Chapter II: Part 2

Mr. Austin Dobson and the late Mr. Locker-Lampson are perhaps the finest writers of _vers de Société_ since Praed; whilst in the broader school of humour C. S. Calverley, Mr. Dodgson (of "Alice in Wonderland" fame), and the late James Kenneth Stephen, stand alone and unchallenged; and Mr. Watson, if health serve, will go far; and so with some pathetic words of one of these moderns we will end this somewhat aimless chat:--

"My heart is dashed with cares and fears,
My song comes fluttering and is gone;
Oh, high above this home of tears,
Eternal joy,--sing on."

Chat No. 8.

"_Punch! in the presence of the passengers._"

Within the past year certain gentle disputes and friendly discussions as to the origin of _Punch_, and who its first real editor was, and whether or no Henry Mayhew evolved it with the help of suitable friends in a debtor's prison, remind us that Foxwold possesses some rather curious "memories" of this famous paper.

These disputes should now be put to rest for ever by Mr. Spielmann's exhaustive "History of Mr. Punch," which, it may safely be supposed, appeared with some sort of authority from "Mr. Punch" himself.

One of our "Odds and Ends" is a kit-kat portrait in oil of Horace Mayhew, "Ponny," excellent both as a likeness and a work of art, which should eventually find hanging space in the celebrated _Punch_ dining-room. There is also a pencil drawing of him, in which "the Count," as he was called, is dressed in the smartest fashion of that day, and crowned with a D'Orsay hat, resplendent, original, and gay.

He made a rather unhappy marriage late in his life, and found that habits from which he was not personally free showed themselves rather frequently in his wife's conduct. One day, in a state of emotion and whisky and water, he pressed Mark Lemon's hand, and, bursting into tears, murmured, "My dear friend, she drinks! she drinks!!" "All right," was the editor's cheery reply, "my dear boy; cheer up, so do you!"

Near by hangs a characteristic pencil sketch of Douglas Jerrold, who, if small, was no hunchback (as has been lately stated), but was a very neatly made, active little man, with a grand head covered with a profusion of lightish hair, which he had a trick of throwing back, like a lion's mane, and a pair of bright piercing blue eyes. There is an engraving of a bust of him prefixed to his life (written by his son, Blanchard Jerrold), which well conveys the nobility of the well-set head. Then comes a capital drawing of Kenny Meadows in profile, and a thoroughly characteristic Irish phiz it is.

These pencil portraits are all from the gifted hand of Mr. George Augustus Sala, and formerly belonged to Horace Mayhew himself. Mr. Sala, as is now well known by means of his autobiography, was once an artist and book-illustrator, and Foxwold is the proud possessor of the only picture in oil extant from his brush. It is called "Saturday Night in a Gin-Palace": it is full of a Hogarthian power, and by its execution, drawing, and colour shows that had Mr. Sala made painting his profession instead of literature, he would have gone far and fared well. The little picture is signed "G. A. Sala," and was found many years ago in an old house in Brompton, when the present owner secured it for a moderate sum, and then wrote to Mr. Sala asking if the picture was authentic. A reply was received by the next post, in the beautiful handwriting for which he is famous, and runs as follows:---

46 Mecklenburgh Square, W.C.,
_Tuesday, Twenty-fifth June 1878_.

"Dear Sir,

I beg to acknowledge receipt of your courteous and (to me)
singularly interesting note.

"Yes, the little old oil-picture of the 'Gin-Palace Bar' is mine
sure enough. I can remember it as distinctly as though it had been
painted yesterday. Great casks of liquor in the background; little
stunted figures (including one of a dustman with a shovel) in the
foreground. Details executed with laborious niggling minuteness;
but the whole work must be now dingy and faded to almost total
obscuration, since I remember that in painting it I only used
turpentine for a medium, the spirit of which must have long since
'flown,' and left the pigment flat or 'scaly.'

"The thing was done in Paris six-and-twenty years ago (Ap. 1852),
and being brought to London, was sold to the late Adolphus
Ackermann, of the bygone art-publishing firm of Ackermann & Co.,
96 Strand (premises now occupied by E. Rimmel, the perfumer), for
the sum of five pounds. I hope that you did not give more than
a few shillings for it, for it was a vile little daub. I was at
the time when I produced it an engraver and lithographer, and I
believe that Mr. Ackermann only purchased the picture with a view
to encourage me to 'take up' oil-painting. But I did not do so. I
'took up' literature instead, and a pretty market I have brought
my pigs to! At all events, _you_ possess the only picture in oil
extant from the brush of

Yours very faithfully,

George Augustus Sala."

_To_ H. N. Pym, Esq.

When Mr. Sala afterwards called to see the picture, he altered his mind as to its being "a vile little daub," and found the colours as fresh and bright as when painted. We greatly value it, if only as the cause of a lasting friendship it started with the artist.

His own portrait by Vernet, in pen and ink, now graces our little gallery; it is a back view, taken amidst his books, and a most characteristic and excellent likeness of this accomplished and versatile gentleman.[1]

One of our guest-chambers is solemnly dedicated to the honour and glory of "Mr. Punch," and on its walls hang some original oil sketches by John Leech, drawings by Charles Keene, Mr. Harry Furniss, Randolph Caldecote, Mr. Bernard Partridge, Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and Mr. Du Maurier; whilst kindly caricatures of some of the staff, and a print of the celebrated dinner-table, signed by the contributors, complete the decoration of a very cheery little room.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Whilst these pages are passing through the press, George Augustus Sala has been mercifully permitted to rest from his labours. An unfortunate adventure with a new paper brought about serious troubles, physical and financial, and ended his useful and hard-working life in gloom: as Mr. Bancroft (a mutual friend) observed to the editor of this volume, "It is so sad when the autumn of such a life is tempestuous."--_December 8, 1895._

Chat No. 9

"_Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast---
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last,
A sorry breaking-up._"
--Thomas Hood.

