Chapter II: Part 2

We need hardly stop to explain that Ben saw Miss Alken on the day of his return; but he was alarmed to see how unwell she looked. There was a dark, swollen look about her eyes, which seemed to tell of weeping or sleeplessness. But she smiled when he spoke of it, and declared she was quite well. Ben was only half satisfied, and decided that she required a change, that her duties were too heavy for her, and therefore—as the new partner had come—she had better give in her notice to the school; and he would arrange for their marriage, so that the desired change of air and the release from her duties would be at once secured. This he determined should not be delayed; he would begin the very next day by mentioning the matter to Mr Showle.

Like nearly everybody in business there, Mr Creelock dined at a hotel; it saved trouble, and saved the expense of servants; the latter being no trifling item in Cincinnati. On the day after his return, he went at mid-day to the _Ocean House_, his favourite hotel, to dine. He took his seat at his accustomed table. The reader probably knows that it is the usual custom in the States for the hotels to be furnished with a number of small tables, accommodating from two to four persons each; and at one particular table in the _Ocean House_, Mr Ben was wont to seat himself. He took his usual place and began his dinner; as he did so, a stranger seated himself in the chair opposite to him. Ben glanced involuntarily at the new-comer; but the latter’s head was turned away, while speaking to an attendant, so Ben did not see his face. Being a matter of no consequence, he went on with his dinner, and the stranger proceeded with his meal.

In a little time, Ben had occasion for a sauce cruet, and reached out his hand mechanically to where it had been a moment before. The bottle was gone; but the stranger saw his movement, and with some indistinct syllables, pushed it towards him. Ben lifted his head and parted his lips to thank him, the stranger smiling pleasantly as Ben moved. But not a sound proceeded from the lips of the latter. Had he been struck suddenly dumb—had he gazed upon the head of the Gorgon, he could not have been more petrified by amazement, by terror, by a chaos of uncontrollable emotions; for the man before him, separated only by the breadth of the narrow table—the man into whose eyes he was looking straight and close—the man who was smiling pleasantly in anticipation of his thanks, was the man who had been his most implacable foe—was none other than the man whom he had last seen lying stark and apparently dead on the banks of a mining pool in Colorado—was Rube Steele!

There was no doubt about it; there was no room for speculating upon a strong accidental resemblance. The man was Rube Steele, his partner at the mine, and no one else.

‘I see you have the _New York Beacon_ there,’ said the stranger, nodding, with another easy smile, to the journal which Ben had been reading. ‘Your own paper, I reckon, as they do not keep it on file here. I should be much obliged, stranger, by a sight of it.’

Ben stretched his hand to the journal, and passed it to the speaker without removing his eyes from his face for an instant; and with the slightest gesture or change of position on the part of the stranger, perpetually recurred the thought: ‘Now he knows me! Now for the plunge!’ But the other moved not from his seat. He took the paper with another easy smile and nod, then, first saying a few words about the great heat of the weather, at once commenced its perusal.

It was worse than any horrible dream or nightmare under which Ben had ever suffered. The certainty that this pleasant civil stranger was Rube Steele, became stronger and stronger, for not only was his whole aspect and his every feature sufficient proof of his identity, but his voice alone would have been enough to convince Ben, had his face been wholly hidden. The tone and certain little peculiarities in his speech, of which every man has some—easily to be recognised by those who know him well, although indescribable in themselves—were there, just as Ben had heard and noticed them, hundreds of times in days gone by, in the voice and manner of his former partner. And yet—and yet he sat opposite to him now, smiling amicably, and without, so far as Ben could see, the faintest recognition of the man with whom he had lived so long in close intimacy—an intimacy which had found its end in a deadly struggle.

The meal was concluded leisurely, and apparently with complete satisfaction on the part of the stranger; but Ben had been unable to swallow a mouthful from the moment he recognised him. Then Rube—if Rube it were—rose, nodded civilly, bade him ‘good-evening,’ as is the western fashion, after early morning is past, and left. By an enormous effort, Ben, on his return to the store, mastered himself sufficiently to avoid questioning on the part of Mr Showle, who nevertheless told him that he was looking somewhat scared.

Ben turned the conversation from his looks, a diversion he was able to effect the more easily as Mr Showle was particularly anxious for him to come round to his house that evening to meet Mr Morede, the new partner, who was certain to be there, and who was most desirous of seeing Mr Creelock. ‘He wants,’ concluded the old merchant, ‘to hear all about the West and the mines. I thought he had once been there himself; but seems not, and he wants to hear all about them.’

