Chapter THE FOURTH (1)

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS
FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE.

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port, which suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him; the probability being, that the skipper would either flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or knock his brains out with an iron bar,--both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.

Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission, when he encountered just at the gate no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity; his step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and shook him cordially by the hand.

"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker.

"You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a friendly manner, with his cane.

"Think so?" the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble."

"So are the coffins," replied the beadle, with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought to be, and laughed a long time without cessation, "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron bundles come by canal from Birmingham."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks, and a fair profit is of course allowable."

"Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long run, you see--he! he! he!"

"Just so," said Mr. Bumble.

"Though I must say,"--continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted,--"though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage, which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest--I mean that the people who have been better off; and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a family to provide for, sir."

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject; and Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

"By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you--a porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight,--a millstone, as I may say--round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry--liberal terms;"--and, as Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds," which were printed therein in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

"Gadso!" said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know--dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble; I never noticed it before."

"Yes, I think it is rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the parochial seal,--the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on New-year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight."

"I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought in 'Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,'--didn't they?"

Mr. Bumble nodded.

"And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had----"

"Tush--foolery!" interposed the beadle angrily. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do."

"Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed."

"Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion,--"juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches."

"So they are," said the undertaker.

"They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

"No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker.

"I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

"So do I," rejoined the undertaker.

"And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for them."

"Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked-hat, took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked-hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice,

"Well, what about the boy?"

"Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates."

"Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?"

"Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so--and so--I think I'll take the boy myself."

Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes, and then it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking,"--a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food in him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's, and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much, and was in a fair way of being reduced to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness for life, by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination in perfect silence, and, having had his luggage put into his hand,--which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep,--he pulled his cap over his eyes, and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

For some time Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark, for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should; and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master, which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.

"Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble.

"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

"Pull that cap off of your eyes, and hold up your head, sir."

Although Oliver did as he was desired at once, and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one; and, withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's, he covered his face with both, and wept till the tears sprung out from between his thin and bony fingers.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity,--"well, of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the----"

"No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed, I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so--so--"

"So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

"So lonely, sir--so very lonely," cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't be cross to me. I feel as if I had been cut here, sir, and it was all bleeding away;" and the child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into his companion's face with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look with some astonishment for a few seconds, hemmed three or four times in a husky manner, and, after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bid Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy; and, once more taking his hand, walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker had just put up the shutters of his shop, and was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriately dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

"Aha!" said the undertaker, looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?"

"No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here, I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow.

"Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a full glimpse of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry! will you come here a moment, my dear?"

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

"My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again.

"Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small."

"Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he wasn't bigger; "he is small,--there's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry,--he'll grow."

"Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals, and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth: however, men always think they know best. There, get down stairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "the kitchen," wherein sat a slatternly girl in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

"Here, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip: he hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say he isn't too dainty to eat 'em,--are you, boy?"

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him, whose blood is ice, and whose heart is iron, could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected, and witnessed the horrible avidity with which he tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine:--there is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see him making the same sort of meal himself with the same relish.

"Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite, "have you done?"

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

"Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way up stairs; "your bed's under the counter. You won't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose?--but it doesn't much matter whether you will or not, for you won't sleep any where else. Come; don't keep me here, all night."

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

A REMNANT OF THE TIME OF IZAAK WALTON.
VENATOR, AMATOR, EBRIOLUS.

_Venator._
Good morrow, good morrow! say whither ye go,--
To the chase above, or the woods below?
Brake and hollow their quarry hold,
Streams are bright with backs of gold:
'Twere shame to lose so fair a day,--
So, whither ye wend, my masters, say.

_Amator._
The dappled herd in peace may graze,
The fish fling back the sun's bright rays;
I bend no bow, I cast no line,
The chase of Love alone is mine.

_Ebriolus._
Your venison and pike
Ye may get as ye like,
They grace a board right well;
But the sport for my share
Is the chase of old Care,
When the wine-cup tolls his knell.

