CHAPTER XIII.WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

THE UNFINISHED ENTRIES IN THE DIARY.

“Yes; and a good idea it is. Did you write down your impressions of the places you visited?”

“Well, yes; but I am afraid they won’t satisfy father. He is mighty particular, and awful sharp.”

“Will you let me see your memorandum book?”

TIBBITTS’ DIARY.

He handed it to me, and these are some of the entries, which were, no doubt, written at four in the morning, the last thingbefore getting into bed; and they were, unquestionably,hisimpressions. I select a few at random, these few being excellent samples of the whole lot:—

Leeds—Manufacturing city—Beer very bad—Scotch whisky tolerable, though I never liked it cold.

Birmingham—Manufacturing city—Beer bad—Not equal to our lager—No good beer in England—Stout rather better—Went in on stout.

Manchester—Good bottle beer—Draft beer bad—All draft—(This sentence was not finished, probably for reasons. He explained that that night he slept in his boots.)

Sheffield—Manufacturing city—found some genuine American bourbon, and went for it—It was refreshing, as a reminder at home—Don’t know about the beer—There’s no place like home.

Nottingham—Don’t know what the people do—a great many of them—Beer bad as usual—Guinness’ stout in bottles fairish—Wish—

(Another unfinished sentence, explained as before.)

And so on. I told Lemuel that it certainly would not do to send these impressions to his father, as evidently he observed only one side of English life; that he had taken his observations through a glass darkly, but that I really hadn’t the time to write up a set for him, especially as I had not visited those places myself.

“But what am I to do?”

Advising him to procure a good guide-book, and remain sober for a week, and get to work, we parted.

There are a great many Lemuels getting similar impressions of Europe—a great many; I may say altogether too many.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY—INTERIOR.

SOMETIMEin the sixth century a Saxon King, named Sebert, founded an Abbey, where Westminster now stands. It is another of the regular show places of London, and possibly the most interesting, unless it be the Tower. It has been rebuilt a dozen or more times, and is really the most beautiful building in London of its class.

EXTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

The Abbey is three hundred and seventy-five feet in length,by two hundred in width, and its height from the pavement to the foot of the lantern is one hundred and forty feet. I know this, for I got it from the guide-book.

There is nothing in England, in the way of architecture, more striking or grand. The beautiful is not always the grand, or the grand the beautiful. Westminster Abbey is both. The old architects might not have been able to have built the Capitol at Washington, and they certainly could not have built the Court House in New York, and made it cost more than the Houses of Parliament, for they were not that kind of architects; they mostly died poor and did not wear diamonds, but they managed to erect a building that is worth the passage across the Atlantic to see.

THE ENTRANCE TO THE ABBEY.

SEEING THE ABBEY.

On entering the Abbey you run the gauntlet of a dozen or more fellows who have the privilege of selling guide-books. They will not take “No!” for an answer, but manage somehow to compel the gratuity. They are Potiphar’s wives with designs upon your pockets, and you have to choose between yielding to them, like Joseph, or leaving some portionof your garments in their grasp. You always shed the sixpence. Then you wander about through the magnificent structure, reading tablets on which are inscribed the virtues of all sorts of men, till happily remembering that kings and queens were buried in the building, you ask whereabouts they may be lying. Some one gives the information, the party is made up, and you place yourself under the charge of what they call a verger, a beery old fellow, with a face that blazes like a comet, with some sort of a black gown over his shoulders, who conducts you to the gate of a chapel, at which stands another beery old fellow, with a like face and a similar gown on his shoulders, who deliberately asks you for sixpence apiece, which being paid, you pass in, very like you would in a circus. Then the beery old fellow commences in a sing-song, monotonous way, his descriptions:—

“The first on the left is the tomb of Queen Eleanor, who died in the year of our Lord,” and so on. He intones his service just about as those officiating in the other services do, only he goes on without making a stop or punctuating a sentence. He guides you from one room to another without the slightest pause, and when he gets through he and the one at the gate, who takes the money, go out and drink beer till another party is formed.

But it is a very cheap show, and I am under obligations to the Church of England for the delight. In fact, it is a big shilling’s worth—for a drinking man. One blast from the fiery orifice in the volcanic face of the verger is enough to save anybody sixpence in beer, and as for the book, why you have it, and it is worth the money. Thus, you see, you have the show of the building and the dead Kings thrown in. I was not sure that we should not have given the Dean a shilling or two, and I felt like offering it to him, but, unfortunately, I was out of silver.

