be back early, and that he would then communicate something that would delight and astonish them." The lawyer and the magistrate looked earnestly at each other, for the former had mentioned that the circumstance of the officer having to receive considerable property had been concealed from the wife.

"Were you not at all acquainted with the object to which your husband alluded?" inquired Mr. Bond.

"Not to its full extent, sir," replied the lady; "I knew that he had business to transact with Mr. Brady, but was not informed of its purport, though I supposed it was in some measure connected with the decease of an uncle in the East Indies."

"My client," remarked the lawyer, "mentioned that his wife was not cognisant of the transactions between us; and he expressed great delight at the idea of communicating to her the intelligence that he was now able to raise his family to affluence."

"I must beg of you to compose yourself as much as possible, madam," said Mr. Bond with kindness; "the affair is certainly mysterious, but my best assistance shall be given."

The magistrate then went on with the examination, and Ben having in the mean time arrived, made his statement, corroborating that of his mistress—the lawyer also gave his testimony, and ultimately, the coachman was brought forward. His deposition went in substance to state, that "his name was Gervase Simpson, and on the night before, he had been hired off the stand in the 'Fields' shortly before nine o'clock, to take up a fare in Lincoln's Inn—that he went, and a middle-aged man brought out a light, which he held, whilst four or five small, but apparently heavy bags were put into the vehicle; the light was then taken away, and a navy officer came out with another gentleman; the former getting into the coach, and the latter bidding the navy officer 'good night,' told the deponent to drive to Ormond Street, and then he believed went in again. That he accordingly drove to Ormond Street, and felt the check-string pulled; he drew up, dismounted, and opened the door—the navy officer alighted, and having removed the bags, paid him his fare, and went down the street; but deponent took no further notice of his proceedings, remounted his box, and drove to the stand in Charles Street, Covent Garden. He then got another fare to the Borough, and afterwards went home to the stables at Newington."

"All this, if true, can easily be traced," said the magistrate; "it certainly is extremely mysterious—And the lieutenant did not go to his residence, nor has he been seen since? Was he a man of sober habits and reputable character?"

"Most unexceptionable in both," replied the lawyer; "it is true that he had taken a glass or two of wine, but he was perfectly master of his actions—though I cannot altogether account for his leaving the coach where he did."

"Pray," said the magistrate, addressing the coachman, "had you sufficient light or opportunity to observe the person of the officer?"

"Vy not exactly, your vurship," answered Jehu; "it vas wery dark in Linkun's Inn, and them lamps arn't much good, only to blind people; but I saw the glittering of his buttons and his hanger, and could jist make out he vas a tall man; but he vhipped in in sich a hurry, that I hadn't much time to notice; nor did I think of anything of this here kind happening, for as long as I'm civil and gets my full fare, your vurship, I seldom troubles myself about other consarns."

"But in Ormond Street," urged the magistrate, "there you possibly had better light and more time—what took place there?"

"Vell, your vurship, I've tould you all as I knows," responded the witness. "The lamps in Ormond Street arn't never no better nor the rest in regard of lighting—they're pretty much like an ould watchman's eye. I seed as he was an officer of the navy, but arter he tipped the fare, and there was somut handsome over and above the reglar, I was too busy reckoning my money to take much notice—he went off with the bags, some on 'em he had got tied up in a handkercher; but what he had in em' I never guv a moment's thought to."

"Was the officer sober?" inquired the magistrate.

"Vell, your vurship, it arn't ezactly clear vot sobriety is," answered the coachman; "he might or he might not, for I took no perticklar notice, only he seemed to valk avay steady enough. He guv me five shillings; I said 'Thanky, yer honor,' and he says 'Good night,' and that vos all."

"Should you know the gentleman again?" asked the lawyer, bending his keen gaze upon the man.

"Vy, yes, I think I should, if I vos to see him as I did last night," responded the coachman; "but daylight alters people's looks, and I shouldn't like to svear."