_Venator._
Give ye good-den, my masters twain,
I'll flout ye, when we meet again:
Sad lover, lay thee down and pine;
Go thou, and blink o'er thy noon-day wine;
I'll to the woods. Well may ye fare
With two such deer, as Love and Care.

THE "ORIGINAL" DRAGON.
A LEGEND OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE.

_Freely translated from an undeciphered MS. of Con-fuse-us,_[49] _and
dedicated to Colonel Bolsover, (of the Horse Marines,)
by C. J. Davids, Esq._

I.
A desperate dragon, of singular size,--
(His name was _Wing-Fang-Scratch-Claw-Fum_,)--
Flew up one day to the top of the skies,
While all the spectators with terror were dumb.
The vagabond vow'd, as he sported his tail,
He'd have a _sky lark_, and some glorious fun;
For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail,
By causing a _total eclipse of the sun_![50]
He collected a crowd by his impudent boast,
(Some decently dress'd--some with hardly a rag on,)
Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost,
Unless they could compass the death of the _dragon_.

II.
The emperor came with the whole of his court,--
(His majesty's name was _Ding-Dong-Junk_)--
And he said--to delight in such profligate sport,
The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk.
He call'd on the army: the troops to a man
Declar'd--though they didn't feel frighten'd the least--
They never could think it a sensible plan
To go within reach of so ugly a beast.
So he offer'd his daughter, the lovely _Nan-Keen_,
And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on,
To any brave knight who would step in between
The _solar eclipse_ and the dare-devil _dragon_.

III.
Presently came a reverend bonze,--
(His name, I'm told, was _Long-Chin-Joss_,)--
With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze;
And for suitable words he was quite at a loss.
But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox way
To succour the _sun_, and to bother the foe,
Was to make a new church-rate without more delay,
As the clerical funds were deplorably low.
Though he coveted nothing at all for himself,
(A virtue he always delighted to brag on,)
He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf,
It might hasten the doom of this impious _dragon_.

IV.
The next that spoke was the court buffoon,--
(The name of this buffer was _Whim-Wham-Fun_,)--
Who carried a salt-box, and large wooden spoon,
With which, he suggested, the job might be done.
Said the jester, "I'll wager my rattle and bells,
Your pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall:
If you make many more of your damnable yells,
I know a good method to make you sing small!"
And, when he had set all the place in a roar,
As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on,
He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore,
By putting some _salt_ on the _tail_ of the _dragon_!

V.
At length appear'd a brisk young knight,--
(The far-fam'd warrior, _Bam-Boo-Gong_,)--
Who threaten'd to burke the big blackguard outright,
And have the deed blazon'd in story and song.
With an excellent shot from a very _long bow_
He damag'd the dragon by cracking his crown;
When he fell to the ground (as my documents show)
With a smash that was heard many miles out of town.
His death was the signal for frolic and spree--
They carried the corpse in a common stage-waggon;
And the hero was crown'd with the leaves of green tea,
For saving the _sun_ from the jaws of the _dragon_.

VI.
A poet, whose works were all the rage,--
(This gentleman's name was _Sing-Song-Strum_,)--
Told the terrible tale on his popular page:
(Compar'd with _his_ verses, _my_ rhymes are but rum!)
The Royal Society claim'd, as their right,
The spoils of the vanquish'd--his wings, tail, and claws;
And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight,
Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause.
"The valiant _Bam-Boo_" was a favourite toast,
And a topic for future historians to fag on,
Which, when it had reach'd to the Middlesex coast,
Gave rise to the legend of "_George and the Dragon_."

[49] "Better know to illiterate people as _Confucius_."
--WASHINGTON IRVING.

[50] In _China_ (whatever European astronomers may assert to the
contrary) an _eclipse_ is caused by a _great dragon
eating up the sun_.

To avert so shocking an outrage, the natives frighten away the monster from his intended _hot_ dinner, by giving a morning concert, _al fresco_; consisting of drums, trumpets, cymbals, gongs, tin-kettles, &c.

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF BEAUMARCHAIS.
BY GEORGE HOGARTH.