It is not the magnificence and grandeur of the structure, or its sacredness as a place of religious worship, that give Westminster Abbey its interest to the average tourist. It is the burial place of the great dead of England, and its walls contain the dust of more great men than any building in the world.

Of course I did not enthuse a particle over the tombs of the old Kings, those ancient robbers, whose titles came from force and were perpetuated by fraud, thirteen of whom are buried here, and fourteen Queens, commencing with Sebert, the Saxon, and ending with George, the Second. They may sleep anywhere without exciting a thrill in me, for not one of them ever did the world any good, or added one to the list of achievements that really make men’s names worth remembering.

I do not like kings, and if we must have them, I much prefer them dead. Safe in an abbey, they are not making wars upon each other, and besides, a dead king can be kept much more cheaply than a living one. I pay sixpence willingly to see where a dead king lies. When I remember that they must die, I always feel encouraged.

But England has buried here those who made her glory on the field, the wave, and in the Senate and closet, and it is England’s glory that she does this. England has never let a great achievement go unnoted, or unremembered. In the floors and on the walls of this great church, are tablets, commemorating not only Generals and Admirals, but Captains and Lieutenants, who aided in repulsing the foes of the country, or extending its possessions, and the private soldier or common sailor receives his meed of praise, the same as his officer.

In this, England is wise, as she is in most things. In this faithful remembrance, the youth of England have a constant incentive to great deeds and meritorious acts.

Speaking of monuments and commemorative structures, how many has the United States? One was attempted to the memory of Washington, of the general form and style of a Scotch claymore, set on end, hilt downward, and it was placed in the mud, on the banks of the Potomac, where it has been surely and certainly sinking these thirty years at least, and is not yet half finished.

MONUMENTS IN GENERAL.

Occasionally, some enterprising woman, who wants a house, or to pay off a mortgage, or something of the kind, organizes a Washington Monument Association, and collects money for the purpose of completing it. But it never amounts to anything. The lady and the managers collect a great deal of money, butno stones are added to the monument, and there stands, or rather, is sinking, a monument, not to Washington, but to the inefficient management of the citizens of the country he freed, and their indifference to the fame of their best and greatest men.

England does not do this. There is never a name in English history that is not carefully preserved in the Abbey, and it is not permitted to wear out and fade. When time has meddled with it the chisel is brought into requisition, and it is restored.

POETS’ CORNER—WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

If one wishes to thoroughly and completely appreciate the worthlessness of human reputation, he should walk through these walls and over these floors. While the fame of the heroes, poets and statesmen have been carefully cared for, the nobodies buried here and hereabouts, and there are thousands of them, have been permitted to fade out mercilessly. Sir Toby Belch, we will say, or Sir Toby Anybody Else, who was so circumstanced that he received the honor of being buried in the Abbey or the grounds adjacent,lies here under a slab, on which is a long inscription. The slab is here; but alas! where is the inscription? The iron-nailed shoes of generations have as completely obliterated it as though a chisel had been used for the purpose.

But not so the actually great. The slab that covers the remains of Dickens has flowers placed upon it every day, and the inscriptions to the memory of Shakespeare, Byron, Handel, Haydn, Macaulay, Sheridan, Garrick, Rare Ben Johnson, and others, who made English literature, and the innumerable warriors by land and sea who have extended English possessions and defended England’s greatness, are kept as distinct and as bright as the day they were erected.

One singular thing is that there are no bad men buried in the Abbey; that is, if you may believe the marble inscriptions. Marble is a bad material to tell lies upon, because of the limited space that can be used. Were there more room there would be more lies, I suppose, but the English have managed it tolerably well.

There was Warren Hastings, for instance, Governor-General of India, who in his day was held up as a monster of cruelty, and a model of rapacity and oppression. Even the English Parliament and the East India Company were forced to protest against his extreme cruelty to the East Indians. Nevertheless Hastings has a bust in the Abbey, and an inscription on it, in which he is given every virtue under the sun. He is extolled as being all that was merciful, just, kind, good, and wise, and if there is a virtue that is not ascribed to him, the man who wrote it forgot it. As a matter of curiosity I copied the epitaph, and here it is:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OFTHE RIGHT HONORABLE WARREN HASTINGS,Governor-General of Bengal,Member of His Majesty’s Most Honorable Privy Council, L. L. D., F. R. S.Descended from the elder branch of the Ancient and Noble Family ofHuntingdon.