After other questions of no very material consequence, the magistrate decided that "the affair should be put into the hands of an experienced officer, who should thoroughly investigate the whole, and he would be ready to attend to any information as soon as it was obtained; but if no further light was thrown upon the transaction, and the lieutenant still remained absent, then he must request Mr. Brady to be in attendance at eleven o'clock the following morning, accompanied by his clerk, the bank agent, and all the evidence he could procure." In the mean time he recommended that intelligence should be given at the other offices, and diligent inquiry made at the hospitals; though in the first instance it would be best to commence the investigation in the neighbourhood of Ormond Street. Mr. Brady promised strict attention, and the parties withdrew.

Strolling about from bower to hall,Love paid Lavinia a morning call.An hour soon went—she chatted and sang—He staid—till at last the dinner-bell rang.He staid, still charm'd; and rather alarm'd,Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay."To tell you the truth," cried the radiant youth,"I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away."Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!"More grateful grew he, more fervent she,More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;So much like light was he to her sight,She could not trust him a step beyond.Still more she cherish'd him year by year,Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;Or a reptile's sting beneath his wingShe fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep;Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—In dread of an ague, how would she weep!She chatted and sang to Love no more,Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;"But she hung on his steps wherever he went,And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.She slept not a wink, for fear he should thinkShe dream'd not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;She took no care of her beautiful hair,For she could not spare one moment from him.Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,Yet home was a desert if Love went out;In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;"O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes!And ah! should some face of a livelier graceThan mine ever meet them! Ah!shouldyou stray!"Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;—"Those wings!" said the watcher, "hemightfly away."One awful moment! Oh! could she severThose wings from Love, he is hers for ever!With trembling hand she gathers the wings—She clips—they are off! and up Love springs."Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side,"Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs;My home was here; it is now with the deer;Thank Venus, though wingless,Love has legs!" L. B.

Strolling about from bower to hall,

Love paid Lavinia a morning call.

An hour soon went—she chatted and sang—

He staid—till at last the dinner-bell rang.

He staid, still charm'd; and rather alarm'd,

Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay.

"To tell you the truth," cried the radiant youth,

"I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away."

Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!"More grateful grew he, more fervent she,More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;So much like light was he to her sight,She could not trust him a step beyond.

Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,

Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;

Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,

Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!"

More grateful grew he, more fervent she,

More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;

So much like light was he to her sight,

She could not trust him a step beyond.

Still more she cherish'd him year by year,Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;Or a reptile's sting beneath his wingShe fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep;Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—In dread of an ague, how would she weep!

Still more she cherish'd him year by year,

Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;

She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,

Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;

Or a reptile's sting beneath his wing

She fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep;

Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—

In dread of an ague, how would she weep!

She chatted and sang to Love no more,Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;"But she hung on his steps wherever he went,And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.She slept not a wink, for fear he should thinkShe dream'd not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;She took no care of her beautiful hair,For she could not spare one moment from him.

She chatted and sang to Love no more,

Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;"

But she hung on his steps wherever he went,

And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.

She slept not a wink, for fear he should think

She dream'd not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;

She took no care of her beautiful hair,

For she could not spare one moment from him.

Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,Yet home was a desert if Love went out;In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;"O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes!And ah! should some face of a livelier graceThan mine ever meet them! Ah!shouldyou stray!"Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;—"Those wings!" said the watcher, "hemightfly away."

Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,

Yet home was a desert if Love went out;

In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;

"O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes!

And ah! should some face of a livelier grace

Than mine ever meet them! Ah!shouldyou stray!"

Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;—

"Those wings!" said the watcher, "hemightfly away."

One awful moment! Oh! could she severThose wings from Love, he is hers for ever!With trembling hand she gathers the wings—She clips—they are off! and up Love springs."Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side,"Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs;My home was here; it is now with the deer;Thank Venus, though wingless,Love has legs!" L. B.

One awful moment! Oh! could she sever

Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever!

With trembling hand she gathers the wings—

She clips—they are off! and up Love springs.

"Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side,

"Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs;

My home was here; it is now with the deer;

Thank Venus, though wingless,Love has legs!" L. B.

THE IRISH CAMELEON.

Bernard Cavanagh is the name of a person who is now raising considerable sums of money in Dublin by professing to work miracles—the greatest of them all consisting in his ability to live without any food whatever—which he is now said to have done for several months. Crowds flock to him to be cured of their lameness, deafness, &c.—Irish Papers.