It was my good fortune some short time since to revisit that most educational of English towns, Bedford, and having many years ago had the extreme privilege of being a Bedford schoolboy, I was able to draw a comparison between then and now.

In the good old days these admirable schools were managed in the good old way--plenty of classics, plenty of swishing, plenty of cricket and boating, and plenty of holidays. We sometimes turned out boys who afterwards made their mark in the big world, and the School Registers are proud to contain the names of such men as Burnell, the Oriental scholar, who out-knowledged even Sir William Jones in this respect; Colonel Fred. Burnaby, brave soldier and attractive travel writer; Inverarity, the lion-hunter and crack shot; Sir Henry Hawkins, stern judge and brilliant wit, and many others of like degree. Nor must we forgot that John Bunyan here learnt sufficient reading and writing to enable him in after years to pen his marvellous Book during his imprisonment in Bedford Gaol, which was then situated midway on the bridge over the river Ouse.

In that wonderful monument to the courage and enterprise of Mr. George Smith (kindest of friends and best of publishers), "The National Dictionary of Biography," the record is frequent of men who owed their education and perhaps best chance in the life they afterwards made a success, to Bedford School, but,--

"Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted,
As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred,
Yet still with their music is memory haunted,
And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard."

But if the good old School was a success in those bygone days, what must be said for it now, when, under the Napoleon-like administration of its present chief, the school-house has been rebuilt in its own park, upon all the best and latest known principles of comfort and sanitation, where a boy can, besides going through the full round of usual study, follow the bent of his own peculiar taste, and find special training, whether it be in horse-shoeing or music, chemistry or wood-carving, ambulance work or drawing from the figure; whilst the beautiful river is covered with boats, the cricket-fields and football yards are crowded, and the bathing stations are a constant joy?

Truly the present generation of Bedford boys are much blessed in their surroundings; and whilst they remember with gratitude the pious founder, Sir William Harper, should strive to do credit to his name and memory by the exercise of their powers in the battle of after-life, having received so thorough and broad-minded a training in the happy and receptive days of their youth.

Bedford town is now one of the most strikingly attractive in England, with its fine river embankment, its grand old churches, its statues erected to the memory of the "inspired tinker," Bunyan, and the prison philanthropist, Howard, both of whom lived about a mile or so from the town, the former at Elstow, the latter at Cardington. It was very good and heart-restoring to revisit the hospitable old school with its pleasant surroundings and to find, as Robert Louis Stevenson says, that,--

"Home from the Indies, and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers they all shall come home;
Still they shall find the old mill-wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam."

* * * * *

Since printing our last little "Tour Round the Bookshelves," in which we ventured to include some capital lines by our evergreen and many-sided friend Rudolf Chambers Lehmann, he has again added to the interest of our Visitors' Book under the following circumstances. Guests and home-birds were all resting after the exhausting idleness of an Easter holiday when they were suddenly aroused from their day-dreams by loud cries of "Fire!" accompanied by the sound of horses and chariots approaching the house at full speed. On looking out, like Sister Anne or a pretty page, we were able to assuage our guests' natural alarm by explaining that the local fire brigade were practising upon our vile bodies and dwelling, and if fear existed, danger did not. On their ultimately retiring, satisfied with their mock efforts, and fortified by beer, our welcome guest wrote with his usual flying pen the following characteristic lines to commemorate their visit:--

"FIRE! FIRE!!"

(AN EASTER MONDAY INCIDENT.)

"A day of days, an April day;
Cool air without, and cloudless sun;
Within, upon the ordered tray,
Cakes, and the luscious Sally-Lunn.
Since Pym has walked, and Guthrie climbed
To rob some feathered songster's nest,
Their toil needs tea, the hour has chimed--
Pour, lady, pour, and let them rest.

But hark! what sound disturbs their tea,
And clatters up the carriage drive?
A dinner guest? it cannot be;
No, no, the hour is only five.
What sight is this the fates disclose,
That breaks upon our startled view?
Two horses, countless yards of hose,
Nine firemen, and an engine too.

Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport;
The horses stop, the men descend,
Take hoses long, and hoses short,
And fit them deftly end to end.
Attention! lo their chieftain calls--
They run, they answer to their names,
And hypothetic water falls
In streams upon imagined flames.

Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done;
Accept, the peril past, our thanks;
Though all your toil was only fun,
And air was all that filled your tanks:
No, not for nought you came and dared,
Return in peace, and drink your fill;
It was, as Mrs. Pym declared,
'A highly interesting drill.'"

_April 3, 1893._

Another poet whose pen sometimes gilds our modest Record of Angels' Visits, is a well-beloved cousin, Harry Luxmoore by name, at Eton known so well. His Christmas greeting for 1890 shall here appear, and prove to him how deep is Foxwold's affectionate obligation for wishes so delightfully expressed:--

"Glooms overhead a frozen sky,
Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth,
Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie,
And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.

Folded in root and grain is lying,
The bud, the bloom we soon may see,
And in the old year now a-dying
Is hid the new year that shall be.