WARREN HASTINGS.

Selected for his eminent talents and integrity, he was appointed by Parliament, in 1773, the first Governor-General of India, to which high office he was thrice re-appointed by the same authority. Of a most eventfulperiod, he restored the affairs of the East India Company from the deepest distress to the highest prosperity, and rescued their possessions from a combination of the most powerful enemies ever leagued against them. In the wisdom of his counsels and the energy of his measures, he found unexhausted resources, and successfully sustained a long, varied, and multiplied war with France, Mysore, and the Mahratta States, whose power he humbled, and concluded an honorable peace; for which and for his distinguished services he received the thanks of the East India Company, sanctioned by the Board of Control. The Kingdom of Bengal, the seat of his government, he ruled with a mild and equitable sway, preserved it from invasion, and while he secured to its inhabitants the enjoyment of their customs, laws and religion, and the blessings of peace, was rewarded by their affection and gratitude; nor was he more distinguished by the highest qualities of a statesman and a patriot, than by the exercise of every Christian virtue. He lived for many years in dignified retirement, beloved and revered by all who knew him, at his seat of Daylesford, in the county of Worcester, where he died in peace, in the 86th year of his age, August 22, in the year of our Lord 1818.

Pretty good, this, for a man who was the terror of the East, and who was publicly branded in Parliament as the most audacious, corrupt and cruel tyrant that ever seized anything that armed force could lay its hands upon. But as England reaped the benefit of a portion, at least, of his wickedness, England manufactures a record for him and permits it to stand among its other heroes, for the admiration of future generations.

HENRY VII.'S CHAPEL—WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

I can imagine the ghost of Hastings, as he hovers over this tablet and reads it. He must have smiled a spirit smile. However, it is probably as correct as other history, marble orwritten upon paper. The inhabitants of the other world must be amused as they read what is said of them in this. A great many of them must feel as the horse thief did when he wept after the speech of his counsel in his defense.

“What are you sobbing so for?” asked the counsel.

“I never knew before what a good man I am,” was the reply.

There are hundreds buried in the Abbey who have no especial claim to the honor, that is so far as to deeds that survive the ages gone. They enjoyed what we of to-day would term a mere local reputation, and all that remains of them is what the marble says. The inscriptions are all in the same strain, and are curious specimens of obituary literature. For instance this:—

TO THE MEMORY OFJAMES BARTLEMAN,formerly a chorister and lay clerk of Westminster Abbey,and Gentleman of His Majesty’s Royal Chapel.Educated by Dr. Cooke,He caught all the taste and science of that great master,Which he augmented and adorned.With the peculiar powers of his native genius,He possessed qualities which are seldom united;A lively enthusiasm, with an exact judgment,And exhibited a perfect modelOf a correct style and a commanding voice;Simple and powerful, tender and dignified;Solemn, chaste and purely English.His social and domestic virtuesCorresponded with these rare endowments;Affectionate and liberal, sincere and open-hearted,He was not less beloved by his family and friends,Than admired by all for his pre-eminenceIn his profession.He was born 19 Septr. 1769. Died 15 April, 1821.And was buried in this cloister,Near his Beloved Master.

“Solemn, chaste and purely English” is very good. What could Mr. Bartleman ask more?

EPITAPHS.

On the monument of Admiral Sir Wondesley Shovel the inscription reads:—

“He was deservedly beloved by his country, and esteemed, though dreaded, by the enemy, who had often experienced his conduct and courage. Being shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, in his voyage from Toulon, Oct. 22, 1707, at night, in the 57th year of his age, his fate was lamented by all, but especially by the seafaring part of the nation, to whom he was a generous patron and a worthy example. His body was flung on the shore, and buried with others on the sand; but being soon after taken up, was placed under this monument, which his royal mistress had caused to be erected to commemorate his steady loyalty and extraordinary virtues.”

