The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bed-Book of Happiness, by Harold Begbie

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The Bed-Book of Happiness

Author: Harold Begbie

Release Date: September 14, 2004 [EBook #13457]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BED-BOOK OF HAPPINESS ***




Produced by Paul Murray, Gene Smethers and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.








"A GATHERING OF HAPPINESS, A CONCENTRATION AND COMBINATION OF PLEASANT
DETAILS, A THRONG OF GLAD FACES, A MUSTER OF ELATED HEARTS."

_CHARLOTTE BRONTË_




THE BED-BOOK OF HAPPINESS


Being a Colligation or Assemblage of Cheerful Writings brought together
from many quarters into this one compass for the diversion, distraction,
and delight of those who lie abed,--a friend to the invalid, a companion
to the sleepless, an excuse to the tired, by

HAROLD BEGBIE



HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO




PRINTED IN 1914 BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY.




_to_

_SIR JESSE BOOT_

  _If, in my pages, those who suffer find
  Such cheer as warms your heart and lights your mind,
  Glad shall I be, but gladder, prouder too,
  If this my book become a friend like you_.




_RONDEL_

  _BESIDE YOUR BED I COME TO STAY
  WITH MAGIC MORE THAN HUMAN SKILL,
  MY PAGES RUN TO DO YOUR WILL,
  MY COVERS KEEP YOUR CARES AWAY.

  THE NURSE ARRIVES WITH LADEN TRAY,
  THE DOCTOR CANCELS DRAUGHT AND PILL;
  BESIDE YOUR BED I COME TO STAY
  WITH MAGIC MORE THAN HUMAN SKILL.

  AND YOU THRO' FAERY LANDS WILL STRAY,
  AT LAUGHTER'S FOUNTAIN DRINK YOUR FILL,
  FOR THO' YOUR BODY CRY "I'M ILL!"
  YOUR MIND WILL DANCE FROM NIGHT TO DAY.
  BESIDE YOUR BED I COME TO STAY
  WITH MAGIC MORE THAN HUMAN SKILL_.




THE RENDERING OF THANKS

To Mr. Austin Dobson and his publishers, Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench,
Trübner & Co., Ltd.

To Mr. R.A. Streatfeild, Mr. Henry Festing Jones, and Mr. A.C. Fifield,
the publisher, for permission to make use of "The Note Books of Samuel
Butler."

To Mr. W. Aldis Wright and Messrs. Macmillan for my quotations from "The
Letters of Edward FitzGerald."

To Mr. E.I. Carlyle, author of "The Life of William Cobbett."

To Sir Herbert Stephen and Messrs. Bowes & Bowes of Cambridge for
permission to include verses from the "Lapsus Calami" of J.K. Stephen.

To Mrs. Hole, Mr. G.A.B. Dewar, and Messrs. George Allen & Co., for my
quotations from Mr. Dewar's "The Letters of Samuel Reynolds Hole."

To Messrs. Chatto & Windus for my extracts from the Works of Mark Twain.

To Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons for permission to make a quotation from "Mrs.
Brookfield and her Circle."

To Messrs. Constable & Co. for my raid on the "Letters of T.E. Brown."

To Messrs. George Bell & Son for the verses taken from C.S. Calverley's
"Fly Leaves."

To Mr. E.V. Lucas, prince of anthologists, for the liberal use I have
made of his "Life of Charles Lamb."

To Mr. G.K. Chesterton, and his publishers, Messrs. Methuen, Mr.
Duckworth, Mr. J.M. Dent, and Mr. John Lane.

To Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. (_the owners of the copyright_) for
permission to include letters of Thackeray to Mrs. Brookfield.

To Messrs. Gibbings & Co. for my extracts from the admirable translation
of Sainte-Beuve.

And to all authors, living and dead, who have assembled in this place to
entertain the sick and the weary.

H.B.




FOREWORD

"It is worth," said Dr. Johnson, "a thousand pounds a year to have the
habit of looking on the bright side of things."

It is worth more than all money to have the capacity, the power, the
will to see the bright side of things, to possess the assurance that
there is a veritable and persisting bright side of things, when the mind
is gloomed by physical weakness and the heart is conscious only of
languor and distress. At such a dull time even a long-established habit
may desert us; with our faculties clouded and obscured we are tempted to
doubt the entire philosophy of our former life; we sink down into the
sheets of discomfort, and roll our heads restlessly on the pillow of
discontent; we almost extract a morbid satisfaction from the fuliginous
surrenderings of pessimism. Mrs. Gummidge at our bedside might be as
unwelcome as Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, or Zophar the
Naamathite; but there is a Widow in the soul of all men as mournful and
lugubrious as the tearful sister of Mr. Peggotty, and in our weakness it
is often this dismal self-comforter we are disposed to summon to our
aid. "My soul is weary of my life," cried Job; "I will leave my
complaint upon myself; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul."

Now, there is not a wise doctor in the world, nor any man who truly
knows himself, but will acknowledge and confess the enormous importance
to physical recovery of mental well-being. The thing has become
platitudinous, but remains as difficult as ever. If Christian Science on
its physiological side had been an easy matter it would long ago have
converted the world. The trouble is that obvious things are not always
easy. It is obvious to the victim of alcoholic or nicotine poisoning
that he would be infinitely better in health could he abjure alcohol or
tobacco; he does not need to be philosophised or theologised into this
conviction; he knows it better than his teachers. His necessity is a
superadded force to the will within his soul which has lost the power of
action. And so with the will of the sick person, who knows very well
that if he could rid himself of dejection and heaviness his health would
come back to him on swallows' wings. Obvious, palpable, more certain
than to-morrow's sun; but how difficult, how hard, nay, sometimes how
impossible! An honest man like Father Tyrrell confesses that in certain
bouts with the flesh faith may desert us, even the religious faith of a
life-time may fall in ruins round our naked soul.

I was once speaking on this subject to Sir Jesse Boot, telling him how
hard I had found it to amuse and distract the mind of one of my children
in the extreme weakness which fell upon her after an operation. I told
him that I had searched my book-shelves for stories, histories,
anthologies, and journeyings; that I had carried to the bedside piles of
books which I thought the most suitable; and that I had read from these
books day after day, succeeding for some few minutes at a time to
interest the sick child, but ending almost in every case with failure
and defeat. I found that humour could bore, that narrative could
irritate, that essays could worry and perplex, that poetry could
depress, and that wit could tease with its cleverness. Moreover, I found
that one could not go straight to any anthology in existence without
coming unexpectedly, and before one was aware of it, upon some passage
so mournful or sad or pathetic that it undid at a sentence all the good
which had been done by luckier reading. My friend, who is himself a
great reader, and who has borne for some years a heavy burden of
infirmity, agreed that cheerful reading is of immense help in sickness
and also confessed that it is difficult to find any one book which
ministers to a mind weakened by illness or tortured by insomnia.

The present volume is the outcome of that conversation. I determined to
compile a book which from the first page to the last should be a happy
book, a book which would come to be a friend of all those who share in
any way the sickness of the world, a book to which everybody could go
with the sure knowledge that they would find there nothing to depress,
nothing to exacerbate irritable nerves, nothing to confirm the mind in
dejection. And on its positive side I said that this book should be
diverse and changeful in its happiness. I planned that while
cheerfulness should be its soul, the expression of that cheerfulness
should avoid monotony with as great an energy as the book itself avoided
depression. My theory was a book whose pages should resemble rather an
_olla podrida_ of variety than a tautological joint of monotonous
nutriment. And I sought to fill my wallet rather from the crumbs let
fall by the happy feasters than from the too familiar table of the great
masters.