Marvellous Erin! when St. Patrick's featThy hills, vales, plains, and bogs from reptiles freed,He little dream'd what monsters would succeed;Sinners who drink not, saints who never eat!And is there one, in whom the piece of meatWhich Paris raves about, no care can breed!One who can never know a time of need,Though corn be trampled by the tempest's feet!Poor fellow! what enjoyment he foregoes!Nothing but air, a scrap of summer cloud,Fog with the chill off, is to him allow'd;A fine thick mist, or rainbow when it shows;But ah! for him no kitchen's steam up-flows;No knives, forks, spoons, or plates, a pilèd crowd,No dishes, glasses, salts, make music loud!Sad sinecurists all—mouth, ears, and nose!

Marvellous Erin! when St. Patrick's feat

Thy hills, vales, plains, and bogs from reptiles freed,

He little dream'd what monsters would succeed;

Sinners who drink not, saints who never eat!

And is there one, in whom the piece of meat

Which Paris raves about, no care can breed!

One who can never know a time of need,

Though corn be trampled by the tempest's feet!

Poor fellow! what enjoyment he foregoes!Nothing but air, a scrap of summer cloud,Fog with the chill off, is to him allow'd;A fine thick mist, or rainbow when it shows;But ah! for him no kitchen's steam up-flows;No knives, forks, spoons, or plates, a pilèd crowd,No dishes, glasses, salts, make music loud!Sad sinecurists all—mouth, ears, and nose!

Poor fellow! what enjoyment he foregoes!

Nothing but air, a scrap of summer cloud,

Fog with the chill off, is to him allow'd;

A fine thick mist, or rainbow when it shows;

But ah! for him no kitchen's steam up-flows;

No knives, forks, spoons, or plates, a pilèd crowd,

No dishes, glasses, salts, make music loud!

Sad sinecurists all—mouth, ears, and nose!

"For lowliness is young Ambition's ladder."—Julius Cæsar.At the end of the second volume of a Hebrew MS of the Bible, written on beautiful vellum, is the following passage, in fine large Hebrew characters:—"I, Meyer, the son of Rabbi Jacob, the scribe, have finished this book for Rabbi Abraham, the son of Rabbi Nathan, the 5052nd year (A.D.1292); and he has bequeathed it to his children and his children's children for ever. Amen. Amen. Amen. Selah. Be strong and strengthened. May this book not be damaged, neither this day nor for ever, until theASSascends theLADDER." After which the accompanying rude figure is drawn.—Pettigrew's Bibliotheca Sussexiana, part I. vol. i.

"For lowliness is young Ambition's ladder."—Julius Cæsar.

At the end of the second volume of a Hebrew MS of the Bible, written on beautiful vellum, is the following passage, in fine large Hebrew characters:—"I, Meyer, the son of Rabbi Jacob, the scribe, have finished this book for Rabbi Abraham, the son of Rabbi Nathan, the 5052nd year (A.D.1292); and he has bequeathed it to his children and his children's children for ever. Amen. Amen. Amen. Selah. Be strong and strengthened. May this book not be damaged, neither this day nor for ever, until theASSascends theLADDER." After which the accompanying rude figure is drawn.—Pettigrew's Bibliotheca Sussexiana, part I. vol. i.

It would appear from the curious sentence copied above, that no longer ago than five centuries and a half, the feat which is pictured to the spectator in a fac-simile of the original drawing was regarded as an event of extremely improbable occurrence. The inference indeed may be, that it was deemed an impossibility. The prayer of the inscription is, "May this book be undamaged for ever."— May it be preserved "until the ass ascends the ladder!"

"Till Birnam wood shall come to Dunsinane," is the unlikely occurrence which the weird sisters specify as the omen of Macbeth's fall; and "That will never be!" is the cry of the confident thane. In modern days we wish a man "good luck till he's tired of it;" or "prosperity till the sky falls." The despairing and lovelorn damsel in the ditty sings—

"When fishes fly, and swallows dive,Young men they will prove true."

"When fishes fly, and swallows dive,

Young men they will prove true."

