THEWORLD'SGREATEST BOOKS

JOINT EDITORS

ARTHUR MEEEditor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

J. A. HAMMERTONEditor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia

VOL. IIIFICTION

MCMX

_Table of Contents_

DAUDET, ALPHONSE Tartarin of Tarascon

DAY, THOMAS Sandford and Merton

DEFOE, DANIEL Robinson Crusoe Captain Singleton

DICKENS, CHARLES Barnaby Rudge Bleak House David Copperfield Dombey and Son Great Expectations Hard Times Little Dorrit Martin Chuzzlewit Nicholas Nickleby Oliver Twist Old Curiosity Shop Our Mutual Friend Pickwick Papers Tale of Two Cities

DISRAELI, BENJAMIN (Earl of Beaconsfield) Coningsby Sybil, or The Two Nations Tancred, or The New Crusade

DUMAS, ALEXANDRE Marguerite de Valois Black Tulip Corsican Brothers Count of Monte Cristo The Three Musketeers Twenty Years After

A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the endof Volume XX. 

 * * * * *

ALPHONSE DAUDET

Tartarin of Tarascon

 Alphonse Daudet, the celebrated French novelist, was born at Nimes on May 13, 1840, and as a youth of seventeen went to Paris, where he began as a poet at eighteen, and at twenty-two made his first efforts in the drama. He soon found his feet as a contributor to the leading journals of the day and a successful writer for the stage. He was thirty-two when he wrote "Tartarin of Tarascon, " than which no better comic tale has been produced in modern times. Tarascon is a real town, not far from the birthplace of Daudet, and the people of the district have always had a reputation for "drawing the long bow. " It was to satirise this amiable weakness of his southern compatriots that the novelist created the character of Tartarin, but while he makes us laugh at the absurd misadventures of the lion-hunter, it will be noticed how ingeniously he prevents our growing out of temper with him, how he contrives to keep a warm corner in our hearts for the bragging, simple-minded, good-natured fellow. That is to say, it is a work of essential humour, and the lively style in which the story is told attracts us to it time and again with undiminished pleasure. In two subsequent books, "Tartarin in the Alps, " and "Port Tarascon, " Daudet recounted further adventures of his delightful hero. His "Sapho" and "Kings in Exile" have also been widely read. Daudet died on December 17, 1897. 

_I. --The Mighty Hunter at Home_

I remember my first visit to Tartarin of Tarascon as clearly as if ithad been yesterday, though it is now more than a dozen years ago. Whenyou had passed into his back garden, you would never have fanciedyourself in France. Every tree and plant had been brought from foreignclimes; he was such a fellow for collecting the curiosities of Nature, this wonderful Tartarin. His garden boasted, for instance, an example ofthe baobab, that giant of the vegetable world, but Tartarin's specimenwas only big enough to occupy a mignonette pot. He was mightily proud ofit, all the same. 

The great sight of his place, however, was the hero's private den at thebottom of the garden. Picture to yourself a large hall gleaming from topto bottom with firearms and weapons of all sorts: carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, bowie-knives, revolvers, daggers, flint-arrows--in aword, examples of the deadly weapons of all races used by man in allparts of the world. Everything was neatly arranged, and labelled as ifit were in a public museum. "Poisoned Arrows. Please do not touch!" wasthe warning on one of the cards. "Weapons loaded. Have a care!" greetedyou from another. My word, it required some pluck to move about in theden of the great Tartarin. 

There were books of travel and adventure, books about mighty hunting onthe table in the centre of the room; and seated at the table was a shortand rather fat, red-haired fellow of about forty-five, with a closely-trimmed beard and a pair of bright eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves, reading a book held in one hand while he gesticulated wildly with alarge pipe in the other--Tartarin! He was evidently imagining himselfthe daring hero of the story. 

Now you must know that the people of Tarascon were tremendously keen onhunting, and Tartarin was the chief of the hunters. You may think thisfunny when you know there was not a living thing to shoot at withinmiles of Tarascon; scarcely a sparrow to attract local sportsmen. Ah, but you don't know how ingenious they are down there. 

Every Sunday morning off the huntsmen sallied with their guns andammunition, the hounds yelping at their heels. Each man as he left inthe morning took with him a brand new cap, and when they got well intothe country and were ready for sport, they took their caps off, threwthen high in the air, and shot at them as they fell. In the evening youwould see them returning with their riddled caps stuck on the points oftheir guns, and of all these brave men Tartarin was the most admired, ashe always swung into town with the most hopeless rag of a cap at the endof a day's sport. There's no mistake, he was a wonder!

But for all his adventurous spirit, he had a certain amount of caution. There were really two men inside the skin of Tartarin. The one Tartarinsaid to him, "Cover yourself with glory. " The other said to him, "Coveryourself with flannel. " The one, imagining himself fighting Red Indians, would call for "An axe! An axe! Somebody give me an axe!" The other, knowing that he was cosy by his fireside, would ring the bell and say, "Jane, my coffee. "

One evening at Costecalde's, the gunsmith's, when Tartarin wasexplaining some mechanism of a rifle, the door was opened and an excitedvoice announced, "A lion! A lion!" The news seemed incredible, but youcan imagine the terror that seized the little group at the gunsmith's asthey asked for more news. It appeared that the lion was to be seen in atravelling menagerie newly arrived from Beaucaire. 

A lion at last, and here in Tarascon! Suddenly, when the full truth haddawned upon Tartarin, he shouldered his gun, and, turning to MajorBravida, "Let us go to see him!" he thundered. Following him went thecap-hunters. Arrived at the menagerie, where many Tarasconians werealready wandering from cage to cage, Tartarin entered with his gun overhis shoulder to make inquiries about the king of beasts. His entrancewas rather a wet blanket on the other visitors, who, seeing their herothus armed, thought there might be danger, and were about to flee. Butthe proud bearing of the great man reassured them, and Tartarincontinued his round of the booth until he faced the lion from the AtlasMountains. 

Here he stood carefully studying the creature, who sniffed and growledin surly temper, and then, rising, shook his mane and gave vent to aterrible, roar, directed full at Tartarin. 

Tartarin alone stood his ground, stern and immovable, in front of thecage, and the valiant cap-hunters, somewhat reassured by his bravery, again drew near and heard him murmur, as he gazed on the lion, "Ah, yes, there's a hunt for you!"

Not another word did Tartarin utter that day. Yet next day nothing wasspoken about in the town but his intention to be off to Algeria to huntthe lions of the Atlas Mountains. When asked if this were true his pridewould not let him deny it, and he pretended that it might be true. Sothe notion grew, until that night at his club Tartarin announced, amidtremendous cheering, that he was sick of cap-hunting, and meant verysoon to set forth in pursuit of the lions of the Atlas. 

Now began a great struggle between the two Tartarins. While the one wasstrongly in favour of the adventure, the other was strongly opposed toleaving his snug little Baobab Villa and the safety of Tarascon. But hehad let himself in for this, and felt he would have to see it through. So he began reading up the books of African travel, and found from thesehow some of the explorers had trained themselves for the work byenduring hunger, thirst, and other privations before they set out. Tartarin began cutting down his food, taking very watery soup. Early inthe morning, too, he walked round the town seven or eight times, and atnights he would stay in the garden from ten till eleven o'clock, alonewith his gun, to inure himself to night chills; while, so long as themenagerie remained in Tarascon, a strange figure might have been seen inthe dark, prowling around the tent, listening to the growling of thelion. This was Tartarin, accustoming himself to be calm when the king ofbeasts was raging. 

The feeling began to grow, however, that the hero was shirking. Heshowed no haste to be off. At length, one night Major Bravida went toBaobab Villa and said very solemnly, "Tartarin, you must go!"

It was a terrible moment for Tartarin, but he realised the solemnity ofthe words, and, looking around his cosy little den with a moist eye, hereplied at length in a choking voice, "Bravida, I shall go!" Having madethis irrevocable decision, he now pushed ahead his final preparationswith some show of haste. From Bompard's he had two large trunks, oneinscribed with "Tartarin of Tarascon. Case of Arms, " and he sent toMarseilles all manner of provisions of travel, including a patentcamp-tent of the latest style. 

_II. --Tartarin Sets off to Lion-Land_

Then the great day of his departure arrived. All the town was agog. Theneighbourhood of Baobab Villa was crammed with spectators. About teno'clock the bold hero issued forth. 

"He's a Turk! He's wearing spectacles!" This was the astonished cry ofthe beholders, and, sure enough, Tartarin had thought it his duty to donAlgerian costume because he was going to Algeria. He also carried twoheavy rifles, one on each shoulder, a huge hunting-knife at his waistand a revolver in a leather case. A pair of large blue spectacles wereworn by him, for the sun in Algeria is terribly strong, you know. 

At the station the doors of the waiting-room had to be closed to keepthe crowd out, while the great man took leave of his friends, makingpromises to each, and jotting down notes on his tablets of the variouspeople to whom he would send lion-skins. 

Oh, that I had the brush of an artist, that I might paint you somepictures of Tartarin during his three days aboard the Zouave on thevoyage from Marseilles! But I have no facility with the brush, and merewords cannot convey how he passed from the proudly heroic to thehopelessly miserable in the course of the journey. Worst of all, whilehe was groaning in his stuffy bunk, he knew that a very merry party ofpassengers were enjoying themselves in the saloon. He was still in hisbunk when the ship came to her moorings at Algiers, and he got up with asudden jerk, under the impression that the Zouave was sinking. Seizinghis many weapons, he rushed on deck, to find it was not foundering, butonly arriving. 

Soon after Tartarin had set foot on shore, following a great negroporter, he was almost stupefied by the babel of tongues; but, fortunately, a policeman took him in hand and had him directed, togetherwith his enormous collection of luggage, to the European hotel. 

On arriving at his hotel, he was so fatigued that his marvellouscollection of weapons had to be taken from him, and he had to be carriedto bed, where he snored very soundly until it was striking threeo'clock. He had slept all the evening, through the night and morning, and well into the next afternoon!

He awakened refreshed, and the first thought in his mind was, "I'm inlion-land at last!" But the thought sent a cold shiver through him, andhe dived under the bedclothes. A moment later he determined to be up. Exclaiming, "Now for the lions!" he jumped on the floor and began hispreparations. 

His plan was to get out at once into the country, take ambush for thenight, shoot the first lion that came along, and then back to the hotelfor breakfast. So off he went, carrying not only his usual arsenal, butthe marvellous patent tent strapped to his back. He attracted no littleattention as he trudged along, and catching sight of a very fine camel, his heart beat fast, for he thought the lions could not be far off now. 

It was quite dark by the time he had got only a little way beyond theoutskirts of the town, scrambling over ditches and bramble-hedges. Aftermuch hard work of this kind, the mighty hunter suddenly stopped, whispering to himself, "I seem to smell a lion hereabouts. " He sniffedkeenly in all directions. To his excited imagination, it seemed a likelyplace for a lion; so, dropping on one knee, and laying one of his gunsin front of him, he waited. 

He waited very patiently. One hour, two hours; but nothing stirred. Thenhe suddenly remembered that great lion-hunters take a little young goatwith them to attract the lion by its bleating. Having forgotten tosupply himself with one, Tartarin conceived the happy idea of bleatinglike a kid. He started softly, calling, "Meh, meh!" He was really afraidthat a lion might hear him, but as no lion seemed to be payingattention, he became bolder in his "mehs, " until the noise he made wasmore like the bellowing of a bull. 

But hush! What was that? A huge black object had for the moment loomedup against the dark blue sky. It stooped, sniffing the ground; thenseemed to move away again, only to return suddenly. It must be the lionat last; so, taking a steady aim, bang went the gun of Tartarin, and aterrible howling came in response. Clearly his shot had told; thewounded lion had made off. He would now wait for the female to appear, as he had read in books. 

But two or more hours passed, and she did not come; and the ground wasdamp, and the night air cold, so the hunter thought he would camp forthe night. After much struggling, he could not get his patent tent toopen. Finally, he threw it on the ground in a rage, and lay on the topof it. Thus he slept until the bugles in the barracks near by wakenedhim in the morning. For behold, instead of finding himself out on theSahara, he was in the kitchen garden of some suburban Algerian!

"These people are mad, " he growled to himself, "to plant theirartichokes where lions are roaming about. Surely I have been dreaming. Lions do come here; there's proof positive. "

From artichoke to artichoke, from field to field, he followed the thintrail of blood, and came at length to a poor little donkey he hadwounded!

Tartarin's first feeling was one of vexation. There is such a differencebetween a lion and an ass, and the poor little creature looked soinnocent. The great hunter knelt down and tried to stanch the donkey'swounds, and it seemed grateful to him, for it feebly flapped its longears two or three times before it lay still for ever. 

Suddenly a voice was heard calling, "Noiraud! Noiraud!" It was "thefemale. " She came in the form of an old French woman with a large redumbrella, and it would have been better for Tartarin to have faced afemale lion. 

When the unhappy man tried to explain how he had mistaken her littledonkey for a lion, she thought he was making fun of her, and belabouredhim with her umbrella. When her husband came on the scene the matter wassoon adjusted by Tartarin agreeing to pay eight pounds for the damage hehad done, the price of the donkey being really something like eightshillings. The donkey owner was an inn-keeper, and the sight ofTartarin's money made him quite friendly. He invited the lion-hunter tohave some food at the inn with him before he left. And as they walkedthither he was amazed to be told by the inn-keeper that he had neverseen a lion there in twenty years!

Clearly, the lions were to be looked for further south. "I'll maketracks for the south, too, " said Tartarin to himself. But he first ofall returned to his hotel in an omnibus. Think of it! But before he wasto go south on the high adventure, he loafed about the city of Algiersfor some time, going to the theatres and other places of amusement, where he met Prince Gregory of Montenegro, with whom he made friends. 

One day the captain of the Zouave came across him in the town, andshowed him a note about himself in a Tarascon newspaper. This spoke ofthe uncertainty that prevailed as to the fate of the great hunter, andwound up with these words:

"Some Negro traders state, however, that they met in the open desert aEuropean whose description answers to that of Tartarin, and who wasmaking tracks for Timbuctoo. May Heaven guard for us our hero!"

Tartarin went red and white by turns as he read this, and realised thathe was in for it. He very much wished to return to his beloved Tarascon, but to go there without having shot some lions--one at least--wasimpossible, and so it was Southward ho!

_III. --Tartarin's Adventures in the Desert_

The lion-hunter was keenly disappointed, after a very long journey inthe stage-coach, to be told that there was not a lion left in allAlgeria, though a few panthers might still be found worth shooting. 

He got out at the town of Milianah, and let the coach go on, as hethought he might as well take things easily if, after all, there were nolions to be shot. To his amazement, however, he came across a real livelion at the door of a café. 

"What made them say there were no more lions?" he cried, astounded atthe sight. The lion lifted in its mouth a wooden bowl from the pavement, and a passing Arab threw a copper in the bowl, at which the lion waggedits tail. Suddenly the truth dawned on Tartarin. He was a poor, blind, tame lion, which a couple of negroes were taking through the streets, just like a performing dog. His blood was up at the very idea. Shouting, "You scoundrels, to humiliate these noble beasts so!" he rushed and tookthe degrading bowl from the royal jaws of the lion. This led to aquarrel with the negroes, at the height of which Prince Gregory ofMontenegro came upon the scene. 

The prince told him a most untrue story about a convent in the north ofAfrica where lions were kept, to be sent out with priests to beg formoney. He also assured him that there were lots of lions in Algeria, andthat he would join him in his hunt. 

Thus it was in the company of Prince Gregory, and with a following ofhalf a dozen negro porters, that Tartarin set off early next morning forthe Shereef Plain; but they very soon had trouble, both with the portersand with the provisions Tartarin had brought for his great journey. Theprince suggested dismissing the negroes and buying a couple of donkeys, but Tartarin could not bear the thought of donkeys, for a reason withwhich we are acquainted. He readily agreed, however, to the purchase ofa camel, and when he was safely helped up on its hump, he sorely wishedthe people of Tarascon could see him. But his pride speedily had a fall, for he found the movement of the camel worse than that of the boat incrossing the Mediterranean. He was afraid he might disgrace France. Indeed, if truth must out, France was disgraced! So, for the remainderof their expedition, which lasted nearly a month, Tartarin preferred towalk on foot and lead the camel. 

One night in the desert, Tartarin was sure he heard sounds just likethose he had studied at the back of the travelling menagerie atTarascon. He was positive they were in the neighbourhood of a lion atlast. He prepared to go forward and stalk the beast. The prince offeredto accompany him, but Tartarin resolutely refused. He would meet theking of beasts alone! Entrusting his pocket-book, full of preciousdocuments and bank-notes, to the prince, in case he might lose it in atussle with the lion, he moved forward. His teeth were chattering in hishead when he lay down, trembling, to await the lion. 

It must have been two hours before he was sure that the beast was movingquite near him in the dry bed of a river. Firing two shots in thedirection whence the sound came, he got up and bolted back to where hehad left the camel and the prince--but there was only the camel therenow! The prince had waited a whole month for such a chance!

In the morning he realised that he had been robbed by a thief whopretended to be a prince. And here he was in the heart of savage Africawith a little pocket money only, much useless luggage, a camel, and nota single lion-skin for all his trouble. 

Sitting on one of the desert-tombs erected over pious Mohammedans, thegreat man fell to weeping bitterly. But, even as he wept the bushes werepushed aside a little in front of him, and a huge lion presented itself. To his honour, be it said, Tartarin never moved a muscle, but, breathinga fervent "At last!" he leapt to his feet, and, levelling his rifle, planted two explosive bullets in the lion's head. All was over in amoment, for he had nearly blown the king of beasts to pieces! But inanother moment he saw two tall, enraged negroes bearing down upon him. He had seen them before at Milianah, and this was their poor blind lion!Fortunately for Tartarin, he was not so deeply in the desert as he hadthought, but merely outside the town of Orleansville, and a policemannow came up, attracted by the firing, and took full particulars. 

The upshot of it was that he had to suffer much delay in Orleansville, and was eventually fined one hundred pounds. How to pay this was aproblem which he solved by selling all his extensive outfit, bit by bit. When his debts were paid, he had nothing but the lion's skin and thecamel. The former he dispatched to Major Bravida at Tarascon. Nobodywould buy the camel, and its master had to face all the journey back toAlgiers in short stages on foot. 

_IV. --The Home-Coming of the Hero_

The camel showed a curious affection for him, and followed him asfaithfully as a dog. When, at the end of eight days' weary tramping, hecame at last to Algiers, he did all he could to lose the animal, andhoped he had succeeded. He met the captain of the Zouave, who told himthat all Algiers had been laughing at the story of how he had killed theblind lion, and he offered Tartarin a free passage home. 

The Zouave was getting up steam next day as the dejected Tartarin hadjust stepped into the captain's long-boat, when, lo! his faithful camelcame tearing down the quay and gazed affectionately at its friend. Tartarin pretended not to notice it; but the animal seemed to implorehim with his eyes to be taken away. "You are the last Turk, " it seemedto say, "I am the last camel. Let us never part again, O my Tartarin!"

But the lion-hunter pretended to know nothing of this ship of thedesert. 

As the boat pulled off to the Zouave, the camel jumped into the waterand swam after it, and was taken aboard. At last Tartarin had the joy ofhearing the Zouave cast anchor at Marseilles, and, having no luggage totrouble him, he rushed off the boat at once and hastened through thetown to the railway station, hoping to get ahead of the camel. 

He booked third class, and quickly hid himself in a carriage. Off wentthe train. But it had not gone far when everybody was looking out of thewindows and laughing. Behind the train ran the camel--holding his own, too!

What a humiliating home-coming! All his weapons of the chase left onMoorish soil, not a lion with him, nothing but a silly camel!

"Tarascon! Tarascon!" shout the porters as the train slows up at thestation, and the hero gets out. He had hoped to slink home unobserved;but, to his amazement, he is received with shouts of "Long liveTartarin!" "Three cheers for the lion-slayer!" The people are wavingtheir caps in the air; it is no joke, they are serious. There is MajorBravida, and there the more noteworthy cap-hunters, who cluster roundtheir chief and carry him in triumph down the stairs. 

Now, all this was the result of sending home the skin of the blind lion. But the climax was reached when, following the crowd down the stairs ofthe station, limping from his long run, came the camel. Even thisTartarin turned to good account. He reassured his fellow-citizens, patting the camel's hump. 

"This is my camel; a noble beast! It has seen me kill all my lions. "

And so, linking his arm with the worthy major, he calmly wended his wayto Baobab Villa, amid the ringing cheers of the populace. On the road hebegan a recital of his hunts. 

"Picture to yourself, " he said, "a certain evening in the openSahara----"

 * * * * *

THOMAS DAY

Sandford and Merton

 Thomas Day was born in London on June 22, 1748, and educated at the Charterhouse and at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. Entering the Middle Temple in 1765, he was called to the Bar ten years later, but never practised. A contemporary and disciple of Rousseau, he convinced himself that human suffering was, in the main, the result of the artificial arrangements of society, and inheriting a fortune at an early age he spent large sums in philanthropy. A poem written by him in 1773, entitled "The Dying Negro, " has been described as supplying the keynote of the anti-slavery movement. His "History of Sandford and Merton, " published in three volumes between the years 1783 and 1789, provided a channel through which many generations of English people have imbibed a kind of refined Rousseauism. It retains its interest for the philosophic mind, despite the burlesque of _Punch_ and its waning popularity as a book for children. Thomas Day died through a fall from his horse on September 28, 1789. 

_I. --Mr. Barlow and his Pupils_

In the western part of England lived a gentleman of a large fortune, whose name was Merton. He had a great estate in Jamaica, but haddetermined to stay some years in England for the education of his onlyson. When Tommy Merton came from Jamaica he was six years old. Naturallyvery good-natured, he had been spoiled by indulgence. His mother was sofond of him that she gave him everything he cried for, and would not lethim learn to read because he complained that it made his head ache. Theconsequence was that, though Master Merton had everything he wanted, hewas fretful and unhappy, made himself disagreeable to everybody, andoften met with very dangerous accidents. He was also so delicatelybrought up that he was perpetually ill. 

Very near to Mr. Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer namedSandford, whose only son, Harry, was not much older than Master Merton, but who, as he had always been accustomed to run about in the fields, tofollow the labourers when they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep totheir pasture, was active, strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured. Harry hadan honest, good-natured countenance, was never out of humour, and tookthe greatest pleasure in obliging others, in helping those lessfortunate than himself, and in being kind to every living thing. Harrywas a great favourite, particularly with Mr. Barlow, the clergyman ofthe parish, who taught him to read and write, and had him almost alwayswith him. 

One summer morning, while Master Merton and a maid were walking in thefields, a large snake suddenly started up and curled itself roundTommy's leg. The maid ran away, shrieking for help, whilst the child, inhis terror, dared not move. Harry, who happened to be near, ran up, andseizing the snake by the neck, tore it from Tommy's leg, and threw it toa great distance. Mrs. Merton wished to adopt the boy who had so bravelysaved her son, and Harry's intelligence so appealed to Mr. Merton thathe thought it would be an excellent thing if Tommy could also benefit byMr. Barlow's instruction. With this view he decided to propose to thefarmer to pay for the board and education of Harry that he might be aconstant companion to Tommy. Mr. Barlow, on being consulted, agreed totake Tommy for some months under his care; but refused any monetaryrecompense. 

The day after Tommy went to Mr. Barlow's the clergyman took his twopupils into the garden, and, taking a spade in his own hand, and givingHarry a hoe, they both began to work. "Everybody that eats, " he said, "ought to assist in procuring food. This is my bed, and that is Harry's. If, Tommy, you choose to join us, I will mark you out a piece of ground, all the produce of which shall be your own. "

"No, indeed, " said Tommy; "I am a gentleman, and don't choose to slavelike a ploughboy. "

"Just as you please, Mr. Gentleman, " said Mr. Barlow. And Tommy, notbeing asked to share the plate of ripe cherries with which Mr. Barlowand Harry refreshed themselves after their labour, wandereddisconsolately about the garden, surprised and vexed to find himself ina place where nobody felt any concern whether he was pleased or not. Meanwhile, Harry, after a few words of advice from Mr. Barlow, readaloud the story of "The Ants and the Flies, " in which it is related howthe flies perished for lack of laying up provisions for the winter, whereas the industrious ants, by working during the summer, provided fortheir maintenance when the bad weather came. 

Mr. Barlow and Harry then rambled into the fields, where Mr. Barlowpointed out the several kinds of plants to be seen, and told his littlecompanion the name and nature of each. When they returned to dinnerTommy, who had been skulking about all day, came in, and being veryhungry, was going to sit down to the table, when Mr. Barlow said, "No, sir; though you are too much of a gentleman to work, we, who are not soproud, do not choose to work for the idle!"

Upon this Tommy retired into a corner, crying as if his heart wouldbreak; when Harry, who could not bear to see his friend so unhappy, looked up, half-crying, into Mr. Barlow's face, and said, "Pray, sir, may I do as I please with my dinner?"

"Yes, to be sure, my boy, " was the reply. 

"Why, then, " said Harry, "I will give it to poor Tommy, who wants itmore than I do. "

Tommy took it and thanked Harry; but without turning his eyes from theground. 

"I see, " said Mr. Barlow, "that though certain gentlemen are too proudto be of any use to themselves, they are not above taking the bread thatother people have been working hard for. "

At this Tommy cried more bitterly than before. 

The next day, when they went into the garden, Tommy begged that he mighthave a hoe, too, and, having been shown how to use it, soon worked withthe greatest pleasure, which was much increased when he was asked toshare the fruit provided after the work was done. It seemed to him themost delicious fruit that he had ever tasted. 

Harry read as before, the story this time being about the gentleman andthe basket-maker. It described how a rich man, jealous of the happinessof a poor basket-maker, destroyed the latter's means of livelihood, andwas sent by a magistrate with his humble victim to an island, where thetwo were made to serve the natives. On this island the rich man, becausehe possessed neither talents to please nor strength to labour, wascondemned to be the basket-maker's servant. When they were recalled, therich man, having acquired wisdom by his misfortunes, not only treatedthe basket-maker as a friend during the rest of his life, but employedhis riches in relieving the poor. 

_II. --Gentleman Tommy Learns to Read_

From this time forward Mr. Barlow and his two pupils used to work intheir garden every morning; and when they were fatigued they retired tothe summer-house, where Harry, who improved every day in reading, usedto entertain them with some pleasant story. Then Harry went home for aweek, and the morning after, when Tommy expected that Mr. Barlow wouldread to him as usual, he found to his great disappointment, thatgentleman was busy and could not. The same thing happening the next dayand the day after, Tommy said to himself, "Now, if I could but read likeHarry, I should not need to ask anybody to do it for me. " So when Harryreturned, Tommy took an early opportunity of asking him how he came tobe able to read. 

"Why, " said Harry, "Mr. Barlow taught me my letters; and then, byputting syllables together, I learnt to read. "

"And could you not show me my letters?" asked Tommy. 

"Very willingly, " was Harry's reply. And the lessons proceeded so wellthat Tommy, who learned the whole alphabet at the very first lesson, atthe end of two months was able to read aloud to Mr. Barlow "The Historyof the Two Dogs, " which shows how vain it is to expect courage in thosewho lead a life of indolence and repose, and that constant exercise andproper discipline are frequently able to change contemptible charactersinto good ones. 

Later, Harry read the story of Androcles and the Lion, and asked how itwas that one person should be the servant of another and bear so muchill-treatment. 

"As to that, " said Tommy, "some folks are born gentlemen, and then theymust command others; and some are born servants, and they must do asthey are bid. " And he recalled how the black men and women in Jamaicahad to wait upon him, and how he used to beat them when he was angry. But when Mr. Barlow asked him how these people came to be slaves, hecould only say that his father had bought them, and that he was born agentleman. 

"Then, " said Mr. Barlow, "if you were no longer to have a fine house, nor fine clothes, nor a great deal of money, somebody that had all thesethings might make you a slave, and use you ill, and do whatever he likedwith you. "

Seeing that he could not but admit this, Tommy became convinced that noone should make a slave, of another, and decided that for the future hewould never use their black William ill. 

Some days after this Tommy became interested in the growing of corn, andHarry promising to get some seed from his father, Tommy got up earlyand, having dug very perseveringly in a corner of his garden to preparethe ground for the seed, asked Mr. Barlow if this was not very good ofhim. 

"That, " said Mr. Barlow, "depends upon the use you intend to make of thecorn when you have raised it. Where, " he asked, "will be the greatgoodness in your sowing corn for your own eating? That is no more thanall the people round here continually do. And if they did not do it, they would be obliged to fast. "

"But then, " said Tommy, "they are not gentlemen, as I am. "

"What, " answered Mr. Barlow, "must not gentlemen eat as well as others;and therefore, is it not for their interest to know how to procure foodas well as other people?"

"Yes, sir, " answered Tommy; "but they can have other people to raise itfor them. "

"How does that happen?"

"Why they pay other people to work for them, or buy bread when it ismade. "

"Then they pay for it with money?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Then they must have money before they can buy corn?"

"Certainly, sir. "

"But have all gentlemen money?"

Tommy hesitated some time, and at last said, "I believe not always, sir. "

"Why, then, " said Mr. Barlow, "if they have not money, they will find itdifficult to procure corn, unless they raise it for themselves. " And heproceeded to recount the History of the Two Brothers, Pizarro andAlonzo, the former of whom, setting out on a gold-hunting expedition, prevailed upon the latter to accompany him, and became dependent uponAlonzo, who, instead of taking gold-seeking implements, provided himselfwith the necessaries for stocking a farm. 

_III. --Town Life and Country Life_

This story was followed by others, describing life in different anddistant parts of the world; and in addition to the knowledge theyacquired in this way, Tommy and Harry, in their intercourse with theirneighbours and in the cultivation of their gardens, learned a greatdeal. Tommy in particular, growing much kinder towards the poor andtowards dumb animals, as well as growing in physical well-being. 

Mr. Barlow's young pupils were gradually taught many interesting anduseful facts about natural history. They learned to cultivate theirpowers of observation also by studying the heavens. From a study of thestars their tutor drew them on to an acquaintance with the compass, thetelescope, the magic lantern, the magnet, and the wonders of arithmetic. 

The stories of foreign lands were interspersed with others illustratingthe habits of society; one for example, told how a certain rich man wascured of the gout, showing how, while most of the diseases of the poororiginate in the want of food and necessaries, the rich are generallythe victims of their own sloth and intemperance. 

"Dear me, " said Tommy on one occasion, "what a number of accidentspeople are subject to in this world. "

"It is very true, " said Mr. Barlow; "but as that is the case, it isnecessary to improve ourselves in every manner, that we may be able tostruggle against them. "

TOMMY: Indeed, sir, I begin to believe it is; for when I was youngerthan I am now, I remember I was always fretful and hurting myself, though I had two or three people constantly to take care of me. Atpresent I seem quite another thing, I do not mind falling down andhurting myself, or cold, or scarcely anything that happens. 

MR. BARLOW: And which do you prefer--to be as you are now, or as youwere before?

TOMMY: As I am now, a great deal, sir; for then I always had somethingor another the matter with me. At present I think I am ten timesstronger and healthier than ever I was in my life. 

All the same, Tommy found it difficult at first to understand how peoplewho lived in countries where they had to undergo great hardships couldbe so attached to their own land as to prefer it to any other country inthe world. "I have, " he said, "seen a great many ladies and littlemisses at our house, and whenever they were talking of the places wherethey should like to live, I have always heard them say that they hatedthe country of all things, though they were born and bred there. "

MR. BARLOW: And yet there are thousands who bear to live in it all theirlives, and have no desire to change. Should you, Harry, like to go tolive in some town?

HARRY: Indeed, sir, I should not, for then I must leave everything Ilove in the world. 

TOMMY: And have you ever been in any large town?

HARRY: Once I was in Exeter, but I did not much like it. The housesseemed to me to stand too thick and close, and then there are little, narrow alleys where the poor live, and the houses are so high thatneither light nor air can ever get to them. And they most of themappeared so dirty and unhealthy that it made my heart ache to look atthem. I went home the next day, and never was better pleased in my life. When I came to the top of the great hill, from which you have a prospectof our house, I really thought I should have cried with joy. The fieldslooked all so pleasant, and the very cattle, when I went about to seethem, all seemed glad that I was come home again. 

MR. BARLOW: You see by this that it is very possible for people to likethe country, and to be happy in it. But as to the fine young ladies youtalk of, the truth is that they neither love nor would be contented inany place. It is no wonder they dislike the country, where they findneither employment nor amusement. They wish to go to London, becausethey there meet with numbers of people as idle and as frivolous asthemselves; and these people assist each other to talk about trifles andto waste their time. 

TOMMY: That is true, sir, really; for when we have a great deal ofcompany, I have often observed that they never talk about anything buteating or dressing, or men and women that are paid to make faces at theplayhouse or a great room called Ranelagh, where everybody goes to meettheir friends. 

Which discourse led on to a story of the ancient Spartans, and theirsuperiority to the luxury-loving Persians. 

_IV. --The Bull-Baiting_

The time had now arrived when Tommy was by appointment to go home andspend some time with his parents. Mr. Barlow had been long afraid ofthis visit, as he knew his pupil would meet a great deal of companythere who would give him impressions of a nature very different fromthose he had, with so much assiduity, been labouring to excite. However, the visit was unavoidable, and Mrs. Merton sent so pressing aninvitation for Harry to accompany his friend, after having obtained theconsent of his father, that Mr. Barlow, with much regret, took leave ofhis pupils. 

When the boys arrived at Mr. Merton's they were introduced into acrowded drawing-room full of the most elegant company which that part ofthe country afforded, among whom were several young gentlemen and ladiesof different ages who had been purposely invited to spend their holidayswith Master Merton. 

As soon as Master Merton entered, every tongue was let loose in hispraise. As to Harry, he had the good fortune to be taken notice of bynobody except Mr. Merton, who received him with great cordiality, and aMiss Simmons, who had been brought up by an uncle who endeavoured, by ahardy and robust education, to prevent in his niece that sickly delicacywhich is considered so great an ornament in fashionable life. Harry andthis young lady became great friends, though to a considerable extentthey were the butt of the others. 

A lady who sat by Mrs. Merton, asked her, in a whisper loud enough to beheard all over the room, whether (indicating Harry) that was the littleploughboy whom she had heard Mr. Barlow was attempting to bring up likea gentleman? Mrs. Merton answered "Yes. " "Indeed, " said the lady, "Ishould have thought so by his plebeian look and vulgar air. But Iwonder, my dear madam, that you will suffer your son, who, withoutflattery, is one of the most accomplished children I ever saw, withquite the air of fashion, to keep such company. "

Whilst Tommy was being estranged from his friend by a constantsuccession of flattery from his elders and the example of others of hisown age, Harry, who never said any of those brilliant things that rendera boy the darling of the ladies, and who had not that vivacity, orrather impertinence, which frequently passes for wit with superficialpeople, paid the greatest attention to what was said to him, and madethe most judicious observations upon subjects he understood. For thisreason, Miss Simmons, although much older and better informed, receivedgreat satisfaction from conversing with him, and thought him infinitelymore agreeable and sensible than any of the smart young gentlemen shehad hitherto seen. 

One morning the young gentlemen agreed to take a walk in the country. Harry went with them. As they walked across a common they saw a greatnumber of people moving forward towards a bull-baiting. Instantly theywere seized with a desire to see the diversion. One obstacle alonepresented itself. Their parents, particularly Mrs. Merton, had made thempromise to avoid every kind of danger. However, all except Harry, agreedto go, insisting among themselves that there was no danger. 

"Master Harry, " said one, "has not said a word. Surely he will not tellof us. "

Harry said he did not wish to tell; but if, he added, he were asked, hewould have to tell the truth. 

A quarrel followed, in which Tommy struck his friend in the face withhis fist. This, added to Tommy's recent conduct towards him, caused thetears to start to Harry's eyes, whereupon the others assailed him withcries of "Coward!" "Blackguard!" and so on. Master Mash went further andslapped him in the face. Harry, though Master Mash's inferior in sizeand strength, returned this by a punch, and a fight ensued, from which, though severely punished himself, Harry emerged the victor, to beassailed with a chorus of congratulation from those who before wereloading him with taunts and outrages. 

The young gentlemen persisting in their intention to see thebull-baiting, Harry followed at some distance, deciding not to quit hisfriend till he had once more seen him in a place of safety. As ithappened, the bull, after disposing of his early tormentors, broke loosewhen three fierce dogs were set upon it at once. In the stampede littleTommy fell right in the path of the infuriated animal, and would havelost his life had not Harry, with a courage and presence of mind abovehis years, suddenly seized a prong which one of the fugitives haddropped, and, at the very moment when the bull was stopping to gore hisdefenceless friend, advanced and wounded it in the flank. The bullturned, and with redoubled rage made at his new assailant, and it isprobable that, notwithstanding his intrepidity, Harry would have paidwith his own life the price of his assistance to his friend had not apoor negro, whom he had helped earlier in the day, come opportunely tohis aid, and by his promptitude and address secured the animal. 

The gratitude of Mr. Merton for his son's escape was unbounded, and evenMrs. Merton was ashamed of her disparaging remarks about Harry. As forTommy, he went to his friend's home to seek reconciliation, reflectingwith shame and contempt upon the ridiculous prejudices he had onceentertained. 

He had now learned to consider all men as his brethren, not forgettingthe poor negro; and that, as he said, it is much better to be usefulthan rich or fine. 

 * * * * *

DANIEL DEFOE

Robinson Crusoe

 Daniel Defoe, English novelist, historian and pamphleteer, was born in 1660 or 1661, in London, the son of James Foe, a butcher, and only assumed the name of De Foe, or Defoe, in middle life. He was brought up as a dissenter, and became a dealer in hosiery in the city. He early began to publish his opinions on social and political questions, and was an absolutely fearless writer, audacious and independent, so that he twice suffered imprisonment for his daring. The immortal "Robinson Crusoe" was published on April 25, 1719. Defoe was already fifty-eight years of age. It was the first English work of fiction that represented the men and manners of its own time as they were. It appeared in several parts, and the first part, which is here epitomised, was so successful that no fewer than four editions were printed in as many months. "Robinson Crusoe" was widely pirated, and its authorship gave rise to absurd rumours. Some claimed it had been written by Lord Oxford in the Tower; others that Defoe had appropriated Alexander Selkirk's papers. The latter idea was only justified inasmuch as the story was partly founded on Selkirk's adventures and partly on Dampier's voyages. Defoe died on April 26, 1731. 

_I. --I Go to Sea_

I was born of a good family in the city of York, where my father--aforeigner, of Bremen--settled after having retired from business. Myfather had given me a competent share of learning and designed me forthe law; but I would be satisfied in nothing but going to sea. My mindwas filled with thoughts of seeing the world, and nothing could persuademe to give up my desire. 

At length, on September 1, 1651, I left home, and went on board a shipbound for London. The ship was no sooner out of the Humber than the windbegan to blow and the sea to rise in a most frightful manner; and as Ihad never been at sea before, I was most inexpressibly sick in body andterrified in mind. The next day, however, the wind abated, and forseveral days the weather continued calm. My fears being forgotten, andthe current of my desires returned, I entirely forgot the vows to returnhome that I made in my distress. 

The sixth day of our being at sea we came into Yarmouth Roads and castanchor. Our troubles were not yet over, however, for a few days laterthe wind increased till it blew a terrible storm indeed. I began to seeterror in the faces even of the seamen themselves; and as the captainpassed me, I could hear him softly to himself say, several times, "Weshall be all lost!"

My horror of mind put me into such a condition that I can by no wordsdescribe it. The storm increased, and the seamen every now and thencried out the ship would founder. One of the men cried out that we hadsprung a leak, and all hands were called to the pumps; but the waterincreasing in the hold, it was apparent that the ship would founder. Wefired guns for help, and a ship who had rid it out just ahead of usventured a boat out. It was with the utmost hazard the boat came nearus, but at last we got all into it, and got into shore, though notwithout much difficulty, and walked afterwards on foot to Yarmouth. 

Having some money in my pocket, I travelled to London, and there gotacquainted with the master of a ship which traded on the coast ofGuinea. This captain, taking a fancy to my conversation, told me if Iwould make a voyage with him I might do some trading on my own account. I embraced the offer, and went the voyage with him. With the help ofsome of my relations I raised £40, which I laid out in toys, beads, andsuch trifles as my friend the captain said were most in demand on theGuinea Coast. It was a prosperous voyage. It made me both a sailor and amerchant, for my adventure yielded me on my return to London almost£300, and this filled me with those aspiring thoughts which have sinceso completed my ruin. 

I was now set up as a Guinea trader, and made up my mind to go the samevoyage again in the same ship; but this was the unhappiest voyage everman made, for as we were off the African shore we were surprised by aMoorish rover of Salee, who gave chase with all sail. About three in theafternoon he came up with us, and after a great fight we were forced toyield, and were carried all prisoners into the port of Salee, where wewere sold as slaves. 

I was fortunate enough to fall into the hands of a master who treated mewith no little kindness. He frequently went fishing, and as I wasdexterous in catching fish, he never went without me. One day he sent meout with a Moor to catch fish for him. Then notions of deliverancedarted into my thoughts, and I prepared not for fishing, but for avoyage. When everything was ready, we sailed away to thefishing-grounds. Purposely catching nothing, I said we had better gofarther out. The Moor agreed, and I ran the boat out near a leaguefarther; then I brought to as if I would fish. Instead of that, however, I stepped forward, and, stooping behind the Moor, took him by surpriseand tossed him overboard. He rose to the surface, and called on me totake him in. For reply I presented a gun at him, and told him if he camenearer the boat I would shoot him, and that as the sea was calm, hemight easily swim ashore. So he turned about, and swam for the shore, and I make no doubt but he reached it with ease. 

About ten days afterwards, as I was steering out to double a cape, Icame in sight of a Portuguese ship. On coming nearer, they hailed me, but I understood not a word. At last a Scotch sailor called to me, and Ianswered I was an Englishman, and had made my escape from the Moors ofSalee. They then bade me come on board, and very kindly took me in, withall my goods. 

We had a very good voyage to the Brazils, and when we reached ourdestination the captain recommended me to an honest man who had a sugarplantation. Here I settled down for a while, and learned the planting ofsugar. Then I took a piece of land, and became a planter myself. Myaffairs prospered, and had I continued in the station I was now in, Ihad room for many happy things to have yet befallen me; but I was stillto be the agent of my own miseries. 

_II. --Lord of an Island and Alone_

Some of my neighbours, hearing that I had a knowledge of Guinea trading, proposed to fit out a vessel and send her to the coast of Guinea topurchase negroes to work in our plantations. I was well pleased with theidea; and when they asked me to go to manage the trading part, I forgotall the perils and hardships of the sea, and agreed to go. A ship beingfitted out, we set sail on September 1, 1659. 

We had very good weather for twelve days, but after crossing the line, violent hurricanes took us, and drove us out of the way of all humancommerce. In this distress, one morning, there was a cry of "Land!" andalmost at the same moment the ship struck against a sandbank. We took toa boat, and worked towards the land; but before we could reach it, araging wave came rolling astern of us, and overset the boat. We were allthrown into the sea, and out of fifteen who were on board, none escapedbut myself. I managed, somehow, to scramble to shore, and clambered upthe cliffs, and sat me down on the grass half-dead. Night coming on me, I took up my lodging in a tree. 

When I waked, it was broad day, the weather clear, and the storm abated. What surprised me most was that in the night the ship had been liftedfrom the bank by the swelling tide, and driven ashore almost as far asthe place where I had landed. I saw that if we had all kept on board wehad been all safe, and I had not been so miserable as to be leftentirely destitute of all company as I now was. 

I swam out to the ship, and found that her stern lay lifted up on thebank. All the ship's provisions were dry, and, being well disposed toeat, I filled my pockets and ate as I went about other things, for I hadno time to lose. We had several spare yards and planks, and with these Imade a raft. I emptied three of the seamen's chests, and let them downupon the raft, and filled them with provisions. I also let down thecarpenter's chest, and some arms and ammunition--all of which, aftermuch labour, I got safely to land. 

My next work was to view the country. Where I was I yet knew not, butafter I had with great labour got to the top of a hill which rose upvery steep and high, I saw my fate, to my great affliction--_viz. _, thatI was in an island, uninhabited except by wild beasts. 

I now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out ofthe ship which would be useful to me; so every day at low water I wenton board, and brought away something or other until I had the biggestmagazine that was ever laid up, I believe, for one man. I verilybelieve, had the calm weather held, I should have brought away the wholeship piece by piece; but on the fourteenth day it blew a storm, and nextmorning, behold, no more ship was to be seen. I must not forget that Ibrought on shore two cats and a dog. He was a trusty servant to me manyyears. I wanted nothing that he could fetch me, nor any company. I onlywanted him to talk to me, but that he could not do. Later, I managed tocatch a parrot, which did much to cheer my loneliness. I taught him tospeak, and it would have done your heart good to have heard the pityingtones in which he used to say, "Robin--poor Robin Crusoe!"

I now went in search of a place where to fix my dwelling. I found alittle plain on the side of a rising hill, which was there as steep as ahouse-side, so that nothing could come down on me from the top. On theside of this rock was a hollow space like the entrance of a cave, beforewhich I resolved to pitch my tent. Before I set up my tent, I drew ahalf-circle before the hollow place, which extended backwards abouttwenty yards. In this half-circle I planted two rows of strong stakes, driving them into the ground like piles, above five feet and a halfhigh, and sharpened at the top. Then I took some pieces of cable I hadfound in the ship, and laid them in rows one upon another between thestakes; and this fence was so strong that neither man nor beast couldget into it or over it. The entrance I made to be by a short ladder togo over the top, and when I was in I lifted the ladder after me. 

Inside the fence, with infinite labour, I carried all my riches, provisions, ammunition, and stores. And I made me a large tent, also, topreserve me from the rains. When I had done this I began to work my wayinto the rock. All the earth and stones I dug out I laid up within myfence, and thus I made me a cave just behind my tent which served melike a cellar. 

In the middle of my labours it happened that, rummaging in my things, Ifound a little bag with but husks of corn and dust in it. Wishing tomake use of the bag, I shook it out on one side of my fortification. Itwas a little before the great rains that I threw this stuff away, notremembering that I had thrown anything there; about a month after, I sawsome green stalks shooting up. I was perfectly astonished when, after alittle longer time, I saw ten or twelve ears of barley. I knew not howit came there. At last it occurred to me that I had shaken out the bagthere. Besides the barley there were also a few stalks of rice. Icarefully saved the ears of this corn, you may be sure, and resolved tosow them all again. When my corn was ripe, I used a cutlass as a scythe, and cut off the ears, and rubbed them out with my hands. At the end ofmy harvesting I had nearly two bushels of rice, and two bushels and ahalf of barley. I kept all this for seed, and bore the want of breadwith patience. 

I soon found that I needed many things to make me comfortable. First Iwanted a chair and a table, for without them I must live like a savage. So I set to work. I had never handled a tool in my life, but I had asaw, an axe, and several hatchets, and I soon learned to use them all. If I wanted a board, I had to chop down a tree. From the trunk of thetree I cut a log of the length my board was to be. Then I split the log, and, with infinite labour, hewed it flat till it was as thin as a board. I made myself a table and a chair out of short pieces of board, and fromthe large boards I made some wide shelves. On these I laid my tools andother things. 

From time to time I made many useful things. From a piece of ironwood, cut in the forest with great labour, I made a spade to dig with. Then Iwanted a pick-axe, but for long I could not think how I was to get one. At length I made use of crowbars from the wreck. These I heated in thefire, and, little by little, shaped them till I made a pick-axe, properenough, though heavy. 

At first I felt the need of baskets in which to carry things, so I setto work as a basket-maker. It came to my mind that the twigs of the treewhence I cut my stakes might serve. I found them to my purpose as muchas I could desire, and, during the next rainy season, I employed myselfin making a great many baskets. Though I did not finish them handsomely, yet I made them sufficiently serviceable. 

I had, however, one want greater than all the others--bread. My barleywas very fine, the grains were large and smooth; but before I could makebread I must grind the grains into flour. I spent many a day to find outa Stone to cut hollow and make fit for a mortar, and could find none;nor were the rocks of the island of hardness sufficient. So I gave itover and rounded a great block of hard wood and, with the help of fireand great labour, made a hollow in it. I made a great heavy pestle ofthe wood called ironwood. 

The baking part was the next thing to be considered; for, first, I hadno yeast. As to that, there was no supplying the want, so I did notconcern myself much about it. But for an oven I was indeed in greatpain. At length I found out an experiment for that also. I made someearthen vessels, broad but not deep, about two feet across, and aboutnine inches deep. These I burned in the fire till they were as hard asnails and as red as tiles, and when I wanted to bake I made a great fireupon a hearth which I paved with some square tiles of my own making. 

When the fire had all burned I drew the embers forward upon my hearth, and let them be there till the hearth was very hot. My loaves beingready, I swept the hearth and set them on the hottest part of it. Overeach loaf I placed one of the large earthen pots, and drew the embersall round to keep in and add to the heat. And thus I baked my barleyloaves and became, in a little time, a good pastrycook into the bargain. 

It need not be wondered at if all these things took up most of the thirdyear of my abode in the island. I had now brought my state of life to bemuch easier than it was at first, and I learned to look more upon thebright side of my condition and less on the dark. 

Had anyone in England met such a man as I was, it must have frightenedthem, or raised great laughter. On my head I wore a great, high, shapeless cap of goat's skin. Stockings and shoes I had none, but I hadmade a pair of somethings, I scarce knew what to call them, to slip overmy legs; a jacket, with the skirts coming down to the middle of mythighs, and a pair of open-kneed breeches of the same, completing myoutfit. I had a broad belt of goat's skin, and in this I hung, on oneside, a saw, on the other, a hatchet. Under my arm hung two pouches forshot and powder; at my back I carried my basket, on my shoulder my gun, and over my head a great clumsy goat's skin umbrella. 

A stoic would have smiled to have seen me at dinner. There was mymajesty, prince and lord of the whole island. How like a king I dined, too, all alone, attended by my servants! Poll, my parrot, as if he hadbeen my favourite, was the only person permitted to talk to me. My olddog sat at my right hand, and two cats on each side of the table, expecting a bit from my hand as a mark of special favour. 

_III. --The Footprint_

It was my custom to make daily excursions to some part of the island. One day, walking along the beach, I was exceedingly surprised with theprint of a man's naked foot plainly impressed on the sand. I stood likeone thunderstruck. I listened, I looked around, but I could hear nothingnor see anything. I went up to a rising ground to look further; I walkedbackwards and forwards on the shore, but I could see only that oneimpression. 

I went to it again. There was exactly a foot--toes, heel, and every partof a foot. How it came thither I knew not; but I hurried home, lookingbehind me at every two or three steps, and mistaking every bush andtree, fancying every stump to be a man. I had no sleep that night; butmy terror gradually wore off, and after some days I ventured down to thebeach to take measure of the footprint by my own. 

I found it much larger! This filled me again with all manner of fears, and when I went home I began to prepare against an attack. I got out mymuskets, loaded them, and went to an enormous amount of labour andtrouble--all because I had seen the print of a naked foot on the sand. There seemed to me then no labour too great, no task too toilsome, and Imade me a second fortification, and planted a vast number of stakes onthe outside of my outer wall, which grew and became a thick grove oftrees, entirely concealing the place of my retreat, and adding greatlyto my security. 

I had now been twenty-two years on the island, and had grown soaccustomed to the place that, had I felt myself secure from the attackby savages, I fancied I could have been contented to remain there till Idied of old age. 

For many months the perturbation of my mind was very great; in the daygreat troubles overwhelmed me, and in the night I dreamed often ofkilling savages. About two years after I first knew these fears, I wassurprised one morning by seeing five canoes on the shore. I could nottell what to think of it, so went and lay in my castle perplexed anddiscomforted. At length, becoming very impatient, I clambered up to thetop of the hill and perceived, by the help of my perspective glass, noless than thirty men dancing round a fire with barbarous gestures. WhileI was looking, two miserable wretches were dragged from the boats. Onewas immediately knocked down, while the other, seeing himself a littleat liberty, started away from them and ran along the sands directlytowards me. I was dreadfully frightened, that I must acknowledge, when Iperceived him run my way, especially when, as I thought, I saw himpursued by the whole body. But my spirits began to recover when I foundthat but three men followed him, and that he outstripped themexceedingly, in running. 

Presently he came to a creek and, making nothing of it, plunged in, landed, and ran on with exceeding strength. Two of the pursuers swam thecreek, but the third went no farther, and soon after went back again. Iimmediately took my two guns, ran down the hill and clapped myself inthe way between the pursuers and the pursued, hallooing aloud to himthat fled. Then, rushing on the foremost of the pursuers, I knocked himdown with the stock of my piece. The other stopped, as if frightened, but as I came nearer, I perceived he was fitting a bow and arrow toshoot at me; so I was then obliged to shoot at him first, which I didand killed him. 

The poor savage who fled was so frightened with the noise of my piecethat he seemed inclined still to fly. I gave him all the signs ofencouragement I could think of, and he came nearer, kneeling down everyten or twelve steps. I took him up and made much of him, and comfortedhim. Then, beckoning him to follow me, I took him to my cave on thefarther part of the island. Here, having refreshed him, I made signs forhim to lie down to sleep, which the poor creature did. After he hadslumbered about half an hour, he came out of the cave, running to me, laying himself down and setting my foot upon his head to let me know hewould serve me so long as he lived. 

In a little time I began to speak to him and teach him to speak to me;and, first, I let him know his name should be Friday, which was the dayI saved his life. I likewise taught him to say "Master, " and then lethim know that was to be my name. I made a little tent for him, and tookin my ladders at night, so that he could no way come at me. 

But I needed not this precaution, for never man had a more faithful, loving servant than Friday was to me. I made it my business to teach himeverything that was proper to make him useful, especially to make himspeak, and he was the aptest scholar that ever was. Indeed, this was thepleasantest year of all the life I led in this place. I began now tohave some use for my tongue again, and, besides the pleasure of talkingto Friday, I had a singular satisfaction in the fellow himself. Hissimple, unfeigned honesty appeared to me more and more every day, and Ibegan really to love the creature; and I believe he loved me more thanit was possible for him ever to love anything before. 

_IV. --The End of Captivity_

I was now entered on the seven-and-twentieth year of my captivity on theisland. One morning I bade Friday go to the seashore and see if he couldfind a turtle. He had not been gone long when he came running back likeone that felt not the ground, or the steps he set his feet on, and criesout to me, "O master! O sorrow! O bad!"

"What's the matter, Friday?" said I. 

"O yonder, there, " says he; "one, two, three canoes!"

"Well, " says I, "do not be frightened. "

However, I saw the poor fellow was most terribly scared, for nothing ranin his head but that the savages were come back to look for him, andwould cut him in pieces and eat him. I comforted him, and told him I wasin as much danger as he. Then I went up the hill and found quickly by myglass that there were one-and-twenty savages, whose business seemed tobe a triumphant banquet upon three human bodies. I came down again toFriday and, going towards the wretches, sent Friday a little ahead tosee what they were doing. He came back and told me that they were eatingthe flesh of one of their prisoners, and that a bearded man lay bound, whom he said they would kill next. 

This fired the very soul within me, and, going to a little risingground, I turned to Friday and said, "Now, Friday, do exactly as you seeme do. " So, with a musket, I took aim at the savages; Friday did thelike, and we fired, killing three of them and wounding five more. Theywere in a dreadful consternation, and after we fired again among theamazed wretches, I made directly towards the poor victim who was lyingupon the beach. Loosing him, I found he was a Spaniard. He took pistoland sword from me thankfully, and flew upon his murderers, and, Friday, pursuing the flying wretches, in the end but four of the twenty-oneescaped in a canoe. 

I was minded to pursue them lest they should return with a greater forceand devour us by mere multitude. So, running to a canoe, I bade Fridayfollow me, but was surprised to find another poor creature lyingtherein, bound hand and foot. I immediately cut his fastenings and badeFriday tell him of his deliverance. But when Friday came to hear himspeak and to look in his face, it would have moved anyone to tears tohave seen how Friday kissed him, embraced him, hugged him, cried, danced, sung, and then cried again. It was a good while before I couldmake him tell me what was the matter, but when he came a little tohimself, he told me it was his father. He sat down by the old man a longwhile, and took his arms and ankles, which were numbed with the binding, and chafed and rubbed them with his hands. 

My island was now peopled, and I thought myself rich in subjects. TheSpaniard and the old savage had been with us about seven months, sharingin our labours, when, being unable to keep means of deliverance out ofmy thoughts, I gave them leave to go over in one of the canoes to themainland, where some of the Spaniard's shipmates were cast away, givingthem provisions sufficient for themselves and all the Spaniards, foreight days. 

It was no less than eight days I had waited for their return when Fridaycame to me and called aloud, "Master, master, they are come!" I jumpedup and climbed to the top of the hill, and with my glass plainly madeout an English ship, and its long-boat standing in for the shore. Icannot express the joy I was in at seeing a ship, and one that wasmanned by my own countrymen; but yet I had some secret doubts, biddingme keep on my guard. Presently the boat was run upon the beach, and inall eleven men landed, whereof three were unarmed and bound, whom Icould perceive using passionate gestures of entreaty and despair. Presently the seamen were all gone straggling in the woods, leaving thethree distressed men under a tree a little distance from me. I resolvedto discover myself to them, and marched with Friday towards them, andcalled aloud in Spanish, "What are ye, gentlemen?" They started up atthe noise, and I perceived them about to fly from me, when I spoke tothem in English. 

"Gentlemen, " says I, "do not be surprised at me; perhaps you may have afriend near, when you did not expect it. Can you not put a stranger inthe way to help you?"

One of them, looking like one astonished, returned, "Sir, I was captainof that ship; my men have mutinied against me, and have set me on shorein this desolate place with these two men--my mate and a passenger. "

He then told me that if two among the mutineers, who were desperatevillains, were secured, he believed the rest on shore would return totheir duty. He anticipated my proposals in venturing their deliveranceby telling me that both he and the ship, if recovered, should be whollydirected by me in everything. Then I gave them muskets, and themutineers returning, the two villains were killed, and the rest beggedfor mercy, and joined us. More of them coming ashore, we fell upon themat night, so that at the captain's call they laid down their arms, trusting to the mercy of the governor of the island, for such theysupposed me to be. 

It now occurred to me that the time of my deliverance was come, and thatit would be easy to bring these fellows in to be hearty in gettingpossession of the ship. And so it proved, for, the ship being boardednext morning, and the new rebel captain shot, the rest yielded withoutany more lives lost. 

When I saw my deliverance then put visibly into my hands, I was ready tosink down with the surprise, and it was a good while before I couldspeak a word to the captain, who was in as great an ecstasy as I. Aftersome time, I came dressed in a new habit of the captain's, being stillcalled governor. Being all met, and the captain with me, I caused theprisoners to be brought before me, told them I had got a full account oftheir villainous behaviour to the captain, and asked of them what theyhad to say why I should not execute them as pirates. I told them I hadresolved to quit the island, but that they, if they went, could only goas prisoners in irons; so that I could not tell what was the best forthem, unless they had a mind to take their fate in the island. Theyseemed thankful for this, and said they would much rather venture tostay than be carried to England to be hanged. So I left it on thatissue. When the captain was gone I sent for the men up to me in myapartment and let them into the story of my living there; showed them myfortifications, the way I made my bread, planted my corn; and, in aword, all that was necessary to make them easy. I told them the story, also of the Spaniards that were to be expected, and made them promise totreat them in common with themselves. 

I left the next day and went on board the ship with Friday. And thus Ileft the island the 19th of December, in the year 1686, after eight andtwenty years, and, after a long voyage, I arrived in England, the 11thof June, 1687, having been thirty-five years absent. 

 * * * * *

Captain Singleton

 Defoe was fifty-nine when he published this remarkable book, in 1720. "Robinson Crusoe" had appeared in the previous year, and "Moll Flanders" came out in 1722. Shrewdness and wit, the study of character, vividness of imagination, and, beyond these, the pure literary style, make "Captain Singleton" a classic in English literature. William the Quaker, the first Quaker in English fiction, has never been surpassed in any later novel, and remains an immortal creation. The clear common sense of this man, the combination of business ability and a real humaneness, the quiet humour which prevails over the stupid barbarity of his pirate companions--who but Defoe could have drawn such a character as the guide, philosopher, and friend of a crew of pirates? Bob Singleton himself, who tells the story with a frankness of extraordinary charm, confessing his willingness for evil courses as readily as his later repentance, is no less striking a personality. By sheer imagination the genius of Defoe makes Singleton's adventures, including the impossible journey across Central Africa, real and credible. The book is a model of fine narrative. 