Mr. William Lawrence, who was a prebendary, gets this poetical effusion:—

“With dilligence and trust most exemplaryDid William Lawrence serve a prebendary,And for his paines now past before not lostGained this remembrance at his Master’s cost.O read these lines again: you seldom findeA servant faithful to a master kind.Short hand he wrote, his flowre in prime did fadeAnd hasty death short hand of him hath made.Well couth he numbers, and well measured land,Thus doth he now that ground whereon you stand,Wherein he lies so geometrical;Art maketh some, but this will nature all.”Obit Dec. 23, 1621.Æstatus bud 29.

As a specimen of old English, this can hardly be excelled:—

Ander neath LyethThe Bodyes of 3 sonnsof Mr. Christopher Chapman,Richard Christopher andPeter Peter dyed the 11thof September, 1672.Richard dyed the 1th ofFebruary, 1672, andChristopher Chapman,M. of Artes, dyed the 25of March, 1675.

The next is a memorial to an authoress, who was the most popular of her day, and whose pieces were the delight ofLondon. To-day, she is only remembered by book-worms and antiquaries:—

MRS. APHRA BEHN,Dyed April 16,A.D. 1689.Here lies a proof that Wit can never beDefence enough against Mortality.

This lady was the authoress of many dramatic pieces—all as dead as their author.

The Wesley family are represented in this:—

NUTTY, SUSANNA,URSULA, SAMUEL,WESLEY.1725, 1726, 1727, 1731.Infant children ofSamuel Wesley,Brother of John Wesley.

The British merchant was honored, as well as the British soldier:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OFJONAS HANWAY,who departed this life September 5, 1786, aged 74,but whose name liveth, and will ever live,whilst active Piety shall distinguishThe Christian.Integrity and Truth shall recommendThe British Merchant.And universal Kindness shall characterizeThe Citizen of the World.

The helplessInfantnatur’d thro’ his care:The friendlessProstitutesheltered and reformed;The hopelessYouthrescu’d from Misery and Rum,And trained to serve and to defend his country,Uniting in one common strain of gratitude,Bear testimony to their Benefactors’ virtues—Thiswas theFriendandFatherof the Poor.

RELIGIOUS SERVICES.

The wandering about among the tombs of so many illustrious dead, and the reading of so many fulsome epitaphs—albeit I know they were not altogether deserved—produced an impression, a feeling of solemnity, that no other one place in all England could conjure up. It was in vain that Tibbittstried to make fun out of some of the quaint inscriptions. It could not be done, and in a very short time the youth succumbed to the influence of the mighty memory, and became a subdued and quiet admirer of the solemn grandeur of the place.

CHAPEL OF EDWARD, THE CONFESSOR.

Three is the hour that religious services are held in the large nave. More out of curiosity, perhaps, than anything else, we determined to remain during the service. As we sat there looking over into the Poets’ Corner, the deep silence of the majestic building, growing more and more profound, there came trooping through the mind constantly changing picturessuggested by the memories awakened by the vivid recollections of the once great in literature and art, science and warfare, who are still alive in the hearts of all English-speaking people, although their bodies have been lying for years beneath the massive pillars and superb arches of Westminster.

As the eye wanders upwards along the walls, covered with tablets and rare pieces of sculpture, and seeks to unravel the intricacies of the fretted roof, just discernible through the dim light, the great organ peals forth the wondrous strains of the Processional.

At that instant, as though to lend a new and greater impressiveness to the scene, the clouds, which had been lowering all the afternoon, suddenly breaking with a glorious burst of sunshine, that comes streaming in through the tall, graceful windows, beautiful with their colored designs, lights up the Abbey even to its darkest recess with a light, soft, and mellow, which only intensifies the mystic feeling of reverence and joy combined. And then the boy choristers, with their fresh, innocent faces, sing in wondrous tones the Gregorian chant. Nothing more is needed; everything is complete. You are lost in a rapturous reverie, the mind is cleansed of all things earthly, and wanders unchecked and unfettered through the boundless realms of purity. One sits almost entranced; his very being filled with the wondrous power of the place. Gradually it dawns upon him that there is a discord somewhere, that something has occurred to mar the perfection of the whole. For an instant he rebels against the thought, and strives to believe that he still dreams. But the inspiration has fled. The music, which a moment before caused the tears to fill his eyes, has lost itself in the far-away cornices of the high columns, and in its stead there is the dull, monotonous chanting of a priest, who is intoning the service in a tired sort of way, as though he thought that, having done the same thing every afternoon for forty years, it was time for him to retire upon a pension, and enjoy the quiet of a pleasant home, where there was no absolute necessity of going through the ritual every afternoon at three o’clock.