And one of the same ballad-family sets out with the affecting declaration, that—

"When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy,"

the singer's passion will be no more. These, and a thousand examples of the "Not till then," are but versions of the Hebrew assumption of impossibility, expressed in the grotesque fancy of "the ass on the ladder." But it is clear that Meyer the son of Rabbi Jacob was not in Moorfields last year; it is certain that Abraham, the son of Rabbi Nathan, little dreamed of what would be doing at Pimlico in the nineteenth century; for whether at Mayfair or at Bethnal Green, at Wapping or at Islington, one or both must have seen the impossibility realised, in the elevation of the donkey, before the upturned wondering eyes of a crowd of lingering mortals in the public thoroughfares.

Lest there should be some who never saw the modern street-mountebank, going forth like Leporello with his ladder, and like Sancho with his donkey, we must describe his performance. His greatest feat consisted in balancing upon his chin a ladder with an ass on it. All other tricks performed, and all eyes and mouths opened, curiosity on tiptoe and incredulity on the stretch, forth came the wooden machine, and with legs twisted through the staves, up went the animal. "Who," exclaims the minstrel, "Ah who can tell how hard it is to climb!" But what poet ever found a steep so difficult as thatgradus ad Parnassumto the seemingly dislocated donkey? To the topmast round, you would see him clinging like Shakspeare's giddy sea-boy on the mast; and surveying the mountebank who had taught him to be such an astonishing ass, with a look that seemed to say, "You're another!" Then would his master send round the hat upon its last and greatest voyage of discovery; then would the halfpence therein be rattled harmlessly in the vacant faces of boys with vacant pockets, and then would the irresistible appeal be heard, "Come, good gen'lemen, be liberal, be liberal—tuppence more, and up goes the donkey." Then bending up each corporal agent for the terrible feat, up indeed would go the ladder, donkey and all; high up in air, until its lowest stave rested fairly and firmly on the protruded chin of the mountebank, where it stood poised, fixed, moveless—the astonishing type, or rather the exact model, of the balance of power in Europe.

The amazement now should be transferred from the balanced to the balancer; for what is the difficulty of such agradus ad Parnassumto the ass, compared with the sore trial of the man below, who has made the bridge of his nose apons asinorum! But in rivalship with the donkey, the human being shrinks into insignificance; the grotesque patience of the brute beats the strength and dexterity of the man hollow; the gazers are all wrapped in ecstasy to see how the ass hangs on, not how the cunning mountebank balances him. The sympathies of the crowd, men and boys, are triumphantly borne off by the four-legged performer, and every one of them goes away more convinced of the uncommon cleverness of the ass, and consequently on better terms with himself.

But the obstinacy of the long-eared animal is proverbial; and in nothing is it more strikingly exhibited than in the fact that hewilleat if he can. So was it before the days of Æsop's ass, that cropped a thistle and wastorn in pieces for confessing it; and so has it been before and since the hour when Sterne's ass consumed the macaroon which curiosity and not charity presented to him. It is possibly this expensive habit that has led the mountebank, of late, to cast off the donkey, and to substitute a boy for him, in the feat of the ladder. The performance to this hour is the same, with that exception—a two-legged juvenile for a four. Perhaps the mountebank was jealous of the ass! Can we assume that, in the nature of a mountebank balancing on his chin a ladder surmounted by a long-eared brute, there is no room for vanity? Can we imagine a donkey-balancer incapable of feeling annoyed, when he sees his subordinate—the agent through whom his own abilities are to be demonstrated—creating peals of laughter by doing nothing, trotting off with the spoils he did not win, and cropping every thistle of fame that belongs to another? There is no mind too shallow for vanity to take root in, no talent too small for it to twine itself round, no competitor too contemptible to pique and wound it. "Why, Edmund Kean couldn't get a hand of applause, with such a noisy brute as that in the piece!" said an actor in the drama of theDog of Montargis, when the quadruped was howling over the murdered body of his master, and breaking the hearts of the audience.