_I. --Sailing With the Devil_

If I may believe the woman whom I was taught to call mother, I was alittle boy about two years old, very well dressed, and had a nurse-maidto attend me, who took me out on a fine summer's evening into the fieldstowards Islington, to give the child some air; a little girl being withher, of twelve or fourteen years old, that lived in the neighbourhood. 

The maid meets with a fellow, her sweetheart; he carries her into apublic-house, and while they are toying in there the girl plays aboutwith me in her hand, sometimes in sight, sometimes out of sight, thinking no harm. 

Then comes by one of those sort of people who make it their business tospirit away little children, a trade chiefly practised where they foundlittle children well dressed, and for bigger children, to sell them tothe plantations. 

The woman, pretending to take me up in her arms and play with me, drawsthe girl a good way from the house, and then bids her go back to themaid, and tell her that a gentlewoman had taken a fancy to the child. And so, while the girl went, she carries me quite away. 

From that time, it seems, I was disposed of to a beggar woman, and afterthat to a gipsy, till I was about six years old. 

And this gipsy, though I was continually dragged about with her from onepart of the country to the other, never let me want for anything. Icalled her mother, but she told me at last she was not my mother, butthat she bought me for twelve shillings, and that my name was BobSingleton, not Robert, but plain Bob. 

Who my father and mother really were I have never learnt. 

When my gipsy mother happened in process of time to be hanged, I wassent to a parish school; and then I was moved from one parish toanother, and at Bussleton, near Southampton, the master of a ship took afancy to me, and though I was not above twelve years old, he carried meto sea with him on a voyage to Newfoundland. 

I went several voyages with him, when, coming home from Newfoundlandabout the year 1695, we were taken by an Algerine rover, which was inits turn taken by two great Portuguese men-of-war. 

We were carried into Lisbon, and there my master, the only friend I hadin the world, dying of his wounds, I was left starving in a foreigncountry where I knew nobody, and could not speak a word of the language. 

However, an old pilot found me, and, speaking in broken English, askedme if I would go with him. 

"Yes, " said I, "with all my heart. "

For two years I lived with him, and then he got to be master under DonGarcia de Carravallas, captain of a Portuguese galleon, which was boundto Goa in the East Indies. On this voyage I began to get a smattering ofthe Portuguese tongue and a superficial knowledge of navigation. I alsolearnt to be an arrant thief and a bad sailor. 

I was reputed as mighty diligent and faithful to my master, but I wasvery far from honest. 

Indeed, I had no sense of virtue or religion in me, never having heardmuch of either, and was growing up apace to be as wicked as anybodycould be. 

Thieving, lying, swearing, forswearing, joined to the most abominablelewdness, was the stated practice of the ship's crew; adding to it that, with the most insufferable boasts of their own courage, they were, generally speaking, the most complete cowards that I ever met with. AndI was exactly fitted for their society. 

According to the English proverb, he that is shipped with the devil mustsail with the devil; I was among them, and I managed myself as well as Icould. 

When we came to anchor on the coast of Madagascar to repair some damageto the ship, there happened a most desperate mutiny among the men uponaccount of a deficiency in their allowance, and I, being full ofmischief in my head, readily joined. 

Though I was but a boy, as they called me, yet I prompted the mischiefall I could, and embarked in it so openly that I escaped very littlebeing hanged in the first and most early part of my life. 

For the captain, getting wind of the plot, brought two fellows toconfess the particulars, and presently no less than sixteen men wereseized and put into irons, whereof I was one. 

The captain, who was made desperate by his danger, tried us all, and wewere all condemned to die. The gunner and purser were hangedimmediately, and I expected it with the rest. I do not remember anygreat concern I was under about it, only that I cried very much; for Iknew little then of this world, and nothing at all of the next. 

However, the captain contented himself with executing these two, andsome of the rest, upon their humble submission, were pardoned; but fivewere ordered to be set on shore on the island and left there, of which Iwas one. 

At our first coming into the island we were terrified exceedingly withthe sight of the barbarous people; but when we came to converse withthem awhile, we found they were not cannibals, as was reported, but theycame and sat down by us, and wondered much at our clothes and arms. Nordid we suffer any harm from them during our whole stay on the island. 

Before the ship sailed twenty-three of the crew decided to join us, andthe captain, not unwilling to lose them, sent us two barrels of powder, and shot and lead, as well as a great bag of bread. 

Being now a considerable number, and in condition to defend ourselves, the first thing we did was to give everyone his hand that we would notseparate from one another, but that we would live and die together, thatwe would be in all things guided by the majority, that we would appointa captain among us to be our leader, and that we would obey him on painof death. 

_II. --A Mad Venture_

For two years we remained on the island of Madagascar, for at thebeginning we had no vessel large enough to pass the ocean. 

I never proposed to speak in the general consultations, but one day Itold the company that our best plan was to cruise along the coast incanoes, and seize upon the first vessel we could get that was betterthan our own, and so from that to another, till perhaps we might at lastget a good ship to carry us wherever we pleased to go. 

"Excellent advice, " says one of them. "Admirable advice, " says another. "Yes, yes, " says the third (which was a gunner), "the English dog hasgiven excellent advice, but it is just the way to bring us all to thegallows. To go a-thieving, till from a little vessel we come to a greatship, and so shall we turn downright pirates, the end of which is to behanged. "

"You may call us pirates, " says another, "if you will, and if we fallinto bad hands we may be used like pirates; but I care not for that. I'll be a pirate or anything, rather than starve here!"

And so they cried all, "Let us have a canoe!"

The gunner, overruled by the rest, submitted; but as we broke up thecouncil, he came to me and very gravely. "My lad, " says he, "thou artborn to do a world of mischief; thou hast commenced pirate very young;but have a care of the gallows, young man; have a care, I say, for thouwilt be an eminent thief. "

I laughed at him, and told him I did not know what I might come tohereafter; but as our case was now, I should make no scruple to take thefirst ship I came at to get our liberty. I only wished we could see one, and come at her. 

When we had made three canoes of some size, we set out on as odd avoyage as ever man went. We were a little fleet of three ships, and anarmy of between twenty and thirty as dangerous fellows as ever lived. Wewere bound somewhere and nowhere, for though we knew what we intended todo, we really did not know what we were doing. 

We cruised up and down the coast, but no ship came in sight, and atlast, with more courage than discretion, more resolution than judgment, we launched for the main coast of Africa. 

The voyage was much longer than we expected, and when we were landedupon the continent it seemed the most desolate, desert, and inhospitablecountry in the world. 

It was here that we took one of the rashest and wildest and mostdesperate resolutions that ever was taken by man; this was to traveloverland through the heart of the country, from the coast of Mozambiqueto the coast of Angola or Guinea, a continent of land of at least 1, 800miles, in which journey we had excessive heats to support, impassabledeserts to go over, no carriages, camels, or beasts of any kind to carryour baggage, innumerable wild and ravenous beasts to encounter, such aslions, leopards, tigers, lizards, and elephants; we had nations ofsavages to encounter, barbarous and brutish to the last degree; hungerand thirst to struggle with, and, in one word, terrors enough to havedaunted the stoutest hearts that ever were placed in cases of flesh andblood. 

Yet, fearless of all these, we resolved to adventure, and not only didwe accomplish our journey, but we came to a river where there were vastquantities of gold. 

The hardships and difficulties of our march were much mitigated by amethod which I proposed and was found very convenient. This was toquarrel with some of the negro natives, take them as prisoners, andbinding them, as slaves, cause them to travel with us and make themcarry our baggage. 

Accordingly, we secured about sixty lusty young fellows as prisoners, for the natives stood in great awe of us because of our firearms, andthey not only served us faithfully--the more so as we treated themwithout harshness--but were of great help in showing us the way, and inconversing with the savages we afterwards met. 

When we reached the country where the gold was, we at once agreed, inorder that the good harmony and friendship of our company might bemaintained, that however much gold was gotten, it should be brought intoone common stock, and equally divided at last, the negroes sharing withthe rest. 

This was done, and at the end of our long journey we found each man'sshare amounted to many pounds of gold. We also got a cargo of elephants'teeth. 

We parted at the Gold Coast from our black companions on the best ofterms. Then most of my comrades went off to the Portuguese factoriesnear Gambia, and I went to Cape Coast Castle, and got passage for, England, where I arrived in September. 

_III. --Quaker and Pirate_

I had neither friend nor relation in England, though it was my nativecountry; I had not a person to trust with what I had, or to counsel meto secure or save it; but falling into ill company, and trusting thekeeper of a public-house in Rotherhithe with a great part of my money, all that great sum, which I got with so much pains and hazard, was gonein little more than two years' time--spent in all kinds of folly andwickedness. 

Then I began to see it was time to think of further adventures, and Inext shipped myself, in an evil hour to be sure, on a voyage to Cadiz. 

On the coast of Spain I fell in with some masters of mischief, and, among them, one, forwarder than the rest, named Harris, who began anintimate confidence with me, so that we called one another brothers. 

This Harris was afterwards captured by an English man-of-war, and, beinglaid in irons, died of grief and anger. 

When we were together, he asked me if I had a mind for an adventure thatmight make amends for all past misfortunes. I told him, yes, with all myheart; for I did not care where I went, having nothing to lose, and noone to leave behind me. 

He told me, then, there was a brave fellow, whose name was Wilmot, inanother English ship which rode in the harbour, who had resolved tomutiny the next morning, and run away with the ship; and that if wecould get strength enough among our ship's company, we might do thesame. 

I liked the proposal very well, but we could not bring our part toperfection. For there were but eleven in our ship who were in theconspiracy, nor could we get any more that we could trust. So that whenWilmot began his work, and secured the ship, and gave the signal to us, we all took a boat and went off to join him. 

Being well prepared for all manner of roguery, without the least checksof conscience, I thus embarked with this crew, which at last brought meto consort with the most famous pirates of the age. 

I, that was an original thief, and a pirate even by inclination before, was now in my element, and never undertook anything in my life with moreparticular satisfaction. 

Captain Wilmot--for so we now called him--at once stood out for sea, steering for the Canaries, and thence onward to the West Indies. Ourship had twenty-two guns, and we obtained plenty of ammunition from theSpaniards in exchange for bales of English cloth. 

We cruised near two years in those seas of the West Indies, chiefly uponthe Spaniards--not that we made any difficulty of taking English ships, or Dutch, or French, if they came in our way. But the reason why wemeddled as little with English vessels as we could was, first, becauseif they were ships of any force, we were sure of more resistance fromthem; and, secondly, because we found the English ships had less bootywhen taken; for the Spaniards generally had money on board, and that waswhat we best knew what to do with. 

We increased our stock considerably in these two years, having taken60, 000 pieces of gold in one vessel, and 100, 000 in another; and beingthus first grown rich, we resolved to be strong, too, for we had taken abrigantine, an excellent sea-boat, able to carry twelve guns, and alarge Spanish frigate-built ship, which afterwards, by the help of goodcarpenters, we fitted up to carry twenty-eight guns. 

We had also taken two or three sloops from New England and New York, laden with flour, peas, and barrelled beef and pork, going for Jamaicaand Barbados, and for more beef we went on shore on the island of Cuba, where we killed as many black cattle as we pleased, though we had verylittle salt to cure them. 

Out of all the prizes we took here we took their powder and bullets, their small-arms and cutlasses; and as for their men, we always took thesurgeon and the carpenter, as persons who were of particular use to usupon many occasions; nor were they always unwilling to go with us. 

We had one very merry fellow here, a Quaker, whose name was WilliamWalters, whom we took out of a sloop bound from Pennsylvania toBarbados. He was a surgeon and they called him doctor, and we made himgo with us, and take all his implements with him. He was a comic fellowindeed, a man of very good solid sense, and an excellent surgeon; but, what was worth all, very good-humoured and pleasant in his conversation, and a bold, stout, brave fellow too, as any we had among us. 

I found William not very averse to go along with us, and yet resolved todo it so that it might be apparent he was taken away by force. "Friend, "he says, "thou sayest I must go with thee, and it is not in my power toresist thee if I would; but I desire thou wilt oblige the master of thesloop to certify under his hand that I was taken away by force, andagainst my will. " So I drew up a certificate myself, wherein I wrotethat he was taken away by main force, as a prisoner, by a pirate ship;and this was signed by the master and all his men. 

"Thou hast dealt friendly by me, " says he, when we had brought himaboard, "and I will be plain with thee, whether I came willingly to theeor not. But thou knowest it is not my business to meddle when thou artto fight. "

"No, no, " says the captain, "but you may meddle a little when we sharethe money. "

"Those things are useful to furnish a surgeon's chest, " says William, and smiled, "but I shall be moderate. "

In short, William was a most agreeable companion; but he had the betterof us in this part, that if we were taken we were sure to be hanged, andhe was sure to escape. But he was a sprightly fellow, and fitter to becaptain than any of us. 

_IV. --A Respectable Merchant_

We cruised the seas for many years, and after a time William and I had aship to ourselves with 400 men in authority under us. As for CaptainWilmot, we left him with a large company at Madagascar, while we went onto the East Indies. 

At last we had gotten so rich, for we traded in cloves and spices to themerchants, that William one day proposed to me that we should give upthe kind of life we had been leading. We were then off the coast ofPersia. 

"Most people, " said William, "leave off trading when they are satisfiedof getting, and are rich enough; for nobody trades for the sake oftrading; much less do men rob for the sake of thieving. It is naturalfor men that are abroad to desire to come home again at last, especiallywhen they are grown rich, and so rich as they would know not what to dowith more if they had it. "

"Well, William, " said I, "but you have not explained what you mean byhome. Why, man, I am at home; here is my habitation; I never had anyother in my lifetime; I was a kind of charity school-boy; so that I canhave no desire of going anywhere for being rich or poor; for I havenowhere to go. "

"Why, " says William, looking a little confused, "hast thou no relativesor friends in England? No acquaintance; none that thou hast any kindnessor any remains of respect for?"

"Not I, William, " said I, "no more than I have in the court of the GreatMogul. Yet I do not say I like this roving, cruising life so well asnever to give it over. Say anything to me, I will take it kindly. " For Icould see he was troubled, and I began to be moved by his gravity. 

"There is something to be thought of beyond this way of life, " saysWilliam. 

"Why, what is that, " said I, "except it be death?"

"It is repentance. "

"Why, " says I, "did you ever know a pirate repent?"

At this he was startled a little, and returned. 

"At the gallows I have known one, and I hope thou wilt be the second. "

He spoke this very affectionately, with an appearance of concern for me. 

"My proposal, " William went on, "is for thy good as well as my own. Wemay put an end to this kind of life, and repent. "

"Look you, William, " says I, "let me have your proposal for putting anend to our present way of living first, and you and I will talk of theother afterwards. "

"Nay, " says William, "thou art in the right there; we must never talk ofrepenting while we continue pirates. "

"Well, " says I, "William, that's what I meant; for if we must notreform, as well as be sorry for what is done, I have no notion whatrepentance means: the nature of the thing seems to tell me that thefirst step we have to take is to break off this wretched course. Dostthou think it practicable for us to put an end to our unhappy way ofliving, and get off?"

"Yes, " says he, "I think it very practicable. "

We were then anchored off the city of Bassorah, and one night Williamand I went ashore, and sent a note to the boatswain telling him we werebetrayed and bidding him make off with the ship. 

By this means we frighted the rogues our comrades; and we had nothing todo then but to consider how to convert our treasure into things properto make us look like merchants, as we were now to be, and not likefreebooters, as we really had been. 

Then we clothed ourselves like Armenian merchants, and after many daysreached Venice; and at last we agreed to go to London. For William had asister whom he was anxious to see once more. 

So we came to England, and some time later I married William's sister, with whom I am much more happy than I deserve. 

 * * * * *

CHARLES DICKENS

Barnaby Rudge

 Charles Dickens, son of a clerk in the Navy Pay Office, was born at Landport on February 7, 1812. Soon afterwards the family removed to Chatham and then to London. With all their efforts, they failed to keep out of distress, and at the age of nine Dickens was employed at a blacking factory. With the coming of brighter days, he was sent back to school; afterwards a place was found for him in a solicitor's office. In the meantime, his father had obtained a position as reporter on the "Morning Herald, " and Dickens, too, resolved to try his fortune in that direction. Teaching himself shorthand, and studying diligently at the British Museum, at the age of twenty-two he secured permanent employment on the staff of a London paper. "Barnaby Rudge, " the fifth of Dickens's novels, appeared serially in "Master Humphrey's Clock" during 1841. It thus followed "The Old Curiosity Shop, " the character of Master Humphrey being revived merely to introduce the new story, and on its conclusion "The Clock" was stopped for ever. In 1849 "Barnaby Rudge" was published in book form. Written primarily to express the author's abhorrence of capital punishment, from the use he made of the Gordon Riots of 1780, "Barnaby Rudge, " like "A Tale of Two Cities, " may be considered an historical work. It is more of a story than any of its predecessors. Lord George Gordon, the instigator of the riots, died a prisoner in the Tower of London, after making public renunciation of Christianity in favour of the Jewish religion. "The raven in this story, " said Dickens, "is a compound of two originals, of whom I have been the proud possessor. " Dickens died at Gad's Hill on June 9, 1870, having written fourteen novels and a great number of short stories and sketches. 

_I. --Barnaby and the Robber_

In the year 1775 there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, in thevillage of Chigwell, about twelve miles from London, a house of publicentertainment called the Maypole, kept by John Willet, a large-headedman with a fat face, of profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. 

From this inn, Gabriel Varden, stout-hearted old locksmith ofClerkenwell, jogged steadily home on a chaise, half sleeping and halfwaking, on a certain rough evening in March. 

A loud cry roused him with a start, just where London begins, and hedescried a man extended in an apparently lifeless state wounded upon thepathway, and, hovering round him, another person, with a torch in hishand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience. 

"What's here to do?" said the old locksmith. "How's this? What, Barnaby!You know me, Barnaby?"

The bearer of the torch nodded, not once or twice, but a score of times, with a fantastic exaggeration. 

"How came it here?" demanded Varden, pointing to the body. 

"Steel, steel, steel!" Barnaby replied fiercely, imitating the thrust ofa sword. 

"Is he robbed?" said the blacksmith. 

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded "Yes, " pointing towards thecity. 

"Oh!" said the old man. "The robber made off that way, did he? Now let'ssee what can be done. "

They covered the wounded man with Varden's greatcoat, and carried him toMrs. Rudge's house hard by. On his way home Gabriel congratulatedhimself on having an adventure which would silence Mrs. Varden on thesubject of the Maypole for that night, or there was no faith in woman. 

But Mrs. Varden was a lady of uncertain temper, and she was on thisoccasion so ill-tempered, and put herself to so much anxiety andagitation, aided and abetted by her shrewish hand-maiden, Miggs, thatnext morning she was, she said, too much indisposed to rise. Thedisconsolate locksmith had, therefore, to deliver himself of his storyof the night's experiences to his daughter, buxom, bewitching Dolly, thevery pink and pattern of good looks, and the despair of the youth of theneighbourhood. 

Calling next day in the evening, Gabriel Varden learnt the wounded manwas better, and would shortly be removed. 

Varden chatted as an old friend with Barnaby's mother. He knew theMaypole story of the widow Rudge--how her husband, employed at Chigwell, and his master had been murdered; and how her son, born upon the veryday the deed was known, bore upon his wrist a smear of blood but halfwashed out. 

"Why, what's that?" said the locksmith suddenly. "Is that Barnabytapping at the door?"

"No, " returned the widow; "it was in the street, I think. Hark! 'Tissomeone knocking softly at the shutter. "

"Some thief or ruffian, " said the locksmith. "Give me a light. "

"No, no, " she returned hastily. "I would rather go myself, alone. "

She left the room, and Varden heard the sound of whispers without. Thenthe words "My God!" came, tittered in a voice dreadful to hear. 

Varden rushed out. A look of terror was on the woman's face, and beforeher stood a man, of sinister appearance, whom the locksmith had passedon the road from Chigwell the previous night. 

The man fled, but the locksmith was after him and would have held himbut for the widow, who clutched his arms. 

"The other way--the other way!" she cried. "Do not touch him, on yourlife! He carries other lives besides his own. Don't ask what it means. He is not to be followed or stopped! Come back!"

"The other way!" said the locksmith. "Why, there he goes!"

The old man looked at her in wonder, and let her draw him into thehouse. Still that look of terror was on her face, as she implored himnot to question her. 

Presently she withdrew, and left him in his perplexity alone, andBarnaby came in. 

"I have been asleep, " said the idiot, with widely opened eyes. "Therehave been great faces coming and going--close to my face, and then amile away. That's sleep, eh? I dreamed just now that something--it wasin the shape of a man--followed me and wouldn't let me be. It camecreeping on to worry me, nearer and nearer. I ran faster, leaped, sprangout of bed and to the window, and there in the street below--"

"Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow, wow, wow!" cried a hoarse voice. "What'sthe matter here? Halloa!"

The locksmith started, and there was Grip, a large raven, Barnaby'sclose companion, perched on the top of a chair. 

"Halloa, halloa, halloa! Keep up your spirits! Never say die!" the birdwent on, in a hoarse voice. "Bow, wow, wow!" And then he began towhistle. 

The locksmith said "Good-night, " and went his way home, disturbed inthought. 

"In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from agibbet. He listening and hiding here. Barnaby first upon the spot lastnight. Can she, who has always borne so fair a name, be guilty of suchcrimes in secret?" said the locksmith, musing. "Heaven forgive me if Iam wrong, and send me just thoughts. "

_II--Barnaby Is Enrolled_

It is seven in the forenoon, on June 2, 1780, and Barnaby and hismother, who had travelled to London to escape that unwelcome visitorwhom Varden had noticed, were resting in one of the recesses ofWestminster Bridge. 

A vast throng of persons were crossing the river to the Surrey shore inunusual haste and excitement, and nearly every man in this greatconcourse wore in his hat a blue cockade. 

When the bridge was clear, which was not till nearly two hours hadelapsed, the widow inquired of an old man what was the meaning of thegreat assemblage. 

"Why, haven't you heard?" he returned. "This is the day Lord GeorgeGordon presents the petition against the Catholics, and his lordship hasdeclared he won't present it to the House of Commons at all unless it isattended to the door by forty thousand good men and true, at least. There's a crowd for you!"

"A crowd, indeed!" said Barnaby. "Do you hear that, mother? That's abrave crowd he talks of. Come!"

"Not to join it!" cried his mother. "You don't know what mischief theymay do, or where they may lead you. Dear Barnaby, for my sake----"

"For your sake!" he answered. "It _is_ for your sake, mother. Here's abrave crowd! Come--or wait till I come back! Yes, yes, wait here!"

A stranger gave Barnaby a blue cockade and bade him wear it, and whilehe was still fixing it in his hat Lord Gordon and his secretary, Gashford, passed, and then turned back. 

"You lag behind, friend, and are late, " said Lord George. "It's past tennow. Didn't you know the hour of assemblage was ten o'clock?"

Barnaby shook his head, and looked vacantly from one to the other. 

"He cannot tell you, sir, " the widow interposed. "It's no use to askhim. We know nothing of these matters. This is my son--my poor, afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. He is not in his rightsenses--he is not, indeed. "

"He has surely no appearance, " said Lord George, whispering in hissecretary's ear, "of being deranged. We must not construe any triflingpeculiarity into madness. You desire to make one of this body?" headded, addressing Barnaby. "And intended to make one, did you?"

"Yes, yes, " said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. "To be sure, I did. Itold her so myself. "

"Then follow me. " replied Lord George, "and you shall have your wish. "

Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly, and telling her their fortunes weremade now, did as he was desired. 

They hastened on to St. George's Fields, where the vast army of men wasdrawn up in sections. Doubtless there were honest zealots sprinkled hereand there, but for the most part the throng was composed of the veryscum and refuse of London. 

Barnaby was acclaimed by a man in the ranks, Hugh, the rough hostler ofthe Maypole, whom Barnaby in his frequent wanderings had long known. 

"What! you wear the colour, do you? Fall in, Barnaby. You shall marchbetween me and Dennis, and you shall carry, " said Hugh, taking a flagfrom the hand of a tired man, "the gayest silken streamer in thisvaliant army. "

"In the name of God, no!" shrieked the widow, who had followed inpursuit and now darted forward. "Barnaby, my lord, he'll comeback--Barnaby!"

"Women in the field!" cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding heroff with his outstretched hand. "It's against all orders--ladiescarrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. Give the word ofcommand, captain. "

The words, "Form! March!" rang out. 

She was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; Barnaby waswhirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and the widow sawhim no more. 

Barnaby himself, heedless of the weight of the great banner he carried, marched proud, happy, and elated past all telling. Hugh was at his side, and next to Hugh came a squat, thick-set personage called Dennis, who, unknown to his companions, was no other than the public hangman. 

"I wish I could see her somewhere, " said Barnaby, looking anxiouslyaround. "She would be proud to see me now, eh, Hugh? She'd cry with joy, I know she would. "

"Why, what palaver's this?" asked Mr. Dennis, with supreme disdain. "Weain't got no sentimental members among us, I hope. "

"Don't be uneasy, brother, " cried Hugh, "he's only talking of hismother. "

"His mother!" growled Mr. Dennis, with a strong oath, and in tones ofdeep disgust. "And have I combined myself with this here section, andturned out on this here memorable day, to hear men talk about theirmothers?"

"Barnaby's right, " cried Hugh, with a grin, "and I say it. Lookee, boldlad, if she's not here to see it's because I've provided for her, andsent half-a-dozen gentlemen, every one of 'em with a blue flag, to takeher to a grand house all hung round with gold and silver banners, whereshe'll wait till you come and want for nothing. And we'll get moneyfor her. Money, cocked hats, and gold lace will all belong to us if weare true to that noble gentleman, if we carry our flags and keep 'emsafe. That's all we've got to do. 

"Don't you see, man, " Hugh whispered to Dennis, "that the lad's anatural, and can be got to do anything if you take him the right way?He's worth a dozen men in earnest, as you'd find if you tried a fallwith him. You'll soon see whether he's of use or not. "

Mr. Dennis received this explanation with many nods and winks, andsoftened his behaviour towards Barnaby from that moment. 

Hugh was right. It was Barnaby who stood his ground, and grasped hispole more firmly when the Guards came out to clear the mob away fromWestminster. 

One soldier came spurring on, cutting at the hands of those who wouldhave forced his charger back, and still Barnaby, without retreating aninch, waited for his coming. Some called to him to fly, when the poleswept the air above the people's heads, and the man's saddle was emptyin an instant. 

Then he and Hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening and closing soquickly that there was no clue to the course they had taken. 

_III. --The Storming of Newgate_

For several days London was in the hands of the rioters. Catholicchapels were burned, the private residences of Catholics were sacked. From the moment of the first outbreak at Westminster every symptom oforder vanished. Fifty resolute men might have turned the rioters; asingle company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but noman interposed, no authority restrained them. 

But Barnaby, bold Barnaby, had been taken. Left behind at the resort ofthe rioters by Hugh, who led a body of men to Chigwell, he had beencaptured by the soldiers, a proclamation of the Privy Council having atlast encouraged the magistrates to set the military in motion for thearrest of certain ringleaders. 

He was placed in Newgate and heavily ironed, and presently Grip, withdrooping head and plumes rough and tumbled, was thrust into his cell. 

Another man was also taken and placed in Newgate on that day, andpresently he and Barnaby stood staring at each other, face to face. Suddenly Barnaby laid hands upon him, and cried, "Ah, I know! You arethe robber!"

The other struggled with him silently, but finding the young man toostrong for him, raised his eyes and said, "I am your father. "

Barnaby released his hold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Then hesprang towards him, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his headagainst his cheek. He never learnt that his father, supposed to havebeen murdered, was himself a murderer. This was the widow's dreadfulsecret. 

And now Hugh, with a huge army, was at the gates of Newgate, bent onrescue. He had returned, to find Barnaby taken, and at once announcedthat the prison must be stormed. In vain the military commanders triedto rouse the magistrates, and in particular the Lord Mayor; no orderswere given, and the soldiers could do nothing within the precincts ofthe city without the warrant of the civil authorities. 

In a dense mass the rioters halted before the prison-gate. All those whohad already been conspicuous were there, and others who had friends orrelatives within the jail hastened to the attack. 

Hugh had brought, by force, old Gabriel Varden to pick the lock of thegreat door, but this the sturdy locksmith resolutely refused to do. 

"You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master, " Hugh calledout to the head jailer, who had appeared on the roof. "Deliver up ourfriends, and you may keep the rest. "

"It's my duty to keep them all. I shall do my duty, " replied the jailer, firmly. 

A shower of stones compelled the keeper of the jail to retire. 

Gabriel Varden was urged by blows, by offers of reward, and by threatsof instant death to do the office the rioters required of him, and allin vain. He was knocked down, was up again, buffeting with a score ofthem. He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing couldmove him. 

The cry was raised, "You lose time. Remember the prisoners! RememberBarnaby!" And the crowd left the locksmith, to gather fuel, for anentrance was to be forced by fire. Furniture from the prison lodge waspiled up in a monstrous heap and set blazing, oil was poured on, and atlast the great gate yielded to the flames. It settled deeper in thered-hot cinders, tottered, and was down. 

Hugh leaped upon the blazing heap, and dashed into the jail. The hangmanfollowed. And then so many rushed upon their track that the fire gottrodden down. There was no need of it now, for, inside and out, theprison was soon in flames. 

Barnaby and his father were quickly released, and passed from hand tohand into the street. Soon all the wretched inmates of the jail werefree, except four condemned to die whom Dennis kept under guard. Andthese Hugh roughly insisted on liberating, to the sullen anger of thehangman. 

"You won't let these men alone, and leave 'em to me? You've no respectfor nothing, haven't you?" said Dennis, and with a scowl he disappeared. 

Three hundred prisoners in all were released from Newgate, and many ofthese returned to haunt the place of their captivity, and were retaken. The day after the storming of Newgate, the mob having now had London atits mercy for a week, the authorities at last took serious action, andat nightfall the military held the streets. 

Hugh and Barnaby and old Rudge had taken refuge in a rough out-house inthe outskirts of London, where they were wont to rest, when Dennis stoodbefore them; he had not been seen since the storming of Newgate. 

A few minutes later, and the shed was filled with soldiers, while a bodyof horse galloping into the field drew op before it. 

"Here!" said Dennis, "it's them two young ones, gentlemen, that theproclamation puts a price on. This other's an escaped felon. I'm sorryfor it, brother, " he added, addressing himself to Hugh; "but you'vebrought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you wouldn't respect thesoundest constitutional principles, you know; you went and wiolated thewery framework of society. "

Barnaby and his father were carried off by one road in the centre of abody of foot-soldiers; Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, was taken byanother. 

_IV. --The Fate of the Rioters_

The riots had been stamped out, and once more the city was quiet. 

Barnaby sat in his dungeon. Beside him, with his hand in hers, sat hismother; worn and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted, but the sameto him. 

"Mother, " he said, "how long--how many days and nights--shall I be kepthere?"

"Not many, dear. I hope not many. "

"If they kill me--they may; I heard it said--what will become of Grip?"

The sound of the word suggested to the raven his old phrase, "Never saydie!" But he stopped short in the middle of it as if he lacked the heartto get through the shortest sentence. 

"Will they take his life as well as mine?" said Barnaby. "I wish theywould. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none tofeel sorry, or to grieve for us. Don't you cry for me. They said that Iam bold, and so I am, and so I will be. "

The turnkey came to close the cells for the night, the widow toreherself away, and Barnaby was alone. 

He was to die. There was no hope. They had tried to save him. Thelocksmith had carried petitions and memorials to the fountain-head withhis own hands. But the well was not one of mercy, and Barnaby was todie. From the first, his mother had never left him, save at night; and, with her beside him, he was contented. 

"They call me silly, mother. They shall see--to-morrow. "

Dennis and Hugh were in the courtyard. "No reprieve, no reprieve! Nobodycomes near us. There's only the night left now!" moaned Dennis. "Do youthink they'll reprieve me in the night, brother? I've known reprievescome in the night afore now. Don't you think there's a good chance yet?Don't you? Say you do. "

"You ought to be the best instead of the worst, " said Hugh, stoppingbefore him. "Ha, ha, ha! See the hangman when it comes home to him. "

The clock struck. Barnaby looked in his mother's face, and saw that thetime had come. After a long embrace he rushed away, and they carried heraway, insensible. 

"See the hangman when it comes home to him!" cried Hugh, as Dennis, still moaning, fell down in a fit. "Courage, bold Barnaby, what care we?A man can die but once. If you wake in the night, sing that out lustily, and fall asleep again. "

The time wore on. Five o'clock had struck--six--seven--and eight. Theywere to die at noon, and in the crowd without it was said they couldtell the hangman, when he came out, by his being the shorter one, andthat the man who was to suffer with him was named Hugh; and that it wasBarnaby Rudge who would be hanged in Bloomsbury Square. 

At the first stroke of twelve the prison bell began to toll, and thethree were brought forth into the yard together. 

Barnaby was the only one who had washed or trimmed himself that morning. He still wore the broken peacock's feathers in his hat; and all hisusual scraps of finery were carefully disposed about his person. 

"What cheer, Barnaby?", cried Hugh. "Don't be downcast, lad. Leave thatto _him_, " he added, with a nod in the direction of Dennis, held upbetween two men. 

"Bless you!" cried Barnaby, "I'm not frightened, Hugh. I'm quite happy. Look at me! Am I afraid to die? Will they see _me_ tremble?"

"I'd say this, " said Hugh, wringing Barnaby by the hand, and lookinground at the officers and functionaries gathered in the yard, "that if Ihad ten lives to lose I'd lay them all down to save this one. This onethat will be lost through mine!"

"Not through you, " said Barnaby mildly. "Don't say that. You were not toblame. You have always been very good to me. Hugh, we shall know whatmakes the stars shine _now_!"

Hugh spoke no more, but moved onward in his place with a careless air, listening as he went to the service for the dead. As soon as he hadpassed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the crowdbeheld the rest. Barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time, but he was restrained, as he was to undergo the sentence elsewhere. 

It was only just when the cart was starting that the courier reached thejail with the reprieve. All night Gabriel Varden and his friends hadbeen at work; they had gone to the young Prince of Wales, and even tothe ante-chamber of the king himself. Successful, at last, in awakeningan interest in his favour, they had an interview with the minister inhis bed as late as eight o'clock that morning. The result of a searchinginquiry was that, between eleven and twelve o'clock, a free pardon toBarnaby Rudge was made out and signed, and Gabriel Varden had thegrateful task of bringing him home in triumph with an enthusiastic mob. 

"I needn't say, " observed the locksmith, when his house in Clerkenwellwas reached at last, and he and Barnaby were safe within, "that, exceptamong ourselves, _I_ didn't want to make a triumph of it. But directlywe got into the street, we were known, and the hub-bub began. Of thetwo, and after experience of both, I think I'd rather be taken out of myhouse by a crowd of enemies than escorted home by a mob of friends!"

At last the crowd dispersed. And Barnaby stretched himself on the groundbeside his mother's couch, and fell into a deep sleep. 

 * * * * *

Bleak House

 "Bleak House, " a story with a purpose, like most of Dickens's works, was published when the author was forty years old. The object of the story was to ventilate the monstrous injustice wrought by delays in the old Court of Chancery, which defeated all the purposes of a court of justice. Many of the characters, who, though famous, are not essential to the development of the story, were drawn from real life. Turveydrop was suggested by George IV. , and Inspector Bucket was a friend of the author in the Metropolitan Police Force. Harold Skimpole was identified with Leigh Hunt. Dickens himself admitted the resemblance; but only in so far as none of Skimpole's vices could be attributed to his prototype. The original of Bleak House was a country mansion in Hertfordshire, near St. Albans, though it is usually said to be a summer residence of the novelist at Broadstairs. 

_I. --In Chancery_

London. Implacable November weather. The Lord Chancellor sitting inLincoln's Inn Hall. Fog everywhere, and at the very heart of the fogsits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. The case ofJarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. No man alive knows what it means. Ithas passed into a joke. It has been death to many, but it is a joke inthe profession. 

Mr. Kenge (of Kenge and Carboy, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn) firstmentioned Jarndyce and Jarndyce to me, and told me that the costsalready amounted to from sixty to seventy thousand pounds. 

My godmother, who brought me up, was just dead, and Mr. Kenge came totell me that Mr. Jarndyce proposed, knowing my desolate position, that Ishould go to a first-rate school, where my education should be completedand my comfort secured. What did I say to this? What could I say butaccept the proposal thankfully?

I passed at this school six happy, quiet years, and then one day came anote from Kenge and Carboy, mentioning that their client, Mr. Jarndyce, being in the house, desired my services as an eligible companion to thisyoung lady. 

So I said good-bye to the school and went to London, and was driven toMr. Kenge's office. He was not altered, but he was surprised to see howaltered I was, and appeared quite pleased. 

"As you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is now inthe Chancellor's private room, Miss Summerson, " he said, "we thought itwell that you should be in attendance also. "

Mr. Kenge gave me his arm, and we went out of his office and into thecourt, and then into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and ayoung gentleman were standing talking. 

They looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady a beautifulgirl, with rich golden hair, and a bright, innocent, trusting face. 

"Miss Ada, " said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson. "

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended, butseemed to change her mind in a moment, and kissed me. 

The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his nameRichard Carstone. He was a handsome youth, and after she had called himup to where we sat, he stood by us, talking gaily, like a light-heartedboy. He was very young, not more than nineteen then, but nearly twoyears older than she was. They were both orphans, and had never metbefore that day. Our all three coming together for the first time insuch an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and we talked about it. 

Presently we heard a bustle, and Mr. Kenge said that the court hadrisen, and soon after we all followed him into the next room. There wasthe Lord Chancellor sitting in an armchair at the table, and his mannerwas both courtly and kind. 

"Miss Clare, " said his lordship. "Miss Ada Clare?" Mr. Kenge presentedher. 

"The Jarndyce in question, " said the Lord Chancellor, turning overpapers, "is Jarndyce of Bleak House--a dreary name. "

"But not a dreary place, my lord, " said Mr. Kenge. 

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship. 

"He is not, my lord, " said Mr. Kenge. 

"Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor. 

Richard bowed and stepped forward. 

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord, " Mr. Kenge observed, "if I mayventure to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for----"

"For Mr. Richard Carstone!" I thought I heard his lordship say in a lowvoice. 

"For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady, Miss Esther Summerson. "

"Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think. "

"No, my lord. "

"Very well, " said his lordship, after taking Miss Ada aside and askingher if she thought she would be happy at Bleak House. "I shall make theorder. Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge, avery good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement seems thebest of which the circumstances admit. "

He dismissed us pleasantly and we all went out. As we stood for aminute, waiting for Mr. Kenge, a curious little old woman, Miss Flite, in a squeezed bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came curtsying andsmiling up to us, with an air of great ceremony. 

"Oh!" said she, "The wards in Jarndyce. Very happy, I am sure, to havethe honour. It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty when theyfind themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it. "

"Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him. 

"Right! Mad, young gentleman, " she returned quickly. "I was a wardmyself. I was not mad at that time. I had youth and hope; I believebeauty. It matters very little now. Neither of the three served, orsaved me. I have the honour to attend court regularly. I expect ajudgment. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth sealmentioned in the Revelations is the great seal. Pray accept myblessing. "

Mr. Kenge coming up, the poor old lady went on. "I shall confer estateson both. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing. "

We left her at the bottom of the stairs. She was still saying, with acurtsy, and a smile between every little sentence, "Youth. And hope. Andbeauty. And Chancery. "

The morning after, walking out early, we met the old lady again, smilingand saying in her air of patronage, "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure! Pray come and see my lodgings. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty, are very seldom there. "

She took my hand and beckoned Richard and Ada to come too, and in a fewmoments she was at home. 

She had stopped at a shop over which was written, "Krook, Rag and BottleWarehouse. " Inside was an old man in spectacles and a hair cap, andentering the shop the little old lady presented him to us. 

"My landlord, Krook, " she said. "He is called among the neighbours theLord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. "

She lived at the top of the house in a room from which she had a glimpseof the roof of Lincoln's Inn Hall, and this seemed to be her principalinducement for living there. 

_II. --Bleak House_

We drove down to Bleak House, in Hertfordshire, next day, and all threeof us were anxious and nervous when the night closed in, and the driver, pointing to a light sparkling on the top of a hill, cried, "That's BleakHouse!"

"Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. Rick, if I had a handto spare at present I would give it you!"

The gentleman who said these words in a clear, hospitable voice, kissedus both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall into a ruddylittle room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. 

"Now, Rick!" said he, "I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is asgood as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home. Warmyourself!"

While he spoke I glanced at his face. It was a handsome face, full ofchange and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron grey. I took him tobe nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. 

So this was our coming to Bleak House. 

The very next morning I was installed as housekeeper and presented withtwo bunches of keys--a large bunch for the housekeeping and a littlebunch for the cellars. I could not help trembling when I met Mr. Jarndyce, for I knew it was he who had done everything for me since mygodmother's death. 

"Nonsense!" he said. "I hear of a good little orphan girl without aprotector, and I take it into my head to be that protector. She growsup, and more than justifies my good opinion, and I remain her guardianand her friend. What is there in all this?"

He soon began to talk to me confidentially as if I had been in the habitof conversing with him every morning for I don't know how long. 

"Of course, Esther, " he said, "you don't understand this Chancerybusiness?"

I shook my head. 

"I don't know who does, " he returned. "The lawyers have twisted it intosuch a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case havelong disappeared. Its about a will, and the trusts under a will--or itwas once. It's about nothing but costs now. It was about a will when itwas about anything. A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a greatfortune and made a great will. In the question how the trusts under thatwill are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squanderedaway; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserablecondition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had committedan enormous crime in having money left them, and the will itself is madea dead letter. All through the deplorable cause everybody must havecopies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about itin the way of cartloads of papers, and must go down the middle and upagain, through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fees andnonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visionsof a witch's sabbath. And we can't get out of the suit on any terms, forwe are made parties to it, and _must be_ parties to it, whether we likeit or not. But it won't do to think of it! Thinking of it drove mygreat-uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, to blow his brains out. "

"I hope sir--" said I. 

"I think you had better call me Guardian, my dear. "

"I hope, Guardian, " said I, giving the housekeeping keys the least shakein the world, "that you may not be trusting too much to my discretion. Iam not clever, and that's the truth. "

"You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, mydear, " he returned playfully; "the little old woman of the rhyme, whosweeps the cobwebs of the sky, and you will sweep them out of _our_ skyin the course of your housekeeping, Esther. "

This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame Durden, and so many names of that sort, that my own soon becamequite lost. 

One of the things I noticed from the first about my guardian was that, though he was always doing a thousand acts of kindness, he could notbear any acknowledgments. 

We had somehow got to see more of Miss Flite on our visits to London:for the Lord Chancellor always had to be consulted before Richard couldsettle in any profession, and as Richard first wanted to be a doctor andthen tired of that in favour of the army, there were severalconsultations. I remember one visit because it was the first time we metMr. Woodcourt. 

My guardian and Ada and I heard of Miss Flite having been ill, and whenwe called we found a medical gentleman attending her in her garret inLincoln's Inn. 

Miss Flite dropped a general curtsy. 

"Honoured, indeed, " she said, "by another visit from the wards inJarndyce! Very happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath myhumble roof!"

"Has she been very ill?" asked Mr. Jarndyce in a whisper of the doctor. 

"Oh, decidedly unwell!" she answered confidentially. "Not pain, youknow--trouble. Only Mr. Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr. Woodcourt"--with great stateliness--"The wards in Jarndyce; Jarndyce ofBleak House. The kindest physician in the college, " she whispered to me. "I expect a judgment. On the Day of Judgment. And shall then conferestates. "

"She will be as well, in a day or two, " said Mr. Woodcourt, with anobservant smile, "as she ever will be. Have you heard of her goodfortune?"

"Most extraordinary!" said Miss Flite. "Every Saturday Kenge and Carboyplace a paper of shillings in my hand. Always the same number. One forevery day in the week. _I_ think that the Lord Chancellor forwards them. Until the judgment I expect is given. "

My guardian was contemplating Miss Flite's birds, and I had no need tolook beyond him. 

_III. --I Am Made Happy_

I sometimes thought that Mr. Woodcourt loved me, and that, if he hadbeen richer, he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before hewent away. I had thought sometimes that if he had done so I should havebeen glad. As it was, he went to the East Indies, and later we read inthe papers of a great shipwreck, that Allan Woodcourt had worked like ahero to save the drowning, and succour the survivors. 

I had been ill when my dear guardian asked me one day if I would care toread something he had written, and I said "Yes. " There was estrangementat that time between Richard and Mr. Jarndyce, for the unhappy boy hadtaken it into his head that the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce would yetbe settled, and would bring him fortune, and this kept him from devotinghimself seriously to any profession. Of course, he and my darling Adahad fallen in love, and my guardian insisting on their waiting tillRichard was earning some income before any engagement could berecognised, increased the estrangement. I knew, to my distress, thatRichard suspected my guardian of having a conflicting claim in thehorrible lawsuit and this made him think unjustly of Mr. Jarndyce. 

I read the letter. It was so impressive in its love for me, and in theunselfish caution it gave me, that my eyes were too often blinded toread much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid itdown. It asked me would I be the mistress of Bleak House. It was not alove-letter, though it expressed so much love, but was written just ashe would at any time have spoken to me. 

I felt that to devote my life to his happiness was to thank him poorlyfor all he had done for me. Still I cried very much; not only in thefulness of my heart after reading the letter, but as if something forwhich there was no name or distinct idea were lost to me. I was veryhappy, very thankful, very hopeful, but I cried very much. 

On entering the breakfast-room next morning I found my guardian just asusual; quite as frank, as open, as free. I thought he might speak to meabout the letter, but he never did. 

At the end of a week I went to him and said, rather hesitating andtrembling, "Guardian, when would you like to have the answer to theletter?"

"When it's ready, my dear, " he replied. 

"I think it's ready, " said I, "and I have brought it myself. "

I put my two arms around his neck and kissed him, and he said was thisthe mistress of Bleak House? And I said "Yes, " and it made no differencepresently, and I said nothing to my pet, Ada, about it. 

It was a few days after this, when Mr. Vholes, the attorney whom Richardemployed to watch his interests, called at Bleak House, and told us thathis client was very embarrassed financially, and so thought of throwingup his commission in the army. 

To avert this I went down to Deal and found Richard alone in thebarracks. He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin cases, books, boots, and brushes strewn all about the floor. So wornand haggard he looked, even in the fulness of his handsome youth!

My mission was quite fruitless. 

"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid. The first is John Jarndyce. Thesecond, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell you I can't help itnow, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing; it is the one object Ihave to pursue. "

He went on to tell me that it was impossible to remain a soldier; that, apart from debts and duns, he took no interest in his employment and wasnot fit for it. He showed me papers to prove that his retirement wasarranged. Knowing I had done no good by coming down, I prepared toreturn to London on the morrow. 

There was some excitement in the town by reason of the arrival of a bigIndiaman, and, as it happened, amongst those who came on shore from theship was Mr. Allan Woodcourt. I met him in the hotel where I wasstaying, and he seemed quite pleased to see me. He was glad to meetRichard again, too, and promised, on my asking him, to befriend Richardin London. 

_IV. --End of Jarndyce and Jarndyce_

Richard always declared that it was Ada he meant to see righted, no lessthan himself, and his anxiety on that point so impressed Mr. Woodcourtthat he told me about it. It revived a fear I had had before, that mydear girl's little property might be absorbed by Mr. Vholes, and thatRichard's justification to himself would be this. 

So I went up to London to see Richard, who now lived in Symond's Inn, and my darling Ada went with me. He was poring over a table covered withdusty papers, but he received us very affectionately. 

I noticed, as he passed his two hands over his head, how sunken and howlarge his eyes appeared, and how dry his lips were. He spoke of the casehalf-hopefully, half-despondently, "Either the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit--the suit. " Then he tooka few turns up and down, and sank upon the sofa. "I get so tired, " hesaid gloomily. "It is such weary, weary work. "

"Esther, dear, " Ada said, very quietly, "I am not going home again. Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We have beenmarried above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther; I shallnever go home any more. "

I often came to Richard and his wife, and I often met Mr. Woodcourtthere. Richard still suspected my guardian, and refused to see him, andwhen I said this was so unreasonable, my guardian only said, "What shallwe find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce? Unreason and injustice frombeginning to end, if it ever has an end. How should poor Rick, alwayshovering near it, pluck reason out of it?"

It was some months after this when Mr. Woodcourt asked me to be hiswife, and I had to tell him I was not free. But I had to tell him that Icould never forget how proud and glad I was at having been beloved byhim. 

He took my hand and kissed it, and was like himself again. 

All this time my guardian had never referred to his letter or my answer, so I said to him next morning I would be the mistress of Bleak Housewhenever he pleased. 

"Next month?" my guardian said gaily. 

"Next month, dear guardian. "

At the end of the month my guardian went away to Yorkshire, and asked meto follow him. I was very much surprised, and when the journey was overmy guardian explained that he had asked me to come down to see a househe had bought for Mr. Woodcourt, with whom he was always very pleased. 

It was a beautiful summer morning when we went out to look at the house, and there over the porch was written. "Bleak House. " He led me to aseat, and sitting down beside me, said:

"When I wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer"--myguardian smiled as he referred to it--"I had my own happiness too muchin view; but I had yours, too. Hear me, my love, but do not speak. WhenWoodcourt came home, I saw that there was other happiness for you; I sawwith whom you would be happier. Well, I have long been in AllanWoodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, in mine. One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spokewith my knowledge and consent. But I gave him no encouragement; not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too miserly to partwith a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all that passed, and hedid. I have no more to say. This is Bleak House. This day I give thishouse its little mistress, and before God it is the brightest day in allmy life. "

He rose, and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My husband--Ihave called him by that name full seven happy years now--stood at myside. 

"Allan, " said my guardian, "take from me the best wife that ever manhad. What more can I say for you than that I know you deserve her?"

He kissed me once again. And now the tears were in his eyes as he said, more softly, "Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kindof parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you somedistress. Forgive your old guardian in restoring him to his old place inyour affections. Allan, take my dear. "

We all three went home together next day. We had an intimation from Mr. Kenge that the case would come on at Westminster in two days, and that acertain will had been found which might end the suit in Richard'sfavour. 

Allan took me down to Westminster, and when we came to Westminster Hallwe found that the Court of Chancery was full, and that something unusualhad occurred. We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what case was on. Hetold us Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and that, as well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? "No, " he said; "over for good. "

In a few minutes a crowd came streaming out, and we saw Mr. Kenge. Hetold us that Jarndyce and Jarndyce was a monument of Chancery practice, and--in a good many words--that the case was over because the wholeestate was found to have been absorbed in costs. 

We hurried away, first to my guardian, and then to Ada and Richard. 

Richard was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. Whenhe opened them, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn he was. But hespoke cheerfully, and said how glad he was to think of our intendedmarriage. 

In the evening my guardian came in and laid his hand softly onRichard's. 

"Oh, sir, " said Richard, "you are a good man, a good man!" and burstinto tears. 

My guardian sat down beside him, keeping his hand on Richard's. 

"My dear Rick, " he said, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is brightnow. We can see now. And how are you, my dear boy?"

"I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to beginthe world. "

He sought to raise himself a little. 

"Ada, my darling!" Allan raised him, so that she could hold him on herbosom. "I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have married you topoverty and trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You willforgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?"

A smile lit up his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid his faceupon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with oneparting sob began the world. Not this--oh, not this! The world that setsthis right. 

 * * * * *

David Copperfield

 "David Copperfield"--published in 1849-50--will always be acclaimed by many as the best of all Dickens's books. It was its author's favourite, and its universal and lasting popularity is entirely deserved. "David Copperfield" is especially remarkable for the autobiographical element, not only in the wretched days of childhood at the wine merchant's, but in the shorthand-reporting in the House of Commons. Dickens never forgot his early degradation, as it seemed to him, in the blacking warehouse at Hungerford Stairs, or quite forgave those who sent him to an occupation he so loathed. Much of "David Copperfield" is familiar in our mouths as household words, and Swinburne has maintained that Micawber ranks with Dick Swiveller as one of the greatest characters in all Dickens's novels. "Copperfield" comes midway in the great list of works by Charles Dickens. 

_I. --My Early Childhood_

I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelveo'clock at night, at Blunderstone, in Suffolk. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had been closed upon the light of this world six monthswhen mine opened upon it. Miss Betsey Trotwood, an aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, arrived on the afternoon of theday I was born, and explained to my mother (who was very much afraid ofher) that she meant to provide for her child, which was to be a girl. 

My aunt said never a word when she learnt that it was a boy, and not agirl, but took her bonnet by the strings in the manner of a sling, aimeda blow at the doctor's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, andnever came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy. 

The first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as I lookfar back into the blank of my infancy, are my mother, with her prettyair and youthful shape, and Peggotty, my old nurse, with no shape atall, and with cheeks and arms so red and hard that I wondered the birdsdidn't peck her in preference to apples. 

I remember a few years later, a gentleman with beautiful black hair andwhiskers walking home from church on Sunday with us; and, somehow, Ididn't like him or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his handshould touch my mother's in touching me--which it did. 

It must have been about this time that, waking up from an uncomfortabledoze one night, I found Peggotty and my mother both in tears, and bothtalking. 

"Not such a one as this Mr. Copperfield wouldn't have liked, " saidPeggotty. "That I say, and that I swear!"

"Good heavens!" cried my mother. "You'll drive me mad! How can you havethe heart to say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware thatout of this place I haven't a single friend to turn to?" But thefollowing Sunday I saw the gentleman with the black whiskers again, andhe walked home from church with us, and gradually I became used toseeing him and knowing him as Mr. Murdstone. I liked him no better thanat first, and had the same uneasy jealousy of him. 

It was on my return from a visit to Yarmouth, where I went with Peggottyto spend a fortnight at her brother's, that I found my mother married toMr. Murdstone. They were sitting by the fire in the best parlour when Icame in. 

I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed mymother. I could not look at her, I could not look at him; I knew quitewell he was looking at us both. As soon as I could creep away, I creptupstairs, and cried myself to sleep. 

A word of encouragement, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcomehome, of reassurance to me that it _was_ home, might have made medutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocriticaloutside, and might have made me respect instead of hating him. 

Miss Murdstone arrived next day; she was dark, like her brother, andgreatly resembled him in face and voice. Firmness was the grand qualityon which both of them took their stand. 

I soon fell into disgrace over my lessons. I never could do them with mymother satisfactorily with the Murdstones sitting by; their influenceupon me was like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird. 

One dreadful morning, when the lessons had turned out even more badlythan usual, Mr. Murdstone seized hold of me and twisted my head underhis arm preparatory to beating me with a cane. At the first stroke Icaught the hand with which he held me, in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. He beat me then as if he would have beaten me todeath. And when he had gone, I was kept a close prisoner in my room, andwas not allowed to see my mother, and was only permitted to walk in thegarden for half an hour every day. Miss Murdstone acted as gaoler, andafter five days of this confinement, she told me I was to be sent awayto school--to Salem House School, Blackheath. 

I saw my mother before I left. They had persuaded her I was a wickedfellow, and she was more sorry for that than for my going. 

_II. --I Begin Life on My own Account_

I was doing my second term at school when I was told that my mother wasdead, and that I was to go home to the funeral. 

I never returned to Salem House. Mr. Murdstone and his sister left me tomyself, and I could see that Mr. Murdstone liked me less than ever. Atodd times I speculated on the possibility of not being taught any moreor cared for any more, and growing up to be a shabby, moody man, lounging an idle life away about the village. 

Peggotty was under notice to quit, and thought of going to live with herbrother at Yarmouth; but as it turned out, she didn't do this, butmarried the old carrier Barkis instead. 

"Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive, and have this houseover my head, " said Peggotty to me on the day she was married, "youshall find it as if I expected you here directly. I shall keep it everyday, as I used to keep your old little room, my darling. "

The solitary condition I now fell into for some weeks was ended one dayby Mr. Murdstone telling me that I was to be put into the business ofMurdstone and Grinby. 

"You will earn enough to provide for your eating and drinking, andpocket money, " said Mr. Murdstone. "Your lodging, which I have arrangedfor, will be paid by me. So will your washing, and your clothes will belooked after for you, too. You are now going to London, David, to beginthe world on your own account. "

"In short, you are provided for, " observed his sister, "and will pleaseto do your duty. "

So I became, at ten years old, a little labouring hind in the service ofMurdstone and Grinby. 

Murdstone and Grinby's warehouse was at the waterside, down inBlackfriars, and an important branch of their trade was the supply ofwines and spirits to certain packet ships. A great many empty bottleswere one of the consequences of this traffic, and a certain number ofmen and boys, of whom I was one, were employed to rinse and wash them. When the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be pasted on fullones, or corks to be fitted to them, or finished bottles to be packed incasks. 

There were three or four boys, counting me. Mick Walker was the name ofthe oldest; he wore a ragged apron, and a paper cap. The next boy wasintroduced to me under the extraordinary name of Mealy Potatoes, whichhad been bestowed upon him on account of his complexion, which was pale, or mealy. 

No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into thiscompanionship, and compared these associates with those of my happierchildhood, with the boys at Salem House. Often in the early morning, when I was alone, I mingled my tears with the water in which I waswashing the bottles, and sobbed as if there were a flaw in my breast, and it were in danger of bursting. 

My salary was six or seven shillings a week--I think it was six atfirst, and seven afterwards--and I had to support myself on that moneyall the week. My breakfast was a penny loaf and a pennyworth of milk, and I kept another small loaf and a modicum of cheese to make my supperon at night. 

I was so young and childish, and so little qualified to undertake thewhole charge of my existence, that often of a morning I could not resistthe stale pastry put out for sale at half price at the pastry-cooks'doors, and spent on that the money I should have kept for my dinner. Onthose days I either went without my dinner, or bought a roll or a sliceof pudding. 

I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I went into thebar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter to moistenwhat I had for dinner, they were afraid to give it me. 

I know I do not exaggerate the scantiness of my resources or thedifficulties of my life. I know that if a shilling were given me at anytime, I spent it in a dinner or a tea. I know that I worked from morninguntil night, a shabby child, and that I lounged about the streets, insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I know that, but for the mercyof God, I might easily have been, for any care that was taken of me, alittle robber or a little vagabond. 

Arrangements had been made by Mr. Murdstone for my lodging with Mr. Micawber--who took orders on commission for Murdstone and Grinby--andMr. Micawber himself escorted me to his house in Windsor Terrace, CityRoad. 

Mr. Micawber was a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a brown surtout, with no more hair upon his head than there is upon an egg, and with avery extensive face. His clothes were shabby, but he wore an imposingshirt-collar. He carried a jaunty sort of a stick, with a large pair ofrusty tassels to it; and an eyeglass hung outside his coat--forornament, I afterwards found, as he very seldom looked through it, andcouldn't see anything when he did. 

Arrived at his house in Windsor Terrace--which, I noticed, was shabby, like himself, but also, like himself, made all the show it could--hepresented me to Mrs. Micawber, a thin and faded lady, not at all young. 

"I never thought, " said Mrs. Micawber, as she showed me my room at thetop of the house at the back, "before I was married that I should everfind it necessary to take a lodger. But Mr. Micawber being indifficulties, all considerations of private feeling must give way. "

I said, "Yes, ma'am. "

"Mr. Micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming just at present, "said Mrs. Micawber, "and whether it is possible to bring him throughthem I don't know. If Mr. Micawber's creditors _will not_ give him time, they must take the consequences. "

In my forlorn state, I soon became quite attached to this family, andwhen Mr. Micawber's difficulties came to a crisis, and he was arrestedand carried to the King's Bench Prison in the Borough, and Mrs. Micawbershortly afterwards followed him, I hired a little room in theneighbourhood of that institution. 

Mr. Micawber was in due time released under the Insolvent Debtors' Act, and it was decided that he should go down to Plymouth, where Mrs. Micawber held that her family had influence. 

My own mind was now made up. I had resolved to run away--to go by somemeans or other down into the country, to the only relation I had in theworld, and tell my story to my aunt, Miss Betsey. I knew from Peggottythat Miss Betsey lived near Dover, but whether at Dover itself, atHythe, Sandgate, or Folkstone, she could not say. One of our men, however, informing me on my asking him about these places that they wereall close together, I deemed this enough for my object; and after seeingthe Micawbers off at the coach office, I set off. 