Ben returned a dubious answer. He could not pledge himself to go to the merchant’s house that night, as he really felt too unwell. His nerves—articles of which he had not previously had the slightest idea that he was the possessor—had received such a shock, that he felt he was not fit for general company—that the slightest incident would jar and upset them.

He called at the house where Miss Alken boarded, to explain that he should not be at the merchant’s that night, for he knew she was going there; and when he saw her, he was struck by the increased haggardness of her aspect.

‘Say, Ruth, what is the matter?’ began Ben. ‘If you have heard no bad news, and have nothing to upset your mind, it is time we had Doctor Burt to see you; that is so.’

Miss Alken hesitated a moment, and then said: ‘Mr Creelock—well, Ben, then!’—as the ex-miner made a gesture of impatience; ‘I have indeed something on my mind, which I ought to have told you earlier, and which I see I had better tell now.—Nay; do not look so alarmed. It is nothing which ought to give me pain, or yourself, yet it does distress me. Shall I go on?’

‘Go on!’ echoed Ben; ‘of course you must go on. And you know, Ruth, that if it is in the power of man or money to relieve you, I am the man—and ought to be the man—who will do it.’

Miss Alken smiled faintly, then proceeded: ‘I had thought to keep back the information until you had met the person most concerned in it; but as I learn now there will be another delay, and as the suspense is terrible to me, I will hesitate no longer. The new partner in Showle and Bynnes—Mr Morede—is my brother. My half-brother, I should say,’ continued Ruth. ‘I had hoped, until his arrival actually took place, that he would not come; for he has been uncertain and unreliable all his life. But he has kept to his purpose now, it seems. He has been the bane of our family. His recklessness and extravagance brought down our home, from which, eventually, his quarrelsome and revengeful spirit forced him to fly to save his life. I suffered, as did my sisters; and but for the kindness of Mr Bynnes, who was distantly akin to my mother, it would have been worse for us. Very strangely, however, Mr Bynnes never quite lost his liking for Morede, and has, I believe, supplied part of the capital necessary to make him a partner here. But stranger still, although he has reduced me, with the rest of the family, to poverty, I believe my brother, as we have always called him, is, in his way, really fond of me. Yet I dreaded his presence here, as being certain in some sort to bring evil with it I cannot tell how, but I dread it. Yet, now I have seen him, he appears changed. It may be that added years have given him reflection and steadiness; yet I do not think it is _that_. There is something utterly inexplicable in him, which of course no stranger could see. He is entirely silent about his life of late years, although willing enough to speak of early days at home. He has heard me speak of you, and says he knows he shall like you, and is anxious to know you. And all this is so very different from what I remember of him, that I hope he is changed.’

‘Changed! Of course he is, Ruth!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘As they say in the old country, he has sown his wild-oats. Don’t think that because a boy has once been bad, he is never to be good; or once wild, that he will never be steady. I shall like him for his own sake, and for yours too, Ruth, I am quite certain. I cannot see him to-night, for a reason I have; but to-morrow I will meet him, and reckon I shall have gained a fresh friend in Ruth’s brother.’

THE TROUBADOURS.

There is a charm in the very name of the troubadours that surrounds those wandering minstrels of old with peculiar interest. Their canzons, sirventés, and pastorelas carry us back to the picturesque ages of colour and splendour, and are almost our only source of information as to those heroes of medieval romance whose names have acquired a legendary fame. During the brilliant period in which they sang, the country of the Langue d’Oc was awake with the din of arms, the stir of thousands in the crusades against the Saracens, which had their origin in the south of France; and in the chivalrous character of the holy wars; the quarrels of rival families, the gorgeous pageantry of the tournaments, and above all, in the glorification of love and martial fame, were found inexhaustible materials for descriptive poetry.

The troubadours—harbingers of reviving culture in the middle ages—displayed in their highly finished literature a refinement and splendour of imagination, an intensity and warmth, which, with the power they wielded, gradually changed the life, the tastes, the manners, of their times; whilst the quaint imagery, with the richness of colouring of Provençal song, left traces of its ascendency in the works of more than one celebrated Italian poet, as well as in English poetry long before the Elizabethan age. It was between the tenth and thirteenth centuries that all the varied forms of Provençal poetry flourished, affording the means of livelihood—even, in some instances, the acquisition of considerable wealth—to many wandering minstrels. Thierry says: ‘In the twelfth century, the songs of the troubadours circulating rapidly from castle to castle, and from town to town, supplied the place of periodical gazettes in all the country between the rivers Isère and Vienne, the mountains of Auvergne and the two seas.’

