Chapter VI: Part 6

“The maid was by no means one of the most timid of her sex; but she was terrified beyond expression, lonely as she was, at this unexpected apparition. Uttering a loud scream, she flew out like an arrow at a side door, and hurried to the chamber of her master and mistress. Scarcely had she awakened them, and communicated to the whole family some portion of the fright with which she was herself overwhelmed, when the spectre, enveloped in a shroud, and with a face of deathlike paleness, made its appearance, and sat down in a chair in the bed-room, without their having observed how it entered. The worst of all was, that this chair stood by the door of the bedchamber, so that not a creature could get away without passing close to the apparition, which rolled its glaring eyes so frightfully, and so hideously distorted its features, that they could not bear to look at it. The master and mistress crept under the bed-clothes, covered with profuse perspiration, while the maid-servant sunk nearly insensible by the side of the bed.

“At the same time the whole house seemed to be in an uproar; for though they had covered themselves over head and ears, they could still hear the incessant noise and clatter, which served to increase their terror.

“At length all became perfectly still in the house. The landlord ventured to raise his head, and to steal a glance at the chair by the door; but, behold, the ghost was gone! Sober reason began to resume its power. The poor girl was brought to herself after a good deal of shaking. In a short time, they plucked up sufficient courage to quit the bed-room, and to commence an examination of the house, which they expected to find in great disorder. Nor were their anticipations unfounded. The whole house had been stripped by artful thieves, and the gentleman had decamped without paying for his lodging. It turned out that he was no other than an accomplice of the notorious Arthur Chambers, who was executed at Tyburn in 1706; and that the supposed corpse was this arch rogue himself, who had whitened his hands and face with chalk, and merely counterfeited death. About midnight he quitted the coffin, and appeared to the maid in the kitchen. When she flew up stairs, he softly followed her, and, seated, at the door of the chamber, he acted as a sentinel, so that his industrious accomplices were enabled to plunder the house without the least molestation.”

[GHOST STORIES.]

THE CLOAKS.

The following tale is taken from a work by M. Loeve Veimars, entitled ‘Les Manteaux.’ The scene is laid in Germany, and the story opens with the election of a magistrate of the little city of Birling. Full of his new dignity, he repairs to his home, where he acquaints his patient wife, to whom he is in the habit of playing the tyrant, with the accession to his importance. His old friend, Waldau, the town clerk, comes to ask him if he has any commands for Felsenbourg, the seat of the administration, whither he is about to repair. The new councillor requests him to deliver a letter to his younger brother, Maurice, who had quitted his home suddenly, and of whom he has heard nothing until very recently, and who has now applied to him for a share of their father’s property, or some pecuniary assistance. The answer of the elder brother is at once unsatisfactory and unfeeling: he tells him that their parent died without any fortune, and concludes with a sneer at his youthful irregularities. The councillor’s amiable spouse is affected by her husband’s cruelty; Waldau’s dress is more consistent with his scanty means than adapted to the inclemency of the weather, and she expresses a hope that his travelling costume is a warmer one.

‘Alas! no,’ replies Waldau; ‘I had a cloak, but I have given it to my grandmother, who is confined to her arm-chair with the gout, and I am in truth, setting off like the prodigal son.’

‘Dear Philip,’ said Marie to her husband, in a supplicating tone, ‘lend him yours.’

‘Mine!’ replied the councillor, ‘indeed I cannot; but my late father’s is somewhere upstairs, and I will look it out for you, Waldau.’

Marie blushed at her husband’s selfishness. ‘It is old, indeed,’ said she, ‘but it is large and stout. There is nothing splendid about it, Waldau; it is simple and useful, like its former possessor; and I beseech you, when you shall see our brother Maurice, give it to him in my name. It may be useful to him, notwithstanding its homely appearance; at all events, while it must recall to Maurice’s recollection the memory of his father, it may also bring him wise reflections.’

She bids him also tell Maurice how much she feels for him, and regrets that she is unable to offer him any assistance. Waldau wraps himself in the cloak, and proceeds to Felsenbourg, which he reaches, but not without being overturned on the road. He is rather hurt by the fall, but not so much as to prevent his repairing immediately to find Maurice.

The evening was somewhat advanced, and the streets of the city, very different from those of the obscure but peaceful town in which Waldau dwelt, were crowded still with passengers on horseback and on foot. Waldau observed directly before him a portico well lighted, over which he saw inscribed, in large characters, “The Palace of Felsenbourg.” He entered with some timidity, and looked around for some one who might direct him in this vast building, when a young man, passing close by him, attracted his attention. He was clothed in a court dress, glittering with embroidery, and held in his hand the hat of a noble, adorned with large white plumes. The old town-clerk drew himself up hastily, but who can describe his surprise when he saw, in the half glance which his awe permitted him to cast upon this person, that he was the banished son, his early friend; in short, Maurice himself? Waldau was petrified with astonishment: could he believe his eyes, or did they abuse him? He wished to speak, but the words died upon his lips; all that he could do was to follow with his eyes this unexpected figure.