O what if snows be deep? so shrouded
Matures the soil with promise rife
And sap, for all the skies be clouded,
Ripens at heart a lustier life.

Then welcome winter--while we shiver
Strength harbours deeper, and the blast
Of sounder, manlier force the giver
Strips off betimes our withered past.

Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower,
Come weal, come woe, as best may be,
Still may the New Year's hidden dower
Be good for you and Horace, and all the little
ones, and good for me."

Chat No. 10.

"_My ears are deaf with this impatient crowd:
Their wants are now grown mutinous and loud._"
--Dryden.

The following graphic account of the rising in Paris in 1848 was written by John Poole to Charles Dickens, and was recently found amongst the papers of Mrs. John Forster, the widow of the well-known writer, Dickens' friend and biographer, and is, I think, worthy of print.

John Poole was a sometime celebrated character, having written that evergreen play "Paul Pry," as well as "Little Pedlington," and other humorous works mostly now forgotten.

As he grew old poverty came to bear him company, and was only prevented from causing him actual suffering by the usual generosity of Dickens and other members of that charmed circle, further aided by a small Government grant, obtained for him by the same faithful friend from Lord John Russell.

The letter is addressed to

CHARLES DICKENS, Esq.,
No. 1 Devonshire Terrace,
York Gate, Regent's Park,
LONDON,

and deals with the celebrated uprisal of the French mob, when a force of 75,000 regulars and nearly 200,000 National Guards was massed round Paris to resist it. The carnage was terrible, some 8000 persons being killed on both sides, and 14,000 insurgents made prisoners.

It was only by General Cavaignac's firmness and tactful management under Lamartine's directions, that the mob was reduced and the Republican Government established. The general was afterwards nearly elected President of the French Republic, receiving 1,448,000 votes, but Prince Louis Napoleon beat him, and, as history tells, held the reins in various capacities for the next twenty eventful years.

Poole's letter, as that of an eye-witness, gives a remarkably clear impression of the scene as it appeared in his orbit. Dickens, on receiving it, evidently sent it the round of his friends, and it then remained in John Forster's possession until his death.

"(Paris), _Saturday, 8 Jul 1848_.

"My dear Dickens,

I wrote to you through the Embassy on the 22nd June, giving you an
address for the three last Dombeys, and enclosing a catalogue of
the ex-King's wine; and on the 16th I sent you a word in a letter
to Macready. Dombeys not yet arrived, and I shall wait no longer
to acknowledge their arrival (as I have been doing), but at once
proceed to give you a few lines. Since the day of my writing to
you I have lived four years: Friday (the 23rd), Saturday, Sunday,
Monday, each a year.

"The proceedings of the three days of February were mere
child's-play compared with these. Never shall I forget them, for
they showed me scenes of blood and death. Friday morning the
'_rappel_' was beat--always a disagreeable hint. Presently I
heard discharges of musketry, then they beat the '_générale._' My
_concierge_ ran into my room, and, with a long white face, told me
the mob had erected huge barricades in the Faubourg-Saint-Denis,
and above, down to the Porte St. Denis, and that tremendous
fighting was going on there. (The Porte St. Denis bears marks of
the fray.) 'Then, Madame Blanchard,' I said, 'as you seem to be
breaking out again, I shall take a _sac-de-nuit_, and say adieu to
you till you shall have returned to your good behaviour.'--'But
monsieur could not get away for love or money--the insurgents have
possession of the Chemin de Fer, and had torn up the rails as far
as St. Denis.' This was what she had been told, so I went out to
ascertain the fact.

"Impossible to approach that quarter, and difficult to turn the
corner of a street without interruption--groups of fifteen,
twenty, thirty, fifty, in blouses, dotted all about. Towards
evening matters seemed rather more tranquil, and between six and
seven o'clock I contrived (though not easily) to make my way
to Sestels, in the Rue St. Honoré (one of the very best of the
second-rate restaurateurs in Paris, 'which note'). The large
saloon was filled with men in uniform, National Guards chiefly,
and only two women there. I was there about an hour, and in that
time three dead bodies were carried past on covered litters. It
was thought the disturbances were pretty well over, as a powerful
body of troops had been ordered down to the scene of action.

"At about eight o'clock I went out for the purpose of making
a visit in the Rue d'Enghien, but found the whole width of
the Boulevard Montmartre, which, as you know, leads to the
Boulevard St. Denis, defended by a compact body of National
Guards--impassable! Between nine and ten o'clock three regiments
of cavalry, with cannon--a long, long procession--marched in the
direction of the scene of insurrection. This was a comforting
sight, and as such everybody seemed to consider it, and I went
home. And this was Midsummer Eve!--Walpurgis Night!

"The next day, Saturday, Midsummer Day, I never shall forget!
Sleep had been hopeless--the night had been disturbed by the
frequent beating of the '_générale_' and the cry '_Aux Armes!_'
Every now and then I looked up at the sky, expecting to see it
red from some direful conflagration. Day came, and soon the
firing of musketry was heard, now from the direction of the
Faubourg-Saint-Antoine, now from the Faubourg-Saint-Marceaux.
Then came the heavy booming of cannon--death in every echo! From
twelve till nearly one, and again after a pause, it was dreadful.
(I cannot make 'fun' of this, like the facetious correspondent of
the _Morning Post_. Who is he? Surely he must be an ex-reporter
for the Cobourg Play-house, with his vulgar, ill-timed play-house
quotations. I am utterly disgusted and revolted at the tasteless
levity with which he describes scenes of blood and destruction and
death, and so treats of matters, all of which require grave and
sober handling. And then he describes, as an eye-witness, things
which, happen though they did, I am certain he could not have been
present to see.)