By far the greater number of troubadours known to us were nobles of high birth, or soldiers who had won knighthood on the field, with whom poetry was a passion, and who devoted themselves with enthusiasm to the cultivation of the gay science. Such were the Barons of the March, the Dauphin of Auvergne, the Viscounts of Limoges, Ventadour, and Camborn, with many other renowned princes and knights. Who has not heard of the lays of Richard Cœur-de-Lion, and of Alfonso, king of Portugal—those paladins of old, whose heroic exploits against the Infidel were the theme of wandering minstrels in every Christian court throughout Europe? In those days, when chivalry surrounded woman with an atmosphere of sacredness, and love was looked upon as a sort of feudal service, wherein the knight played the part of vassal, and the lady that of suzerain, it was part of the code of honour to become the champion of some one mistress, whose charms were extolled in verse; and each powerful châtelain, in the intervals of war, after ruthless slaughter, battles, and treason, would indite to his lady-love pastorals full of tender sentiment, and redolent of the fragrance of fields and flowers.

The aristocracy of fair Provence, in its heyday of glory and prosperity, was, notwithstanding this addiction to verse, perhaps the most reckless and profligate the world has ever seen. One of the foremost Barons of the March was Bertrand Von Born, a typical war-like troubadour of the twelfth century. Prominent in the political quarrels of the day, a perfect firebrand of war, he was courted and dreaded by princes and kings; ever in search of new lands and new loves, wielding with equal vigour the lyre and the sword, in the science of war and the art of love he was without a rival. Sometimes fighting with Cœur-de-Lion, sometimes against him, this true child of the Langue d’Oc, after many gallant defences, was captured, but through the extraordinary influence he exerted over his captors, escaped with life and liberty. After a long and stormy career, Bertrand Von Born ended his days as a monk in the monastery of Coteaux.

In the gallery of noble and stately figures furnished by Provençal poetry, we have a picture of enduring historic interest left us by the troubadour Rambaud of Vaquieras, of the famous Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, one of an heroic family of crusaders, who was himself a troubadour and the _beau-idéal_ of a knight-errant, comforting the afflicted, punishing the wicked, and relieving distressed damsels. When the preaching of Fulk of Neuilly roused the chivalry of France, Champagne, and Flanders to a new crusade, Rambaud followed the banner of his brother-in-arms the Marquis to Palestine, winning knighthood, singing and fighting his way through all the perils of the holy war. His songs are a record of splendidly dramatic incidents; and in the vivid sketches of his surroundings, we are enabled to trace the events in the life of the great soldier-poet, in whom all the virtues and vices of his ancestors seem to have been personified.

To Raymond de Miravals, who, Nostradamus informs us, was ‘deeply learned in the science of love,’ we are indebted for a series of life-like portraits of some of the loveliest women of the period. This fashionable poet, notorious for his misfortunes in love, died ‘poor, and worn out in body and mind,’ after spending many years of his life sighing in the train of a noted beauty. An old French chronicler writes: ‘Through the songs of Raymond, was Adelais admired and sought of all the barons far and near, and she became the subject of curiosity even at the courts of Aragon and Toulouse, and the king and the count sent her messages and presents of jewels, which she willingly accepted.’

The great ambition of ladies in the days of chivalry was to be eulogised in song, and made famous by the canzons and madrigals of the troubadours; so long as they were the theme, it mattered not how gallant and equivocal was the poetry. The Countess of Tripolis was the cause of the melancholy and dramatic episode which cut short the brilliant career of Rudel, a minstrel attached to the service of Cœur-de-Lion, who ‘became beyond measure the lover’ of this lady, whom he had never seen! Having sung her praises through all Provence, he set out on a pilgrimage in search of the far-famed beauty; but after enduring many miseries on his disastrous journey, he reached the shores of Palestine only to die in the arms of his ladye-love. The Countess, who had hastened to welcome him on his arrival, placed his body, we are told, ‘in a rich and honourable tomb of porphyry, on which were inscribed some verses in the Arabic tongue.’