"To muse, to dream, to conceive of fine works, is a delightful
occupation." But one must go from conception to execution, crossing the
gulf that separates "these two hemispheres of Art." "The man," says
Balzac, "who can but sketch his purpose beforehand in words is regarded
as a wonder, and every artist and writer possesses that faculty. But
gestation, fruition, the laborious rearing of the offspring, putting it
to bed every night full fed with milk, embracing it anew every morning
with the inexhaustible affection of a mother's heart, licking it clean,
dressing it a hundred times in the richest garb only to be instantly
destroyed; then never to be cast down at the convulsions of this
headlong life till the living masterpiece is perfected which in
sculpture speaks to every eye, in literature to every intellect, in
painting to every memory, in music to every heart!--this is the task of
execution."

Even the compiler knows something of this passion of the artist,
experiences some at least of the convulsions of this headlong life,
makes acquaintance certainly with this task of execution. To conceive
such a volume as a Bed-Book of Happiness is one matter, to make it in
very fact a Bed-Book of Happiness is another and a much harder matter.
For, to begin with, one's judgment is not nearly so free and one's field
of selection not nearly so wide as the anthologist's whose book is for
all sorts and conditions of men, who may be as merry as he wishes on one
page, as solemn as he chooses on the next, and as pathetic or
sentimental as he likes on the page beyond. One has had to reject, for
instance, humour that is too boisterous or noisy, wit that is too
stinging and acrimonious, anecdotes that are touched with cruelty,
essays that, otherwise cheerful, deviate into the shadows of a too
sombre reflection. One has sought to compile a book of cheerfulness that
is kind and of happiness that is quiet and composed. One has had always
in mind the invalid just able to bear the effort of listening to a
melodious voice. To amuse, to distract, to divert, and above all to
charm--to bring a smile to the mind rather than laughter to the
lips--has been the guiding principle of this book, and the task has not
been easy. It is really extraordinary, to give but one instance of my
difficulties, how frequently the most amusing work of comic writers is
ruined by some chuckling jests about coffins, undertakers, or graves. If
any reader in full health miss from this throng of glad faces, this
muster of elated hearts, the most amusing and delightful of his familiar
friends, let him ask himself, before he pass judgment on the
anthologist, before he mistake a deliberate omission for a careless
forgetfulness, whether those good friends of his, amiable and welcome
enough at the dinner-table, are the companions he would choose for his
most wearisome hours or for the bedside of his sick child. And if in
these pages another should find that which neither amuses nor diverts
his mind, that which seems to him to miss the magic and to lack the
charm of happiness, let him pass on, with as much charity as he can
spare for the anthologist, remembering the proverb of Terence and
counting himself an infinitely happier man for this clear proof of his
superior judgment.

I wished to include in this book, from the literature of other
countries, such gentle, whimsical humour as one finds in the letters of
FitzGerald or the Essays of Lamb. But, with all my searching I could
find nothing of that kind, and judges whom I can trust assure me that no
other literature has the exquisite note of happiness which sounds
through English letters so quietly, so cheerfully, and so contentedly.
Therefore my Bed-Book is almost entirely an English Bed-Book, for I
liked not the biting acid of Voltaire's epigrams any more than the
rollicking and disgustful coarseness of Boccaccio or Rabelais. It is an
interesting reflection, if it be true, that English literature is _par
excellence_ the literature of Happiness.

"He who puts forth one depressing thought," says Lady Rachel Howard,
"aids Satan in his work of torment. He who puts forth one cheering
thought aids God in His work of beneficence." I have acted in the faith
that life is essentially good, that the universe presents to the natural
intuition of man a bright and glorious expression of Divine happiness,
that to be fruitful, as George Sand has it, life must be felt as a
blessing. One of the characters in a novel by Dostöevsky says, "Men are
made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to
say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all
the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy."

Happiness, in its truest and only lasting sense, is the condition of a
soul at unity with itself and in harmony with existence. To bring the
sick and the sad and the unhappy at least some way on the road to this
blissful state, is the purpose of my book; and it leaves me on its
travel round the world with the wish that to whatever bedside of
sickness, suffering, and lethargy it may come, it may bring with it the
magic and contagious joy of those rare and gracious people whose
longed-for visits to an invalid are like draughts of rejoicing health. I
hope that my fine covers may soon be worn to the comfort of an old
garment, that my new pages may be quickly shabbied to the endearment of
a familiar face, and that the book will live at bedsides deepening and
sweetening the reader's affection for its faded leaves till it come to
seem an old, faithful, and never-failing friend, one who is never at
fault and never a deserter, and without whom life would lose one of its
fondest companionships.




CONTENTS

  ALLSTON, WASHINGTON:
       The Lost Ornament                            191

  ANONYMOUS:
       The Gentle Reader                             14
       King David and the Gardener                  198
       Sabbath Bells                                275
       From the Greek Anthology                     313
       Letter from an Indian Gentleman to an
         English Friend                             324
       A Babu Letter                                327
       Mary Powell                                  341
       A Tur'ble Chap                               374
       After Mr. Masefield                          384
       Hits and Misses                              443
       The Broken Window                            443

  BAGEHOT, WALTER:
       Letters                                      212

  BALMANNO, MRS.:
       Charles and his Sister                       193

  BETHAM, M.M.:
       Miss Pate                                    190

  BOSWELL:
       Dr. Johnson at Court                         346

  BROOKFIELD, W.H.:
       Mr. Brookfield in his Youth                  376

  BROWN, T.E.:
       Letters of T.E. Brown                         85

  BUTLER, SAMUEL:
       Clergyman and Chickens                        15
       Melchisedec                                   15
       Eating and Proselytising                      15
       Sea-sickness                                  17
       Assimilation and Persecution                  17
       Night-shirts and Babies                       17
       Does Mamma Know?                              18
       Croesus and his Kitchen-maid                  19
       Adam and Eve                                  24
       Fire                                          24
       The Electric Light in its Infancy             25
       New-laid Eggs                                 25
       Snapshotting a Bishop                         26

  BYRON:
       Apples                                       359

  CALVERLEY, CHARLES:
       Visions                                       99
       The Schoolmaster Abroad with his Son         174
       Motherhood                                   257
       "Forever"                                    337

  CARLYLE:
       Richter                                        1

  CARROLL, LEWIS:
       The Author of "Alice"                        378

  CHESTERTON, G.K.:
       The Wisdom of G.K.C.                         140

  COBBETT, WILLIAM:
       His Marriage                                 230
       Life at Botley                               233
       His Children                                 237

  DAUDET, ALPHONSE:

       Tartarin de Tarascon                         176

  DICKENS, CHARLES:
       Shy Neighbourhoods                            70
       The Calais Night-boat                        200
       Mr. Testator                                 329

  DOBSON, AUSTIN:
       The Secrets of the Heart                      34
       To "Lydia Languish"                          137
       The Cap that Fits                            240
       A Garden Idyll                               286
       Love in Winter                               353
       From the Ballad à-la-Mode                    417

  FITZGERALD, EDWARD:
       Letters of Fitz                              127

  GASKELL, MRS.:
       Cranford                                     291

  GRONOW, CAPTAIN:
       Sir John Waters                               47
       Lord Westmoreland                             51
       Colonel Kelly and his Blacking                52
       John Kemble                                   53
       Rogers and Luttrell                           54
       The Pig-faced Lady                            57
       Hoby, the Bootmaker, of St. James's Street    58
       Harrington House and Lord Petersham           60
       Lord Alvanley                                 61
       Sally Lunn                                    66
       "Monk" Lewis                                  67

  HAYDON, B.R.:
       Haydon's Immortal Night                      181

  H.B.:
       Miss Stipp of Plover's Court                 385
       Two Old Gentlemen                            424

  HAZLITT:
       Persons one would wish to have seen          180
       Hobson's Choice                              279
       Wit and Laughter                             351

  HOLE, DEAN:
       "The Vulgar Tongue"                          146
       The Happy Dean                               249