When he recovered the use of his faculties, the object who had deprived him of them, was no longer before him; but he saw him as he withdrew beneath the shadows of the columns, by the splendour of his garments, the gems on which glittered beneath the lamps which filled the vault. A little man dressed in black now approached, and dispelled the ideas which were bewildering his brain. ‘Will you be so obliging,’ he said to this person, ‘as to tell me the name of the gentleman who passed us just now?’

‘It is Mr. Wiesel.’

‘It is Maurice, then! Good heavens! but tell me what part does he play here?’

‘A very important part, Sir: nothing less than that of the prince’s confidant,’ replied the little man, gravely, and with a low bow.

The honest old man is overjoyed, and, without pressing his inquiries any further, he writes in all haste to the councillor, to inform him of his brother’s good fortune. Upon the receipt of the letter, the elder Wiesel sets out for Felsenbourg, frightened to death lest Waldau should have delivered the unkind epistle, which he now wishes he had never written. Poor Waldau is, in the mean time, suffering from the effects of his fall; and, on the day following his arrival, he finds himself unable to rise from his bed. To crown his misfortunes, his money is exhausted; and, relying upon the generosity of Maurice’s temper, and ever doubting that the prince’s confidant is well able to assist him, he writes to him for a loan, requests an introduction to the minister, and his interest in procuring the remission of a tax. Maurice hastens to him immediately, and, after the first congratulations are over, the following conversation ensues:--

‘To speak seriously, my dear Waldau,’ said Maurice, ‘your request for money distresses me, because I am not in a situation to comply with it; but, as to your other request, I have laughed heartily at it. That I should introduce you to the minister! that I should procure the remission of a tax! pray, for whom do you take me?’

‘For whom? Good heaven!’ replied the old man, cursing in his heart all courtiers and their impudence; ‘why, for the favorite of his highness, for his Jonathan, for the elect of the tribe, the _primus a rege_.’

‘My poor friend,’ said Maurice, ‘is more ill than I thought; and the joy I feel at meeting him again, is damped at this discovery. It must be the fever, dear Waldau, which has thus troubled your judgment.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Waldau, ‘I suppose so; _aegria somma?_ said Waldau bitterly. ‘It was one of those delusions which a fever works upon sick brains, that I beheld yesterday traversing the palace of Felsenbourg to go to the court; it was in a delirium that I beheld him shining in gold and jewels, _gemmis atque auro_.’

‘I, going to the court V ‘You, or who else is the prince’s favorite?

‘The prince’s favorite! Dear Waldau, am I to laugh or to weep at these extravagances?’

‘_Auri sacra fames_, the thirst of wealth will soon render you incapable of doing either the one or the other.’

‘How can you thus deceive yourself!’

‘He deceived himself too, then--the little man in black, who followed the glittering Weisel under the portico of the palace.’

‘Ha, ha, what charming simplicity!’ cried Maurice, laughing heartily. ‘Still the same honest, excellent, innocent Waldau.--I a courtier, I a favourite! this is indeed an everlasting joke. Know, then, my poor credulous friend, that I am a member of a strolling company who are engaged to play in the hotel of the Count of Felsenbourg. I played yesterday the part of the _Confidante_, in the new piece; and the little man in black, of whom you speak, is the head tailor, who had just been fitting me with a coat of scarlet serge, covered with tinsel and spangles, and to which habit I am indebted for the respect with which you have overwhelmed me.’

‘God bless me!’ cried Waldau, ‘and are you then a player?’

‘A player, it is true, but of the prince’s company; and, I swear to you, vanity apart, not one of the worst.’

‘Then am I ruined--totally undone,’ ejaculated the town-clerk; ‘the councillor will certainly kill me.’

Maurice ceased to laugh when he saw the terror of Waldau. He soon saw his brother’s letter, which lay upon the table, and, opening it, found not only that Pierre was still the same, but that his last hope--the share of his father’s fortune--was for ever gone. He was burdened with debts, the payment of which could no longer be postponed. ‘Ah! my Louisa--ah, my promised happiness--farewell,’ cried he, mournfully.

This Louisa, of whom Maurice spoke, was the preserving angel of an infirm mother and two sisters, for whom she procured, by her own exertions, the necessaries of life. The obscure chamber which they occupied was near that of the player; and they frequently saw each other, and the innocence of the young girl, her simple candour, and the boyish good temper of Maurice, soon gave rise to a tender and reciprocal feeling. Poverty has at least this good effect, that it breaks down some of those obstacles which beset the more exalted ranks. Wiesel soon became the assiduous and indispensable friend of the family. Louisa, daily more attracted by his amiable character, and charmed by the frankness with which he expressed his affection, did not seek to conceal that she loved him. The deplorable condition of their fortunes alone stood in the way of their union they swore eternal constancy, and resolved to wait for better times; but the letter of Pierre seemed to make that time more distant than ever.

Maurice is obliged to quit the sick man to go to the theatre, and an old woman comes to take his place. The weather is excessively severe, and Waldau requests him to put on the old cloak which his brother has sent, and in which, he adds, ‘Your father breathed his last.’ Maurice seizes it, and, kissing it respectfully, goes out.