Another minstrel in the train of Richard was the world-renowned Peter Vidal, unrivalled as an improvisatore, and gifted with an exquisite voice. He travelled far and wide, scattering canzons and sirventés over Christendom; and his Jongleur’s Story produces perhaps a greater impression, and clings to the memory with more strange fascination, than any lyrical composition of the period. Vidal was for some time in the household of the lord of Baux, whose fame as a troubadour was also great. It was in return for the lays of this high-born minstrel that Frederick Barbarossa presented to him the ancient city of Orange. Conquered by the Saracens, re-conquered by Charlemagne, this interesting old place boasts of one of the most romantic histories in the annals of French towns, and its vicissitudes were commemorated in Provençal song. Marseilles, Toulouse, Carcassonne, were all famous cities of the Langue d’Oc; but perhaps the favourite haunt of the wandering troubadours was Aix, the ancient capital of Provence, where the richest rewards of jewels, money, arms, &c., besides unbounded hospitality, were sure to follow the exhibition of their skill. Who could imagine that this little moribund town, a few miles from Marseilles, was at one time the dwelling-place of a noble family, the centre of the most brilliant circle in Southern France? Who can realise in its picturesque decay, the pomp and pageantry of its old historic aspect in the days of chivalry, when Giovanni the troubadour Count of Provence, the last inheritor of a mighty name, sang in his court at Aix? The fondest and proudest memories have gathered round the name of Count Giovanni, his country, his people, his valour.

It is curious to note in the records of the troubadours how many successful followers of the ‘gentle craft’ were connected with the cloister. The witty and dissolute monk of Montaudon was known as a fashionable poet; whilst his superior, Folquet, afterwards Bishop of Toulouse, from a gay troubadour became a fierce religious despot. Many ecclesiastics were sent from the monasteries to preach a sort of musical crusade against the heretics in the Langue d’Oc, who also had their champions in the land of song. Some even became military chiefs of high renown. Conspicuous amongst them was the monk Louis Lascaris, a son of the Count of Ventimiglia. To quote from Nostradamus, who discourses much on this member of an ancient and noble family: ‘He was of such a happy wit, not only in the poetical Provençal, but also in the vulgar dialects, that nobody could equal his sweetness or his invention. While yet a youth, he took holy orders in a monastery; but afterwards falling in love with a lady of the neighbourhood, the sister of the great Isnard of Glanderes, he married her, and had five children. The queen Giovanna having a powerful army in Provence for the expulsion of the free-companies, gave the command thereof to Lascaris, who was valiant and skilled in war. At the end of the campaign, the envy and malice of his ill-wishers caused him to be persecuted by Pope Urban V., who desired that he should return to his convent. But he, who would rather have chosen death in preference, and who saw that the pope was every day becoming more and more exasperated against him, went with a fine equipage to the court of the queen Giovanna, whose protection he claimed.’ The queen of Naples ‘duly considered the services that the poet had rendered, and those that he might yet render her crown. Seeing, besides, that he was a gentleman of handsome person and gay and generous disposition, she wrote so earnestly in his favour to the pope at Avignon, that His Holiness consented to fix a period of twenty-five years at the end of which the poet was to return to his cell.’ Lascaris, however, did not outlive the allotted time.

In this cursory sketch of the troubadours, it would be impossible to enumerate each of the fifty-seven poets whose names are associated with Provençal literature; but we must not forget two or three of those best remembered of their age and country. The unfortunate Luc de la Barre, whose songs reflecting on Henry II., roused the vengeance of that monarch, was hunted from place to place and blinded, when he refused all sustenance, and died of famine and despair. The love-affair of Bertrand of Pezers, a professor of Provençal poetry, with a young and lovely girl in his school, whom he married in spite of all opposition, excited great sympathy and interest. The adventurous couple commenced a life of wandering minstrelsy; and the ‘Monk of the Golden Isle’ informs us that before entering a château, they would make inquiries as to the occupants; and ‘then, with wonderful quickness, they would compose a song ornamented with the memorable deeds in love, war, and the chase, of the châtelain and his progenitors.’

Another wandering couple were the celebrated Raymond Ferrand and the lady of Courbon, who retired from the world, after some years of joyous minstrelsy, to convents within sight of each other. This lady of Courbon was notorious as one of the presidents of the ‘Court of Love,’ held in the castle of Romanini. Queen Eleanor, wife of Henry II., the Countess of Champagne, the Countess of Narbonne, and many noted beauties, gave sentences in these courts, which Hallam speaks of as ‘fantastical solemnities where ridiculous questions of gallantry were debated.’ To borrow the language of Sismondi—the noble ladies of that period ‘instituted courts of love, in which questions of gallantry were gravely discussed and determined by their suffrages; in a word, they had brought the whole of the south of France into a state of carnival, which forms a singular contrast to the ideas of reserve, virtue, and modesty which we ascribe to the good old times.’

In Provence, during the middle ages, the serenade was a custom, with the charming alba and serena—morning and evening songs. Many chivalrous singers were adepts in this light and characteristic form of Provençal poetry.