  HOOD:
       The Carelesse Nurse Mayd                      69
       "Please to Ring the Belle"                   248
       Sally Simpkin's Lament; or John Jones's
         Kit-cat-astrophe                           307
       "Love, with a Witness!"                      328
       Ode to Peace                                 404

  INGOLDSBY:
       Hints for an Historical Play; to be called
         William Rufus; or, the Red Rover           122
       The Tragedy                                  214
       New-made Honour                              312

  J.B.:
       Elia's Tail                                  192

  JOHNSON, SAMUEL:
       Music                                        402
       Neatness in Excess                           402
       A Young Lady's "Needs"                       403
       "Irene"                                      403

  JONSON, BEN:
       The Woodcraft of Jonson                      253

  KEATS:
       To his Brother                               186

  LAMB, CHARLES:
       "Sixpenny Jokes"                             185
       Lamb's Task                                  186
       In a Coach                                   197

  LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE:
       Landorisms                                   350

  LEIGH, HENRY S.:
       Where--and oh! Where?                         33
       The Answer of Lady Clara Vere de Vere        252

  LEWES, G.H.:
       Goethe's Mother                               28

  MACAULAY, LORD:
       "Boswell and Johnson"                        102
       Macaulay's Wit                               290

  MERIVALE, CHARLES:
       From the Greek Anthology                     313

  MONTAIGNE:
       Odours and Moustaches                        415

  PERCY ANECDOTES:
       The Great Condé                                2
       A Classical Ass                                3
       Memory                                         4
       "Come in Here"                                 4
       A Pope Innocent                                5
       A Good Paraphrase                              5
       Irish Priest                                   6
       A Digression                                   7
       Fortune-teller                                 7
       Gasconades                                     8
       Tribute to Beauty                              8
       Begging Quarter                                9
       Gascon Reproved                                9
       Absent Man                                    11
       Pride                                         12
       Witty Coward                                  12
       Valuing Beauty                                12
       Pro Aris et Focis                             14

  PRIOR, MATTHEW:
       Epigrams                                     345

  RELIGIO MEDICI:
       The Happiness of Sir Thomas Browne           244

  RICHTER:
       Theisse                                        1
       Broken Studies                                 1

  ROBINSON, CRABB:
       Your Hat, Sir                                191

  SAINTE-BEUVE:
       The Charming Frenchman: Bossuet, Rousseau,
         Joubert, Mme D'Houdetot, Mme de
         Rémusat, Diderot, La Bruyère               269

  SELDEN, JOHN:
       Table-talk of John Selden                    309

  SMITH, ALEXANDER:
       Dreamthorp                                   418

  SMITH, SYDNEY:
       A Little Moral Advice                        360
       Mrs. Partington                              363

  STEPHEN, J.K.:
       In a Visitor's Book                          126
       A Sonnet                                     345

  STERNE:
       The Supper                                   118
       The Grace                                    120
       Uncle Toby and the Fly                       277

  STOW:
       Old London Sports                            314

  THACKERAY:
       Letters from Thackeray                       406

  THOMSON, MISS E.G.:
       Lewis Carroll                                380

  THOREAU:
       Open Air                                     339

  TWAIN, MARK:
       British Festivities                           38
       Mark's Baby                                  139
       Enigma                                       243
       The Jumping Frog                             259
       How Mark was Sold                            310
       A Newspaper Paragraph                        335
       Mental Photographs                           354
       How Mark edited an Agricultural Paper        365

  WALPOLE, HORACE:
       Chatter of a Dilettante                      221

  WALTON, IZAAK:
       Angling Cheer                                356

  WELLESLEY:
       From the Greek Anthology (altered)           313

  WIT ON OCCASION                                   444





THE BED-BOOK OF HAPPINESS


THEISSE
[Sidenote: _Richter_]

In his seventy-second year his face is a thanksgiving for his former
life, and a love-letter to all mankind.


RICHTER
[Sidenote: _Carlyle_]

We have heard that he was a man universally loved, as well as honoured
... a friendly, true, and high-minded man; copious in speech, which was
full of grave, genuine humour; contented with simple people and simple
pleasures; and himself of the simplest habits and wishes.


BROKEN STUDIES
[Sidenote: _Richter_]

I deny myself my evening meal in my eagerness to work; but the
interruptions by my children I cannot deny myself.


THE GREAT CONDÉ
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

The Great Condé passing through the city of Sens, which belonged to
Burgundy, and of which he was the governor, took great pleasure in
disconcerting the different companies who came to compliment him. The
Abbé Boileau, brother of the poet, was commissioned to make a speech to
the Prince at the head of the chapter. Condé wishing to disconcert the
orator, advanced his head and large nose towards the Abbé, as if with
the intention of hearing him more distinctly, but in reality to make him
blunder if possible. The Abbé, who perceived his design, pretended to be
greatly embarrassed, and thus began his speech: "My lord, your highness
ought not to be surprised to see me tremble, when I appear before you at
the head of a company of ecclesiastics; were I at the head of an army of
thirty thousand men, I should tremble much more." The Prince was so
charmed with this sally that he embraced the orator without suffering
him to proceed. He asked his name; and when he found that he was brother
to M. Despreaux, he redoubled his attentions, and invited him to dinner.

The Prince on another occasion thought himself offended by the Abbé de
Voisenon; Voisenon, hearing of this, went to Court to exculpate himself.
As soon as the Prince saw him he turned away from him. "Thank God!" said
Voisenon, "I have been misinformed, sir; your highness does not treat me
as if I were an enemy." "How do you see that, M. Abbé?" said his
highness coldly over his shoulder. "Because, sir," answered the Abbé,
"your highness never turns your back upon an enemy." "My dear Abbé,"
exclaimed the Prince and Field-Marshal, turning round and taking him by
the hand, "it is quite impossible for any man to be angry with you."


A CLASSICAL ASS
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

The ass, though the dullest of all unlaughing animals, is reported to
have once accomplished a great feat in the way of exciting laughter.
Marcus Crassus, the grandfather of the hero of that name, who fell in
the Parthian War, was a person of such immovable gravity of countenance
that, in the whole course of his life, he was never known to laugh but
once, and hence was surnamed Agelastus. Not all that the wittiest men of
his time could say, nor aught that comedy or farce could produce on the
stage, was ever known to call up more than a smile on his iron-bound
countenance. Happening one day, however, to stray into the fields, he
espied an ass browsing on thistles; and in this there appears to have
been something so eminently ridiculous in those days that the man who
never laughed before could not help laughing at it outright. It was but
the burst of a moment; Agelastus immediately recovered himself, and
never laughed again.


MEMORY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A player being reproached by Rich for having forgot some of the words in
"The Beggar's Opera," on the fifty-third night of its performance, cried
out, "What! do you think one can remember a thing for ever?"


"COME IN HERE"
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

Burton, in his "Melancholy," quoting from Poggius, the Florentine, tells
us of a physician in Milan who kept a house for the reception of
lunatics, and, by way of cure, used to make his patients stand for a
length of time in a pit of water, some up to the knees, some to the
girdle, and others as high as the chin, _pro modo insaniæ_, according as
they were more or less affected. An inmate of this establishment, who
happened, "by chance," to be pretty well recovered, was standing at the
door of the house, and, seeing a gallant cavalier ride past with a hawk
on his fist, and his spaniels after him, he must needs ask what all
these preparations meant. The cavalier answered, "To kill game." "What
may the game be worth which you kill in the course of a year?" rejoined
the patient. "About five or ten crowns." "And what may your horse, dogs,
and hawks stand you in?" "Four hundred crowns more." On hearing this,
the patient with great earnestness of manner, bade the cavalier
instantly begone, as he valued his life and welfare; "For," said he, "if
our master come and find you here, he will put you into his pit up to
the very chin."