"Well, as we were soon to be in a state of siege, and strictly
confined to home, I can tell you nothing but what I saw here on
this very spot. One event is a remembrance for life. In this
house lived General de Bourgon, one of what they call the 'old
Africans.' In the course of the morning General Korte (another
of them) called on him, and said, 'I dare say Cavaignac has
plenty to do. I will go and ask him if we can be of any service
to him. If we can, I will send for you, so keep yourself in the
way.' He was in Paris 'on leave,' and had no horse with him, so
he sent Blanchard (the _concierge_) to the _manège_, which is in
the next street, to inquire whether they had a horse that would
'stand fire.' Yes; but they would not let it go out. The next
message intimated that they must send it, or it would be taken by
force. At about two o'clock, going out, I met, coming out of his
apartments on the second floor (I, you know, am on the fourth),
General de Bourgon, in plain clothes, accompanied by his wife and
his sister-in-law--the latter a very beautiful woman, somewhat in
the style of Mrs. Norton. As usual, we exchanged _bon-jours_ in
passing. I went as far as the boulevard at the end of the street.
There was a strong guard at the 'Hôtel des Affaires Étrangères,'
and there I was stopped. An officer of the National Guard asked
me whether I was proceeding in the direction of my residence.
Answering in the negative, he said (but with great courtesy),
'Then, sir, I advise you to return; it is in your interest I do
so; besides' (pointing in the direction where was heard a heavy
firing), 'd'ailleurs, monsieur, ce n'est pas aujourd'hui un jour
de promenade.'

"I returned, and tried by the Place Vendôme, but about half-way
up the Rue de la Paix was again stopped. After loitering about
for an hour, and unable to get anything in the shape of positive
information, I returned home. Shortly after three I saw the
General de Bourgon in full uniform, and on horseback. He proceeded
a few paces, stopped to have one of his stirrup-leathers adjusted,
and then, followed by an orderly, went off at a brisk trot. Soon
afterwards a guard was placed in the middle and at each end of
this street; no one was allowed to loiter, or to quit it but with
good reason, and only then was passed on by one sentinel to the
next, so from that moment I was not out of the house till Monday
morning.

"At about half-past six the street--usually a noisy one--being
perfectly still, I heard the measured tramp of feet approaching
from the direction of the boulevard. I went to the window, and saw
about fifteen or eighteen soldiers, some bearing, and the rest
guarding, a litter, on which was stretched a wounded officer.
He was bare-headed, his black stock had been removed, his coat
thrown wide open, and over his left thigh was spread a soldier's
grey greatcoat. To my horror the procession stopped at this door.
It was the General brought home desperately wounded! I ran down
and saw him brought up to his apartment, crying out with agony at
every shake he received on the winding, slippery staircase. On
the following Friday (the 30th), at eleven o'clock at noon, after
severe suffering, he died. In the course of the day I saw him; his
neck was uncovered, and the eyes open (a painter had been making
a sketch of him)--he looked like one in placid contemplation.
Previously to the fatal result, at one of my frequent visits of
inquiry, I saw Madame de Bourgon (the sister-in-law). She replied
mournfully, but without apparent emotion, 'We are in hopes they
will be able to perform the amputation to-morrow.' (They could
not.) 'But see! he has passed his life, as it were, on the field
of battle--twelve years in Africa--and to fall in this way! But it
was his duty to go out.'

"'And, madame, how is she?'

"'Eh, mon Dieu, monsieur! how would you have her be? But a
soldier's wife must be prepared for these things.'

"(She, the sister-in-law, is the wife of the general's brother,
Colonel de Bourgon.) His friend, General Korte, too, was wounded,
but not dangerously.

"In all the African campaigns only two generals were killed, in
these street fights six! But the insurgents fought at tremendous
advantage. On that said Saturday afternoon two incidents occurred,
trifling if you will, but they struck me. A large flight of crows
passed over, taking a direction towards the prison of St. Lazare,
showing that fighting was murderous; and a rainbow (one of the
most beautiful I ever saw) rested like an arch on the line of roof
of the opposite houses. Beneath it seemed to come the noise of the
fight; the sign of peace and the sounds of war and death. Mrs.
Norton could make a verse or two out of this. This was Midsummer's
Day!

"Our Midsummer Night's dreams were not pleasant, believe me.
No--there was no sleep on that night--a night of terrible
anxiety. Paris was in a state of siege--no one allowed to be
out of the house, nor a window permitted to be opened. All
night was heard in ceaseless round, from the sentinel under my
very window--'Sentinelle prenez garde à vous.' I can hardly
describe by words the peculiar tone in which this was uttered,
but the syllable 'nelle' was accented, and the word 'vous' was
uttered briskly and sharply, like a sort of bark. This was
given _fortissimo_--repeated by the next _forte_--beyond him,
_piano_--further on, _pianissimo_--till it returned, louder
and louder, and then died away again, and so on, and on, and
on till daybreak. Then was beat the '_rappel_'--then the
'_générale_'--then again the firing.