An old proverb says, ‘The Arabs’ registers are the verses of their bards;’ and so these medieval canzons and madrigals—which are inseparably connected with a most romantic era—present the old life with all its grand ideas and great actions; bringing many illustrious names out of the dim mists of fable into the clear daylight of history.

‘HOME! SWEET HOME!’

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

The hearts of thousands have thrilled at these words, so pregnant with home-love—words that have made home dearer and more precious than it was before—words expressing the tenderest feelings of thousands, to whom expression had previously been denied. Many a sweet singer, as she warbles the familiar song, knows not who was its author; therefore, it may be well to give a slight sketch of his character and somewhat sad career.

John Howard Payne was born in 33 Broad Street, New York, on the 9th of June 1791; and a large portion of his childhood was passed amidst the peaceful verdant scenery of East Hampton, in that State, where his father was principal of a small academy. When John was five years old, his father moved to Boston in a similar scholastic capacity, and there remained eight years; after which, the subject of this memoir returned to New York, and entered the counting-house of a firm in which an elder brother had been partner. But he never took to the dull drudgery of a mercantile life. When only thirteen years old, he contributed a dramatic criticism to a juvenile paper of which he was editor, and it was republished in the columns of the _New York Evening Post_. Soon after this he entered Union College, but only remained a year; after which, owing to the pecuniary difficulties of his father, he found himself under the necessity of pushing his fortune in the world alone and unaided.

Payne now devoted his time to studying for the stage, for which he displayed considerable aptitude; and made his first public appearance at the Park Theatre, New York, as Young Norval in the tragedy of _Douglas_. This _début_ was a complete success. From New York he went to Boston, where he again appeared as Young Norval, and also as Romeo, Rolla, and other characters. In cultured Boston, he became even more the rage than in the great emporium of commerce. After a time he returned to New York, thence he visited Baltimore—where he was enthusiastically received; subsequently proceeding to South Carolina and other Southern States. He came to Washington in 1809, and attracted great attention, one admiring critic declaring that ‘a more extraordinary mixture of softness and intelligence was never associated in a human countenance; and his face was an index of his heart—he was a perfect Cupid in beauty.’ In January 1813, Payne sailed for England, and in Liverpool was welcomed by William Roscoe, who presented him to John Kemble, Coleridge, Campbell, Southey, Byron, and others; and got for him an engagement at Drury Lane Theatre, in the character of Young Norval. Great applause greeted the youthful American actor, particularly in the death-scene at the end of the play.

Payne performed for a month in London, and then went the round of several of the principal English cities, after which he proceeded to Dublin, where, in conjunction with the celebrated Miss O’Neil, he played in various well-known dramas. He now visited Paris, where he met and became intimate with his distinguished countryman, Washington Irving; and formed a friendship with Talma, the French tragedian. Once more he returned to England; but on this occasion he was less of a novelty, and did not retain his former success.

About this time he commenced his career as a dramatic author, one of his first efforts in this line being the tragedy of _Brutus_, produced at Drury Lane Theatre in 1818, the famous Edmund Kean taking the principal part. The play was a success, being performed to crowded houses for seventy-five nights. Upwards of fifty plays of various descriptions were written by Payne, and their pecuniary returns enabled him to live comfortably during his nineteen years’ residence in Europe. But the production which has achieved such a world-wide fame, and rendered its author an honoured name in many a household, was his _Home! Sweet Home!_ This beautiful song was composed in Paris one dull October day when Payne was living in humble lodgings near the Palais-Royal. The depressing influences of his surroundings, something in the atmosphere which seemed to harmonise with his own feelings, and his solitary lot in life, were instrumental in drawing forth the simple pathos and tender yearnings of the song. As originally composed, it ran, according to some accounts, as follows:

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there
(Like the love of a mother
Surpassing all other),
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
There’s a spell in the shade
Where our infancy played
Even stronger than time, and more deep than despair.

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds and the lambkins that came at my call;
Those who named me with pride,
Those who played by my side,
Give me them! with the innocence dearer than all.
The joys of the palaces through which I roam,
Only swell my heart’s anguish—there’s no place like home.

The _Boston Congregationalist_, however, has given the following as the authentic form in which the author sent out his immortal song—the original manuscript being in the possession of an old lady in America, to whom at one time John Howard Payne was greatly attached:

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call;
Give me them with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! &c.

How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile.
Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh! give me the pleasures of home.
Home! home! &c.

To thee, I’ll return, overburdened with care;
The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
Home! home! &c.