A POPE INNOCENT
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

When King James I. visited Sir Thomas Pope, knt., in Oxfordshire, his
lady had lately brought him a daughter, and the babe was presented to
the King with a paper of verses in her hand; "Which," quoth Fuller, "as
they pleased the King, I hope they will please the reader."

  See, this little mistress here,
  Did never sit in Peter's chair,
  Or a triple crown did wear,
        And yet she is a Pope.

  No benefice she ever sold,
  Nor did dispense with sins for gold,
  She hardly is a se'nnight old,
        And yet she is a Pope.

  No king her feet did ever kiss,
  Or had from her worse look than this;
  Nor did she ever hope
  To saint one with a rope,
        And yet she is a Pope.

  A female Pope you'll say, a second Joan!
  No, sure she is Pope _Innocent_, or none!


A GOOD PARAPHRASE
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

On the eve of a battle an officer came to ask permission of the Maréchal
de Toiras to go and see his father, who was on his death-bed. "Go," said
the general, "you honour your father and your mother, that your days may
be long in the land."


IRISH PRIEST
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

An Irish peasant complained to the Catholic priest of his parish that
some person had stolen his best pig, and supplicated his reverence to
help him to the discovery of the thief. The priest promised his best
endeavours; and, his inquiries soon leading him to a correct enough
guess as to the offender, he took the following amusing method of
bringing the matter home to him. Next Sunday, after the service of the
day, he called out with a loud voice, fixing his eyes on the suspected
individual, "Who stole Pat Doolan's pig?" There was a long pause, and no
answer; he did not expect that there would be any; and descended from
the pulpit without saying a word more. A second Sunday arriving without
the pig being restored in the interval, his reverence, again looking
steadfastly at the stubborn purloiner and throwing a deep note of anger
into the tone of his voice, repeated the question. "Who stole Pat
Doolan's pig? I say, who stole _poor_ Pat Doolan's pig?" Still there was
no answer, and the question was left as before, to work its effect in
secret on the conscience of the guilty individual. The hardihood of the
offender, however, exceeded all the honest priest's calculations. A
third Sunday arrived, and Pat Doolan was still without his pig. Some
stronger measure now became necessary. After service was performed his
reverence, dropping the question of "Who stole Pat Doolan's pig?" but
still without directly accusing any one of the theft, reproachfully
exclaimed, "Jimmie Doran! Jimmie Doran! you trate me with contimpt."
Jimmie Doran hung down his head, and next morning the pig was found at
the door of Pat Doolan's cabin.


A DIGRESSION
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

The celebrated Henderson, the actor, was seldom known to be in a
passion. When at Oxford, he was one day debating with a fellow student,
who, not keeping his temper, threw a glass of wine in his face. Mr.
Henderson took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, and coolly said,
"That, sir, was a digression; now for the argument."


FORTUNE-TELLER
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A fortune-teller was arrested at his theatre of divination, _al fresco_,
at the corner of the rue de Bussy in Paris, and carried before the
tribunal of correctional police. "You know to read the future?" said the
president, a man of great wit, but too fond of a joke for a magistrate.
"In this case," said the judge, "you know the judgment we intend to
pronounce." "Certainly." "Well, what will happen to you?" "Nothing."
"You are sure of it?" "You will acquit me." "Acquit you!" "There is no
doubt of it." "Why?" "Because, sir, if it had been your intention to
condemn me, you would not have added irony to misfortune." The
president, disconcerted, turned to his brother judges, and the sorcerer
was acquitted.


GASCONADES
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A Gascon, passing one night through a churchyard, thought he saw a
spectre drawing forth his sword. He called out aloud, "Aha! do you want
to be killed a second time? I am your man."

Another hero of the same country used to say that he could not look into
a mirror without being afraid of himself.

When Robespierre had been guillotined at Paris, a Gascon officer in the
French army thus expressed the dread he had entertained of that tyrant:
"As often as the name of Robespierre was mentioned to me, I used to take
off my hat, in order to see if my head was in it."


TRIBUTE TO BEAUTY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

As the late beautiful Duchess of Devonshire was one day stepping out of
her carriage, a dustman, who was accidentally standing by, and was about
to regale himself with his accustomed whiff of tobacco, caught a glance
of her countenance, and instantly exclaimed, "Love and bless you, my
lady, let me light my pipe in your eyes!" It is said the duchess was so
delighted with this compliment that she frequently afterwards checked
the strain of adulation, which was so constantly offered to her charms,
by saying, "Oh! after the dustman's compliment, all others are insipid."


BEGGING QUARTER
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A French regiment at the battle of Spires had orders to give no quarter.
A German officer, being taken, begged his life. The Frenchman replied,
"Sir, you may ask me for any other favour; but, as for your life, it is
impossible for me to grant it."


GASCON REPROVED
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A descendant of a family in Gascony, celebrated for its flow of language
and love of talking, and not for any deeds of glory, descanted before a
numerous company upon the well-known bravery of his ancestors and
relations. He then, to show that the race had not degenerated,
_modestly_ launched into a _faithful_ description of his own battles,
duels, and successes. He was once, he said, a passenger on board a
French frigate during the war, and, falling in with an English squadron
composed of three seventy-fours, fought with them for five hours, when
luckily, the ship taking fire, he was blown up, with ten of his
countrymen, and dropped into one of the seventy-fours, the crew of which
laid down their arms and surrendered; while the two remaining
men-of-war, struck with dismay at the sight of one of their ships in the
possession of the enemy, crowded sails and ran away!

Such were his _faithful_ accounts, with which he would still have
continued to annoy the company, had not one of his countrymen, more
enlightened, frankly acknowledged the natural propensity which leads the
inhabitants of Gascony to revel in imaginary scenes, resolved to awe him
into silence, and thus addressed him: "All your exploits are mere
commonplace, in comparison to those which I have achieved; and I will
relate a single one that surpasses all yours."

The babbler opened his ears, no doubt secretly intending to appropriate
this story to himself in future time, when none of the hearers should be
present, and modestly owned, that all those he had mentioned were mere
children's tricks, performed without any exertion, but that he had some
in store which might shine unobscured by the side of the most brilliant
deeds of ancient ages.

"One evening," said the other, "as I was returning to town from the
country, I had to pass through a narrow lane, well known for being
infested with highwaymen. My horse was in good order, my pistols loaded,
and my broadsword hung at my side; I entered the lane without any
apprehension. Scarcely had I reached the middle when a loud shout behind
me made me turn my head, and I saw a man with a short gun running fast
towards me. I was going to face him with my horse, when two men with
large cudgels in their hands, rushing from the hedge, seized the reins,
and threatened me with instant death. Undaunted, I took my two pistols;
but, before I had time to fire, one was knocked out of my hand, the
other went off, and one of the robbers fell. I then drew my sword, and,
though bruised by the blows I had received, struck with all my might,
and split the head of the other in two. Freed from my danger on their
side, I attempted a second time to turn my horse." Here he paused a
while; and our babbler, longing to know the end of this adventure,
exclaimed, "And the third!" "Oh, the third!" answered the other; "he
shot me dead."


ABSENT MAN
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A celebrated living poet, occasionally a little absent in mind, was
invited by a friend, whom he met in the street, to dine with him the
next Sunday at a country lodging, which he had taken for the summer
months. The address was, "near the _Green Man_ at _Dulwich_"; which, not
to put his inviter to the trouble of pencilling down, the _absent_ man
promised faithfully to remember. But when Sunday came, he, fully late
enough, made his way to Greenwich, and began inquiring for the sign of
the _Dull Man_! No such sign was to be found; and, after losing an hour,
a person guessed that though there was no _Dull Man_ at Greenwich, there
was a _Green Man_ at Dulwich, which the _absent_ man might _possibly_
mean! This remark connected the broken chain, and the poet was under the
necessity of taking his chop by himself.


PRIDE
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A Spaniard rising from a fall, whereby his nose had suffered
considerably, exclaimed, "Voto, a tal, esto es caminar por la turru!"
(This comes of walking upon earth!)