M. de Beaumarchais, the celebrated French dramatist, was one of the most remarkable men of his time, though his fame now rests in a great measure on his two comedies, _Le Barbier de Seville_, and _Le Mariage de Figaro_; and even these titles are now-a-days much more generally associated with the names of Rossini and Mozart, than with that of Beaumarchais. Few comedies, however, have been more popular on the French stage than these delightful productions. The character of Susanna was the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the fascinating Mademoiselle Contat; and has preserved its attractions, almost down to the present time, in the hands of her evergreen successor, the inimitable Mars. The Count and Countess Almaviva, Susanna, Figaro, and Cherubino, have now become the property of Italian singers; and, in this musical age, even the French public have been content to give up the wit, satire, point, and playfulness of the original comedies, for those meagre outlines which have been made the vehicles for the most charming dramatic music in the world. Not that _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_ and _Le Nozze di Figaro_ are not lively and amusing, considered as operas; but the _vis comica_ of Beaumarchais has almost entirely evaporated in the process of transmutation.

None of the other dramatic works of Beaumarchais are comparable to these. Some of them bear marks of immature genius; and his last play, _La Mère Coupable_, the conclusion of the history of the Almaviva family, was written after a long interval, and when advanced age, and a life of cares and troubles, appear to have extinguished the author's gaiety, and changed the tone of his feelings. The play is written with power, but it is gloomy, and even tragical; succeeding its lively and brilliant precursors as a sunset of clouds and darkness closes a bright and smiling day. It painfully disturbs the agreeable associations produced by the names of its characters; and, for the sake of these associations, every one who reads it must wish to forget it.

But it is not so much to the writings of Beaumarchais, as to himself, that we wish at present to direct the attention of our readers. His life was anything but that of a man of letters. He possessed extraordinary talents for affairs; and, during his whole life, was deeply engaged in important pursuits both of a private and public nature. Extensive commercial enterprises, lawsuits of singular complication, and missions of great moment as a political agent, withdrew him from the walks of literature, and probably prevented him (as one of his biographers has remarked) from enriching the French stage with twenty dramatic masterpieces, instead of two or three. In this respect he resembled our Sheridan, as well as in the character of his genius; for we know of no plays that are more akin to each other, in many remarkable features, than _The School for Scandal_ and _Le Mariage de Figaro_.

It is a remarkable circumstance in the history of Beaumarchais, that a considerable portion of his literary fame was derived from a species of composition from which anything of the kind could hardly have been expected,--the pleadings, or law-papers, in the various causes in which he was involved. The proceedings in the French parliaments, or high courts of justice, were totally different from those with which we are acquainted in England; though they were similar to those which were practised in the Scottish court of session, (a tribunal formed on the French model,) before that court came in for its share in the general progress of reform. There were no juries; the proceedings were conducted under the direction of a single judge, whose business it was to prepare the cause for decision, and then to make a report upon it to the whole court, by whom the judgment was given. A favourable view of the case from the reporting judge was, of course, an object of much importance; and the most urgent solicitations by the litigants and their friends--nay, even bribes--were often employed to obtain it. A charge against Beaumarchais,--a groundless one, however,--of having attempted to bribe the wife of one of these judges, exposed him to a long and violent persecution. Among his enemies were men of rank and power; the grossest calumnies against him were circulated in the highest quarters, and countenanced by the court in which he was a litigant; the bar became afraid to support him, and he could no longer find an advocate. In these forlorn circumstances the energy of his character did not abandon him, and he resolved to become his own advocate.

The pleadings in the French courts of those days were all written. The cause was debated in _mémoires_, or memorials, in which the pleas of the parties were stated without any of our technical formality. Law, logic, eloquence, pathos, and sarcasm, were all employed, in whatever way the pleader thought most advantageous. The paper was printed and distributed, not only among the judges, but among the friends and connexions of the parties; and when the case excited much interest, the distribution was often so extensive as almost to amount to publication. Beaumarchais, deserted by his former advocates, began to compose his own memorials, to which he found means to obtain the mere signature of some member of the bar. In this manner he fought a long and desperate battle, in which, after some severe reverses, (one of which was the burning of a series of his memorials by the common hangman, pursuant to a sentence of the court,) he at length achieved a complete and signal victory over all his enemies, whom he not only defeated on the immediate subjects of dispute, but overwhelmed with universal ridicule and contempt.