HOW THE SERVICE IS DONE.

The awakening was not a pleasant one, and so we left the Abbey, disappointed, as though we had been given the promiseof something wonderful and then been denied it. The service, no matter how beautiful in and of itself, is not in keeping with the grandeur of the place. There is lacking, to an American, that sense of power and majesty in it that the massive building, glorying in its wondrous architectural beauties, demands. The clergymen had an aimlessness that was simply tiresome, and as they drawled out the words, it seemed as though they did not care whether it produced an effect upon the worshippers or not. But it did produce an effect. Not the one to be desired, perhaps, but an effect after all, for the greater number of them quietly left the place, and reached the open air with a sigh of relief, as if they had escaped from some very depressing, dispiriting place.

In America religion and religious services mean something more than form, and the ministers, no matter of what denomination, or in what sort of a building, throw something of life and fervor into their services. They act and talk as though they had souls to save, and that the responsibility of the souls of their congregations were upon them. This was not of that kind. The priests went through the service as though, having offered the bread of life to their people, it was for them to take it or let it alone, as they chose. Indeed, when one was a little slow, as though he had been up the night before, the other would look at him reproachfully, as if to say, “Look here; why don’t you hurry up and get through with this, and let us get home. I don’t want my dinner to spoil,” and the boys in the choir, though they sang like angels, did it, not as if they knew or cared anything about it, but as a mere matter of business, looking from one to another, and then upon the congregation. Whatever the effect upon the people, their beautiful music had no more effect upon them than as if they had been so many oysters.

These people would not do for a Western camp-meeting, or even for a fashionable revival in an Eastern church. But they have their uses.

One room in the Abbey is devoted to the effigies in wax of seven Kings and Queens, but few people visit it. They can see a more extensive collection of murderers at Madam Tussaud’s for the same money, and they go there.

The cloisters, as they are called, form a not uninteresting portion of the Abbey, they being the former places of residence of the monks of the establishment. In the various walks, with their quaintly carved pillars, and moss-covered arches, are buried many distinguished personages, most of whom belonged to the Abbey.

EFFIGY ROOM—WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Another point of interest is the “Chapter House,” a circular room, of large dimensions, which was built in 1250 by Henry III., on the site of the earlier Chapter House belonging to the Abbey, founded by Edward the Confessor. It was the chamber in which the abbot and monks, in the time of the ancient monastery held their “Chapter,” or meeting for discussion and business. The stone seats upon which the abbot and the monks sat are still preserved.

A LITTLE HISTORY.

THE ABBEY IN QUEEN ANNE’S TIME.

In 1265, when the House of Commons came into existence, it first sat in Westminster Hall with the House of Lords; but the two bodies having parted, the Commons held its meetings in the Chapter House for nearly three hundred years. The last Parliament known to have sat here was that which assembled on the last day of the reign of King Henry VIII. Afterthat the House passed into the possession of the Crown, and from 1547, when the House of Commons was transferred to Westminster Palace, until 1863, it was used as the depository of public records, and was very much disfigured. In 1865 its restoration was begun, and it now presents the same appearance it did in years gone by, save where the finger of Father Time has been laid rather heavily upon its once fair paintings and graceful proportions.

It does not appear that the nave and cloisters, though the last resting places of so many eminent persons, were treated with due respect in the reign of Queen Anne. At all events, the following occurs in the Acts of the Dean and Chapter, under date of May 6, 1710.

“Whereas, several butchers and other persons have of late, especially on market days, carried meat and other burdens through the church, and that in time of Divine service, to the great scandal and offence of all sober-minded persons; and, whereas, divers disorderly beggars are daily walking and begging in the Abbey and cloisters, and do fill the same with nastiness, whereby great offense is caused to all persons going through the church and cloisters; and, whereas many idle boys come into the cloister daily, and there play at cards and other games, for money, and are often heard to curse and swear, Charles Baldwin is appointed beadel to restrain this, and to complain of offenders, if necessary, to a justice of the peace.”