_III. --My Aunt Provides for Me_

It was on the sixth day of my flight that I reached the wide downs nearDover and set foot in the town. 

I had walked every step of the way, sleeping under haystacks at night. Fortunately, it was summer weather, for I was obliged to part with coatand waistcoat to buy food. My shoes were in a woeful condition, and myhat--which had served me for a nightcap, too--was so crushed and bentthat no old battered saucepan on the dunghill need have been ashamed tovie with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, andthe Kentish soil on which I had slept, might have frightened the birdsfrom my aunt's garden as I stood at the gate. My hair had known no combor brush since I left London. In this plight I waited to introducemyself to my formidable aunt. 

As I stood there, a lady came out of the house, with a handkerchief overher cap, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands and carrying a greatknife. I was sure she must be Miss Betsey from her walk, for my motherhad often described the way my aunt came to the house when I was born. 

"Go away!" said Miss Betsey, shaking her head. "Go along! No boys here!"

I watched her as she marched to a corner of the garden, and then, indesperation, I went softly and stood beside her. 

"If you please, ma'am--if you please, aunt, I am your nephew. "

"Oh, Lord!" said my aunt, and sat flat down in the garden path. 

"I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk, where you camewhen I was born. I have been very unhappy since my mother died. I havebeen taught nothing and put to work not fit for me. It made me run awayto you, and I have walked all the way, and have never slept in bed sinceI began the journey. "

Here my self-support gave way all at once, and I broke into a passion ofcrying. 

Thereupon, my aunt got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took meinto the parlour. 

The first thing my aunt did was to pour the contents of several bottlesdown my throat. I think they must have been taken out at random, for Iam sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. Thenshe put me on the sofa, and, acting on the advice of a pleasant-looking, grey-headed gentleman, whom she called "Mr. Dick, " heated a bath for me. After that I was enrobed in a shirt and trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, tied up in two or three great shawls, and fell asleep. 

That was the beginning of my aunt's adoption of me. She wrote to Mr. Murdstone, and he and his sister arrived a few days later, and wererouted by my aunt. 

Mr. Murdstone said, finally, he would only take me back unconditionally, and that if I did not return there and then his doors would be shutagainst me henceforth. 

"And what does the boy say?" said my aunt. "Are you ready to go, David?"

I answered "No, " and entreated her not to let me go. I begged and prayedmy aunt to befriend and protect me, for my father's sake. 

"Mr. Dick, " said my aunt, "what shall I do with this child?"

Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, "Have himmeasured for a suit of clothes directly!"

"Mr. Dick, " said my aunt, "give me your hand, for your commonsense isinvaluable. " She pulled me towards her, and said to Mr. Murdstone, "Youcan go when you like; I'll take my chance with the boy!"

When they had gone my aunt announced that Mr. Dick would be jointguardian of me, with herself, and that I should be called TrotwoodCopperfield. 

Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new aboutme. 

My aunt sent me to school at Canterbury, and, there being no room at theschool for boarders, settled that I should board with her old lawyer, Mr. Wickfield. 

My aunt was as happy as I was in this arrangement. For Mr. Wickfield'shouse was quiet and still; and Mr. Wickfield's little housekeeper washis only daughter, Agnes, a child of about my own age, whose face, sobright and happy, was the child likeness of a woman's portrait that wason the staircase. There was a tranquility about the house, and aboutAgnes, a good, calm spirit, that I have never forgotten and never shall. 

The school I now went to was better in every way than Salem House. Itseemed to me so long, however, since I had been among any companions ofmy own age, except Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes, that I felt verystrange at first. Whatever I had learnt had so slipped away from me thatwhen I was examined about what I knew, I knew nothing, and was put inthe lowest form of the school. 

But I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to school thenext day, and a good deal the better the day after, and so shook it off, by degrees, that in less than a fortnight I was quite at home, and happyamong my new companions. 

"Trot, " said my aunt, when she left me at Mr. Wickfield's, "be a creditto yourself, to me, and Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you! Never be meanin anything; never be false; never be cruel. Avoid these vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you. And now the pony's at the door, andI am off!"

She embraced me hastily, and went out of the house, shutting the doorafter her. When I looked into the street I noticed how dejectedly shegot into the chaise, and that she drove away without looking up. 

_IV. --Uriah Heep and Mr. Micawber_

I first saw Uriah Heep on the day my aunt introduced me to Mr. Wickfield's house. He was then a red-haired youth of fifteen, butlooking much older, whose hair was cropped as close as the closeststubble; who had hardly any eyebrows and no eyelashes, and eyes of ared-brown. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neck-cloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had along, lank, skeleton hand. 

Heep was Mr. Wickfield's clerk, and I often saw him of an evening in thelittle round office reading, and from time to time strayed in to talk tohim. 

He told me, one night, he was not doing office work, but was improvinghis legal knowledge. 

"I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?" I said, after looking at himfor some time. 

"Me, Master Copperfield?" said Uriah. "Oh, no! I'm a very 'umble person. I am well aware that I am the 'umblest person going, let the other bewhere he may. My mother is likewise a very 'umble person. We live in a'umble abode, Master Copperfield, but have much to be thankful for. Myfather's former calling was 'umble; he was a sexton. "

"What is he now?" I asked. 

"He is a partaker of glory at present, Master Copperfield, " said UriahHeep. "But we have much to be thankful for. How much have I to bethankful for in living with Mr. Wickfield!"

I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long. 

"I have been with him going on four years, Master Copperfield, " saidUriah, "since a year after my father's death. How much I have to bethankful for in that! How much have I to be thankful for in Mr. Wickfield's kind intention to give me my articles, which would otherwisenot lay within the 'umble means of mother and self!"

"Perhaps, when you're a regular lawyer, you'll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's business, one of these days, " I said to make myselfagreeable; "and it will be Wickfield and Heep or Heep late Wickfield. "

"Oh, no, Master Copperfield, " returned Uriah, shaking his head, "I ammuch too 'umble for that!"

It must have been five or six years later, when I was in London, thatUriah recalled my prophecy to me. 

Agnes had noticed as I had noticed, long before this, a gradualalteration in Mr. Wickfield. He sat longer and longer over his wine, andit was at such times, when his hands trembled, and his speech was notplain, that Uriah was most certain to want him on some business. 

So it came about that Agnes had to tell me that Uriah had made himselfindispensable to her father. 

"He is subtle and watchful, " she said. "He has mastered papa'sweaknesses, fostered them, and taken advantage of them, until papa isafraid of him. "

If I was indignant to hear that Uriah had wormed himself into suchpromotion, I restrained my feelings when we met, for Agnes had bidden menot to repel him, for her father's sake, and for her own. 

"What a prophet you have shown yourself, Master Copperfield!" saidUriah, reminding me of my early words. "You may not recollect it; butwhen a person is 'umble, a person treasures such things up. But the'umblest persons, Master Copperfield, may be instruments of good. I amglad to think I have been the instrument of good to Mr. Wickfield, andthat I may be more so. Oh, what a worthy man he is; but how imprudent hehas been!"

When the rascal went on to tell me confidentially that he "loved theground his Agnes walked on, " and that he thought she might come to bekind to him, knowing his usefulness to her father, I had a deliriousidea of seizing the red-hot poker out of the fire and running himthrough with it. However, I thought of Agnes, and could say nothing. Inthe end all the evil machinations of Uriah Heep were frustrated by myold friend Mr. Micawber, who, visiting Canterbury on the chance ofsomething suitable turning up, and meeting me in Heep's company, wassubsequently engaged by Heep as a clerk at twenty-two and sixpence perweek. 

It was only after Micawber had found that Uriah Heep had forged Mr. Wickfield's name to various documents, and had fraudulently speculatedwith moneys entrusted by my aunt, amongst others, to his partner, thathe turned upon him and denounced him, and accomplished what he called"the final pulverisation of Keep. "

Mr. Micawber being once more "in pecuniary shackles, " my aunt, sograteful, as we all were, for the services he had rendered, suggestedemigration to Australia to him; he at once responded to the idea. 

"The climate, I believe, is healthy, " said Mrs. Micawber. "Then thequestion arises: Now, _are_ the circumstances of the country such that aman of Mr. Micawber's abilities would have a fair chance of rising?--Iwill not say, at present, to be governor or anything of that sort; butwould there be a reasonable opening for his talents to developthemselves? If so, it is evident to me that Australia is the legitimatesphere of action for Mr. Micawber. "

"I entertain the conviction, " said Mr. Micawber, "that it is, underexisting circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself and family;and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up on thatshore. "

But the defeat of Heep and Micawber's departure belong to the days of mymanhood. Let me look back at intervening years. 

_V. --I Achieve Manhood_

My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence--the unseen, unfelt progress of my life--from childhood up to youth!

Time has stolen on unobserved, and _I_ am the head boy now in theschool, and look down on the line of boys below me with a condescendinginterest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself when Ifirst came here. That little fellow seems to be no part of me; Iremember him as something left behind upon the road of life, and almostthink of him as of someone else. 

And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's, where isshe? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, achild likeness no more, moves about the house; and Agnes--my sweetsister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend--thebetter angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influence--is quite a woman. 

It is time for me to have a profession, and my aunt proposes that Ishould be a proctor in Doctors' Commons. I learn that the proctors are asort of solicitors, and that the Doctors' Commons is a faded court heldnear St. Paul's Churchyard, where people's marriages and wills aredisposed of and disputes about ships and boats are settled. 

So I am articled, and later, when my aunt has lost her money, through nofault of her own, but through the rascality of Uriah Heep, and I seekMr. Spenlow to know if it is possible for my articles to be cancelled, it is, I am assured, Mr. Jorkins who is inexorable. 

"If it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered, if I had not apartner--Mr. Jorkins, " says Mr. Spenlow. "But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr. Jorkins is _not_ a man to respond to a proposition ofthis peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very difficult to move from thebeaten track. "

The years pass. 

I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity oftwenty-one. Let me think what I have achieved. 

Determined to do something to bring in money, I have mastered the savagemystery of shorthand, and make a respectable income by reporting thedebates in Parliament for a morning newspaper. Night after night Irecord predictions that never come to pass, professions that are neverfulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify. 

I have come out in another way. I have taken, with fear and trembling, to authorship. I wrote a little something in secret, and sent it to amagazine, and it was published. Since then I have taken heart to write agood many trifling pieces. 

My record is nearly finished. 

Peggotty, a widow, is with my aunt, and Mr. Dick is in the room. 

"Goodness me!" said my aunt, "who's this you're bringing home?"

"Agnes, " said I. 

We were to be married within a fortnight. It was not till I had toldAgnes of my love that I learnt from her, as she laid her gentle handsupon my shoulders and looked calmly in my face, that she had loved meall my life. 

Let me look back once more, for the last time, before I close theseleaves. 

I have advanced in fame and fortune. I have been married ten years, andI see my children playing in the room. 

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of fourscore yearsand more, but upright yet, and godmother to a real, living BetseyTrotwood. Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles. A newspaper from Australia tells me that Mr. Micawber is now a magistrate and a rising townsman at Port Middlebay. 

One face is above all these and beyond them all. I turn my head and seeit, in its beautiful serenity, beside me. So may thy face be by me, Agnes, when I close my life; and when realities are melting from me, mayI still find thee near me, pointing upward!

 * * * * *

Dombey and Son

 The publication of "Dombey and Son" began in October, 1846, and the story was completed in twenty monthly parts at one shilling each, the last number being issued in April, 1848. Its success was striking and immediate, the sale of its first number exceeding that of "Martin Chuzzlewit" by more than 12, 000 copies--a remarkable thing considering the immense superiority of "Chuzzlewit. " "Dombey and Son, " indeed, is by no means one of Dickens's best books; though little Paul will always retain the sympathies of the reader, and the story of his short life for ever move us with its pathos. The popularity of "Dombey and Son" provoked an impudent publication called "Dombey and Daughter, " which was started in January, 1847, and was issued monthly at a penny. Two stage versions of "Dombey" appeared--in London in 1873, and in New York in 1888, but in neither case was the adaptation particularly successful. "What are the wild waves saying?" was made the subject of a song--a duet--which at one time was widely sung, but is now, happily forgotten. 

_I. --Dombey and Son_

Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great armchair bythe bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket-bedstead. 

Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age; Son about eight-and-fortyminutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome, well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and somewhat crushed and spotted in hisgeneral effect, as yet. 

"The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey, " said Mr. Dombey, "be not onlyin name, but in fact, Dombey and Son; Dombey and Son! He will bechristened Paul, Mrs. Dombey, of course!"

The sick lady feebly echoed, "Of course, " and closed her eyes again. 

"His father's name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather's! I wish hisgrandfather were alive this day. " And again he said "Dombey and Son" inexactly the same tone as before, and then went downstairs to learn whatthat fashionable physician, Dr. Parker Peps, had to say, for Mrs. Dombeylay very weak and still. 

"Dombey and Son"--those three words conveyed the idea of Mr. Dombey'slife. The earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun andmoon were made to give them light. 

He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life anddeath, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the solerepresentative of the firm. Of those years he had been marriedten--married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him. Butsuch idle talk never reached the ears of Mr. Dombey. Dombey and Sonoften dealt in hides, never in hearts. Mr. Dombey would have reasonedthat a matrimonial alliance with himself _must_, in the nature ofthings, be gratifying and honourable to any woman of commonsense. 

One drawback only could be admitted. Until the present day there hadbeen no issue--to speak of. There had been a girl some six years before, a child who now crouched by her mother's bed, unobserved. But what wasthat girl to Dombey and Son?

"Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance!"said Doctor Parker Peps, referring to Mrs. Dombey. 

Mrs. Chick, Mr. Dombey's married sister, emphasised this opinion. 

"Now my dear Paul, " said Mrs. Chick, "you may rest assured that there isnothing wanting but an effort on Fanny's part. "

They returned to the sick-room and its stillness. In vain Mrs. Chickexhorted her sister-in-law to make an effort; no sound came in answerbut the loud ticking of Mr. Dombey's watch and Dr. Parker Pep's watch, which seemed in the silence to be running a race. 

"Fanny!" said Mrs. Chick, "Only look at me. Only open your eyes to showme that you hear and understand me. "

Still no answer. Mrs. Dombey lay motionless, clasping her littledaughter to her breast. 

"Mamma!" cried the child, sobbing aloud. "Oh, dear mamma!"

Thus clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the motherdrifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all theworld. 

Mr. Dombey, in the days to come, could not forget that closing scene--that he had had no part in it; that he had stood a mere spectator whilethose two figures lay clasped in each other's arms. His previousfeelings of indifference towards his little daughter Florence changedinto an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. He had never conceived anaversion to her; it had not been worth his while or in his humour. Butnow he was ill at ease about her. He read nothing in her glance, when hesaw her later in the solemn house, of the passionate desire to runclinging to him, and the dread of a repulse; the pitiable need in whichshe stood of some assurance and encouragement. He saw nothing of this. 

_II. --Mrs. Pipchin's_

In spite of his early promise, all the vigilance and care bestowed uponhim could not make little Paul a thriving boy. There was something wanand wistful in his look, and he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtfulway of sitting brooding in his miniature armchair. 

The medical practitioner recommended sea-air, and Mrs. Pipchin, whoconducted an infantile boarding house of a very select description atBrighton, and whose scale of charges was high, was entrusted with thecare of Paul's health when he was little more than five years old. 

Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye. It was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a woman of system withchildren, and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tameenough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. 

At this exemplary old lady Paul would sit staring in his little armchairby the fire for any length of time. He was not fond of her, he was notafraid of her. 

Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about. 

"You, " said Paul, without the least reserve. "I'm thinking how old youmust be. "

"You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman, " returned thedame. 

"Why not?" asked Paul. 

"Because it's not polite!" said Mrs. Pipchin, snappishly. 

"Not polite?" said Paul. 

"No! And remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death bya mad bull for asking questions!"

"If the bull was mad, " said Paul, "how did _he_ know that the boy hadasked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. Idon't believe that story. "

"You don't believe it, sir?"

"No, " said Paul. 

"Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?"said Mrs. Pipchin. 

As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, he allowed himselfto be put down for the present. 

Mr. Dombey came down to Brighton every Sunday, and Florence was herbrother's constant companion. 

At first, Paul got no stronger, and a little carriage was procured forhim, in which he could lie at his ease and be wheeled down to thesea-side; there he would sit or lie for hours together; never sodistressed as by the company of children--Florence alone excepted, always. 

"Go away, if you please, " he would say to any child who came up to him. "Thank you, but I don't want you. I think you had better go and play, ifyou please. "

His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers;and, with Florence sitting by his side, and the wind blowing on hisface, and the water near the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more. 

"I want to know what it says, " he said once, looking steadily in herface. "The sea, Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?"

She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves. 

"Yes, yes, " he said. "But I know that they are always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?" He rose up, lookingeagerly at the horizon. 

She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said hedidn't mean that; he meant farther away--farther away!

Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off, to try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying, andwould rise up on his couch to look at that invisible region far away. 

At the end of twelve months at Mrs. Pipchin's, Paul had grown strongenough to dispense with his little carriage, though he still looked thinand delicate. 

Mr. Dombey therefore decided to remove him, not from Brighton, but toDoctor Blimber's educational establishment. "I fear, " said Mr. Dombey, addressing Mrs. Pipchin, "that my son in his studies is behind manychildren of his age. Now instead of being behind his peers, my son oughtto be before them--far before them. There is an eminence ready for himto mount upon. The education of my son must not be delayed. It must notbe left imperfect. "

Doctor Blimber only undertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, and hisestablishment was a great hot-house, in which there was a forcingapparatus incessantly at work. 

Florence would remain at Mrs. Pipchin's, and for the first six monthsPaul would return there for the Sunday. 

"Now, Paul, " said Mr. Dombey exultingly, when they stood on the doctor'sdoorsteps, "This is the way, indeed, to be Dombey and Son, and havemoney. You are almost a man already. "

"Almost, " returned the child. 

_III. --Doctor Blimber's Academy_

The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings athis knees, and stockings below them. He had a bald head, highlypolished, a deep voice, and a chin so very double that it was a wonderhow he ever managed to shave into the creases. 

Mrs. Blimber was not learned herself, but she pretended to be, and thatdid quite as well. 

As to Miss Blimber, there was no light nonsense about her. She was dryand sandy with working in the graves of dead languages. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A. , Dr. Blimber's assistant, was a kind of human barrel-organ, with a list of tunes at which he was continually working, overand over again, without any variation. 

Under the forcing system at Dr. Blimber's a young gentleman usually tookleave of his spirits in three weeks; he had all the cares of the worldon his head in three months, and he conceived bitter sentiments againsthis parents or guardians in four. 

The doctor was sitting in his study when Mr. Dombey and Paul arrived. "And how do you do, sir?" he said to Mr. Dombey. "And how is my littlefriend?" It seemed to Paul as if the great clock in the hall took thisup, and went on saying, "how, is, my, lit-tle friend? how, is, my, lit-tle friend?" over and over again. 

Paul was handed over to Miss Blimber at once to be "brought on. "

"Cornelia, " said the doctor. "Dombey will be your charge at first. Bringhim on, Cornelia, bring him on. "

It was hard work, for no sooner had Paul mastered subject A than he wasimmediately provided with subject B, from which we passed to C, and evenD. Often he felt giddy and confused, and drowsy and dull. 

But there were always the Saturdays when Florence came at noon to fetchhim, and never would she, in any weather, stay away. Florence broughtthe school-books he was studying, and every Saturday night wouldpatiently assist him through so much as they could anticipate togetherof his next week's work. And this saved him, possibly, from sinkingunderneath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon hisback. 

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that Dr. Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in general. Butwhen Dr. Blimber said that Paul made great progress, and was naturallyclever, Mr. Dombey was more bent than ever on his being forced andcrammed. 

Such spirits as he had at the outset Paul soon lost, of course. But heretained all that was strange, and odd, and thoughtful in his character;and Mrs. Blimber thought him "odd, " and whispered that he was "oldfashioned, " and that was all. 

Between little Paul Dombey the youngest, and Mr. Toots, the oldest ofDr. Blimber's young gentlemen, a strong attachment existed. Toots had"gone through" so much, that he had left off growing, and was free topursue his own course of study, which was chiefly to write long lettersto himself from persons of distinction, addressed "P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, " to preserve them in his desk with great care. 

"How are you?" Toots would say to Paul, fifty times a day. 

"Quite well, sir, thank you, " Paul would answer. 

"Shake hands, " would be Toot's next advance. Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. 

"I say!" cried Toots one evening, finding Paul looking out of thewindow. "I say, what do you think about?"

"Oh, I think about a great many things, " replied Paul. 

"Do you, though?" said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in itselfsurprising. 

"If you had to die, " said Paul, "don't you think you would rather die ona moonlight night, when the sky is quite clear, and the wind blowing, asit did last night?"

Mr. Toots, looking doubtfully at Paul, said he didn't know about that. 

"It was a beautiful night, " said Paul. "There was a boat over there, inthe full light of the moon, a boat with a sail. "

Mr. Toots, feeling called upon to say something, suggested "Smugglers, "and then added, "or Preventive. "

"A boat with a sail, " repeated Paul. "It went away into the distance, and what do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?"

"Pitch!" said Mr. Toots. 

"It seemed to beckon, " said the child; "to beckon me to come. "

Certainly people found him an "old-fashioned" child. At the end of theterm Dr. And Mrs. Blimber gave an early party to their pupils and theirparents and guardians, and it was a day or two before this event whenPaul was taken ill. This illness released him from his books, and madehim think the more of Florence. 

They all loved "Dombey's sister" at that party, and Paul, sitting in acushioned corner, heard her praises constantly. There was ahalf-intelligible sentiment, too, diffused around, referring to Florenceand himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touchedhim. He did not know why, but it seemed to have something to do with his"old-fashioned" reputation. 

The time arrived for taking leave. 

"Good-bye, Doctor Blimber, " said Paul, stretching out his hand. 

"Good-bye, my little friend, " returned the doctor. "Dombey, Dombey, youhave always been my favourite pupil. "

"God bless you!" said Cornelia, taking both Paul's hands in hers. And itshowed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to a person; forMiss Blimber meant it--though she _was_ a Forcer--and felt it. 

There was a general move after Paul and Florence down the staircase, inwhich the whole Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr. Feeder said aloud, as has never happened in the case of any former younggentleman within his experience. The servants, with the butler--a sternman--at their head, had all an interest in seeing little Dombey go;while the young gentlemen pressed to shake hands with him, cryingindividually "Dombey, don't forget me!"

Once for a last look, Paul turned and gazed upon the faces addressed tohim, and from that time whenever he thought of Dr. Blimber's it cameback as he had seen it in this last view; and it never seemed to be areal place, but always a dream, full of faces. 

_IV. --Paul Goes Out with the Stream_

From the night they brought him home from Dr. Blimber's Paul had neverrisen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in thestreet, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, butwatching it, and watching everywhere about him with observing eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, andquivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that eveningwas coming on. 

By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise ofthe carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and wouldfall asleep or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense of a rushingriver. "Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "Itis bearing me away, I think!"

But Floy could always soothe him. 

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors, and the room was soquiet, and Paul was so observant of them, that he even knew thedifference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centred inSir Parker Peps; for Paul had heard them say long ago that thatgentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her armsand died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He wasnot afraid. 

The people in the room were always changing, and in the night-time Paulbegan to wonder languidly who the figure was, with its head upon itshand, that returned so often and remained so long. 

"Floy, " he said, "what is that--there at the bottom of the bed?"

"There's nothing there except papa. "

The figure lifted up its head and rose, and said, "My own boy! Don't youknow me?"

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was that his father? The nexttime he observed the figure at the bottom of the bed, he called to it. 

"Don't be sorry for me, dear papa. Indeed, I am quite happy. "

That was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was agreat deal better, and that they were to tell his father so. 

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall, how many nightsthe dark, dark river rolled towards the sea, Paul never counted, neversought to know. 

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in thedrawing-room downstairs. 

"Floy, did I ever see mamma?"

"No, darling. "

The river was running very fast now, and confusing his mind. Paul fellasleep, and when he awoke the sun was high. 

"Floy, come close to me, and let me see you. "

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the goldenlight came streaming in, and fell upon them locked together. 

"How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy!But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so. "

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream waslulling him to rest, now the boat was out at sea but gliding smoothlyon. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank?

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. Hedid not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so behindher neck. 

"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! The light about herhead is shining on me as I go. "

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirredin the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with ourfirst parents, and will last unchanged until our race has run itscourse, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, oldfashion--Death!

_V. --The End of Dombey and Son_

The stonemason to whom Mr. Dombey gave his order for a tablet in thechurch, in memory of little Paul, called his attention to theinscription "Beloved and only child, " and said, "It should be 'son, ' Ithink, sir?"

"You are right, of course. Make the correction. "

And there came a time when it was to Florence, and Florence only, thatMr. Dombey turned. For the great house of Dombey and Son fell, and inthe crash its proud head became a ruined man, ruined beyond recovery. 

Bankrupt in purse, his personal pride was yet further humbled. For Mr. Dombey had married again, a loveless match, and his wife deserted him. In the hour when he discovered that desertion he had driven his daughterFlorence from the house. 

He was fallen now never to be raised up any more. For the night of hisworldly ruin there was no to-morrow's sun, for the stain of his domesticshame there was no purification. 

In his pride--for he was proud yet--he let the world go from him freely. As it fell away, he shook it off. He knew, now, what it was to berejected and deserted. Dombey and Son was no more--his children no more. 

His daughter Florence had married--married a young sailor once a boy inthe office of Dombey and Son--and thinking of her, Dombey, in thesolitude of his dismantled home, remembered that she had never changedto him through all those years; and the mist through which he had seenher, cleared, and showed him her true self. 

He wandered through the rooms, and thought of suicide; a guilty hand wasgrasping what was in his breast. 

It was arrested by a cry--a wild, loud, loving, rapturous cry, and hesaw his daughter. 

"Papa! Dearest papa!"

Unchanged still. Of all the world unchanged. 

He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck. Hefelt her kisses on his face, he felt--oh, how deeply!--all that he haddone. 

She laid his face, now covered with his hands, against the heart that hehad almost broken, and said, sobbing, "Papa, love, I am a mother. Papa, dear, oh, say God bless me and my little child!"

His head, now grey, was encircled by her arm, and he groaned to thinkthat never, never had it rested so before. 

"My little child was born at sea, papa. I prayed to God to spare me thatI might come. The moment I could land I came to you. Never let us beparted any more, papa!"

He kissed her on the lips, and lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my God, forgive me, for I need it very much!"

 * * * * *

Great Expectations

 "Great Expectations, " first published as a serial in "All the Year Round, " in 1861, is one of Dickens's finest works. It is rounded off so completely and the characters are so admirably drawn that, as a finished work of art, it is hard to say where the genius of its author has surpassed it. If there is less of the exuberance of "Pickwick, " there is also less of the characteristic exaggeration of Dickens; and the pathos of the ex-convict's return is far deeper than the pathos of children's death-beds, so frequently exhibited by the author. "Great Expectations, " for all its rare qualities, has never achieved the wide popularity of the novels of Charles Dickens that preceded it. We are not generally familiar with any name in the story, as we are with at least one name in all the other novels. Yet, Pip, as a study of child-life, youth, and early manhood, is as excellent as anything in the whole range of English fiction. 

_I. --In the Marshes_

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, Icalled myself with my infant tongue Pip, and came to be called Pip. 

My first most vivid impression of things seems to me to have been gainedon a memorable raw afternoon, one Christmas Eve. Ours was the marshcountry, down the river, within twenty miles of the sea; and I hadwandered into a bleak place overgrown with nettles called a churchyard. 

"Hold your noise, " cried a terrible voice, as a man started up fromamong the graves at the side of the church porch. "Keep still, youlittle devil, or I'll cut your throat!"

A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A manwho had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and cut by stones;who limped and shivered, and glared and growled. 

"Oh! don't cut my throat, sir, " I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir. "

"Tell us your name! quick!"

"Pip, sir. "

"Show us where you live, " said the man. "P'int out the place. Who d'yelive with?"

I pointed to where our village was, and said, "With my sister, sir--Mrs. Joe Gargery--wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir. "

"Blacksmith, eh?" said he, and looked down at his leg. Then he took meby the arms. "Now lookee here. You know what a file is?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And you know what wittles is?"

"Yes, sir. "

"You get me a file, and you get me wittles. You bring 'em both to me, orI'll have your heart and liver out. You bring the lot to me, to-morrowmorning early, that file and them wittles you bring the lot to me atthat old battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say aword concerning your having seen me, and you shall be let to live. Youfail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small itis, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate. Now what do you say?"

I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what brokenbits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early inthe morning. 

As soon as the darkness outside my little window was shot with grey, Igot up and went downstairs. I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pockethandkerchief), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into aglass bottle I had used for Spanish liquorice water up in my room), ameat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round pork pie. 

There was a door in the kitchen communicating with the forge; I unlockedand unbolted that door, got a file from among Joe's tools, put thefastenings as I had found them, and ran for the marshes. 

It was a rainy morning, and very damp. I knew my way to the Battery, forI had been down there on a Sunday with Joe, and had just scrambled upthe mound beyond the ditch when I saw the man sitting before me--withhis back toward me. 

I touched him on the shoulder, and he instantly jumped up, and it wasnot the same man, but another man--dressed in coarse grey, too, with agreat iron on his leg. 

He aimed a blow at me, and then ran into the mist, stumbling as he went, and I lost him. 

I was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right manwaiting for me. He was awfully cold. And his eyes looked awfully hungry. 

He devoured the food, mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once--more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in aviolent hurry, than a man who was eating it, only stopping from time totime to listen. 

"You're not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?"

"No, sir! No!"

"Well, " said he, "I believe you. You'd be but a fierce young houndindeed if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretchedvarmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched varmintis. "

While he was eating I mentioned that I had just seen another man dressedlike him, and with a badly bruised face. 

"Not here?" he exclaimed, striking his left cheek. 

"Yes, there!"

He swore he would pull him down like a bloodhound, and then crammed whatlittle food was left into the breast of his grey jacket, and began tofile at his iron like a madman; so I thought the best thing that I coulddo was to slip off home. 

_II. --I Meet Estella_

I must have been about ten years old when I went to Miss Havisham's, andfirst met Estella. 

My uncle Pumblechook, who kept a cornchandler's shop in the high-streetof the town, took me to the large old, dismal house, which had all itswindows barred. For miles round everybody had heard of Miss Havisham asan immensely rich and grim lady who led a life of seclusion; andeverybody soon knew that Mr. Pumblechook had been commissioned to bringher a boy. 

He left me at the courtyard, and a young lady, who was very pretty andseemed very proud, let me in, and I noticed that the passages were alldark, and that there was a candle burning. My guide, who called me"boy, " but was really about my own age, was as scornful of me as if shehad been one-and-twenty, and a queen. She led me to Miss Havisham'sroom, and there, in an armchair, with her elbow resting on the table, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see. 

She was dressed in rich materials--satins and lace and silks--all ofwhite--or rather, which had been white, but, like all else in the room, were now faded yellow. Her shoes were white, and she had a long whiteveil dependent from her hair, and bridal flowers in her hair; but herhair was white. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress hadwithered like the dress. 

"Who is it?" said the lady at the table. 

"Pip, ma'am. Mr. Pumblechook's boy. "

"Come nearer; let me look at you; come close. You are not afraid of awoman who has never seen the sun since you were born?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Do you know what I touch here?" she said, laying her hands, one uponthe other, on her left side. 

"Yes, ma'am; your heart. "

"Broken!" She was silent for a little while, and then added, "I amtired; I want diversion. Play, play, play!"

What was an unfortunate boy to do? I didn't know how to play. 

"Call Estella, " said the lady. "Call Estella, at the door. "

It was a dreadful thing to be bawling "Estella" to a scornful young ladyin a mysterious passage in an unknown house, but I had to do it. AndEstella came, and I heard her say, in answer to Miss Havisham, "Playwith this boy! Why, he is a common labouring boy!"

I thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer, "Well? You can break hisheart. "

We played at beggar my neighbour, and before the game was out Estellasaid disdainfully, "He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy! And what coarsehands he has! And what thick boots!"

I was very glad to get away. My coarse hands and my common boots hadnever troubled me before; but they troubled me now, and I determined toask Joe why he had taught me to call those picture cards Jacks whichought to be called knaves. 

For a long time I went once a week to this strange, gloomy house--it wascalled Satis House--and once Estella told me I might kiss her. 

And then Miss Havisham decided I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and gavehim £25 for the purpose; and I left off going to see her, and helped Joein the forge. But I didn't like Joe's trade, and I was afflicted by thatmost miserable thing--to feel ashamed of home. 

I couldn't resist paying Miss Havisham a visit; and, not seeing Estella, stammered that I hoped she was well. 

"Abroad, " said Miss Havisham; "educating for a lady; far out of reach;prettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that youhave lost her?"

I was spared the trouble of answering by being dismissed, and went homedissatisfied and uncomfortable, thinking myself coarse and common, andwanting to be a gentleman. 

It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship when, one Saturday night, Joe and I were up at the Three Jolly Bargemen, according to our custom. 

A stranger, who did not recognise me, but whom I recognised as agentleman I had met on the stairs at Miss Havisham's, was in the room;and on his asking for a blacksmith named Gargery and his apprenticenamed Pip, and, being answered, said he wanted to have a privateconference with us two. 

Joe took him home, and the stranger told us his name was Jaggers, andthat he was a lawyer in London. 

"Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of thisyoung fellow, your apprentice. You would not object to cancel hisindentures at his request and for his good?"

"No, " said Joe. 

"The communication I have got to make to this young fellow is that hehas great expectations. "

Joe and I gasped, and looked at one another. 

"I am instructed to tell him, " said Mr. Jaggers, "that he will come intoa handsome property. Further, it is the desire of the present possessorof that property that he be immediately removed from his present sphereof life and be brought up as a gentleman, and that he always bear thename of Pip. Now, you are to understand that the name of the person whois your liberal benefactor remains a profound secret until the personchooses to reveal it, and you are most positively prohibited from makingany inquiry on this head. If you have a suspicion, keep it in your ownbreast. "

Mr. Jaggers went on to say that if I accepted the expectations on theseterms, there was already money in hand for my education and maintenance, and that one Mr. Matthew Pocket, in London (whom I knew to be a relationof Miss Havisham's), could be my tutor if I was willing to go to him, say in a week's time. Of course I accepted this wonderful good fortune, and had no doubt in my own mind that Miss Havisham was my benefactress. 

When Mr. Jaggers asked Joe whether he desired any compensation, Joe laidhis hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. "Pip is that heartywelcome, " said Joe, "to go free with his services, to honour andfortun', as no words can tell him. But if you think as money can makecompensation to me for the loss of the little child--what come to theforge--and ever the best of friends!" He scooped his eyes with hisdisengaged hand, but said not another word. 

_III. --I Know My Benefactor_

I went to London, and studied with Mr. Matthew Pocket, and shared roomswith his son Herbert (who, knowing my earlier life, decided to call meHandel), first in Barnard's Inn and later in the Temple. 

On my twenty-first birthday I received £500, and this (unknown toHerbert) I managed to make over to my friend in order to secure him amanagership in a business house. 

My studies were not directed in any professional channel, but werepursued with a view to my being equal to any emergency when myexpectations, which I had been told to look forward to, were fulfilled. 

Estella was often in London, and I met her at many houses, and wasdesperately in love with her. But though she treated me with friendship, she was proud and capricious as ever, and a few years later married aman whom I knew and detested--a Mr. Bentley Drummle, a bully and ascoundrel. 

When I was three-and-twenty I happened to be alone one night in ourchambers reading, for I had a taste for books. Herbert was away atMarseilles on a business journey. 

The clocks had struck eleven, and I closed my books. I was stilllistening to the clocks, when I heard a footstep on the staircase, andstarted. The staircase lights were blown out by the wind, and I took myreading-lamp and went out to see who it was. 

"There is someone there, is there not?" I called out. "What floor do youwant?"

"The top--Mr. Pip. "

"That is my name. There is nothing the matter?"

"Nothing the matter, " returned the voice. And the man came on. 

I made out that the man was roughly but substantially dressed; that hehad iron-grey hair; that his age was about sixty; that he was a muscularman, hardened by exposure to weather. I saw nothing that in the leastexplained him, but I saw that he was holding out both his hands to me. 

I could not recall a single feature, but I knew him. No need to take afile from his pocket and show it to me. I knew my convict, in spite ofthe intervening years, as distinctly as I knew him in the churchyardwhen we first stood face to face. 

He sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered hisforehead with his large brown hands. 

"You acted nobly, my boy, " said he. 

I told him that I hoped he had mended his way of life, and was doingwell. 

"I've done wonderful well, " he said. And then he asked me if I was doingwell. And when I mentioned that I had been chosen to succeed to someproperty, he asked whose property? And, after that, if mylawyer-guardian's name began with "J. "

All the truth of my position came flashing on me, and quickly Iunderstood that Miss Havisham's intentions towards me were all a meredream. 

"Yes, Pip, dear boy, I've made a gentleman on you. It's me wot has doneit! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guineashould go to you. I swore afterwards, sure as ever I spec'lated and gotrich, that you should get rich. Look 'ee here, Pip. I'm your secondfather. You're my son--more to me nor any son. I've put away money, onlyfor you to spend. You ain't looked slowly forward to this as I have. Youwasn't prepared for this as I wos. It warn't easy, Pip, for me to leavethem parts, nor it wasn't safe. Look 'ee here, dear boy; caution isnecessary. "

"How do you mean?" I said. "Caution?"

"I was sent for life. It's death to come back. There's been overmuchcoming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged iftook. "

As Herbert was away, I put the man in the spare room, and gave out thathe was my uncle. 

He told me something of his story next day, and when Herbert came backand we had found a bed-room for our visitor in Essex Street, he told usall of it. His name was Magwitch--Abel Magwitch--he called himselfProvis now--and he had been left by a travelling tinker to grow upalone. "In jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail--that's my lifepretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off, arter Pip stood myfriend. " But there was a man who "set up fur a gentleman, namedCompeyson, " and this Compeyson's business was swindling, forging, andstolen banknote passing. Magwitch became his servant, and when both menwere arrested, Compeyson turned round on the man whom he had employed, and got off with seven years to Magwitch's fourteen. Compeyson was thesecond convict of my childhood. 

On consideration of the case, and after consultation with Mr. Jaggers, who corroborated the statement that a colonist named Abel Magwitch, ofNew South Wales, was my benefactor, and admitted that a Mr. Provis hadwritten to him on behalf of Magwitch, concerning my address, we decidedthat the best thing to be done was to take a lodging for Mr. Provis onthe riverside below the Pool, at Mill Pond Bank. It was out of the way, and in case of danger it would be easy to get away by a packet steamer. 

The only danger was from Compeyson--for he had gone in terror of hislife, and feared the vengeance of the man he had betrayed. 

_IV--My Fortune_

We were soon warned that Compeyson was aware of the return of his enemy, and that flight was necessary. Both Herbert and I noticed how quicklyProvis had become softened, and on the night when we were to take him onboard a Hamburg steamer he was very gentle. 

We were out in mid-stream in a small rowing boat, moving quietly withthe tide, when, just as the Hamburg steamer came in sight, a four-oaredgalley ran aboard of us, and the man who held the lines in it calledout, "You have a returned transport there. That's the man wrapped in thecloak. His name is Abel Magwitch--otherwise Provis. I call upon him tosurrender, and you to assist. "

At once there was great confusion. The steamer was right upon us, and Iheard the order given to stop the paddles. In the same moment I saw thesteersman of the galley lay his hand on the prisoner's shoulder, and theprisoner start up, lean across his captor, and pull the cloak from theneck of a shrinking man in the galley. Still in the same moment I sawthat the face disclosed was the face of the other convict of long ago, and white terror was on it. Then I heard a cry, and a loud splash in thewater, and for an instant I seemed to struggle with a thousand millweirs; the instant past, I was taken on board the galley. Herbert wasthere, but our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone. Presentlywe saw a man swimming, but not swimming easily, and knew him to beMagwitch. He was taken on board, and instantly menacled at the wristsand ankles. 

It was not till we had pulled up, and had landed at the riverside, thatI could get some comforts for Magwitch, who had received injury in thechest, and a deep cut in the head. He told me that he believed himselfto have gone under the keel of the steamer, and to have been struck onthe head in rising. The injury to his chest he thought he had receivedagainst the side of the galley. He added that Compeyson, in the momentof his laying his hand on his cloak to identify him, had staggered up, and back, and they had both gone overboard together, locked in eachother's arms. He had disengaged himself under water, and swam away. 

He was taken to the police-court next day, and committed for trial atthe, next session, which would come on in a month. 

"Dear boy, " he said. "Look 'ee, here. It's best as a gentleman shouldnot be knowed to belong to me now. "

"I will never stir from your side, " said I, "when I am suffered to benear you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me!"

When the sessions came round, the trial was very short and very clear, and the capital sentence was pronounced. But the prisoner was very ill. Two of his ribs had been broken, and one of his lungs seriously injured, and ten days before the date fixed for his execution death set him free. 

"Dear boy, " he said, as I sat down by his bed on that last day. "Ithought you was late. But I knowed you couldn't be that. You've neverdeserted me, dear boy. "

I pressed his hand in silence. 

"And what's the best of all, " he said, "you've been more comfortablealong of me since I was under a dark cloud than when the sun shone. That's best of all. "

He had spoken his last words, and, holding my hand in his, passed away. 

And with his death ended my expectations, for the pocket-book containinghis wealth went to the Crown. 

Herbert took me into his business, and I became a clerk, and afterwardswent abroad to take charge of the eastern branch, and when many a yearhad gone round, became a partner. 

It was eleven years later when I was down in the marshes again. I hadbeen to see Joe Gargery, who was as friendly as ever, and had strolledon to where Satis House once stood. I had been told of Miss Havisham'sdeath, and also of the death of Estella's husband. 

Nothing was left of the old house but the garden wall, and as I stoodlooking along the desolate garden walk a solitary figure came up. I sawit stop, and half turn away, and then let me come up to it. It falteredas if much surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out, "Estella!"

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and as themorning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so theevening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquillight they showed to me I saw no shadow of another parting from her. 

 * * * * *

Hard Times

 "Hard Times" is not one of the longest, but it is one of the most powerful of Dickens's works. John Ruskin went so far as to call it "in several respects the greatest" book Dickens had written. It is, of course, a fierce attack on the early Victorian school of political economists. The Bounderbys and Gradgrinds are typical of certain characters, and, though they change their form of speech, are still recognisable to-day. As a study of social and industrial life in England in the manufacturing districts fifty years ago, "Hard Times" will always be valuable, though allowance must be made here as elsewhere for the novelist's tendency to exaggeration--exaggeration of virtue no less than of vice or weakness. In Josiah Bounderby and Stephen Blackpool this characteristic is pronounced. The first, according to John Ruskin, being a dramatic monster, and the second a dramatic perfection. The story first appeared serially in "Household Words" between April 1 and August 12, 1854. 

_I. --Mr. Thomas Gradgrind_

"Thomas Gradgrind, sir. A man of facts and calculations. With a rule anda pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell youexactly what it comes to. "

In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whetherto his private circle of acquaintance or to the public in general. Insuch terms Thomas Gradgrind presented himself to the schoolmaster andchildren before him. It was his school, and he intended it to be amodel. 

"Now, what I want is facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing butfacts. Facts alone are wanted in life. You can only form the minds ofreasoning animals upon facts. This is the principle on which I bring upmy own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up thesechildren. Stick to facts, sir. "

Mr. Gradgrind, having waited to hear a model lesson delivered by theschool master, walked home in a considerable state of satisfaction. 

There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. Theyhad been lectured at from their tenderest years; coursed, like littlehares, almost as soon as they could run, they had been made to run tothe lecture-room. 

To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrinddirected his steps. The house was situated on a moor, within a mile ortwo of a great town, called Coketown. 

On the outskirts of this town a travelling circus ("Sleary'sHorse-riding") had pitched its tent, and, to his amazement, Mr. Gradgrind observed his two eldest children trying to obtain a peep, atthe back of the booth, of the hidden glories within. 

Mr. Gradgrind laid his hand upon the shoulder of each erring child, andsaid, "Louisa! Thomas!"

"I wanted to see what it was like, " said Louisa shortly. "I brought him, I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time. "

"Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished father. 

"I don't know of what--of everything, I think. "

They walked on in silence for some half a mile before Mr. Gradgrindgravely broke out with, "What would your best friends say, Louisa? Whatwould Mr. Bounderby say?"

All the way to Stone Lodge he repeated at intervals, "What would Mr. Bounderby say?"

At the first mention of the name his daughter, a child of fifteen orsixteen now, but at no distant day to become a woman, all at once, stolea look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character. Hesaw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast downher eyes. 

Mr. Bounderby was at Stone Lodge when they arrived. He stood before thefire on the hearth rug, delivering some observations to Mrs. Gradgrindon the circumstance of its being his birthday. It was a commandingposition from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind. 

He stopped in his harangue, which was entirely concerned with the storyof his early disadvantages, at the entrance of his eminently practicalfriend and the two young culprits. 

"Well!" blustered Mr. Bounderby, "what's the matter? What is youngThomas in the dumps about?"

He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked at Louisa. 

"We were peeping at the circus, " muttered Louisa haughtily; "and fathercaught us. "

"And, Mrs. Gradgrind, " said her husband, in a lofty manner, "I should assoon have expected to find my children reading poetry. "

"Dear me!" whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. "How can you, Louisa and Thomas? Iwonder at you. I declare you're enough to make one regret ever havinghad a family at all. I have a great mind to say I wish I hadn't. _Then_what would you have done, I should like to know? As if, with my head inits present throbbing state, you couldn't go and look at the shells andminerals and things provided for you, instead of circuses. I'm sure youhave enough to do if that's what you want. With my head in its presentstate I couldn't remember the mere names of half the facts you have gotto attend to. "

"That's the reason, " pouted Louisa. 

"Don't tell me that's the reason, because it can be nothing of thesort, " said Mrs. Gradgrind. "Go and be something logical directly. "

Mrs. Gradgrind, not being a scientific character, usually dismissed herchildren to their studies with the general injunction that they were tochoose their own pursuit. 

_II. --Mr. Bounderby of Coketown_

Mr. Josiah Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind's bosom friend as aman perfectly devoid of sentiment can be to another man perfectly devoidof sentiment. 

He was a rich man--banker, merchant, manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud man, with a stare and a metallic laugh. A man who could neversufficiently vaunt himself--a self-made man. A man who was alwaysproclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, hisearly ignorance and poverty. A man who was the bully of humility. 

He was fond of telling, was Mr. Bounderby, how he was born in a ditch, and, abandoned by his mother, how he ran away from his grandmother, whostarved and ill-used him, and so became a vagabond. "I pulled throughit, " he would say, "though nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, errand-boy, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, smallpartner--Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown. "

This myth of his early life was dissipated later; and it turned out thathis mother, a respectable old woman, whom Bounderby pensioned off withthirty pounds a year on condition she never came near him, had pinchedherself to help him out in life, and put him as apprentice to a trade. From this apprenticeship he had steadily risen to riches. 

Mr. Bounderby held strong views about the people who worked for him, the"hands" he called them; and found, whenever they complained of anything, that they always expected to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fedon turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon. 

As time went on, and young Thomas Gradgrind became old enough to go intoBounderby's Bank, Bounderby decided that Louisa was old enough to bemarried. 

Mr. Gradgrind, now member of parliament for Coketown, mentioned thematter to his daughter. 

"Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that hasbeen made to me. "

He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. Strange to relate Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment ashis daughter was. 

"I have undertaken to let you know that--in short, that Mr. Bounderbyhas long hoped that the time might arrive when he should offer you hishand in marriage. That time has now come, and Mr. Bounderby has made hisproposal to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you. "

"Father, " said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?"

Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomforted by this unexpected question. "Well, my child, " he returned, "I--really--cannot take upon myself tosay. "

"Father, " pursued Louisa, in exactly the same voice as before, "do youask me to love Mr. Bounderby?"

"My dear Louisa, no. No, I ask nothing. "

"Father, does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?"

"Really, my dear, it is difficult to answer your question. Because thereply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use theexpression. Mr. Bounderby does not pretend to anything sentimental. Now, I should advise you to consider this question simply as one of fact. Now, what are the facts of this case? You are, we will say in roundnumbers, twenty years of age. Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in roundnumbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but inyour means and position there is none; on the contrary, there is a greatsuitability. Confining yourself rigidly to fact, the questions of factare: 'Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him?' 'Yes, he does. ' And, 'Shall I marry him?'"

"Shall I marry him?" repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. 

There was silence between the two before Louisa spoke again. She thoughtof the shortness of life, of how her brother Tom had said it would be agood thing for him if she made up her mind to do--she knew what. 

"While it lasts, " she said aloud, "I would like to do the little I can, and the little I am fit for. What does it matter? Mr. Bounderby asks meto marry him. Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to take me thus, Iam satisfied to accept his proposal. Tell him, father, as soon as youplease, that this was my answer. Repeat it, word for word, if you can, because I should wish him to know what I said. "

"It is quite right, my dear, " retorted her father approvingly, "to beexact I will observe your very proper request. Have you any wish inreference to the period of your marriage, my child?"

"None, father. What does it matter?"

They went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Gradgrind presented Louisa tohis wife as Mrs. Bounderby. 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Gradgrind. "So you have settled it. I am sure I give youjoy, my dear, and I hope you may turn all your ological studies to goodaccount. And now, you see, I shall be worrying myself morning, noon, andnight, to know what I am to call him!"

"Mrs. Gradgrind, " said her husband solemnly, "what do you mean?"

"Whatever am I to call him when he is married to Louisa? I must call himsomething. It's impossible to be constantly addressing him, and nevergiving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name isinsupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very wellknow. Am I to call my own son-in-law 'Mister?' I believe not, unless thetime has arrived when I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him?"

There being no answer to this conundrum, Mrs. Gradgrind retired to bed. 

The day of the marriage came, and after the wedding-breakfast thebridegroom addressed the company--an improving party, there was nononsense about any of them--in the following terms. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown. Since youhave done my wife and myself the honour of drinking our healths andhappiness, I suppose I must acknowledge the same. If you want a speech, my friend and father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind, is a member of parliament, and you know where to get it. Now, you have mentioned that I am this daymarried to Tom Gradgrind's daughter. I am very glad to be so. It haslong been my wish to be so. I have watched her bringing up, and Ibelieve she is worthy of me. At the same time, I believe I am worthy ofher. So I thank you for the goodwill you have shown towards us. "

Shortly after which oration, as they were going on a nuptial trip toLyons, in order that Mr. Bounderby might see how the hands got on inthose parts, and whether they, too, required to be fed with gold spoons, the happy pair departed for the railroad. As the bride passed downstairsher brother Tom whispered to her. "What a game girl you are, to be sucha first-rate sister, too!"

She clung to him as she would have clung to some far better nature thatday, and was shaken in her composure for the first time. 

_III. --Mr. James Harthouse_

The Gradgrind party wanting assistance in the House of Commons, Mr. James Harthouse, who was of good family and appearance, and had triedmost things and found them a bore, was sent down to Coketown to studythe neighbourhood with a view to entering Parliament. 

Mr. Bounderby at once pounced upon him, and James Harthouse wasintroduced to Mrs. Bounderby and her brother. Tom Gradgrind, junior, brought up under a continuous system of restraint, was a hypocrite, athief, and, to Mr. James Harthouse, a whelp. 

Yet the visitor saw at once that the whelp was the only creature Mrs. Bounderby cared for, and it occurred to him, as time went on, that towin Mrs. Bounderby's affection (for he made no secret of his contemptfor politics), he must devote himself to the whelp. 

Mr. Bounderby was proud to have Mr. James Harthouse under his roof, proud to show off his greatness and self-importance to this gentlemanfrom London. 

"You're a gentleman, and I don't pretend to be one. You're a man offamily. I am a bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of rag, tag, and bobtail, " said Mr. Bounderby. 

At the same time Mr. Bounderby blustered at his wife and bullied hishands, so that Mr. Harthouse might understand his independence. 

One of these hands, Stephen Blackpool, an old, steady, faithful workman, who had been boycotted by his fellows for refusing to join a tradeunion, was summoned to Mr. Bounderby's presence in order that Harthousemight see a specimen of the people that had to be dealt with. 

Blackpool said he had nought to say about the trade union business; hehad given a promise not to join, that was all. 

"Not to me, you know!" said Bounderby. 

"Oh, no sir; not to you!"

"Here's a gentleman from London present, " Mr. Bounderby said, pointingat Harthouse. "A Parliament gentleman. Now, what do you complain of?"

"I ha' not come here, sir, to complain. I were sent for. Indeed, we arein a muddle, sir. Look round town--so rich as 'tis. Look how we live, and where we live, an' in what numbers; and look how the mills is alwaysa-goin', and how they never works us no nigher to any distant object, 'cepting always, death. Sir, I cannot, wi' my little learning, tell thegentleman what will better this; though some working men o' this towncould. But the strong hand will never do't; nor yet lettin' alone willnever do't. Ratin' us as so much power and reg'latin' us as if we wasfigures in a sum, will never do't. "

"Now, it's clear to me, " said Mr. Bounderby, "that you are one of thosechaps who have always got a grievance. And you are such a raspish, ill-conditioned chap that even your own union--the men who know youbest--will have nothing to do with you. And I tell you what, I go so faralong with them for a novelty, that I'll have nothing to do with youeither. You can finish off what you're at, and then go elsewhere. "

Thus James Harthouse learnt how Mr. Bounderby dealt with hands. 

Mr. Harthouse, however, only felt bored, and took the earliestopportunity to explain to Mrs. Bounderby that he really had no opinions, and that he was going in for her father's opinions, because he might aswell back them as anything else. 

"The side that can prove anything in a line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun and togive a man the best chance. I am quite ready to go in for it to the sameextent as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do if I didbelieve it?". 

"You are a singular politician, " said Louisa. 

"Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are the largest party in thestate, I assure you, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and werereviewed together. "

The more Mr. Harthouse's interest waned in politics the greater becamehis interest in Mrs. Bounderby. And he cultivated the whelp, cultivatedhim earnestly, and by so doing learnt from the graceless youth that "Loonever cared anything for old Bounderby, " and had married him to pleaseher brother. 

Gradually, bit by bit, James Harthouse established a confidence with thewhelp's sister from which her husband was excluded. He established aconfidence with her that absolutely turned upon her indifference towardsher husband, and the absence at all times of any congeniality betweenthem. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heartin its last most delicate recesses, and the barrier behind which shelived had melted away. 

And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him. So drifting icebergs, setting with a current, wreck the ships. 

_IV. --Mr. Gradgrind and His Daughter_

Mrs. Gradgrind died while her husband was up in London, and Louisa waswith her mother when death came. 

"You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did your brother, " said Mrs. Gradgrind, when she was dying. "Ologies of all kinds from morning tonight. But there is something--not an ology at all--that your father hasmissed, or forgotten. I don't know what it is; I shall never get itsname now. But your father may. It makes me restless. I want to write tohim to find out, for God's sake, what it is. "

It was shortly after Mrs. Gradgrind's death that Mr. Bounderby wascalled away from home on business for a few days; and Mr. JamesHarthouse, still not sure at times of his purpose, found himself alonewith Mrs. Bounderby. 

They were in the garden, and Harthouse implored her to accept him as herlover. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but sheneither turned her face to him nor raised it, but sat as still as thoughshe were a statue. 

Harthouse declared that she was the stake for which he ardently desiredto play away all that he had in life; that the objects he had latelypursued turned worthless beside her; the success that was almost withinhis grasp he flung away from him, like the dirt it was, compared withher. 

All this, and more, he said, and pleaded for a further meeting. 

"Not here, " Louisa said calmly. 

They parted at the beginning of a heavy shower of rain, and the fallJames Harthouse had ridden for was averted. 

Mrs. Bounderby left her husband's house, left it for good; not to shareMr. Harthouse's life, but to return to her father. 

Mr. Gradgrind, released from parliament for a time, was alone in hisstudy, when his eldest daughter entered. 

"What is the matter, Louisa?"

"Father, I want to speak to you. You have trained me from my cradle?"

"Yes, Louisa. "

"I curse the hour in which I was born to such a destiny. How could yougive me life, and take from me all the things that raise it from thestate of conscious death? Now, hear what I have come to say. With ahunger and a thirst upon me, father, which have never been for a momentappeased, in a condition where it seemed nothing could be worth the painand trouble of a contest, you proposed my husband to me. "

"I never knew you were unhappy, my child!"

"I took him. I never made a pretence to him or you that I loved him. Iknew, and, father you knew, and he knew, that I never did. I was notwholly indifferent, for I had a hope of being pleasant and useful toTom. But Tom had been the subject of all the little tenderness of mylife, perhaps he became so because I knew so well how to pity him. Itmatters little now, except as it may dispose you to think more lenientlyof his errors. "

"What can I do, child? Ask me what you will. "

"I am coming to it. Father, chance has thrown into my way a newacquaintance; a man such as I had had no experience of--light, polished, easy. I only wondered it should be worth his while, who cared fornothing else, to care so much for me. It matters little how he gained myconfidence. Father, he did gain it. What you know of the story of mymarriage he soon knew just as well. "

Her father's face was ashy white. 

"I have done no worse; I have not disgraced you. This night, my husbandbeing away, he has been with me. This minute he expects me, for I couldrelease myself of his presence by no other means. I do not know that Iam sorry or ashamed. All that I know is, your philosophy and yourteaching will not save me. Father, you have brought me to this. Save meby some other means?"

She fell insensible, and he saw the pride of his heart and the triumphof his system lying at his feet. And it came to Thomas Gradgrind thatnight and on the morrow when he sat beside his daughter's bed, thatthere was a wisdom of the heart no less than a wisdom of the head; andthat in supposing the latter to be all sufficient, he had erred. 

But no such change of mind took place in Mr. Bounderby. Finding his wifeabsent, he went at once to Stone Lodge, and blustered in his usual way. 

Mr. Gradgrind tried to make him understand that the best thing to do wasto leave things as they were for a time, and that Louisa, who had beenso tried, should stay on a visit to her father, and be treated withtenderness and consideration. It was all wasted on Blunderby. 

"Now, I don't want to quarrel with you, Tom Gradgrind!" he retorted. "Ifyour daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, and might have done better byleaving Loo Gradgrind, don't come home at noon to-morrow, I shallunderstand that she prefers to stay away, and you'll take charge of herin future. What I shall say to people in general of the incompatibilitythat led to my so laying down the law will be this: I am JosiahBounderby, she's the daughter of Tom Gradgrind; and the two horseswouldn't pull together. I am pretty well known to be rather an uncommonman, and most people will understand that it must be a woman rather outof the common who would come up to my mark. I have got no more to say. Good-night!"

At five minutes past twelve next day, Mr. Bounderby directed his wife'sproperty to be carefully packed up and sent to Tom Gradgrind's, and thenresumed a bachelor's life. 

Mr. James Harthouse, learning from Louisa's maid--a young woman greatlyattached to her mistress--that his attentions were altogetherundesirable, and that he would never see Mrs. Bounderby again, decidedto throw up politics and leave Coketown at once. Which he did. 

Into how much of futurity did Mr. Bounderby see as he sat alone? Had heany prescience of the day, five years to come, when Josiah Bounderby, ofCoketown, was to die in a fit in the Coketown street? Could he foreseeMr. Gradgrind, a white-haired man, making his facts and figuressubservient to Faith, Hope, and Charity, and no longer trying to grindthat Heavenly trio in his dusty little mills? These things were to be. 

Could Louisa, sitting alone in her father's house and gazing into thefire, foresee the childless years before her? Could she picture a lonelybrother, flying from England after robbery, and dying in a strange land, conscious of his want of love and penitent? These things were to be. Herself again a wife--a mother--lovingly watchful of her children, evercareful that they should have a childhood of the mind no less than achildhood of the body, as knowing it to be an even more beautiful thing, and a possession any hoarded scrap of which is a blessing and happinessto the wisest? Such a thing was never to be. 