In the mean time these _mémoires_ produced an extraordinary sensation throughout France. When a new one appeared, it flew from hand to hand like lightning. The causes in which Beaumarchais was involved were so interesting in themselves, and connected with such strange occurrences, that, had they belonged to the period of the _Causes Célèbres_, they would have made a remarkable figure in that famous collection. Their interest was increased a thousand-fold by the memorials of Beaumarchais. "The genius," says a French writer, "with which they are marked, the originality of the style, the dramatic form of the narrative, mingled with fine bursts of eloquence, keep the attention always awake; while the logical clearness of the reasoning, and the art of accompanying every statement of facts with striking and conclusive evidence, lay hold of the mind, and interest and instruct, without fatiguing the reader. But their most remarkable feature is the noble firmness of mind which they display; the serenity of a lofty spirit which the most terrible and unforeseen reverses were unable to subdue or intimidate; the stamp, in short, of a great character which is impressed upon them." These writings of Beaumarchais are spoken of in terms of admiration by the most eminent literati of that day, especially by Voltaire, in many parts of his correspondence; they attracted the notice of the government, and procured for their author several political missions, the results of which had no small influence on the public affairs of the time.

We have given this sketch of the character of Beaumarchais by way of introduction to an account of a remarkable incident of his life, taken from one of those extraordinary productions. Among other calumnies, he had been charged, at one time with a series of atrocities committed in Spain ten years before; and, among other things, with having endeavoured to bully a Spanish gentleman into a marriage with his sister, whom that gentleman had kept as a mistress; and it was added that he had been expelled from Spain in disgrace. In one of his _mémoires_ he answers these accusations, by giving a narrative of his residence in Spain during the period in question. It is a leaf of "the romance of real life," and the interest of the story is heightened by the conviction of its entire truth; for every fact is confirmed by evidence, and the smallest incorrectness, as the writer knew, would be laid hold of by his enemies. Goethe, it is not immaterial to add, has made it the subject of his tragedy of _Clavijo_, the characters of which consist of Beaumarchais himself, and the other persons introduced into his narrative; though the great German dramatist has taken some poetical liberties with the story, especially in its tragical catastrophe.

The following narrative is a _condensation_ of the original, which contains minute details and pieces of evidence, of great importance to M. de Beaumarchais' object at the time,--a conclusive vindication of his character, but not at all conducive to the interest of the story.

"For some years I had enjoyed the happiness of living in the bosom of my family; and our domestic union consoled me for all I suffered through the malice of my enemies. I had five sisters. Two of them had been committed by my father, at a very early age, to the care of one of his correspondents in Spain, so that I had only that faint but pleasant remembrance of them which is associated with our days of childhood. This remembrance, however, was kept alive by frequent correspondence.

"In February 1764, my father received from his eldest daughter a letter of very painful import. 'My sister,' she wrote, 'has been grossly abused by a powerful and dangerous man. Twice, when on the point of marrying her, he has broken his word, and withdrawn without condescending to assign any reason for his conduct; and my poor sister's wounded feelings have thrown her into a state of depression from which we have faint hopes of her recovery. For these six days she has not spoken a word. Under this unmerited stigma, we are living in the deepest retirement. I weep night and day, and endeavour to offer the unhappy girl comfort which I cannot find myself.'

"My father put his daughter's letter into my hands, 'Try, my son,' he said, 'what you can do for these poor girls. They are your sisters as well as the others.'

"'Alas, my dear father,' I said, 'what can I do for them? What assistance shall I ask? Who knows but they may have brought this disgrace upon themselves by some fault of their own?'

"My father showed me some letters from our ambassador to my elder sister, in which he spoke of both of them in terms of the highest esteem. I read these letters. They gave me courage; and my father's phrase, 'They are your sisters as well as the others,' had sunk into my heart. 'Console yourself,' I said to him, 'I am going to adopt a course that may surprise you; but it appears to me the surest and the most prudent. My eldest sister mentions several respectable persons in Paris who can give testimony to the good conduct and virtue of her sister. I will see them; and if their testimony is as honourable as that of our ambassador, I shall instantly set out for Madrid, and either punish the traitor who has outraged them, or bring them back with me to share my humble fortune.'