The councillor arrives, and, finding from Waldau that his brother has had his letter, he runs, without waiting for an explanation, to the hotel Felsenbourg, where the porter, in answer to his inquiries for M. Wiesel, tells him he is in the theatre. He enters, and is first terrified by seeing an old man on the stage dressed in the gray cloak of his dead father; and no sooner has he recovered from his terror than he finds that his brother is a player. He rushes out of the theatre, half mad with rage.

Maurice, in the meantime, has returned to his sick friend, where he finds his brother’s wife, for whom he has a warm affection. Quitting the chamber, to fetch some medicine from a neighbouring apothecary, he sees an old woman, who, looking at him very attentively, passes her shrivelled hand several times over the collar of his coat.

Maurice, not quite understanding this familiarity, draws back, and looks at her attentively. Her thin and colourless features were strangely contrasted with the benevolent vivacity which seemed to animate them. She asks him to sell his cloak, and, on his refusal, expresses some surprise that he can be attached to such a rag.

‘No matter,’ he replies; ‘rag as it is, it is dear to me.’

‘Not for its beauty, surely?’

‘No; but if you must know, it’s my father’s legacy.’

‘Your father’s! Oh, my child, you ought to honour his memory; for no one can deny that you are his son. Every feature resembles him, excepting that you have a good-natured sort of smile in the corner of your mouth, which he never had.

‘Oh, yes, he had once, but the world had deprived him of it?’

‘Say rather, that years had, child; for they do every thing in this world; and even I, who now talk to you, if I had some few scores of years less, would you have let me stand here in the snow so long? Oh, no; you would have whipped this precious cloak over my shoulders.’

‘Go along, you old gipsey; such nymphs are not to my taste.’

‘Well, my son, the frankness of your heart pleases me, and I will reward it.’

‘Oh, pray keep your rewards: I am not in want of them.’

‘How naturally that word want comes out of your mouth; and merely because your head is full of it.’

‘Who are you, infernal sybil?’ said Maurice, drawing her towards the light.

‘The sight of my wrinkled face will give you no great pleasure, my child, but, perhaps, my advice may. Listen to me, then. Go home to your own chamber, lock the door, and rip up the collar of your cloak, and when you have done so you will have nothing more to do but to pray to God, as the great king Solomon did, to grant you wisdom.’ As she spoke thus, the old woman hobbled hastily away.

Maurice put his hand to the collar of his cloak, and thought he heard a noise like the rustling of paper. He hastened back to Marie and the town clerk, and told them of his adventure.

‘Just heaven!’ cried Waldau, ‘it must be so. You remember your late father, Maurice, and his eternal apprehensions, which all the locks in the world could not have quieted. You know, too, that he was often obliged to come to this city for the purpose of receiving large sums of money. What would a suspicious man do in such a case? He would convert his money, not into gold, but into paper, because they might easily be concealed.

I do not doubt, from the story of the old woman, who has perhaps been his hostess, his housekeeper, or some faded flower of the mysterious garland of the past, that this cloak served your father for a strong box. Better acquainted with handling ducats than a needle, he probably had recourse to this old woman. You know it was upon his return from a journey that he died. Marie, open the collar quickly--Maurice, take my scissors, they are in my bag--quick.’

Marie uttered a joyful exclamation, as she felt papers through the fold of the cloth. At the same moment, a loud noise was heard, and Maurice rose.

The unhappy Pierre, upon quitting the theatre in a state of distraction, had fallen into the canal, and, although he was quickly extricated, he had only time to mention the place of his abode before he died. The noise was caused by persons bringing home his corpse. In the confusion which followed, the cloak, now become so important an object, was stolen, and all searches and inquiries for its recovery were fruitless.

When the first grief for the death of Pierre is over, Maurice finds that his father’s property, which he divides with his brother’s widow, is enough to enable him to marry his Louisa: he returns to Berling, and on the day fixed for the wedding, on which also Waldau is married to Marie, the old woman appears at the door in the old cloak. Maurice brings her into the middle of the room.

‘Who are you?’ said he, ‘and whence did you get this cloak?--What brings you here?--Quick--speak--explain yourself.’

‘You put a great many questions at once,’ said the old woman. ‘What brings me here?--your good stars. As to the cloak--it is mine, for I bought it.’

While she spoke, Maurice looked at her, distrustingly. ‘This old woman,’ said he to himself, ‘has duped me once, and would willingly do so again. She has found the money in the cloak, and has now come to make a merit of restoring just so much of it as she thinks fit.’

The old woman seemed to comprehend what was passing in his mind. ‘I see what you think,’ said she; ‘but why, Mr. Giddybrain, did you despise my advice? why did you so easily abandon this precious cloak? Did I not find it one fine day hanging up before the shop of my neighbour, the old clothesman, who told me he bought it of a porter? and what would become of the bills for twenty thousand florins which are sewed up in it, if I had not bought them at the exorbitant price of three silver pieces? There, take your own; keep it more safely for the future, and thank heaven for having preserved the life of your father’s nurse.’