The song was afterwards rewritten by its author, and introduced into an opera called _Clari, the Maid of Milan_, a play sold by him, in 1823, to Charles Kemble, of Covent Garden Theatre, for two hundred and fifty pounds; the music being composed by Sir Henry Bishop. In the opera, the song ran as we now know it:

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call;
Give me them—and the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

_Clari_ had a great run, the chief _rôle_ being taken by Miss Maria Tree, whose singing of the simple song caused a wonderful sensation, gifted as she was not only with a beautiful and expressive face, but with a fine voice which thrilled her hearers. More than one hundred thousand copies of the song as set to music were sold by the publishers within a year of its publication; but poor Payne reaped no pecuniary benefit from this source, nor did even his name appear as the author.

A story is told by the American newspapers that the power of the song once liberated its author from captivity. John Howard Payne was a warm personal friend of John Ross, the famous Cherokee Indian chief, and they were together when the Cherokees were ordered to remove from their home in Georgia to the prairie-lands west of the Mississippi River. Many refused to go; so the militia were ordered to scour the country and arrest all who stayed behind. Payne and Ross were seated before the fire in a miserable log-cabin, when seven or eight militiamen burst in, secured their prisoners, mounted them on horses, and led them away. As they left the hovel, rain began to fall, and continued all night, so that every man was thoroughly drenched. Towards midnight, one of Payne’s escort, to keep himself awake, began humming ‘Home! home! sweet, sweet home!’ and Payne said: ‘I never expected to hear that song under such circumstances and at such a time. Do you know the author?’—‘No!’ said the soldier. ‘Do you?’—‘Yes,’ answered Payne; ‘I am.’—‘Ho! ho!’ laughed the soldier. ‘You composed it, did you? Oh! tell the horse that! Look here. If you composed it—but I know you didn’t—you can say it all without stopping. It says something about pleasures and palaces, and cottages and birds. Now, pitch into it, and reel it off; and if you can’t, you’ll have to walk.’ Payne ‘pitched’ into it, and ‘reeled it off’ greatly to the satisfaction of his guardian, who vowed the composer of such a song should never go to prison if he could help it. When the party reached Milledgeville, the headquarters, they were, after a preliminary examination, and much to their agreeable surprise, discharged.

In the summer of 1832, Mr Payne returned to New York at a time when cholera was desolating the city, and was joyfully received by his many friends, a complimentary benefit being arranged for him at the Park Theatre, where he first made his bow as an actor. For the next ten years he resided in America, during which he engaged in a considerable amount of literary work, and travelled extensively both in the North and South, until in 1842 he was appointed to the post of American consul at Tunis. However, he was not permitted very long to enjoy his new post, for in less than three years he was recalled by President Polk, who, to gratify a political associate, gave the appointment to another.

This was a great disappointment to Payne, who had ably fulfilled his duties, and was engaged in writing a history of Tunis, which he had now to abandon; but to console himself, he made a tour in the continent, visiting Italy, France, and other places, returning to Washington in 1847. During this, his last sojourn in the capital, he gathered around him an extensive circle of friends, and kept up a correspondence with many of those eminent in literature and art, whose acquaintance he had formed both in his own country and in Europe. The exertions of those who knew his worth, and the claims he had upon his country, were at last successful, and Mr Payne was again appointed to the post he had before filled, being re-installed as consul at Tunis.

In May 1851, the author of _Home! Sweet Home!_ bade farewell to his country for the last time, and in a few weeks afterwards entered upon the duties of his office at Tunis, with high hopes of continuing his former career of usefulness. But it had been otherwise decreed, for ere another year had passed, John Howard Payne had ceased from his wanderings, while his country had to lament the loss of one of her gifted sons. He died on the 9th of April 1852, and his body was laid in the Protestant cemetery of St George at Tunis, the grave being covered by a white marble slab, with a simple epitaph, and on the four edges of the marble the four lines—a line to each:

Sure, when thy gentle spirit fled
To realms beyond the azure dome,
With arms outstretched, God’s angels said:
‘Welcome to Heaven’s Home! sweet Home!’