 * * * * *

Little Dorrit

 "Little Dorrit" was written at a time when the author was busying himself not only with other literary work, but also with semi-private theatricals. John Forster, Charles Dickens's biographer and friend, even had some sort of fear at that time that Dickens was in danger of adopting the stage as a profession. Domestic troubles, culminating a year later in the separation from his wife, also explain the restlessness and general dissatisfaction which affected the great novelist in the years 1855-57, when this story appeared. Hence there is no surprise that "Little Dorrit" added but little to its author's reputation. It is a very long book, but it will never take a front-rank place. The story, however, on its appearance in monthly parts, the first of which was published in January 1856, and the completed work in 1857, was enormously successful, beating, in Dickens's own words, "'Bleak House' out of the field. " Popular with the public, it has never won the critics. 

_I. --The Father of the Marshalsea_

Thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of SaintGeorge, in the Borough of Southwark, on the left-hand side of the waygoing southward, the Marshalsea Prison. It had stood there many yearsbefore, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it. 

A debtor had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, a very amiable andvery helpless middle-aged gentleman who was perfectly clear--"like allthe rest of them, " the turnkey on the lock said--that he was going outagain directly. 

The affairs of this debtor, a shy, retiring man, with a mild voice andirresolute hands, were perplexed by a partnership, of which he knew nomore than that he had invested money in it. 

"Out?" said the turnkey. "He'll never get out unless his creditors takehim by the shoulders and shove him out!"

The next day the debtor's wife came to the Marshalsea, bringing with hera little boy of three, and a little girl of two. 

"Two children, " the turnkey observed to himself. "And you another, whichmakes three; and your wife another, which makes four. "

Six months later a little girl was born to the debtor, and when thischild was eight years old, her mother, who had long been languishing, died. 

The debtor had long grown accustomed to the place. Crushed at first byhis imprisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in it. His elderchildren played regularly about the yard. If he had been a man withstrength of purpose, he might have broken the net that held him, orbroken his heart; but being what he was, he slipped easily into thissmooth descent, and never more took one step upward. 

The shabby old debtor with the soft manners and the white hair becamethe Father of the Marshalsea. And he grew to be proud of the title. Allnewcomers were presented to him. He was punctilious in the exaction ofthis ceremony. They were welcome to the Marshalsea, he would tell them. 

It became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under hisdoor at night enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then, atlong intervals, even half a sovereign, for the Father of the Marshalsea, "With the compliments of a collegian taking leave. " He received thegifts as tributes to a public character. 

Later he established the custom of attending collegians of a certainstanding to the gate, and taking leave of them there. The collegianunder treatment would often wrap up something in a paper and give it tohim, "For the Father of the Marshalsea. "

_II. --The Child of the Marshalsea_

The youngest child of the Father of the Marshalsea, born within thejail, was a very, very little creature indeed when she gained theknowledge that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond theprison gate, her father's feet must never cross that line. 

At thirteen she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put down inwords and figures how much the bare necessaries they needed would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. From the first she wasinspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to bethat something for the sake of the rest. Recognised as useful, evenindispensable, she took the place of eldest of the three in all butprecedence; was the head of the fallen family, and bore, in her ownheart, its anxieties and shames. She had been, by snatches of a fewweeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister andbrother sent to day schools by desultory starts, during three or fouryears. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knewwell--no one better--that a man so broken as to be the Father of theMarshalsea could be no father to his own children. 

To these scanty means of improvement she added others. Her sister Fanny, having a great desire to learn dancing, the Child of the Marshalseapersuaded a dancing-master, detained for a short time, to teach her. AndFanny became a dancer. 

There was a ruined uncle in the family group, ruined by his brother, theFather of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, on whom Fanny's protection devolved. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined, further than that heleft off washing when the shock was announced, and never took to thatluxury any more. Having been a very indifferent musical amateur in hisbetter days, when he fell with his brother he resorted for support toplaying a clarionet in a small theatre orchestra. It was the theatre inwhich his niece became a dancer, and he accepted the task of serving asher escort and guardian. 

To get her brother--christened Edward, but called Tip--out of the prisonwas a more difficult task. Every post she obtained for him he alwaysgave up, returning with the announcement that he was tired of it, andhad cut it. 

One day he came back, and said he was in for good, that he had beentaken for forty pounds odd. For the first time in all those years, shesank under her cares. It was so hard to make Tip understand that theFather of the Marshalsea must not know the truth about his son. 

For, the Father of the Marshalsea, as he grew more dependent on thecontributions of his changing family, made the greater stand by hisforlorn gentility. So the pretence had to be kept up that neither of hisdaughters earned their bread. 

The Child of the Marshalsea learned needlework of an insolvent milliner, and went out daily to work for a Mrs. Clennam. 

This was the life and this the history of the Child of the Marshalsea attwenty-two. Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocentin all things else. This was the life, and this the history of LittleDorrit, now going home upon a dull September evening, and observed at adistance by Arthur Clennam. Arthur Clennam had returned to his mother'shouse--a dark and gloomy place--from the Far East. He had noticed thatLittle Dorrit appeared at eight, and left at eight. She let herself outto do needlework, he was told. What became of her between the two eightswas a mystery. 

It was not easy for Arthur Clennam to make out Little Dorrit's face; sheplied her needle in such retired corners. But it seemed to be a pale, transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress--shabby but very neat--were Little Dorrit as she satat work. 

Arthur Clennam watched Little Dorrit disappear within the outer gate ofthe Marshalsea, and presently stopped an old man to ask what place itwas. 

"This is the Marshalsea, sir. "

"Can anyone go in here?"

"Anyone can go in, " replied the old man, plainly implying, "but it isnot everyone who can go out. "

"Pardon me once more. I am not impertinently curious. But are youfamiliar with the place? Do you know the name of Dorrit here?"

"My name, sir, " replied the old man, "is Dorrit. "

Clennam explained that he had seen a young woman working at hismother's, spoken of as Little Dorrit, and had noticed her come in here, and that he was sincerely interested in her, and wanted to knowsomething about her. 

"I know very little of the world, sir, " replied the old man, "it wouldnot be worth while to mislead me. The young woman whom you saw go in ismy brother's child. You say you have seen her at your mother's, and havefelt an interest in her, and wish to know what she does here. Come andsee. "

Arthur Clennam followed his guide to the room of the Father of theMarshalsea. 

"I found this gentleman, " said the uncle--"Mr. Clennam, William, son ofAmy's friend--at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of payinghis respects. This is my brother William, sir. "

"Mr. Clennam, " said William Dorrit, "you are welcome, sir; pray sitdown. I have welcomed many visitors here. "

The Father of the Marshalsea went on to mention that he had beengratified by the testimonials of his visitors--the "very acceptabletestimonials. "

When Clennam left he presented his testimonial, and the next morningfound him there again. He went out with Little Dorrit alone; asked herif she had ever heard his mother's name before. 

"No, sir. "

"I am not asking from any reason that can cause you anxiety. You thinkthat at no time of your father's life was my name of Clennam everfamiliar to him?"

"No, sir. And, oh, I hope you will not misunderstand my father! Don'tjudge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has beenthere so long. "

They had walked some way before they returned. She was not working atMrs. Clennam's that day. 

The courtyard received them at last, and there he said good-bye toLittle Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less thanever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea Lodge passage. 

Aware that his mother might have once averted the ruin of the Dorritfamily, Clennam returned more than once to the Marshalsea. No word oflove crossed his lips; he told Little Dorrit to think of him as an oldman, old enough to be her father, and he besought her only to let himknow if at any time he could do her service. "I press for no confidencenow. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me, " he said. 

"Can I do less than that when you are so good?"

"Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness oranxiety concealed from me?"

"Almost none. "

But if Arthur Clennam kept silent, Little Dorrit was not without alover. Years ago young John Chivery, the sentimental son of the turnkey, had eyed her with admiring wonder. There seemed to young John a fitnessin the attachment. She, the Child of the Marshalsea; he, thelock-keeper. Every Sunday young John presented cigars to the Father ofthe Marshalsea--who was glad to get them--and one particular Sundayafternoon he mustered up courage to urge his suit. 

Little Dorrit was out, walking on the Iron Bridge, when young John foundher. 

"Miss Amy, " he stammered, "I have had for a long time--ages they seem tome--a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it? May I, Miss Amy? I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I know very wellyour family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. I know verywell that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height. "

"If you please, John Chivery, " Little Dorrit answered, in a quiet way, "since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say anymore--if you please, no. "

"Never, Miss Amy?"

"No, if you please. Never. "

"Oh, Lord!" gasped young John. 

"When you think of us, John--I mean, my brother and sister and me--don'tthink of us as being any different from the rest; for whatever we oncewere we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. And, good-bye, John. And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John. "

"Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!"

_III. --The Marshalsea Becomes an Orphan_

It turned out that Mr. Dorrit, being of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, washeir-at-law to a great fortune. Inquiries and investigations confirmedit. 

Arthur Clennam broke the news to Little Dorrit, and together they wentto the, Marshalsea. William Dorrit was sitting in his old grey gown andhis old black cap in the sunlight by the window when they entered. "Father, Mr. Clennam has brought me such joyful and wonderfulintelligence about you!"

Her agitation was great, and the old man put his hand suddenly to hisheart, and looked at Clennam. 

"Tell me, Mr. Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlocked for andthe most acceptable to you. Do not be afraid to imagine it, or to saywhat it would be. "

He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed tochange into a very old, haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wallbeyond the window, and on the spikes at the top. He slowly stretched outthe hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall. 

"It is down, " said Clennam. "Gone! And in its place are the means topossess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr. Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you willbe free and highly prosperous. "

They had to fetch wine for the old man, and when he had swallowed alittle he leaned back in his chair and cried. But he quickly recovered, and announced that everybody concerned should be nobly rewarded. 

"No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim againstme. Everybody shall be remembered. I will not go away from here inanybody's debt. I particularly wish to act munificently, Mr. Clennam. "

Clennam's offer of money for present contingencies was at once accepted. 

"I am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation, sir. Exceedinglytemporary, but well timed--well timed. Be so kind, sir, as to add theamount to former advances. "

He grew more composed presently, and then when he seemed to be fallingasleep unexpectedly sat up and said, "Mr. Clennam, am I to understand, my dear sir, that I could pass through the lodge at this moment, andtake a walk?"

"I think not, Mr. Dorrit, " was the unwilling reply. "There are certainforms to be completed. It is but a few hours now. "

"A few hours, sir!" he returned in a sudden passion. "You talk veryeasily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to aman who is choking; for want of air?"

It was his last demonstration for that time, but in the interval beforethe day of his departure he was very imperious with the lawyersconcerned in his release, and a good deal of business was transacted. 

Mr. Arthur Clennam received a cheque for £24 93. 8d. From the solicitorsof Edward Dorrit, Esq. --once "Tip"--with a note that the favour of theadvance now repaid had not been asked of him. 

To the applications made by collegians within the so-soon-to-be-orphanedMarshalsea for small sums of money, Mr. Dorrit responded with thegreatest liberality. He also invited the whole College to acomprehensive entertainment in the yard, and went about among thecompany on that occasion, and took notice of individuals, like a baronof the olden time, in a rare good humour. 

And now the final hour arrived when he and his family were to leave theprison for ever. The carriage was reported ready in the outer courtyard. Mr. Dorrit and his brother proceeded arm in arm, Edward Dorrit, Esq. , and his sister Fanny followed, also arm in arm. 

There was not a collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent, as theycrossed the yard. Mr. Dorrit--whose meat and drink had many a time beenbought with money presented by some of those who stood to watch himgo--yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to geton without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted childrenon the head like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, spoke to peoplein the background by their Christian names, and condescended to allpresent. 

At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, andthat the Marshalsea was an orphan. 

Only when the family had got into their carriage, and not before, MissFanny exclaimed, "Good gracious I Where's Amy?"

Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thoughtshe was somewhere or other. They had all trusted to find her, as theyhad always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. Thisgoing away was, perhaps, the very first action of their joint lives thatthey had got through without her. 

"Now I do say, Pa, " cried Miss Fanny, flushed and indignant, "that thisis disgraceful! Here is that child, Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress. Disgracing us at the last moment by being carried out in that dressafter all. And by that Mr. Clennam too!"

Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensiblefigure in his arms. 

"She has been forgotten, " he said. "I ran up to her room, and found thedoor open, and that she had fainted on the floor. "

They received her in the carriage, and the attendant, getting betweenClennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp "By your leave, sir!"bundled up the steps, and drove away. 

_IV. --Another Prisoner in the Marshalsea_

The Dorrit family travelled abroad in handsome style, and in due timeMiss Fanny married. 

A sudden seizure carried off old Mr. Dorrit, and he died thinkinghimself back in the Marshalsea. His brother Frederick, stricken withgrief, did not long survive him. 

Arthur Clennam, who had gone into partnership with a friend named Doyce, unfortunately invested his money in the financial schemes of Mr. Merdle, the greatest swindler of the day, and when the crash came and Merdlecommitted suicide, Clennam with hundreds of other innocent persons wasinvolved in the general ruin. 

Doyce was working at the time in Germany, and it was some weeks beforehe could be found; in the meantime, Clennam, being insolvent, was takento the Marshalsea. 

Mr. Chivery was on the lock and young John was in the lodge when theMarshalsea was reached. The elder Mr. Chivery shook hands with him in ashamefaced kind of way, and said, "I don't call to mind, sir, as I wasever less glad to see you. "

The prisoner followed young John up the old staircase into the old room. "I thought you'd like the room, and here it is for you, " said youngJohn. 

Young John waited upon him; and it was young John who explained that hedid this not on the ground of the prisoner's merits, but because of themerits of another, of one who loved the prisoner. Clennam tried to argueto himself the improbability of Little Dorrit loving him, but he wasn'taltogether successful. 

He fell ill, and it was Little Dorrit whose living presence firstcheered him when he returned from the world of feverish dreams andshadows. 

He did his best to dissuade her from coming. He was a ruined man, andthe time when Little Dorrit and the prison had anything in common hadlong gone by. 

But still she came and often read to him. And one day she told him thatall her money had gone as his had gone, lost in the Merdle whirlpool, and that her sister Fanny's was lost, too, in the same way. 

"I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. Whenpapa came over to England, just before his death, he confided everythinghe had to the same hands, and it is all swept away. Oh, my dearest andbest, are you quite sure you will not share my fortune with me?"

Locked in his arms, held to his heart, she drew the slight hand roundhis neck, and clasped it in its fellow-hand. 

Of course, when Doyce, who was a thoroughly good fellow, and successfulto boot, found out his partner's plight, he came back and put thingsright, and the business was soon set going again. 

And on the very day of his release, Arthur Clennam and Little Dorritwent into the neighbouring church of St. George, and were married, Doycegiving the bride away. 

Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone when thesigning of the register was done. 

They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, and then went downinto the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed. 

 * * * * *

Martin Chuzzlewit

 On its monthly publication, in 1843-44, "Martin Chuzzlewit" was, pecuniarily, the least successful of Dickens's serials, though popular as a book. It was his first novel after his American tour, and the storm of resentment that had hailed the appearance of "American Notes, " in 1842, was intensified by his merciless satire of American characteristics and institutions in "Martin Chuzzlewit. " Despite all adverse criticism, however, "Chuzzlewit" is worthy to rank with anything that ever came from the pen of the great Victorian novelist. It is a very long story, and a very full one; the canvas is crowded with a gallery of typical Dickensian people. Through Mrs. Gamp, Dickens dealt a death-blow to the drunken nurse of the period. The name Pecksniff has become synonymous with a certain type of hypocrite, and the adjective Pecksniffian is in common use wherever the English language is spoken. Charged with exaggeration regarding Mr. Pecksniff, Dickens wrote in the preface to "Martin Chuzzlewit, " "All the Pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, I believe, that no such character ever existed. I will not offer any plea on his behalf to so powerful and genteel a body. " Mrs. Gamp, though one of the humorous types that have, perhaps, contributed most largely to the fame of Dickens, does not appear in this epitome, the character being a minor one in the development of the story. 

_I. --Mr. Pecksniff's New Pupil_

Mr. Pecksniff lived in a little Wiltshire village within an easy journeyof Salisbury. 

The brazen plate upon his door bore the inscription, "Pecksniff, Architect, " to which Mr. Pecksniff, on his cards of business, added, "and Land Surveyor. " Of his architectural doings nothing was clearlyknown, except that he had never designed or built anything. 

Mr. Pecksniff's professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if notentirely, confined to the reception of pupils. His genius lay inensnaring parents and guardians and pocketing premiums. 

Mr. Pecksniff was a moral man. Perhaps there never was a more moral manthan Mr. Pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence. Some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling theway to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies. 

Into Mr. Pecksniff's house came young Martin Chuzzlewit, a relation ofthe architect's. Tom Pinch, Mr. Pecksniff's assistant, had driven overto Salisbury for the new pupil, and had already discoursed to Martin onMr. Pecksniff and his family (for Mr. Pecksniff had twodaughters--Mercy, and Charity), in whose good qualities he had aprofound and pathetic belief. 

Festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completedfor Martin's benefit on the night of his arrival. There were two bottlesof currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches, very long, andvery slim; another of apples; another of captain's biscuits; a plate oforanges cut up small and gritty with powdered sugar; and a highlygeological home-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quitetook away Tom Pinch's breath, for though the new pupils were usually letdown softly, particularly in the wine department, still this was abanquet, a sort of lord mayor's feast in private life, a something tothink of, and hold on by afterwards. 

To this entertainment Mr. Pecksniff besought the company to do fulljustice. 

"Martin, " he said, addressing his daughters, "will seat himself betweenyou two, my dears, and Mr. Pinch will come by me. This is a minglingthat repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry. "Here he took a captain's biscuit. "It is a poor heart that neverrejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!"

The following morning Mr. Pecksniff announced that he must go to London. "On professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professionalbusiness; and I promised my girls long ago that they should accompanyme. We shall go forth to-night by the heavy coach--like the dove of old, my dear Martin--and it will be a week before we again deposit, ourolive-branches in the passage. When I say olive branches, " observed Mr. Pecksniff, in explanation, "I mean our unpretending luggage. "

"And now let me see, " said Mr. Pecksniff presently, "how can you bestemploy yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give meyour idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London, or a tomb for asheriff, or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman'spark. A pump is a very chaste practice. I have found that a lamp-post iscalculated to refine the mind and give it a classical tendency. Anornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the imagination. Whatdo you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?"

"Whatever Mr. Pecksniff pleased, " said Martin doubtfully. 

"Stay, " said that gentleman. "Come! as you're ambitious, and are a veryneat draughtsman, you shall try your hand on these proposals for agrammar-school. When your mind requires to be refreshed by change ofoccupation, Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying theback-garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between thishouse and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasingpursuit. There is a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of oldflower-pots in the back-yard. If you could pile them up, my dear Martin, into any form which would remind me on my return, say, of St. Peter's atRome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would be at onceimproving to you and agreeable to my feelings. "

The coach having rolled away, with the olive-branches in the boot andthe family of doves inside, Martin Chuzzlewit and Tom Pinch were lefttogether. Now, there was something in the very simplicity of Pinch thatinvited confidences, and young Martin could not refrain from telling hisstory. 

"I must talk openly to somebody, " he began, "I'll talk openly to you. You must know, then, that I have been bred up from childhood with greatexpectations, and have always been taught to believe that one day Ishould be very rich. Certain things, however, have led to my beingdisinherited. "

"By your father?" inquired Tom. 

"By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Now, mygrandfather has a great many good points, but he has two very greatfaults, which are the staple of his bad side. He has the most confirmedobstinacy of character, and he is most abominably selfish; I have heardthat these are failings of our family, and I have to be very thankfulthat they haven't descended to me. Now I come to the cream of my story, and the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch. I am in lovewith one of the most beautiful girls the sun ever shone upon. But she iswholly and entirely dependent upon the pleasure of my grandfather; andif he were to know that she favoured my passion, she would lose her homeand everything she possesses in the world. My grandfather, although I hadconducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection, is fullof jealousy and mistrust, and suspected me of loving her. He saidnothing to her, but attacked me in private, and charged me withdesigning to corrupt the fidelity to himself--observe his selfishness--of a young creature who was his only disinterested and faithfulcompanion. The upshot of it was that I was to renounce her or berenounced by him. Of course, I was not going to yield to him, and here Iam!"

Mr. Pinch, after staring at the fire, said, "Pecksniff, of course, youknew before?"

"Only by name. My grandfather kept not only himself, but me, aloof fromall his relations. But our separation took place in a town in theneighbouring county. I saw Pecksniff's advertisement in the paper when Iwas at Salisbury, and answered it, having always had some natural tastein the matters to which it referred. I was doubly bent on coming to himif possible, on account of his being--"

"Such an excellent man, " interposed Tom, rubbing his hands. 

"Why, not so much on that account, " returned Martin, "as because mygrandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man'sarbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural desire to run as directlycounter to all his opinions as I could. "

_II. --Mr. Pecksniff Discharges His Duty_

Mr. Pecksniff and his daughters took up their lodging in London at Mrs. Todgers's Commercial Boarding House, and it was at that favoured abodethat old Martin Chuzzlewit, whose grandson had just entered Mr. Pecksniff's house, sought him out. 

"I very much regret, " said old Martin, "that you and I held such aconversation as we did when we met awhile since. The intentions that Ibear towards you now are of another kind. Deserted by all in whom I haveever trusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustainme, I fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attachyourself to me by ties of interest and expectations. I regret havingbeen severed from you so long. "

Mr. Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands inrapture. 

"I fear you don't know what an old man's humours are, " resumed oldMartin. "You don't know what it is to be required to court his likingsand dislikings; to do his bidding, be it what it may. You have a newinmate in your house. He must quit it. "

"For--for yours?" asked Mr. Pecksniff. 

"For any shelter he can find. He has deceived you. "

"I hope not, " said Mr. Pecksniff eagerly, "I trust not. I have beenextremely well disposed towards that young man. Deceit--deceit, my dearMr. Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on proof ofdeceit, to renounce him instantly. "

"Of course, you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?"

"Surely not without his grandfather's consent and approbation, my dearsir?" cried Mr. Pecksniff. "Don't tell me that. For the honour of humannature say you're not about to tell me that!"

"I thought he had suppressed it. "

The indignation felt by Mr. Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure wasonly to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What, hadthey taken to their hearth and home a secretely contracted serpent?Horrible!

Old Martin then went on to inquire when they would be returning home;and, after relieving Mr. Pecksniff's unexpressed anxiety by mentioningthat Mary Graham, the young lady whom the old man had adopted, wouldreceive nothing at his death, announced that they might expect to seehim before long. 

With a hasty farewell, the old man left the house, followed to the doorby Mr. Pecksniff and his daughters. A few days later the Pecksniffs setout for home. 

Tom Pinch and Martin were both out in the lane to meet the coach, butMr. Pecksniff pointedly ignored Martin's presence, even when the househad been reached; and it was not till Martin sharply demanded anexplanation that he addressed him. 

"You have deceived me, " said Mr. Pecksniff. "You have imposed upon anature which you knew to be confiding and unsuspicious. This lowly roof, sir, must not be contaminated by the presence of one who has, further, deceived--and cruelly deceived--an honourable and venerable gentleman, and who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought myprotection. I weep for your depravity. I mourn over your corruption, butI cannot have a leper and a serpent for an inmate! Go forth, " said Mr. Pecksniff, stretching out his hand, "go forth, young man! Like all whoknow you, I renounce you!"

Martin made a stride forward at these words, and Mr. Pecksniff steppedback so hastily that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, andfell in a sitting posture on the ground, where he remained, perhapsconsidering it the safest place. 

"Look at him, Pinch, " said Martin, "as he lies there--a cloth for dirtyhands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning, servile hound! And, markme, Pinch, the day will come when even you will find him out!"

He pointed at him as he spoke with unutterable contempt, and flinginghis hat upon his head, walked from the house. He went on so rapidly thathe was clear of the village before Tom Pinch overtook him. 

"Are you going?" cried Tom. 

"Yes, " he answered sternly, "I am. "

"Where?" asked Tom. 

"I don't know. Yes, I do--to America. "

_III. --New Eden_

Martin did not go to America alone, for Mark Tapley, formerly of theBlue Dragon, an inn in the village where Mr. Pecksniff resided, insistedon accompanying him. 

"Now, sir, here am I, without a sitiwation, " Mr. Tapley put it, "withoutany want of wages for a year to come--for I saved up (I didn't mean todo it, but I couldn't help it) at the Dragon; here am I with a likingfor what's wentersome, and a liking for you, and a wish to come outstrong under circumstances as would keep other men down--and will youtake me, or will you leave me?"

Once landed in the United States, the question of what to do arose, andMartin decided to invest his savings in buying land in the risingtownship of New Eden. 

"Mark, you shall be a partner in the business, " said Martin (Mark havinginvested £37 to Martin's £8); "an equal partner with myself. We are nolonger master and servant. I will put in, as my additional capital, myprofessional knowledge, and half the annual profits, as long as it iscarried on, shall be yours. Our business shall be commenced, as soon aswe get to New Eden, under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley. "

"Lord love you, sir, " cried Mark, "don't have my name in it! I must be'Co. , ' I must. "

"You shall have your own way, Mark. "

"Thank 'ee sir! If any country gentleman thereabouts in the public waywanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part ofthe bis'ness, sir. "

It was a long steamboat journey, but at last they stopped at Eden. Thewaters of the Deluge might have left it but a week ago, so choked withslime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name. 

A man advanced towards them when they landed, walking slowly, leaning ona stick. 

"Strangers!" he exclaimed. 

"The very same, " said Mark. "How are you, sir?"

"I've had the fever very bad, " he answered faintly. "I haven't stoodupright these many weeks. My eldest son has a chill upon him. Myyoungest died last week. "

"I'm sorry for it, governor, with all my heart!" said Mark. "The goodsis safe enough, " he added, turning to Martin, and pointing to theirboxes. "There ain't many people about to make away with 'em. What acomfort that is!"

"No, " cried the man; "we've buried most of 'em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here don't come out at night. "

"The night air ain't quite wholesome, I suppose?" said Mark. 

"It's deadly poison, " was the answer. 

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him asambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explainedthe nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to hisown log-house, he said. 

It was a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees, thedoor of which had either fallen down or been carried away. When they hadbrought up their chest, Martin gave way, and lay down on the ground, andwept aloud. 

"Lord love you, sir, " cried Mr. Tapley. "Don't do that. Anything butthat! It never helped man, woman, or child over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. "

Mark stole out gently in the morning while his companion slept, and tooka rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabinsin the whole, and half of these appeared untenanted. Their own land wasmere forest. He went down to the landing-place, where they had lefttheir goods, and there he found some half a dozen men, wan and forlorn, who helped him to carry them to the log-house. 

Martin was by this time stirring, but he had greatly changed, even inone night. He was very pale and languid, and spoke of pains andweakness. 

"Don't give in, sir, " said Mr. Tapley. "Why, you must be ill. Wait halfa minute, till I run up to one of our neighbours and find out what'sbest to be took. "

Martin was soon dangerously ill, very near his death. Mark, fatigued inmind and body, working all the day and sitting up at night, worn by hardliving, surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances, nevercomplained or yielded in the least degree. And then, when Martin wasbetter, Mark was taken ill. He fought against it; but the malady foughtharder, and his efforts were vain. 

"Floored for the present, sir, " he said one morning, sinking back uponhis bed, "but jolly. "

And now it was Martin's turn to work and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long nights to every sound in the gloomywilderness. 

Martin's reflections in those days slowly showed him his ownselfishness, and when Mark Tapley recovered, he found a singularalteration in his companion. 

"I don't know what to make of him, " he thought one night. "He don'tthink of himself half as much as he did. It's a swindle. There'll be nocredit in being jolly with _him_!"

The settlement was deserted. The only thing to be done was to return toEngland. 

_IV. --The Downfall of Pecksniff_

Old Martin Chuzzlewit had for some time taken up his residence at Mr. Pecksniff's, and Martin and Mark Tapley went to the Blue Dragon on theirreturn. 

Martin at once sought out his grandfather, and marched into the houseresolved on reconciliation. The old man listened to his appeal insilence; but Mr. Pecksniff spoke for him, and bade the young man begone. 

But old Martin was awake to Pecksniff's character, and resolved to setMr. Pecksniff right, and Mr. Pecksniff's victims, too. 

Mark Tapley was the first person old Martin invited to see him. The oldman had gone to London, and his grandson, Mary Graham, and Tom Pinchwere all summoned to wait on him at a certain hour. 

From Mark, old Martin learnt that his grandson was an altered man. 

"There was always a deal of good in him, " said Mr. Tapley, "but a littleof it got crusted over somehow. I can't say who rolled the paste of that'ere paste, but--well, I think it may have been you, sir. "

"So you think, " said Martin, "that his old faults are in some degree ofmy creation?"

"Well, sir, I'm very sorry, but I can't unsay it. I don't believe thatneither of you ever gave the other a fair chance. "

Presently came a knock at the door, and young Martin entered. The oldman pointed to a distant chair. Then came Tom Pinch and his sister, Ruth; and Mary Graham; and Mrs. Lupin, the landlady of the Blue Dragon;and John Westlock, an old friend of Tom Pinch's. 

"Set the door open, Mark!" said Mr. Chuzzlewit. 

The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knewit. It was Mr. Pecksniff's; and Mr. Pecksniff was in a hurry, too, forhe came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled onceor twice. 

"Where is my venerable friend?" he cried upon the upper landing. Andthen, darting in and catching sight of old Martin, "My venerable friendis well?"

Mr. Pecksniff looked round upon the assembled group, and shook his headreproachfully. 

"Oh, vermin!" said Mr. Pecksniff. "Oh bloodsuckers! Horde of unnaturalplunderers and robbers! Leave him! Leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond!You had better be off! Wander over the face of the earth, young sirs, and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the greyhairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have thehonour to act as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. "

He advanced, with outstretched arms, to take the old man's hand; but hehad not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within itsgrasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, burning with indignation, rose up and struck him to the ground. 

"Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!" said Martin. And Mr. Tapleyactually did drag him away, and struck him upon the floor with his backagainst the opposite wall. 

"Hear me, rascal!" said Mr. Chuzzlewit. "I have summoned you here towitness your own work. Come hither, my dear Martin! Why did we everpart? How could we ever part? How could you fly from me to him? Thefault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so, and I have knownit long. Mary, my love, come here. "

She trembled, and was very pale; but he sat her in his own chair, andstood beside it holding her hand, Martin standing by him. 

"The curse of our house, " said the old man, looking kindly down uponher, "has been the love of self--has ever been the love of self. " Hedrew one hand through Martin's arm, and standing so, between them, proceeded, "What's this? Her hand is trembling strangely. See if you canhold it. "

Hold it! If he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist--well, well!

But it was good in him that even then, in high fortune and happiness, hehad still a hand left to stretch out to Tom Pinch. 

 * * * * *

Nicholas Nickleby

 Writing in 1848, Charles Dickens declared that when "Nicholas Nickleby" was begun in 1838 "there were then a good many-cheap Yorkshire schools in existence. There are very few now. " In the preface to the completed book the author mentioned that more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster laid claim to be the original of Squeers, and he had reason to believe "one worthy has actually consulted authorities learned in the law as to his having good grounds on which to rest an action for libel. " But Squeers, as Dickens insisted, was the representative of a class, and not an individual. The Brothers Cheeryble were "no creations of the author's brain" Dickens also wrote; and in consequence of this statement "hundreds upon hundreds of letters from all sorts of people" poured in upon him to be forwarded "to the originals of the Brothers Cheeryble. " They were the Brothers Grant, cotton-spinners, near Manchester. "Nicholas Nickleby" was completed in October, 1839. 

_I. --A Yorkshire Schoolmaster_

Mr. Nickleby, a country gentleman of small estate, having endeavoured toincrease his scanty fortune by speculation, found himself ruined; hetook to his bed (apparently resolved to keep that, at all events), and, after embracing his wife and children, very soon departed this life. SoMrs. Nickleby went to London to wait upon her brother-in-law, Mr. RalphNickleby, and with her two children, Nicholas, then nineteen, and Kate, a year or two younger, took lodgings in the Strand. 

It was to these apartments that Ralph Nickleby, a hard, unscrupulous, cunning money-lender, came on receipt of the widow's note. 

"Are you willing to work, sir?" said Ralph, frowning at his nephew. 

"Of course I am, " replied Nicholas haughtily. 

"Then see here, " said his uncle. "This caught my eyes this morning, andyou may thank your stars for it. "

With that Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper from his pocket and readthe following advertisement. 

"_Education_. --At Mr. Wackford Squeers' Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at thedelightful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, youths are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, instructed in alllanguages living or dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick (ifrequired), writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch ofclassic literature. Terms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, novacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attendsdaily from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N. B. --An ableassistant wanted. Annual salary, £5, A Master of Arts would bepreferred. "

"There!" said Ralph, folding the paper again. "Let him get thatsituation and his fortune's made. If he don't like that, let him get onefor himself. "

"I am ready to do anything you wish me, " said Nicholas, starting gailyup. "Let us try our fortune with Mr. Squeers at once; he can butrefuse. "

"He won't do that, " said Ralph. "He will be glad to have you on myrecommendation. Make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to be apartner in the establishment in no time. "

Nicholas, having taken down the address of Mr. Wackford Squeers, theuncle and nephew at once went forth in quest of that accomplishedgentleman. 

"Perhaps you recollect me?" said Ralph, looking narrowly at theschoolmaster, as the Saracen's Head. 

"You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits to townfor some years, I think, sir, " replied Squeers, "for the parents of aboy who, unfortunately----"

"Unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall, " said Ralph, finishing thesentence. "And now let us come to business. You have advertised for anassistant. Do you really want one?"

"Certainly, " answered Squeers. 

"Here he is!" said Ralph. "My nephew Nicholas, hot from school, is justthe man you want. "

"I am afraid, " said Squeers, perplexed with such an application from ayouth of Nicholas's figure--"I am afraid the young man won't suit me. "

"I fear, sir, " said Nicholas, "that you object to my youth, and to notbeing a Master of Arts?"

"The absence of the college degree _is_ an objection. " replied Squeers, considerably puzzled by the contrast between the simplicity of thenephew and the shrewdness of the uncle. 

"Let me have two words with you, " said Ralph. The two words were hadapart; in a couple of minutes Mr. Wackford Squeers' announced that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby was from that moment installed in the office of firstassistant master at Dotheboys Hall. 

"At eight o'clock to-morrow morning, Mr. Nickleby, " said Squeers, "thecoach starts. You must be here at a quarter before, as we take some boyswith us. "

"And your fare down I have paid, " growled Ralph. "So you'll have nothingto do but keep yourself warm. "

_II. --At Dotheboys Hall_

"Past seven, Nickleby, " said Mr. Squeers on the first morning after thearrival at Dotheboys Hall. "Come, tumble up. Here's a pretty go, thepump's froze. You can't wash yourself this morning, so you must becontent with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in thewell, and can get a bucketful out for the boys. "

Nicholas huddled on his clothes and followed Squeers across a yard tothe school-room. 

"There, " said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together, "this isour shop. "

It was a bare and dirty room, the windows mostly stopped up with oldcopybooks and paper, and Nicholas looked with dismay at the old ricketydesks and forms. 

But the pupils!

Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long and meagre legs would hardly bear their stoopingbodies. Faces that told of young lives which from infancy had been onehorrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. Little faces that should havebeen handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. Andyet, painful as the scene was, it had its grotesque features. 

Mrs. Squeers, wearing a beaver bonnet of some antiquity on the top of anightcap, stood at the desk, presiding over an immense basin ofbrimstone and treacle. This compound she administered to each boy insuccession, using an enormous wooden spoon for the purpose. 

"We purify the boys' blood now and then, Nickleby, " said Squeers, whenthe operation was over. 

A meagre breakfast followed; and then Mr. Squeers made his way to hisdesk, and called up the first class. 

"This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby, "said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. "Now then, where'sthe first boy?"

"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlour window. "

"So he is, to be sure, " replied Squeers. "We go upon the practical modeof teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright. W-i-n, win; d-e-r, winder, a casement. Whenthe boy knows this out of a book, he goes and does it. Where's thesecond boy?"

"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden. "

"So he is, " said Squeers. B-o-t, bot; t-i-n, bottin; n-e-y, ney, bottiney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learnedthat bottiney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That'sour system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?"

"A beast, sir, " replied the boy. 

"So it is, " said Squeers. "A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latinfor beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows. As you'reperfect in that, go and look after _my_ horse, and rub him down well, orI'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up, tillsomebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day to-morrow, andthey want the coppers filled. "

The deficiencies of Mr. Squeers' scholastic methods were made up bylavish punishments, and Nicholas was compelled to stand by every day andsee the unfortunate pupils of Dotheboys Hall beaten without mercy, andknow that he could do nothing to alleviate their misery. 

In particular the plight of one poor boy, older than the rest, calledSmike, a drudge whom starvation and ill-treatment had rendered dull andslow-witted, aroused all Nicholas's pity. 

It was Smike who was the cause of Nicholas leaving Yorkshire. 

Nicholas could endure the coarse and brutal language of Squeers, thedispleasure of Mrs. Squeers (who decided that the new usher was "aproud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock, " and that "she'dbring his pride down"), and the petty indignities this lady couldinflict upon him. He bore with the bad food, dirty lodging, and dailyround of squalid misery in the school. 

But there came a day when Smike, unable to face his tormentors anylonger, ran away. He was taken within four-and-twenty hours, and broughtback, bedabbled with mud and rain, haggard and worn--to all appearancemore dead than alive. 

The work this unhappy drudge performed would have cost the establishmentsome ten or twelve shillings a week in the way of wages, and Squeers, who, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of all runaways fromDotheboys Hall, prepared to take full vengeance on Smike. 

At the first blow Smike uttered a shriek of pain, and Nicholas Nicklebystarted up from his desk, and cried "Stop!" in a furious voice. 

"Touch that boy at your peril. I will not stand by and see it done. "

He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, spat upon him, and struck him across the face with his cane. 

All Nicholas's feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation wereconcentrated into that moment, and, smarting at the blow, he sprang uponthe schoolmaster, wrested the weapon from him, and, pinning him by thethroat, beat the ruffian until he roared for mercy. 

Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of herpartner's coat, and tried to drag him from his infuriated adversary. With the result that when Nicholas, having thrown all his remainingstrength into a half dozen finishing cuts, flung the schoolmaster fromhim with all the force he could muster, Mrs. Squeers was precipitatedover an adjacent form; and Squeers, striking his head against it in hisdescent, lay at full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. 

Nicholas, assured that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead, left theroom, packed up his few clothes in a small leathern valise, marchedboldly out by the front door, and struck into the road for London. 

_III. --Brighter Days for Nicholas_

After many adventures in the quest of fortune, Nicholas, who had spurnedall further connection with his uncle, stood one day outside a registryoffice in London. And as he stood there looking at the various placardsin the window, an old gentleman, a sturdy old fellow in broad-skirtedblue coat, happened to stop too. 

Nicholas caught the old gentleman's eye, and began to wonder whether thestranger could by any possibility be looking for a clerk or secretary. 

As the old gentleman moved away he noticed that Nicholas was about tospeak, and good-naturedly stood still. 

"I was only going to say, " said Nicholas, "that I hoped you had someobject in consulting those advertisements in the window. "

"Ay, ay; what object now?" returned the old gentleman. "Did you think Iwanted a situation now, eh? I thought the same of you, at first, upon myword I did. "

"If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been farfrom the truth, " rejoined Nicholas. "The kindness of your face andmanner--both so unlike any I have ever seen--tempt me to speak in a wayI should never dream of doing to a stranger in this wilderness ofLondon. "

"Wilderness! Yes, it is; it is. It was a wilderness to me once. I camehere barefoot--I have never forgotten it. What's the matter, how did itall come about?" said the old man, laying his hand on the shoulder ofNicholas, and walking him up the street. "In mourning, too, eh?" layinghis finger on the sleeve of his black coat. 

"My father, " replied Nicholas. 

"Bad thing for a young man to lose his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?"

Nicholas nodded. 

"Brothers and sisters, too, eh?"

"One sister. "

"Poor thing, poor thing! You're a scholar too, I dare say. Education's agreat thing. I never had any. I admire it the more in others. A veryfine thing. Tell me more of your history, all of it. No impertinentcuriosity--no, no!"

There was something so earnest and guileless in the way this was saidthat Nicholas could not resist it. So he told his story, and, at theend, the old gentleman carried him straight off to the City, where theyemerged in a quiet, shady square. The old gentleman led the way intosome business premises, which had the inscription, "Cheeryble Brothers, "on the doorpost, and stopped to speak to an elderly, large-faced clerkin the counting-house. 

"Is my brother in his room, Tim?" said Mr. Cheeryble. 

"Yes, he is, sir, " said the clerk. 

What was the amazement of Nicholas when his conductor took him into aroom and presented him to another old gentleman, the very type and modelof himself--the same face and figure, the same clothes. Nobody couldhave doubted their being twin brothers. 

"Brother Ned, " said Nicholas's friend, "here is a young friend of minethat we must assist. " Then brother Charles related what Nicholas hadtold him. And, after that, and some conversation between the brothers, Tim Linkinwater was called in, and brother Ned whispered a few words inhis ear. 

"Tim, " said brother Charles, "you understand that we have an intentionof taking this young gentleman into the counting-house. "

Brother Ned remarked that Tim quite approved of it, and Tim, havingnodded, said, with resolution, "But I'm not coming an hour later in themorning, you know. I'm not going to the country either. It's forty-fouryears since I first kept the books of Cheeryble Brothers. I've openedthe safe all that time every morning at nine, and I've never slept outof the back attic one single night. This ain't the first time you'vetalked about superannuating me, Mr. Edwin and Mr. Charles; but, if youplease, we'll make it the last, and drop the subject for evermore. "

With which words Tim Linkinwater stalked out, with the air of a man whowas thoroughly resolved not to be put down. 

The brothers coughed. 

"He must be done something with, brother Ned. We must, disregard hisscruples; he must be made a partner. "

"Quite right, quite right, brother Charles. If he won't listen toreason, we must do it against his will. But, in the meantime, we arekeeping our young friend, and the poor lady and her daughter will beanxious for his return. So let us say good-bye for the present. " And atthat the brothers hurried Nicholas out of the office, shaking hands withhim all the way. 

That was the beginning of brighter days for Nicholas and for Mrs. Nickleby and Kate. The brothers Cheeryble not only took Nicholas intotheir office, but a small cottage at Bow, then quite out in the country, was found for the widow and her children. 

There never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as the firstweek at that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came home, something newhad been found. One day it was a grape-vine, and another day it was aboiler, and another day it was the key of the front parlour cupboard atthe bottom of the water-butt, and so on through a hundred items. 

As for Nicholas's work in the counting-house, Tim Linkinwater wassatisfied with the young man the very first day. 

Tim turned pale and stood watching with breathless anxiety when Nicholasmade his first entry in the books of Cheeryble Brothers, while the twobrothers looked on with smiling faces. 

Presently the old clerk nodded his head, signifying "He'll do. " But whenNicholas stopped to refer to some other page, Tim Linkinwater, unable torestrain his satisfaction any longer, descended from his stool, andcaught him rapturously by the hand. 

"He has done it!" said Tim, looking round triumphantly at his employers. "His capital 'B's' and 'D's' are exactly like mine; he dots his small'i's' and crosses every 't. ' There ain't such a young man in all London. The City can't produce his equal. I challenge the City to do it!"

_IV. --The Brothers Cheeryble_

In course of time the brothers Cheeryble, in their frequent visits tothe cottage at Bow, often took with them their nephew Frank; and it alsohappened that Miss Madeline Bray, a ward of the brothers, was taken tothe cottage to recover from a serious illness. 

Nicholas, from the first time he had seen Madeline in the office ofCheeryble Brothers, had fallen in love with her; but he decided that asan honourable man no word of love must pass his lips. While KateNickleby had been equally firm in declining to listen to any proposalfrom Frank. 

It was some time after Madeline had left the cottage, and Nicholas andKate had begun to try in good earnest to stifle their own regrets, andto live for each other and for their mother, when there came oneevening, per Mr. Linkinwater, an invitation from the brothers to dinneron the next day but one. 

"You may depend on it that this means something besides dinner, " saidMrs. Nickleby solemnly. 

When the great day arrived who should be there at the house of thebrothers but Frank and Madeline. 

"Young men, " said brother Charles, "shake hands. "

"I need no bidding to do that, " said Nicholas. 

"Nor I, " rejoined Frank, and the two young men clasped hands heartily. 

The old gentleman took them aside. 

"I wish to see you friends--close and firm friends. Frank, look here!Mrs. Nickleby, will you come on the other side? This is a copy of thewill of Madeline's grandfather, bequeathing her the sum of £12, 000. Now, Frank, you were largely instrumental in recovering this document. Thefortune is but a small one, but we love Madeline. Will you become asuitor for her hand?"

"No, sir. I interested myself in the recovery of that instrument, believing that her hand was already pledged elsewhere. In this, itseems, I judged hastily. "

"As you always do, sir!" cried brother Charles. "How dare you think, Frank, that we could have you marry for money? How dare you go and makelove to Mr. Nickleby's sister without telling us first, and letting usspeak for you. Mr. Nickleby, sir, Frank judged hastily, but he judged, for once, correctly. Madeline's heart is occupied--give me your hand--itis occupied by you and worthily. She chooses you, Mr. Nickleby, as we, her dearest friends, would have her choose. Frank chooses as we wouldhave _him_ choose. He should have your sister's little hand, sir, if shehad refused it a score of times--ay, he should, and he shall! What? Youare the children of a worthy gentleman. The time was, sir, when mybrother Ned and I were two poor, simple-hearted boys, wandering almostbarefoot to seek bur fortunes. Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, what a happy day thisis for you and me! If our poor mother had only lived to see us now, Ned, how proud it would have made her dear heart at last!"

So Madeline gave her heart and fortune to Nicholas, and on the same day, and at the same time, Kate became Mrs. Frank Cheeryble. Madeline's moneywas invested in the firm of Cheeryble Brothers, in which Nicholas hadbecome a partner, and before many years elapsed the business was carriedon in the names of "Cheeryble and Nickleby. "

Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much entreating and brow-beating, toaccept a share in the house; but he could never be prevailed upon tosuffer the publication of his name as partner, and always persisted inthe punctual and regular discharge of his clerkly duties. 

The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be told that they were happy?

The first act of Nicholas, when he became a rich and prosperousmerchant, was to buy his father's old house. As time crept on, and therecame gradually about him a group of lovely children, it was altered andenlarged; but no tree was rooted up, nothing with which there was anyassociation of bygone times was ever removed or changed. Mr. Squeers, having come within the meshes of the law over some nefarious scheme ofRalph Nickleby's, suffered transportation beyond the seas, and with hisdisappearance Dotheboys Hall was broken up for good. 

 * * * * *

Oliver Twist

 "The Adventures of Oliver Twist, " published serially in "Bentley's Miscellany, " 1837-39, and in book form in 1838, was the second of Dickens's novels. It lacks the exuberance of "Pickwick, " and is more limited in its scenes and characters than any other novel he wrote, excepting "Hard Times" and "Great Expectations. " But the description of the workhouse, its inmates and governors, is done in Dickens's best style, and was a frontal attack on the Poor Law administration of the time. Bumble, indeed, has passed into common use as the typical workhouse official of the least satisfactory sort. No less powerful than the picture of Oliver's wretched childhood is the description of the thieves' kitchen, presided over by Fagin. Bill Sikes and the Artful Dodger are household words for criminals, and the character of Fagin is drawn with wonderful skill in this terrible view of the underworld of London. 

_I. --The Parish Boy_

Oliver was born in the workhouse, and his mother died the same night. Not even a promised reward of £10 could produce any information as tothe boy's father or the mother's name. The woman was young, frail, anddelicate--a stranger to the parish. 

"How comes he to have any name at all, then?" said Mrs. Mann (who wasresponsible for the early bringing up of the workhouse children) to Mr. Bumble, the parish beadle. 

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "I invented it. We name our foundings in alphabetical order. The last was a S; Swubble Inamed him. This was a T; Twist I named _him_. I have got names readymade to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, whenwe come to Z. "

"Why, you're quite a literary character, sir, " said Mrs. Mann. 

Oliver, being now nine years old, was removed from the tender mercies ofMrs. Mann, in whose wretched home not one kind word or look had everlighted the gloom of his infant years, and was taken into the workhouse. 

Now the members of the board, who were long-headed men, had justestablished the rule that all poor people should have the alternative(for they would compel nobody, not they) of being starved by a gradualprocess in the house, or by a quick one out of it. All relief wasinseparable from the workhouse, and the thin gruel issued three times aday to its inmates. 

The system was in full operation for the first six months after OliverTwist's admission, and boys having generally excellent appetites, OliverTwist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation. Eachboy had one porringer of gruel, and no more. At last the boys got sovoracious and wild with hunger, that one, who was tall for his age andhadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a smallcook's shop), hinted darkly to his companions that unless he had anotherbasin of gruel _per diem_ he was afraid he might some night happen toeat the boy who slept next him, a weakly youth of tender age. He had awild, hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council was held, lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper thatevening and ask for more, and it fell to Oliver Twist. 

The evening arrived, the boys took their places. The master, in hiscook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper to ladle out the gruel;his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him, the gruel was servedout, and a long grace was said over the short commons. 

The gruel disappeared, the boys whispered to each other, and winked atOliver, while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was, he wasdesperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table, and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhatalarmed at his own temerity, "Please, sir, I want some more. "

The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale. He gazed instupified astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and thensaid, "What!"

"Please, sir, " replied Oliver, "I want some more. "

The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle, pinioned him inhis arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle. 

The board were sitting in solemn conclave when Mr. Bumble rushed intothe room in great excitement, and addressing a gentleman in a highchair, said, "Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist hasasked for more!"

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance. 

"For _more_?" said the chairman. "Compose yourself, Bumble, and answerme distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he hadeaten the supper allotted by the dietary?"

"He did, sir, " replied Bumble. 

"That boy will be hung, " said a gentleman in a white waistcoat. "I knowthat boy will be hung. "

Nobody disputed the opinion. Oliver was ordered into instantconfinement, and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of theworkhouse gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who wouldtake Oliver Twist off their hands. In other words, five pounds andOliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprenticeto any trade, business, or calling. 

Mr. Gamfield, the chimney sweep, was the first to respond to this offer. 

"It's a nasty trade, " said the chairman of the board. 

"Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now, " said anothermember. 

"That's because they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbleyto make 'em come down again, " said Gamfield. "That's all smoke, and noblaze; vereas smoke only sinds him to sleep, and that ain't no use inmaking a boy come down. Boys is wery obstinite and wery lazy, gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down with arun. It's humane, too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in thechimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricatetheirselves. "

The board consented to hand over Oliver to the chimney-sweep (thepremium being reduced to £3 10s. ), but the magistrates declined tosanction the indentures, and it was Mr. Sowerberry, the undertaker, whofinally relieved the board of their responsibility. 

Mrs. Sowerberry's ill-treatment drove Oliver to flight. He left thehouse in the early morning before anyone was stirring, struck acrossfields, and gained the high road outside the town. A milestone intimatedthat it was seventy miles to London. In London he would be beyond thereach of Mr. Bumble; to London he would trudge. 

_II. --The Artful Dodger_

It was on the seventh morning after he had left his native place thatOliver limped slowly into the town of Barnet. Tired and hungry he satdown on a doorstep, and presently was roused by the question "Hallo, mycovey, what's the row?"

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer was about hisown age, but one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was short for his age, and dirty, and he had about him all the airsand manners of a man. He wore a man's coat which reached nearly to hisheels, and he had turned the cuffs back half-way up his arm to get hishands out of the sleeves. Altogether he was as roystering and swaggeringa young gentleman as ever stood four feet six in his bluchers. 

"You want grub, " said this strange boy, helping Oliver to rise; "and youshall have it. I'm at low-watermark myself, only one bob and a magpie;but as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. "

"Going to London?" said the strange boy, while they sat and finished ameal in a small public-house. 

"Yes. "

"Got any lodgings?"

"No. "

"Money?"

"No. "

The strange boy whistled. 

"I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you? Well, I've got to be in London to-night, and I know a 'spectable old genelmanas lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask forthe change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. "

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, and onthe way to London, where they arrived at nightfall, Oliver learnt thathis friend's name was Jack Dawkins, but that he was known among hisintimates as "The Artful Dodger. "

In Field Lane, in the slums of Saffron Hill, the Dodger pushed open thedoor of a house, and drew Oliver within. 

"Now, then, " cried a voice, in reply to his whistle. 

"Plummy and slam, " said the Dodger. 

This seemed to be a watchword, for a man at once appeared with a candle. 

"There's two on you, " said the man. "Who's the t'other one, and wheredoes he come from?"

"A new pal from Greenland, " replied Jack Dawkins. "Is Fagin upstairs?"

"Yes, he's sortin the wipes. Up with you. "

The room that Oliver was taken into was black with age and dirt. Severalrough beds, made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than theDodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air ofmiddle-aged men. An old shrivelled Jew, of repulsive face, was standingover the fire, dividing his attention between a frying-pan and aclothes-horse full of silk handkerchiefs. 

The Dodger whispered a few words to the Jew, and then said aloud, "Thisis him, Fagin, my friend Oliver Twist. "

The Jew grinned. "We are very glad to see you, Oliver--very. "

A good supper Oliver had that night, and a heavy sleep, and a heartybreakfast next morning. 

When the breakfast was cleared away, Fagin, who was quite a merry oldgentleman, and the Dodger and another boy named Charley Bates, played ata very curious game. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuffbox in onepocket of his trousers, a note-book in the other, and a watch in hiswaistcoat, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt, andspectacle-case and handkerchief in his coat-pocket, trotted up and downthe room in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk aboutthe streets; while the Dodger and Charley Bates had to get all thesethings out of his pockets without being observed. It was so very funnythat Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. 

A few days later, and he understood the full meaning of the game. 

The Dodger and Charley Bates had taken Oliver out for a walk, and aftersauntering along, they suddenly pulled up short on Clerkenwell Green, atthe sight of an old gentleman reading at a bookstall. So intent was heover his book that he might have been sitting in an easy chair in hisstudy. 

To Oliver's horror, the Dodger plunged his hand into the gentleman'spocket, drew out a handkerchief, and handed it to Bates. Then both boysran away round the corner at full speed. Oliver, frightened at what hehad seen, ran off, too; the old gentleman, at the same moment missinghis handkerchief, and seeing Oliver scudding off, concluded he was thethief, and gave chase, still holding his book in his hand. 

The cry of "Stop thief!" was raised. Oliver was knocked down, captured, and taken to the police-station by a constable. 

The magistrate was still sitting, and Oliver would have been convictedthere and then but for the arrival of the bookseller. 

"Stop, stop! Don't take him away! I saw it all! I keep the bookstall, "cried the man. "I saw three boys, two others, and the prisoner here. Therobbery was committed by another boy. I saw that this one was amazed byit. "

Oliver was acquitted. But he had fainted. Mr. Brownlow, for that was thename of the old gentleman, shocked and moved at the boy's deathlywhiteness, straightway carried the boy off in a cab to his own house ina quiet, shady street near Pentonville. 

_III. --Back in Fagin's Den_

For many days Oliver remained insensible to the goodness of his newfriends. But all that careful nursing could do was done, and he slowlyand surely recovered. Mr. Brownlow, a kind-hearted old bachelor, tookthe greatest interest in his _protégé_, and Oliver implored him not toturn him out of doors to wander in the streets. 

"My dear child, " said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver'sappeal, "you need not be afraid of my deserting you. I have beendeceived before in people I have endeavored to benefit, but I feelstrongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interestedin your behalf than I can well account for. Let me hear your story;speak the truth to me, and you shall not be friendless while I amalive. "

A certain unmistakable likeness in Oliver to a lady's portrait that wason the wall of the room struck Mr. Brownlow. What connection could therebe between the original of the portrait, and this poor child?

But before Mr. Brownlow had heard Oliver's story he had lost the boy. For Fagin, horribly uneasy lest Oliver should be the means of betrayinghis late companions, resolved to get him back as quickly as possible. Toaccomplish his evil purpose, Nancy, a young woman who belonged toFagin's gang, and who had seen Oliver, was prevailed upon to undertakethe commission. 

Now, the very evening before Oliver was to tell his story to Mr. Brownlow, the boy, anxious to prove his honesty, had set out with somebooks on an errand to the bookseller at Clerkenwell Green. 

"You are to say, " said Mr. Brownlow, "that you have brought these booksback, and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. Thisis a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillingschange. "

"I won't be ten minutes, sir, " replied Oliver eagerly. 

He was walking briskly along, thinking how happy and contented he oughtto feel, when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, "Oh, my dear brother!" He had hardly looked up when he was stopped byhaving a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck. 

"Don't!" cried Oliver, struggling. "Let go of me. Who is it? What areyou stopping me for?"

The only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from theyoung woman who had embraced him. 

"I've found him! Oh, Oliver, Oliver! Oh, you naughty boy to make mesuffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I'vefound him! Thank gracious goodness heavens, I've found him!"

The young woman burst out crying, and a couple of women standing byasked what was the matter. 

"Oh, ma'am, " replied the young woman, "he ran away from his parents, andwent and joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost brokehis mother's heart. "

"Young wretch!" said one woman. 

"Go home, do, you little brute, " said the other. 

"I'm not, " replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven'tany sister or father or mother. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville. "

"Oh, only hear him, how he braves it out, " cried the young woman. "Makehim come home, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break myheart!"

"What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with awhite dog at his heels. "Young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog!"

"I don't belong to them. I don't know them! Help, help!" cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp. 

"Help!" repeated the man. "Yes, I'll help you, you young rascal! Whatbooks are these? You've been a-stealin' 'em, have you? Give 'em here!"

With these words the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck himon the head. 

Weak with recent illness, stupefied by the blows and the suddenness ofthe attack, terrified by the brutality of the man--who was none otherthan Bill Sikes, the roughest of all Fagin's pupils--what could one poorchild do? Darkness had set in; it was a low neighbourhood; resistancewas useless. Sikes and Nancy hurried the boy on between them throughcourts and alleys till, once more, he was within the dreadful housewhere the Dodger had first brought him. Long after the gas-lamps werelighted, Mr. Brownlow sat waiting in his parlour. The servant had run upthe street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver. Thehousekeeper had waited anxiously at the open door. But no Oliverreturned. 

_IV. --Oliver Falls among Friends_

Mr. Bill Sikes having an important house-breaking engagement with hisfellow-robber, Mr. Toby Crackit, at Shepperton, decided that Oliver mustaccompany him. 

It was a detached house, and the night was dark as pitch when Sikes andCrackit, dragging Oliver along, climbed the wall and approached anarrow, shuttered window. In vain Oliver implored them to let him go. 

"Listen, you young limb, " whispered Sikes, when a crowbar had overcomethe shutter, and the lattice had been opened. "I'm going to put youthrough there. " Drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, he added, "Takethis light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along thehall to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in. "

The boy was put through the window, and Sikes, pointing to the door withhis pistol, told him if he faltered he would shoot him. 

Hardly had Oliver advanced a few yards before Sikes called out, "Back!back!"

Startled, the boy dropped the lantern, uncertain whether to advance orfly. 

The cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrified, half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes--aflash--a loud noise--and he staggered back. 

Sikes got him out of the window before the smoke cleared away, and firedhis pistol after the men, who were already in retreat. 

"Clasp your arm tighter, " said Sikes. "Give me a shawl here. They've hithim. Quick! The boy is bleeding. "

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, and the shouts of men, and thesensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And thenthe noises grew confused in the distance, and Oliver saw and heard nomore. 

Sikes, finding the chase too hot, was compelled to leave Oliver in aditch and make his escape with his friend Crackit. 

It was morning when Oliver awoke. His left arm was rudely bandaged in ashawl, and the bandage was saturated with blood. Weak and dizzy, he yetfelt that if he remained where he was he would surely die, and so hestaggered to his feet. The only house in sight was the one he hadentered a few hours earlier, and he bent his steps towards it. He pushedagainst the garden-gate--it was unlocked. He tottered across the lawn, climbed the steps, knocked faintly at the door, and, his whole strengthfailing him, sank down against the little portico. 

Mr. Giles, the butler and general steward of the house, who had firedthe shot and led the pursuit, was just explaining the exciting events ofthe night to his fellow-servants of the kitchen when Oliver's knock washeard. With considerable reluctance the door was opened, and then thegroup, peeping timorously over each other's shoulders, beheld no moreformidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless andexhausted. 

"Here he is!" bawled Giles. "Here's one of the, thieves, ma'am! Wounded, miss! I shot him!"

They lugged the fainting boy into the hall, and then in the midst of allthe noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet and gentle voice, whichquelled it in an instant. 