"This was Sunday morning, and from five o'clock till ten at
night was not the happiest, but the longest day of my life. Any
sort of occupation was out of the question. Each hour appeared a
day. Impossible to get out, or to receive a visit, or to send a
message, or to procure any reliable information as to what was
going on, or how or when these doings were likely to end. All
was doubt, uncertainty, dread and anxiety intolerable. The only
information to be procured was from the bearers of some wounded
men as they passed now and then to the Ambulance (the temporary
hospital established at the Church of the Assumption). But no two
accounts were alike. I was suffering deep anxiety concerning a
good kind French family of my acquaintance, living within a five
minutes' walk of this place. 'Could I by any possibility procure a
commissionaire to carry a note for me? I'll give him five francs
(the hire being ten sous).' 'Not, sir,' said my _concierge_, 'if
you would give a hundred!' The poor general wanted some soldiers
from the barracks (next to the Assumption) to carry an order
for him. After great difficulty the wife of the _concierge_ was
allowed to go and fetch one; but she was searched for ammunition
by the first sentinel, and then passed on thus and back again
from one to another. No post in--no letters--no newspapers.
At length, at a month's end, night came. That night like the
last--'Sentinelle prenez garde à vous,' &c. &c.

"On Monday morning (26th), after a sleepless night--for, for any
means we had of knowing to the contrary, the insurgents might at
any moment be expected to attack this quarter, a quarter marked
down by them for fire and pillage--at about eight o'clock, I
lay down on a sofa and slept soundly till ten; I awoke, and was
struck by the appalling silence! This is a noisy street. Always
from about seven in the morning till late in the day one's head
is distracted by the shrill cries of itinerant traders (to these
are now added the cries of the vendors of cheap newspapers),
the passage of carriages and carts of all descriptions,
street-singers, organ-grinders endless, the screeching of parrots
and barking of dogs exposed for sale by a _grocer_ on the
opposite side of the way, together with the swarming of his and
his neighbour's dirty children--all was hushed; not a footfall,
'not (a line that is not often applicable here) a drum was
heard.' Yes, I repeat it, this universal silence was appalling!
Not a person, save the still guards on duty, was to be seen. The
shops were all closed, and, but for this circumstance, it seemed
like a Sunday! Strange! (and I find it was the same with many
other persons to whom I have mentioned the circumstance) I was
uncertain during these anxious days as to the day of the week.
At about eleven o'clock the _concierge_ came to tell me that the
insurrection was at an end. In less than an hour there was heard
a sharp fusillade and a heavy cannonade in the direction of the
Faubourg-Saint-Antoine. The insurgents had strengthened themselves
at that point (she came to say), but that, so far as she could
learn, General Cavaignac had at length resolved, by bombarding the
_quartier_, to suppress the insurrection before the day should
end. _And he did!_

"Frequently during the day parties of tired soldiers, scarcely
able to walk, passed on their way from the scene of action to
their barracks or their bivouac; wounded men were every now and
then brought to the Ambulance close by--one a Cuirassier, who, as
the guard saluted him, smiled faintly, and just raised his hand
in sign of recognition, which fell again at his side; and, most
striking of all, bands of prisoners from among the insurgents!!
Among them such hideous faces! scarcely human! No one knows whence
they come. Like the stormy petrel, they only are seen in troubled
times. I saw some such in the days of February, but never before,
nor afterwards, till now. Imagine O. Smith, well "made-up"
for one of the bloodiest and most melodramatic of his bloody
melodramas--a Parisian dandy compared with some of these. Some of
them naked to the waist, smeared with blood, hair and beard matted
and of incalculable growth, bloodshot eyes, scowling ferocious
brutes, their tigers' mouths blackened with gunpowder--creatures
to look at and shudder! And into their hands was Paris and its
peaceable honest inhabitants threatened to fall. With this I end.

Ever, my dear Dickens,

Cordially and sincerely yours,

John Poole.

"I began this on Saturday, and have been writing it, as best as I
can, till now, Tuesday, three o'clock. Pray acknowledge the receipt
when or if you receive it. This is a general letter to you all. If
Forster thinks any paragraph of this worthy the _Examiner_, he may
use it. Why does not the rogue write to me? Has he, or can he have,
taken huff at anything? though I cannot imagine why or at what. But
_nobody_ writes to me. I can and will, some day, tell you a comic
incident connected with all this, but it would not have been in
keeping with the rest of this letter. Paris is now quiet, but very
dull."

Chat No. 11.

"_All round the house is the jet black night;
It stares through the window-pane;
It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,
And it moves with the moving flame._

_Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum,
With the breath of the Bogie in my hair;
And all round the candle the crooked shadows come
And go marching along up the stair._

_The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,
The shadow of the child that goes to bed--
All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp,
With the black night overhead._"
--R. L. Stevenson.

On the beautiful rocks of Red Head, near Arbroath, and surrounded by the glamour of Sir Walter Scott's "Antiquary," which was written in the alongside village of Auchmithie, and the plot and incidents of which are principally placed here, stands Ethie Castle, the Scotch home of the Earls of Northesk, and once one of the many residences of Cardinal Beaton, whose portrait by Titian hangs in the hall.

Many of the quaint old rooms have secret staircases at the bed-heads leading to rooms above or below, and forming convenient modes of escape if the occupants of the middle chambers were threatened with sudden attack. There are also some dungeon-like rooms below, with walls of vast thickness, and "squints" through which to fire arrows or musket-balls. The castle has been greatly improved and partly restored by its last owner, without removing or destroying any of its characteristic points.