At all events the Boyhastaken the Ass's place on the ladder. The change may have arisen out of that tenderness for the brute creation which is too amiable a feeling—when in excess—to pass unadmired. There is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and to risk a donkey's life on a ladder, for the sport of a heedless crowd, might be dangerous to the mountebank. Inthisage, society at large knows what is due to donkeys; we can all enter into their feelings. But as there is no law, and no moral principle, against the elevation of a human urchin, even to the top stave of the ladder, there is no reason why the sport should not continue. Philosophers will explain to you, that a boy is a free agent, and has a right to be balanced on a human chin, if he likes; but a donkey has no will of his own at all—except—except when you've hired him for an hour, at Ramsgate, and are endeavouring to persuade yourself that you're trotting him out of the town.

The last boy we saw balanced was worthy of the chin that sustained him. The mountebank to be sure was a miracle, and could have balanced anything. If the books of the Bank of England were to get into disorder, every sum confused, and every figure out of its place—he could balance them. But the boy was at least two miracles rolled into one—a more than Siamese prodigy—a boy, and yet an ass too. He looked more like one than the reality, his predecessor. He evidently felt thepast importance of his elevation, high above his compeers. He seemed quite conscious that every inhabitant, not ofthatsimply, but of thenextparish, was gazing at him in profound amazement. He turned no glance, whether of contempt or benignant pity, on the open eyes and mouths around, but looked unutterable things at the knocker of a door opposite.

"So stands the statue that enchants the world!"

This, however, was only at the commencement of the performance, while the spectators were being coaxed to contribute, and while several among them, not knowing exactly what they were doing, were giving a half-penny. But when the ladder was deliberately hoisted up, and fixed on the chin, then came the utter hopelessness of presenting a true resemblance of the ass's face—the boy's we mean;—of the conscious pride in its own blankness, of its self-complacency, tinged with a slight touch of fear, amounting only to a pleasurable excitement! He was a boy picked out of the crowd around,—yet he was matchless. You saw at once that he was notemployedby the mountebank—that he was notpaidfor being balanced. There was something in his look that distinguished him at a glance from the hired professor. It might be supposed that, the boy not being hired, there would be a little difficulty in procuring a substitute for the ass: not so; only blow a trumpet or beat a drum in the street, and you are surrounded in less than no time with able and willing volunteers. This boy entered into the soul of the ass's part; he did not hug, and hang on the ladder mechanically, or like one who had done the same thing a dozen times before, that very day. There was the freshness of the young aspiration, the delicious novelty of the first grand step in life—in the attempt. It was young Ambition (as Brutus says) just mounting his ladder. He was animated by the glorious intoxication of getting up in the world. He looked direct forward; not at, but through, the brick wall opposite, into futurity. If one of his schoolfellows had called out, "Master's a coming;" or, "Here's your father with the cartwhip;" or, "Bill, I'm blessed if here arn't the woman what we stole the apples on;"—no, even these notes of alarm would have failed to disturb his equanimity—or his equilibrium. "Have a slice o' cold pudden, Bill?" might have communicated perhaps to some part of his frame a momentary touch of human weakness—we can't say positively—boys are but men;—but nothing short of such an appeal to the weak side of his nature could have disturbed his rapt and lofty musings.

Since the days of the Hebrew with which we set out, when the Ass on the Ladder was but a fiction, history has recorded the doings—we had almost said the sayings—of scores of wonderful quadrupeds. We have had gifted horses, who should have been elected F.R.S.'s; learned pigs, who should have been chosen LL.D.'s; humane dogs, who merit statues like Howard's; and industrious fleas, who do the work of hot water in putting lobsters to the blush. But such an ass as the Lad on the Ladder eye never beheld but that once. His face spread before our curious and inquiring gaze, like a map of the world, and we traced in recollection an infinite variety of character. What it more immediately suggested was the expression in the face of a successful candidate at the moment of"chairing," elevated in some fantastic car, surrounded with banners bearing patriotic mottoes and devices, and accompanied by roaring raggamuffins. It also conjured up a vision of a youthful aspirant, fresh from the office or the shop, strutting in Richard, or fretting in Hamlet, before eight long sixes, and a full bench of aunts, in a private theatre.

The ass on the ladder brings to memory a thousand other spectacles. When we behold an orator (to listen is impossible) flourishing his arms on the hustings, and ever and anon placing his hand upon his crimson waistcoat, or declaiming for an hour together before a private company to the exclusion of conversation, in full force of lungs, but in virtue of no mental superiority, we are forcibly reminded of the ass on the ladder.