"My inquiries were completely satisfactory. I immediately returned to Versailles, and informed my august patronesses,[51] that business, no less painful than urgent, demanded my immediate presence at Madrid. I showed them my sister's letter, and received their permission to depart, in terms of the kindest encouragement. My preparations were soon made, as I dreaded that I might not arrive in time to save my poor sister's life. I obtained the strongest letters of recommendation to our ambassador at Madrid; and my ancient friend, M. Duvernay, gave me a credit on himself to the amount of two hundred thousand francs, to enable me to transact a piece of commercial business, and at the same time to increase my personal consideration. I was accompanied by one of my friends, a merchant, who had some business in Spain; but who went also partly on my account.

"We travelled day and night, and arrived in Madrid on the 18th of May 1764. I had been expected for some days, and found my sisters in the midst of their friends. As soon as the feelings, caused by a meeting between a brother and his sisters, so long separated, and seeing each other once more under such circumstances, had subsided, I earnestly conjured them to give me an exact account of all that had happened, in order that I might be able to serve them effectually. The story was long and minute. When I had heard it to an end, I embraced my young sister:

"'Now that know all, my dear girl,' I said, 'keep your mind at ease. I am delighted to see that you no longer love this man, and my part is all the easier on that account. All that I want now, is to know where I can find him.'

"Our friends began eagerly to advise me to go, first of all, to Aranjuez, and wait upon the French ambassador, in order to obtain his protection against a man whose official situation gave him so much influence with people in power. But I had made up my mind to follow a different course; and, without giving any intimation of my intention, I merely begged that my arrival might be kept a secret till my return from Aranjuez.

"I immediately changed my travelling dress, and found my way to the residence of Don Joseph Clavijo, keeper of the archives of the crown. He was from home, but I went in search of him; and it was in the drawing-room of a lady whom he had gone to visit that I told him, that, having just arrived from France, and being intrusted with some commissions for him, I was anxious to have an interview with him as soon as possible. He asked me to breakfast the following morning; and I accepted the invitation for myself and the French merchant who was along with me.

"Next morning, I was with him at half-past eight o'clock. I found him in a splendid house, which, he said, belonged to Don Antonio Portugues, the highly-respected head of one of the government offices, and so much his friend, that in his absence he used the house as if it were his own.

"'I am commissioned, sir,' I began, 'by a society of men of letters, to establish, in the different towns which I visit, a literary correspondence with the most distinguished men of the place; and I am sure that I cannot serve my friends more effectually than by opening a correspondence between them and the distinguished author of the papers published under the title of the '_Pensador_'.[52]

"He seemed delighted with the proposal. That I might the better know my man, I allowed him to expatiate on the advantages which different countries might derive from this kind of literary intercourse. His manner became quite affectionate; he talked like on oracle; and was all smiles and self-satisfaction. At last he bethought himself of asking what business of my own had brought me to Spain, politely expressing his wish to be of service to me.

"'I accept,' I said, 'your kind offers with much gratitude, and assure you, sir, that I shall explain my business very openly.'

"With the view of throwing him into a state of perplexity in which I intended him to remain till it should be cleared up by the conclusion of what I had to say, I again introduced my friend to him, telling him that the gentleman was not unacquainted with the matter, and that his presence would do no harm. At this exordium, Clavijo turned his eyes on my friend with an air of curiosity. I began:

"'A French merchant, who had a numerous family and a narrow fortune, had several correspondents in Spain. One of the richest of them, happening to be at Paris nine or ten years ago, proposed to adopt two of his daughters. He would take them, he said, to Madrid; he was an old bachelor; they should be to him as children, and be the comfort of his old age; and after his death they should succeed to his mercantile establishment. The two eldest daughters were committed to his care. Two years afterwards he died, leaving the Frenchwomen without any other advantage than the burden of carrying on an embarrassed commercial house. Their good conduct, however, and amiable qualities, gained them many friends, who exerted themselves to increase their credit and improve their circumstances.'