WITTY COWARD
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

A French marquis having received several blows with a stick, which he
never thought of resenting, a friend asked him, "How he could reconcile
it with his honour to suffer them to pass without notice?" "Poh!"
replied the marquis, "I never trouble my head with anything that passes
behind my back."


VALUING BEAUTY
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

The Persian Ambassador, Mirza Aboul Hassan, while he resided in Paris
was an object of so much curiosity that he could not go out without
being surrounded by a multitude of gazers, and the ladies even ventured
so far as to penetrate his hotel.

On returning one day from a ride, he found his apartments crowded with
ladies, all elegantly dressed, but not all equally beautiful. Astonished
at this unexpected assemblage, he inquired what these European
odalisques could possibly want with him. The interpreter replied that
they had come to look at his Excellency. The Ambassador was surprised to
find himself an object of curiosity among a people who boast of having
attained the acme of civilisation; and was not a little offended at
conduct which, in Asia, would have been considered an unwarrantable
breach of good-breeding; he accordingly revenged himself by the
following little scheme.

The illustrious foreigner affected to be charmed with the ladies; he
looked at them attentively alternately, pointing to them with his
finger, and speaking with great earnestness to his interpreter, who, he
was well aware, would be questioned by his fair visitants; and whom he
therefore instructed in the part he was to act. Accordingly, the eldest
of the ladies, who, in spite of her age, probably thought herself the
prettiest of the whole party, and whose curiosity was particularly
excited, after his Excellency had passed through the suite of rooms,
coolly inquired what had been the object of his examination? "Madam,"
replied the interpreter, "I dare not inform you." "But I wish
particularly to know, sir." "Indeed, madam, it is impossible!" "Nay,
sir, this reserve is vexatious; I desire to know." "Oh! since you
desire, madam, know then that his Excellency has been valuing you!"
"Valuing us! how, sir?" "Yes, ladies, his Excellency, after the custom
of his country, has been setting a price upon each of you!" "Well,
that's whimsical enough; and how much may that lady be worth, according
to his estimation?" "A thousand crowns." "And the other?" "Five hundred
crowns." "And that young lady with fair hair?" "The same price." "And
that lady who is painted?" "Fifty crowns." "And pray, sir, what may I be
worth in the tariff of his Excellency's good graces?" "Oh, madam, you
really must excuse me, I beg." "Come, come, no concealments." "The
Prince merely said as he passed you--" "Well, what did he say?" inquired
the lady with great eagerness. "He said, madam, that he did not know the
small coin of this country."


PRO ARIS ET FOCIS
[Sidenote: _Percy Anecdotes_]

At the establishment of volunteer corps, a certain corporation agreed to
form a body, on condition that they should _not be obliged to quit the
country_. The proposal was submitted to Mr. Pitt; who said he had no
objection to the terms, if they would permit him to add, "_except_, in
case of _invasion_."


THE GENTLE READER
[Sidenote: _Anon._]

  No British Museum the fisherman needs:
  He simply goes down to the river and reeds.


CLERGYMEN AND CHICKENS
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

Why, let me ask, should a hen lay an egg, which egg can become a chicken
in about three weeks and a full-grown hen in less than a twelvemonth,
while a clergyman and his wife lay no eggs, but give birth to a baby
which will take three-and-twenty years before it can become another
clergyman? Why should not chickens be born and clergymen be laid and
hatched? Or why, at any rate, should not the clergyman be born
full-grown and in Holy Orders, not to say already beneficed?


MELCHISEDEC
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

He was a really happy man. He was without father, without mother, and
without descent. He was an incarnate bachelor. He was a born orphan.


EATING AND PROSELYTISING
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

All eating is a kind of proselytising--a kind of dogmatising--a
maintaining that the eater's way of looking at things is better than the
eatee's. We convert the food, or try to do so, to our own way of
thinking, and, when it sticks to its own opinion and refuses to be
converted, we say it disagrees with us. An animal that refuses to let
another eat it has the courage of its convictions, and, if it gets
eaten, dies a martyr to them....

It is good for the man that he should not be thwarted--that he should
have his own way as far, and with as little difficulty, as possible.
Cooking is good because it makes matters easier by unsettling the meat's
mind and preparing it for new ideas. All food must first be prepared for
us by animals and plants, or we cannot assimilate it; and so thoughts
are more easily assimilated that have been already digested by other
minds. A man should avoid converse with things that have been stunted or
starved, and should not eat such meat as has been overdriven or underfed
or afflicted with disease, nor should he touch fruit or vegetables that
have not been well grown.

Sitting quiet after eating is akin to sitting still during divine
service so as not to disturb the congregation. We are catechising and
converting our proselytes, and there should be no row. As we get older
we must digest more quietly still; our appetite is less, our gastric
juices are no longer so eloquent, they have lost that cogent fluency
which carried away all that came in contact with it. They have become
sluggish and unconciliatory. This is what happens to any man when he
suffers from an attack of indigestion.

Or, indeed, any other sickness, is the inarticulate expression of the
pain we feel on seeing a proselyte escape us just as we were on the
point of converting it.


ASSIMILATION AND PERSECUTION
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

We cannot get rid of persecution; if we feel at all we must persecute
something; the mere acts of feeding and growing are acts of persecution.
Our aim should be to persecute nothing but such things as are absolutely
incapable of resisting us. Man is the only animal that can remain on
friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.


NIGHT-SHIRTS AND BABIES
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

On Hindhead, last Easter, we saw a family wash hung out to dry. There
were papa's two great night-shirts and mamma's two lesser night-gowns,
and then the children's smaller articles of clothing and mamma's drawers
and the girls' drawers, all full swollen with a strong north-east wind.
But mamma's night-gown was not so well pinned on, and, instead of being
full of steady wind like the others, kept blowing up and down as though
she were preaching wildly. We stood and laughed for ten minutes. The
housewife came to the window and wondered at us, but we could not
resist the pleasure of watching the absurdly life-like gestures which
the night-gowns made. I should like a _Santa Famiglia_ with clothes
drying in the background.

A love-story might be told in a series of sketches of the clothes of two
families hanging out to dry in adjacent gardens. Then a gentleman's
night-shirt from one garden and a lady's night-gown from the other
should be shown hanging in a third garden by themselves. By and by there
should be added a little night-shirt.

A philosopher might be tempted, on seeing the little night-shirt, to
suppose that the big night-shirts had made it. What we do is much the
same, for the body of a baby is not much more made by the two old
babies, after whose pattern it has cut itself out, than the little
night-shirt is made by the big ones. The thing that makes either the
little night-shirt or the little baby is something about which we know
nothing whatever at all.


DOES MAMMA KNOW?
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

A father was telling his eldest daughter, aged about six, that she had a
little sister, and was explaining to her how nice it all was. The child
said it was delightful, and added:

"Does mamma know? Let's go and tell her."


CROESUS AND HIS KITCHEN-MAID
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

I want people to see either their cells as less parts of themselves than
they do, or their servants as more.

Croesus's kitchen-maid is part of him, bone of his bone and flesh of his
flesh, for she eats what comes from his table, and, being fed of one
flesh, are they not brother and sister to one another in virtue of
community of nutriment, which is but a thinly veiled travesty of
descent? When she eats peas with her knife, he does so too; there is not
a bit of bread and butter she puts into her mouth, nor a lump of sugar
she drops into her tea, but he knoweth it altogether, though he knows
nothing whatever about it. She is en-Croesused and he en-scullery-maided
so long as she remains linked to him by the golden chain which passes
from his pocket to hers, and which is greatest of all unifiers.