After lying more than thirty years in a foreign tomb, the last remains of John Howard Payne have now been transferred to a grave in his native land. To Mr W. Corcoran, a well-known and philanthropical citizen of Washington, is due the initiation of the scheme and the credit of defraying all the expenses connected with the bringing home of the remains of his countryman from Tunis, after the necessary permission had been obtained from the Secretary of State. Payne’s grave in the cemetery at Tunis had been well kept, and, besides the marble slab above mentioned, was indicated by a large pepper-tree which had been planted by one of his friends who was present at his death and burial. Two of the small company who witnessed the interment of the poet, M. Pisani and an old Arab dragoman who was deeply attached to Mr Payne, were present at the exhumation of his body. The coffin was found to be much decayed, and little more than the skeleton, and some portions of the uniform in which the lonely exile had been buried, rewarded the reverential care with which the sad duty was performed. After being inclosed in a leaden and two outer wooden coffins, the honoured remains were deposited in the small Protestant church until the vessel which was to transport them to Marseilles was ready to sail. As the body was being carried into the church, the poet’s own immortal song was sweetly sung by an American lady who was present, with a pathos which deeply affected the little gathering of friends and mourners—an appropriate _requiem_ to the kindly and gentle spirit whose cherished dust was once more to be borne back to his native land. On the 9th of June 1883, the remains were laid in their last resting-place in the Oak Hill Cemetery, Washington; and of all the monuments to distinguished men in that distinguished city, none surely will attract more visitors than that erected to the memory of the author of _Home! Sweet Home!_

COMMON COLDS.

It is impossible, with the prevalence of damp, fogs, and frost, to keep entirely free from colds. It is easy to say: Avoid all exposure to their causes; don’t go out in wet weather; don’t sleep in damp bedclothes; and don’t get overheated by exercise. The majority of people, both old and young, are obliged to go out, and occasionally to do risky things, however much they may wish to avoid the unpleasantness of a cold. So colds are ‘caught,’ as the saying goes, and people find a difficulty in getting rid of them. Those who have coddled themselves before its arrival, do not derive much benefit from an extra coddling; and those who do not care to take precautions, allow the cold to run its course, rather than make a fuss over it.

To both, perhaps, an explanation of what a cold really is may be useful, not only for prevention, but for cure. The cause is simply this: The skin, with its myriads of perspiration pores, becomes contracted by long exposure to damp or cold, and thereby prevents the secretion which is necessary to health being carried off in the natural manner. The amount of insensible perspiration in a healthy person daily is about two pints. Thus, when it cannot pass off through the outer skin, it is diverted inwardly upon the mucous surfaces of the body, and the first symptoms of a cold in the head set in. There is a tightness in the nose and forehead, sneezing, and watering at the eyes, and a redness in the interior of the nose, from excess of blood. After a day or two, a thin running from the nose sets in, and the salts in it, which should pass off by the skin, make the upper lip red and sore. The question is, therefore, knowing the nature of a cold, what is the best way to restore the natural action of the skin, and get rid of its substitute as soon as possible? Many ways are recommended. A Dover’s powder—which consists of ipecacuanha and opium—is without doubt one of the best remedies at the commencement, for if taken at night with a good basin of gruel or tumbler of negus, it sets up a strong perspiration, and the skin, forced into action, may thus regain its tone. However, this is not always successful, unless the sufferer can remain indoors for a few days, and keep a room at an equable temperature of about sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Another good remedy—if the patient’s constitution admits of it—is a Turkish bath, where, after an hour in a heat of one hundred and thirty to one hundred and fifty degrees, the tepid douche should be used instead of the cold, because the object in view is not only to open the sweat-pores for a time, but to keep them properly relaxed. Cold water would of course cause them to contract. Perhaps the best, and one of the easiest, is to abstain as much as possible from liquids. By this means the supply of fluid which goes to keep up the running cold is cut off, and with it the discharge. If persevered in for a day, this remedy may completely cure a slight cold, and keep a bad one very much under.

Colds are either pooh-poohed or made much of. Too much care, however, cannot be taken to prevent a cold getting worse and gaining a hold. People of the most robust constitutions have succumbed to them; and apart from the inconvenience and waste of time which they entail, there is always the probability of more serious symptoms manifesting themselves. The air-tubes may become congested, and a bad cough result before they are relieved; or the person may have become debilitated by the head-cold, and, unable to resist the further progress of its effect, may be victimised by inflammation of the lungs, bronchitis, or serious congestion of the lungs. The most sensible plan, in so variable a climate as ours, is in the first place to harden one’s self as much as possible by not being too much afraid of cold when one is perfectly well; and next, when a cold, however slight, has been caught, to do one’s hardest to get rid of it by one of the above-mentioned remedies.