The Abbey is the especial pride of England, and well it may be. It is a delight in and of itself, and would be were it empty. But filled, as it is, with the enduring monuments of its glory, it possesses a double interest. Every American visits it, and every American should, for those who built it and those who sleep under its wonderful roof, are of the same blood and kin. America shares in England’s glory, if not in her shame. But then, we have some sins to answer for, and an Englishman may not blush in the presence of his cousin across the water.

RIGHTin the heart of London—if London may be said to have any heart—is a tavern kept by an American, which is the headquarters of American “professionals,” as showmen delight to call themselves. You can never go there without meeting managers, nigger minstrels, song-and-dance-men, unappreciated actors, and all sorts of people who prefer living from hand to mouth and wearing no shirts, in this way, than to making a fortune in any regular business. I go there frequently from sheer loneliness, and to hear the kindly American language spoken; and, besides, a man alone is generally in bad company, for the heart of man is deceitful and desperately wicked. Any company that is fair to middling is better than none at all. Even a hostler can tell you something you don’t know. You may excel him in the philosophy of finance, but when it comes to horses you are nowhere.

I met one circus manager who is over here, as he expressed it, to “secure talent,” and he proved a delight. He was short and very thick, and wore a sack coat, of rough material, and a little mastiff followed him about constantly. His hat and necktie were something too utterly gorgeous for description, his face was of a peculiarly puffy purple, and his nose blazed like a comet. And he would sit and talk of his business by the hour, keeping before him all the time a glass of British brandy and water, which he pronounced “goodish.” You could be sure he was a showman as far as you could see him. My first interview with him was something like this:—

“I shall have the biggest list of genooine attractions that ever was taken across the Atlantic, and if I don’t astonish the showmen of our great country, as well as the people, I’m asinner. I have got a baby elephant, and a genooine Babulus, capchered by Stanley in the interior of Africa, at a great loss of life, and I am after a performer sich as the world never seen. She does an act on the trapeze that is so risky, that sooner or later shemustbe killed. There ain’t any doubt about it. I have seen her. She runs up a rope like a squirrel, and jumps from a horizontal bar, twenty feet, catching hold of her pardner’s hands, and then plunges down from his body head-fust, at the frightful altitood of seventy feet, catchin’ a rope twenty feet from the ground. If the lights are ever wrong by a half inch, or if she ever miscalculates a hair’s breadth, she is a goner, sure.”

IF SHE EVER MISCALCULATES BY A HAIR’S BREADTH, SHE’S A GONER, SURE.

And the enthusiastic old gentleman rubbed his hands in glee, as though the death of a performer was a consummation most devoutly to be wished.

THE TRAPEZE ARTIST.

“Do people enjoy such perilous feats?”

“Enjoy em! Enjoy em! Why, bless your innocent soul, a feat ain’t nothin'—won’t dror a cent onless it’s morally certain that the performer will break his neck. This woman I’m after draws crowds every night, because shemustkill herself. The trick is so dangerous that men make bets every night she will miss her lucky, and be carried out a corpse. I’m a goin’ to have that woman, no matter what the salary is. She does this trapeze act, and then goes on in the first part of the minstrel entertainment after the big show. Oh, she’s got talent into her.”

“But if the performance is so hazardous, and she should be killed, would it not entail a heavy loss upon you?”

“Killed! Loss! Where was you born? My child, there never was a feat so dangerous that there ain’t a thousand waitin’ to attempt it, and they’ll do it. When Mamselle Zhoubert gits killed, as she will, I’ll hev to hold a lev-vee to decide atwixt the dozen who will want to take her place. I’ll select one of ’em, give her a French name—yoo can’t get on in the perfesh with a English name—and she’ll go on and do it, and do it jist as well. And then wat an advertisement it is! This will be about the size of it:—

“The management begs to state that since the untimely death of Mademoiselle Zhoubert, at Cincinnati, it was doubtful if another lady competent to fill her place could be found. The feat was so difficult, so dangerous, and required such arduous training and such wonderful nerve, that it was feared that this leading attraction of the World’s Aggregation would have to be omitted. There was only one other such artiste in the world—Mademoiselle Blanche, but she was engaged at the Cirque Imperial, Paris. The management knows no such word as fail, and a commissioner was dispatched at once to Paris, with unlimited powers to treat for this stellar attraction, this acme of talent. At an expense which would bankrupt any other establishment, conducted by narrow-minded managers who advertise more and perform less, she was secured and is now with us. Mademoiselle Blanche not only performs the original feat of the sincerely mourned Zhoubert, but adds to it one so much more dangerous as to make hers seem insignificant and commonplace. Mademoiselle Blanche will appear at each and every performance, all reports to the contrary notwithstanding.”