True, neither party is aware of the connection at all as long as things
go smoothly. Croesus no more knows the name of, or feels the existence
of, his kitchen-maid than a peasant in health knows about his liver;
nevertheless, he is awakened to a dim sense of an undefined something
when he pays his grocer or his baker. She is more definitely aware of
him than he of her, but it is by way of an overshadowing presence rather
than a clear and intelligent comprehension. And though Croesus does not
eat his kitchen-maid's meals otherwise than vicariously, still to eat
vicariously is to eat: the meals so eaten by his kitchen-maid nourish
the better ordering of the dinner which nourishes and engenders the
better ordering of Croesus himself. He is fed, therefore, by the feeding
of his kitchen-maid.

And so with sleep. When she goes to bed he, in part, does so too. When
she gets up and lays the fire in the back kitchen he, in part, does so.
He lays it through her and in her, though knowing no more what he is
doing than we know when we digest, but still doing it as by what we call
a reflex action. _Qui facit per alium facit per se_, and when the
back-kitchen fire is lighted on Croesus's behalf it is Croesus who
lights it, though he is all the time fast asleep in bed.

Sometimes things do not go smoothly. Suppose the kitchen-maid to be
taken with fits just before dinner-time; there will be a reverberating
echo of disturbance throughout the whole organisation of the palace. But
the oftener she has fits, the more easily will the household know what
it is all about when she is taken with them. On the first occasion Lady
Croesus will send some one rushing down into the kitchen; there will, in
fact, be a general flow of blood (i.e. household) to the part affected
(that is to say, to the scullery-maid); the doctor will be sent for and
all the rest of it. On each repetition of the fits the neighbouring
organs, reverting to a more primary undifferentiated condition, will
discharge duties for which they were not engaged, in a manner for which
no one would have given them credit; and the disturbance will be less
and less each time, till by and by, at the sound of the crockery
smashing below, Lady Croesus will just look up to papa and say:

"My dear, I am afraid Sarah has got another fit."

And papa will say she will probably be better again soon, and will go on
reading his newspaper.

In course of time the whole thing will come to be managed automatically
downstairs without any references either to papa, the cerebrum, or to
mamma, the cerebellum, or even to the _medulla oblongata_, the
housekeeper. A precedent or routine will be established, after which
everything will work quite smoothly.

But though papa and mamma are unconscious of the reflex action which has
been going on within their organisation, the kitchen-maid and the cells
in her immediate vicinity (that is to say, her fellow-servants) will
know all about it. Perhaps the neighbours will think that nobody in the
house knows, and that, because the master and mistress show no sign of
disturbance, therefore there is no consciousness. They forget that the
scullery-maid becomes more and more conscious of the fits if they grow
upon her, as they probably will, and that Croesus and his lady do show
more signs of consciousness, if they are watched closely, than can be
detected on first inspection. There is not the same violent
perturbation that there was on the previous occasions, but the tone of
the palace is lowered. A dinner-party has to be put off; the cooking is
more homogeneous and uncertain, it is less highly differentiated than
when the scullery-maid was well; and there is a grumble when the doctor
has to be paid, and also when the smashed crockery has to be replaced.

If Croesus discharges his kitchen-maid and gets another, it is as though
he cut out a small piece of his finger and replaced it in due course by
growth. But even the slightest cut may lead to blood-poisoning, and so
even the dismissal of a kitchen-maid may be big with the fate of
empires. Thus the cook--a valued servant--may take the kitchen-maid's
part and go too. The next cook may spoil the dinner and upset Croesus's
temper, and from this all manner of consequences may be evolved, even to
the dethronement and death of the King himself. Nevertheless, as a
general rule, an injury to such a low part of a great monarch's organism
as a kitchen-maid has no important results. It is only when we are
attacked in such vital organs as the solicitor or the banker that we
need be uneasy. A wound in the solicitor is a very serious thing, and
many a man has died from failure of his bank's action.

It is certain, as we have seen, that when the kitchen-maid lights the
fire it is really Croesus who is lighting it, but it is less obvious
that when Croesus goes to a ball the scullery-maid goes also. Still,
this should be held in the same way as it should be also held that she
eats vicariously when Croesus dines. For he must return from the ball
and the dinner-parties, and this comes out in his requiring to keep a
large establishment whereby the scullery-maid retains her place as part
of his organism and is nourished and amused also.

On the other hand, when Croesus dies it does not follow that the
scullery-maid should die at the same time. She may grow a new Croesus,
as Croesus, if the maid dies, will probably grow a new kitchen-maid;
Croesus's son or successor may take over the kingdom and palace, and the
kitchen-maid, beyond having to wash up a few extra plates and dishes at
coronation time, will know little about the change. It is as though the
establishment had had its hair cut and its beard trimmed; it is
smartened up a little, but there is no other change. If, on the other
hand, he goes bankrupt, or his kingdom is taken from him and his whole
establishment is broken and dissipated at the auction-mart, then, even
though not one of its component cells actually dies, the organism as a
whole does so, and it is interesting to see that the lowest, least
specialised, and least highly differentiated parts of the organism, such
as the scullery-maid and the stable-boys, most readily find an entry
into the life of some new system, while the more specialised and highly
differentiated parts, such as the steward, the old housekeeper, and,
still more so, the librarian or the chaplain, may never be able to
attach themselves to any new combination, and may die in consequence. I
heard once of a large builder who retired unexpectedly from business and
broke up his establishment, to the actual death of several of his older
employés.

So a bit of flesh, or even a finger, may be taken from one body and
grafted on to another, but a leg cannot be grafted; if a leg is cut off
it must die. It may, however, be maintained that the owner dies, too,
even though he recovers, for a man who has lost a leg is not the man he
was.


ADAM AND EVE
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

A little boy and a little girl were looking at a picture of Adam and
Eve.

"Which is Adam and which is Eve?" said one.

"I do not know," said the other, "but I could tell if they had their
clothes on."


FIRE
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

I was at one the other night, and heard a man say: "That corner stack is
alight now quite nicely." People's sympathies seem generally to be with
the fire so long as no one is in danger of being burned.


THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN ITS INFANCY
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

I heard a woman in a 'bus boring her lover about the electric light. She
wanted to know this and that, and the poor lover was helpless. Then she
said she wanted to know how it was regulated. At last she settled down
by saying that she knew it was in its infancy. The word "infancy" seemed
to have a soothing effect upon her, for she said no more, but, leaning
her head against her lover's shoulder, composed herself to slumber.


NEW-LAID EGGS
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

When I take my Sunday walks in the country, I try to buy a few really
new-laid eggs warm from the nest. At this time of the year (January)
they are very hard to come by, and I have long since invented a sick
wife who has implored me to get a few eggs laid not earlier than the
self-same morning. Of late, as I am getting older, it has become my
daughter, who has just had a little baby. This will generally draw a
new-laid egg, if there is one about the place at all.

At Harrow Weald it has always been my wife who for years has been a
great sufferer and finds a really new-laid egg the one thing she can
digest in the way of solid food. So I turned her on as movingly as I
could not long since, and was at last sold some eggs that were no
better than common shop-eggs, if so good. Next time I went I said my
poor wife had been made seriously ill by them; it was no good trying to
deceive her; she could tell a new-laid egg from a bad one as well as any
woman in London, and she had such a high temper that it was very
unpleasant for me when she found herself disappointed.

"Ah! sir," said the landlady, "but you would not like to lose her."

"Ma'am," I replied, "I must not allow my thoughts to wander in that
direction. But it's no use bringing her stale eggs, anyhow."


SNAPSHOTTING A BISHOP
[Sidenote: _Samuel Butler_]

I must some day write about how I hunted the late Bishop of Carlisle
with my camera, hoping to shoot him when he was sea-sick crossing from
Calais to Dover, and how St. Somebody protected him and said I might
shoot him when he was well, but not when he was sea-sick. I should like
to do it in the manner of the "Odyssey":

... And the steward went round and laid them all on the sofas and
benches, and he set a beautiful basin by each, variegated and adorned
with flowers; but it contained no water for washing the hands, and
Neptune sent great waves that washed over the eyelet-holes of the cabin.
But when it was now the middle of the passage and a great roaring arose
as of beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and they promised hecatombs to
Neptune if he would still the raging of the waves....