Damp as a cause of cold is very hard to avoid. We all know that wet feet or damp clothes are injurious; but we cannot always provide for emergencies. A traveller may suddenly find that he is put into a damp bed, and has no alternative but to sleep there. Now, hydropathy has taught us that people do not necessarily catch cold from sleeping in wet or damp things, provided a sufficient amount of dry clothing is put over that which is wet, to prevent any chilliness being felt. This, then, is a safe principle to act upon; and a traveller thrown into such awkward circumstances, may make the best of a bad job, and sleep with impunity in his damp bed, provided he puts all available coverings on the outside, and so insures a tolerable amount of warmth and comfort; at the same time he ought to lay aside the sheets and sleep in the blankets. It is easier to guard against damp feet; for with woollen socks—which are the best non-conductors of heat, and the least liable to retain perspiration—and a pair of cork soles placed in good strong boots, no fear need be entertained of moisture affecting the skin. In rain or snow, no doubt the moisture may penetrate through the upper leather. The best precaution against this is to rub them with vaseline, or oil, or melted fat, before setting out. Damp feet are the most prominent causes of colds and chilblains amongst children. Those, therefore, who have to go to and from school in all weathers, should not only have cork soles inside their boots and the outer surface well greased, but should take warm slippers to school with them to change. If every schoolmistress could only be induced to make this change a rule with every pupil, there would be far fewer absentees with bad colds. A good plan, when a child has chilblains or a cold, is to make a little flannel over-dress, which draws over the feet, and buttons at the neck; no kicking off of the bedclothes will then be very serious; whilst a cup of warm milk or arrowroot or gruel, drunk when the little one is put to bed, is the best thing for keeping up the circulation in the feet and hands and preventing the discomforts of broken chilblains.

These remarks of course apply principally to healthy children and people. The delicate of all ages must obey their medical advisers, and not risk a wet walk, however well secured against it, if they have been forbidden to go out.

With all people, food is at the same time one of the principal aids in combating colds and coughs. More heat-giving foods are required in winter, to keep up sufficient warmth, and many people suffer simply because they do not look upon the matter in this light. Parents will tell you that their boys and girls will not eat fat meat or fat bacon, or take salad dressed with oil, or take their porridge. Variety might perhaps tempt them. They might be induced to eat bread crisply fried in dripping either for breakfast or supper; or they might have gruel or arrowroot just before going to bed, which would both warm and sustain them; or, supposing they turn from all with dislike, a very good investment would be to buy two or three dozen cheap boxes of chocolate, and then dole out the boxes one by one, for the children to take to school or eat with their lunch. Chocolate is both nutritious and heat-giving, and nearly every child likes it. Care, however, should be taken that pure chocolate is eaten. Thick soups, such as pea, lentil, or potato soup, are very wholesome, and contain plenty of heat-giving materials, whilst they are perhaps cheaper than chocolate. Many children, indeed, might be saved from the doctor’s hands, if their tastes were more consulted as to food, and they were given heat-giving foods, which they liked, and would eat, instead of suet puddings or fats, which they disliked.

‘NOT BEAUTIFUL!’

They say thou art not beautiful.
To _me_ thou art most fair!
And shrined within my faithful heart,
Thine image dear I wear.
In every glance, in every smile,
I see a nameless grace;
For love of mine, an angel’s soul
Shines through thy mortal face!

Thy hand is rough, and brown with toil,
Yet soft as summer rain;
With light and soothing touch it falls
Upon the brow of pain:
The sufferer feels its healing power
Rob death of half its sting,
And deems that little toil-stained hand
White as an angel’s wing.

And, sweetheart mine, no wildering lights
Flash from thy modest eyes;
Too timid is their downcast glance,
To startle or surprise;
Yet would I have them shining near,
To watch me when I pray,
To keep my heart from worldly thoughts,
Sweet eyes of gentle gray.

No modern fashions mar thy robe,
So softly flowing down;
Yet hangs a nameless dignity
Around that simple gown.
No pretty simpering queen of art,
Nor slave to fashion thou;
Thy pure and gracious womanhood
Is written on thy brow.

A throne of thought, that virgin brow
Hides in thy clustering hair,
Of ample breadth, that life may trace
Its noblest records there.
‘Not beautiful!’—my peerless queen!
What idle words they speak!
Who may not mark Love’s dawning blush
Shy mantling o’er thy cheek?

‘Not beautiful!’—my best beloved!
If sweet and humble worth
Crowns not with perfect loveliness,
Then nought is fair on earth.
The children fly from fairer forms,
To cluster round thy knee;
And that _they deem thee beautiful_,
By their fond looks I see!

My only love! I would not dare
To change thee if I could;
To me thou art most beautiful,
Because thou art so good.
To me thy gentle face must be
The loveliest ever seen—
The fairest face in all the world,
My love, my star, my queen!

FANNY FORRESTER.

* * * * *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

_All Rights Reserved._