"Giles!" whispered the voice from the stairhead. "Hush! You frighten myaunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?"

"Wounded desperate, miss, " replied Giles. 

After a hasty consultation with her aunt, the same gentle speaker badethem carry the wounded person upstairs, and send to Chertsey at allspeed for a constable and a doctor. The latter arrived when the younglady and her aunt, Mrs. Maylie, were at breakfast, and his visit to thesick-room changed the state of affairs. On his return he begged Mrs. Maylie and her niece to accompany him upstairs. 

In lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to see, there lay a mere child, sunk in a deep sleep. 

The ladies could not believe this delicate boy was a criminal, and when, on waking up, he told them his simple history, they were determined toprevent his arrest. 

The doctor undertook to save the boy, and to that end entered thekitchen where Mr. Giles, Brittles, his assistant, and the constable wereregaling themselves with ale. 

"How is the patient, sir?" asked Giles. 

"So-so, " returned the doctor. "I'm afraid you've got yourself into ascrape there, Mr. Giles. Are you a Protestant? And what are _you_?"turning sharply on Brittles. 

"Yes, sir; I hope so, " faltered Mr. Giles, turning very pale, for thedoctor spoke with strange severity. 

"I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir, " said Brittles, starting violently. 

"Then tell me this, both of you, " said the doctor. "Are you going totake upon yourselves to swear that that boy upstairs is the boy that wasput through the little window last night? Come, out with it! Payattention to the reply, constable. Here's a house broken into, and acouple of men catch a moment's glimpse of a boy in the midst ofgunpowder-smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house next morning, and because hehappens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him, place his life in danger, and swear he is the thief. I ask you again, "thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identifythat boy?"

Of course, under these circumstances, as Mr. Giles and Brittles couldn'tidentify the boy, the constable retired, and the attempted robbery wasfollowed by no arrests. 

Oliver Twist grew up in the peaceful and happy home of Mrs. Maylie, under the tender affection of two good women. Later on, Mr. Brownlow wasfound, and Oliver's character restored. It was proved, too, that theportrait Mr. Brownlow possessed was that of Oliver's mother, whom itsowner had once esteemed dearly. Betrayed by fate, the unhappy woman hadsought refuge in the workhouse, only to die in giving birth to her son. 

In that same workhouse, where his authority had formerly been soconsiderable, Mr. Bumble came--as a pauper--to die. 

Tragic was the fate of poor Nancy. Suspected by Fagin of plottingagainst her accomplices, the Jew so worked on Sikes that the savagehousebreaker murdered her. 

But neither Fagin nor Sikes escaped. 

For the Jew was taken and condemned to death, and in the condemned cellcame the recollection to him of all the men he had known who had diedupon the scaffold, some of them through his means. 

Sikes, when the news of Nancy's murder got abroad, was hunted by afurious crowd. He had taken refuge in an old, disreputable uninhabitedhouse, known to his accomplices, which stood right over the Thames, inJacob's Island, not far from Dockhead; but the pursuit was hot, and theonly chance of safety lay in getting to the river. 

At the very moment when the crowd was forcing its way into the house, Sikes made a running noose to slip beneath his arm-pits, and so lowerhimself to a ditch beneath. He was out on the roof, and then, when theloop was over his head, the face of the murdered girl seemed to stare athim. 

"The eyes again!" he cried, in an unearthly screech, and threw up hisarms in horror. 

Staggering, as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbledover the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bowstring. He fell for five-and-thirty feet, and then, aftera sudden jerk, and a terrible convulsion of the limbs, swung lifelessagainst the wall. 

 * * * * *

Old Curiosity Shop

 "The Old Curiosity Shop" was begun by Dickens in his new weekly publication called "Master Humphrey's Clock, " in 1840, and its early chapters were written in the first person. But its author soon got rid of the impediments that pertained to "Master Humphrey, " and "when the story was finished, " Dickens wrote, "I caused the few sheets of 'Master Humphrey's Clock, ' which had been printed in connection with it, to be cancelled. " "The Old Curiosity Shop" won a host of friends for the author; A. C. Swinburne even declared Little Nell equal to any character in fiction. The lonely figure of the child with grotesque and wild, but not impossible, companions, took the hearts of all readers by storm, and the death of Little Nell moved thousands to tears. While the story was appearing, Tom Hood, then unknown to Dickens, wrote an essay "tenderly appreciative" of Little Nell, "and of all her shadowy kith and kin. " The immense and deserved popularity of the book is shown by the universal acquaintance with Mrs. Jarley, and the common use of the phrase "Codlin's the friend--not Short. "

_I. --Little Nell and Her Grandfather_

The shop was one of those receptacles for old and curious things whichseem to crouch in odd corners of London. There were suits of mailstanding like ghosts in armour, rusty weapons of various kinds, tapestry, and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams. 

The haggard aspect of a little old man, with long grey hair, who stoodwithin, was wonderfully suited to the place. Nothing in the wholecollection looked older or more worn than he. 

Confronting the old man was a young man of dissipated appearance, andhigh words were taking place. 

"I tell you again I want to see my sister, " said the younger man. "Youcan't change the relationship, you know. If you could, you'd have doneit long ago. But as I may have to wait some time I'll call in a friendof mine, with your leave. "

At this he brought in a companion of even more dissolute appearance thanhimself. 

"There, it's Dick Swiveller, " said the young fellow, pushing him in. 

"But is the old min agreeable?" said Mr. Swiveller in an undertone. "What is the odds so long as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper ofconviviality, and the wing of friendship never moults a feather! But, only one little whisper, Fred--_is_ the old min friendly?"

Mr. Swiveller then leaned back in his chair and relapsed into silence;only to break it by observing, "Gentlemen, how does the case stand? Hereis a jolly old grandfather, and here is a wild young grandson. The jollyold grandfather says to the wild young grandson, 'I have brought you upand educated you, Fred; you have bolted a little out of the course, andyou shall never have another chance. ' The wild young grandson makesanswer, 'You're as rich as can be, why can't you stand a trifle for yourgrown up relation?' Then the plain question is, ain't it a pity thisstate of things should continue, and how much better it would be for theold gentleman to hand over a reasonable amount of tin, and make it allright and comfortable?"

"Why do you persecute me?" said the old man, turning to his grandson. "Why do you bring your profligate companions here? I am poor. You havechosen your own path, follow it. Leave Nell and me to toil and work. "

"Nell will be a woman soon, " returned the other; "She'll forget herbrother unless he shows himself sometimes. "

The door opened, and the child herself appeared, followed by an elderlyman so low in stature as to be quite a dwarf, though his head and facewere large enough for the body of a giant. 

Mr. Swiveller turned to the dwarf and, stooping down, whispered audiblyin his ear. "The watchword to the old min is--fork. "

"Is what?" demanded Quilp, for that--Daniel Quilp--was the dwarf's name. 

"Is fork, sir, fork, " replied Mr. Swiveller, slapping his pocket. "Youare awake, sir?"

The dwarf nodded; the grandson, having announced his intention ofrepeating his visit, left the house accompanied by his friend. 

"So much for dear relations, " said Quilp, with a sour look. He put hishand into his breast, and pulled out a bag. "Here, I brought it myself, as, being in gold, it was too large and heavy for Nell to carry. I wouldI knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But you area deep man, and keep your secret close. "

"My secret!" said the old man, with a haggard look. "Yes, you'reright--I keep it close--very close. "

He said no more, but, taking the money, locked it in an iron safe. 

That night, as on many a night previous, Nell's grandfather went out, leaving the child in the strange house alone, to return in the earlymorning. 

Quilp, to whom the old man had again applied for money, learnt of thesenocturnal expeditions, and sent no answer, but came in person to the oldcuriosity shop. 

The old man was feverish and excited as he impatiently addressed thedwarf. 

"Have you brought me any money?"

"No, " returned Quilp. 

"Then, " said the old man, clenching his hands, "the child and I arelost. No recompense for the time and money lost!"

"Neighbour, " said Quilp, "you have no secret from me now. I know thatall those sums of money you have had from me have found their way to thegamingtable. "

"I never played for gain of mine, or love of play, " cried the old manfiercely. "My winnings would have been bestowed to the last farthing ona young sinless child, whose life they would have sweetened and madehappy. But I never won. "

"Dear me!" said Quilp. "The last advance was £70, and it went in onenight. And so it comes to pass that I hold every security you couldscrape together, and a bill of sale upon the stock and property. "

So saying, he nodded, deaf to all entreaties for further loans, and tookhis leave. 

The house was no longer theirs. Mr. Quilp encamped on the premises, andthe goods were sold. A day was fixed for their removal. 

"Grandfather, let us begone from this place, " said little Nell; "let uswander barefoot through the world, rather than linger here. "

"We will, " answered the old man. "We will travel afoot through thefields and woods, and by the side of rivers and trust ourselves to God. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn toforget this time, as if it had never been. "

_II. --Messrs. Codlin and Short_

The sun was setting when little Nell and her grandfather, who had beenwandering many days, reached the wicket gate of a country churchyard. 

Two men were seated in easy attitudes on the grass by the church--twomen of the class of itinerant showmen, exhibitors of the freaks ofPunch--and they had come there to make needful repairs in the stagearrangements, for one was engaged in binding together a small gallowswith thread, while the other was fixing a new black wig upon the head ofa puppet. 

"Are you going to show 'em to-night? Are you?" said the old man. 

"That's the intention, governor, and unless I'm much mistaken, mypartner, Tommy Codlin, is a-calculating at this minute what we've lostthrough your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much. "

To this Mr. Codlin replied in a surly, grumbling manner, "I don't careif we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you stood in frontof the curtain, and see the public's faces as I do, you'd know humannatur' better. "

"Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch, "rejoined his companion. "When you played the ghost in the reg'lar dramain the fairs, you believed in everything--except ghosts. But now you'rea universal mistruster. "

"Never mind, " said Mr. Codlin, with the air of a discontentedphilosopher; "I know better now; p'r'aps I'm sorry for it. Look here, here's all this Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. "

The child, seeing they were at a loss for a needle and thread, timidlyproposed to mend it for them, and even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urgeagainst a proposal so reasonable. 

"If you're wanting a place to stop at, " said Short, "I should advise youto take up at the same house with us. That's it, the long, low, whitehouse there. It's very cheap. "

The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady, who madeno objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty, and were at once prepossessed in her behalf. 

"We're going on to the races, " said Short next morning to thetravellers. "If that's your way, and you'd like to have us for company, let us go together. If you prefer going alone, only say the word, and weshan't trouble you. "

"We'll go with you, " said the old man. "Nell--with them, with them. "

They stopped that night at an ancient roadside inn called the JollySandboys, and supper being in preparation, Nelly and her grandfather hadnot long taken their seats by the kitchen fire before they fell asleep. 

"Who are they?" whispered the landlord. 

"No-good, I suppose, " said Mr. Codlin. 

"They're no harm, " said Short, "depend upon that. It's very plain, besides, that they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell me thathandsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's donethese last two or three days. I know better. The old man ain't in hisright mind. Haven't you noticed how anxious he is always to geton--furder away--furder away? Mind what I say, he has given his friendsthe slip, and persuaded this delicate young creatur all along of herfondness for him to be his guide--where to, he knows no more than theman in the moon. I'm not a-going to stand that!"

"You're not a-going to stand that!" cried Mr. Codlin, glancing at theclock, and counting the minutes to supper time. 

"I, " repeated Short, emphatically and slowly, "am not a-going to standit. I am not a-going to see this fair young child a-falling into badhands. Therefore, when they develop an intention of parting company fromus, I shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and restoring 'em totheir friends, who, I dare say, have had their disconsolation pasted upon every wall in London by this time. "

"Short, " said Mr. Codlin, looking up with eager eyes, "it's possiblethere may be uncommon good sense in what you've said. If there should bea reward, Short, remember that we're partners in everything!"

Before Nell retired to rest in her poor garret she was a little startledby the appearance of Mr. Thomas Codlin at her door. 

"Nothing's the matter, my dear; only I'm your friend. Perhaps youhaven't thought so, but it's me that's your friend--not him. I'm thereal, open-hearted man. Short's very well, and seems kind, but heoverdoes it. Now, I don't. "

The child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say. 

"Take my advice; as long as you travel with us, keep as near me as youcan. Recollect the friend. Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's verywell as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin--not Short. "

_III. --Jarley's Waxwork_

Codlin and Short stuck so close to Nell and her grandfather that thechild grew frightened, especially at the unwonted attentions of Mr. Thomas Codlin. The bustle of the racecourse enabled them to escape, andonce more the travellers were alone. 

It was a few days later when, as the afternoon was wearing away, theycame upon a caravan drawn up by the roadside. It was a smart littlehouse upon wheels, not a gipsy caravan, for at the open door sat aChristian lady, stout and comfortable, taking her tea upon a drumcovered with a white napkin. 

"Hey!" cried the lady of the caravan, seeing the old man and the childwalking slowly by. "Yes, to be sure I saw you there with my own eyes!And very sorry I was to see you in company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch that people should scorn to look at. "

"I was not there by choice, " returned the child. "We don't know our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Doyou know them, ma'am?"

"Know 'em, child! Know _them_! But you're young and inexperienced. Do Ilook as if I knowed 'em? Does the caravan look as if _it_ knowed 'em?"

"No, ma'am, no. I beg your pardon. "

It was granted immediately. And then the lady of the caravan, findingthe travellers were hungry, handed them a tea-tray with bread-and-butterand a knuckle of ham; and finding they were tired, took them into thecaravan, which was bound for the nearest town, some eight miles off. 

As the caravan moved slowly along, its owner began to talk to Nell, andpresently pulled out a large roll of canvas. "There child, " she said, "read that!"

Nell read aloud the inscription, "Jarley's Waxwork. "

"That's me, " said the lady complacently. 

"I never saw any waxwork, ma'am, " said Nell. "Is it funnier than Punch?"

"Funnier!" said Mrs. Jarley, in a shrill voice. "It is not funny at all. It's calm and--what's that word again--critical? No--classical, that'sit--it's calm and classical. "

In the course of the journey Mrs. Jarley was so taken with the childthat she proposed to engage her, and as Nell would not be separated fromher grandfather, he was included in the agreement. 

"What I want your granddaughter for, " said Mrs. Jarley, "is to point 'emout to the company, for she has a way with her that people wouldn'tthink unpleasant. It's not a common offer, bear in mind; it's Jarley'sWaxwork. The duty's very light and genteel, the exhibition takes placein assembly rooms or town halls. There is none of your open-air wagrancyat Jarley's, remember. And the price of admission is only sixpence. "

"We are very much obliged to you, ma'am, " said Nell, speaking for hergrandfather, "and thankfully accept your offer. "

"And you'll never be sorry for it, " returned Mrs. Jarley. "So, as that'sall settled, let us have a bit of supper. "

The next morning, the caravan having arrived at the town, and thewaxworks having been unpacked in the town hall, Mrs. Jarley sat down inan armchair in the centre of the room, and began to instruct Nell in herduty. 

"That, " said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, "is an unfortunate maidof honour in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking herfinger in consequence of working on a Sunday. Observe the blood which istrickling from her finger, also the gold-eyed needle of the period, withwhich she is at work. "

Nell found in the lady of the caravan a kind and considerate person, whohad not only a peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but formaking everybody about her comfortable also. 

But the child noticed that her grandfather grew more and more listlessand vacant, and soon a greater sorrow was to come. The passion forgambling revived in the old man one evening, when he and Nell, outwalking in the country, took passing shelter from a storm in a smallpublic-house. He saw men playing cards, and, allowed to join them, lost. The next night he went off alone, and Nell, finding him gone, followed. Her grandfather was with the card-players near an encampment of gypsies, and, to her horror, he promised to bring more money. 

Flight was now the only thing possible, before her grandfather shouldsteal. How else could he get the money?

_IV. --Beyond the Pale_

Flight by water! For two days they travelled on a barge, Nell sittingwith her grandfather in the boat. Rugged and noisy fellows were thebargemen, and quite brutal among themselves, though civil enough totheir passengers. The barge floated into the wharf to which it belonged, and now came flight by land through a strange, unfriendly town. Thetravellers were penniless, and at nightfall took refuge in a deepdoorway. 

A man, miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, found them here, and, learning they were homeless, promised them shelter by the fire of agreat furnace. 

A dark and blackened region was this they were in. On every side tallchimneys poured out their plague of smoke, and at night the smoke waschanged to fire, and chimneys spurted flame. Struggling vegetationsickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace. Thepeople--men, women, and children--wan in their looks and ragged in theirattire, tended the engines, or scowled, half naked, from the doorlesshouses. 

That night Nell and her grandfather lay down with nothing between themand the sky. A penny loaf was all they had had that day, and very weakand spent the child felt. 

With morning she was weaker still, and a loathing of food prevented hersharing the loaf bought with their last penny. Still she dragged herweary feet on, and only at the very end of the town fell senseless tothe ground. 

Once in their earlier wanderings they had made friends with a villageschoolmaster, and now, when all hope seemed gone, it was thisschoolmaster who brought the travellers into a peaceful haven. For itwas he who passed along when little Nell fell fainting to the ground, and it was he who carried her into a small inn hard by. A day's restbrought some recovery to the child, and in the evening she was able tosit up. 

"I have made my fortune since I saw you last, " said the schoolmaster. "Ihave been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way fromhere at five-and-thirty pounds a year. "

Then the schoolmaster insisted they must come with him, and make thejourney by waggons, and that when they reached the village someoccupation should be found by which they could subsist. 

They agreed to go, and when the village was reached the efforts of thegood schoolmaster procured a post for Nell. Someone was wanted to keepthe keys of the church and show it to strangers, and the old clergymanyielded to the schoolmaster's petition. 

"But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, my child, " said the old clergyman, laying his hand upon her head andsmiling sadly, "I would rather see her dancing on the green at nightsthan have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. "

It was very peaceful in the old church, and the village children soongrew to love little Nell. At last Nell and her grandfather were beyondthe need of flight. 

But the child's strength was failing, and in the winter came her death. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. The traces of her earlycares, her sufferings, and fatigues were gone. She had died with herarms round her grandfather's neck and "God bless you!" on her lips. 

The old man never realised that she was dead. "She is asleep, " he said. "She will come to-morrow. "

And thenceforth every day, and all day long he waited at her grave. Andpeople would hear him whisper, "Lord, let her come to-morrow. "

The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at theusual hour, and they went to seek him, and found him lying dead upon thestone. 

They laid by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and in thechurch where they had often lingered hand in hand the child and the oldman slept together. 

 * * * * *

Our Mutual Friend

 "Our Mutual Friend" was the last long complete novel Dickens wrote, and, like all his books, it first appeared in monthly parts. It was so published in 1864-65. After three numbers had appeared, the author wrote: "I have grown hard to satisfy, and write very slowly. Although I have not been wanting in industry, I have been wanting in imagination. " In his "Postscript in Lieu of Preface, " the author points out--in answer to those who had disputed the probability of Harmon's will--"that there are hundreds of will cases far more remarkable than that fancied in this book. " In this same postscript Dickens also renewed his attack on Poor Law administration, begun in "Oliver Twist. " Though "Our Mutual Friend" is not one of the greatest or most famous of Dickens's works, for it is somewhat loosely constructed as a story, and shows signs of laboured composition, it abounds in scenes of real Dickensian character, and is not without touches of the genius which had made its author the foremost novelist of his time, and one of the greatest writers of all ages. 

_I. --The Man from Somewhere_

It was at a dinner-party that Mortimer Lightwood, solicitor, at therequest of Lady Tippins, told the story of the Man from Somewhere. 

"Upon my life, " says Mortimer languidly, "I can't fix him with a localhabitation; but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, where they make the wine. 

"The man, " Mortimer goes on, "whose name is Harmon, was the only son ofa tremendous old rascal, who made his money by dust, as a dustcontractor. This venerable parent, displeased with his son, turns himout of doors. The boy takes flight, gets aboard ship, turns up on dryland among the Cape wine; small proprietor, farmer, grower--whatever youlike to call it. Venerable parent dies. His will is found. It leaves thelowest of a range of dust mountains, with a dwelling-house, to an oldservant, who is sole executor. And that's all, except that the son'sinheritance is made conditional on his marrying a girl, at the date ofthe will a child four or five years old, who is now a marriageable youngwoman. Advertisement and inquiry discovered the son in the Man fromSomewhere, and he is now on his way home, after fourteen years' absence, to succeed to a very large fortune, and to take a wife. "

Mortimer, being asked what would become of the fortune in the event ofthe marriage condition not being fulfilled, replies that by a clause inthe will it would then go to the old servant above-mentioned, passingover and excluding the son; also, that if the son had not been living, the same old servant would have been sole residuary legatee. 

It is just when the ladies are retiring that Mortimer receives a notefrom the butler. 

"This really arrives in an extraordinarily opportune manner, " saysMortimer, after reading the paper presented to him. "This is theconclusion of the story of the identical man. Man's drowned!"

The dinner being over, Mortimer Lightwood and his friend Eugene Wrayburninterviewed the boy who had brought the note, and then set out in a cabto the riverside quarter of Wapping. 

The cab dismissed, a little winding through some muddy alleys bringsthen to the bright lamp of a police-station, where they find thenight-inspector. He takes a bull's-eye, and Mortimer and Eugene followhim to a cool grot at the end of the yard. They quickly come out again. 

"No clue, gentlemen, " says the inspector, "as to how the body came intoriver. Very often no clue. Steward of ship, in which gentleman came homepassenger, had been round to view, and could swear to identity. Likewisecould swear to clothes. Inquest to-morrow, and no doubt open verdict. "

A stranger who had entered the station with Lightwood and Wrayburnattracts Mr. Inspector's attention. 

"Turned you faint, sir? You expected to identify?"

"It's a horrible sight, " says the stranger. "No, I can't identify. "

"You missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, or you wouldn'thave come here, you know. Well, then, ain't it reasonable to ask, whowas it?" Thus Mr. Inspector. "At least, you won't object to write downyour name and address?"

The stranger took the pen and wrote down, "Mr. Julius Handford, Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard, Westminster. "

At the coroner's inquest next day, Mr. Mortimer Lightwood watched theproceedings on behalf of the representatives of the deceased; and Mr. Julius Handford having given his right address, had no summons toappear. 

Upon the evidence before them, the jury found that Mr. John Harmon hadcome by his death under suspicious circumstances, though by whose actthere was no evidence to show. Within eight-and-forty hours a reward ofone hundred pounds was proclaimed by the Home Office, and for a timepublic interest in the Harmon Murder, as it came to be called, ran high. 

_II. --The Golden Dustman_

Mr. Boffin, a broad, round-shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, dressed in a pea overcoat, and wearing thick leather gaiters, and gloveslike a hedger's, came ambling towards the street corner where Silas Weggsat at his stall. A few small lots of fruits and sweets, and a choicecollection of halfpenny ballads, comprised Mr. Wegg's stock, andassuredly it was the hardest little stall of all the sterile littlestalls in London. 

"Morning, morning!" said the old fellow. 

"Good-morning to _you_, sir!" said Mr. Wegg. 

The old fellow paused, and then startled Mr. Wegg with the question, "How did you get your wooden leg?"

"In an accident. "

"Do you like it?"

"Well, I haven't got to keep it warm, " Mr. Wegg answered desperately. 

"Did you ever hear of the name of Boffin? And do you like it?"

"Why, no, " said Mr. Wegg, growing restive; "I can't say that I do. "

"My name's Boffin, " said the old fellow, smiling. "But there's anotherchance for you. Do you like the name of Nicodemus? Think it over. Nickor Noddy. Noddy Boffin, that's my name. "

"It is not, sir, " said Mr. Wegg, in a tone of resignation, "a name as Icould wish anyone to call _me_ by, but there may be persons that wouldnot view it with the same objections. Silas Wegg is my name. I don'tknow why Silas, and I don't know why Wegg. "

"Now, Wegg, " said Mr. Boffin, "I came by here one morning and heard youreading through your ballads to a butcher-boy. I thought to myself, 'Here's a literary man _with_ a wooden leg, and all print is open tohim! And here am I without a wooden leg, and all print is shut to me. '"

"I believe you couldn't show me the piece of English print that Iwouldn't be equal to collaring and throwing, " Mr. Wegg admittedmodestly. 

"Now I want some reading, and I must pay a man so much an hour to comeand do it for me. Say two hours a night at twopence-halfpenny. Half-a-crown a week. What do you think of the terms, Wegg?"

"Mr. Boffin, I never did 'aggle, and I never will 'aggle. I meet you atonce, free and fair, with----Done, for double the money!"

From that night Silas Wegg came to read at Boffin's Bower--or HarmonyJail, as the house was formerly called--and he soon learnt that hisemployer was no other than the inheritor of old Harmon's property, andthat he was known as the Golden Dustman. 

It was not long after Silas Wegg's appointment that Mr. Boffin wasaccosted by a strange gentleman, who gave his name as John Rokesmith, and proposed his services as private secretary. Mr. Rokesmith mentionedthat he lodged at one Mr. Wilfer's, in Holloway. Mr. Boffin stared. 

"Father of Miss Bella Wilfer?"

"My landlord has a daughter named Bella. "

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know what to say, " said Mr. Boffin; "but call at the Bower, though I don't know that I shall ever bein want of a secretary. "

So to the Bower came Mr. John Rokesmith, but not before the Boffins hadcalled at the Wilfers' and seen the young lady destined by old Harmonfor his son's bride. 

"Noddy, " said Mrs. Boffin, "I have been thinking early and late of thatgirl, Bella Wilfer, who was so cruelly disappointed both of her husbandand his riches. Don't you think we might do something for her? Have herto live with us? And, Noddy, I tell you what I want--I want society. Wehave come into a great fortune, and we must act up to it. It's neverbeen acted up to, and consequently no good has come of it. "

It was agreed that they should move into a good house in a goodneighbourhood, and that a visit should be paid to Mr. Wilfer at once. Mrs. Wilfer received them with a tragic air. 

"Mrs. Boffin and me, ma'am, " said Mr. Boffin, "are plain people, and wemake this call to say we shall be glad to have the honour and pleasureof your daughter's acquaintance, and that we shall be rejoiced if yourdaughter will come to consider our house in the light of her homeequally with this. "

"I am much obliged to you--I am sure, " said Miss Bella, coldly shakingher curls, "but I doubt if I have the inclination to go out at all. "

"Bella, " Mrs. Wilfer admonished her solemnly, "you must conquer this!"

"Yes, do what your ma says, and conquer it, my dear, " urged Mrs. Boffin, "because we shall be so glad to have you, and because you are much toopretty to keep yourself shut up. "

With that Mrs. Boffin gave her a kiss, which Bella frankly returned; andit was settled that Bella should be sent for as soon as they were readyto receive her. 

"By the bye, ma'am, " said Mr. Boffin, as he was leaving, "you have alodger?"

"A gentleman, " Mrs. Wilfer answered, "undoubtedly occupies our firstfloor. "

"I may call him our mutual friend, " said Mr. Boffin. "What sort offellow _is_ our mutual friend, now? Do you like him?"

"Mr. Rokesmith is very punctual, very quiet--a very eligible inmate. "

The Boffins drove away, and Mr. Rokesmith, coming to the Bower, extricated Mr. Boffin from a mass of disordered papers, and gave suchsatisfaction that his services were accepted, and he took up thesecretaryship. 

_II. --The Golden Dustman Deteriorates_

Miss Bella Wilfer was conscious that she was growing mercenary. Sheadmitted as much to her father. There were several other secrets she hadto impart beyond her own lack of improvement. 

"Mr. Rokesmith has made an offer to me, pa, and I told him I thought ita betrayal of trust on his part, and an affront to me. Mrs. Boffin hasherself told me, with her own kind lips, that they wish to see me wellmarried; and that when I marry, with their consent, they will portion memost handsomely. That is another secret. And now there is only one more, and it is very hard to tell it. But Mr. Boffin is being spoilt byprosperity, and is changing for the worse every day. Not to me--he isalways the same to me--but to others about him. He grows suspicious, hard, and unjust. If ever a good man were ruined by good fortune, it ismy benefactor. "

Bella parted from her father, and returned to the Boffins, to find freshproofs of the deterioration of the Golden Dustman. 

"Now, Rokesmith, " Mr. Boffin was saying, "it's time to settle about yourwages. A man of property like me is bound to consider the market price. If I pay for a sheep, I buy it out and out. Similarly, if I pay for asecretary, I buy _him_ out and out. It's convenient to have you at alltimes ready on the premises. "

The secretary bowed and withdrew. Bella's eyes followed him to the door. She felt that Mrs. Boffin was uncomfortable. 

"Noddy, " said Mrs. Boffin thoughtfully, "haven't you been a littlestrict with Mr. Rokesmith to-night? Haven't you been just a little notquite like your own old self?"

"Why, old woman, I hope so, " said Mr. Boffin cheerfully. "Our old selveswouldn't do here, old lady. Our old selves would be fit for nothing butto be imposed upon. Our old selves weren't people of fortune. Our newselves are. It's a great difference. "

Very uncomfortable was Bella that night, and very uneasy was she as thedays went by, for Mr. Boffin made a point of hunting up old books thatgave the lives of misers, and the more enjoyment he seemed to get out ofthis literature, the harder he became to the secretary. Somehow, theworse Mr. Boffin treated his secretary, the more Bella felt drawn to theman whose offer of marriage she had refused. The crisis came one morningwhen the Golden Dustman's bearing towards Rokesmith was even morearrogant and offensive than it had been before. Mrs. Boffin was seatedon a sofa, and Mr. Boffin had Bella on his arm. 

"Don't be alarmed, my dear, " he said gently. "I'm going to see yourighted. "

Then he turned to his secretary. 

"Now, sir, look at this young lady. How dare you come out of yourstation to pester this young lady with your impudent addresses? Thisyoung lady, who was far above _you_. This young lady was looking aboutfor money, and you had no money. "

Bella hung her head, and Mrs. Boffin broke out crying. 

"This Rokesmith is a needy young man, " Mr. Boffin went on unmoved. "Hegets acquainted with my affairs and gets to know that I mean to settle asum of money upon this young lady. "

"I indignantly deny it!" said the secretary quietly. "But our connectionbeing at an end, it matters little what I say. "

"I discharge you, " Mr. Boffin retorted. "There's your money. "

"Mrs. Boffin, " said Rokesmith, "for your unvarying kindness I thank youwith the warmest gratitude. Miss Wilfer, good-bye. "

"Oh, Mr. Rokesmith, " said Bella in her tears, "hear one word from mebefore you go. I am deeply sorry for the reproaches you have borne on myaccount. Out of the depths of my heart I beg your pardon. "

She gave him her hand, and he put it to his lips and said, "God blessyou!"

"There was a time when I deserved to be 'righted, ' as Mr. Boffin hasdone, " Bella went on, "but I hope that I shall never deserve it again. "

Once more John Rokesmith put her hand to his lips, and then relinquishedit, and left the room. 

Bella threw her arms round Mrs. Boffin's neck. "He has been mostshamefully abused and driven away, and I am the cause of it. I must gohome; I am very grateful for all you have done for me, but I can't stayhere. "

"Now, Bella, " said Mr. Boffin, "look before you leap. Go away, and youcan never come back. And you mustn't expect that I'm a-going to settlemoney on you if you leave me like this, because I'm not. Not one brassfarthing. "

"No power on earth could make me take it now, " said Bella haughtily. 

Then she broke into sobs over saying good-bye to Mrs. Boffin, said alast word to Mr. Boffin, and ran upstairs. A few minutes later she wentout of the house. 

"That was well done, " said Bella when she was in the street, "and nowI'll go and see my dear, darling pa in the city. "

_IV. --The Runaway Marriage_

Bella found her way to her father's office in the city. It was afterhours, and the little man was alone, having tea on a small cottage loafand a pennyworth of milk, for R. Wilfer was but a clerk on a smallincome. He immediately fetched another loaf and another pennyworth ofmilk, and then, before she could tell him she had left the Boffins, whoshould come along but John Rokesmith. And John Rokesmith not only camein, but he caught Bella in his arms, and she was content to leave herhead on his breast as if that were her head's chosen and lasting restingplace. 

"I knew you would come to him, and I followed you, " said Rokesmith. "You_are_ mine. "

"Yes, I am yours if you think me worth taking, " Bella responded. 

Then Bella's father had to hear what had happened, and said his daughterhad done well. 

"To think, " said Wilfer, looking round the office, "that anything of atender nature should come off here is what tickles me. "

A few weeks later and Bella and her father went out early one morningand took the steamer to Greenwich. And at Greenwich there was JohnRokesmith, and presently in a church John and Bella were joined togetherin wedlock. 

They had been married a year, and lived in a little house at Blackheath. John Rokesmith went up to the city every day, and explained that he was"in a China house. " From time to time he would ask her, "Would you liketo be rich _now_, my darling?" and got for answer, "Dear John, am I notrich?"

But for all that a change came in their affairs. For Mortimer Lightwood, who had met Bella at the Boffins', seeing her walking with her husband, recognised him as Julius Handford; and as Mr. Inspector had neverdiscovered what became of Mr. Julius Handford, he must needs pay Mr. Rokesmith a visit. And then it turned out that John Rokesmith was notonly Julius Handford, but John Harmon himself, much to Mr. Inspector'sastonishment. 

More surprises were to follow, for when John came home next day he toldBella that he had left the China house, and was better off. 

"We must have our headquarters in London now, my dear, and there's ahouse ready for us. "

And the house which John and Bella visited next day was none other thanthe Boffins', and when they arrived, there were Mr. And Mrs. Boffinbeaming at them. Mrs. Boffin told Bella that John Rokesmith was JohnHarmon, and how, remembering him as a small boy, she had guessed itquite early. Then Mrs. Boffin admitted that John, despairing of winningBella's heart, and determined that there should be no question of moneyin the marriage, he was for going away, and that Noddy said he wouldprove that she loved him. "We was all of us in it, my beauty, " Mrs. Boffin concluded, "and when you was married there was we hid up in thechurch organ by this husband of yours, for he wouldn't let us out withit then, as was first meant. But it was Noddy who said that he wouldprove you had a true heart of gold. 'If she was to stand up for you whenyou was slighted, ' he said to John, 'and if she was to do that againsther own interest, how would that do?' 'Do?' says John, 'it would raiseme to the skies. ' 'Then, ' says my Noddy, 'get ready for the ascent, John, for up you go. Look out for being slighted and oppressed. ' Andthen he began. And how he did begin, didn't he?"

"It looks as if old Harmon's spirit had found rest at last, and as ifhis money had turned bright again after a long rust in the dark, " saidMrs. Boffin to her husband that night. 

"Yes, old lady. "

The mystery of the Harmon murder is yet to be explained. John Harmon, going on shore with a fellow passenger, who greatly resembled him, wasdrugged and robbed of his money in a house near the river by this man. But the robber, who had taken Harmon's clothes, was himself robbed andthrown into the water, and Harmon recovered consciousness and made hisescape just at the time when the body of his assailant was recovered. Inthis state of strange excitement he turned up at the police station, and, unwilling to reveal his identity at the moment, passed himself offas Julius Handford. 

 * * * * *

Pickwick Papers

 Dickens first became known to the public through the famous "Sketches by Boz, " which appeared in the "Monthly Magazine" in December, 1833, the complete series being collected and published in volume form three years later. This was followed by the immortal "Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club" in 1836, which soon placed Dickens in the front rank of English novelists. Frankly humorous as "Pickwick" is, Dickens, in a preface to a later edition, recorded with satisfaction that "legal reforms had pared the claws of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, " that the laws relating to imprisonment for debt had been altered, and the Fleet Prison pulled down. 

_I. --Mr. Pickwick Engages Sam Weller_

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street were of a very neat andcomfortable description, peculiarly adapted for a man of his genius andobservation, and importance as General Chairman of the world-famedPickwick Club. 

His landlady, Mrs. Bardell, was a comely woman of bustling manners andagreeable appearance, with a natural gift for cooking. Cleanliness andquiet reigned throughout the house, and in it Mr. Pickwick's will waslaw. 

To anyone acquainted with these things and with Mr. Pickwick's admirablyregulated mind, his conduct on the morning previous to his setting outfor Eatanswill seemed most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced theroom, popped his head out of the window, and constantly referred to hiswatch. It was evident to Mrs. Bardell, who was dusting the apartment, that something of importance was in contemplation. 

"Mrs. Bardell, " said Mr. Pickwick at last, "your little boy is a verylong time gone. "

"Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir!" remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. 

"Very true; so it is. Mrs. Bardell do you think it's a much greaterexpense to keep two people than to keep one?"

"La, Mr. Pickwick!" said Mrs. Bardell, colouring, as she fancied sheobserved a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger. "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!"

"Well, but _do_ you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

"That depends, " said Mrs. Bardell, "a good deal upon the person, youknow, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir. "

"That's very true, " said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye(here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses thesequalities. To tell you the truth, I have made up my mind. You'll thinkit very strange now that I never consulted you about this matter till Isent your little boy out this morning, eh?"

Mrs. Bardell had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, and now shethought he was going to propose. A deliberate plan, too--sent her littleboy to the Borough to get him out of the way! How thoughtful! Howconsiderate!

"It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?" said Mr. Pickwick. "And when I am in town you'll always have somebody to sit with you. " Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

"I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman, " said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation. "Oh, you kind, good, playful dear!" And, without more ado, she flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck. 

"Bless my soul!" cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick. "Mrs. Bardell, mygood woman! Dear me, what a situation! Pray consider if anybody shouldcome!"

"Oh, let them come!" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically. "I'll neverleave you, dear, kind soul!" And she clung the tighter. 

"Mercy upon me, " said Mr. Pickwick, struggling; "I hear somebody comingupstairs! Don't, there's a good creature, don't!" But Mrs. Bardell hadfainted in his arms, and before he could gain time to deposit her on achair, Master Bardell entered the room, followed by Mr. Pickwick'sfriends Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. 

"What is the matter?" said the three Pickwickians. 

"I don't know!" replied Mr. Pickwick; while the ever gallant Mr. Tupmanled Mrs. Bardell, who said she was better, downstairs. "I cannotconceive what has been the matter with the woman. I merely told her ofmy intention of keeping a manservant, when she fell into anextraordinary paroxysm. Very remarkable thing. "

"Very, " said his three friends. 

"There's a man in the passage now, " said Mr. Tupman. 

"It's the man I've sent for from the Borough, " said Mr. Pickwick. "Havethe goodness to call him up. "

Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith presented himself, having previouslydeposited his old white hat on the landing outside. 

"Ta'nt a wery good 'un to look at, " said Sam, "but it's an astonishin''un to wear. And afore the brim went it was a wery handsome tile. "

"Now, with regard to the matter on which I sent for you, " said Mr. Pickwick. 

"That's the pint, sir; out vith it, as the father said to the child venhe swallowed a farden. "

"We want to know, in the first place, " said Mr. Pickwick, "whether youare discontented with your present situation?"

"Afore I answers that 'ere question, " replied Mr. Weller, "_I_ shouldlike to know whether you're a-goin' to purwide me vith a better. "

Mr. Pickwick smiled benevolently as he said: "I have half made up mymind to engage you myself. "

"Have you though?" said Sam. "Wages?"

"Twelve pounds a year. "

"Clothes?"

"Two suits. "

"Work?"

"To attend upon me, and travel about with me and these gentlemen here. "

"Take the bill down, " said Sam emphatically. "I'm let to a singlegentleman, and the terms is agreed upon. If the clothes fit me half aswell as the place, they'll do. "

_II. --Bardell vs. Pickwick_

Acting on the advice of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, solicitors, Mrs. Bardellbrought an action for breach of promise of marriage against Mr. Pickwick, and the damages were laid at £1, 500. February 14 was the dayfixed for the memorable trial. 

When Mr. Pickwick and his friends reached the court, and the judge--Mr. Justice Stareleigh--had taken his place, it was found that only ten ofthe special jury were present, and a greengrocer and a chemist werecaught from the common jury to make up the number. 

"I beg this court's pardon, " said the chemist, "but I hope this courtwill excuse my attendance. I have no assistant, and I can't afford tohire one. "

"Then you ought to be able to afford it, " said the judge, a mostparticularly short man, and so fat that he seemed all face andwaistcoat. 

"Very well, my lord, " replied the chemist, "then there'll be murderbefore this trial's over, that's all. I've left nobody, but an errand-boy in my shop, and I know that he thinks Epsom salts means oxalic acid, and syrup of senna, laudanum; that's all, my lord. "

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepesthorror when Mrs. Bardell, supported by her friend, Mrs. Cluppins, wasled into court. 

Then Sergeant Buzfuz opened the case for the plaintiff, and when he hadfinished Elizabeth Cluppins was called. 

"Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins, " said Sergeant Buzfuz, "do yourecollect being in Mrs. Bardell's back room on one particular morninglast July, when she was dusting Pickwick's apartment?"

"Yes, my lord and jury, I do, " replied Mrs. Cluppins. 

"What were you doing in the back room, ma'am?" inquired the littlejudge. 

"My lord and jury, " said Mrs. Cluppins, "I will not deceive you. "

"You had better not, ma'am, " said the little judge. 

"I was there, " resumed Mrs. Cluppins, "unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I hadbeen out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pounds of redkidney pertaties, which was tuppence ha'penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell'sstreet-door on the jar. "

"On the what?" exclaimed the little judge. 

"Partly open, my lord. "

"She _said_ on the jar, " said the little judge, with a cunning look. 

"I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin', and went in apermiscuous manner upstairs, and into the back room. There was a soundof voices in the front room, very loud, and forced themselves upon myear. "

Mrs. Cluppins then related the conversation we have already heardbetween Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. 

The next witness was Mr. Winkle, and after him came Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Snodgrass, all of whom appeared on subpoena by the plaintiff's lawyers. 

Sergeant Buzfuz then rose and said, with considerable importance, "CallSamuel Weller. "

It was quite unnecessary to call him, for Samuel Weller stepped brisklyinto the box the instant his name was pronounced. 

"What's your name, sir?" inquired the judge. 

"Sam Weller, my lord. "

"Do you spell it with a 'V or a 'W?" inquired the judge. 

"That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my lord, " repliedSam, "but I spells it with a 'V. '"

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, "Quite right, too, Samuel;quite right. Put it down a we, my lord, put it down a we. "

"Who is that that dares to address the court?" said the little judge, looking up. 

"I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord, " replied Sam. 

"Do you see him here now?" said the judge. 

"No, I don't my lord, " replied Sam, staring right up in the roof of thecourt. 

"If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed himinstantly, " said the judge. 

Sam bowed his acknowledgments. 

"Now, Mr. Weller, " said Sergeant Buzfuz, "I believe you are in theservice of Mr. Pickwick; speak up, if you please. "

"I mean to speak up, sir, " replied Sam. "I am in the service o' that'ere gen'l'man, and a wery good service it is. "

"Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?" said Sergeant Buzfuz. 

"Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered himthree hundred and fifty lashes, " replied Sam. 

"You must not tell us what the soldier said, " interposed the judge, "it's not evidence. "

"Wery good, my lord. "

"Now, Mr. Weller, " said Sergeant Buzfuz, "do you recollect anythingparticular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by thedefendant?"

"Yes, I do, sir. I had a reg'lar new fit-out o' clothes that mornin', and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me inthose days. "

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of thefainting of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant?"

"Certainly not; I was in the passage till they called me up, and thenthe old lady wasn't there. "

"Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?"

"Yes, that's just it, " replied Sam. "If they was a pair o' patent doublemillion magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power, p'raps I might beable to see through a flight o' stairs and a deal door, but bein' onlyeyes, you see, my wision's limited. "

"Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell's house one night lastNovember? I suppose you went to have a little talk about this trial, eh, Mr. Weller?" said Sergeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury. 

"I went up to pay the rent, " said Sam; "but the ladies gets into a werygreat state of admiration at the honourable conduct o' Mr. Dodson andFogg, and said what a wery gen'rous thing it was o' them to have takenup the case on spec. , and to have charged nothin' at all for costs, unless they got 'em out of Mr. Pickwick. "

At this very unexpected reply the spectators tittered, and Mr. SergeantBuzfuz said curtly, "Stand down, sir. "

Sergeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant, andafter that Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour the jury brought in a verdict for theplaintiff with £750 damages. 

In the court-room Mr. Pickwick encountered Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, rubbing their hands with satisfaction. 

"Not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get out of me, if Ispend the rest of my existence in a debtor's prison, " said Mr. Pickwick. 

"We shall see about that, " said Mr. Fogg grinning. 

Outside Mr. Pickwick and his friends made their way to a hackney coach, and Sam Weller was just preparing to jump upon the box when his fatherstood before him. The old gentleman shook his head gravely and said inwarning accents, "I know'd what 'ud come o' this here mode o' doin'bisness. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi?"

"But surely, my dear sir, " said Perker to his client the followingmorning, "you don't really mean, seriously now, that you won't pay thesecosts and damages?"

"Not one halfpenny, " said Mr. Pickwick. 

"Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn'trenew the bill, " observed Mr. Samuel Weller. 

_III. --In the Fleet Prison_

Two months later Mr. Pickwick was arrested for the non-payment of costsand damages and taken to the Fleet Prison. And so, for the first time inhis life, Mr. Pickwick found himself within the walls of a debtor'sprison. 

"Where am I to sleep to-night?" inquired Mr. Pickwick of the turnkey, and after some discussion it was discovered there was a bed to let. 

"It ain't a large 'un, but it's an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way, sir, " said the turnkey. 

Mr. Pickwick, accompanied by Sam Weller, followed his guide up astaircase and along a gallery; at the end of this was an apartmentcontaining eight or nine iron bedsteads. 

Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable when he was leftalone, and he went slowly to bed. He was awakened from his slumbers bythe noise of his bed-fellows, one of whom, wearing grey cottonstockings, was performing a hornpipe; while another, evidently verydrunk, was warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song; thethird, a man with thick, bushy whiskers, was applauding both performers. 

"My name is Smangle, sir, " said the man with the whiskers to Mr. Pickwick. 

"Mine is Mivins, " said the man in the stockings. 

"Well; but come, " said Mr. Smangle, after assuring Mr. Pickwick a greatmany times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of agentleman, "this is but dry work. Let's rinse our mouths with a drop ofburnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it, Mivins shall fetch it, andI'll help to drink it. That's a fair and gentleman-like division oflabour, anyhow. "

Mr. Pickwick, unwilling to hazard a quarrel, gladly assented to theproposition. 

When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object uponwhich they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small blackportmanteau. 

He soon learnt that money was in the Fleet just what money was out ofit; and that if he wished it he could have a room to himself, if he waswilling to pay for it. 

"There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight that belongs to aChancery prisoner, " said the turnkey. "It'll stand you in a pound aweek. Lord! Why didn't you say at first that you was willing to comedown handsome?"

The matter was soon arranged, and in a short time the room wasfurnished. 

"Sam, " said Mr. Pickwick, when his servant had done his best to make theapartment comfortable, and was now inspecting the arrangements, "I havefelt from the first that this is not the place to bring a young man to. "

"Nor an old 'un neither, sir. "

"You're quite right, Sam, " said Mr. Pickwick. "But old men may come herethrough their own heedlessness and unsuspicion. Do you understand me, Sam?"

"Vell, sir, " rejoined Sam, after a pause, "I think I see your drift, andit's my 'pinion that you're a-comin' it a great deal too strong, as themail-coachman said to the snowstorm ven it overtook him. "

"For the time that I remain here, " said Mr. Pickwick, "you must leaveme, Sam. "

"Now, I tell you vot it is, " said Mr. Weller, in a grave and solemnvoice. "This here sort o' thing won't do at all, so don't let's hear nomore about it. "

"I am serious, Sam, " said Mr. Pickwick. 

"You air, air you, sir?" inquired Mr. Weller. "Wery good, sir. Then soam I. "

With that Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision andleft the room. Having found his father, Sam explained to the elder Mr. Weller that Mr. Pickwick must not be left alone in the Fleet. 

"Vy, they'll eat him up alive, Sammy!" exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller. "Stop there by himself, poor creetur, without nobody to take his part!It can't be done, Samivel, it can't be done!"

"O' course it can't, " asserted Sam. "Well, then, I tell you wot it is. I'll trouble you for the loan of five-and-twenty pound. P'raps you mayask for it five minits artervards, p'raps I may say I von't pay, and cutup rough. You von't think o' arrestin' your own son for the money, andsendin' him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat'ral wagabone?"

The elder Mr. Weller, having grasped the idea, laughed till he waspurple. 

In the course of the day Sam was duly arrested at the suit of hisfather, and Sam, having been formally delivered into the warden'scustody, passed at once into the prison, and went straight to hismaster's room. 

"I'm a pris'ner, sir, " said Sam. "I was arrested this here weryarternoon for debt, and the man as put me in 'ull never let me out tillyou go yourself. "

"Bless my heart and soul!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. "What do you mean?"

"Wot I say, sir, " rejoined Sam. "If it's forty year to come, I shall bea pris'ner, and I'm very glad on it. He's a malicious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, windictive creetur wot's put me in, with a hard heart asthere ain't no soft'nin', as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of the oldgen'l'm'n with a dropsy, ven he said that upon the whole he thought he'drather leave his property to his vife than build a chapel with it. "

In vain Mr. Pickwick remonstrated. 

"I takes my determination on principle, sir, " remarked Sam, "and youtakes yours on the same ground; vich puts me in mind o' the man askilled hisself on principle. "

_IV. --Mr. Pickwick Leaves the Fleet_

Those enterprising lawyers, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, having obtained nomoney from Mr. Pickwick, proceeded in July to arrest Mrs. Bardell, who, as a matter of form, had given them a _cognovit_ for the amount of theircosts. 

Mr. Pickwick was taking his evening walk in the grounds of the Fleetwhen Mrs. Bardell was brought in, and Sam Weller, seeing the lady, tookoff his hat in mock reverence. Mr. Pickwick turned indignantly away. 

"Don't bother the woman, " said the turnkey to Weller; "she's just comein. "

"A pris'ner!" said Sam. "Who's the plaintives? What for? Speak up, oldfeller!"

"Dodson and Fogg, " replied the man. 

"Here, Job, Job!" shouted Sam, dashing into the passage, and calling fora man who went errands for the prisoners. "Run to Mr. Perker's, Job; Iwant him directly. I see some good in this. Here's a game! Hooray!"

Mr. Perker was in Mr. Pickwick's room betimes next morning. 

"Well, now, my dear sir, " said Perker, "the first question I have to askis whether this woman is to remain here? It rests solely and wholly andentirely with you. "

"With me!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 

"Nobody but you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness, to whichno man, and still more no woman, should ever be consigned if I had mywill, " resumed Mr. Perker. "I have seen the woman this morning. Bypaying the costs, you can obtain a full release and discharge from thedamages; and, further, a voluntary statement, under her hand, that thisbusiness was from the very first fomented and encouraged by these men, Dodson and Fogg. She entreats me to intercede with you, and imploresyour pardon. "

Before Mr. Pickwick could reply, there was a low murmuring of voicesoutside, and a hesitating knock at the door; and Mr. Winkle, Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Snodgrass entering most opportunely, at last, by their unitedpleadings, Mr. Pickwick was fairly argued out of his resolutions. Atthree o'clock that afternoon Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his littleroom, and made his way as well as he could through the throng of debtorswho pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reachedthe lodge steps. He turned here to look about him, and his eyebrightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, hesaw not one which was not the happier for his sympathy and charity. 

As for Sam Weller, having dispatched Job Trotter to procure his formaldischarge, his next proceeding was to invest his whole stock of readymoney in the purchase of five-and-twenty gallons of mild porter, whichhe himself dispensed on the racket-ground to everybody who would partakeof it. This done, he hurra'd in divers parts of the building until helost his voice, and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected andphilosophical condition, and followed his master out of the prison. 

 * * * * *

Tale of Two Cities

 The French Revolution has been the subject of more books than any secular event that ever occurred, and two books by English writers have brought the passion, the cruelty, and the horror of it for all time within the shuddering comprehension of English-speaking people. One is a history that is more than a history; the other a tale that is more than a tale. Dickens, no doubt, owed much of his inspiration to Carlyle's tremendous prose epic. But the genius that depicted a moving and tragic story upon the red background of the Terror was Dickens's own, and the "Tale of Two Cities" was final proof that its author could handle a great theme in a manner that was worthy of its greatness. The work was one of the novelist's later writings--it was published in 1859--and is in many respects distinct from all his others. It stands by itself among Dickens's masterpieces, in sombre and splendid loneliness--a detached glory to its author, and to his country's literature. 

_I. --Recalled to Life_

A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken in the street. All thepeople within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, torun to the spot and drink the wine. Some kneeled down, made scoops oftheir two hands joined, and tried to sip before the wine had all run outbetween their fingers. Others dipped in the puddles with little mugs ofmutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads. Ashrill sound of laughter resounded in the street while this wine gamelasted. 

The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow streetin the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It hadstained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and manywooden shoes. One tall joker so besmirched scrawled upon a wall, withhis finger dipped in muddy wine lees, "Blood!"

And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary gleamhad driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want were the lords in waiting onthe saintly presence. The children had ancient faces and grave voices;and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrowof age, and coming up afresh, was the sign--Hunger. 

The master of the wine-shop outside of which the cask had been brokenturned back to his shop when the struggle for the wine was ended. Monsieur Defarge was a dark, bull-necked man, good-humoured-looking onthe whole, but implacable-looking, too. Three men who had been drinkingat the counter paid for their wine, and left. An elderly gentleman, whohad been sitting in a corner with a young lady, advanced, introducedhimself as Mr. Jarvis Lorry, of Tellson's Bank, London, and begged thefavour of a word. 

The conference was very short, but very decided. It had not lasted aminute, when Monsieur Defarge nodded and went out, followed by Mr. Lorryand the young lady. 

He led them through a stinking little black courtyard, and up astaircase to a dim garret, where a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping and very busy, making shoes. 

"You are still hard at work, I see, " said Monsieur Defarge. 

A pair of haggard eyes looked at the questioner, and a very faint voicereplied, "Yes, I am working. "

"Here is a visitor. Show him that shoe and tell him the maker's name. "

There was a long pause, and the shoemaker asked, "What did you say?"

Defarge repeated his words. 

"It is a lady's shoe, " answered the shoemaker. 

"And the maker's name?"

"One Hundred and Five, North Tower. "

"Dr. Manette, " said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him, "do youremember nothing of me? Do you remember nothing of Defarge--your oldservant?"

As the Bastille captive of many years gazed at them, marks ofintelligence forced themselves through the mist that had fallen on him. They were fainter; they were gone, but they had been there. The younglady moved forward, with tears streaming from her eyes, and kissed him. He took up her golden hair, and looked at it; then drew from his breasta folded rag, and opened it carefully. It contained a little quantity ofhair. He took the girl's hair into his hand again. 

"It is the same! How can it be? She had a fear of my going that night. _Was it you?_" He turned upon her with frightful suddenness. But hisvigour swiftly died out, and he gloomily shook his head. "No, no, no! Itcan't be!"

She fell on her knees and clasped his neck. 

"If you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that was once sweetmusic to your ears, weep for it--weep for it! Thank God!" she cried. "Ifeel his sacred tears upon my face! Leave us here, " she said. And, asthe darkness closed in, they left father and daughter together. 

They came back at night. A coach stood outside the courtyard, and thelately released prisoner, in scared, blank wonder, began the journeythat was to end in England and rest. 

_II. --The Jackal_

In the dimly-lighted passages of the Old Bailey, Dr. Manette, hisdaughter, and Mr. Lorry stood by Mr. Charles Darnay--just acquitted on acharge of high treason--congratulating him on his escape from death. 

It was not difficult to recognise in Dr. Manette, intellectual of faceand upright in bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. He and hisdaughter had been unwilling witnesses for the prosecution, called togive evidence that might be distorted into corroboration of a paid spy'sfalsehoods as to Darnay's dealings with the French king. 

Darnay kissed Lucie Manette's hand fervently and gratefully, and warmlythanked his counsel, Mr. Stryver. As he watched them go, a person whohad been leaning against the wall stepped up to him. It was Mr. Carton, a barrister, who had sat throughout the trial with his whole attentionseemingly concentrated upon the ceiling of the court. Everybody had beenstruck with the extraordinary resemblance, cleverly used by thedefending counsel to confound a witness, between Mr. Carton and Mr. Darnay. Mr. Carton was shabbily dressed, and did not appear to be quitesober. 

"This must be a strange sight to you, " said Carton, with a laugh. 

"I hardly seem yet, " returned Darnay, "to belong to this world again. "

"Then why the devil don't you dine?"

He led him to a tavern, where Darnay recruited his strength with a good, plain dinner. Carton drank, but ate nothing. 

"Now your dinner is done, " Carton presently said, "why don't you giveyour toast?"

"What toast?"

"Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. "

"Miss Manette, then!"

Carton drank the toast, and flung his glass over his shoulder againstthe wall, where it shivered in pieces. 

After Darnay had gone, Carton drank and slept till ten o'clock, and thenwalked to the chambers of Mr. Stryver. Mr. Stryver was a glib man, andan unscrupulous, and a bold, and was fast shouldering his way to alucrative practice; but it had been noted that he had not the strikingand necessary faculty of extracting evidence from a heap of statements. A remarkable improvement, however, came upon him as to this. SydneyCarton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was his great ally. What thetwo drank together would have floated a king's ship. 

Stryver never had a case in hand but what Carton was there, with hishands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling. At last it began to getabout that, although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was anamazingly good jackal, and that he rendered service to Stryver in thathumble capacity. Folding wet towels on his head in a manner hideous tobehold, the jackal began the "boiling down" of cases, while Stryverreclined before the fire. Each had bottles and glasses ready to hishand. The work was not done until the clocks were striking three. 

Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, Carton threw himselfdown in his clothes on a neglected bed. Sadly, sadly the sun rose. Itrose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and goodemotions, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible ofthe blight upon him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away. 

_III. --The Loadstone Rock_

"Dear Dr. Manette, " said Charles Darnay, "I love your daughter fondly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her!"

Dr. Manette turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him orraise his eyes. 

"Have you spoken to Lucie?" he asked. 

"No. "

The doctor looked up; a struggle was evidently in his face--a strugglewith that look he still sometimes wore, with a tendency in it to darkdoubt and dread. 

"If Lucie should ever tell me, " he said, "that you are essential to herperfect happiness, I will give her to you. "

"Your confidence in me, " answered Darnay, relieved, "ought to bereturned with full confidence on my part. I am, as you know, likeyourself, a voluntary exile from France. The name I bear at present isnot my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and why I am in England. "

"Stop!"

The doctor laid his two hands on Darnay's lips. 

"Tell me when I ask you, not now. Go! God bless you!"

On a day shortly before the marriage, while Lucie was sitting at herwork alone, Sydney Carton entered. 

"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton, " she said, looking up at him. 

"No; but the life I lead is not conducive to health. "

"Is it not--forgive me--a pity to live no better life?"

"It is too late for that. " He covered her eyes with his hand. "Will youhear me?" he continued. "Since I have known you, I have been troubled bya remorse that I thought would never reproach me again. A dream, all adream, that ends in nothing; but let me carry through the rest of mymisdirected life the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last ofall the world. "

"Mr. Carton, " she answered, after an agitated pause, "I promise torespect your secret. "

"God bless you! My last application is this, that you will believe thatfor you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. Oh, Miss Manette, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep alife you love beside you!"

He said "farewell!" and left her. 

A wonderful corner for echoes was the quiet street-corner near SohoSquare, where Dr. Manette lived with his daughter and her husband. ButLucie heard in the echoes none but friendly and soothing sounds. Herhusband's step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firmand equal. The time came when a little Lucie lay on her bosom. But therewere other echoes that rumbled menacingly in the distance, with a soundas of a great storm in France, with a dreadful sea rising. 

It was August of the year 1792. Charles Darnay talked in a low voicewith Mr. Lorry in Tellson's Bank. The bank had a branch in Paris, andthe London establishment was the headquarters of the aristocraticemigrants who had fled from France. 

"And do you really go to Paris to-night?" asked Darnay. 

"I do. You can have no conception of the peril in which our books andpapers over yonder are involved, and the getting them out of harm's wayis in the power of scarcely anyone but myself. "

As Mr. Lorry spoke a letter was laid before him. Darnay saw thedirection--it was to himself. "To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evrémonde. " Horrified at the oppression and cruelty of his familytowards the people, Darnay had left his native country and had neverused the title that had, some years before, fallen to him byinheritance. He had told his secret to Dr. Manette on the weddingmorning, and to none other. 

"I know the man, " he said. 