At any rate I shot him and have him in my snap-shot book; but he was not
sea-sick.

_From the Note-Books of Samuel Butler._


GOETHE'S MOTHER
[Sidenote: _G.H. Lewes_]

That he was the loveliest baby ever seen, exciting admiration wherever
nurse or mother carried him, and exhibiting, in swaddling clothes, the
most wonderful intelligence, we need no biographer to tell us. Is it not
said of every baby? But that he was in truth a wonderful child we have
undeniable evidence, and of a kind less questionable than the statement
of mothers and relatives. At three years old he could seldom be brought
to play with little children, and only on the condition of their being
pretty. One day, in a neighbour's house, he suddenly began to cry and
exclaim, "That black child must go away! I can't bear him!" And he
howled till he was carried home, where he was slowly pacified; the whole
cause of his grief being the ugliness of the child.

A quick, merry little girl grew up by the boy's side. Four other
children also came, but soon vanished. Cornelia was the only companion
who survived, and for her his affection dated from the cradle. He
brought his toys to her, wanted to feed her and attend on her, and was
very jealous of all who approached her. "When she was taken from the
cradle, over which he watched, his anger was scarcely to be quieted. He
was altogether much more easily moved to anger than to tears." To the
last his love for Cornelia was passionate.

In old German towns, Frankfurt among them, the ground-floor consists of
a great hall where the vehicles were housed. This floor opens in folding
trap-doors, for the passage of wine-casks into the cellars below. In one
corner of the hall there is a sort of lattice, opening by an iron or
wooden grating upon the street. This is called the Geräms. Here the
crockery in daily use was kept; here the servants peel their potatoes,
and cut their carrots and turnips, preparatory to cooking; here also the
housewife would sit with her sewing, or her knitting, giving an eye to
what passed in the street (when anything did pass there) and an ear to a
little neighbourly gossip. Such a place was, of course, a favourite with
the children.

One fine afternoon, when the house was quiet, Master Wolfgang, with his
cup in his hand, and nothing to do, finds himself in this Geräms,
looking out into the silent street, and telegraphing to the young
Ochsensteins who dwelt opposite. By way of doing something, he begins to
fling the crockery into the street, delighted at the smashing music
which it makes, and stimulated by the approbation of the brothers
Ochsenstein, who chuckle at him from over the way. The plates and dishes
are flying in this way, when his mother returns: she sees the mischief
with a housewifely horror, melting into girlish sympathy, as she hears
how heartily the little fellow laughs at his escapade, and how the
neighbours laugh at him.

This genial, indulgent mother employed her faculty for story-telling to
his and her own delight. "Air, fire, earth, and water I represented
under the forms of princesses; and to all natural phenomena I gave a
meaning, in which I almost believed more fervently than my little
hearers. As we thought of paths which led from star to star, and that we
should one day inhabit the stars, and thought of the great spirits we
should meet there, I was as eager for the hours of story-telling as the
children themselves; I was quite curious about the future course of my
own improvisation, and any invitation which interrupted these evenings
was disagreeable. There I sat, and there Wolfgang held me with his large
black eyes; and when the fate of one of his favourites was not according
to his fancy, I saw the angry veins swell on his temples, I saw him
repress his tears. He often burst in with 'But, mother, the princess
won't marry the nasty tailor, even if he does kill the giant.' And when
I made a pause for the night, promising to continue it on the morrow, I
was certain that he would in the meanwhile think it out for himself, and
so he often stimulated my imagination. When I turned the story according
to his plan, and told him that he had found out the _dénouement_, then
was he all fire and flame, and one could see his little heart beating
underneath his dress! His grandmother, who made a great pet of him, was
the confidante of all his ideas as to how the story would turn out, and
as she repeated these to me, and I turned the story according to these
hints, there was a little diplomatic secrecy between us, which we never
disclosed. I had the pleasure of continuing my story to the delight and
astonishment of my hearers, and Wolfgang saw, with glowing eyes, the
fulfilment of his own conceptions, and listened with enthusiastic
applause." What a charming glimpse of mother and son!

She is one of the pleasantest figures in German literature, and one
standing out with greater vividness than almost any other. Her simple,
hearty, joyous, and affectionate nature endeared her to all. She was the
delight of children, the favourite of poets and princes. To the last
retaining her enthusiasm and simplicity, mingled with great shrewdness
and knowledge of character, "Frau Aja," as they christened her, was at
once grave and hearty, dignified and simple. She had read most of the
best German and Italian authors, had picked up considerable desultory
information, and had that "mother wit" which so often in women and poets
seems to render culture superfluous, their rapid intuitions anticipating
the tardy conclusions of experience. Her letters are full of spirit: not
always strictly grammatical; not irreproachable in orthography; but
vigorous and vivacious. After a lengthened interview with her, an
enthusiast exclaimed, "Now do I understand how Goethe has become the
man he is!" Wieland, Merck, Bürger, Madame de Staël, Karl August, and
other great people sought her acquaintance. The Duchess Amalia
corresponded with her as with an intimate friend; and her letters were
welcomed eagerly at the Weimar Court. She was married at seventeen to a
man for whom she had no love, and was only eighteen when the poet was
born. This, instead of making her prematurely old, seems to have
perpetuated her girlhood. "I and my Wolfgang," she said, "have always
held fast to each other, because we were both young together." To him
she transmitted her love of story-telling, her animal spirits, her love
of everything which bore the stamp of distinctive individuality, and her
love of seeing happy faces around her. "Order and quiet," she says in
one of her charming letters to Freiherr von Stein, "are my principal
characteristics. Hence I despatch at once whatever I have to do, the
most disagreeable always first, and I gulp down the devil without
looking at him. When all has returned to its proper state, then I defy
any one to surpass me in good humour." Her heartiness and tolerance are
the causes, she thinks, why every one likes her. "I am fond of people,
and _that_ every one feels directly--young and old. I pass without
pretension through the world, and that gratifies men. I never
_bemoralise_ any one--_always seek out the good that is in them, and
leave what is bad to Him who made mankind, and knows how to round off
the angles_. In this way I make myself happy and comfortable." Who does
not recognise the son in those accents? The kindliest of men inherited
his loving, happy nature from the heartiest of women.


WHERE--AND OH! WHERE?
[Sidenote: _Henry S. Leigh_]

  Where are the times when--miles away
    From the din and the dust of cities--
  Alexis left his lambs to play,
  And wooed some shepherdess half the day
    With pretty and plaintive ditties?

  Where are the pastures daisy-strewn
    And the flocks that lived in clover;
  The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune
  And carried away the notes as soon
    As ever the notes were over?

  Where are the echoes that bore the strains
    Each to his nearest neighbour;
  And all the valleys and all the plains
  Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains
    Made merry to pipe and tabor?

  Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep
    Where Fancy alone can find them;
  But Arcady's times are like the sheep
  That quitted the care of Little Bo-peep,
    For they've left their tales behind them!


THE SECRETS OF THE HEART
[Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]

"Le coeur mène où il va"

_SCENE--A Chalet covered with honeysuckle_

  NINETTE                           NINON


  NINETTE
  This way--

  NINON
             No, this way--

  NINETTE
                            This way, then.

  (_They enter the Chalet_)
  You are as changing, child,--as men.

  NINON
  But are they? Is it true, I mean?
  Who said it?

  NINETTE
                     Sister Séraphine.
  She was so pious and so good,
  With such sad eyes beneath her hood,
  And such poor little feet,--all bare!
  Her name was Eugénie la Fère.
  She used to tell us,--moonlight nights,--
  When I was at the Carmelites.