Maurice embraces the old woman, who receives the praises and thanks of every body present. ‘Well, children,’ said she, ‘since you are all happy, you must find some little corner among you for me, where I may end my days in peace.’

‘O, yes!’ said Marie, with warmth, ‘you shall never quit us.’

A few days afterwards you might have thought that the old woman had never quitted the ancient dwelling, so much did the two families seem to look upon her as a mother. Their happiness was such as springs from humble virtue. Piety, innocence, and gentleness, adorned their lives, and their days had passed in an uniform and peaceable manner, when, about a year after the return of the old nurse, she appeared one morning before Maurice in the same attitude as on the day of his marriage, and covered with the same old cloak. He offered to embrace her, but, repulsing him, ‘Gently,’ said she, ‘take care.’--‘Do you bring me another treasure, then, my good mother?’ She smiled as she opened the cloak;--it was a son, which his Louisa had just given him.

[LES MANTEAUX.]

A COMICAL ADVENTURE.

As a sort of proëmium to the relation of the following adventure, I must preadmonish my readers, that I have always entertained a monstrous aversion to being roused from a comfortable sleep, by the appalling cry of “murder.” Heaven defend us! the very thought of such matters, even in broad day-light, causes a queer sensation about one’s throat and fifth rib: but at the solemn hour of midnight,--“just as the clock strikes twelve,”--when the winds are howling, and casements creaking, with all the other paraphernalia of a portentous night (vide ‘Mysteries of Udolpho’)--oh! it festers up the faculties, and acts as a scare-crow to the senses. Having premised thus much, and not in the least doubting that I have touched a sympathetic string in every bosom, I will forthwith proceed to relate my adventure.

Those who have travelled in the north of Scotland, may perchance recollect the road between Kincardine and Dingwall. On the right, stands a decently snug tenement, from which a swinging appendage announces to all peregrinators, that excellent entertainment is there provided for “man and beast.” In those parts it was my fortune to be travelling, on a bleak November evening, with no remarkably near prospect of supper or bed, when my eyes were suddenly gladdened by the appearance of the afore-mentioned sign; and so, it appears, were those of my horse, for without receiving previous notice from me, he instinctively halted at the door. I alighted, and after a comfortable supper, found myself snugly deposited in bed, next floor but one to the sky, the other floors being pre-engaged. But scarcely had gentle sleep diffused its balm over my eyelids, when I was aroused by a horrible confusion of noises in an adjoining apartment, from which I was separated only by a slight partition. First, I heard sundry stampings, and divers violent exclamations; then I plainly distinguished halfstifled cries of murder, and, at last, the groans of one, as it were, in his last agony. I was on my feet in the twinkling of an eye, and the reader may imagine that there was no occasion to make use of my hands in doffing my night-cap; the first sound of the word “murder” caused that to deposit itself very quietly on my pillow. My first movement was towards the door, from which I as quickly retreated, on discovering a murderous-looking person through the half-opened door of the next apartment; not, however, before I had uttered a yell loud enough to rouse all the inmates of the house. I next made towards the window, but there saw nothing, save a fearful profundity, which, I was well aware, was terminated by a yard, paved with rough stones.’Twas agony.

My last resource was the chimney, in which I forthwith proceeded to enshell myself, taking good care to leave the space of a yard or two between me and the floor. Scarcely had I thus disposed of myself, when the landlord entered my apartment, followed by his wife and domestics; whose voice I no sooner distinguished, than I began very _coolly_ to descend: but, unfortunately, this being my first attempt at chimney-sweeping, I made such an unsweeper-like descent, that the landlord and his train, thinking Old Nick was at hand, scampered off, myself following with all imaginable speed. Helter-skelter we rushed down the first flight of stairs; at the bottom of which, finding a door half open, with a night-capped head protruding, in order, no doubt, to discover the cause of such a disturbance, we all burglariously entered, knocking down in our tumultuous incourse, the lawful possessor. There at length the foremost of our party wheeled to the right about, and the landlady, discovering me, hastily asked me what was the matter. I explained, as well as I could, the cause of my alarm; to which explanation, turning up the whites of her eyes, she replied, half festily, half laughing, “Quwhy, Gude safe us, Sir, ’twas nae mair than just Sanders Mac Grabbit, ane o’ the play-folk, a skirlin the bit tregedy, as he’s ganging to play in our barn like.”--“Um!” re-answered I; and in less than five minutes my nasal organ was playing bass to my next door neighbour’s treble.

[DIARY OF A TRAVELLER.]

HOW TO MAKE A PAPER.

SCENE.--THE SANCTUM AT THE ESTABLISHMENT IN CATHERINE-STREET, STRAND.

_The Editor sitting with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, leaning back in his chair, and looking very earnestly at the ceiling. In about ten minutes he gets up and walks to the window, breathes hard upon the glass, and flourishes a capital R with his finger in the wet he has made. Looks at his watch, and rings the Printer’s bell. Enter Printer._

_Editor_. How much matter have you got, Mr. Pica?

_Mr. P. (After a pause.)_ Not more than two columns, Sir.