“That’ll fetch ’em.”

“Dangerous feats! why, I run a whole season on a lion that had once eaten a keeper. The people come in crowds, expecting every day to see him make a breakfast of his trainer.”

“Was he actually dangerous?”

THE DEATH OF THE TRAINER.

THE TRAINER’S WIDOW.

“Dangerous! He et another trainer, and then I lost him. His widder was actilly in love with her husband, and she swore the animal shood be killed, and the people sided with her, and as the broot was gettin’ old, and the killin’ made a sensation, I did it. But I made all there was out of it. I insisted that the husband should have a gorgeous funeral. The woman kicked at the idea of a funeral, for she sed there was nothing to berry, as the lion had eaten her husband. But ain’t the dear departed inside the lion? If we berry the lion, don’t we berry the dear deceast? Cert. And we hed it, and it was gorgeous. We hed a percession, with all our wagons in it—the regelar street parade—only all the riders hed black scarfs on ’em, and the wagons and hosses and elephants and sich was draped in black (mourning goods is cheap,), and the band played a dead

THE GORGEOUS FUNERAL PROCESSION.

march. The widder was in an open carriage, in full mournin’ with a white handkerchief, with a black border, to her eyes lookin’ on his minatoor. There wasn’t no minatoor, but she held a case jist the same. That nite the canvass coodent hold the people, and we run on that two weeks to splendid biz. In two weeks, the woman got over her grief and went into the lion trainin’ line herself, ez ‘Senorita Aguardiente, the Lion Queen.’ I give her some old lions to practis on, and in less than a month she could do jest as well as the old man. She was a good woman, too. She rid in the grand entree, and rid in the ‘Halt in the Desert,’ did the bar’l act, rid a good pad act, and is now practisin’ bare-back. She juggles tollable, and does a society sketch song and dance in a side-show. When I git talent I pay it and keep it. My treasurer changes the names of my people every season, so as to have always fresh attractions. Oh, I know my biz. But that wuzn’t all I made out uv that afflictin’ event. I went and hed a moniment made and sot up over his grave. This is the vig., inscription and all:

And on the back uv the monument, I had this:—

“His sorrowing widow still does her unapproachable act of Equitation and Prestidigitation, in the Great International Aggregation, with which her devoured husband was so long connected, and may be seen at each and every exhibition.“While mourning the loss of our friend, the Great Aggregation travels as usual, and exhibits without regard to weather, twice each day. Lion Kings may die, but the Great International Aggregation is immortal.”

“While mourning the loss of our friend, the Great Aggregation travels as usual, and exhibits without regard to weather, twice each day. Lion Kings may die, but the Great International Aggregation is immortal.”

“The widder insisted on hevin a Scriptural quotashen on the moniment, and it took me a good while lookin up suthin approprit. I know more about circus than I do about Bible, but when I set out to do a thing I do it. Ez the two hed lived together and died together, ez the lion et him for cert, it struck me that this wuz about the racket, and I put it on the base:—

They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were notdivided.—2d Sam. 1:23.

“I had the monument did in galvanized iron, and it will stand there for forty years, and every visitor to that cemetery will know suthin about the Great International. I wrote it modest, for I didn’t want it to look too much like an advertisement, though, of course, I wanted to get all I could out of the afflictin event.”

Ordering another brandy cold, the pleasant old gentleman murmured more reminiscences. He had always had a penchant for wild Indian troupes, and, since the Zulu war, for Zulus, and he flowed on about them:—

“Foggarty,” said he, “was the best Zulu I ever had, and I have had a hundred of ’em. He laid over the lot. He entered into the spirit of the thing, and did the bizniss conscientiously. When he came outside with a iron girdle about him, and a pizen spear, he lept in dead earnest, he did. He made it mighty lively for the keeper to hold him, and he howled so like a savage that he skeered the wimin and gals to a degree that they couldn’t help goin’ in to see him. Foggarty was a great man, and hed talent. He was the best Modoc Chief I ever had. O’Finnegan cood lay over him on the green corn dance, and possibly drest the best, but Foggarty’s war-whoop was suthin’ sublime. We hed him one season as Scar-Faced Charley, and the next as Shack-Nasty Jim, and he did himself proud in

THE SIDE-SHOW ZULU.