"I observed Clavijo become very attentive.

"'About this time, a young man, a native of the Canaries, got an introduction to their house.'

"Clavijo's gaiety of countenance vanished.

"'Anxious to make himself known, this young gentleman conceived the idea of giving Madrid a pleasure of a novel description in Spain, by establishing a periodical paper in the style of the English _Spectator_. He received encouragement and assistance, and nobody doubted that his undertaking would be fully successful. It was then that, animated by the hope of reputation and fortune, he made a proposal of marriage to the younger of the French ladies. The elder told him, that he should first endeavour to succeed in the world; and that as soon as some regular employment, or other means of honourable subsistence, should give him a right to think of her sister, her consent, if he gained her sister's affections, should not be wanting.'

"He became restless and agitated. Without seeming to notice his manner, I went on.

"'The younger sister, touched by her admirer's merit, refused several advantageous proposals; and, preferring to wait till he who had loved her, for four years, should realise the hopes which he and his friends entertained, encouraged him to publish the first number of his journal under the imposing title of the _Pensador_.'

"Clavijo looked as if he were going to faint.

"'The work,' I continued with the utmost coldness, 'had a prodigious success. The king, delighted with so charming a production, gave the author public marks of favour; and he was promised the first honourable employment that should be vacant. He then removed, by an open prosecution of his suit, every other person who had sought my sister's hand. The marriage was delayed only till the promised post should be obtained. At six months' end the post made its appearance, but the man vanished.'

"Here my listener heaved an involuntary sigh, and, perceiving what he had done, reddened with confusion. I went on without interruption.

"'The matter had gone too far to be allowed to drop in this manner. A suitable house had been taken; the bans had been published. The common friends of the parties were indignant at such an outrage; the ambassador of France interfered; and when this man saw that the French ladies had protectors whose influence might be greater than his own, and might even destroy his opening prospects, he returned to throw himself at the feet of his offended mistress. He got her friends to intercede for him; and as the anger of a forsaken woman has generally love at the bottom, a reconciliation soon took place. The marriage preparations were resumed; the bans were re-published; the ceremony was to take place in three days. The reconciliation had made as much noise as the rupture. The lover set out for St. Ildefonso to ask the minister's consent to his marriage; entreating his friends to preserve for him till his return the now precarious affection of his mistress, and to arrange everything for the immediate performance of the ceremony.'

"In the horrible state into which he was thrown by this recital, but yet uncertain whether I might not be telling a story in which I had no personal interest, Clavijo from time to time fixed his eyes on my friend, whose _sangfroid_ was no less puzzling than mine. I now looked him steadily in the face, and went on in a sterner tone.

"'Two days afterwards he returned indeed from court; but, instead of leading his victim to the altar, he sent word to the poor girl that he had once more changed his mind, and would not marry her. Her indignant friends hastened to his house. The villain no longer kept any measures with them, but defied them to hurt him, telling them that if the Frenchwomen were disposed to give him any trouble, they had better take care of themselves. On hearing this intelligence, the young woman fell into convulsions so violent, that her life was long despaired of. In the midst of their desolation, the elder wrote to France an account of the public affront that they had received. They had a brother, who, deeply moved by the story, flew to Madrid, determined to investigate the affair to the bottom. _I_ am that brother. _It is I_ who have left everything--my country, my family, my duties--to avenge in Spain the cause of an innocent and unhappy sister. _It is I_ who come, armed with justice and resolution, to unmask and punish a villain; and _it is you_ who are that villain.'

"It is easier to imagine than describe the appearance of this man by the time I had concluded my speech. His mouth opened from time to time, and inarticulate sounds died away on his tongue. His countenance, at first so radiant with complacency and satisfaction, gradually darkened; his eyes became dim, his features lengthened, his complexion pale and haggard.

"He tried to stammer out some phrases by way of justification. 'Do not interrupt me, sir,' I said; 'you have nothing to say to me, and much to hear from me. In the first place, have the goodness to declare before this gentleman, who has accompanied me from France on account of this very business, whether, owing to any want of faith, levity, weakness, ill-temper, or any other fault, my sister has deserved the double outrage she has received from you.'