_Editor_. The devil!--How many ads * can you muster to-day?

_Mr. P._ Three columns and a half, Sir, including quacks; but I must use “When men of education and professional skill,” and the “Real blessing to mothers.”

_Editor_. Have you no standing matter? ** _Mr. P_. Not a line, Sir, I used the last of the standing matter yesterday, the account of the “American sea-serpent,” which was left out full two months ago, to make room for the “Fire in Fleet-street.”

_Editor. (Musing.)_ Very well: I’ll touch your bell as soon as I have any copy ready.

* Advertisements.

** Articles already composed, or in type, but not yet used;
such as good jokes that will keep a week or two--murders in
America--or curious discoveries in the East Indies; that
will read as well at Christmas as in the dog-days.

_Mr. P._ The men are all standing still, Sir, just now If you have any matter which you intend to use a week hence, they may as well be going on with it.

_Editor. (Rummages among his papers.)_ Here, take this “Romantic suicide.” It will do for any day when you want half a column for the back page.

_[Exit Mr. Pica; and a minute after, enter reading boy, in a hurry._

_Boy._ Copy--if you please, Sir!

_Editor_. I have just given Mr. Pica half a column.

_Boy_. Oh--I beg your pardon, Sir--I did not see Mr. Pica--I came from down stairs. _[Exit._

_Editor: (Puts his hands into his breeches’ pockets again, and begins to whistle a tune.)_ This will not do---I must write something--but what it is to be about I know no more than the monument. _(Nibs his pen--settles his inkstand--and gets his paper ready)_. The parliament is up--the law courts have adjourned for the long vacation--the Opera House and the Winter Theatres have closed--and at the Haymarket and English Opera House, they have both brought out pieces which are having a run--nothing stirring--not even a case of decent oppression in a night constable--or of tyranny in a police magistrate. Whigs and Tories have shaken hands, and political delinquencies are too common to be either new or scandalous. The editor of a daily paper may be aptly compared to a galley slave. When the winds roar, and the tempest is abroad, and the waves swell, his bark moves along swiftly; but when the calm comes, and the sky is serene, and the breeze is hushed, and the sea is smooth, it is then he must ply the oar, and tug, and pull, and toil, to give the vessel motion.--_( Takes his pen and writes furiously.)_ That will do for one of those short leaders * about nothing--. which look very much as if they alluded to something that could not be mentioned, _(Reads.)_--“There are certain rumours afloat--upon a delicate subject which has lately occasioned a great sensation in particular quarters. We are in possession of facts connected with this extraordinary affair, which we may perhaps feel ourselves at liberty to mention in a few days. Meanwhile, all we can say at present is, that disclosures _must_ take place, however painful they may be to _more than one distinguished_ individual. We shall only add, that the Duke of Wellington left town yesterday in his travelling chariot, with four horses, for Windsor, after a private interview of nearly three hours with an Illustrious Personage; and that it is reported his Grace ordered summonses for a cabinet council this day, before his departure from London. We shall not lose sight of this business.” _(Rings the Printer’s bell--Mr. Pica enters.)_ Make this the first leader, and you may as well put it in double leads. **

* “Leaders”, are those important articles in a paper, which
are printed in large letters, and wherein the editorial _We_
is supposed to utter oracles _de omnibus rebus_.

** “Double leads” is a technical phrase for a mode of
printing which is employed only when an article is either
supposed to be, or is wished to be supposed, super-import-
ant. The lines stand wide apart, and look like the bars of a
gridiron.

_Mr. P._ Very well, Sir. There’s a long police case just come in, of a baronet’s daughter taken up for shoplifting; and an account of the bursting of a gasometer, which killed eleven men, three boys, and an old woman, who lived in a front garret over the way.

_Editor_. Use them both, the shop-lifting under the head of “Mysterious Charge of Theft,” and the accident to the gasometer under that of “Tremendous Explosion!--Fifteen Lives Lost!”

_Mr. P._ We shall do better with the _ads_. than I expected. Robins has just sent a long list of his auctions, which he says must go in to-morrow; and Kidd’s clerk has left eight or ten good book _ads._, so I shall be able to make out a full page without using the quacks. *

* It is necessary to remark here, by way of explanation,
that there are gradations of rank and respectability in
advertisements; and that a high aristocratical feeling
pervades their location in a well regulated paper. The
_quack ads_., alluded to by Mr. Pica, are those benevolent
offers of aid to the afflicted, which announce that
“rheumatism and lumbago are effectually relieved by a new
process;” that the most excruciating toothache is allayed in
one minute by an unrivalled anodyne cement; that “gout is
cured without medicine, in a few hours,” and “blotched faces
in no time at all;” that red whiskers are changed in a
single night to beautiful shades of brown or black;” that
“the healthy functions of the stomach and intestinal canal,
are restored by an improved domestic instrument,” &c. &c.
These are never allowed to show their faces in the genteel
company of the other advertisements, unless there happens to
be a lack of gentility, but herd together in what is
technically called the, “back page” of the paper.