When we see a sprig of fashion, who only obtained his nobility yesterday, and whose worth, if put up to auction, would be dear at the price of a mushroom, insolently claiming precedence of the untitled bearer of an ancient and honourable name; or when we observe the high-born, starched up to the eyes, sneering at humble birth, however associated with merit, and cutting modest respectability for a parvenu; in these cases we cannot help thinking of the ass on the ladder.

When we see a vulgar jack, in virtue of his office raised to the rank of gentleman, treating a poor suitor, who asks for his own, as if he were a beggar asking alms; or a sleek-headed, rosy-gilled idiot, who lives only in his own breeches-pocket, pretending to patronise talent because he doles out, for its exercise, what scarcely keeps its possessor from starving, we are very apt to call to recollection the ass on the ladder.

When a connoisseur, influential by position, sits down to decide, in just ten minutes, upon the merits of a work of art or science, which has cost the producer years of anxious study and ceaseless labour; or when a military despot lives but to harass, irritate, and torture the sensitive and honourable minds of those ill-fated officers, who, superior perhaps in everything else, happen to be below him in rank and fortune,—we immediately recur for a parallel to the ass on the ladder.

When we see a millionnaire, who has crawled along the road to riches until he can't stand upright, grasping with usurious hands at the little still retained by those who helped him to rise; or when a sudden puff of fortune has blown an adventurer into power and affluence, and we see him so giddy that he doesn't know his own poor relations, and actually can't recognise in broad daylight the struggling friend who lent him five pounds three months before,—then, and under all similar circumstances, we are sure to think of the ass on the ladder.

When we behold a gentleman turning jockey or stage-coachman, quitting the legislature for the stable or the cockpit, winking at the worst vices until he becomes himself tainted, and devoting his time and money to the destruction of his own health and the demoralisation of his hangers-on; or when we see a barrister, bullying with conscious impunity a trembling, blushing, inexperienced witness (perhaps a woman) until common sense becomes confused, truth begins to contradict herself, and honesty steps out of the witness-box, looking very much like a rogue,—why, who can fail to associate with spectacles like these, the ass on the ladder?

But it is not merely in the army and on the stage, at the bar and in literature, in the walks of commerce and in the world of fashion, that we daily detect some living prototype of the long-eared animal in the ascendant. If public meetings exhibit them, public schools do so no less abundantly. There is a great deal of ladder-climbing going on at the universities; and not a proctor in the precincts of learning but could tell many tales of asinine ambition. Who more irresistibly calls to mind the ass on the ladder than the noble knocker-wrencher, or the gentlemanly bell-destroyer, when brought up—many staves up the ladder now—before a magistrate, and indulgently allowed to take his choice—a fine of forty shillings,ora month at the treadwheel? When the noble and gentlemanly sport extends to the pummelling of police-officers, only stopping within an ace of manslaughter, then the animal may be said to have reached the topmost stave—an elevation where every kick with which he indulges himself in his playful humour adds incalculably to his own imminent danger. The higher the ascent, the greater the ass. We have seen many instances, more melancholy than ludicrous, of asses falling from the very top.

For ourselves, we must candidly confess to a painful consciousness of having been—occasionally, and for not many days together—yet of having been, ere now, beyond all mistake, upon the ladder adverted to. Nay, emboldened by the virtuous frankness of this self-criminating admission, we even venture to put it to our (male) readers, whether they cannot recollect having had their own feet, at some time of their lives, on the first round of the ladder; whether they do not feel sensible of having placed just one foot on that lowest step of the ascent—one only—for we would not dare to insinuate that they ever got farther, lest they should turn upon us with the mortifying, and perhaps not altogether mistaken discovery, that we ourselves, even in this moment of moralising, have reached the top of it!

The "Omnibus" had hardly started off, on the first of the month, from the door of Messrs. Tilt and Bogue, and taken a westerly direction up Fleet Street, commencing without the loss of an hour its monthly tour in search of the picturesque, when it was stopped for the purpose of taking in a passenger. This was at the corner of Bolt Court, out of which classical and celebrated avenue tumbled rather than walked a gentleman stout and elderly, with a bluff good-humoured countenance, all the pleasanter for an air of sternness which was evidently affectation. Having got in, he seated himself immediately opposite to us, that is to say, at the left-hand corner of the vehicle next the door, and at once began, as though he had been the ghost of Dr. Johnson, and possessed the unquestionable right in that neighbourhood to take the lead in conversation.