FOGGARTY’S MISFORTUNE.

both. And then, there wan’t no dam nonsense about him. He wood peel out of his Injun clothes, and go and clean the lamps, and help pack, or do anything. Before the doors opened, he’d do canvasman, and howl at the door, and at the door he’d play the bass drum or grind the organ with cheerfulness. In the street parade of the big show, he was, for five years, ourWashington, The Father of his Country, standing on a revolvin’ pedestal. Then, jist as soon as he got his dinner, he’d help get up the canvas, and then skin into the Zulu rig, and after that, he’d peddle lemonade, or do anything to make himself yooseful. But a woman spiled him. Wimin spile a great many good men. We hed a woman, Biddy McCarty, wich was doin’ the Circassian lady, with hair to her heels, you know ’em, and sometimes the bearded lady. Likewise, she was a Chinese knife thrower, and Foggarty yoosed to do the Chinaman she throwed her knives at. Well, Foggarty, seein’ that she was an Irish gal, and he an Irishman, coodent no more help fallin’ in love with her than fire kin help burnin’ tow. He got it into his head that ef he could marry a gal with so much talent, he might, some day, have a side-show of his own. And then, as time rolled on, and they hed kids, he cood train ’em up to the family business, and do things cheap. He wanted to be a Bearded family, or a Zulu family, or a Jap family, or suthin, and so he married Biddy, and they went double. Biddy hed a will of her own, and besides she would git drunk. Rum spiles more talent in the perfesh than anything else. She had a trick of beating Foggarty, and she led him the devil’s own life. It was at Leroy, New York. She had bin on as the Bearded Woman, and as the Circassian Lady, and hed sold all the photographs she cood, and hed changed to go on as the Chinese Knife Thrower, from Hang Fo. Foggarty hed changed to a Chinaman—Lu Fu, the Wizard—when I diskivered that Biddy hed bin drinkin'. I warned Foggarty to look out, for she was ugly, but he laughed, and said she wouldn’t hurt him, and went on. You hev seen that act. Foggarty stands agin a board with his arms spread out, and the China woman throws knives all around him. She puts ’em between his fingers, and clost to his neck and between his legs. Biddy could throw a knife within a hair of where she wanted it to go. She hed talent, as I sed. But that day she was ugly. She and Foggarty hed hed it hot, and when she came in twistin’ her queue, I knowd suthin was goin’ to happen. She throwd six or eight knives all right, and then one went, whiz! It took off Foggarty’s second finger on his right hand, as clean as a butcher’s cleaver could do it. And Biddy fired the rest of the knives at him and rushed out, yellin', ‘Be gorra, MikeFoggarty, and ye’ll bate me over the head with a tent pin agin, will ye? Ye’ll hev one finger less to do it wid, onyhow.’ Most men would hev abandoned the perfesh with that finger off, but while it was bein’ dressed Mike whispered to me, ‘Put it on the bills that the Zulu Chief lost the finger by a English saber, at the battle of—where was the battle?’ I hev Foggarty yet, but Biddy broke his heart and he aint as good as he was. She run away with the cannibal from the Friendly Islands, who cood do the tight-rope and fire-eatin', and they are doin’ hall shows and the variety business together. He taught her to do a song and dance, as well as fire-eatin', and she is now ‘M’lle Lulu Delmayne.’ They do society sketches, too. Foggarty is jest as willin’ as ever, but the blow was too much for him. He goes with us next season as a Zulu, and also lecters the sacred Burmese cattle, and has a part in the wild perarie scene, and fires the calliope. He can’t do Washington any more, for he has rheumatiz, and can’t stand an hour with his right hand in a military coat. He’s practisin’ to be a lion tamer, but I don’t bleeve it’ll do. He may git to play the snake, but that is about as high as he’ll ever git in the perfesh.”

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