"Will you take charge of the letter and deliver it?" asked Mr. Lorry. 

"I will. "

When alone, Darnay opened the letter. It was from the steward of hisFrench estate. The man had been charged with acting for an emigrantagainst the people. It was in vain he had urged that by the marquis'sinstructions he had acted for the people--had remitted all rents andimposts. The only response was that he had acted for an emigrant. Nothing but the marquis's personal testimony could save him fromexecution. 

Could he resist his old servant's appeal? He knew the peril of it, buthis honour was at stake; he must go. That evening he wrote two lettersexplaining his purpose, one to Lucie, one to the doctor. On the nextnight he went out, pretending he would be back by-and-by. The twoletters he left with the trusty porter to be delivered before midnight;and, with a heavy heart, leaving all that was dear on earth behind him, he journeyed on--drawn, like the mariner in the old story, to theLoadstone Rock. 

_IV. --The Track of a Storm_

In the buildings of Tellson's Bank in Paris, Mr. Lorry sat by a woodfire (it was early September, but the blighted year was prematurelycold), and on his honest face there was a deeper shade than the pendantlamp could throw--a shade of horror. By him sat Dr. Manette; Lucie andher child were in an inner room. They had hastened after Darnay toParis. Dr. Manette knew that as a Bastille prisoner he bore a charmedlife in revolutionary France, and that if Darnay was in danger he couldhelp him. Darnay was indeed in danger. He had been arrested as anaristocrat and an enemy of the Republic. 

From the streets there came the usual night hum of the city, with nowand then an indescribable ring in it, weird and unearthly, as if someunwonted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to Heaven. 

A loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the courtyard. Mr. Lorry put his hand on the doctor's arm, and they looked out. 

A throng of men and women crowded round a grindstone. Turning madly atits double handle were two men, whose faces were more horrible and cruelthan the visages of the wildest savages. The eye could not detect onecreature in the surrounding group free from the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone were menwith the stain all over their limbs and bodies; hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all were red with it. 

"They are murdering the prisoners, " whispered Mr. Lorry. 

Dr. Manette hastened out of the room, and down into the courtyard. Therewas a pause, a murmur, and the sound of his voice. Then Mr. Lorry sawhim, surrounded by all, hurried out with cries of "Live the Bastilleprisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's kindred in La Force!"

It was long ere he returned. He had presented himself at the prisonbefore the self-appointed tribunal that was consigning the prisoners tomassacre, and had announced himself as a victim of the Bastille. Onemember of the tribunal had identified him; the member was Defarge. Hehad pleaded hard for his son-in-law's life, and had been informed thatthe prisoner must remain in custody; but should, for the doctor's sake, be held in safe custody. 

For fifteen months Charles Darnay remained in prison. During all thattime Lucie was never sure but that her husband's head would be struckoff next day. When at length arraigned as an emigrant whose life wasforfeit to the Republic, he pleaded that he had come back to save acitizen's life. That night he sat by the fire with his family, a freeman. Lucie at last was at ease. 

"What is that?" she cried suddenly. 

There was a knock at the door; four armed men in red caps entered theroom. 

"Evrémonde, " said the first, "you are again the prisoner of theRepublic!"

"Why?" he asked, with his wife and child clinging to him. 

"You will know to-morrow. "

"One word, " entreated the doctor, "who has denounced him?"

"The Citizen Defarge, and another. "

"What other?"

"Citizen, " said the man, with a strange look, "you will be answeredto-morrow. "

_V. --Condemned_

The news that Darnay had been again arrested was brought to Mr. Lorrylater in the evening, and the man who brought it was Sydney Carton. Hehad come to Paris, he said, on business; his business was now completed, he was about to return, and he had obtained his leave to pass. 

"Darnay, " he said, "cannot escape condemnation this time. "

"I fear not, " answered Mr. Lorry. 

"I have found, " continued Carton, "that the Old Bailey spy who chargedDarnay with high treason years ago is now in the service of the Republicand is a turnkey at the prison of the Conciergerie where Darnay isconfined. By threatening to denounce him as a spy of Pitt, I havesecured that I shall gain access to Darnay in the prison if the trialshould go against him. "

"But access to him, " said Mr. Lorry, "will not save him. "

"I never said it would. "

Mr. Lorry looked at him mystified, and once more noted his strangeresemblance to the man whose fate was to be decided on the morrow. 

Carton stood next day in an obscure corner among the crowd when CharlesEvrémonde, called Darnay, appeared again before the judges. 

"Who denounces the accused?" asked the president. 

"Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor. "

"Good. "

"Alexandre Manette, physician. "

"President, " cried the doctor, pale and trembling, "I indignantlyprotest to you. "

"Citizen Manette, be silent! Call Citizen Defarge. "

Rapidly Defarge told his story. He had been among the leaders in thetaking of the Bastille. When the citadel had fallen, he had gone to thecell One Hundred and Five, North Tower, and had searched it. In a holein the chimney he had found a paper in the handwriting of Dr. Manette. 

"Let it be read, " said the president. 

In this paper Dr. Manette had written the history of his imprisonment. In the year 1757 he had been taken secretly by two nobles to visit twopoor people who were on the point of death. One was a woman whom one ofthe nobles had forcibly carried off from her husband; the other, herbrother, whom the seducer had mortally wounded. The doctor had come toolate; both the woman and her brother died. The doctor refused a fee, and, to relieve his mind, wrote privately to the government stating thecircumstances of the crime. One night he was called out of his home on afalse pretext, and taken to the Bastille. 

The nobles were the Marquis de St. Evrémonde and his brother; and theMarquis was the father of Charles Darnay. A terrible sound arose in thecourt when the reading was done. The voting of the jury was unanimous, and at every vote there was a roar. Death in twenty-four hours!

That night Carton again came to Mr. Lorry. Between the two men, as theyspoke, a figure on a chair rocked itself to and fro, moaning. It was Dr. Manette. 

"He and Lucie and her child must leave Paris to-morrow, " said Carton. "They are in danger of being denounced. It is a capital crime to mournfor, or sympathise with, a victim of the guillotine. Be ready to startat two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. See them into their seats; take yourown seat. The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away. 

"It shall be done. "

Carton turned to the couch where Lucie lay unconscious, prostrated withutter grief. 

He bent down, touched her face with his lips, and murmured some words. Little Lucie told them afterwards that she heard him say, "A life youlove. "

_VI. --The Guillotine_

In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaitedtheir fate. Fifty-two persons were to roll that afternoon on thelife-tide of the city to the boundless, everlasting sea. 

The hours went on as Darnay walked to and fro in his cell, and theclocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. The final hour, heknew, was three, and he expected to be summoned at two. The clocksstruck one. "There is but another now, " he thought. 

He heard footsteps. The door was opened, and there stood before him, quiet, intent, and smiling, Sydney Carton. 

"Darnay, " he said, "I bring you a request from your wife. "

"What is it?"

"There is no time--you must comply. Take off your boots and coat, andput on mine. "

"Carton, there is no escaping from this place. It is madness. "

"Do I ask you to escape?" said Carton, forcing the changes upon him. 

"Now sit at the table and write what I dictate. "

"To whom do I address it?"

"To no one. "

"If you remember, " said Carton, dictating, "the words that passedbetween us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it. I amthankful that the time has come when I can prove them. " Carton's handwas withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down thewriter's face. For a few seconds Darnay struggled faintly, Carton's handheld firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground. 

Carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again asCarton was putting the paper in Darnay's breast. He came back with twomen. They raised the unconscious figure and carried it away. 

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers oflistening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denotesuspicion or alarm. There was none. Presently his door opened, and agaoler looked in, merely saying: "Follow me, " whereupon Carton followedhim into a dark room. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a youngwoman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him. 

"Citizen Evrémonde, " she said, "I am a poor little seamstress, who waswith you in La Force. "

He murmured an answer. 

"I heard you were released. "

"I was, and was taken again and condemned. "

"If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand?"

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt inthem. 

"Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "Oh, you will let me hold yourhand?"

"Hush! Yes, my poor sister, to the last. "

That afternoon a coach going out of Paris drove up to the Barrier. "Papers!" demanded the guard. The papers are handed out and read. 

"Alexandre Manette, Lucie Manette, her child. Jarvis Lorry, banker, English. Sydney Carton, advocate, English. Which is he?"

He lies here, in a corner, apparently in a swoon. He is in bad health. 

"Behold your papers, countersigned. "

"One can depart, citizen?"

"One can depart. "

The ministers of Sainte Guillotin are robed and ready. Crash!--and thewomen who sit with their knitting in front of the guillotine count one. Crash!--and the women count two. 

The supposed Evrémonde descends with the seamstress from the tumbril, and joins the fast-thinning throng of victims before the crashing enginethat constantly whirrs up and falls. The spare hand does not tremble ashe grasps it. She goes next before him--is gone. The knitting womencount twenty-two. 

The murmuring of many voices, the pressing on of many footsteps in theoutskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward like one great heaveof water, all flashes away. Twenty-three. 

They said of him about the city that night that it was the peacefulestman's face ever beheld there. Had he given utterance to his thoughts atthe foot of the scaffold, they would have been these:

"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous, and happy in that England which I shall see no more. I seeher with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see that I hold asanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. 

"It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done; it is afar, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known. "

 * * * * *

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

Coningsby

 Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, was not only a great figure in English politics in the nineteenth century; he was also a novelist of brilliant powers. Born in London on December 21, 1804, the son of Isaac D'Israeli, the future Prime Minister of England was first articled to a solicitor; but he quickly turned from this to politics. Disraeli was leader of the Conservative Party in the House of Commons in 1847; he was twice Prime Minister. In 1876 he was created Earl of Beaconsfield. Disraeli's novels--especially the famous trilogy of "Coningsby, " 1844, "Sybil, " 1845, and "Tancred, " 1846--are remarkable chiefly for the view they give of contemporary political life, and for the definite political philosophy of their author. Neither the earlier novels--"Vivian Grey", 1826, "Contarini Fleming, " "Alroy, " 1832, "Henrietta Temple" and "Venetia, " 1837--nor the later ones--"Lothair, " 1870, and "Endymion, " 1874--are to be ranked with "Coningsby" and "Sybil. " Many characters in "Coningsby" are well-known men. Lord Monmouth is Lord Hertford, whom Thackeray depicted as the Marquess of Steyne, Rigby is John Wilson Croker, Oswald Millbank is Mr. Gladstone, Lord H. Sydney is Lord John Manners, Sidonia is Baron Alfred de Rothschild, and Coningsby is Lord Lyttelton. Lord Beaconsfield died in London on April 19, 1881. 

_I. --The Hero of Eton_

Coningsby was the orphan child of the younger of the two sons of LordMonmouth. It was a family famous for its hatreds. The elder son hatedhis father, and lived at Naples, maintaining no connection either withhis parent or his native country. On the other hand, Lord Monmouth hatedhis younger son, who had married against his consent a woman to whomthat son was devoted. Persecuted by his father, he died abroad, and hiswidow returned to England. Not having a relation, and scarcely anacquaintance, in the world, she made an appeal to her husband's father, the wealthiest noble in England, and a man who was often prodigal, andoccasionally generous, who respected law, and despised opinion. LordMonmouth decided that, provided she gave up her child, and permanentlyresided in one of the remotest counties, he would make her a yearlyallowance of three hundred pounds. Necessity made the victim yield; andthree years later, Mrs. Coningsby died, the same day that her father-in-law was made a marquess. 

Coningsby was then not more than nine years of age; and when he attainedhis twelfth year an order was received from Lord Monmouth, who was atRome, that he should go at once to Eton. 

Coningsby had never seen his grandfather. It was Mr. Rigby who madearrangements for his education. This Mr. Rigby was the manager of LordMonmouth's parliamentary influence and the auditor of his vast estates. He was a member for one of Lord Monmouth's boroughs, and, in fact, agreat personage. Lord Monmouth had bought him, and it was a goodpurchase. 

In the spring of 1832, when the country was in the throes of agitationover the Reform Bill, Lord Monmouth returned to England, accompanied bythe Prince and Princess Colonna and the Princess Lucretia, the prince'sdaughter by his first wife. Coningsby was summoned from Eton to MonmouthHouse, and returned to school in the full favour of the marquess. 

Coningsby was the hero of Eton; everybody was proud of him, talked ofhim, quoted him, imitated him. But the ties of friendship boundConingsby to Henry Sydney and Oswald Millbank above all companions. LordHenry Sydney was the son of a duke, and Millbank was the son of one ofthe wealthiest manufacturers in Lancashire. Once, on the river, Coningsby saved Millbank's life; and this was the beginning of a closeand ardent friendship. 

Coningsby liked very much to talk politics with Millbank. He heardthings from Millbank which were new to him. Politics had, as yet, appeared to him a struggle whether the country was to be governed byWhig nobles or Tory nobles; and Coningsby, a high Tory as he supposedhimself to be, thought it very unfortunate that he should probably haveto enter life with his friends out of power and his family boroughsdestroyed. But, in conversing with Millbank, he heard for the first timeof influential classes in the country who were not noble, and were yetdetermined to acquire power. 

Generally, at that time, among the upper boys at Eton there was areigning inclination for political discussion, and a feeling in favourof "Conservative principles. " A year later, and in 1836, gradually theinquiry fell upon attentive ears as to what these Conservativeprinciples were. Before Coningsby and his friends left Eton--Coningsbyfor Cambridge, and Millbank for Oxford--they were resolved to contendfor political faith rather than for mere partisan success or personalambition. 

_II. --A Portrait of a Lady_

On his way to Coningsby Castle, in Lancashire, where the Marquess ofMonmouth was living in state--feasting the county, patronising theborough, and diffusing confidence in the Conservative party in orderthat the electors of Dartford might return his man, Mr. Rigby, once morefor parliament--our hero halted for the night at Manchester. In thecoffee-room at the hotel a stranger, loud in praise of the commercialenterprise of the neighbourhood, advised Coningsby, if he wanted to seesomething tip-top in the way of cotton works, to visit Millbank ofMillbank's; and thus it came about that Coningsby first met EdithMillbank. Oswald was abroad; and Mr. Millbank, when he heard the name ofhis visitor, was only distressed that the sudden arrival left no timefor adequate welcome. 

"My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental, " saidConingsby. "I am bound for the other division of the county, to pay avisit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth, but an irresistible desire cameover me during my journey to view this famous district of industry. "

A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name of LordMonmouth was mentioned; but he said nothing, only turning towardsConingsby, with an air of kindness, to beg him, since to stay longer wasimpossible, to dine with him. Coningsby gladly agreed to this and thevillage clock was striking five when Mr. Millbank and his guest enteredthe gardens of his mansion and proceeded to the house. 

The hall was capacious and classic; and as they approached the staircasethe sweetest and the clearest voice exclaimed from above: "Papa, papa!"and instantly a young girl came bounding down the stairs; but suddenly, seeing a stranger with her father, she stopped upon the landing-place. Mr. Millbank beckoned her, and she came down slowly; at the foot of thestairs her father said briefly: "A friend you have often heard of, Edith--this is Mr. Coningsby. "

She started, blushed very much, and then put forth her hand. 

"How often have we all wished to see and to thank you!" Miss EdithMillbank remarked in tones of sensibility. 

Opposite Coningsby at dinner that night was a portrait which greatlyattracted his attention. It represented a woman extremely young and of arare beauty. The face was looking out of the canvas, and the gaze ofthis picture disturbed the serenity of Coningsby. On rising to leave thetable he said to Mr. Millbank, "By whom is that portrait, sir?"

The countenance of Millbank became disturbed; his expression wasagitated, almost angry. "Oh! that is by a country artist, " he said, "ofwhom you never heard. "

_III. --The Course of True Love_

The Princess Colonna resolved that an alliance should take place betweenConingsby and her step-daughter. But the plans of the princess, impartedto Mr. Rigby that she might gain his assistance in achieving them, weredoomed to frustration. Coningsby fell deeply in love with Miss Millbank;and Lord Monmouth himself decided to marry Lucretia. 

It was in Paris that Coningsby, on a visit to his grandfather, woke tothe knowledge of his love for Edith Millbank. They met at a brilliantparty, Miss Millbank in the care of her aunt, Lady Wallinger. 

"Miss Millbank says that you have quite forgotten her, " said a mutualfriend. 

Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal hissurprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not withoutconfusion. Coningsby recalled at that moment the beautiful, bashfulcountenance that had so charmed him at Millbank; but two years hadeffected a wonderful change, and transformed the silent, embarrassedgirl into a woman of surpassing beauty. That night the image of EdithMillbank was the last thought of Coningsby as he sank into an agitatedslumber. In the morning his first thought was of her of whom he haddreamed. The light had dawned on his soul. Coningsby loved. 

The course of true love was not to run smoothly with our hero. Within afew days he heard rumours that Miss Millbank was to be married toSidonia, a wealthy and gifted man of the Jewish race, the friend of LordMonmouth. Often had Coningsby admired the wisdom and the abilities ofSidonia; against such a rival he felt powerless, and, without musteringcourage to speak, left hastily for England. 

But Coningsby had been deceived--the gossip was without foundation; andonce more he was to meet Edith Millbank. This time, however, it was Mr. Millbank himself who vetoed the courtship. 

Oswald had invited his friend to Millbank; and Coningsby, having learntthe baselessness of the report that had driven him from Paris, gladlyaccepted. Coningsby Castle was near to Hellingsley; and this estate Mr. Millbank had purchased, outbidding Lord Monmouth. Bitter enmity existedbetween the great marquess and the famous manufacturer--an old, implacable hatred. Mr. Millbank now resided at Hellingsley; andConingsby left the castle rejoicing to meet his old Eton friend again, and still more the beautiful sister of his old friend. 

Mr. Millbank was from home when he arrived; and Coningsby and MissMillbank walked in the park, and rested by the margin of a stream. Assuredly a maiden and a youth more beautiful and engaging had seldommet in a scene more fresh and fair. 

Coningsby gazed on the countenance of his companion. She turned herhead, and met his glance. 

"Edith, " he said, in a tone of tremulous passion, "let me call youEdith! Yes, " he continued, gently taking her hand; "let me call you myEdith! I love you!"

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as theimpending twilight. 

The lovers returned late for dinner to find that Mr. Millbank was athome. 

Next morning, in Mr. Millbank's room, Coningsby learnt that the marriagehe looked forward to with all the ardour of youth was quite impossible. 

"The sacrifices and the misery of such a marriage are certain andinseparable, " said Mr. Millbank gravely, but without harshness. "You arethe grandson of Lord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, butdependent on his bounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow andto-morrow you may be the object of his hatred and persecution. Yourgrandfather and myself are foes--to the death. It is idle to mincephrases. I do not vindicate our mutual feelings; I may regret that theyhave ever arisen, especially at this exigency. Lord Monmouth would crushme, had he the power, like a worm; and I have curbed his proud fortunesoften. These feelings of hatred may be deplored, but they do not exist;and now you are to go to this man, and ask his sanction to marry mydaughter!"

"I would appease these hatreds, " retorted Coningsby, "the origin ofwhich I know not. I would appeal to my grandfather. I would show himEdith. "

"He has looked upon as fair even as Edith, " said Mr. Millbank. "And didthat melt his heart? My daughter and yourself can meet no more. "

In vain Coningsby pleaded his suit. It was not till Mr. Millbank toldthat he, too, had suffered--that he had loved Coningsby's own mother, and that she gave her heart to another, to die afterwards solitary andforsaken, tortured by Lord Monmouth--that Coningsby was silent. It washis mother's portrait he had looked upon that night at Millbank; and heunderstood the cause of the hatred. 

He wrung Mr. Millbank's hand, and left Hellingsley in despair. ButOswald overtook him in the park; and, leaning on his friend's arm, Coningsby poured forth a hurried, impassioned, and incoherent strain--all that had occurred, all that he had dreamed, his baffled bliss, hisactual despair, his hopeless outlook. 

A thunderstorm overtook them; and Oswald took refuge from the elementsat the castle. There, as they sat together, pledging their faithfulfriendship, the door opened, and Mr. Rigby appeared. 

_IV. --Coningsby's Political Faith_

Lord Monmouth banished the Princess Colonna from his presence, andmarried Lucretia. Coningsby returned to Cambridge, and continued toenjoy his grandfather's hospitality whenever Lord Monmouth was inLondon. 

Mr. Millbank had, in the meantime, become a member of parliament, havingdefeated Mr. Rigby in the contest for the representation of Dartford. 

In the year 1840 a general election was imminent, and Lord Monmouthreturned to London. He was weary of Paris; every day he found it moredifficult to be amused. Lucretia had lost her charm: they had beenmarried nearly three years. The marquess, from whom nothing could beconcealed, perceived that often, while she elaborately attempted todivert him, her mind was wandering elsewhere. 

He fell into the easy habit of dining in his private rooms, sometimes_tête-à-tête_ with Villebecque, his private secretary, a cosmopolitantheatrical manager, whose tales and adventures about a kind of societywhich Lord Monmouth had always preferred to the polished and somewhatinsipid circles in which he was born, had rendered him the primefavourite of his great patron. Villebecque's step-daughter Flora, amodest and retiring maiden, waited on Lucretia. 

Back in London, Lord Monmouth, on the day of his arrival, welcomedConingsby to his room, and at a sign from his master Villebecque leftthe apartment. 

"You see, Harry, " said Lord Monmouth, "that I am much occupied to-day, yet the business on which I wish to communicate with you is so pressingthat it could not be postponed. These are not times when young menshould be out of sight. Your public career will commence immediately. The government have resolved on a dissolution. My information is fromthe highest quarter. The Whigs are going to dissolve their own House ofCommons. Notwithstanding this, we can beat them, but the race requiresthe finest jockeying. We can't give a point. Now, if we had a goodcandidate, we could win Dartford. But Rigby won't do. He is too much ofthe old clique used up a hack; besides, a beaten horse. We are assuredthe name of Coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable sectionwho support the present fellow who will not vote against a Coningsby. They have thought of you as a fit person; and I have approved of thesuggestion. You will, therefore, be the candidate for Dartford with myentire sanction and support; and I have no doubt you will besuccessful. "

To Coningsby the idea was appalling. To be the rival of Mr. Millbank onthe hustings of Dartford! Vanquished or victorious, equally acatastrophe. He saw Edith canvassing for her father and against him. Besides, to enter the House of Commons a slave and a tool of party!Strongly anti-Whig, Coningsby distrusted the Conservative party, andlooked for a new party of men who shared his youthful convictions andhigh political principles. 

Lord Monmouth, however, brushed aside his grandson's objections. 

"You are certainly still young; but I was younger by nearly two yearswhen I first went in, and I found no difficulty. As for your opinions, you have no business to have any other than those I uphold. I want tosee you in parliament. I tell you what it is, Harry, " Lord Monmouthconcluded, very emphatically, "members of this family may think as theylike, but they must act as I please. You must go down on Friday toDartford and declare yourself a candidate for the town, or I shallreconsider our mutual positions. "

Coningsby left Monmouth House in dejection, but to his solemn resolutionof political faith he remained firm. He would not stand for Dartfordagainst Mr. Millbank as the nominee of a party he could not follow. Interms of tenderness and humility he wrote to his grandfather that hepositively declined to enter parliament except as the master of his ownconduct. 

In the same hour of his distress Coningsby overheard in his club two mendiscussing the engagement of Miss Millbank to the Marquess ofBeaumanoir, the elder brother of his school friend, Henry Sydney. 

Edith Millbank, too, had heard news at a London assembly of wealth andfashion that Coningsby was engaged to be married to Lady Theresa Sydney. 

So easily does rumour spin her stories and smite her victims withsadness. 

_V. --Lady Monmouth's Departure_

It was Flora, to whom Coningsby had been always kind and courteous, whotold Lucretia that Lord Monmouth was displeased with his grandson. 

"My lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby, " she said, shaking her headmournfully. "My lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsbywould never enter the house again. "

Lucretia immediately dispatched a note to Mr. Rigby, and, on the arrivalof that gentleman, told him all she had learnt of the contention betweenHarry Coningsby and her husband. 

"I told you to beware of him long ago, " said Lady Monmouth. "He has everbeen in the way of both of us. "

"He is in my power, " said Rigby. "We can crush him. He is in love withthe daughter of Millbank, the man who bought Hellingsley. I found theyounger Millbank quite domiciliated at the castle, a fact which ofitself, if known to Lord Monmouth, would ensure the lad's annihilation. "

"The time is now most mature for this. Let us not conceal it fromourselves that since this grandson's first visit to Coningsby Castle wehave neither of us really been in the same position with my lord whichwe then occupied, or believed we should occupy. Go now; the game isbefore you! Rid me of this Coningsby, and I will secure all that youwant. "

"It shall be done, " said Rigby, "it must be done. "

Lady Monmouth bade Mr. Rigby hasten at once to the marquess and bringher news of the interview. She awaited with some excitement his return. Her original prejudice against Coningsby and jealousy of his influencehad been aggravated by the knowledge that, although after her marriageLord Monmouth had made a will which secured to her a very large portionof his great wealth, the energies and resources of the marquess had oflate been directed to establish Coningsby in a barony. 

Two hours elapsed before Mr. Rigby returned. There was a churlish andunusual look about him. 

"Lord Monmouth suggests that, as you were tired of Paris, your ladyshipmight find the German baths at Kissingen agreeable. A paragraph in the'Morning Post' would announce that his lordship was about to join you;and even if his lordship did not ultimately reach you, an amicableseparation would be effected. "

In vain Lucretia stormed. Mr. Rigby mentioned that Lord Monmouth hadalready left the house and would not return, and finally announced thatLucretia's letters to a certain Prince Trautsmandorff were in hislordship's possession. 

A few days later, and Coningsby read in the papers of Lady Monmouth'sdeparture to Kissingen. He called at Monmouth House, to find the placeempty, and to learn from the porter that Lord Monmouth was about tooccupy a villa at Richmond. 

Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. With theexception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experiencednothing but kindness from Lord Monmouth. He determined to pay him avisit at Richmond. 

Lord Monmouth, who was entertaining two French ladies at his villa, recoiled from grandsons and relations and ties of all kinds; butConingsby so pleasantly impressed his fair visitors that Lord Monmouthdecided to ask him to dinner. Thus, in spite of the combinations ofLucretia and Mr. Rigby, and his grandfather's resentment, within a monthof the memorable interview at Monmouth House, Coningsby found himselfonce more a welcome guest at Lord Monmouth's table. 

In that same month other important circumstances also occurred. 

At a fête in some beautiful gardens on the banks of the Thames, Coningsby and Edith Millbank were both present. The announcement wasmade of the forthcoming marriage of Lady Theresa Sydney to Mr. EustaceLyle, a friend of Mr. Coningsby; and later, from the lips of LadyWallinger herself, Miss Millbank's aunt, Coningsby learnt how reallygroundless was the report of Lord Beaumanoir's engagement. 

"Lord Beaumanoir admires her--has always admired her, " Lady Wallingerexplained to Coningsby; "but Edith has given him no encouragementwhatever. "

At the end of the terrace Edith and Coningsby met. He seized theoccasion to walk some distance by her side. 

"How could you ever doubt me?" said Coningsby, after some time. 

"I was unhappy. "

"And now we are to each other as before. "

"And will be, come what may, " said Edith. 

_VI. --Lord Monmouth's Money_

In the midst of Christmas-revels at the country house of Mr. EustaceLyle, surrounded by the duke and duchess and their children--theSydneys--Coningsby was called away by a messenger, who brought news ofthe sudden death of Lord Monmouth. The marquess had died at supper athis Richmond villa, with no persons near him but those who were veryamusing. 

The body had been removed to Monmouth House; and after the funeral, inthe principal saloon of Monmouth House, the will was eventually read. 

The date of the will was 1829; and by this document the sum of £10, 000was left to Coningsby, who at that time was unknown to his grandfather. 

But there were many codicils. In 1832, the £10, 000 was increased to£50, 000. In 1836, after Coningsby's visit to the castle, £50, 000 wasleft to the Princess Lucretia, and Coningsby was left sole residuarylegatee. 

After the marriage, an estate of £9, 000 a year was left to Coningsby, £20, 000 to Mr. Rigby, and the whole of the residue went to issue by LadyMonmouth. 

In the event of there being no issue, the whole of the estate was to bedivided equally between Lady Monmouth and Coningsby. In 1839, Mr. Rigbywas reduced to £10, 000, Lady Monmouth was to receive £3, 000 per annum, and the rest, without reserve, went absolutely to Coningsby. 

The last codicil was dated immediately after the separation with LadyMonmouth. 

All dispositions in favour of Coningsby were revoked, and he was leftwith the interest of the original £10, 000, the executors to invest themoney as they thought best for his advancement, provided it were notplaced in any manufactory. 

Mr. Rigby received £5, 000, M. Villebecque £30, 000, and all the rest, residue and remainder, to Flora, commonly called Flora Villebecque, step-child of Armand Villebecque, "but who is my natural daughter by anactress at the Théâtre Français in the years 1811-15, by the name ofStella. "

Sidonia lightened the blow for Coningsby as far as philosophy could beof use. 

"I ask you, " he said, "which would you have rather lost--yourgrandfather's inheritance or your right leg?"

"Most certainly my inheritance. "

"Or your left arm?"

"Still the inheritance. "

"Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?"

"Even at twenty-three I would have refused the terms. "

"Come, then, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great. You havehealth, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable knowledge, afine courage, and no contemptible experience. You can live on £300 ayear. Read for the Bar. "

"I have resolved, " said Coningsby. "I will try for the Great Seal!"

Next morning came a note from Flora, begging Mr. Coningsby to call uponher. It was an interview he would rather have avoided. But Flora had notinjured him, and she was, after all, his kin. She was alone whenConingsby entered the room. 

"I have robbed you of your inheritance. "

"It was not mine by any right, legal or moral. The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right; and there is no one who wishes morefervently that it may contribute to your happiness than I do. "

"It is killing me, " said Flora mournfully. "I must tell you what I feel. This fortune is yours. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be ifyou will generously accept it. "

"You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and mosttender-hearted of beings, " said Coningsby, much moved; "but the customof the world does not permit such acts to either of us as youcontemplate. Have confidence in yourself. You will be happy. "

"When I die, these riches will be yours; that, at all events, you cannotprevent, " were Flora's last generous words. 

_VII. --On Life's Threshold_

Coningsby established himself in the Temple to read law; and Lord HenrySydney, Oswald Millbank, and other old Eton friends rallied round theirearly leader. 

"I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will become Lord Chancellor, "Henry Sydney said gravely, after leaving the Temple. 

The General Election of 1841, which Lord Monmouth had expected a yearbefore, found Coningsby a solitary student in his lonely chambers in theTemple. All his friends and early companions were candidates, and withsanguine prospects. They sent their addresses to Coningsby, who, deeplyinterested, traced in them the influence of his own mind. 

Then, in the midst of the election, one evening in July, Coningsby, catching up a third edition of the "Sun, " was startled by the word"Dartford" in large type. Below it were the headlines:

"Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of the Liberal Candidate! Two ToryCandidates in the Field!"

Mr. Millbank, at the last moment, had retired, and had persuaded hissupporters to nominate Harry Coningsby in his place. The fight wasbetween Coningsby and Rigby. 

Oswald Millbank, who had just been returned to parliament, came up toLondon; and from him, as they travelled to Dartford, Coningsby graspedthe change of events. Sidonia had explained to Lady Wallinger the causeof Coningsby's disinheritance. Lady Wallinger had told Oswald and Edith;and Oswald had urged on his father the recognition of his friend'saffection for his sister. 

On his own impulse Mr. Millbank decided that Coningsby should contestDartford. 

Mr. Rigby was beaten; and Coningsby arrived at Dartford in time toreceive the cheers of thousands. From the hustings he gave his firstaddress to a public assembly; and by general agreement no such speechhad ever been heard in the borough before. 

Early in the autumn Harry and Edith were married at Millbank, and theypassed their first moon at Hellingsley. 

The death of Flora, who had bequeathed the whole of her fortune to thehusband of Edith, took place before the end of the year, hastened by thefatal inheritance which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart with the recollection that she had been theinstrument of injuring the only being whom she loved. 

Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall, with his beautifuland gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heartand his youth. 

The young couple stand now on the threshold of public life. What will betheir fate? Will they maintain in august assemblies and high places thegreat truths, which, in study and in solitude, they have embraced? Orwill vanity confound their fortunes, and jealousy wither theirsympathies?

 * * * * *

Sybil, or the Two Nations

 "Sybil, or the Two Nations" was published in 1845, a year after "Coningsby, " and in it the novelist "considered the condition of the people. " The author himself, writing in 1870 of this novel, said: "At that time the Chartist agitation was still fresh in the public memory, and its repetition was far from improbable. I had visited and observed with care all the localities introduced, and as an accurate and never exaggerated picture of a remarkable period in our domestic history, and of a popular organisation which in its extent and completeness has perhaps never been equalled, the pages of "Sybil" may, I venture to believe, be consulted with confidence. " "Sybil, " indeed, is not only an extremely interesting novel; but as a study of social life in England it is of very definite historical value. 

_I. --Hard Times for the Poor_

It was Derby Day, 1837. Charles Egremont was in the ring at Epsom with aband of young patricians. Groups surrounded the betting post, and theodds were shouted lustily by a host of horsemen. Egremont had backedCaravan to win, and Caravan lost by half a length. Charles Egremont wasthe younger brother of the Earl of Marney; he had received £15, 000 onthe death of his father, and had spent it. Disappointed in love at theage of twenty-four, Egremont left England, to return after eighteenmonths' absence a much wiser man. He was now conscious that he wanted anobject, and, musing over action, was ignorant how to act. 

The morning after the Derby, Egremont, breakfasting with his mother, learnt that King William IV. Was dying, and that a dissolution ofparliament was at hand. Lady Marney was a great stateswoman, a leader infashionable politics. 

"Charles, " said Lady Marney, "you must stand for the old borough, forMarbury. No doubt the contest will be very expensive, but it will be ahappy day for me to see you in parliament, and Marney will, of course, supply the funds. I shall write to him, and perhaps you will do soyourself. "

The election took place, and Egremont was returned. Then he paid a visitto his brother at Marney Abbey, and an old estrangement between the twowas ended. 

Marney Abbey was as remarkable for its comfort and pleasantness ofaccommodation as for its ancient state and splendour. It had been areligious house. The founder of the Marney family, a confidentialdomestic of one of the favourites of Henry VIII. , had contrived byunscrupulous zeal to obtain the grant of the abbey lands, and in thereign of Elizabeth came a peerage. 

The present Lord Marney upheld the workhouse, hated allotments andinfant schools, and declared the labourers on his estate to be happy andcontented with a wage of seven shillings a week. 

The burning of hayricks on the Abbey Farm at the time of Egremont'svisit showed that the torch of the incendiary had been introduced andthat a beacon had been kindled in the agitated neighbourhood. For miserylurked in the wretched tenements of the town of Marney, and fever wasrife. The miserable hovels of the people had neither windows nor doors, and were unpaved, and looked as if they could scarcely hold together. There were few districts in the kingdom where the rate of wages was moredepressed. 

"What do you think of this fire?" said Egremont to a labourer at theAbbey Farm. 

"I think 'tis hard times for the poor, sir, " was the reply, given with ashake of the head. 

_II. --The Old Tradition_

"Why was England not the same land as in the days of his light-heartedyouth?" Charles Egremont mused, as he wandered among the ruins of theancient abbey. "Why were these hard times for the poor?" Brooding overthese questions, he observed two men hard by in the old cloister garden, one of lofty stature, nearer forty than fifty years of age, the otheryounger and shorter, with a pale face redeemed from ugliness by itsintellectual brow. Egremont joined the strangers, and talked. 

"Our queen reigns over two nations, between whom there is no intercourseand no sympathy--the rich and the poor, " said the younger stranger. 

As he spoke, from the lady chapel rose the evening hymn to the Virgin intones of almost supernatural tenderness. 

The melody ceased; and Egremont beheld a female form, a countenanceyouthful, and of a beauty as rare as it was choice. 

The two men joined the beautiful maiden; and the three quitted the abbeygrounds together without another word, and pursued their way to therailway station. 

"I have seen the tomb of the last abbot of Marney, and I marked yourname on the stone, my father, " said the maiden. "You must regain ourlands for us, Stephen, " she added to the younger man. 

"I can't understand why you lost sight of those papers, Walter, " saidStephen Morley. 

"You see, friend, they were never in my possession; they were not minewhen I saw them. They were my father's. He was a small yeoman, well-to-do in the world, but always hankering after the old traditionthat the lands were ours. This Hatton got hold of him; he did his workwell, I have heard. It is twenty-five years since my father brought hiswrit of right, and though baffled, he was not beaten. Then he died; hisaffairs were in great confusion; he had mortgaged his land for his writ. There were debts that could not be paid. I had no capital. I would notsink to be a labourer. I had heard much of the high wages of this newindustry; I left the land. "

"And the papers?"

"I never thought of them, or thought of them with disgust, as the causeof my ruin. Of Hatton, I have not heard since my father's death. He hadquitted Mowbray, and none could give me tidings of him. When you cameand showed me in a book that the last abbot of Marney was a WalterGerard, the old feeling stirred again, and though I am but theoverlooker at Mr. Trafford's mill, I could not help telling you that myfathers fought at Agincourt. "

They approached the station, entered the train, and two hours laterarrived at Mowbray. Gerard and Morley left their companion at a conventgate in the suburbs of the manufacturing town. 

The two men made their way through the streets and entered a prominentpublic house. Here they sought an interview with the landlord, and fromhim got information of Hatton's brother. 

"You have heard of a place called Hell-house Yard?" said the publican. "Well, he lives there, and his name is Simon, and that's all I knowabout him. "

_III. --The Gulf Impassable_

When it came to the point, Lord Marney very much objected to payingEgremont's election expenses, and proposed instead that he shouldaccompany him to Mowbray Castle, and marry Earl Mowbray's daughter, LadyJoan Fitz-Warene. 

Lord Mowbray was the grandson of a waiter, who had gone out to India agentleman's valet, and returned a nabob. Lord Mowbray's two daughters--he had no sons--were great heiresses. Lady Joan was doctrinal; Lady Maudinquisitive. Egremont fell in love with neither, and the visit was afailure. Lord Marney declined to pay the election expenses. 

The brothers parted in anger; and Egremont took up his abode in acottage in Mowedale, a few miles outside the town of Mowbray. He wasdrawn to this by the knowledge that Walter Gerard and his daughterSybil, and their friend Stephen Morley, lived close by. Of Egremont'srank these three were ignorant. Sybil had met him with Mr. St. Lys, thegood vicar of Mowbray, relieving the misery of a poor weaver's family inthe town, and at Mowedale he passed as Mr. Franklin, a journalist. 

For some weeks Egremont enjoyed the peace of rural life, and theintercourse with the Gerards ripened into friendship. When the time camefor parting, for Egremont had to take his seat in parliament, it was atender farewell on both sides. 

Egremont, embarrassed by his deception, could not only speak vaguely oftheir meeting again soon. The thought of parting from Sybil nearlyoverwhelmed him. 

When he met Gerard and Morley again it was in London, and disguise wasno longer possible. Gerard and Morley came as delegates to the ChartistNational Convention in 1839, and, deputed by their fellows to interviewCharles Egremont, M. P. , came face to face with "Mr. Franklin. "

The general misery in the country at that time was appalling. Weaversand miners were starving, agricultural labourers were driven into thenew workhouses, and riots were of common occurrence. The Chartistsbelieved their proposals would improve matters, other working-classleaders believed that a general stoppage of work would be moreeffective. 

Sybil, in London with her father, ardently supported the popularmovement. Meeting Egremont near Westminster Abbey on the very day afterGerard and Morley had waited upon him, she allowed him to escort herhome. Then, for the first time, she learnt that her friend "Mr. Franklin" was the brother of Lord Marney. 

It was in vain Egremont urged that they might still be friends, that thegulf between rich and poor was not impassable. 

"Oh, sir, " said Sybil haughtily, "I am one of those who believe the gulfis impassable--yes, utterly impassable!"

_IV. --Plotting Against Lord De Mowbray_

Stephen Morley was the editor of the "Mowbray Phoenix, " a teetotaler, avegetarian, a believer in moral force. The friend of Gerard, and in lovewith Sybil, Stephen looked with no favour on Egremont. Although adelegate to the Chartist Convention, Stephen had not forgotten theclaims of Gerard to landed estate, and had pursued his inquiries as tothe whereabouts of Hatton with some success. 

First Stephen had journeyed to Woodgate, commonly known as Hell-houseYard, a wild and savage place, the abode of a lawless race of men whofashioned locks and instruments of iron. Here he had found Simon Hatton, who knew nothing of his brother's residence. 

By accident Stephen discovered that the man he sought lived in theTemple. Baptist Hatton at that time was the most famous of heraldicantiquaries. Not a pedigree in dispute, not a peerage in abeyance, butit was submitted to his consideration. A solitary man was BaptistHatton, wealthy and absorbed in his pursuits. The meeting with Morleyexcited him, and he turned over the matter anxiously in his mind as hesat alone. 

"The son of Walter Gerard, a Chartist delegate! The best blood inEngland! Those infernal papers! They made my fortune; and yet the deedhas cost me many a pang. It seemed innoxious; the old man dead, insolvent; myself starving; his son ignorant of all--to whom could theybe of use, for it required thousands to work them? And yet with all mywealth and power what memory shall I leave? Not a relative in the world, except a barbarian. Ah! had I a child like the beautiful daughter ofGerard. I have seen her. He must be a fiend who could injure her. I amthat fiend. Let me see what can be done. What if I married her?"

But Hatton did not offer marriage to Sybil. He did much to make her stayin London pleasant; but there was something about the maiden that awedwhile it fascinated him. A Catholic himself, Hatton was not surprised tohear from Gerard of Sybil's wish to enter a convent. "And to my mind sheis right. My daughter cannot look to marriage; no man that she couldmarry would be worthy of her. "

This did not deter Hatton from considering how the papers relating toGerard's lost estates could be recovered. 

The first move was an action entered against Lord de Mowbray, and thisbrought that distinguished peer to Mr. Hatton's chambers in the Temple, for Hatton was at that time advising Lord de Mowbray in the matter ofreviving an ancient barony. Hatton easily quieted his client. 

"Mr. Walter Gerard can do nothing without the deed of '77. Yourdocuments you say are all secure?"

"They are at this moment in the muniment room of the tower of MowbrayCastle. "

"Keep them; this action is a feint. "

As for Mr. Baptist Hatton, the next time we see him a few months hadelapsed. He is at the principal hotel in Mowbray in consultation withStephen Morley. 

A great labour demonstration had taken place the previous night on themoors outside the town, and Gerard had been acclaimed as a popular hero. 

"Documents are in existence, " said Hatton, "which prove the title ofWalter Gerard to the proprietorship of this great district. Two hundredthousand human beings yesterday acknowledged the supremacy of Gerard. Suppose they had known that within the walls of Mowbray Castle werecontained the proofs that Walter Gerard was the lawful possessor of thelands on which they live? Moral force is a fine thing, friend Morley, but the public spirit is inflamed here. You are a leader of the people. Let us have another meeting on the Moor! you can put your fingers in atrice on the man who will do our work. Mowbray Castle in theirpossession, a certain iron chest, painted blue, and blazoned with theshield of Valence, would be delivered to you. You shall have £10, 000down and I will take you back to London besides. "

"The effort would fail, " said Stephen Morley. "Wages must drop stillmore, and the discontent here be deeper. But I will keep the secret; Iwill treasure it up. "

_V. --Liberty--At a Price_

While Mr. Baptist Hatton and Stephen Morley discussed the possiblerecovery of the papers, much happened in London. Gerard became a markedman in the Chartist Convention, a member of a small but resolutecommittee. Egremont, now deeply in love with Sybil, declared his suit. 

"From the first moment I beheld you in the starlit arch of Marney, yourimage has never been absent from my consciousness. Do not reject mylove; it is deep as your nature, and fervent as my own. Banish thoseprejudices that have embittered your existence. If I be a noble, I havenone of the accidents of nobility. I cannot offer you wealth, splendour, and power; but I can offer you the devotion of an entranced being, aspirations that you shall guide, an ambition that you shall govern. "

"These words are mystical and wild, " said Sybil in amazement. "You areLord Marney's brother; I learnt it but yesterday. Retain your hand, andshare your life and fortunes! You forget what I am. No, no, kindfriend--for such I'll call you--your opinion of me touches me deeply. Iam not used to such passages in life. A union between the child andbrother of nobles and a daughter of the people is impossible. It wouldmean estrangement from your family, their hopes destroyed, their prideoutraged. Believe me, the gulf is impassable. "

The Chartist petition was rejected by the House of Commonscontemptuously. Riots took place in Birmingham. Sybil grew anxious forher father's safety. 

Egremont's speech in parliament on the presentation of the nationalpetition created some perplexity among his aristocratic relatives andacquaintances. It was free from the slang of faction--the voice of anoble who had upheld the popular cause, who had pronounced that therights of labour were as sacred as those of property, that the socialhappiness of the millions should be the statesman's first object. 

Sybil, enjoying the calm of St. James's Park on a summer morning, readthe speech with emotion, and while she still held the paper the oratorhimself stood before her. She smiled without distress, and presentlyconfided to Egremont that she was unhappy, about her father. 

"I honour your father, " said Egremont "Counsel him to return to Mowbray. Exert every energy to get him to leave London at once--to-night ifpossible. After this business at Birmingham the government will strikeat the convention. If your father returns to Mowbray and is quiet, hehas a chance of not being disturbed. "

Sybil returned and warned her father. "You are in danger, " she cried, "great and immediate. Let us quit this city to-night. "

"To-morrow, my child, " Walter Gerard assured her, "we will return toMowbray. To-night our council meets, and we have work of utmostimportance. We must discountenance scenes of violence. The moment ourcouncil is over I will come back to you. "

But Walter Gerard did not return. While Sybil sat and waited, StephenMorley entered the room. His manner was strange and unusual. 

"Your father is in danger; time is precious. I can endure no longer theanguish of my life. I love you, and if you will not be mine, I care forno one's fate. I can save your father. If I see him before eighto'clock, I can convince him that the government knows of his intentions, and will arrest him to-night. I am ready to do this service--to save thefather from death and the daughter from despair, if she would but onlysay to me: 'I have but one reward, and it is yours. '"

"It is bitter, this, " said Sybil, "bitter for me and mine; but for youpollution, this bargaining of blood. In the name of the Holy Virgin Ianswer you--no!"

Morley rushed frantically from the room. 

Sybil, in despair, made her way to a coffee-house near Charing Cross, which she knew had been much frequented by members of the ChartistConvention. Here, after some delay, she was given the fatal address inHunt Street, Seven Dials. 

Sybil arrived at the meeting a few minutes before the police raided thepremises. She was found with her father, and taken with him and sixother men to Bow Street Police Station. A note to Egremont procured herrelease in the early hours of the morning. 

Walter Gerard in due time was sent to trial, convicted and sentenced toeighteen month's confinement in York Castle. 

_VI. --Within the Castle Walls_

In 1842 came the great stoppage of work. The mills ceased; the minerswent "to play, " despairing of a fair day's wage for a fair day's work;and the inhabitants of Woodgate--the Hell-cats, as they were called--stirred up by a Chartist delegate, sallied forth with Simon Hatton, named the "liberator, " at their head to deal ruthlessly with all"oppressors of the people. "

They sacked houses, plundered cellars, ravaged provision shops, destroyed gas-works and stormed workhouses. In time they came toMowbray. There the liberator came face to face with Baptist Hattonwithout recognising his brother. 

Stephen Morley and Baptist Hatton were in close conference. 

"The times are critical, " said Hatton. 

"Mowbray may be burnt to the ground before the troops arrive, " Morleyreplied. 

"And the castle, too, " said Hatton quietly. "I was thinking onlyyesterday of a certain box of papers. To business, friend Morley. Thissavage relative of mine cannot be quiet. If he does not destroyTrafford's Mill it will be the castle. Why not the castle instead of themill?"

Trafford's Mill was saved by the direct intervention of Walter Gerard. All the people of Mowbray knew the good reputation of the Traffords, andGerard's eloquence turned the mob from the attack. 

While the liberator and the Hell-cats hesitated, a man named Dandy Mick, prompted by Morley, urged that a walk should be taken in Lord deMowbray's park. 

The proposition was received with shouts of approbation. Gerardsucceeded in detaching a number of Mowbray men, but the Hell-cats, armedwith bludgeons, poured into the park and on to the castle. 

Lady de Mowbray and her friends made their escape, taking Sybil, who hadsought refuge from the mob, with them. 

Mr. St. Lys gathered a body of men in defence of the castle, but cametoo late to prevent the entrance of the Hell-cats. Singularly enough, Morley and one or two of his followers entered with the liberator. 

The first great rush was to the cellars, and the invaders were quicklyat work knocking off the heads of bottles, and brandishing torches. Morley and his lads traced their way down a corridor to the windingsteps of the Round Tower, and forced their way into the muniment room ofthe castle. It was not till his search had nearly been abandoned indespair that he found the small blue box blazoned with the arms ofValence. He passed it hastily to a trusted companion, Dandy Mick, andbade him deliver it to Sybil Gerard at the convent. 

At this moment the noise of musketry was heard; the yeomanry were on thescene. 

Morley, cut off from flight by the military, was shot, pistol in hand, with the name of Sybil on his lips. "The world will misjudge me, " hethought--"they will call me hypocrite, but the world is wrong. "

The man with the box escaped through the window, and in spite of thefire, troopers, and mob, reached the convent in safety. 

The castle was burnt to the ground by the torches of the Hell-cats. 

Sybil, separated from her friends, found herself surrounded by a band ofdrunken ruffians. She was rescued by a yeomanry officer, who pressed herto his heart. 

"Never to part again, " said Egremont. 

Under Egremont's protection, Sybil returned to the convent, and there inthe courtyard they found Dandy Mick, who had refused to deliver hischarge, and was lying down with the blue box for his pillow. He hadfulfilled his mission. Sybil, too agitated to perceive all its import, delivered the box into the custody of Egremont, who, bidding farewell toSybil, bade Mick follow him to his hotel. 

While these events were happening, Lord Marney, hearing an alarmed andexaggerated report of the insurrection, and believing that Egremont'sforces were by no means equal to the occasion, had set out for Mowbraywith his own troop of yeomanry. 

Crossing the moor, he encountered Walter Gerard with a great multitude, whom Gerard headed for purposes of peace. 

His mind inflamed, and hating at all times any popular demonstration, Lord Marney hastily read the Riot Act, and the people were fired on andsabred. The indignant spirit of Gerard resisted, and the father of Sybilwas shot dead. Instantly arose a groan, and a feeling of frenzy cameover the people. Armed only with stones and bludgeons they defied thetroopers, and rushed at the horsemen; a shower of stones rattled withoutceasing on the helmet of Lord Marney, nor did the people rest till LordMarney fell lifeless on Mowbray Moor, stoned to death. 

The writ of right against Lord de Mowbray proved successful in thecourts, and his lordship died of the blow. 

For a long time after the death of her father Sybil remained in helplesswoe. The widowed Lady Marney, however, came over one day, and carriedher back to Marney Abbey, never again to quit it until the bridal day, when the Earl and Countess of Marney departed for Italy. 

Though the result was not what Mr. Hatton had once anticipated, the ideathat he had deprived Sybil of her inheritance had, ever since he hadbecome acquainted with her, been the plague-spot of Hatton's life, andthere was nothing he desired more than to see her restored to thoserights, and to be instrumental in that restoration. 

Dandy Mick was rewarded for all the dangers he had encountered in theservice of Sybil, and was set up in business by Lord Marney. A yearafter the burning of Mowbray Castle, on the return of the Earl andCountess of Marney to England, the romantic marriage and the enormouswealth of Lord and Lady Marney were still the talk in fashionablecircles. 

 * * * * *

Tancred, or the New Crusade

 "Tancred, " published in 1847, completes the trilogy, which began with "Coningsby" in 1844, and had its second volume in "Sybil" in 1845. In these three novels Disraeli gave to the world his political, social, and religious philosophy. "Coningsby" was mainly political, "Sybil" mainly social, and in "Tancred, " as the author tells us, Disraeli dealt with the origin of the Christian Church of England and its relation to the Hebrew race whence Christianity sprang. "Public opinion recognized the truth and sincerity of these views, " although their general spirit ran counter to current Liberal utilitarianism. Although "Tancred" lacks the vigour of "Sibyl" and the wit of "Coningsby, " it is full of the colour of the East, and the satire and irony in the part relating to Tancred's life in England are vastly entertaining. As in others of Disraeli's novels, many of the characters here are portraits of real personages. 

_I. --Tancred Goes Forth on His Quest_

Tancred, the Marquis of Montacute, was certainly strangely distracted onhis twenty-first birthday. He stood beside his father, the Duke ofBellamont, in the famous Crusaders' gallery in the Castle of Montacute, listening to the congratulations which the mayor and corporation ofMontacute town were addressing to him; but all the time he kept his eyesfixed on the magnificent tapestries from which the name of the gallerywas derived. His namesake, Tancred of Montacute, had distinguishedhimself in the Third Crusade by saving the life of King Richard at thesiege of Ascalon, and his exploits were depicted on the fine Gobelinswork hanging on the walls of the great hall. Oblivious of the gorgeousceremony in which he was playing the principal part, the young Marquisof Montacute stared at the pictures of the Crusader, and a wild, fantastical idea took hold of him. 

He was the only child of the Duke of Bellamont, and all the highnobility of England were assembled to celebrate his coming of age. Everything that fortune could bestow seemed to have been given to him. He was the heir of the greatest and richest of English dukes, and hislife was made smooth and easy. His father had got a seat in parliamentwaiting for him, and his mother had already selected a noble andbeautiful young lady for his wife. Neither of them had yet consultedtheir son, but Tancred was so sweet and gentle a boy that they did notdream he would oppose their wishes. They had planned out his life forhim ever since he was born, with the view to educating him for theposition which he was to occupy in the English aristocracy, and he hadalways taken the path which they had chosen for him. 

In the evening, the duke summoned his son into his library. 

"My dear Tancred, " he said, "I have a piece of good news for you on yourbirthday. Hungerford feels that he cannot represent our constituency nowthat you have come of age, and, with great kindness, he is resigning hisseat in your favour. He says that the Marquis of Montacute ought tostand for the town of Montacute, so you will be able to enter parliamentat once. "

"But I do not wish to enter parliament, " said Tancred. 

The duke leant back from his desk with a look of painful surprise on hisface. 

"Not enter parliament?" he exclaimed. "Every Lord Montacute has goneinto the House of Commons before taking his seat in the House of Lords. It is an excellent training. "

"I am not anxious to enter the House of Lords either, " said Tancred. "And I hope, my dear father, " he added, with a smile that lit up hisyoung, grave, beautiful face, "that it will be very, very long before Isucceed to your place there. "

"What, then, do you intend to do, my boy?" said Bellamont, in intenseperplexity. "You are the heir to one of the greatest positions in thestate, and you have duties to perform. How are you going to fit yourselffor them?"

"That is what I have been thinking of for years, " said Tancred. "Oh, mydear father, if you knew how long and earnestly I have prayed forguidance! Yes, I have duties to perform! But in this wild, confused, andaimless age of ours, what man can see what his duties are? For my part, I cannot find that it is my duty to maintain the present order ofthings. In nothing in our religion, our government, our manners, do Ifind faith. And if there is no faith, how can there be any duty? We haveceased to be a nation. We are a mere crowd, kept from utter anarchy bythe remains of an old system which we are daily destroying. "

"But what would you do, my dear boy?" said the duke, pale with anxiety. "Have you found any remedy?"

"No, " said Tancred mournfully. "There is no remedy to be found inEngland. Oh, let me save myself, father! Let me save our people from thecorruption and ruin that threaten us!"

"But what do you want to do? Where do you want to go?" said the duke. 

"I want to go to God!" cried the young nobleman, his blue eyes flamingwith a strange light "How is it that the Almighty Power does not senddown His angels to enlighten us in our perplexities? Where is theParaclete, the Comforter Who was promised us? I must go and seek him. "

"You are a visionary, my boy, " said the duke, gazing at him in blankastonishment. 

"Was the Montacute that fought by the side of King Richard in the HolyLand a visionary?" said Tancred. "All I ask is to be allowed to followin his footsteps. For three days and three nights he knelt in prayer atthe tomb of his Redeemer. Six centuries and more have gone by sincethen. It is high time that we renewed our intercourse with the Most Highin the country of His chosen people. I, too, would kneel at that tomb. I, too, surrounded by the holy hills and groves of Jerusalem, would liftmy voice to Heaven, and ask for inspiration. "

"But surely God will hear your prayers in England as well as inPalestine?"

"No, " said his son. "He has never raised up a prophet or a great saintin this country. If we want Him to speak to us as He spoke to the men ofold, we must go, like the Crusaders, to the Holy Land. "

Finding that he could not turn his son from the strange course on whichhe was bent, the duke got a great prelate to try and persuade him thatall was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. 

"We live in an age of progress, " reasoned the philosophic bishop. "Religion is spreading with the spread of civilisation. How all ourtowns are growing! We shall soon see a bishop in Manchester. "

"I want to see an angel in Manchester, " replied Tancred. 

It was no use arguing with a man who talked in this way, and the dukegave Tancred permission to set out on his new crusade. 

_II. --The Vigil by the Tomb_

The moon sank behind the Mount of Olives, leaving the towers, minarets, and domes of Jerusalem in deep shadow; the lamps in the city went out, and every outline was lost in gloom; but the Church of the HolySepulchre still shone in the darkness like a beacon light. There, whileevery soul in Jerusalem slumbered, Tancred knelt in prayer by the tombof Christ, under the lighted dome, waiting for the fire from heaven tostrike into his soul. 

His strange vigil was the talk of Syria. It is remarkable how quicklynews travels in the East. 

"Do you know, " said Besso, Rothschild's agent, to his foster-sonFakredeen, an emir of Lebanon, as they sat talking in a house near thegate of Sion, "the young Englishman has brought me such a letter that ifhe were to tell me to rebuild Solomon's temple, I must do it!"

"He must be fabulously rich!" said Fakredeen, with a sigh. "What has hecome here for? The English do not come on pilgrimages. They are allinfidels. "

"Well, he has come on a pilgrimage, " said Besso, "and he is the greatestof English princes. He kneels all night and day in the church overthere. "

Yes, after a week of solitude, fasting, and prayer, Tancred was keepingvigil before the empty Sepulchre, where Tancred of Montacute had kneltsix hundred years before. Day after day, night after night, he prayedfor inspiration, but no divine voice broke in upon his impassionedreveries. It was for him that Alonzo Lara, the prior of Terra Santa, kept the light burning all night long at the Holy Sepulchre, for theSpaniard had been moved by the deep faith of the young English nobleman. And one day he said to him:

"Sinai led to Calvary. I think it would be wise for you to trace thepath backward from Calvary to Sinai. "

It was extremely perilous at that time to adventure into the greatdesert, for the wild Bedouin tribes were encamped there. But, in spiteof this, Tancred made arrangements with an Arabian chief, Sheikh Hassan, and set out for Sinai at the head of a well-armed band of Arabs. 

"Ah!" said the sheikh, as they entered the mountainous country, after athree days' march across the wilderness. "Look at these tracks of horsesand camels in the defile. The marks are fresh. See that your guns areprimed!" he cried to his men. 

As he spoke a troop of wild horsemen galloped down the ravine. 

"Hassan, " one of them shouted, "is that the brother of the Queen of theEnglish with you? Let him ride with us, and you may return in peace. "

"He is my brother, too, " said Hassan. "Stand aside, you sons of Eblis, or you shall bite the earth. "

A wild shout from every height of the defile was the answer. Tancredlooked up. The crest on either side was lined with Bedouins, each withhis musket levelled. 

"There is only one thing for us to do, " said Tancred to Hassan. "Let uscharge through the defile, and die like men!"

Seizing his pistols, he shot the first horseman through the head, anddisabled another. Then he charged down the ravine, and Hassan and hismen followed, and scattered the horsemen before them. The Bedouins fireddown on them from the crests, and, in a few moments, the place wasfilled with smoke, and Tancred could not see a yard around him. Still hegalloped on, and the smoke suddenly drifted, and he found himself at themouth of the defile, with a few followers behind him. A crowd ofBedouins were waiting for him. 

"Die fighting! Die fighting!" he shouted. Then his horse stumbled, stabbed from beneath by a Bedouin dagger, and fell in the sand. Beforehe could get his feet out of the stirrups, he was overpowered and bound. 