Searching, when a guest there some years ago, amongst the literary and other curious remains, which add a great charm to this most interesting house, the writer was impressed with the following characteristic letter from Charles II. to the then Lord Northesk, which he was permitted to copy, and now to print. The letter is curious, as showing the evident belief that the King held in his Divine right to interfere with his subjects' affairs.

It is a holograph, beautifully written in a small clear hand --- not unlike that of W. M. Thackeray --- and has been fastened with a seal, still unbroken, no larger than a pea, but which nevertheless contains the crown and complete royal arms, and is a most beautiful specimen of seal-engraving. It would be interesting to know if this seal still exists amongst the curiosities at Windsor Castle:---

Whitehall, _20 Nov. 1672_.

"My Lord Northesk,

I am so much concerned in my L^d Balcarriess that, hearing he
is in suite of one of your daughters, I must lett you know, you
cannot bestow her upon a person of whose worth and fidelity I
have a better esteeme, which moves me hartily to recommend to you
and your Lady, your franck compliance with his designe, and as I
do realy intend to be very kinde to him, and to do him good as
occasion offers, as well for his father's sake as his owne, so if
you and your Lady condescend to his pretension, and use him kindly
in it, I shall take it very kindly at your hands, and reckon it to
be done upon the accounte of

Your affectionate frinde,

Charles R."

_For the_ Earle of Northesk.

Looking at the fine portrait of the recipient of this royal request, which hangs in the castle, and the stern, unrelenting expression of the otherwise handsome face, it is not difficult to presume that he somewhat resented this interference with his domestic plans. No copy of Lord Northesk's reply exists, but its contents may be guessed by the second letter from Whitehall, this time written by Lord Lauderdale:--

Whitehall, _18 Jany. 1673_.

"My Lord,

Yesterday I received yours of the 7th instant, and, according to
your desire, I acquainted the King with it. His Majesty commanded
me to signify to you that he is satisfied. For as he did recommend
that marriage, supposing that it was acceptable to both parties,
so he did not intend to lay any constraint upon you. Therfor he
leaves you to dispose of your daughter as you please. This is by
His Majesty's command signified to your Lordship by,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most humble servant,

Lauderdale."

Earl Northesk.

As, however, the marriage eventually did take place, let us hope that the young couple arranged it themselves, without any further expression of Royal wishes by the evidently well-meaning, if somewhat imperative, King.

Ethie has, of course, its family legends and ghosts--what old Scotch house is without them?--but the following, which I am most kindly permitted to repeat, is so curious in its modern confirmation, that it is well worth adding to the store of such weird narratives.

Many years ago, it is said that a lady in the castle destroyed her young child in one of the rooms, which afterwards bore the stigma of the association. Eventually the room was closed, the door screwed up, and heavy wooden shutters were fastened outside the windows. But those who occupied the rooms above and below this gruesome chamber would often hear, in the watches of the night, the pattering of little feet over the floor, and the sound of the little wheels of a child's cart being dragged to and fro; a peculiarity connected with this sound being, that one wheel creaked and chirruped as it moved. Years rolled by, and the room continued to bear its sinister character until the late Lord Northesk succeeded to the property, when he very wisely determined to bring, if possible, the legend to an end, and probe the ghostly story to its truthful or fictitious base.

Consequently he had the outside window shutters removed, and the heavy wall-door unscrewed, and then, with some members of his family present, ordered the door to be forced back. When the room was open and birds began to sing, it proved to be quite destitute of furniture or ornament. It had a bare hearth-stone, on which some grey ashes still rested, and by the side of the hearth was a child's little wooden go-cart on four solid wooden wheels!

Turning to his daughter, my lord asked her to wheel the little carriage across the floor of the room. When she did so, it was with a strange sense of something uncanny that the listeners heard one wheel creak and chirrup as it ran!

Since then the baby footsteps have ceased, and the room is once more devoted to ordinary uses, but the ghostly little go-cart still rests at Ethie for the curious to see and to handle. Many friends and neighbours yet live who testify to having heard the patter of the feet and the creak of the little wheel in former days, when the room was a haunted reality, but now the

"Little feet no more go lightly,
Vision broken!"

Chat No. 12

"_I work on,
Through all the bristling fence of nights and days,
Which hedge time in from the eternities._"
--Mrs. Browning.

The late Cardinal Manning always felt a great interest in our parish of Brasted. In former times it formed part of Hever Chase, the property of Sir Thomas Boleyn (the father of Queen Anne Boleyn), who lived at Hever Castle, about four miles from Brasted, a fine Tudor specimen of domestic architecture, which is now somewhat jealously shown to the public on certain days. Hever Castle is the original of Bovor Castle, immortalised by Mr. Burnand in his wonderful "Happy Thoughts."

The Cardinal's father, who was at one time an opulent city merchant, and sometime Governor of the Bank of England, owned the estate of Combe Bank, formerly the English location of the Argyll family, whose Duke sat in the House of Lords, until quite a recent date, as Baron Sundridge, the name of the adjacent village.

In Sundridge Church are some family busts of the Argylls by Mrs. Dawson Damer, who stayed much at Combe Bank, and who lies buried with all her graving and sculpting tools in Sundridge churchyard.

The Cardinal and his elder brother, Charles Manning, passed some youthful years in this house, and when financial trouble overtook their father, and he was obliged to part with the property, it became the ever-present desire and day-dream of the elder son to succeed in life and repurchase the place. He succeeded well in life, and enjoyed a very long and happy one; but he never became the owner of Combe Bank, the hope to do so only fading with his life.