"'No, sir; I acknowledge Donna Maria, your sister, to be a young lady full of charms, accomplishments, and virtues.'

"'Has she ever, since you have known her, given you any ground of complaint?'

"'No, never.'

"'Well, then, monster that you are! why have you had the barbarity to bring a poor girl to death's door, merely because her heart gave you the preference over half a dozen other persons more respectable and better than you?'

"'Ah, sir, I have been advised, instigated: if you knew----'

"I interrupted him: 'That is quite sufficient,' I said. Then, turning to my friend, 'You have heard my sister's justification; pray go, and make it known. What I have further to say to this gentleman requires no witness.'

"My friend left the room. Clavijo rose, but I made him resume his seat.

"'It does not suit my views, any more than yours, that you should marry my sister; and you are probably aware that I am not come here to play the brother's part in a comedy, who desires to bring about his sister's happiness, as it is called. You have thought fit to insult a respectable young woman, because you thought her friendless in a strange land; your conduct has been base and dishonourable. You will please, therefore, to begin by acknowledging, under your hand, at perfect freedom, with all your doors open and all your domestics in the room, (who will not understand us, as we shall speak French,) that you have causelessly deceived, betrayed, insulted my sister. With this declaration in my hand I shall hasten to Aranjuez, where our ambassador is; I shall show him the paper, and then have it printed; to-morrow it shall be abundantly circulated through the court and the city. I have some credit here--I have time and money; all shall be employed to deprive you of your place, and to pursue you without respite, and in every possible way, till my sister herself shall entreat me to forbear.'

"'I shall make no such declaration,' said Clavijo, almost inarticulate from agitation.

"'I dare say not, for I don't think, were I in your place, that I should do so myself. But you must consider the other alternative. From this moment I remain at your elbow. I will not leave you a moment. Wherever you go, I will go, till you shall have no other way of getting rid of so troublesome a neighbour but by going with me behind the Palace of Buen Retiro. If I am the survivor, sir, without even seeing the ambassador, or speaking to a single soul here, I shall take my dying sister in my arms, put her in my carriage, and return with her to France. If the luck is yours, all is ended with me. You will then be at liberty to enjoy your triumph, and laugh at your dupes as much as you please. Will you have the goodness to order breakfast.'

"I rose, and rang the bell; a servant brought in breakfast. I took my cup of chocolate, while Clavijo, in deep thought, walked about the room. At length he seemed all at once to form a resolution.

"'M. de Beaumarchais,' he said, 'hear me. Nothing on earth can justify my conduct towards your sister; ambition has been my ruin; but if I had imagined that Donna Maria had a brother like you, far from looking upon her as a stranger without friends or connexions, I should have anticipated the greatest advantages from our union. You have inspired me with the greatest esteem; and I throw myself on your generosity, beseeching you to assist me in redressing, as far as I am able, the injuries I have done your sister. Restore her to me, sir; and I shall esteem myself too happy in receiving, from your hands, my wife and forgiveness of my offences.'

"'It is too late,' I replied; 'my sister no longer loves you. Write a declaration,--that is all I require of you; and be satisfied that, as an open enemy, I will avenge my sister's wrongs till her own resentment is appeased.'

"He made many difficulties; objecting to the style in which I demanded his declaration; to its being all in his hand-writing; and to my insisting that the domestics should be in the room while he was writing it. But the alternative was pressing, and he had probably some lurking hope of regaining the affections of the woman who had loved him so long. His pride, therefore, gave way; and he submitted to write the declaration, which I dictated to him, walking about the room. It contained an ample testimony to the blameless character of my sister, and an acknowledgment of his causeless treachery towards her.

"When he had written and signed the paper, I put it in my pocket, and took my leave, repeating what I had said, as to the use I meant to make of it. He besought me, at least, to tell my sister of the marks of sincere repentance he had exhibited; and I promised to do so.