"Sir," he said, "you have made a fair start, but a start is not a journey. Now there's a fact for you—and it's a fact which the producers of Number-ones are deplorably prone to forget. With me, Sir, first numbers go for nothing. Some people will tell you that your No. 1. isa proof as far as it goesof what you mean to do in this new vehicle of yours. Sir, some people are very fond of a 'proof as far as it goes.' But how far does it go? If you see a man in a black coat to-day, and you meet the same man in a blue coat to-morrow, it's 'a proof as far as itgoes,' that he is the possessor of three hundred and sixty-five coats, or one for every day in the year. But still, sir, you have made a fair start. Let me warn you against stoppages; never stop but when you have to take up or set down. Don't overload your vehicle. No racing, but go quietly. All of which means, don't cut knotted oaks with razors, and when you have a 'wee crimson-tipped flower' to paint, don't make a great red flare of it. Above all, sir, never follow advice, however excellent, when it is offered to you in a long speech; for the man who would presume to take up two minutes and a half of your valuable time at one sitting, deserves to be put into a Mile-end omnibus by mistake, when he's bound for Turnham Green direct."

We had scarcely time to thank our gruff but good-humoured adviser—whom we at once set down for a chip of that respectable old block, the Public in General, and identified as a specimen of Middle-aged People in Town and Country—we had barely time to assure him that his last important suggestion at all events should be especially remembered, when a voice burst forth from the further end of the vehicle, where in the dim light the speaker was only just visible. He was a very young man, evidently of the last new school, and in a tone of jocular familiarity he called out, "I wish that gentleman from Bolt Court would explain the phenomenon of a new work being started with a preface so totally unlike the prefaces of all new works published during the last half-century, which invariably begin with 'Dr. Johnson has observed.'"

The elderly passenger appealed to, frowned; but in less than a minute the frown gave way to a smile, and without further noticing the challenge, he said, "Dr. Johnson is not responsible for a ten-thousandth part of what during the last half-century has been observed in his name. His mimics are calumniators, and they have distorted his sentiments as remorselessly as they have disfigured his style. Since subjects of caricature are not prescribed in the present company, I may safely put it to the vote whether any exaggeration is more gross than that which commonly passes in the world for exact imitation. There are people who can trace resemblances in the most opposite and unlikely forms. Old ladies, stirring the fire, and tumbling the bright cinders into new combinations, will often hit upon a favourite coal and cry, 'Well, I declare if that isn't like Mrs. Jenkinson.' And no doubt the resemblance is quite as perfect as that between the ridiculed manner of Johnson, and the rumblings of his sneering mimics. He, with a full measure of language but not an overflow, with nice inflexions, a studied balance, yet with a simple elegance not destroyed by his formality, opens a story—stay, I can give you a graceful passage of the Doctor's, and in the same breath you shall hear how it would come spluttering forth from the clumsy pen of his imitators.

"'DR. JOHNSON HIMSELF.

"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promise of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.'

"'DR. JOHNSON IMITATED.

"'Ye who listen with ignorant credulity to the whispering blandishments of fancy, and pursue with inconsiderate eagerness the enchanting and seductive phantoms of hope; who idly expect that grudging age will perform the rash but generous promise of thoughtless youth, and that the glaring deficiencies of the present day will be providentially supplied by the inexhaustible profusion of the morrow; attend to the moral history of Rasselas, Crown Prince of Abyssinia.'"

"There is much truth in what you observe," said a quiet modest-looking passenger on our left to the talkative Johnsonite, who deprecated long speeches; "much truth; and perhaps as you dislike exaggeration in whatever professes to imitate, you might be entertained with one of my 'Photographic Pictures,' warranted accurate. I am, sir, yours respectfully, H. G. A. Now as there happens to be one of these pictures distinctly present to my eye at this moment, though the scene is far from Fleet Street, I think I can copy it to the life, and if you please we'll call it—

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