Intatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars,And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,Away from the world and its toils and its cares,I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;And the view I behold on a sunshiny dayIs grand through the chimney-pots over the way.This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooksWith worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd;A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.No better divan need the Sultan require,Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you getFrom the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;As we sit in a fog made of rich LatakieThis chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,There's one that I love and I cherish the best;For the finest of couches that's padded with hairI never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,I bless thee, and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.It was but a moment she sat in this place,She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.And so I have valued my chair ever since,Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,In the silence of night as I sit here alone—I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.She comes from the past and revisits my room;She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

Intatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars,And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,Away from the world and its toils and its cares,I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;And the view I behold on a sunshiny dayIs grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooksWith worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd;A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you getFrom the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;As we sit in a fog made of rich LatakieThis chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,There's one that I love and I cherish the best;For the finest of couches that's padded with hairI never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,I bless thee, and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place,She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,In the silence of night as I sit here alone—I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

Therewas scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants, andread from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that fell over hispoint de Venise—a pretty picture such as Vandyke might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank English face. When he looked up there were two sapphire beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep.But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start; pulled at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce beenlifted from her book), and said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted her head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear, dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to the wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to us? Come to mother."Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago."It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. "I thought you might come.""We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing that his mistress hadforbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and remained at a distance."You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said.She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear—no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth—goddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation...."And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord. "Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!""Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," thewidow said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they had never been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) "I always thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to shut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I often said so to my dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you stay with us.""I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond."But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you will know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know how kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your—your father's widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you—has she not?"Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And shouldher mind change," he added gaily, "as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man of good parts and education can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!" Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told his mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had never been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closing round them."And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew you would come, Harry, if—if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustly to you after that horrid—horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now—they have told me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dear lord should fall.""He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. "Thank God for that legacy!""Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his arm. "I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it.""You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner," Mr. Esmond said."I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. "I know how wickedmy heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. But I knew you would come back—I own that. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,' I thought yes, like them that dream—them that dream. And then it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head."She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face."Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th day of December—it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it—no, no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brain was in a fever; and we had no wine. But now—now you are come again, bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you—your sheaves with you!"As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness and beauty—in some such a way now, the depth of this pure devotion quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured outupon him? Not in vain—not in vain has he lived—hard and thankless should he be to think so—that has such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives after you—follows your memory with secret blessing—or precedes you, and intercedes for you.Non omnis moriar—if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me.

Therewas scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants, andread from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that fell over hispoint de Venise—a pretty picture such as Vandyke might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank English face. When he looked up there were two sapphire beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep.

But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start; pulled at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce beenlifted from her book), and said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted her head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear, dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to the wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to us? Come to mother."

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago.

"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. "I thought you might come."

"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing that his mistress hadforbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and remained at a distance.

"You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said.

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear—no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth—goddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation....

"And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord. "Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"

"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," thewidow said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they had never been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) "I always thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to shut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I often said so to my dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you stay with us."

"I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond.

"But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you will know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know how kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your—your father's widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you—has she not?"

Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And shouldher mind change," he added gaily, "as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man of good parts and education can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!" Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told his mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had never been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closing round them.

"And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew you would come, Harry, if—if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustly to you after that horrid—horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now—they have told me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dear lord should fall."

"He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. "Thank God for that legacy!"

"Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his arm. "I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it."

"You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner," Mr. Esmond said.

"I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. "I know how wickedmy heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. But I knew you would come back—I own that. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,' I thought yes, like them that dream—them that dream. And then it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head."

She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face.

"Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th day of December—it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it—no, no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brain was in a fever; and we had no wine. But now—now you are come again, bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you—your sheaves with you!"

As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness and beauty—in some such a way now, the depth of this pure devotion quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured outupon him? Not in vain—not in vain has he lived—hard and thankless should he be to think so—that has such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives after you—follows your memory with secret blessing—or precedes you, and intercedes for you.Non omnis moriar—if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me.

FOOTNOTES:[N]From "The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself."The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond, who had lived in his house as a dependant (reputed to have been illegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedly attending him at his death-bed, received from the dying man confession and proof that he, the supposed obscure orphan, was the true inheritor, and in justice ought to have been the possessor, of the Castlewood titles and estates. But Esmond, for the love he had borne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had much befriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given him of his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim a secret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewood visited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murdered husband, reproached her loyal kinsman for not having saved her lord's life, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which these reproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war; but subsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress and her family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returned to England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, Lady Castlewood's home. The family were attending service in the cathedral, and there the reconciliation took place.—Esmond had formerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancy occurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had given it to one Mr. Tusher.

[N]From "The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself."