"My friend's return before me, to my sister's, had produced great alarm in the little circle that were waiting for us. I found the females in tears, and the men very uneasy. But when they heard my account of my interview, and saw the declaration, the general anxiety was turned into joy and congratulation. Every one was of a different opinion: some insisted on ruining Clavijo; others were inclined to forgive him; and others, again, were for leaving everything to my prudence. My sister entreated that she might never hear of him more. I resolved to go to Aranjuez and lay the whole affair before the Marquis D'Ossun, our ambassador.

"Before setting out, I wrote to Clavijo, telling him that my sister would not hear a word in his favour, and that I was therefore determined to adhere to my intention of doing all I could to avenge her injuries. He begged to see me; and I went without hesitation to his house. His language was full of the most bitter self-reproach; and, after many earnest entreaties, he obtained my permission to visit my elder sister, accompanied by a mutual friend, and my promise, in case he should fail in obtaining forgiveness, not to publish his dishonour till after my return from Aranjuez.

"The Marquis D'Ossun received me very kindly. I told him my story, concluding with an account of my meeting with Clavijo, which he could hardly credit, till I showed him the declaration. He asked me what were my views--did I desire to make Clavijo marry my sister?--'No, my lord, my object is to disgrace him publicly.' The Marquis dissuaded me from proceeding to extremities. Clavijo, he said, was a rising man, and evidently in the way of great advancement; ambition had alienated him from my sister; but ambition, repentance, or affection, seemed to be bringing him back; all things considered, Clavijo seemed an advantageous match, and the wisest thing I could do was to get the marriage celebrated immediately. He hinted further, that, by following his advice, I should do him a pleasure, for reasons which he could not explain.

"I returned to Madrid, much troubled by the result of this conference. On arriving at my sister's, I found that Clavijo had been there, accompanied by some mutual friends, in order to beseech my sisters to forgive him. Maria, on his appearance, had fled to her own room, and would not appear; and I was told he had conceived hopes from this little ebullition of resentment. I concluded, for my part, that he was well acquainted with woman, whose soft and tender nature, however deeply she may have been injured, is always prone to pardon the repentant lover whom she sees kneeling at her feet.

"After my return from Aranjuez, Clavijo found means to see me every day. I was delighted with his talents and attainments, and, above all, with the manly confidence he appeared to have in my mediation. I was sincerely desirous to favour his suit; but the profound respect which my poor sister had for my judgment rendered me very circumspect in regard to her. It was her happiness, and not her fortune, that I wished to secure; her heart, and not her hand, that I wished to dispose of.

"On the 25th of May, Clavijo suddenly left the house of M. Portugues, and retired to the house of an officer of his acquaintance, in the quarters of the invalids. This hasty move appeared somewhat singular, though it did not, at the moment, give me any uneasiness. I went to see him: he explained his precipitate retreat by saying that, as M. Portugues was very much opposed to his marriage, he thought he could not give me a better proof of his sincerity than by leaving the house of so powerful an enemy of my sister. This appeared probable, and I felt obliged to him for so delicate a proceeding.

"Next day I received a letter from him, breathing the utmost frankness, honour, and good feeling. He renewed his offer of marriage, if my sister would only forgive his past conduct. He protested the most devoted and unalterable love for her; and called upon me to perform my promise of interceding for him. If it were possible for him, he said, to leave Madrid without an express order from the head of his department, he would instantly set out for Aranjuez to obtain that minister's consent to the marriage: he therefore begged that I would undertake that matter for him; and said that my prompt compliance would be the most convincing proof of my sincere good wishes.

"I read this letter to my sisters; Maria burst into tears. I embraced her tenderly. 'Well, poor child, you love him after all; and are mightily ashamed of it, no doubt! I see it all; but never mind--you are a good excellent girl, notwithstanding; and since your resentment is dying away, let it be extinguished altogether in the tears of forgiveness. They are sweet and soothing after tears of grief and anger. He is a sad fellow, this Clavijo, to be sure, like most men; but, such as he is, I join our worthy ambassador in advising you to forgive him. For his own sake, perhaps,' I added, laughing, 'I might have been as well pleased had he fought me; for yours, I am much better pleased that he has not.'