_Editor_. So much the better: I abominate “Nervous complaints and debility,” or the “Patent bug destroyer by steam only,” side by side with, “Thirty-five thousand pounds wanted”--“The daughter of a clergyman”--“Books published this day.”--_(Exit Printer, laughing at the humourous vein of the Editor.)_--Well! one leader only: I must write something else. No Paris papers--no Dutch mail--no Flander’s mail--no German mail--no mail from Buenos Ayres--no New York papers! By-the-bye, it will look like a piece of information to announce that there is nothing. _(Writes._’)--“We have seldom known a day so barren of intelligence of every description. There has not been a single arrival from the Continent, nor any ship, letters, or papers from the other side of the Atlantic. Whether this profound calm may be considered as the harbinger of a coming storm we know not; but when we remember the ominous complexion of the advices last received from the East of Europe, and the louring aspect of affairs in general in the transatlantic hemisphere, it is not unreasonable to conclude that our next accounts from both quarters will be important. Our readers have not forgotten the opinion we expressed on Tuesday, and the comprehensive view we took on Wednesday, of the whole of our political relations. We are standing, as it were, upon the crater of a volcano, which may break forth every moment. The attitude of Russia is equivocal--the intentions of France are doubtful--Austria still wears her mask (though we are not deceived by it)--while the Peninsula becomes more and more embarrassing to the great powers of Europe. If we turn our eyes towards the United States of North America, what do we behold? Alas! this question needs no answer from us. And if we look at the new republics of South America, does not the same scene present itself? But we will not pursue this painful theme. A few hours, in all probability, will put us in possession of facts that will more than justify all our predictions.” _(A knock at the door.)_ Come in. (Dr. Froth _enters_.) Froth, how are you?

_Dr. F_. Quite well, at your service, my friend.

_Editor._ Thank you--but you may keep your health for yourself, and your service for your other friends--you shall not physic me.

_Dr. F._ Ha! ha! ha! very good--you are always brilliant--any news to-day?

_Editor_. Not a syllable, that I have heard--have you any?

_Dr. F. (Looking grave.)_ The king is very ill!

_Editor_. Indeed!

_Dr. F_. He is, by Jove! It wont do to mention it, because of the way in which it came to my ears; but you may depend upon it he is in a very ticklish situation just now.

_Editor_. How do you mean? _(Dr. F. points to his head, with a very significant look.)_ Pooh! I don’t believe a word of it! where did you hear it? _(Dr. F. looks round the room, and then whispers in the Editor’s ear.)_ That should be good authority, but----

_Dr. F_. It is a fact, and you’ll hear more about it, before long. I met Mr. Peel on his way to Downing-street as I came here, and he appeared very agitated. He was walking uncommonly fast, though the day is so hot. But I’ll not interrupt you any longer, for I know your time is precious--so good bye. Do you happen to have the Haymarket card disengaged this evening? And if you _could_ spare me your Vauxhall ticket for next Friday I should be very much obliged to you. And when you have no _other_ use for it, I wish you would remember me for Mathews and Yates at the Adelphi. I have promised Mrs. Froth to take her; and she particularly desired me to ask you whether you have orders for any of the minor theatres? She does not care which--the Cobourg, or the Surrey, or Astley’s---but she wants to give our cook a treat before the season is over.

_Editor._ My Haymarket card is engaged this evening, I know; but the English Opera House is at liberty, if that will do.

_Dr. F_. Thank you, I’ll take it--and perhaps you’ll keep the Haymarket for me to-morrow evening? Can I have Vauxhall on Friday?

_Editor._ Yes.

_Dr. F_. You are a fine fellow--You’ll not forget Mathews and the minors--Good bye.

_Editor._ No, no. _(Exit Dr. Froth.)_--D--n these tickets--it is half my business every day to remember to whom they are promised. _( Writes. )_--

“There is a painful rumour in circulation this morning, in the highest quarters, upon a subject which is too delicate to mention explicitly. We hope it may prove altogether unfounded, or at leastmuch exaggerated: but the peculiar sources, from which we derive our information, justifies us in attaching more than ordinary weight to the distressing report. Should any thing further transpire, after our paper is put to press, we shall not fail to communicate it to our readers in a second edition.” _(Rings the Printer’s bell. Mr. Pica enters.)_ Here are two more leaders, Mr. Pica. How does your _matter stand now?_*

* (i.e.) How much more do you want to fill the paper?

_Mr. P_. I measured it just before you rung the bell, and I had about a column and a quarter open; but these leaders will make a third of a column.

_Editor_. Rather more I think.

_[Exit Mr. Pica. Editor alters a paragraph, just left for him to insert by an irritated dramatic manager, and falls into a brown study, which lasts several minutes. It is interrupted by the entrance of the clerk, who brings him the card of a gentleman below stairs, who wishes to speak with him for one minute. The clerk is ordered to show the gentleman up, and the Rev Judiah Flinn enters.]_

_Rev. Mr. Flinn_. Are you the Editor of the A--?

_Editor_. I am.

_Rev. Mr. F_. Then I have called upon you, Sir, to request that you will contradict a most malicious and unfounded report of the death of my uncle, which appeared in your paper yesterday.