"Don't hurt him, " said the Bedouin chief. "Every drop of his blood isworth ten thousand piastres. "

Late that night, as Amalek, the great Rechabite Bedouin sheikh, wassitting before his tent, a horseman rode up to him. 

"Salaam, " he cried. "Sheikh of sheikhs, it is done! The brother of theQueen of England is your slave!"

"Good!" said Amalek. "May your mother eat the hump of a young camel! Isthe brother of the queen with Sheikh Salem?"

"No, " said the horseman, "Sheikh Salem is in paradise, and many of ourmen are with him. The brother of the Queen of the English is a mightywarrior. He fought like a lion, but we brought his horse down at lastand took him alive. "

"Good!" said Amalek. "Camels shall be given to all the widows of the menhe has killed, and I will find them new husbands. Go and tell Fakredeenthe good news!"

Amalek and Fakredeen would not have cared had they lost a hundred men inthe affair. The Bedouin chief and the emir of Lebanon could bring intothe field more than twenty thousand lances, and the capture of Tancredwas part of a political scheme which they were engineering for theconquest of Syria. They knew from Besso that the young English princewas fabulously rich, and, as they wanted arms, they meant to hold him tothe extraordinary ransom of two million piastres. 

"My foster father will pay it, " said Fakredeen. "He told me that hewould have to rebuild Solomon's temple if the English prince asked himto. We will get him to help us rebuild Solomon's empire. "

_III. --The Vision on the Mount_

On the wild granite scarp of Mount Sinai, about seven thousand feetabove the blue seas that lave its base, is a small plain hemmed in bypinnacles of rock. In the centre of the plain are a cypress tree and afountain. This is the traditional scene of the greatest event in thehistory of mankind. It was here that Moses received the divine laws onwhich the civilisation of the world is based. 

Tancred of Montacute knelt down on the sacred soil, and bowed his headin prayer. Far below him, in one of the green-valleys sloping down tothe sea, Fakredeen and a band of Bedouins pitched their tents for thenight, and talked in awed tones of their strange companion. Wonderful isthe power of soul with which a great idea endues a man. The young emirof Lebanon and his men were no longer the captors of Tancred, but hisfollowers. He had preached to them with the eyes of flame and the wordsof fire of a prophet; and they now asked of him, not a ransom, but arevelation. They wanted him to bring down from Sinai the new word ofpower, which would bind their scattered tribes into a mighty nation, with a divine mission for all the world. 

What was this word to be? Tancred did not know any more than hisfollowers, and he knelt all day long under the Arabian sun, waiting forthe divine revelation. The sunlight faded, and the shadows fell aroundhim, and he still remained bowed in a strange, quiet ecstasy ofexpectation. But at last, lifting up his eyes to the clear, starry skyof Arabia, he prayed:

"O Lord God of Israel, I come to Thine ancient dwelling-place to pourforth the heart of tortured Europe. Why does no impulse from Thyrenovating will strike again into the soul of man? Faith fades and dutydies, and a profound melancholy falls upon the world. Our kings cannotrule, our priests doubt, and our multitudes toil and moan, and call intheir madness upon unknown gods. If this transfigured mount may notagain behold Thee, if Thou wilt not again descend to teach and consoleus, send, oh send, one of the starry messengers that guard Thy throne, to save Thy creatures from their terrible despair!"

As he prayed all the stars of Arabia grew strangely dim. The wild peaksof Sinai, standing sharp and black in the lucid, purple air, melted intoshadowy, changing masses. The huge branches of the cypress-tree movedmysteriously above his head, and he fell upon the earth senseless and ina trance. 

It seemed to Tancred that a mighty form was bending over him with acountenance like an oriental night, dark yet lustrous, mystical yetclear. The solemn eyes of the shadowy apparition were full of thebrightness and energy of youth and the calm wisdom of the ages. 

"I am the Angel of Arabia, " said the spectral figure, waving a sceptrefashioned like a palm-tree, "the guardian spirit of the land whichgoverns the world; for its power lies neither in the sword nor in theshield, for these pass away, but in ideas which are divine. All thethoughts of every nation come from a higher power than man, but thethoughts of Arabia come directly from the Most High. You want a newrevelation to Christendom? Listen to the ancient message of Arabia!

"Your people now hanker after other gods than the God of Sinai andCalvary. But the eternal principles of that Arabian faith, which mouldedthem from savages into civilised men when they descended from theirnorthern forests fifteen hundred years ago, and spread all over theworld, can alone breathe new vigour into them, now that they aredecaying in the dust and fever of their great cities. Tell them thatthey must cease from seeking in their vain philosophies for the solutionof their social problems. Their, longing for the brotherhood of mankindcan only be satisfied when they acknowledge the sway of a common father. Tell them that they are the children of God. Announce the sublime andsolacing doctrine of theocratic equality. Fear not, falter not. Obey theimpulse of thine own spirit, and find a ready instrument in every humanbeing. "

A sound as of thunder roused Tancred from his trance. Above him themountains rose sharp and black in the clear purple air, and the Arabianstars shone with undimmed brightness; but the voice of the angel stilllingered in his ear. He went down the mountain; at its base he found hisfollowers sleeping amid their camels. He aroused Fakredeen, and told himthat he had received the word which would bind together the warringnations of Arabia and Palestine, and reshape the earth. 

_IV. --The Mystic Queen_

"It has been a great day, " said Tancred to Fakredeen, as they weresitting some months afterwards in the castle of the young emir ofLebanon, where all the princes of Syria had assembled to discuss thefoundation of the new empire. "If your friends will only work togetheras they promise, Syria is ours. "

"Even Lebanon, " said Fakredeen, "can send forth more than fifty thousandwell-armed footmen, and Amalek is gathering all the horsemen of thedesert, from Petraea to Yemen, under our banner. If we can only win overthe Ansarey, " he continued, "we shall have all Syria and Arabia as abase for our operations. "

"The Ansarey?" exclaimed Tancred. "They hold the mountains aroundAntioch, which are the key of Palestine, don't they? What is theirreligion? Do you think that the doctrine of theocratic equality wouldappeal to them as it did to the Arabians?"

"I don't know, " said the emir. "They never allow strangers to entertheir country. They are a very ancient people, and they fight so well intheir mountains that even the Turks have not been able to conquer them. "

"But can't we make overtures?" said Tancred. 

"That is what I have done, " said Fakredeen. "The Queen of the Ansareyhas heard about you, and I have arranged that we should go and see heras soon as the Syrian assembly was over. Everything is ready for ourjourney, so, if you like, we will start at once. "

It was a difficult expedition, as the Queen of the Ansarey was thenwaging war on the Turkish pasha of Aleppo. Happily, the travellers cameupon a band of Ansareys who were raiding the Turkish province, and wereled by them through their black ravines to the fortress palace of thequeen. 

She received them, sitting on her divan, clothed in a purple robe, andshrouded in a long veil. This she took off when Tancred came towardsher, and he marvelled at the strangeness of her beauty. There wasnothing oriental about her. She was a Greek girl of the ancient type, with violet eyes, fair cheeks, and dark hair. 

"Prince, " she said, "we are a people who wish neither to see nor to beseen. We do not care what goes on in the world around. Our mountains arewild and barren, but while Apollo dwells among us, we do not care forgold, or silk, or jewels. "

"Apollo!" cried Tancred. "Are the gods of Olympus still worshipped onearth?"

"Yes, Apollo still lives among us, and another greater than Apollo, "said the young queen, looking at Tancred long and earnestly. "Follow me, and you shall now behold the secret of the Ansarey. "

Her maidens adorned her with a garland of roses, and put a garland onthe head of Tancred, and she led him through a portal of bronze, down anunderground passage, into an Ionic temple, filled with the white andlovely forms of the gods of ancient Greece. 

"Do you know this?" said the queen to Tancred, looking at a statue ingolden ivory, and then at the young Englishman, whose clear-cut featuresand hyacinthine locks curiously resembled those of the carven image. 

"It is Phoebus Apollo, " said Tancred, and, moved by admiration at thebeauty of the figure, he murmured some lines of Homer. 

"Ah, you know all!" cried the queen. "You know our secret language. Yes, this is Phoebus Apollo. He used to stand in Antioch in the ancient daysbefore the Christians drove us into the mountains. And look, " she said, pointing to the statue beside Apollo, "here is the Syrian goddess beforewhom the pilgrims of the world once knelt. She is named Astarte, and Iam called after her. "

"Oh, angels watch over me!" said Tancred to himself as Queen Astartefixed her violet eyes upon him with a glance of love that could not bemistaken, and led him back into the hall of audience. 

There he saw Fakredeen bending over a maiden with a flower-like face, and large, dark, lustrous eyes. 

"She is my foster-sister, Eva, " said Fakredeen. "The Ansareys capturedher on the plain of Aleppo. "

Tancred had met Eva at the house of Besso in Jerusalem, but she did notthen exercise over him the strange charm which now drew him to her side. It seemed to him that the beautiful Jewish girl had been sent to helphim in his struggle against the heathen spells of Astarte. As he wasmeditating how he could rescue her, a messenger came in, and announcedthat the pasha of Aleppo had invaded the mountains at the head of 5, 000troops. 

"Ah!" cried Astarte. "Few of them will ever see Aleppo again. I have25, 000 men under arms, and you, my prince, " she said, turning toTancred, "shall command them. "

Tancred had learnt something of the arts of mountain warfare from SheikhAmalek. He allowed the Turkish troops to penetrate into the heart of thewild hills, and then, as they were marching down a long defile, heattacked them from the crests above, shooting them down like sheep andburying them in avalanches of rolling rock. Instead of returning to thefortress palace, he sent his men on ahead, and rode out alone into thedesert, and went through the Syrian wilderness back to Jerusalem. 

Riding up to the door of Besso's house by Sion gate, he asked if therewere any news of Eva. A negro led him into a garden, and there, sittingby the side of a fountain, was the lovely Jewish maiden. 

"So Fakredeen brought you safely away, Eva, " he said tenderly. "I wasafraid that Astarte meant to harm you. "

"She would have killed me, " said Eva, "if she could. I am afraid thatyour faith in your idea of theocratic equality has been destroyed by theAnsareys. How can you build up an empire in a land divided by so manyjarring creeds? Do you still believe in Arabia?"

"I believe in Arabia, " cried Tancred, kneeling down at her feet, "because I believe in you. You are the angel of Arabia, and the angel ofmy life. You cannot guess what influence you have had on my fate. Youcame into my life like another messenger from God. Thanks to you, myfaith has never faltered. Will you not share it, dearest?"

He clasped her hand, and gazed with passionate adoration into her face. As her head fell upon his shoulder, the negro came running to thefountain. 

"The Duke of Bellamont!" he said to Tancred. 

Tancred looked up, and saw the Duke of Bellamont coming through thepomegranate trees of the garden. 

"Father, " he said, advancing towards the duke, "I have found my missionin life, and I am going to marry this lady. "

 * * * * *

ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Marguerite de Valois

 Alexandre Dumas, _père_ (to distinguish him from his son of the same name), early became known as a talented writer, and especially as a poet and dramatist. His first published work appeared in 1823; then came volumes of poems in 1825, 1826, and the drama of "Henry III. " in 1828. In "Marguerite de Valois, " published in 1845, the first of the "Valois" series of historical romances, Dumas takes us back from the days of Richelieu and the "Three Musketeers" to the preceding century and the early struggles of Catholic and Huguenot. It was a stirring time in France, full of horrors and bloodshed, plots and intrigues, when Marguerite de Valois married Henry of Navarre, and Alexandre Dumas gives us, in his wonderfully, vivid and attractive style, a great picture of the French court in the time of Charles IX. Little affection existed between Henry and his bride, but strong ties of interest and ambition bound them together, and for a long time they both adhered loyally to the treaty of political alliance they had drawn up for their mutual advantage. Dumas died on December 5, 1870, after experiencing many changes of fortune. His son also won considerable reputation as a dramatist and novelist. 

_I. --Henry of Navarre and Marguerite_

On Monday, August 18, 1572, a great festival was held in the palace ofthe Louvre. It was to celebrate the marriage of Henry of Navarre andMarguerite de Valois, a marriage that perplexed a good many people, andalarmed others. 

For Henry de Bourbon, King of Navarre, was the leader of the Huguenotparty, and Marguerite was the daughter of Catherine de Medici, and thesister of the king, Charles IX. , and this alliance between a Protestantand a Catholic, it seemed, was to end the strife that rent the nation. The king, too, had set his heart on this marriage, and the Huguenotswere somewhat reassured by the king's declaration that Catholic andHuguenot alike were now his subjects, and were equally beloved by him. Still, there were many on both sides who feared and distrusted thealliance. 

At midnight, six days later, on August 24, the tocsin sounded, and themassacre of St. Bartholomew began. 

The marriage, indeed, was in no sense a love match; but Henry succeededat once in making Marguerite his friend, for he was alive to the dangersthat surrounded him. 

"Madame, " he said, presenting himself at Marguerite's rooms on the nightof the wedding festival, "whatever many persons may have said, I thinkour marriage is a good marriage. I stand well with you--you stand wellwith me. Therefore, we ought to act towards each other like good allies, since to-day we have been allied in the sight of God! Don't you thinkso?"

"Without question, sir!"

"I know, madame, that the ground at court is full of dangerous abysses;and I know that, though I am young and have never injured any person, Ihave many enemies. The king hates me, his brothers, the Duke of Anjouand the Duke D'Alençon, hate me. Catherine de Medici hated my mother toomuch not to hate me. Well, against these menaces, which must soon becomeattacks, I can only defend myself by your aid, for you are beloved byall those who hate me!"

"I?" said Marguerite. 

"Yes, you!" replied Henry. "And if you will--I do not say love me--butif you will be my ally I can brave anything; while, if you become myenemy, I am lost. "

"Your enemy! Never, sir!" exclaimed Marguerite. 

"And my ally. "

"Most decidedly!"

And Marguerite turned round and presented her hand to the king. "It isagreed, " she said. 

"Political alliance, frank and loyal?" asked Henry. 

"Frank and loyal, " was the answer. 

At the door Henry turned and said softly, "Thanks, Marguerite; thanks!You are a true daughter of France. Lacking your love, your friendshipwill not fail me. I rely on you, as you, for your part, may rely on me. Adieu, madame. "

He kissed his wife's hand; and then, with a quick step, the king wentdown the corridor to his own apartment. "I have more need of fidelity inpolitics than in love, " he said to himself. 

If on both sides there was little attempt at fidelity in love, there wasan honourable alliance, which was maintained unbroken and saved the lifeof Henry of Navarre from his enemies on more than one occasion. 

On the day of the St. Bartholomew massacre, while the Huguenots werebeing murdered throughout Paris, Charles IX. , instigated by his mother, summoned Henry of Navarre to the royal armoury, and called upon him toturn Catholic or die. 

"Will you kill me, sire--me, your brother-in-law?" exclaimed Henry. 

Charles IX. Turned away to the open window. "I must kill someone, " hecried, and firing his arquebuse, struck a man who was passing. 

Then, animated by a murderous fury, Charles loaded and fired hisarquebuse without stopping, shouting with joy when his aim wassuccessful. 

"It's all over with me!" said Henry to himself. "When he sees no oneelse to kill, he will kill me!"

Catherine de Medici entered as the king fired his last shot. "Is itdone?" she said, anxiously. 

"No, " the king exclaimed, throwing his arquebuse on the floor. "No; theobstinate blockhead will not consent!"

Catherine gave a glance at Henry which Charles understood perfectly, andwhich said, "Why, then, is he alive?"

"He lives, " said the king, "because he is my relative. "

Henry felt that it was with Catherine he had to contend. 

"Madame, " he said, addressing her, "I can see quite clearly that allthis comes from you and not from brother-in-law Charles. It was you whoplanned this massacre to ensnare me into a trap which was to destroy usall. It was you who made your daughter the bait. It has been you whohave separated me now from my wife, that she might not see me killedbefore her eyes!"

"Yes; but that shall not be!" cried another voice; and Marguerite, breathless and impassioned, burst into the room. 

"Sir, " said Marguerite to Henry, "your last words were an accusation, and were both right and wrong. They have made me the means forattempting to destroy you, but I was ignorant that in marrying me youwere going to destruction. I myself owe my life to chance, for this verynight they all but killed me in seeking you. Directly I knew of yourdanger I sought you. If you are exiled, sir, I will be exiled too; ifthey imprison you they shall imprison me also; if they kill you, I willalso die!"

She gave her hand to her husband and he seized it eagerly. 

"Brother, " cried Marguerite to Charles IX. , "remember, you made him myhusband!"

"Faith, Margot is right, and Henry is my brother-in-law, " said the king. 

_II. --The Boar Hunt_

As time went on, if Catherine's hatred of Henry of Navarre did notdiminish, Charles IX. Certainly became more friendly. 

Catherine was for ever intriguing and plotting for the fortune of hersons and the downfall of her son-in-law, but Henry always managed toevade the webs she wove. At a certain boar-hunt Charles was indebted toHenry for his life. 

It was at the time when the king's brother D'Anjou had accepted thecrown of Poland, and the second brother, D'Alençon, a weak-minded, ambitious man, was secretly hoping for a crown somewhere, that Henrypaid his debt for the king's mercy to him on the night of St. Bartholomew. 

Charles was an intrepid hunter, but the boar had swerved as the king'sspear was aimed at him, and, maddened with rage, the animal had rushedat him. Charles tried to draw his hunting-knife but the sheath was sotight it was impossible. 

"The boar! the boar!" shouted the king. "Help, D'Alençon, help!"

D'Alençon was ghastly white as he placed his arquebuse to his shoulderand fired. The ball, instead of hitting the boar, felled the king'shorse. 

"I think, " D'Alençon murmured to himself, "that D'Anjou is King ofFrance, and I King of Poland. "

The boar's tusk had indeed grazed the king's thigh when a hand in aniron glove dashed itself against the mouth of the beast, and a knife wasplunged into its shoulder. 

Charles rose with difficulty, and seemed for a moment as if about tofall by the dead boar. Then he looked at Henry of Navarre, and for thefirst time in four-and-twenty years his heart was touched. 

"Thanks, Harry!" he said. "D'Alençon, for a first-rate marksman you madea most curious shot. "

On Marguerite coming up to congratulate the king and thank her husband, Charles added, "Margot, you may well thank him. But for him Henry III. Would be King of France. "

"Alas, madame, " returned Henry, "M. D'Anjou, who is always my enemy, will now hate me more than ever; but everyone has to do what he can. "

Had Charles IX. Been killed, the Duke d'Anjou would have been King ofFrance, and D'Alençon most probably King of Poland. Henry of Navarrewould have gained nothing by this change of affairs. 

Instead of Charles IX. Who tolerated him, he would have had the Duked'Anjou on the throne, who, being absolutely at one with his mother, Catherine, had sworn his death, and would have kept his oath. 

These ideas were in his brain when the wild boar rushed on Charles, andlike lightning he saw that his own existence was bound up with the lifeof Charles IX. But the king knew nothing of the spring and motive of thedevotion which had saved his life, and on the following day he showedhis gratitude to Henry by carrying him off from his apartments, and outof the Louvre. Catherine, in her fear lest Henry of Navarre should besome day King of France, had arranged the assassination of her son-in-law; and Charles, getting wind of this, warned him that the air of theLouvre was not good for him that night, and kept him in his company. Instead of Henry, it was one of his followers who was killed. 

_III. --The Poisoned Book_

Once more Catherine resolved to destroy Henry. The Huguenots had plottedwith D'Alençon that he should be King of Navarre, since Henry not onlyabjured Protestantism but remained in Paris, being kept there indeed bythe will of Charles IX. 

Catherine, aware of D'Alençon's scheme, assured her son that Henry wassuffering from an incurable disease, and must be taken away from Pariswhen D'Alençon started for Navarre. 

"Are you sure that Henry will die?" asked D'Alençon. 

"The physician who gave me a certain book assured me of it. "

"And where is this book? What is it?"

Catherine brought the book from her cabinet. 

"Here it is. It is a treatise on the art of rearing and training falconsby an Italian. Give it to Henry, who is going hawking with the kingto-day, and will not fail to read it. "

"I dare not!" said D'Alençon, shuddering. 

"Nonsense!" replied Catherine. "It is a book like any other, only theleaves have a way of sticking together. Don't attempt to read ityourself, for you will have to wet the finger in turning over each leaf, which takes up so much time. "

"Oh, " said D'Alençon, "Henry is with the court! Give me the book, andwhile he is away I will put it in his room. "

D'Alençon's hand was trembling as he took the book from thequeen-mother, and with some hesitation and fear he entered Henry'sapartment and placed the volume, open at the title-page. 

But it was not Henry, but Charles, seeking his brother-in-law, who foundthe book and carried it off to his own room. D'Alençon found the kingreading. 

"By heavens, this is an admirable book!" cried Charles. "Only it seemsas if they had stuck the leaves together on purpose to conceal thewonders it contains. "

D'Alençon's first thought was to snatch the book from his brother, buthe hesitated. 

The king again moistened his finger and turned over a page. "Let mefinish this chapter, " he said, "and then tell me what you please. I havealready read fifty pages. "

"He must have tasted the poison five-and-twenty times, " thoughtD'Alençon. "He is a dead man!"

The poison did its deadly work. Charles was taken ill while out hunting, and returned to find his dog dead, and in its mouth pieces of paper fromthe precious book on falconry. The king turned pale. The book waspoisoned! Many things flashed across his memory, and he knew his lifewas doomed. 

Charles summoned Renè, a Florentine, the court perfumer to Catherine deMedici, to his presence, and bade him examine the dog. 

"Sire, " said Renè, after a close investigation, "the dog has beenpoisoned by arsenic. "

"He has eaten a leaf of this book, " said Charles; "and if you do nottell me whose book it is I will have your flesh torn from your bones byred-hot pincers. "

"Sire, " stammered the Florentine, "this book belongs to me!"

"And how did it leave your hands?"

"Her majesty the queen-mother took it from my house. "

"Why did she do that?"

"I believe she intended sending it to the King of Navarre, who had askedfor a book on hawking. "

"Ah, " said Charles, "I understand it all! The book was in Harry's room. It is destiny; I must yield to it. Tell me, " he went on, turning toRenè, "this poison does not always kill at once?"

"No, sire; but it kills surely. It is a matter of time. "

"Is there no remedy?"

"None, sire, unless it be instantly administered. "

Charles compelled the wretched man to write in the fatal volume, "Thisbook was given by me to the queen-mother, Catherine de Medici. --Renè, "and then dismissed him. 

Henry, at his own prayer and for his personal safety, was confined inthe prison of Vincennes by the king's order. Charles grew worse, and thephysicians discussed his malady without daring to guess at the truth. 

Then Catherine came one day and explained to the king the cause of hisdisease. 

"Listen, my son; you believe in magic?"

"Oh, fully, " said Charles, repressing his smile of incredulity. 

"Well, " continued Catherine, "all your sufferings proceed from magic. Anenemy afraid to attack you openly has done so in secret; a terribleconspiracy has been directed against your majesty. You doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty. "

"I never doubt what you tell me, " replied the king sarcastically. "I amcurious to know how they have sought to kill me. "

"By magic. Look here. " The queen drew from under her mantle a figure ofyellow wax about ten inches high, wearing a robe covered with goldenstars, and over this a royal mantle. 

"See, it has on its head a crown, " said Catherine, "and there is aneedle in its heart. Now do you recognise yourself?"

"Myself?"

"Yes, in your royal robes, with the crown on your head. "

"And who made this figure?" asked-the king, weary of the wretched farce. "The King of Navarre, of course!"

"No, sire; he did not actually make it, but it was found in the rooms ofM. De la Mole, who serves the King of Navarre. "

"So, then, the person who seeks to kill me is M. De la Mole?" saidCharles. 

"He is only the instrument, and behind the instrument is the hand thatdirects it, " replied Catherine. 

"This, then, is the cause of my illness. And now what must I do--for Iknow nothing of sorcery?"

"The death of the conspirator destroys the charm. Its power ends withhis life. You are convinced now, are you not, of the cause of yourillness?"

"Oh, certainly, " Charles answered ironically. "And I am to punish M. Dela Mole, as you say he is the guilty party?"

"I say he is the instrument, and, " muttered Catherine, "we haveinfallible means for making him confess the name of his principal. "

Catherine left hurriedly without understanding the sardonic laughter ofthe king, and as she went out Marguerite appeared. 

"Oh, sire--sire, " cried Marguerite, "you know what _she_ says is false. It is terrible to accuse anyone's own mother, but she only lives topersecute the man who is devoted to you, Henry--your Henry--and I swearto you that what she says is false!"

"I think so, too, Margot. But Henry is safe. Safer in disgrace inVincennes than in favour at the Louvre. "

"Oh, thanks, thanks! But there is another person in whose welfare I aminterested, whom I hardly dare mention to my brother, much less to myking. "

"M. De la Mole, is it not? But do you know that a figure dressed inroyal robes and pierced to the heart was found in his rooms?"

"I know it; but it was the figure of a woman, not of a man. "

"And the needle?"

"Was a charm not to kill a man, but to make a woman love him. "

"What was the name of this woman?"

"Marguerite!" cried the queen, throwing herself down and bathing theking's hand in her tears. 

"Margot, what if I know the real author of the crime? For a crime hasbeen committed, and I have not three months to live. I am poisoned, butit must be thought I die by magic. "

"You know who is guilty?"

"Yes; but it must be kept from the world, and so it must be believed Idie of magic, and by the agency of him they accuse. "

"But it is monstrous!" exclaimed Marguerite. "You know he is innocent. Pardon him--pardon him!"

"I know it, but the world must believe him guilty. Let your friend die. His death alone can save the honour of our family. I am dying that thesecret may be preserved. "

M. De la Mole, after enduring excruciating tortures at the hand ofCatherine, without making any admissions, died on the scaffold. 

_IV--"The Bourbon Shall Not Reign_!"

Before he died Charles showed Catherine the poisoned book, which he hadkept under lock and key. 

"And now burn it, madame. I read this book too much, so fond was I ofthe chase. And the world must not know the weaknesses of kings. When itis burnt, please summon my brother Henry. I wish to speak to him aboutthe regency. "

Catherine brought Henry of Navarre to the king, and warned him that ifhe accepted the regency he was a dead man. 

Charles, however, though on his death-bed, declared Henry should beregent. 

"Madame, " he said, addressing his mother, "if I had a son he would beking, and you would be regent. In your stead, did you decline, the Kingof Poland would be regent; and in his stead, D'Alençon. But I have noson, and therefore the throne belongs to D'Anjou, who is absent. To makeD'Alençon regent is to invite civil war. I have therefore chosen thefittest person for regent Salute him, madame; salute him, D'Alençon. Itis the King of Navarre!"

"Never, " cried Catherine, "shall my race yield to a foreign one! Nevershall a Bourbon reign while a Valois lives!"

She left the room, followed by D'Alençon. 

"Henry, " said Charles, "after my death you will be great and powerful. D'Anjou will not leave Poland--they will not let him. D'Alençon is atraitor. You alone are capable of governing. It is not the regency only, but the throne I give you. "

A stream of blood choked his speech. 

"The fatal moment is come, " said Henry. "Am I to reign, or to live?"

"Live, sire!" a voice answered, and Renè appeared. "The queen has sentme to ruin you, but I have faith in your star. It is foretold that youshall be king. Do you know that the King of Poland will be here verysoon? He has been summoned by the queen. A messenger has come fromWarsaw. You shall be king, but not yet. "

"What shall I do, then?"

"Fly instantly to where your friends wait for you. "

Henry stooped and kissed his brother's forehead, then disappeared down asecret passage, passed through the postern, and, springing on his horse, galloped off. 

"He flies! The King of Navarre flies!" cried the sentinels. 

"Fire on him! Fire!" said the queen. 

The sentinels levelled their pieces, but the king was out of reach. 

"He flies!" muttered D'Alençon. "I am king, then!"

At the same moment the drawbridge was hastily lowered, and Henry d'Anjougalloped into the court, followed by four knights, crying, "France!France!"

"My son!" cried Catherine joyfully. 

"Am I too late?" said D'Anjou. 

"No. You are just in time. Listen!"

The captain of the king's guards appeared at the balcony of the king'sapartment. He broke the wand he held in two places, and holding a piecein either hand, called out three times, "King Charles the Ninth isdead!"

King Charles the Ninth is dead! King Charles the Ninth is dead!"

"Charles the Ninth is dead!" said Catherine, crossing herself. "God saveHenry the Third!"

All repeated the cry. 

"I have conquered, " said Catherine, "and the odious Bourbon shall notreign!"

 * * * * *

The Black Tulip

 "The Black Tulip, " published in 1850, was the last of Alexandre Dumas' more famous stories, and ranks deservedly high among the short novels of its prolific author. Dumas visited Holland in May, 1849, in order to be present at the coronation of William III. At Amsterdam, and according to Flotow, the composer, it was the king himself who told Dumas the story of "The Black Tulip, " and mentioned that none of the author's romances were concerned with the Dutch. Dumas, however, never gave any credit to this anecdote, and others have alleged that Paul Lacroix, the bibliophile, who was assisting Dumas with his novels at that time, is responsible for the plot. The question can never be answered, for who can disentangle the work of Dumas from that of his army of helpers? A feature of "The Black Tulip" is that in it is the bulb, and not a human being, that is the real centre of interest. The fate of the bulb is made of first importance, and the fortunes of Cornelius van Baerle, the tulip fancier, of Boxtel, and of Rosa, the gaoler's daughter, exciting though they are, take second place. 

_I. --Mob Vengeance_

On the 20th of August, 1672, the city of The Hague was crowded in everystreet with a mob of people, all armed with knives, muskets, or sticks, and all hurrying towards the Buytenhof. 

Within that terrible prison was Cornelius de Witt, brother of John deWitt, the ex-Grand Pensionary of Holland. 

These brothers De Witt had long served the United Provinces of the DutchRepublic, and the people had grown tired of the Republic, and wantedWilliam, Prince of Orange, for Stadtholder. John de Witt had signed theAct re-establishing the Stadtholderate, but Cornelius had only signed itunder the compulsion of an Orange mob that attacked his house atDordrecht. 

This was the first count against the De Witts--their objection to aStadtholder. The second count was that the De Witts had always donetheir best to keep at peace with France. They knew that war with Francemeant ruin to Holland, but the more violent Orangists still believedthat such a war would bring honour to the Dutch. 

Hence the popular hatred against the De Witts. A miscreant namedTyckelaer fanned the flame against Cornelius by declaring that he hadbribed him to assassinate William, the newly-elected Stadtholder. 

Cornelius was arrested, brought to trial, and tortured on the rack, butno confession of guilt could be wrung from the innocent, high-souledman. Then the judges acquitted Tyckelaer, deprived Cornelius of all hisoffices, and passed sentence of banishment. John de Witt had alreadyresigned the office of Grand Pensionary. 

On the 20th of August, Cornelius was to leave his prison for exile, anda fierce Orangist populace, incited to violence by the harangues ofTyckelaer, was rushing to the Buytenhof prepared to do murder, andfearful lest the prisoner should escape alive. "To the gaol! To thegaol!" yelled the mob. But outside the prison was a line of cavalrydrawn up under the command of Captain Tilly with orders to guard theBuytenhof, and while the populace stood in hesitation, not daring toattack the soldiers, John de Witt had quietly driven up to the prison, and had been admitted by the gaoler. 

The shouts and clamour of the people could be heard within the prison asJohn de Witt, accompanied by Gryphus the gaoler, made his way to hisbrother's cell. 

Cornelius learnt there was no time to be lost, but there was a questionof certain correspondence between John de Witt and M. De Louvois ofFrance to be discussed. These letters, entirely creditable though theywere to the statesmanship of the Grand Pensionary, would have beenaccepted as evidence of treason by the maddened Orangists, andCornelius, instead of burning them, had left them in the keeping of hisgodson, Van Baerle, a quiet, scholarly young man of Dordrecht, who wasutterly unaware of the nature of the packet. 

"They will kill us if these papers are found, " said John de Witt, andopening the window, they heard the mob shouting, "Death to traitors!"

In spite of fingers and wrists broken by the rack, Cornelius managed towrite a note. 

 DEAR GODSON: Burn the packet I gave you, burn without opening or looking at it, so that you may not know the contents. The secrets it contains bring death. Burn it, and you will have saved both John and Cornelius. 

 Farewell, from your affectionate

 CORNELIUS DE WITT. 

Then a letter was given to Craeke, John de Witt's faithful servant, whoat once set off for Dordrecht, and within a few minutes the two brotherswere driving away to the city gate. Rosa, the gaoler's daughter, unknownto her father, had opened the postern, and had herself bidden De Witt'scoachman drive round to the rear of the prison, and by this means thefury of the mob was, for the moment, evaded. 

And now the clamour of the Orangists was at the prison door, for Tilly'shorse had withdrawn on an order signed by the deputies in the town hall, and the people were raging to get within the Buytenhof. 

The mob burst open the great gate, and yelling, "Death to the traitors!To the gallows with Cornelius de Witt!" poured in, only to find theprisoner had escaped. But the escape was but from the prison, for thecity gate was locked when the carriage of the De Witts drove up, lockedby order of the deputies of the Town Hall, and a certain young man--whowas none other than William, Prince of Orange--held the key. 

Before another gate could be reached the mob, streaming from theBuytenhof, had overtaken the carriage, and the De Witts were at itsmercy. 

The two men, whose lives had been spent in the welfare of their country, were massacred with unspeakable savagery, and their bodies, stripped, and hacked almost beyond recognition, were then strung up on a hastilyerected gibbet in the market-place. 

When the worst had been done, the young man, who had secretly watchedthe proceedings from the window of a neighbouring house, returned thekey to the gatekeeper. 

Then the prince mounted a horse which an equerry held in waiting forhim, and galloped off to camp to await the message of the States. Hegalloped proudly, for the burghers of The Hague had made of the corpsesof the De Witts a stepping stone to power for William of Orange. 

_II. --Betrayed for his Bulbs_

Doctor Cornelius van Baerle, the godson of Cornelius de Witt, was in histwenty-eighth year, an orphan, but nevertheless, a really happy man. Hisfather had amassed a fortune of 400, 000 guilders in trade with theIndies, and an estate brought him in 10, 000 guilders a year. He wasblessed with the love of a peaceful life with good nerves, ample wealth, and a philosophic mind. 

Left alone in the big house at Dordrecht, he steadily resisted alltemptations to public life. He took up the study of botany, and then, not knowing what to do with his time and money, decided to go in for oneof the most extravagant hobbies of the time--the cultivation of hisfavourite flower, the tulip. The fame of Mynheer van Baerle's tulipssoon spread in the district, and while Cornelius de Witt had rouseddeadly hatred by sowing the seeds of political passion, Van Baerle withhis tulips won general goodwill. Yet, all unknowingly, Van Baerle hadmade an enemy, an implacable, relentless enemy. This was his neighbour, Isaac Boxtel, who lived next door to him in Dordrecht. 

Boxtel, from childhood, had been a passionate tulip-grower. He had evenproduced a tulip of his own, and the Boxtel had won wide admiration. Oneday, to his horror, Boxtel discovered that his next-door neighbour, thewealthy Mynheer van Baerle, was also a tulip-grower. In bitter anguishBoxtel foresaw that he had a rival who, with all the resources at hiscommand, might equal and possibly surpass the famous Boxtel creations. He almost choked with envy, and from the moment of his discovery livedunder continual fear. The healthy pastime of tulip growing became, underthese conditions, a morbid and evil occupation for Boxtel, while VanBaerle, on the other hand, totally unaware of the enmity brewing, threwhimself into the business with the keenest zest, taking for his mottothe old aphorism, "To despise flowers is to insult God. "

So fierce was the envy that seized Boxtel that though he would haveshrunk from the infamy of destroying a tulip, he would have killed theman who grew them. His own plants were neglected; it was useless andhopeless to contend against so wealthy a rival. Then Boxtel, fascinatedby his evil passion, bought a telescope, and, perched on a ladder, studied Van Baerle's tulip beds and the drying-room, the tulip-grower'ssacred place. 

One night he lost all moral control, and tying the hind legs of two catstogether with a piece of string, he flung the animals into Van Baerle'sgarden. To Boxtel's bitter mortification the cats, though they madehavoc of many precious plants before they broke the string, left thefour finest tulips untouched. 

Shortly afterwards the Haarlem Tulip Society offered a prize of 100, 000guilders to whomsoever should produce a large black tulip, without spotor blemish. Van Baerle at once thought out the idea of the black tulip. He had already achieved a dark brown one, while Boxtel, who had onlymanaged to produce a light brown one, gave up the quest as impossible, and could do nothing but spy on his neighbour's activities. 

One evening in January 1672, Cornelius de Witt came to see his grandson, Cornelius van Baerle, and went with him alone into the sacred drying-room, the laboratory of the tulip-grower. Boxtel, with his telescope, recognised the well-known features of the statesman, and presently hesaw him hand his godson a packet, which the latter put carefully away ina cabinet. This packet contained the correspondence of John de Witt andM. De Louvois. 

Cornelius drove away, and Boxtel wondered what the packet contained. Itcould hardly be bulbs; it must be secret papers. 

It was not till August, as we know, that Craeke was despatched to VanBaerle with the note bidding him destroy the packet. 

Craeke arrived just when Van Baerle was nursing his precious bulbs--thebulbs of the black tulip--and his sudden entrance rudely disturbed thetulip-grower. He had not time to read the note; indeed, he was too muchconcerned with the welfare of his three particular bulbs to troubleabout it, before a magistrate and some soldiers entered to arrest him. Van Baerle wrapped up the bulbs in the note from his godfather, and wassent off under close custody to The Hague. The magistrate carried offthe packet from the cabinet. 

All this was Boxtel's work. It was he who had reported to the magistratethe visit of De Witt and the placing of the packet in a cabinet. Andnow, with Van Baerle out of the house as a prisoner, Boxtel in the deadof night broke into his neighbour's house, to secure the priceless bulbsof the black tulip. He had made out where they were growing, and heplunged his hands into the soft soil--only to find nothing. Then thewretched man guessed that the bulbs had gone with the prisoner to TheHague, and decided to go in pursuit. Van Baerle could only keep themwhile he was alive, and then--they should be his, Isaac Boxtel's. 

_III. --The Theft of the Tulip_

Van Baerle was placed in the cell occupied by Cornelius de Witt in theBuytenhof. Outside, in the market-place, the bodies of the De Witts werehanging, and Van Baerle read with horror the inscription, "Here hangthat great rascal John de Witt and the little rascal Cornelius de Witt, enemies of their country. "

Gryphus laughed when the prisoner asked him what it meant, and replied, "That's what happens to those that write secret letters to the enemiesof the Prince of Orange. "

A terrible despair fell on Van Baerle, but he refused to escape whenRosa, the gaoler's beautiful daughter, suggested it to him. He wasbrought to trial, and though he denied all knowledge of thecorrespondence, his goods were confiscated, and he was condemned todeath. He bequeathed his three tulip bulbs to Rosa, explained how shemust get a certain soil from Dordrecht, and went out calmly to die. Onthe scaffold Van Baerle was reprieved and sentenced to perpetualimprisonment, for the Prince of Orange shrank from further bloodshed. 

One spectator in the crowd was bitterly disappointed. This was Boxtel, who had bribed the headsman to let him have Van Baerle's clothes, believing that he would thus obtain the priceless bulbs. 

Van Baerle was sent to the prison of Loewenstein, and in February 1673, when he was thinking his tulips lost for ever, he heard Rosa's voice. Gryphus had applied for the gaolership of Loewenstein, and had beenappointed. 

Nothing could persuade him that if Van Baerle was not a traitor he wascertainly in league with the devil, like all learned men, and he did allhe could to mortify and annoy his prisoner. But Rosa would come everynight when her father, stupefied by gin, was asleep, and talk toCornelius through the barred grating of his cell door. 

He taught her to read, and together they planned how the tulip bulbsshould be brought to flower. One bulb Rosa was to plant, the second VanBaerle would cultivate in his cell with soil placed in an old water jug, and the third was to be kept in reserve. 

Once more hope revived in Baerle's mind, but Rosa often sufferedvexation because Cornelius thought more of his black tulip than of her. 

In the meantime Boxtel, under the assumed name of Jacob Gisels, had madehis way to Loewenstein in pursuit of the bulbs, and had ingratiatedhimself with Gryphus, offering to marry his daughter. Rosa's tulip hadto be guarded from Gisels, who was always spying on her movements. Shekept it in her room for safety, but Boxtel had a key made, and the daythe tulip flowered, and arose a spotless black, he resolved to take itat once, and rush to Haarlem and claim the prize. 

The day came. Rosa described to Cornelius the wonderful black tulip, andthey drew up a letter to the president of the Horticultural Society atHaarlem, begging him to come and fetch the wonderful flower. 

That very night while Cornelius and Rosa rejoiced as lovers--for noweven Rosa was convinced of the prisoner's love for her--over thehappiness of the flowering tulip, Boxtel crept into her room, andcarried off the black tulip to Haarlem. 

As for Van Baerle, he was beside himself with the rage of desperationwhen Rosa told him that the black tulip had been stolen. Rosa, bent onrecovering the tulip, and certain in her own mind as to the thief, hastened away from Loewenstein the next day without a word, Gryphus wasmad when he learnt his daughter was nowhere to be found, and put downthe mysterious disappearance of Jacob Gisels and Rosa to the work of thedevil, and was convinced that Van Baerle was the devil's agent. 

The third day after the theft Gryphus, armed with a stick and a knife, attacked Cornelius, calling out, "Give me back my daughter. " Corneliusgot hold of the stick, forced Gryphus to drop the knife, and thenproceeded to give the gaoler a thrashing. The noise brought in turnkeysand guards, who speedily carried off the wounded gaoler and arrested VanBaerle. To comfort the prisoner they assured him he would certainly beshot within twelve hours. 

Then an officer, an aide-de-camp of the Prince of Orange, entered, escorted Van Baerle to the prison gate, and bade him enter a carriage. Believing himself about to die, he thought sadly of Rosa and of thetulip he was never to see again. The carriage rolled off, and theytravelled all that day and night until the journey ended at Haarlem. 

_IV. --The Triumph of the Tulip_

Rosa reached Haarlem just four hours after Boxtel's arrival, and shewent at once to seek an interview with Mynheer van Systens, thePresident of the Horticultural Society. Immediate admittance was grantedon her mentioning the magic words "black tulip. "

"Sir, the black tulip has been stolen from me, " said Rosa. 

"But I only saw it two hours ago!" replied the president. 

"You saw it--where?"

"Why, at your master's! Are you not in the service of Mynheer IsaacBoxtel?"

"I, sir? Certainly not! But this Isaac Boxtel, is he a thin, bald-headed, bow-legged, crook-backed, haggard-looking man?"

"You have described him exactly. "

"He is the thief; he stole the black tulip from me. "

"Well, go and find Mynheer Boxtel--he is at the White Swan Inn, andsettle it with him. " And with that the president took up his pen andwent on writing, for he was busy over his report. 

But Rosa still implored him, and while she was speaking the Prince ofOrange entered the building. Rosa told everything, how she had receivedthe bulb from the prisoner at Loewenstein, and how she had first seenthe prisoner at The Hague. Then Boxtel was sent for. He was ready withhis tale. The girl had plotted with her lover, the state prisoner, Cornelius van Baerle, and had stolen his--Boxtel's--black tulip, whichhe had unwisely mentioned. However, he had recovered it. 

A thought struck Rosa. 

"There were three bulbs. What has become of the others?" she asked. 

"One failed, the second produced the black tulip, and the third is athome at Dordrecht, " said Boxtel uneasily. 

"You lie; it is here!" cried Rosa. And she drew from her bosom the thirdbulb, still wrapped in the same paper Van Baerle had so hastily putround the bulbs on his flight. "Take it, my lord, " she said, handing itto the prince. And then, glancing at the paper for the first time, sheadded, "Oh, my lord, read this!"

William passed the third bulb to the president, and read the papercarefully. It was Cornelius de Witt's letter to his godson, exhortinghim to burn the packet without opening it. It was the proof of VanBaerle's innocence and of his ownership of the bulbs. 

"Go, Mynheer Boxtel; you shall have justice. And you, Mynheer vanSystens, take care of this maiden and of the tulip, " said the prince. 

That same evening the prince summoned Rosa to the town hall, and talkedto her. Rosa did not deny her love for Cornelius. 

"But what is the good of loving a man condemned to live and die inprison?" the prince asked. 

"I can help him to live and die, " came the answer. 

The prince sealed a letter, and sent it off to Loewenstein by Colonelvan Deken. Then he turned to Rosa, and said, "The day after to-morrow isSunday, and it will be the festival of the tulip. Take these 500guilders, and dress yourself in the costume of a Friesland bride, for Iwant it to be a grand festival for you. "

Sunday came, May 15, 1673, and all Haarlem gathered to do honour to theblack tulip. Boxtel was in the crowd, feasting his eyes on the sacredflower, which was born aloft in a litter. The procession stopped, andthe flower was placed on a pedestal, while the people cheered with wildenthusiasm. At the solemn moment when the Prince of Orange was toacclaim the triumphant owner of the black tulip and present the prize of100, 000 guilders, the coach with the unhappy prisoner Cornelius vanBaerle drew up in the market-place. 

Cornelius, hearing that the celebration of the black tulip was actuallyproceeding, besought his guard to let him have one glimpse of theflower; and the petition was granted by the Prince of Orange. 

From a distance of six paces Van Baerle gazed at the black tulip, andthen he, with the multitude, turned his eyes towards the prince. In deadsilence the prince declared the occasion of the festival, the discoveryof the wonderful black tulip, and concluded, "Let the owner of the blacktulip approach. "

Cornelius made an involuntary movement. Boxtel and Rosa rushed forwardfrom the crowd. 

The prince turned to Rosa. "This tulip is yours, is it not?" he said. 

"Yes, my lord, " she answered softly. And general applause came from thecrowd. 

"This tulip will henceforth bear the name of its producer, and will becalled _Tulipa nigra Rosa Baerttensis_, because Van Baerle is to be themarried name of this damsel, " the prince announced; and at the same timehe took Rosa's hand and placed it within the hand of the prisoner, whohad rushed forward at the words he had heard. 

Boxtel fell down in a fit, and when they raised him up he was dead. 

The procession returned to the town hall, the prince declared Rosa theprizewinner, and informed Cornelius that, having been wrongfullycondemned, his property was restored to him. Then he entered his coach, and was driven away. 

Cornelius and Rosa departed for Dordrecht, and Van Baerle remained everfaithful to his wife and his tulips. 

As for old Gryphus, after being the roughest gaoler of men, he lived tobe the fiercest guardian of tulips at Dordrecht. 

 * * * * *

The Corsican Brothers

 "The Corsican Brothers" is one of the most famous of Dumas' shorter stories. It was published in 1845, when the author was at the height of his powers, and is remarkable not only for its strong dramatic interest, but for its famous account of old Corsican manners and customs, being inspired by a visit to Corsica in 1834. The scenery of the island, and the life of the inhabitants, the survival of the vendetta, and the fierce family feuds, all made strong appeal to his imaginative mind. Several versions of the story have been dramatised for the English stage, and as a play "The Corsican Brothers" has enjoyed a long popularity; but Dumas himself, who was fond of adapting his works to the stage, never dramatised this story. 

_I. --The Twins_

I was travelling in Corsica early in March 1841. Corsica is a Frenchdepartment, but it is by no means French, and Italian is the languagecommonly spoken. It is free from robbers, but it is still the land ofthe vendetta, and the province of Sartene, wherein I was travelling, isthe home of family feuds, which last for years and are alwaysaccompanied by loss of life. 

I was travelling alone across the island, but I had been obliged to takea guide; and when at five o'clock we halted on a hill overlooking thevillage of Sullacro, my guide asked me where I would like to stay forthe night. There were, perhaps, one hundred and twenty houses inSullacro for me to choose from, so after looking out carefully for theone that promised the most comfort, I decided in favour of a strong, fortified, squarely-built house. 

"Certainly, " said my guide. "That is the house of Madame Savilia deFranchi. Your honour has chosen wisely. "

I was a little uncertain whether it was quite the right thing for me toseek hospitality at a house belonging to a lady, for, being onlythirty-six, I considered myself a young man. But I found it quiteimpossible to make my guide understand my feelings. The notion that mystaying a night could give occasion for gossip concerning my hostess, orthat it made any difference whether I was old or young, wasunintelligible to a Corsican. 

Madame Savilia, I learnt from the guide, was about forty, and had twosons--twins--twenty-one years old. One lived with his mother, and was aCorsican; the other was in Paris, preparing to be a lawyer. 

We soon arrived at the house we sought. My guide knocked vigorously atthe door, which was promptly opened by a man in velvet waistcoat andbreeches and leather gaiters. I explained that I sought hospitality, andwas answered in return that the house was honoured by my request. Myluggage was carried off, and I entered. 

In the corridor a beautiful woman, tall, and dressed in black, met me. She bade me welcome, and promised me that of her son, telling me thatthe house was at my service. 

A maid-servant was called to conduct me to the room of M. Louis, and assupper would be served in an hour, I went upstairs. 

My room was evidently that of the absent son, and the most comfortablein the house. Its furniture was all modern, and there was a well-filledbookcase. I hastily looked at the volumes; they denoted a student ofliberal mind. 

A few minutes later, and my host, M. Lucien de Franchi, entered. Iobserved that he was young, of sunburnt complexion, well made, andfearless and resolute in his bearing. 

"I am anxious to see that you have all you need, " he said, "for weCorsicans are still savages, and this old hospitality, which is almostthe only tradition of our forefathers left, has its shortcomings for theFrench. "

I assured him that the apartment was far from suggesting savagery. 

"My brother Louis likes to live after the French fashion, " Lucienanswered. He went on to speak of his brother, for whom he had a profoundaffection. They had already been parted for ten months, and it was threeor four years before Louis was expected home. 

As for Lucien, nothing, he said, would make him leave Corsica. Hebelonged to the island, and could not live without its torrents, itsrocks, and its forests. The physical resemblance between himself and hisbrother, he told me, was very great; but there was considerabledifference of temperament. 

Having completed my own change of dress, I went into Lucien's room, athis suggestion. It was a regular armoury, and all the furniture was atleast 300 years old. 

While my host put on the dress of a mountaineer, for he mentioned to methat he had to attend a meeting after supper, he told me the history ofsome of the carbines and daggers that hung round the room. Of a truth, he came of an utterly fearless stock, to whom death was of small accountby the side of courage and honour. 

At supper, Madame de Franchi could not help expressing her anxiety forher absent son. No letter had been received, but Lucien for days hadbeen feeling wretched and depressed. 

"We are twins, " he said simply, "and however greatly we are separated, we have one and the same body, as we had at our birth. When anythinghappens to one of us, be it physical or mental, it at once affects theother. I know that Louis is not dead, for I should have seen him againin that case. "

"You would have told me if he had come?" said Madame de Franchianxiously. 

"At the very moment, mother. "

I was amazed. Neither of them seemed to express the slightest doubt orsurprise at this extraordinary statement. 

Lucien went on to regret the passing of the old customs of Corsica. Hisvery brother had succumbed to the French spirit, and on his return wouldsettle down as an advocate at Ajaccio, and probably prosecute men whokilled their enemies in a vendetta. "And I, too, am engaged in affairsunworthy of a De Franchi, " he concluded. "You have come to Corsica withcuriosity about its inhabitants. If you care to set out with me aftersupper, I will show you a real bandit. "

I accepted the invitation with pleasure. 

_II. --M. Luden de Franchi_

Lucien explained to me the object of our expedition. For ten years thevillage of Sullacro had been divided over the quarrel of two families, the Orlandi and the Colona--a quarrel that had originated in the seizureof a paltry hen belonging to the Orlandi, which had flown into thepoultry-yard of the Colonas. Nine people had already been killed in thisfeud, and now Lucien, as arbitrator, was to bring it to an end. Thelocal prefect had written to Paris that one word from De Franchi wouldend the dispute, and Louis had appealed to him. 

To-night Lucien was to arrange matters with Orlandi, as he had alreadydone with Colona, and the meeting-place was at the ruins of the Castleof Vicentello d'Istria. It was a steep ascent, but we arrived in goodtime, and while we sat and waited, Lucien told me terrible stories offeuds and vengeance. Orlandi made his appearance exactly at nineo'clock, and after some discussion agreed to Lucien's terms. I foundthat I was expected to act as surety for Orlandi, and accepted theresponsibility. 

"You will now be able to tell my brother, on your return to Paris, thatit's all been settled as he wished, " said Lucien. 

On our way home Lucien showed wonderful marksmanship with his gun, andadmitted he was equally skillful with the pistol. His brother Louis, onthe other hand, had never touched either gun or pistol. 

Next morning came the grand reconciliation of Orlandi and Colona, in themarket square in the presence of the mayor and the notary. The mayorcompelled the belligerents to shake hands, a document was signeddeclaring the vendetta at an end, and everybody went to mass. 

Later in the day I was compelled to bid good-bye to Madame de Franchiand her son, and set out for Paris; but before I left Lucien told me howin his family his father had appeared to him on his death-bed, and that, not only at death, but at any great crisis in life, an apparitionappeared. He was certain by his own depression that his brother Louiswas suffering. 

Lucien told me his brother's address, 7, Rue du Helder, and gave me aletter which I undertook to deliver personally. 

We parted with great cordiality, and a week later I was back in Paris. 

_III. --The Fate of Louis_

I was startled by the extraordinary resemblance of M. Louis de Franchi, whom I had at once called upon, to his brother. 

I was relieved to find that he was not suffering from illness, and Itold him of the anxiety of his family concerning his health. M. DeFranchi replied that he had not been ill, but that he had been sufferingfrom a very bitter disappointment, aggravated by the knowledge that hisown suffering caused his brother to suffer, too. He hoped, however, thattime would heal the wound in his heart. 

We agreed to meet the following night at the opera ball at midnight, onthe young lawyer's suggestion. I rallied him on his recovery from hissorrow, but Louis only said mournfully that he was driven by fate, dragged against his will. 

"I am quite sure, " he said, "that it would be better for me not to go, but nevertheless I am going. "

Louis was too pre-occupied to talk when we met at the masked ball, andhe suddenly left me for a lady carrying violets. Later he rejoined me, and together we set off to supper at three o'clock in the morning. Itwas my friend D----'s supper party, and he had included Louis in theinvitation. 

We found our friends waiting supper, and D---- announced that the onlyperson who had not arrived was Château-Renard. It seemed there was awager on that M. De Château-Renard would not arrive with a certain ladywhom he had undertaken to bring to supper. 

Louis, who was as pale as death, implored D---- not to mention thelady's name, and our host acceded to the request. 

"Only as her husband is at Smyrna, or in India or Mexico or somewhere, and in such a case it's the same as if the lady wasn't married, " D----observed. 

"I assure you her husband is coming back soon, and he is such a goodfellow he would be horribly mortified to hear his wife had done anythingsilly in his absence. "

Château-Renard had till four o'clock to save his bet. At five minutes tofour he had not arrived, and Louis smiled at me over his wine. At thatvery moment the bell rang. D---- went to the door, and we could hearsome argument going on in the hall. 

Then a lady entered with obvious reluctance, escorted by D---- andChâteau-Renard. 

"It's not yet four, " said Château-Renard to D----. 

"Quite right, my boy, " the other answered. "You've won your bet. "

"No, hardly yet, sir, " said the unknown lady. "Now I know why you wereso persistent. You have wagered to bring me here to supper, and Isupposed you were taking me to sup with one of my own friends. "

Both Château-Renard and D---- besought the lady to stay, but the fairunknown, after expressing her thanks to D---- for his welcome, turned toM. Louis de Franchi, and asked him to escort her home. Louis at oncesprang forward. 

Château-Renard, furious, insisted that he would know whom to holdaccountable. 

"If I am the person meant, " said Louis, with great dignity, "you willfind me at home at 7, Rue du Helder all day to-morrow. "

Louis departed with his fair companion, and though Château-Renard wasostentatiously cheerful, the end of the supper-party was not at all afestive business. 

At ten o'clock the same morning I arrived at the rooms of M. Louis deFranchi. The seconds of Château-Renard had already called, and I passedthem on the stairs. 

Louis had written me a note; with another friend, Baron GiordanoMartelli, the affair was to be arranged with Baron de Châteaugrand, andM. De Boissy, the gentleman I had met on the stairs. 

I looked at the cards of these two men, and asked Louis if the matterwas of any great seriousness. 

Louis replied by telling the story of the quarrel. A friend of his, asea captain, had married a beautiful woman, so beautiful and so youngthat Louis could not help falling in love with her. As an honourable manhe had kept away from the house, and then on being reproached by hisfriend, had frankly told him the reason. 

In return, his friend, who was just setting off for Mexico, commendedhis wife, Emilie, whom he adored and trusted absolutely, to his care, and asked his wife to consider Louis de Franchi as her brother. For sixmonths the captain had been away, and Emilie had been living at hermother's. To this house, among other visitors, had come M. De Château-Renard, and from the first, this typical man of the world had been anobject of dislike to Louis. Emilie's flirtations with Château-Renard atlast provoked a remonstrance from Louis, and in return the lady told himthat he was in love with her himself, and that he was absurd in hisnotions. After that Louis had left off calling on Emilie, but gossip wassoon busy with the lady's name. 

An anonymous letter had made an appointment for Louis with the lady ofthe violets at the masked ball, and from this person he was informedagain not only of Emilie's infidelity, but further, that M. DeChâteau-Renard had wagered he would bring her to supper at D----'s. 

The rest I knew, and I could only assent mournfully that things must goon, and that the proposals of Château-Renard's seconds could not bedeclined. 

But M. Louis de Franchi had never touched sword or pistol in his life!However, there was nothing for it but to return M. De Châteaugrand'scall. 

Martelli and I found that Château-Renard's two supporters were bothpolite men of the world. They were as indifferent as Louis was to thechoice of weapons, and by a spin of a coin it was decided that pistolswere to be used. 

The place agreed upon for the duel was the Bois de Vincennes, and thetime nine o'clock the following morning. 

I called in the evening on Louis to ask him if he had any instructionsfor me; but his only reply was "Counsel comes with the night, " so Iwaited on him next morning. 

He was just finishing a letter when I entered, and he bade his servantJoseph leave us undisturbed for ten minutes. 

"I am anxious, " said Louis, "that my friend Giordano Martelli, who is aCorsican, should not know of this letter. But you must promise to carryout my wishes, and then my family may be saved a second misfortune. Now, please read the letter. "

I read the letter Louis had written. It was to his mother, and it saidthat he was dying of brain fever. Her son, writing in a lucid interval, was beyond hope of recovery. It would be posted to her a quarter of anhour after his death. There was an affectionate postscript to Lucien. 

"What does this mean? I don't understand it, " I said. 

"It means that at ten minutes past nine I shall be dead. I have beenforewarned, that is all. My father appeared to me last night andannounced my death. "

He spoke so simply of this visit, that if it was an illusion it was asterribly convincing as the truth. 

"There is one thing more, " said Louis. "If my brother was to hear that Ihad been killed in a duel, he would at once leave Sullacro to come andfight the man who had killed me. And then if he were killed in his turnmy mother would be thrice widowed. To prevent that I have written thisletter. If it is believed that I have died of brain fever no one can beblamed. " He paused. "Unless, unless--but no, that must not be. "

I knew that my own strange fear was his. 

On the way to Vincennes Baron Giordano stopped to get a case of pistols, powder, and balls, and we arrived at our destination just as M. DeChâteau-Renard's carriage drove up. At M. De Châteaugrand's suggestionwe all made our way to a certain glade away from the public pathway. 

Martelli and Châteaugrand measured, the distance together, while Louisbade me farewell, asking me to accept his watch, and begging me to keepthe duel out of the papers, and to prevail upon Giordano not to let anyword of the matter reach Sullacro. 

M. Château-Renard was at his post. Baron Giordano gave Louis his pistol. 

Châteaugrand called out, "Gentlemen, are you ready?" Then he clapped hishands "One, two, three. "

Two shots went off at the same moment, and Louis de Franchi fell. Hisopponent was unhurt. I rushed to Louis and raised him up. Blood came tohis lips. It was useless to send for a surgeon. 

Château-Renard had withdrawn, but his seconds hastened to express theirhorror at the fatal ending of the combat. 

Châteaugrand added that he hoped M. De Franchi bore no malice againsthis opponent. 

"No, no, I forgive him!" said Louis. "But tell him to leave Paris. Hemust go. "

The dying man spoke with difficulty. He reminded me of my promise, andasked me, as he fell back, to look at my watch. 