The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond, who had lived in his house as a dependant (reputed to have been illegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedly attending him at his death-bed, received from the dying man confession and proof that he, the supposed obscure orphan, was the true inheritor, and in justice ought to have been the possessor, of the Castlewood titles and estates. But Esmond, for the love he had borne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had much befriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given him of his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim a secret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewood visited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murdered husband, reproached her loyal kinsman for not having saved her lord's life, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which these reproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war; but subsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress and her family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returned to England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, Lady Castlewood's home. The family were attending service in the cathedral, and there the reconciliation took place.—Esmond had formerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancy occurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had given it to one Mr. Tusher.

TheRhine is running deep and red, the island lies before,—"Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er?For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail;The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail.God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win!Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?""The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lieswide;Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side.See there! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam;They've flung their bridge,—they've won the isle; the foe havecross'd the stream!Their volley flashes sharp and strong,—by all the saints! I trowThere never yet was soldier born could force that passage now!"So spoke the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van,Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran.Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollenRhine,And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line.Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword,And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain'sword."I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there;I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare.If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true?There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too."The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said,"Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead?Thou art the leader of the Scots,—now well and sure I know,That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold norslow,And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may:If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day,—The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way,And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see,—Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee!"Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say,But he turn'd him to his little band,—O, few, I ween, were they!The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray.No one of all that company but bore a gentle name,Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame.All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought andfell,And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well:And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim,As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn;And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on eithersideTo pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropp'd anddied;And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta'en a last farewellOf Scottish earth and Scottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell.Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men,Who leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again."The stream," he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn isthe foe,—Yon island-strength is guarded well,—say, brothers, will ye go?From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'dwide,And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside.No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall;The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all.But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will anddareAs when our ancient banners flew within the northern air.Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your soulsagain,And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heartand vein.Call back the days of bygone years,—be young and strong oncemore;Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'dbefore.Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,—Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand!Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring;Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!'Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn?The soul of Græme is with us still,—now, brothers, will ye in?"No stay,—no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other'shand,Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band.High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still theybore,Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, andcannon-roar,—"Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began,Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd theflame:The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd,With thousand armèd foes before, and none behind to aid.Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrentswept,That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footingkept.Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before:"The current's strong,—the way is long,—they'll never reachthe shore!See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them inthe Rhine!"Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is soundingshrill,And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill?How they toss their mighty branches struggling with theshock;How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to therock?Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river;Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen toquiver;Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd hishold;For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughtsof old.One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks itspread,—"Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said.Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle.The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;The German foot goes seldom back where armèd foemen throng.But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before,And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine,—Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came theScottish bandRight up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand.In vain their leaders forward press,—they meet the deadlybrand!O lonely island of the Rhine,—where seed was never sown,What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling throughthe rain,She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, andplain?A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glisteninground;A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound;And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quiveringglareTo tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought sowell?And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those whofell?What meed of thanks was given to them let agèd annals tell.Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,—why crown the cupwith wine?It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on theRhine,—A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed:The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed.And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince andpeer?What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondlyswear,That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can neverheal,—The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might seeagain,—For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch andglen—For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea,Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuousfloodHas ta'en another name from those who bought it with theirblood:And, though the legend does not live,—for legends lightly die—The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by,And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spotWon by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deepand dangerous fordThe Passage of the Scot.

TheRhine is running deep and red, the island lies before,—"Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er?For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail;The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail.God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win!Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?"

"The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lieswide;Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side.See there! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam;They've flung their bridge,—they've won the isle; the foe havecross'd the stream!Their volley flashes sharp and strong,—by all the saints! I trowThere never yet was soldier born could force that passage now!"

So spoke the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van,Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran.Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollenRhine,And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line.Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword,And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain'sword."I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there;I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare.If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true?There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too."

The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said,"Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead?Thou art the leader of the Scots,—now well and sure I know,That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold norslow,And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may:If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day,—The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way,And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see,—Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee!"

Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say,But he turn'd him to his little band,—O, few, I ween, were they!The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray.No one of all that company but bore a gentle name,Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame.All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought andfell,And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well:And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim,As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn;And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on eithersideTo pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropp'd anddied;And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta'en a last farewellOf Scottish earth and Scottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell.Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men,Who leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again.

"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn isthe foe,—Yon island-strength is guarded well,—say, brothers, will ye go?From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'dwide,And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside.No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall;The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all.But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will anddareAs when our ancient banners flew within the northern air.Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your soulsagain,And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heartand vein.Call back the days of bygone years,—be young and strong oncemore;Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'dbefore.Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,—Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand!Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring;Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!'Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn?The soul of Græme is with us still,—now, brothers, will ye in?"

No stay,—no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other'shand,Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band.High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still theybore,Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, andcannon-roar,—"Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began,Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"

Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd theflame:The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd,With thousand armèd foes before, and none behind to aid.Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrentswept,That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footingkept.Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before:"The current's strong,—the way is long,—they'll never reachthe shore!See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them inthe Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is soundingshrill,And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill?How they toss their mighty branches struggling with theshock;How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to therock?Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river;Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen toquiver;Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd hishold;For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughtsof old.One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks itspread,—"Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said.Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle.