_Editor_. With great pleasure, if it be unfounded; but I can assure you there was nothing malicious in the statement. Who is your uncle?

_Rev. Mr. F._ The Bishop of --------. This is a letter I received from him this morning, dated only yesterday; and your paper says, he died suddenly at his Episcopal palace, last Saturday. These false reports are not only most distressing to the friends and relations of an individual, but they are cruel disappointments to a numerous class of your readers. I have met three deans and one prebendary already, who have hurried up to town in consequence of the scandalous rumour.

_Editor_. I am really very sorry; but the fact is the rumour did not originate with us; it was copied from another paper: however I shall be most happy to give it a positive contradiction.

_Rev. Mr. F_. Sir, I am obliged to you. _(The Rev. Judiah Flinn puts his uncle’s letter into his pocket and departs.)_

_Editor. (Writes.)_ “We cannot sufficiently reprobate the manner in which some of our contemporaries give circulation to the most unfounded reports. We, yesterday, incautiously copied from another paper a statement of the pretended death of the Bishop of --------. We have the best authority for asserting that this paragraph is wholly without foundation. We have seen a letter from the Right Reverend prelate, written four days after the date of his alleged decease, and at which period he was in the enjoyment of excellent health. We are happy in being thus enabled to dispel the gloom which the report of his lordship’s death must have occasioned, wherever talents, piety, moral worth, private virtue, and public integrity are held dear. At any time, the loss of such a man as the Bishop of -------- would be severely felt; but at a moment like this, when the best interests of the church are in danger, it would be a national calamity. In the words of Shakspeare we are ready to exclaim--

--‘He’s a learned man. May he continue
Long in his country’s favour, and do justice
For truth’s sake, and his conscience, that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on’em.’”

Come, I shall do pretty well for leaders, after all, though there _is_ nothing to write about. _(Rings Mr. Pica’s bell.)_ Here is more copy ready;--this is a leader, and this a common _par. in l. p._ *

* “A common _par_.” is “a common paragraph;” and “l.
p,” stands for that description of letter which is called
_long primer_. Paragraphs, in a paper, have their places of
precedency, and their select company as well as
advertisements. There is as much difference, in point of
dignity and rank, between an l. p. par. (or a paragraph in
large letters), coming immediately after the leaders, and a
scrubby minion par. (or a paragraph in small letter), shoved
any where, as between a minister’s private secretary, and
the private secretary’s private clerk. Your l. p. par. is a
gentleman, and keeps good society. You will always find him
in the midst of their excellencies the ambassadors, who have
paid visits to the foreign office, or received despatches
from their own governments; side by side with peers and
west-end commoners, who have gone out of town, come into
town or given grand dinners; surrounded with princesses and
other illustrious personages, who have taken an airing or
paid a morning visit. But your minion par. is a sneaking,
shabby, obscure little fellow, poked down in a corner by
himself, or at best, only permitted to associate with
“melancholy accidents”--“daring robberies”--“more fires”--
“extraordinary longevity”--the puff particular of Warren’s
Blacking, and the puffs universal of Colburn’s authors. It
is only when parliament is sitting, or there is “a press of
matter,” that these distinctions are levelled in one common
fate of pars, and even leaders. It is then only, that lords
and ladies, M.P’s. and quack doctors, hops, crops, and
concerts, fops, fiddlers, and philosophers, large turnips
and theatrical stars, bishops and burglaries, are all
equally the minions of the daily press, and distinguished
only by their “station in the file.”

_Mr. P_. I have too much already, by at least half a column, and I don’t know what to leave out.

_Editor._ Half a column too much!--then you do not want any more from me.

_Mr. P_. No, Sir; I was thinking of keeping the “Awful thunder storm” till to-morrow, only it is a week old already.

_Editor_. Never mind. We shall have some more thunder storms by to-morrow, in all probability, and then you can put them all together.

_Mr. P_. Do you care about the “Grand Seignior” and the “Flying Fish” going in to-day? Because, if they are left out, I can make room for the “White Witch,” the “Persian Ambassador,” and “Waterloo Bridge.”

_Editor_. Find a place for the “White Witch.” She has been standing for a long time--ever since Monday.

_Mr. P_. So has “Waterloo Bridge,” Sir. _Editor, (with an arch look.)_ Yes, but that was intended to stand.

_Mr. P. (laughing.)_ I shall want two or three small pars., of about six lines each, to make out the columns, for none of the long articles will fit exactly.

_Editor._ Wait a moment, and I’ll give them to you. ( Writes.)--“Mackarel are just now in season, and remarkably cheap. We are glad of it, for they furnish an economical and wholesome meal to the poorer classes, with a few potatoes.”

“The metropolis was visited by a violent storm last night. The rain fell in torrents. We have not heard it extended beyond the immediate vicinity of London.”

“If the hot weather continues much longer, there will be too much of it. The farmers are already crying out sadly for rain.”