It was exactly ten minutes past nine, and Louis was dead. 

We carried the body back to the house, and Giordano made the requiredstatement to the District Commissioner of Police. Then the house wassealed by the police, and Louis de Franchi was laid to rest inPère-La-chaise. But M. De Château-Renard could not be persuaded to leaveParis, though MM. De Boissy and de Châteaugrand both did their best toinduce him to go. 

_IV. --Lucien Takes Vengeance_

One night, five days after the funeral, I was working late at mywriting-table, when my servant entered, and told me in a frightened tonethat M. De Franchi wanted to speak to me. 

"Who?" I said, in astonishment. 

"M. De Franchi, sir, your friend--the gentleman who has been here onceor twice to see you. "

"You must be out of your senses, Victor! Don't you know that he diedfive days ago?"

"Yes, sir; and that's why I am so upset. I heard a ring at the bell, andwhen I opened the door, he walked in, asked if you were at home, andtold me to tell you that M. De Franchi desired to speak with you. "

"Are you out of your mind, my good man? I suppose the hall is badly lit, and you were half-asleep and heard the name wrong. Go back and ask thename again. "

"No, sir, I will swear that I'm not mistaken. I'm sure I heard and sawperfectly. "

"Very well, then, show him in. "

Victor went back to the door, trembling all the time, and said, "Pleasestep in, sir. "

My hasty sensation of terror was quickly dispelled. It was Lucien whowas apologising to me for disturbing me at such an hour. 

"The fact is, " he said, "I only arrived ten minutes ago, and you willunderstand how impossible it was not to come and see you at once. "

I at once thought of the letter I had sent. In five days it could nothave reached Sullacro. 

"Good heaven!" I cried. "Nothing is known to you?"

"Everything is known, " he said quietly. 

Lucien mentioned that on going to his brother's house, the people wereso panic-stricken that they refused the door to him. 

"Tell me, " I said, when we were alone. "You must have been on your wayhere when you heard the fatal news?"

"On the contrary, I was at Sullacro. Have you for-forgotten what I toldyou about the apparitions in my family?"

"Has your brother appeared to you?" I cried. 

"Yes. He told me he had been killed in a duel by M. De Château-Renard. Isaw my brother in his room the day he was killed, " Lucien went on, "andthat night in a dream I saw the place where the duel was fought, andheard the name of M. De Château-Renard. And I have come to Paris to killthe man who killed my brother. My brother had never touched a pistol inhis life, and it was as easy to kill him as to kill a tame stag. Mymother knows why I have come. She is a true Corsican, and she kissed meon the forehead and said 'Go!'"

The next morning Lucien wrote to Giordano and sent a challenge toChâteau-Renard. Then he went with me to Vincennes, and, though he hadnever been there in his life before, Lucien walked straight to the spotwhere his brother had fallen. He turned round, walked twenty paces, andsaid, "This is where the villain stood, and to-morrow he will lie here. "

Lucien predicted with absolute confidence the death of Château-Renard. The challenge was accepted, the same seconds acted, and on the morrow weassembled in the fatal glade. Château-Renard was obviously uneasy. Thesignal was given, both men fired, and, sure enough, Château-Renard fell, shot through the temple as Lucien had foretold. 

Then, for the first time since Louis' death, Lucien burst into tears. Hedropped his pistol and threw himself into my arms. "My brother, my dearbrother!" he cried. 

 * * * * *

The Count of Monte Cristo

 "The Count of Monte Cristo" appeared in 1844, when Dumas had been writing plays and stories for twenty years, and at a period when he was most extraordinarily prolific. In that year, assisted by his staff of compilers and transcribers, he is said to have turned out something like forty volumes! "Monte Cristo" first gave Dumas' novels a world-wide audience. Its unflagging spirit, the endless surprises, and the air of reality which was cast over the most extravagant situations made the work worthy of the popularity it enjoyed in almost every country in the world. The island from which it takes its name is a barren rock rising 2, 000 feet out of the sea a few miles south of Elba. Dumas attempted to emulate Scott, and built a château near St. Germain, which he called Monte Cristo, costing over $125, 000. It was afterwards sold for a tenth of that sum to pay his debts. 

_I. --The Conspiracy of Envy_

On February 28, 1815, the three-masted Pharaon arrived at Marseillesfrom Smyrna, commanded by the first mate, young Edmond Dantès, thecaptain having died on the voyage. He had left a package for theMaréchal Bertrand on the Isle of Elba, which Dantès had duly delivered, conversing with the exiled Emperor Napoleon himself. 

The shipowner, M. Morrel, confirmed young Dantès in the command, and, overjoyed, he hastened to his father, and then to the village of theCatalans, near Marseilles, where the dark-eyed Mercédès, his betrothed, impatiently awaited him. 

But his good fortune excited envy. Danglars, the supercargo of thePharaon, wanted the command for himself, and Fernand, the Catalan cousinof Mercédès, hated Dantès because he had won her heart. Fernand'sjealousy so took possession of him that he fell in willingly with ascheme which the envious Danglars proposed. Making use of Dantès'compromising visit to Elba, they addressed an anonymous denunciation tothe _procureur du roi_, which, in this period of Bonapartist plots, wasindeed a formidable matter. Caderousse, a boon companion, was at firsttaken into their confidence, but as he came to think it a dangeroustrick to play the young captain, he refused to take part in it. 

On the morrow the wedding-feast took place, and at two o'clock Dantès, radiant with joy and happiness, prepared to accompany his bride to thehotel de ville for the civil ceremony. But at that moment the measuredtread of soldiery was heard on the stairs, and a magistrate presentedhimself, bearing an order for the arrest of Edmond Dantès. Resistance orremonstrance was useless, and Dantès suffered himself to be taken toMarseilles, where he was examined by the deputy _procureur du roi, _ M. De Villefort. To him, on demand, he recounted the story of his visit toElba. 

"Ah!" said Villefort, "if you have been culpable it was imprudence. Giveup this letter you have brought from Elba, and go and rejoin yourfriends. "

"You have it already, " cried Dantès. 

Villefort glanced at it, and sank into his seat, stupefied. It wasaddressed to M. Noirtier, a staunch Bonapartist. 

"Oh, if he knew the contents of this, " murmured he, "and that Noirtieris father of Villefort, I am lost!" He approached the fire, and cast thefatal letter in. 

"Sir, " said he, "I shall detail you till this evening in the Palais deJustice. Should anyone else interrogate you do not breathe a word ofthis letter. "

"I promise. "

It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner to reassurehim. 

But the doom of Edmond Dantès was cast. Sacrificed to Villefort'sambition, he was lodged the same night in a dungeon of the gloomyfortress-prison of the Château d'If, while Villefort posted to Paris towarn the king that the usurper Bonaparte was meditating a landing inFrance. 

Napoleon returned. There followed the Hundred Days, and Louis XVIII. Again mounted the throne. M. Morrel's intercessions during Napoleon'sbrief triumph for the release of Dantès but served, on the restorationof Louis, to compromise further the unhappy prisoner, who languished ina foul prison in the depths of the Château d'If. 

In the cell next to Dantès was another political prisoner, the AbbéFaria. He had been in the château four years when Dantès was immured, and, with marvellously contrived tools and incredible toil, had burroweda tunnel through the rock fifty feet long, only to find that, instead ofleading to the outer wall of the château, whence he could have flunghimself into the sea, it led to the cell of another prisoner--Dantès. Hepenetrated it after Dantès had been solitary six years. 

The prisoners met every day between the visits of their gaolers. Fariashowed Dantès the products of his industry and ingenuity--his books, written on the linen of shirts, his fish-bone pens and needles, knives, and matches, all accomplished secretly; and beguiled much of theweariness of confinement by educating Dantès in the sciences, history, and languages. Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined withreadiness of conception, and his studies progressed rapidly. Soon Dantèstold the abbé his story, and the abbé had little difficulty in openingthe eyes of the astonished Dantès to the villainy of his supposedfriends and the deputy _procurer_. Thus was instilled into his heart anew passion--vengeance. 

_II. --The Cemetery of the Château d'If_

More than seven years passed thus when coming into the abbé's dungeonone night, Dantès found him stricken with paralysis. His right arm andleg remained paralysed after the seizure. When Dantès next visited himthe abbé showed him a paper, half-burnt, and rolled in a cylinder. 

"This paper, " said Faria, "is my treasure; and if I have not beenallowed to possess it, you will. Who knows if another attack may notcome, and all be finished?"

The abbé had been secretary to the last of the Counts of Spada, one ofthe most powerful families of mediaeval Italy, and he, dying in poverty, had left Faria an old breviary, which had been in the family since thedays of the Borgias. In this, by chance, Faria found a piece of yellowedpaper, on which, when put in the fire, writing began to appear. From theremains of the paper he made out during the early days of hisimprisonment, that a Cardinal Spada, at the end of the fifteenthcentury, fearing poisoning at the hands of Pope Alexander VI. , hadburied in the Island of Monte Cristo, a rock between Corsica and Elba, all his ingots, gold, money, and jewels, amounting then to nearly twomillion Roman crowns. 

"The last Count of Spada made me his heir, " said the abbé. "The treasurenow amounts to nearly thirteen millions of money!"

The abbé remained paralysed, and had given up all hope of enjoying thetreasure himself; and presently another seizure took him, and one nightDantès was alone with the corpse. 

Next morning the preparations for burying the dead man were made, thebody being placed in a sack and left in the cell till the evening. Dantès came into the cell again. 

"Ah!" he muttered. "Since the dead leave this dungeon, let me assume theplace of the dead!"

Opening the sack, he took out the dead body of his friend, and draggedit through the tunnel to his own cell. Placing it on his own bed, hecovered it with the rags he wore himself. Then he sewed himself in thesack with one of the abbé's needles. In his hand he held the dead man'sknife, and with palpitating heart awaited events. 

Slowly the hours dragged on, until at length he heard the heavyfootsteps of the gaolers descending to the cell. They lifted the sack, and carried him on a bier through the castle passages, until they cameto a door, which was opened. On passing through this, the noise of thewaves was heard as they dashed on the rocks below. 

Then Dantès felt that they took him by the head and by the heels, andflung him into the sea, into whose depths he was dragged by a thirty-six-pound shot tied to his feet. The sea is the cemetery of Châteaud'If!

Although giddy, and almost suffocated, he had yet sufficient presence ofmind to hold his breath; and as his right hand held his knife, herapidly ripped up the sack, extricated his arm, and then, by a desperateeffort, severed the cord that bound his legs at the moment he wassuffocating. With a vigorous spring he rose to the surface, paused tobreathe, and then dived again, in order to avoid being seen. When herose again, he struck boldly out to sea, and, fortunately, was picked upby a sailing-vessel. 

Now at liberty, fourteen years after his arrest, he renewed an oath ofimplacable vengeance against Danglars, Fernand, and Villefort. Nor wasit long before he had discovered the secret cave in the island of MonteCristo, with all its dazzling wealth, as the Abbe Faria had trulyforetold. He now stood possessed of such means of vengeance as never inhis wildest dreams had any innocent prisoner hoped to be able tocommand. 

_III. --Vengeance Begins_

Some two years later Caspar Caderousse, the keeper of an inn nearBeaucaire, was lounging listlessly at his door, when a traveller onhorseback dismounted at his door and entered. The visitor--MonteCristo--gave the name of Abbe Busoni, and astonished Caderousse byshowing a minute knowledge of his earlier history. The abbé explainedthat he had been present at the death of Edmond Dantès in prison, andsaid that even in his dying moments the prisoner had protested he wasutterly ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment. 

"And so he was!" exclaimed Caderousse. "How should he have beenotherwise?"

The abbè had heard of the death of Edmond's aged father, and now he wastold the old man had died of starvation. 

"Thus Heaven recompenses virtue, " said Caderousse. "I am in destitutionand shall die of hunger, as old Dantès did, whilst Fernand and Danglarsroll in wealth. All their malpractices have turned to luck. Danglarsspeculated and made a fortune. He is a millionaire, and now CountDanglars. Fernand played traitor at the battle of Ligny, and that servedfor his recommendation to the Bourbons. Afterwards he became Count deMorcerf, and got a considerable sum by the betrayal of Ali Pasha in theGreek war of independence. "

The abbé, making an effort, said, "And Mercédès--she disappeared?"

"Yes, as the sun, to rise next day with more splendour. She is rich, theCountess de Morcerf--she waited two hopeless years for Dantès--and yet Iam sure she is not happy. "

"And M. De Villefort?" asked the abbé. 

"Some time after having arrested Dantès, he married and left Marseilles;no doubt but he has been as lucky as the rest. "

"God may seem sometimes to forget for a time, " said the abbé, "while Hisjustice reposes, but there always comes a moment when He remembers. "

 * * * * *

Early in 1838 a certain Count of Monte Cristo became a great figure inthe life of Paris. His name awakened thoughts of romance and dazzlingwealth in the minds of all. It was Albert, the son of the Count deMorcerf, who first introduced the Count of Monte Cristo to the highsociety of Paris. They had become acquainted at Rome, where Monte Cristohad been able to render a great service to the Viscount Albert deMorcerf and his friend, the Baron Franz d'Epinay. 

All sorts of stories were afloat in Paris as to the history of thisCount of Monte Cristo. When he went to the opera he was accompanied by abeautiful Greek girl, named Haidée, whose guardian he was. 

But nothing ruffled Monte Cristo. Calmness and deliberation marked allhis movements; in some respects he was more like a machine than a humanbeing. Everything he said he would do was done precisely. And now theschemes he had long studied in secret he had begun to carry through ascertainly and relentlessly as Fate. 

M. De Villefort, now _procureur du roi, _ had a daughter by his firstwife, for he had married a second time. Her name was Valentine, and atthe command of her father, but not by her own wish, she was engaged tothe Baron Franz d'Epinay. She loved a young military officer namedMaximilian Morrel, a son of the Marseilles shipowner. But neither ofthem had dared to avow their affection for each other to Valentine'sfather. 

Meanwhile, the tide of fortune seemed to have turned with BaronDanglars. His business had suffered many losses, but his greatest lossof all was due to some false news about the price of shares which hadbeen telegraphed to Paris by means which Monte Cristo could haveexplained. 

The baron's daughter was engaged to Albert de Morcerf, but the Count ofMorcerf had now come under a cloud, for his betrayal of Ali Pasha hadbeen made public; and perhaps the Count of Monte Cristo could have toldhow the truth came out at last. So the baron did not hesitate to breakthe engagement, and to accept as the suitor for his daughter a dashingyoung man known as Count Cavalcanti, who had been introduced to Paris byMonte Cristo, but concerning whose antecedents nothing seemed to beknown. 

The Count de Morcerf was tried for his betrayal of Ali, and seemedlikely to be acquitted, when a veiled woman was brought to the place oftrial, and testified before the committee that she was the daughter ofAli Pasha, and that Morcerf had not only betrayed her father to theTurks, but had sold her and her mother into slavery. The veiled womanwas Haidée, the ward of Monte Cristo. The count was now a ruined man, and when his son Albert discovered the part that Monte Cristo hadplayed, he publicly insulted the count at the opera. 

A duel was averted, for Albert publicly apologised to the count when helearned the reasons for his actions. Furious that he had not beenavenged by his son, Morcerf rushed to the house of Monte Cristo. 

"I came to tell you, " said Morcerf, "that as the young people of thepresent day will not fight, it remains for us to do it. "

"So much the better, " said Monte Cristo. "Are you prepared?"

"Yes, sir; and witnesses are unnecessary, as we know each other solittle. "

"Truly they are unnecessary, " said Monte Cristo, "but for the reasonthat we know each other well. Are you not the soldier Fernand whodeserted on the eve of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand whoserved as guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not theCaptain Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali?"

"Oh, " cried the general, "wretch, to reproach me with my shame! Tell meyour real name that I may pronounce it when I plunge my sword throughyour heart. "

At this Monte Cristo, bounding to a dressing room near, quickly pulledoff his coat, and waistcoat, and, donning a sailor's jacket and hat, wasback in an instant. 

Gazing for a moment in terror at this man who seemed to have risen fromthe dead to avenge his wrongs, Morcerf turned, seeking the wall tosupport him, and went out by the door uttering the cry--"Edmond Dantès!"

Events marched rapidly now, and Paris had scarcely ceased talking of thesuicide of the Count de Morcerf, when Cavalcanti, identified as a formergalley-slave named Benedetto, was arrested for the murder of a fellow-convict. 

Danglars fled from France, his great business in ruin. With him he tooka large sum of money belonging to Paris hospitals, which, however, wastaken from him near Rome by brigands controlled by Monte Cristo. 

_IV. --Vengeance is Complete_

In the household of Villefort, Monte Cristo had done nothing to bringvengeance on that evil man. He had seen from the first that Villefort'ssecond wife was studying the art of poisoning, and he felt that revengewas already at work here. There had already been three mysterious deathsin the house, and now the beautiful Valentine seemed to be sufferingfrom the early effects of some slow poison. Maximilian Morrel, indespair of Valentine's life, rushed to Monte Cristo for his advice andassistance. 

"Must I let one of the accursed race escape?" Monte Cristo askedhimself, but decided, for Maxmilian's sake, that he would saveValentine. He had bought the house adjoining that of Villefort, and, clearing out the tenants, had engaged workmen to remove so much of theold wall between the two houses that it was a simple matter for him totake out the remaining stones and pass into a large cupboard inValentine's room. Here the count watched while Valentine was asleep, andsaw Madame de Villefort creep into the room and substitute for themedicine in Valentine's glass a dose of poison. 

He then entered the room and threw half the draught into the fireplace, leaving the rest in the glass. When Valentine awoke he gave her a pelletof hashish, which made her sink into a deathlike sleep. 

Next morning the doctor declared that Valentine was dead. In the glasshe discovered poison, and as the same poison was found in madame'slaboratory, there was no doubt of her guilt. She admitted all, andconfessed that her object had been to make her own son sole heir toVillefort's fortune. 

Madame de Villefort fell at her husband's feet. He addressed her withpassionate words of reproach as he turned to leave her. 

"Think of it, madame, " he said; "if on my return justice has not beensatisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with myown hands! I am going to the court to pronounce sentence of death on amurderer. If I find you alive on my return, you shall sleep to-night ingaol. "

Madame sighed, her nerves gave way, and she sank on the carpet. 

But Villefort little knew at the moment he spoke these burning words tothe woman who was his wife that he himself was not going out to condemna fellow-sinner, but to be himself condemned. For the man to whom hereferred as a murderer was the so-called Count Cavalcanti, reallyBenedetto, who now turned out to be an illegitimate son of Villefort'swhom he had endeavoured to bury alive as an infant in the garden of ahouse at Auteuil. The night before the criminal had had a long interviewwith Monte Cristo's steward, who had disclosed to the prisoner thesecret of his birth, and in court he declared his father was Villefort, the public prosecutor! This statement made a great commotion in thecourt, and all eyes were on Villefort, while Benedetto continued toanswer the questions of the president, and proved that he was the childwhom Villefort would have buried alive years before. The publicprosecutor himself confirmed the prisoner's story by admitting hisguilt, and staggering from the court. 

When Villefort arrived at his own house he found everything inconfusion. Making his way to his wife's apartments, he had the horror ofmeeting her while she still lived, just at the very instant when thepoison she had taken did its work, and of finding a moment or two afterthat she had poisoned his little son Edward. 

This was more than the brain of man could endure, and Villefort turnedfrom the tragic scene a raving madman, rushing wildly to the garden, andbeginning to dig with a spade. 

The vengeance of Edmond Dantès, so long delayed, so carefully andlaboriously planned, was now complete, and it only remained for him toperform the last of his marvels, at the same time giving proof of hisboundless generosity. Valentine de Villefort had been buried, andMaximilian was in despair; but Monte Cristo urged the young man to havepatience and hope. 

It seemed a strange thing to ask a lover whose sweetheart had beenplaced within the tomb to have hope and to come to Monte Cristo in onemonth. But this was the bargain they made. 

When the month had passed, Maximilian came to the isle of Monte Cristo. 

"I have your word, " he said to the count, "that you would help me die orgive me Valentine!"

"Ah! A miracle alone can save you--the resurrection of Valentine! Thusdo I fulfil my promise!"

Monte Cristo turned to a jewelled cabinet, and took from it a tube ofgreenish paste. Maximilian swallowed some of the mysterious substance, which was but hashish. He sat down and waited. 

"Monte Cristo, " he said, "I feel that I am dying--good-bye!"

Meanwhile, Monte Cristo had opened a door from which a great lightstreamed. Maximilian opened his eyes, looked towards the light; andthen--he saw Valentine!

Then Monte Cristo spoke. "He calls you, Valentine, even as he thinks hedies by his own will. But even as I saved you from the tomb, so have Isaved him. I feared for his reason if he saw you, except in a trance--from his trance he will wake to happiness!"

Next morning Valentine and Maximilian were walking on the beach, whenJacopo, the captain of Monte Cristo's yacht, gave them a letter. As theylooked on the superscription they cried, simultaneously, "Gone!"

In his letter, Monte Cristo, said: "All that is in this grotto, myfriend, my house in the Champs Elysées, and my château at Tréport, arethe marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son of his oldmaster, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; forI entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to herfrom her father, now a madman, and her brother, who died last Septemberwith his mother. "

"But where is the count?" asked Morrel eagerly. Jacopo pointed towardsthe horizon, where a white sail was visible. 

"And where is Haidée?" asked Valentine. Jacopo still pointed towards thesail. 

 * * * * *

The Three Musketeers

 It was not till the publication of "The Three Musketeers, " in 1844, that the amazing gifts of Dumas were fully recognised. From 1844 till 1850, the literary output of novels, plays, and historical memoirs was enormous, and so great was the demand for Dumas' work that he made no attempt to supply his customers single-handed, but engaged a host of assistants, and was content to revise and amend--or in some cases only to sign--their productions. "The Three Musketeers" was followed by its sequel, "Twenty Years After, " in 1845, and the story was continued still further in the "Vicomte de Bragelonne. " The "Valois" series of novels, "Monte Cristo, " and the "Memoirs of a Physician, " were all published before 1850, in addition to many dramatised versions of stories. 

_I. --The Musketeer's Apprenticeship_

D'Artagnan was without acquaintances in Paris, and now on the very dayof his arrival he was committed to fight with three of the mostdistinguished of the king's musketeers. 

Coming from Gascony, a youth with all the pride and ambition of hisrace, D'Artagnan had brought no money; with him, but only a letter ofintroduction from his father to M. De Treville, captain of themusketeers. But he had been taught that by courage alone could a man nowmake his way to fortune, and that he was to bear nothing, save from thecardinal--the great Cardinal Richelieu, or from the king--Louis XIII. 

It was immediately after his interview with M. De Treville thatD'Artagnan, well trained at home as a swordsman, quarrelled with thethree musketeers. 

First, on the palace stairs, he ran violently into Athos, who wassuffering from a wounded shoulder. 

"Excuse me, " said D'Artagnan. "Excuse me, but I am in a hurry. "

"You are in a hurry?" said the musketeer, pale as a sheet. "Under thatpretence, you run against me; you say 'Excuse me!' and you think thatsufficient. You are not polite; it is easy to see that you are from thecountry. "

D'Artagnan had already passed on, but this remark made him stop short. 

"However far I may come it is not you, monsieur, who can give me alesson in manners, I warn you. "

"Perhaps, " said Athos, "you are in a hurry now, but you can find mewithout running after me. Do you understand me. "

"Where, and when?" said D'Artagnan. 

"Near the Carmes-Deschaux at noon, " replied Athos. "And please do notkeep me waiting, for at a quarter past twelve I will cut off your earsif you run. "

"Good!" cried D'Artagnan. "I will be there at ten minutes to twelve. "

At the street gate Porthos was talking with the soldiers on guard. Between the two there was just room for a man to pass, and D'Artagnanhurried on, only to find himself enveloped in the long velvet cloak ofPorthos, which the wind had blown out. 

"The fellow must be mad, " said Porthos, "to run against people in thismanner! Do you always forget your eyes when you happen to be in ahurry?"

"No, " replied D'Artagnan, who, in extricating himself from the cloak, had observed that the handsome cloth of gold coat worn by Porthos wasonly gold in front and plain buff at the back, "no, and thanks to myeyes, I can see what others cannot see. "

"Monsieur, " said Porthos angrily, "you stand a chance of gettingchastised if you run against musketeers in this fashion. I shall lookfor you, at one o'clock behind the Luxembourg. "

"Very well, at one o'clock then, " replied D'Artagnan, turning into thestreet. 

A few minutes later D'Artagnan annoyed Aramis, the third musketeer, whowas chatting with some gentleman of the king's musketeers. As D'Artagnancame up Aramis accidentally dropped an embroidered pocket-handkerchiefand covered it at once with his foot to prevent observation. D'Artagnan, conscious of a certain want of politeness in his treatment of Athos andPorthos, and determined to be more obliging in future, stooped andpicked up the handkerchief--much to the vexation of Aramis, who deniedall claim to the delicate piece of cambric. 

D'Artagnan not taking the rebukes of Aramis in good part, they fixed twoo'clock as the hour of meeting. 

The two young men bowed and separated, Aramis going up the street whichled to the Luxembourg, whilst D'Artagnan, finding that it was near noon, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, "Decidedly Ican't draw back; but at least if I am killed, I shall be killed by amusketeer. "

Knowing nobody in Paris, D'Artagnan went to his appointment without asecond. 

It was just striking twelve when he arrived on the ground, and Athos, still suffering from his old wound on the shoulder, was already waitingfor his adversary. 

Athos explained with all politeness that his seconds had not yetarrived. 

"If you are in great haste, monsieur, " said D'Artagnan, "and if it beyour will to despatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself. I amready. But if you would wait three days till your shoulder is healed, Ihave a miraculous balsam given me by my mother, and I am sure thisbalsam will cure your wound. At the end of three days it would still dome a great honour to be your man. "

"That is well said, " said Athos, "and it pleases me. Thus spoke thegallant knights of Charlemagne. Monsieur, I love men of your stamp, andI can tell that if we don't kill each other, I shall enjoy your society. But here comes my seconds. "

"What!" cried D'Artagnan as Porthos and Aramis appeared. "Are thesegentlemen your seconds?"

"Yes, " replied Athos. "Are you not aware that we are never seen onewithout the others, and that we are called the three inseparables?"

"What does this mean?" said Porthos, who had now come up and stoodastonished. 

"This is the gentleman I am to fight with, " said Athos, pointing toD'Artagnan and saluting him. 

"Why I am also going to fight with him, " said Porthos. 

"But not before one o'clock, " replied D'Artagnan. 

"Well, and I also am going to fight with that gentleman, " said Aramis. 

"But not till two o'clock, " said D'Artagnan calmly. 

"And now you are all assembled, gentleman, permit me to offer you myexcuses. "

At this word "excuses" a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughtysmile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply ofAramis. 

"You do not understand me, gentleman, " said D'Artagnan, throwing up hishead. "I ask to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge mydebt to all three; for M. Athos has the right to kill me first. And now, gentleman, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and--guard!"

At these words D'Artagnan drew his sword, and at that moment so elatedwas he that he would have drawn his sword against all the musketeers inthe kingdom. 

Scarcely had the two rapiers sounded on meeting, when a company of thecardinal's guards appeared on the scene. At that time there was not onlya standing feud between the king's musketeers and the guards of CardinalRichelieu, there was also a prohibition against duelling. 

"The cardinal's guards! The cardinal's guards!" cried Aramis and Porthosat the same time. "Sheathe swords, gentlemen! Sheathe swords!" But itwas too late. 

Jussac, commander of the guards, had seen the combatants in a positionwhich could not be mistaken. 

"Hullo, musketeers, " he called out; "fighting, are you, in spite of theedicts? Well, duty before everything. Sheathe your swords, please, andfollow us. "

"That is quite impossible, " said Aramis politely. "The best thing youcan do is to pass on your way. "

"We shall charge upon you, then, " said Jussac. "if you disobey. "

"There are five of them, " said Athos, "and we are but three. We shall bebeaten, and must die on the spot, for on my part I will never face mycaptain as a conquered man. "

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly closed in, and Jussac drew up hissoldiers. 

In that short interval D'Artagnan determined on the part he was to take;it was a decision of life-long importance. He had to choose between theking and the cardinal, and the choice made, it must be persisted in. Heturned towards Athos and his friends. "Gentlemen, " said he, "allow me tocorrect your words. You said you were but three, but it appears to me weare four. I do not wear the uniform, but my heart is that of amusketeer. "

"Withdraw, young man, and save your skin!" cried Jussac. 

The three musketeers thought of D'Artagnan's youth, and dreaded hisinexperience. 

"Try me, gentlemen, " said D'Artagnan, "and I swear to you that I willnever go hence if we are conquered. "

Athos pressed the young man's hand, and exclaimed, "Well, then! Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan, forward!"

The nine combatants rushed upon each other with fury, and the battleended in the utter discomfiture of the cardinal's guards, one of whomwas slain and three badly wounded. The musketeers returned walking armin arm. D'Artagnan marched between Athos and Porthos, his heart full ofdelight. 

"If I am not yet a musketeer, " said he to his new friends, "at least, Ihave entered upon my apprenticeship, haven't I?"

_II. --The Queen's Diamonds_

The king, always jealous of Richelieu's guards, was extremely pleasedwhen he heard from M. De Treville of the fight that had taken place. Hegave D'Artagnan a handful of gold, and promised him a place in the ranksof the musketeers at the first vacancy; in the meantime he was to join acompany of royal guards. From this time the life of the four young menbecame common, for D'Artagnan fell quite easily into the habits of histhree friends. 

Athos, who was scarcely thirty years old, was of great personal beautyand intelligence of mind. He never spoke of women, he never laughed, rarely smiled, and his reserved and silent habits seemed to make him amuch older man. 

Porthos was exactly the opposite of Athos. He not only talked much, buthe talked loudly, not caring whether anyone listened to him. He wouldtalk about anything except the sciences, alleging that from childhooddated his inveterate hatred of learning. The physical strength ofPorthos was enormous, and with all the vanity of a child he was athoroughly loyal and brave man. 

As for Aramis, he always gave out that he intended to take orders in theChurch, and was merely a musketeer for the time being. Aramis revelledin intrigues and mysteries. 

What the real names of his comrades were D'Artagnan had no idea. Thatthe names they bore had been assumed was all he knew. 

The motto of the four was "all for one, one for all. " D'Artagnan hadalready earned the dislike of Cardinal Richelieu by his part in thefight with the cardinal's guards; it was not long before his daring gavegreater cause for offence. 

The king suspected his wife, Anne of Austria, of being in love with theDuke of Buckingham, and the cardinal suspected the queen of intriguingwith Buckingham against France. Now, a secret interview had taken placeat the palace between Buckingham and the queen, and the cardinal, whoemployed spies everywhere, found out this as he found out everything, and determined to destroy the queen's reputation, for there was deadlyenmity between Anne of Austria and Richelieu. 

Buckingham had received from the queen a set of diamond studs--a presentfrom the king--as a keepsake; so the cardinal despatched a certain lady, a woman of rare beauty, known as "Milady, " to England, to get hold oftwo of these studs. 

Then the cardinal, by fostering the royal suspicion, persuaded the kingto give a grand ball whereat the queen should wear the diamond studs. Bythis means Louis would be convinced of Buckingham's visit, for the setof studs would be incomplete. 

The queen was in dispair. It was D'Artagnan and the three musketeerswho saved her honour. D'Artagnan loved Madame Bonacieux, a confidentialdressmaker of the queen's; and this woman, devoted to her royalmistress, gave D'Artagnan a secret note from the queen to Buckingham. 

D'Artagnan went at once to M. De Treville, obtained leave of absence forhimself and his friends, and set out for England. It was not a minutetoo soon, for the cardinal had already made plans to prevent any suchcounter-move, giving orders that no one was to sail from France withouta permit. 

Between Paris and Calais, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos were all leftbehind, wounded by Richelieu's guards, and D'Artagnan only effected apassage to Dover by fighting and nearly killing a young noble who held apermit from the cardinal to leave France. 

Once in England, D'Artagnan hastened to find Buckingham. The latterdiscovered, to his horror, that Milady had already become possessedcunningly of two of the precious studs, and D'Artagnan had to wait whilethe skill of the first English jeweller made good the loss beyonddetection. 

He returned to Paris with the twelve studs in time for the royal ball. Milady had already given the two she had stolen to the cardinal, who hadpassed them on to the king. 

"What does this mean, Monsieur le Cardinal?" said the king severely, when in the middle of the ball he found, to his joy, that the queen wasalready wearing twelve diamonds. 

"It means, sire, " the cardinal replied, with vexation, "that I wasanxious to present her majesty with two studs, but did not dare to offerthem myself. "

"I am very grateful, " said Anne of Austria, fully alive to thecardinal's defeat, "only I am afraid these two studs must have cost youreminence as much as all the others cost his majesty. "

The man, D'Artagnan, to whom the queen owed this extraordinary triumphover her enemy, stood unknown in the crowd that gathered round thedoors. It was only when the queen retired that someone touched him onthe shoulder and bade him follow. He readily obeyed; D'Artagnan waitedin an ante-room of the queen's apartments; he could hear voices within, and presently a hand and an arm, marvellously white and beautiful, camethrough the tapestry. 

D'Artagnan felt that this was his reward. He dropped on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it modestly with his lips. Then the handwas withdrawn, and in his own a ring was left. The tapestry closed, andhis guide, no other than Bonacieux, reappeared and escorted him hastilyto the corridor. 

_III. --The Musketeers at La Rochelle_

The siege of La Rochelle was an important affair, one of the chiefpolitical events of the reign of Louis XIII. 

For a time D'Artagnan was separated from his friends, for the musketeerswere escorting the king to the seat of war, and our intrepid Gascon waswith the main army. It was now that D'Artagnan began to realise that hehad attracted, not only the displeasure of the cardinal, but also thedeadly hatred of Milady, the cardinal's secret agent, whose overtures atfriendship, made in the cardinal's interest, he had insulted beforeleaving Paris, and whose secret shame he had discovered. 

Twice his life was nearly taken by hired assassins, and the third time apresent of wine turned out to be poisoned. 

To add to his natural discomfort, Madame Bonacieux had disappeared fromParis, and probably was in prison. 

The arrival of the musketeers restored his spirits, and the four wereagain inseparable. One drawback to their intercourse was the fact thatthe cardinal and his spies were all over the camp, and that, consequently, it was difficult to talk confidentially without beingoverheard. 

In order to secure privacy for a conference, they decided to go andbreakfast in a bastion near the enemy's lines, and wagered with someofficers they would stay there an hour. It was a position of terribledanger, but the feat was accomplished, and the wild undertaking of themusketeers was acclaimed with tremendous enthusiasm in the French camp. 

The noise reached the cardinal's ears, and he inquired its meaning. 

"Monseigneur, " said the officer, "three musketeers and a guard laid awager that they would go and breakfast in the Bastion St. Gervais, andthey breakfasted and held it for two hours against the enemy, killing Idon't know how many Rochellais. "

"Did you inquire the names of those three musketeers?"

"Yes, monseigneur. MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. "

"Still the three braves!" muttered the cardinal. "And the guard?"

"M. D'Artagnan!"

"Still my reckless young friend! I must have these four men as my own. "

That same night the cardinal spoke to M. De Treville of the episode ofthe bastion, and gave permission for D'Artagnan to become a musketeer, "for such men should be in the same company, " he said. 

One night during the siege, the three musketeers, seeking D'Artagnan, were met in a country lane by the cardinal, travelling, as he often did, with a single attendant. Athos recognised him, and the cardinal bade thethree men escort him to a lonely inn. At the door they all alighted. Thelandlord of the inn received the cardinal, for he had been expecting anofficer to visit a lady who was within. The three musketeers wereaccommodated in a large room on the ground floor, and the cardinalpassed up the staircase as a man who knew his road. Porthos and Aramissat down at the table to dice, while Athos walked up and down the roomin a thoughtful mood. To his astonishment, Athos found that, thestovepipe being broken, he could hear all that was passing in the roomabove. 

"Listen, Milady, " the cardinal was saying, "this affair is of utmostimportance. A small vessel is waiting for you at the mouth of the river. You will go on board to-night and set sail to-morrow morning forEngland. Half an hour after I have gone, you will leave here. When youreach England, you will seek the Duke of Buckingham, explain to him thatI have proofs of his secret interviews with the queen, and tell him thatif England moves in support of the besieged in La Rochelle, I will atonce ruin the queen. "

"But what if he persists in spite of this in making war?" said Milady. 

"If he persists? Why, then he must be got rid of. Some woman doubtlessexists, handsome, young, and clever, who has a grievance against theduke; and some fanatic can be found to be her instrument. "

"The woman exists, and the fanatic will be found, " returned Milady. "Andnow, will monseigneur permit me to speak of my enemies, as we havespoken of yours?"

"Your enemies? Who are they?" asked Richelieu. 

"First, there is a meddlesome little woman called Bonacieux. She was inprison at Nantes, but has been conveyed to a convent by an order whichthe queen obtained from the king. Will your eminence find out where thatconvent is?"

"I don't object to that. "

"Then I have a much more dangerous enemy than the little Bonacieux, andthat is her lover, the wretch D'Artagnan. I will get you a thousandproofs that he has conspired with Buckingham. "

"Very well; get me proof, and I will send him to the Bastille. "

For a few seconds there was silence while the cardinal was writing anote. 

Athos at once got up and told his companions he would go out to see ifthe road was safe, and left the house. 

The cardinal gave his final instructions to Milady, and departed withPorthos and Aramis. No sooner had they turned an angle of the road thanAthos re-entered the inn, marched boldly upstairs, and before he hadbeen seen, had bolted the door. 

Milady turned round, and became exceedingly white. 

"The Count de la Fère!" she said. 

"Yes, Milady, the Count de la Fère in person. You believed him dead, didyou not, as I believed you to be?"

"What do you want? Why do you come here?" said Milady in a hollow voice. 

"I have followed your actions, " said Athos sternly. "It was you who hadMadame Bonacieux carried off; it was you who sent assassins afterD'Artagnan, and poisoned his wine. Only to-night you have agreed toassassinate the Duke of Buckingham, and expect D'Artagnan to be slain inreturn. Now, I care nothing about the Duke of Buckingham; he is anEnglishman, but D'Artagnan is my friend. "

"M. D'Artagnan insulted me, " said Milady. 

"Is it possible to insult you?" said Athos. He drew out a pistol andcocked it. "Madame, you will instantly deliver to me the paper you havereceived from the cardinal; or, upon my soul, I will blow out yourbrains. "

Athos slowly raised his pistol until the weapon almost touched thewoman's forehead. Milady knew too well that with this terrible man deathwould certainly come unless she yielded. She drew the paper out of herbosom and handed it to Athos. "Take it, " she said, "and be accursed. "

Athos returned the pistol to his belt, unfolded the paper, and read:

 It is by my order, and for the good of the state, that the bearer of this has done what he has done. 

 Dec. 3rd, 1627. 

 RICHELIEU. 

Athos, without looking at the woman, left the inn, mounted his horse, and galloping across country, managed to get in front, on the road, before the cardinal had passed. 

For a second, Milady thought of pursuing the cardinal in order todenounce Athos; but unpleasant revelations might be made, and it seemedbest to carry out her mission in England, and then, when she hadsatisfied the cardinal, to claim her revenge. 

_IV. --The Doom of Milady_

Milady accomplished the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham atPortsmouth, and Richelieu was relieved of the fear of Englishintervention at La Rochelle. 

But the doom of Milady was at hand. 

The king, weary of the siege, had gone to spend a few days quietly atSt. Germains, taking for an escort only twenty of the musketeers, and atParis the four friends had obtained from M. De Treville a few days'leave of absence. 

Aramis had discovered the convent where Madame Bonacieux was confined;it was at Bethune, and thither the musketeers hastened. Unfortunately, Milady reached Bethune first. She had come there to await the cardinal'sorders, and having ingratiated herself with the abbess, learnt thatD'Artagnan was on his way with an order from the queen to take MadameBonacieux to Paris. Milady immediately dispatched a messenger to thecardinal, and at the very moment when the musketeers were at the frontentrance, she poured a powder into a glass of wine and bade MadameBonacieux drink. 

"It is not the way I meant to avenge myself, " said Milady, as shehastily left the convent by the back gate, "but, _ma foi_, we do what wemust!"

The deadly poison did its work. Constance Bonacieux expired inD'Artagnan's arms. 

Then the four musketeers, joined by Lord de Winter, who had arrived fromEngland in hot pursuit of Milady, his sister-in-law, set out to overtakethe woman who had wrought so much evil. 

They came up with Milady at a solitary house near the village ofErquinheim. 

The four servants of the musketeers guarded the house; Athos, D'Artagnan, Aramis, Porthos, and De Winter entered. 

"What do you want?" screamed Milady. 

"We want Charlotte Backson, first called Countess de la Fère, andafterwards Lady de Winter, " said Athos. "M. D'Artagnan, it is for you toaccuse her first. "

"I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, and ofhaving attempted to poison me, and I accuse her of having engagedassassins to shoot me, " said D'Artagnan. 

"I accuse this woman of having procured the assassination of the Duke ofBuckingham, " said Lord de Winter. "Moreover, my brother, who made herhis heiress, died suddenly of a strange disease. "

"I married this woman and gave her my name and wealth, and foundafterwards she was branded as a felon, " said Athos. 

The musketeers and Lord de Winter passed sentence of death upon themiserable woman. 

She was taken out to the river bank, and beheaded, and her body droppedinto the middle of the stream. 

"Let the justice of Heaven be done!" they cried in a loud voice. 

Within three days the musketeers were back in Paris, ready to returnwith the king to La Rochelle. Then the cardinal summoned D'Artagnan tohis presence. 

"You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of France, with having surprised state secrets, and with having attempted to thwartthe plans of your general, " said the cardinal. 

"The woman who charges me--a branded felon--Milady de Winter, is dead, "replied D'Artagnan. 

"Dead!" exclaimed the cardinal. "Dead!"

"We have tried her and condemned her, " said D'Artagnan. Then he told thecardinal of the poisoning of Madame Bonacieux, and of the subsequenttrial and execution. 

The cardinal shuddered before he answered quietly, "You will be triedand condemned. "

"Monseigneur, " said D'Artagnan, "though I have the pardon in my pocket Iam willing to die. "

"What pardon?" said the cardinal, in astonishment. "From the king?"

"No, a pardon signed by your eminence. " D'Artagnan produced the preciouspaper which Athos had forced Milady to give him before her journey toEngland. 

For a time the cardinal sat looking at the paper before him. Then heslowly tore it up. 

"Now I am lost. " thought D'Artagnan. "But he shall see how a gentlemancan die. "

The cardinal went to a table, and wrote a few lines on a parchment. 

"Here, monsieur, " he said; "I have taken away from you one paper; I giveyou another. Only the name is wanting in this commission, and you mustfill that up. "

D'Artagnan took the document with hesitation. He looked at it, saw itwas a lieutenant's commission in the musketeers, and fell at thecardinal's feet. 

"Monseigneur, my life is yours. Dispose of it as you will. But I do notdeserve this. I have three friends, all more worthy----"

The cardinal interrupted him. 

"You are a brave young man, D'Artagnan. Fill up this commission as youwill. "

D'Artagnan sought out his friends, and offered the commission to them inturn. 

But each declined, and Athos filled in the name of D'Artagnan on thecommission. 

"I shall soon have no more friends. Nothing but bitter recollections!"said D'Artagnan, thinking of Madame Bonacieux. 

"You are young yet, " Athos answered. "In time these bitter recollectionswill give way to sweet remembrances. "

 * * * * *

Twenty Years After

 In this first-rate romance, which is a sequel to "The Three Musketeers, " and was published in 1845, we have D'Artagnan and the three musketeers in the prime of middle life. Their efforts on behalf of Charles I. Are amazing, worthy of anything done when they were twenty years younger. All the characters introduced are for the most part historical, and they are all drawn with spirit, so that our interest in them never flags. A remarkable point in regard to these historical romances of Dumas is that, in spite of their enormous length, no superfluous dialogue or long descriptions prolong them. Dumas took considerable liberties with the facts of history in several places, as, for instance, in the introduction of D'Artagnan and his friends to Charles I. , and in making his trial and execution follow as quickly on his surrender as we are made to believe in "Twenty Years After. " The story is further continued in "The Vicomte de Bragelonne. "

_I. --The Parsimony of Mazarin_

The great Richelieu was dead, and his successor, Cardinal Mazarin, acunning and parsimonious Italian, was chief minister of France. Paris, torn and distracted by civil dissension, and impoverished by heavytaxation, was seething with revolt, and Mazarin was the object ofpopular hatred, Anne of Austria, the queen-mother (for Louis XIV. Wasbut a child), sharing his disfavour with the people. 

It was under these circumstances that the queen recalled how faithfullyD'Artagnan had once served her, and reminded Mazarin of that gallantofficer, and of his three friends. Mazarin sent for D'Artagnan, who fortwenty years had remained a lieutenant of musketeers, and asked him whathad become of his friends. 

"I want you and your three friends to be of use to me, " said thecardinal. "Where are your friends?"

"I do not know, my lord. We parted company long ago; all three have leftthe service. "

"Where can you find them, then?"

"I can find them wherever they are. It would be my business. "

"And what are the conditions for finding them?"

"Money, my lord; as much money as the undertaking may require. Travelling is dear, and I am only a poor lieutenant in the musketeers. "

"You will be at my service when they are found?" asked Mazarin. 

"What are we to do?"

"Don't trouble about that. When the time for action arrives you shalllearn all that I require of you. Wait till that comes, and find outwhere your friends are. "

Mazarin gave D'Artagnan a bag of money, and the latter withdrew, todiscover in the courtyard that the bag contained silver and not gold. 

"Crown pieces only, silver!" exclaimed D'Artagnan; "I guessed as much. Ah, Mazarin, Mazarin, you have no real confidence in me. So much theworse for you!"

But the cardinal was rubbing his hands, and congratulating himself thathe had discovered a secret for a tenth of the coin Richelieu would havespent on the matter. 

D'Artagnan first sought for Aramis, who was now an abbé, and lived in aconvent and wrote sermons. But the heart of Aramis was not in religion, and when D'Artagnan found him, and the two had sat talking for sometime, D'Artagnan said, "My friend, it seems to me that when you were amusketeer you were always thinking of the Church, and now that you arean abbé you are always longing to be a musketeer. "

"It's true, " said Aramis. "Man is a strange bundle of inconsistencies. Since I became an abbé I dream of nothing but battles, and I practiseshooting all day long here with an excellent master. "

Aramis indeed had both retained his swordsmanship and his interest inpublic affairs. But when D'Artagnan mentioned Mazarin, and the seriouscrisis in the state, Aramis declared that Mazarin was an upstart withonly the queen on his side; and that the young king, the nobles, andprinces, were all against him. Aramis was already on the side ofMazarin's enemies. He could not pledge himself to anyone, and the twoseparated. 

D'Artagnan went on to find Porthos, whose address he had learnt fromAramis. Porthos, who now called himself De Valon after the name of hisestate, lived at ease as a country gentleman should; he was a widowerand wealthy, but he was mortified because his neighbours were of ancientfamily and ignored him. He received D'Artagnan with open arms, and whenat breakfast he confessed his weariness, D'Artagnan at once invited himto join him again and promised that he would get a barony for hisservices. 

"Go into harness again!" cried D'Artagnan. "Gird on your sword, and wina coronet. You want a title; I want money; the cardinal wants our help. "

"For my part, " said the gigantic Porthos, "I certainly want to be made abaron. "

They talked of Athos, who lived on his estate at Bragelonne, and was nowthe Count de la Fère. And Porthos mentioned that Athos had an adoptedson. 

"If we can get Athos, all will be well, " said D'Artagnan. "If we cannot, we must do without him. We two are worth a dozen. "

"Yes, " said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of their old exploits;"but we four would be equal to thirty-six. "

"I have your word, then?" said D'Artagnan. 

"Yes. I will fight heart and soul for the cardinal; but--but he mustmake me a baron. "

"Oh, that's settled already!" said D'Artagnan. "I'll answer for yourbarony. "

With that he had his horse saddled, and rode on to the castle ofBragelonne. Athos was visibly moved at the sight of D'Artagnan, andrushed towards him and clasped him in his arms. D'Artagnan, equallymoved, held him closely, while tears stood in his eyes. Athos seemedscarcely aged at all, in spite of his eight-and-forty years; but therewas a greater dignity about his face. Formerly, too, he had been a heavydrinker, but now no signs of excess disturbed the calm serenity of hiscountenance. The presence of his son, whom he called Raoul--a boy offifteen--seemed to explain to D'Artagnan the regenerated existence ofAthos. 

Deeply as the heart of Athos was stirred at meeting his oldcomrade-in-arms, and sincere as his attachment was to D'Artagnan, theCount de la Fère would have nothing to do with any plan for helpingMazarin. 

D'Artagnan returned alone to await Porthos in Paris. The same nightAthos and his son also left for Paris. 

_II. --The Four Set Out for England_

Queen Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV. Of France and wife ofKing Charles I. , was lodged in the Louvre, while her husband lost hiscrown in the civil war. The queen had appealed to Mazarin either to sendassistance to Charles I. , or to receive him in France, and the cardinalhad declined both propositions. Then it was that an Englishman, Lord deWinter, who had come to Paris to get help, appealed to Athos, whom hehad known twenty years earlier, to come to England and fight for theking. 

Athos and Aramis at once responded, and waited on the queen, whoreceived them in the large empty rooms--left unfurnished by the avariceof the cardinal--allotted to her in the Louvre. 

"Gentlemen, " said the queen, "a few years ago I had around me knights, treasure, and armies. To-day look around, and know that in order toaccomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have only Lord deWinter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom I see forthe first time, and whom I know but as my countrymen. "

"It is enough, " said Athos, bowing low, "if the life of three men canpurchase yours, madame. "

"I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me. My husband, King of England, isleading so wretched a life that death would be a welcome exchange forhim. He has asked for the hospitality of France, and it has been refusedhim. "

"What is to be done?" said Athos. "I have the honour to inquire fromyour majesty what you desire Monsieur D'Herblay (as Aramis was named)and myself to do in your service. We are ready. "

"I, madame, " said Aramis, "follow M. De la Fère wherever he leads, evento death, without demanding any reason; but when it concerns yourmajesty's service, no one precedes me. "

"Well, then, gentlemen, " said the queen, "since it is thus, and sinceyou are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princesswhom everybody has forsaken, this is what must be done for me. The kingis alone with a few gentlemen whom he may lose any day, and he issurrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to ask it. Go to England, join the king, behis friends, his bodyguard; be with him on the field of battle and inhis house. Gentlemen, in exchange I can only promise you my love; nextto my husband and my children, and before everyone else, you will havemy prayers and a sister's love. "

"Madame, " said Athos, "when must we set out? we are ready!"

The queen, moved to tears, held out her hand, which they kissed, andthen, after receiving letters for the king, they withdrew. 

"Well, " said Aramis, when they were alone, "what do you think of thisbusiness, my dear count?"

"Bad!" replied Athos. "Very bad!"

"But you entered on it with enthusiasm. "

"As I shall ever do when a great principle is to be defended. Kings areonly strong by the aid of the aristocracy; but aristocracy cannot existwithout kings. Let us then support monarchy in order to supportourselves. "

"We shall be murdered there, " said Aramis. "I hate the English--they areso coarse, like all people who drink beer. "

"Would it be better to remain here?" said Athos. "And take a turn in theBastille, by the cardinal's order? Believe me, Aramis, there is littleleft to regret. We avoid imprisonment, and we take the part of heroes--the choice is easy!"

While Athos and Aramis were preparing to go to England on behalf of theking, Mazarin had decided to employ D'Artagnan and Porthos as his envoysto Oliver Cromwell. 

"Monsieur D'Artagnan, " said the cardinal, "do you wish to become acaptain?"

"Yes, my lord. "

"Your friend wishes to be made a baron?"

"At this very moment, my lord, he's dreaming that he is one. "

"Then, " said Mazarin, "take this dispatch, carry it to England, and whenyou get to London, tear off the outer envelope. "

"And on our return, may we, my friend and I, rely on getting ourpromotion--he his barony, I my captaincy?"

"On the honour of Mazarin, yes. "

"I would rather have another sort of oath than that, " said D'Artagnan tohimself as he went out. 

Just as they were leaving Paris, a letter came from Athos, who hadalready gone. 

"Dear D'Artagnan, dear Porthos, --My friends, perhaps this is the lasttime you will hear from me. I entrust certain papers which are atBragelonne to your keeping; if in three months you do not hear of me, take possession of them. May God and the remembrance of our friendshipsupport you always. --Your devoted friend, Athos. "

_III. --In England_

Athos and Aramis were with Charles I. At Newcastle. The king had beensold by the Scotch to the English Parliament, and on the approach ofCromwell's army the king's troops refused to fight. Only fifteen menstood round the king when Cromwell's cavalry came charging down. Lord deWinter was shot dead by his own nephew, who was in Cromwell's army. 

"Come, Aramis, now for the honour of France, " said Athos, and the twoEnglishmen who were nearest to them fell mortally wounded. 

At the same instant a tremendous shout filled the air, and thirty swordsflashed before them. Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, wound his muscular arms round him, and tearing hissword from him, said in his ear, "Silence! Yield--you yield to me, don'tyou?"

A giant from the English ranks at the same moment seized Aramis by thewrists, who struggled in vain to get free. 

"I yield myself prisoner, " said Aramis, giving up his sword to Porthos. 

"D'Art----" exclaimed Athos; but the musketeer covered his mouth withhis hand. 

The ranks opened. D'Artagnan held the bridle of Athos' horse, andPorthos that of Aramis, and they led their prisoners off the field. 

"We are all four lost if you give the least sign you know us, " saidD'Artagnan. 

"The king--where is the king?" Athos exclaimed anxiously. 

"Ah! We have got him!"

"Yes, " said Aramis; "through a base act of treachery!"

Porthos pressed his friend's hand, and answered, "Yes; all is fair inwar--stratagem as well as force. Look yonder!"

The squadron, which ought to have protected the king, was advancing tomeet the English regiments. 

The king, who was entirely surrounded, walked alone on foot. He caughtsight of Athos and Aramis, and greeted them. 

"Farewell, messieurs. The day has been unfortunate, but it is not yourfault, thank God! But where is my old friend Winter?"

"Look for him with Strafford, " said a voice. 

Charles shuddered. He saw a corpse at his feet. It was Winter's. 

That hour messengers were sent off in every direction over England andEurope to announce that Charles Stuart was now the prisoner of OliverCromwell. D'Artagnan not only accomplished the release of the prisoners, he also joined with his friends in a bold attempt to rescue Charles fromhis captors. 

D'Artagnan at first naturally assumed they would all four return toFrance as quickly as possible; but Athos declared that he could notabandon the king, and still meant to save him if it were possible. 

"But what can you do in a foreign land; in an enemy's country?" saidD'Artagnan. "Did you promise the queen to storm the Tower of London?Come, Porthos, what do you think of this business?"

"Nothing good, " said Porthos. 

"Friend, " said Athos, "our minds are made up! Ah, if we had you with us!With you, D'Artagnan, and you, Porthos--all four, and reunited for thefirst time for twenty years--we would dare, not only England but thethree kingdoms together!"

"Very well, " cried D'Artagnan furiously, "very well, since you wish it, let us leave our bones in this horrible land, where it is always cold, where the fine weather comes after a fog, and the fog after rain; intruth, whether we die here or elsewhere matters little, since we mustdie sooner or later. "

"But your future career, D'Artagnan? Your ambition, Porthos?" saidAthos. 

"Our future, our ambition!" replied D'Artagnan bitterly. "What do weneed to think of that for, if we are to save the king? The king saved, we shall assemble our friends together, reconquer England, and place himsecurely on the throne. "

"And he shall make us dukes and peers, " said Porthos joyfully at thischeerful prospect. 

"Or he will forget us, " added D'Artagnan. 

"Then, " said Athos, offering his hand to D'Artagnan, "I swear to you, myfriend, by the God who hears us, I believe there is a power watchingover us, and I look forward to our all meeting in France again. "

"So be it!" said D'Artagnan; "but I confess I have quite a contraryconviction. However, 'tis settled; but I stay in England only on onecondition, that I don't have to learn the language. "

The attempt to rescue Charles from his guards on the way to London wasonly frustrated by the sudden arrival of General Harrison, with a largebody of soldiers, and D'Artagnan and his friends made their escape by ahasty flight, and followed to London. 

"We must see this tragedy played out to the end, " said Athos. "Do notlet us leave England while any hope remains. "

And the others agreed. 

_IV. --At Whitehall_

The intrepid four were present at the trial of Charles I. , and it wasthe voice of Athos that called out, "You lie!" when the prosecutordeclared that the accusation against the king was put forward by theEnglish people. 

Fortunately, D'Artagnan managed to get Athos out of the court quickly, and then, followed by Porthos and Aramis, they mingled in the crowdoutside undetected. 

Sentence having been pronounced against the king, the only thing to bedone by the four was to get rid of the London executioner; this meant atleast a few days delay while another executioner was being procured. D'Artagnan undertook this difficult task, while Aramis was to personateBishop Juxon, the royal chaplain, and explain to Charles the attemptbeing made to save him. Athos engaged to get everything ready forleaving England. 

On the very night before the execution Aramis brought the king a messagefrom D'Artagnan, "Tell the king that to-morrow, at ten o'clock at night, we shall carry him off. " Aramis added, "He has said it, and he will doit. "

The scaffold was already being constructed in Whitehall as he spoke, butD'Artagnan had the London executioner fast bound under lock and key in acellar, and Athos had a light skiff waiting at Greenwich. Not only this, but at midnight these four wonderful men, thanks to Athos, who spokeexcellent English, were also at work at the scaffold--having bribed thecarpenter in charge to let them assist--and at the same time boring ahole in the wall. The scaffold, which had two lower stories, and wascovered with black serge, was at the height of twenty feet, on a levelwith the window in the king's room; and the hole communicated with anarrow loft, between the floor of the king's room, and the ceiling ofthe one below it. 

The plan was to pass through the hole into the loft, and cut out frombelow a piece of the flooring of the king's room, so as to form a kindof trap-door. The king was to escape through this on the followingnight, and, hidden by the black covering of the scaffold, was then tochange his dress for that of a workman, and so pass the sentinels onduty, and reach the skiff that was waiting for him at Greenwich. 

At nine o'clock in the morning Aramis, this time in attendance on BishopJuxon, was once more in the king's room. 

"Sire, " he said, "you are saved! The London executioner has vanished, and there is no executioner nearer at hand than Bristol. The Count de laFère is two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace, andstrike three times on the floor. He will answer you. He has the pathready for your majesty to escape by. "

The king did as Aramis suggested, and in reply came three dull knocksfrom below. 

"The Count de la Fère, " said Aramis. 

All was ready; nothing as far as D'Artagnan and Athos could see, hadbeen overlooked; twenty-four hours hence would see the king beyond thereach of his adversaries. 

And then just as Charles had satisfied himself that his life was saved, a Parliamentary officer and a file of soldiers entered the king's roomto announce his immediate execution. 

"Then it is for to-day?" asked the king. 

"Were not you warned that it was to take place this morning?"

"Then I must die like a common criminal by the hand of the Londonexecutioner?"

"The London executioner has disappeared, but a man has offered hisservices instead. The execution will, therefore, take place at theappointed hour. "

A fanatical Puritan, nephew of Lord de Winter--whom he slew atNewcastle--and a trusted lieutenant of Cromwell's did the work of theheadsman, and upon Athos, waiting in concealment beneath the scaffold, fell drops of the king's blood. 

When all was over the four hastened away in deep dejection to the skiffat Greenwich, and so to France. But when they had landed at Dunkirk itwas plain to D'Artagnan that their troubles were not yet at an end. 

"Porthos and I were sent by Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell;instead of fighting for Cromwell, we have served Charles I. ; that's notthe same thing at all. "

However, D'Artagnan and Porthos, on their return to Paris, rendered suchsignal service to Mazarin and to the queen, by guarding them from theviolence of the mob, and by quelling a riot, that D'Artagnan receivedhis commission as captain of musketeers, and Porthos his barony. 

The four old friends met once more in Paris before they separated. Aramis was returning to his convent, Athos and Porthos to their estates. As war had just broken out in Flanders, D'Artagnan made ready to gothither. 

Then all four embraced, with tears in their eyes. And after that theydeparted on their various ways, not knowing whether they were ever tosee each other again.