He owned, or leased, a pleasant old house at Littlehampton; and if his brother, the Cardinal, was in need of rest, he would lend it to him, when the Cardinal's method of relaxation was to go to bed in a sea-looking room, and, with window open, read, write, and contemplate for some three or four days and nights, and then arise refreshed like a giant, and return to the manifold duties waiting for him in town.

The Cardinal's home in London was formerly the Guard's Institute in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, which, failing in its first intention, was purchased as the palace for the then newly-elected Cardinal-Archbishop of Westminster. It proved to be rather a dreary, draughty, uncomfortable abode, but having the advantage of a double staircase and some large reception rooms, was useful for the clerical assemblies he used to invoke.

I had the privilege, without being a member of his church, of being allowed to attend the meetings of the _Academia_ which the Cardinal held every now and then during the London season. His friends would gather in one of the big rooms a little before eight in the evening, and sit in darkened circles around a small centre table, before which a high-backed carved chair stood. The entire light for the apartment proceeded from two big silver candlesticks on the table. As the clock chimed eight, the Cardinal, clothed in crimson cassock and skull-cap, would glide into the room, and standing before the episcopal chair, murmur a short Latin prayer, after which the discussion of the evening would begin; when all that wished had had their little say, the Cardinal replied to the points raised by the various speakers, and closed the debate; after which he held a sort of informal reception, welcoming individually every guest.

No one but a Rembrandt could give the beautiful effect of the half-lights and heavy black shadows of this striking gathering, with its centre of colour and light in the tall red figure of the Cardinal, his noble face and picturesque dress forming a mind-picture which can never fade from the memory. The strong theatrical effect, combined with the real simplicity of the scene, the personal interest of many of those who took part in the discussion, the associations with the past, the speculation whither the innovation of the installation of a Roman Catholic Archbishop in Westminster was tending, giving the observer bountiful food for much solemn thought.

Upon our book-shelves repose four volumes of the Cardinal's sermons, preached when a member of the Church of England, and Archdeacon of Chichester. They were bought at Bishop Wilberforce's sale, who was the Cardinal's brother-in-law, and contain the autograph of William Wilberforce, the bishop's eldest brother. Upon the same shelf will be found a copy of "Parochial Sermons" by John Henry Newman, Vicar of St. Mary the Virgin's, Oxford. This volume formerly belonged to Bishop Stanley, and came from the library of his celebrated son, Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, sometime Dean of Westminster.

* * * * *

A good book might be written by one who is duly qualified on "the Poets who are not read." It would not be flattering to the ghosts of many of the departed great, but there is so much assumption on the part of the general reader, that he knows them all, has read them all, and generally likes them all, which if examined into closely would prove a snare and a delusion, that one is tempted to administer some gentle interrogatories upon the subject. First and foremost, then, who now reads Byron? His works rest on the shelves, it is true, but are they ever opened, except to verify a quotation? Does the general reader of this time steadily go through "Childe Harold," "Don Juan," and his other splendid works. Not death but sleep prevails, from which perchance one day he may awake and again enjoy his share of fame and favour. It is the fashion with many persons to express the utmost sympathy with and acute knowledge of the work of Robert Browning, but we doubt if many of these could pass a Civil Service examination in the very poems they name so glibly. He is so hard to understand without time and close study, that few have the inclination to give either in these days of pressure, worry, and rush.

Upon neglected shelves Cowper and Crabbe lie dusty and unopened--the only person who read Crabbe in these days was the late Edward FitzGerald; and it is a small class apart that still looks up to Wordsworth. The stars of Keats and Shelley, it is true, are just now in the ascendant, and may so remain for a little while.

It is difficult and dangerous, we are told, to prophesy unless we know, but our private opinion is that Lord Tennyson's fame has been declining since his death, and that a large portion of his poems and all his plays will die, leaving a living residuum of such splendid work as "Maud," "In Memoriam," and some of his short poems.

America has furnished us with Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose charm and finish is likely to continue its hold upon our imagination; then there is the Quaker poet Whittier, who will probably only live in a song or two; and Longfellow, whose popularity has a long time since declined. He once wrote a sort of novel or romance called "Hyperion," which showed his reading public for the first time that he was possessed of a gentle humour, which does not often appear in his poems. For instance, one of his characters, by name Berkley, wishing to console a jilted lover, says--

"'I was once as desperately in love as you are now; I adored, and was rejected.'

"'You are in love with certain attributes,' said the lady.

"'Damn your attributes, madam,' said I; 'I know nothing of attributes.'

"'Sir,' said she, with dignity, 'you have been drinking.'

"So we parted. She was married afterwards to another, who knew something about attributes, I suppose. I have seen her once since, and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. I hate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad I am she did not marry me."

The fate of most poets is to be cut up for Dictionaries of Quotations, for which amiable purpose they are often admirably adapted.

Chat No. 13.

_"She will return, I know she will,
She will not leave me here alone._"

Staying many years ago in a pleasant country-house, whilst walking home after evening church my host remarked, as we passed in the growing darkness a house from which streamed a light down the path from the front door, "Ah! Jane has not yet returned." The phrase sounded odd, and when we were snugly ensconced in the smoking-room, he that evening told me the following story, which, however, then stopped midway, but to which I am now able to add the sequel.

A certain John Manson (the name is, of course, fictitious), an elderly wealthy City bachelor, married late in life a young girl of great beauty, and with no friends or relations.