“As a man was driving a pig yesterday down the Haymarket, the obstinate animal ran between the legs of an old woman who was carrying a heavy basket of cabbages on her head, and threw her down. The poor old creature bruised her elbow shockingly. The pig ran off in the direction of St. James’s-square. The writer of this saw the accident. What are the street-keepers about, to allow fellows thus to drive their pigs on the foot-pavement, in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the metropolis?”

“_Anecdote_.--An exquisite, that is, a tiptop dandy, was calling a coach the other day, opposite Southampton-street in the Strand. The delicate creature could not make his voice heard; when a rough Jack-tar, who happened to be passing by, hailed coachee, in a voice like a speaking-trumpet.

“‘Here,’ said Jack, looking unutterable things at the dandy, ‘here’s _something_ wants you.’”

“_A Legal Conundrum_.--When a ship of war has but an indifferent crew, and is ill provided with cannon, she is in want of the assistance of two learned counsel. Who are they! _Man_-ning and _Gun_-ning.--N.B. This is not one of Lord Norbury’s _lasts_.”

There are half-a-dozen _pars_, for you. If you do not want them all to-day, use any of them that will fit, and keep the rest for another time.

_[Exit Mr. Pica. The Editor puts away his letters and papers--locks up his writing-desk--washes his hands--adjusts his cravat--buttons his coat--puts on his hat and gloves--and sallies forth into the Strand? to enjoy the fresh air, while Mr. Pica is usings all necessary diligence to get the paper ready for publication.]_

[SHARPE’S MAG.]

THE NIGHTMARE.

I come in the gleams, from the land of dreams,
Wrapp’d round in the midnight’s pall;
Ye may hear my moan, in the night-wind’s groan,
When the tapestry flaps on the wall;--
I come from my rest in the death-owl’s nest,
Where she screams in fear and pain;
And my wings gleam bright in the wild moonlight,
As it whirls round the madman’s brain;
And down sweeps my car, like a falling star,
When the winds have hush’d their breath;
When ye feel in the air, from the cold sepulchre,
The faint damp smell of death.

My vigil I keep, by the murderer’s sleep,
When dreams round his senses spin;
And I ride on his breast, and trouble his rest,
In the shape of his deadliest sin;
And hollow and low is his moan of woe
In the depth of his strangling pain,
And his cold black eye rolls in agony,
And faintly rattles his chain.

The sweat-drops fall on the dark prison wall--
He wakes with a deep-drawn sigh;
He hears my tread, as I pass from his bed,
And he calls on the saints on high.

I fly to the bed where the weary head
Of the poet its rest must seek,
And with false dreams of fame I kindle the flame
Of joy on his pallid cheek.
No thought does he take of the world awake,
And its cold and heartless pleasure,
The holy fire of his own loved lyre
Is his best and dearest treasure.

But neglect’s foul sting that cheek shall bring
To a darker and deadlier hue;
The last dear token, his lyre, is broken,
And his heart is broken too.

When the maiden asleep for her lover may weep,
Afar on the boundless sea,
And she dreams he is press’d to her welcome breast,
Return’d from his dangers free--
I come in the form of a wave of the storm,
And sweep him away from her heart,
And then in a dream she starts with a scream,
To think that in death they part;
And still in the light of her stream-bound sight
The images whirl and dance,
Till my swift elision dispels the vision,
And she wakes as from a trance.

When the clouds, first-born of the breezy morn,
In the eastern chambers roam,
I glide away in the twilight gray
To rest in my shadowy home;
And darkness and sleep to their kingdom sweep,
And dreams rustle by like a storm;
But where I dwell no man can tell
Who hath seen my hideous form;
Whether it be in the caves of the sea,
Where the rolling breakers go,
Or the crystal sphere of the upper air,
Or the depths of hell below.

[EQUUS.]

A GALL-ING SYSTEM.

When Dr. Gall first announced his new system of Craniology, the wits of Paris found it a good subject on which to exercise their talents, and it was attacked with all the light artillery of jokes and epigrams. Among others, Mercier, the author of the _Tableau de Paris_, entered the lists with his _Podology_ against _Craniology_, in a squib, in which he contended, that “it is not in the head that ideas reside, nor by the head that man differs from other animals; that a man without a head would not on that account, be less reflecting; in short, that the head says nothing, does nothing, and contributes nothing to the observation of man. It is his _foot_ which does every thing. It is in the foot that we must seek and find the stamp of man’s original dignity. In the foot? Yes, Sir, in the foot. Look at the footman, who smiles at your surprise--is it not the foot which supports the head? Does not the foot express anger and indignation? In Spain, all matters of love and gallantry begin with the foot. The foot, in China, plays the first part. There is nothing more rude than to tread upon another’s foot; when a man gets intoxicated, his foot refuses to carry him in that state of debasement; in fact, the foot cannot lie like the mouth and eyes. You must perceive, then, that the foot has all those qualities which prove a man to be a thinking being, or, in other words, the foot is the seat of the soul. If you would know, therefore, whether a woman is tender or faithless, if a man has the understanding of Montesquieu, or the folly of ------, instead of looking at his skull, you must see his foot. Yes, good Dr. Gall; you shall see my _head_, and I will examine your feet.”--So much for the System of

craniology.