The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;The German foot goes seldom back where armèd foemen throng.But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before,And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine,—Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came theScottish bandRight up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand.In vain their leaders forward press,—they meet the deadlybrand!

O lonely island of the Rhine,—where seed was never sown,What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling throughthe rain,She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, andplain?A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glisteninground;A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound;And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quiveringglareTo tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought sowell?And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those whofell?What meed of thanks was given to them let agèd annals tell.Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,—why crown the cupwith wine?It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on theRhine,—A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed:The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed.And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince andpeer?What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer?What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondlyswear,That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere?They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can neverheal,—The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might seeagain,—For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch andglen—For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea,Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!

Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuousfloodHas ta'en another name from those who bought it with theirblood:And, though the legend does not live,—for legends lightly die—The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by,And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spotWon by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deepand dangerous fordThe Passage of the Scot.

Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies.Lord Houghton.—1809-1885.

Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies.

Lord Houghton.—1809-1885.

Theyoung Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, "Take this to the Duke"; or asking the attendant, "whether his Grace would try the Hermitage?"After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down toécarté. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching theBaron's elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for at present his resources were unimpared, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring great trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured: we use the word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons: he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter.They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at teno'clock, owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Duke made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten thousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; then thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious.Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow-beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyena's. The Baron was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat.On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us say, at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been the exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible? it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonored his ancestry, as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet air.He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire toplay no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated, "Pay us when we meet again," he said, "I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion."He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on withits leaden pace; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept.

Theyoung Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, "Take this to the Duke"; or asking the attendant, "whether his Grace would try the Hermitage?"

After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down toécarté. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching theBaron's elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.

Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for at present his resources were unimpared, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring great trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured: we use the word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons: he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter.

They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at teno'clock, owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.

They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Duke made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten thousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; then thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.

At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.

On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious.

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow-beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyena's. The Baron was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat.

On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.

Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us say, at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been the exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible? it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonored his ancestry, as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet air.

He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire toplay no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.

The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated, "Pay us when we meet again," he said, "I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion."

He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on withits leaden pace; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept.

"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had been done ample justice to; "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.""Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen."Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer."You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle."Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I—I—amratherout of practice.""Oh,doskate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much.""Oh, it issograceful," said another young lady.A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like.""I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates."This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs: whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel.All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet."Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and show 'em how to do it.""Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!""Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice."These—these—are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering."I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam."Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety.""Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming.""Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off!""Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.""Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller."Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam.""You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller."Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There—that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast."Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank:"Sam!""Sir?""Here. I want you.""Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Let go, sir."With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance."Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety."Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard."I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness."No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly."I really think you had better," said Allen."Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not.""What doyouthink, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off.""No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle."Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence."Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:"You're a humbug, sir.""A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting."A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying."It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice."Ah, it does indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?""I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr. Pickwick."Try it now," said Wardle."Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies."I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years.""Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here; I'll keep you company; come along!" And away went the good tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators."Keep the pot a bilin', sir!" said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, followingclosely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor: his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and enthusiasm that nothing could abate.The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned pale, and the females fainted,Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness: while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might.It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice—it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick."Keep yourself up for an instant—for only one instant!" bawled Mr. Snodgrass."Yes, do; let me implore you—for my sake!" roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own."Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle."Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first."The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land."Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily."Dear old thing!" said Arabella. "Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick.""Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said Wardle; "and when you've got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly."A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller: presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire—a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colors to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in his room, and took up his dinner, and afterwards a great rejoicing was held in honor of his safety.

"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had been done ample justice to; "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time."

"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.

"Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I—I—amratherout of practice."

"Oh,doskate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."

"Oh, it issograceful," said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like."

"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates."

This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs: whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and show 'em how to do it."

"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!"

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

"These—these—are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

"I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.

"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety."

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."

"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off!"

"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam."

"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam."

"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There—that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast."

Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank:

"Sam!"

"Sir?"

"Here. I want you."

"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Let go, sir."

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

"I really think you had better," said Allen.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not."

"What doyouthink, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off."

"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence.

"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:

"You're a humbug, sir."

"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.

"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."

With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.

"It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.

"Ah, it does indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"

"I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr. Pickwick.

"Try it now," said Wardle.

"Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies.

"I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years."

"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here; I'll keep you company; come along!" And away went the good tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.

"Keep the pot a bilin', sir!" said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, followingclosely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor: his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and enthusiasm that nothing could abate.

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned pale, and the females fainted,Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness: while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might.

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice—it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.

"Keep yourself up for an instant—for only one instant!" bawled Mr. Snodgrass.

"Yes, do; let me implore you—for my sake!" roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own.

"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle.

"Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first."

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land.

"Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily.

"Dear old thing!" said Arabella. "Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick."

"Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said Wardle; "and when you've got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly."

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller: presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire—a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colors to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in his room, and took up his dinner, and afterwards a great rejoicing was held in honor of his safety.

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