She found her husband's country home, in which she was necessarily much alone, very dull, and she thought that he was hard and unsympathising when he was at home; whereas, although a curt, reserved manner gave this impression, he was really full of love for, and confidence in his young wife, and inwardly chafed at and deplored his want of power to show what his real feelings were.

The misunderstanding between them grew and widened, like the poetical "rift within the lute," and soon after the birth of her child, a girl, she left her home with her baby, merely leaving a few lines of curt farewell, and was henceforth lost to him. His belief in her honesty never wavered; and night after night, with his own hand, he lighted and placed in a certain hall-window a lamp which thus illuminated the path to the door, saying, "Jane will return, poor dear; and it's sure to be at night, and she'll like to see the light."

Years passed by, and Jane made no sign, the light each evening shining uselessly; and still a stranger to her home, she died, leaving her daughter, now a beautiful girl of twenty, and marvellously like what her mother was when she married.

The husband, unaware of the death of his wife, himself came to lay him for the last beneath his own roof-tree, and still his one cry was, "Jane will return." It seemed as if he could not pass in peace from this world's rack until it was accomplished--when, lo! a miracle came to pass; for the daughter arrived one evening with a letter from her mother, written when she was dying, and asking her husband's forgiveness, and the light still beamed from the beacon window.

The old man was only semi-conscious, and mistaking his child for her mother, with a strong voice cried out, "I knew you'd come back," and died in the moment of the joy of her supposed return.

By a curious coincidence, since writing this true story, which was told to me in 1865, some of the incidents, in an altered form, have found a place in Mr. Ian Maclaren's popular book, "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush." It would be interesting to know from whence he drew his inspiration, and whether his story should perchance trace back to a common ancestor in mine.

* * * * *

A few years ago Mr. Walter Hamilton published, in six volumes, the most complete collection of English parodies ever brought together. Amongst others, he gave a vast number upon the well-known poem by Charles Wolfe of "Not a drum was heard." Page after page is covered with them, upon every possible subject; but the following one, written by an "American cousin" many years ago, and which was not accessible to Mr. Hamilton, is perhaps worth repeating and preserving. He called it "The Mosquito Hunt," and it runs as follows, if my memory serves me faithfully, I having no written note of it:--

"Not a sound was heard, but a horrible hum,
As around our chamber we hurried,
In search of the insect whose trumpet and drum
Our delectable slumber had worried.

We sought for him darkly at dead of night,
Our coverlet carefully turning,
By the shine of the moonbeam's misty light,
And our candle dimly burning.

About an hour had seemed to elapse,
Ere we met with the wretch that had bit us;
And raising our shoe, gave some terrible slaps,
Which made the mosquito's quietus.

Quickly and gladly we turned from the dead,
And left him all smash'd and gory;
We blew out the candle, and popped into bed,
And determined to tell you the story!"

Chat No. 14.

"_The welcome news is in the letter found,
The carrier's not commissioned to expound:
It speaks itself._"
--Dryden.

A pleasant hour may perhaps be passed in searching through the family autograph-box in the book-room. Its contents are varied and far-fetched. A capital series of letters from that best and most genial of correspondents, James Payn, are there to puzzle, by their very difficult calligraphy, the would-be reader. Mr. Payn, a dear friend to Foxwold, is now a great invalid, and a brave sufferer, keeping, despite his pain, the same bright spirit, the same brilliant wit, and delighting with the same enchanting conversation. Out of all his work, there is nothing so beautiful as his lay-sermons, published in a small volume called "Some Private Views;" and but a little while since he wrote, on his invalid couch, a most affecting study, called "The Backwater of Life;" it has only up to the present time appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_, but will doubtless be soon collected with other work in a more permanent form. It is a pathetic picture of how suffering may be relieved by wit, wisdom, and courage.

As Mr. Leslie Stephen well says in his brother's life, "For such literature the British public has shown a considerable avidity ever since the days of Addison. In spite of occasional disavowals, it really loves a sermon, and is glad to hear preachers who are not bound by the proprieties of the religious pulpit. Some essayists, like Johnson, have been as solemn as the true clerical performer, and some have diverged into the humorous with Charles Lamb, or the cynical with Hazlitt."[2]

In Mr. Payn's lay-sermons we have the humour and the pathos, the tears being very close to the laughter; and they reflect in a peculiarly strong manner the tender wit and delicate fancy of their author.

But to return to our autograph-box. Here we find letters from such varied authors as Josef Israels, the Dutch painter, Hubert Herkomer, W. B. Richmond, Mrs. Carlyle, Wilkie Collins, Dean Stanley, and a host of other interesting people. Perhaps a few extracts, where judicious and inoffensive, may give an interest to this especial chat.

The late Mrs. Charles Fox of Trebah was in herself, both socially and intellectually, a very remarkable woman. Born in the Lake Country, and belonging to the Society of Friends, she formed, as a girl, many happy friendships with the Wordsworths, the Southeys, the Coleridges, and all that charmed circle of intellect, every scrap of whose sayings and doings are so full of interest, and so dearly cherished.

These friendships she continued to preserve after her marriage, and when she had exchanged her lovely lake home for an equally beautiful and interesting one on the Cornish coast, first at Perran and afterwards at Trebah.

One of her special friendships was with Hartley Coleridge, who indited several of his sonnets to his beautiful young friend.

The subjoined letter gives a pleasant picture of his friendly correspondence, and has not been included in the published papers by his brother, the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, who edited his remains.

"Dear Sarah,