  NINON
  Ah, then it must be right.    And yet,
  Suppose for once--suppose, Ninette--

  NINETTE
  But what?

  NINON
                       Suppose it were not so?
  Suppose there _were_ true men, you know!

  NINETTE
  And then?

  NINON
      Why, if that _could_ occur,
  What kind of men should you prefer?

  NINETTE
  What looks, you mean?

  NINON
                  Looks, voice and all.

  NINETTE
  Well, as to that, he must be tall,
  Or say, not "tall"--of middle size;
  And next, he must have laughing eyes;
  And a hook-nose,--with, underneath,
  Oh! what a row of sparkling teeth!

  NINON (_touching her cheek suspiciously_)
  Has he a scar on this side?

  NINETTE
                             Hush!
  Some one is coming. No; a thrush:
  I see it swinging there.

  NINON
                         Go on.

  NINETTE
  Then he must fence (ah, look, 'tis gone!)
  And dance like Monseigneur, and sing
  "Love was a Shepherd,"--everything
  That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.

  NINON
  Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair ...
  I mean, he _should_ have; then an air
  Half sad, half noble; features thin;
  A little _royale_ on the chin;
  And such a pale, high brow. And then,
  He is a prince of gentlemen;--
  He, too, can ride and fence and write
  Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight
  No worse for that--

  NINETTE
                       I know your man.

  NINON
  And I know yours. But you'll not tell,--
  Swear it!

  NINETTE
             I swear upon this fan,--
  My grandmother's!

  NINON
                       And I, I swear
  On this old turquoise _reliquaire_,--
  My great-_great_-grandmother's!--
         _(After a pause)_

                                  Ninette!
  I feel _so_ sad.

  NINETTE
  I too. But why?

  NINON
  Alas, I know not!

  NINETTE (_with a sigh_)
                        Nor do I.


BRITISH FESTIVITIES
[Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]

Niagara Falls is a most enjoyable place of resort. The hotels are
excellent, and the prices not at all exorbitant. The opportunities for
fishing are not surpassed in the country; in fact, they are not even
equalled elsewhere. Because, in other localities, certain places in the
streams are much better than others; but at Niagara one place is just as
good as another, for the reason that the fish do not bite anywhere, and
so there is no use in your walking five miles to fish, when you can
depend of being just as unsuccessful nearer home. The advantages of this
state of things have never heretofore been properly placed before the
public.

The weather is cool in summer, and the walks and drives are all
pleasant, and none of them fatiguing. When you start out to "do" the
Falls you first drive down about a mile, and pay a small sum for the
privilege of looking down from a precipice into the narrowest part of
the Niagara river. A railway "cut" through a hill would be as comely if
it had an angry river tumbling and foaming through its bottom. You can
descend a staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down, and stand at the
edge of the water. After you have done it, you will wonder why you did
it; but you will then be too late.

The guide will explain to you, in his blood-curdling way, how he saw
the little steamer, _Maid of the Mist,_ descend the fearful rapids--how
first one paddle-box was out of sight behind the raging billows, and
then the other, and at what point it was that her smoke-stack toppled
overboard, and where her planking began to break and part asunder--and
how she did finally live through the trip, after accomplishing the
incredible feat of travelling seventeen miles in six minutes, or six
miles in seventeen minutes, I have really forgotten which. But it was
very extraordinary, anyhow. It is worth the price of admission to hear
the guide tell the story nine times in succession to different parties,
and never miss a word or alter a sentence or a gesture.

Then you drive over the Suspension Bridge, and divide your misery
between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river
below and the chances of having the railway train overhead smashing down
on to you. Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but,
mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness.

On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of
photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an
ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your
solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the
light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime
Niagara; and a great many people _have_ the ineffable effrontery or the
native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.

Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately
pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis, or a couple of
country cousins, all smiling hideously, and all disposed in studied and
uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their
grand and awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished
presentment of that majestic presence, whose ministering spirits are the
rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in
clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful
of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in
the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and
decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood
relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering
dust.

There is no actual harm in making Niagara a background whereon to
display one's marvellous insignificance in a good strong light, but it
requires a sort of superhuman self-complacency to enable one to do it.

When you have examined the stupendous Horseshoe Fall till you are
satisfied you cannot improve on it, you return to America by the new
Suspension Bridge, and follow up the bank to where they exhibit the Cave
of the Winds.

Here I followed instructions, and divested myself of all my clothing and
put on a waterproof jacket and overalls. This costume is picturesque,
but not beautiful. A guide, similarly dressed, led the way down a flight
of winding stairs, which wound and wound and still kept on winding long
after the thing ceased to be a novelty, and then terminated long before
it had begun to be a pleasure. We were then well down under the
precipice, but still considerably above the level of the river.

We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our
persons shielded from perdition by a crazy wooden railing, to which I
clung with both hands--not because I was afraid, but because I wanted
to. Presently the descent became steeper, and the bridge flimsier, and
sprays from the American Fall began to rain down on us in
fast-increasing sheets that soon became blinding, and after that our
progress was mostly in the nature of groping. Now a furious wind began
to rush out from behind the waterfall, which seemed determined to sweep
us from the bridge, and scatter us on the rocks and among the torrents
below. I remarked that I wanted to go home; but it was too late. We were
almost under the monstrous wall of water thundering down from above, and
speech was in vain in the midst of such a pitiless crash of sound.

In another moment the guide disappeared behind the grand deluge, and,
bewildered by the thunder, driven helplessly by the wind, and smitten by
the arrowy tempest of rain, I followed. All was darkness. Such a mad,
storming, roaring, and bellowing of warring wind and water never crazed
my ears before. I bent my head, and seemed to receive the Atlantic on my
back. The world seemed going to destruction. I could not see anything,
the flood poured down so savagely. I raised my head, with open mouth,
and the most of the American cataract went down my throat. If I had
sprung a leak now, I had been lost. And at this moment I discovered that
the bridge had ceased, and we must trust for a foothold to the slippery
and precipitous rocks. I never was so scared before and survived it. But
we got through at last, and emerged into the open day, where we could
stand in front of the laced and frothy and seething world of descending
water, and look at it. When I saw how much of it there was, and how
fearfully in earnest it was, I was sorry I had gone behind it.

I said to the guide, "Son, did you know what kind of an infernal place
this was before you brought me down here?"

"Yes."

This was sufficient. He had known all the horror of the place, and yet
he brought me there! I regarded it as deliberate arson. I then destroyed
him.

I managed to find my way back alone to the place from whence I had
started on this foolish enterprise, and then hurried over to Canada, to
avoid having to pay for the guide.

At the principal hotel I fell in with the Major of the 42nd Fusiliers,
and a dozen other hearty and hospitable Englishmen, and they invited me
to join them in celebrating the Queen's birthday. I said I would be
delighted to do it. I said I liked all the Englishmen I had ever
happened to be acquainted with, and that I, like all my countrymen,
admired and honoured the Queen. But I said there was one insuperable
drawback--I never drank anything strong upon any occasion whatever, and
I did not see how I was going to do proper and ample justice to
anybody's birthday with the thin and ungenerous beverages I was
accustomed to.

The Major scratched his head, and thought over the matter at
considerable length; but there seemed to be no way of mastering the
difficulty, and he was too much of a gentleman to suggest even a
temporary abandonment of my principles. But by-and-by he said:

"I have it. Drink soda-water. As long as you never do drink anything
more nutritious, there isn't any impropriety in it."

And so it was settled. We met in a large parlour, handsomely decorated
with flags and evergreens, and seated ourselves at a board well laden
with creature comforts, both solid and liquid. The toasts were happy,
and the speeches were good, and we kept it up until long after midnight.
I never enjoyed myself more in my life. I drank thirty-eight bottles of
soda-water. But do you know that that is not a reliable article for a
steady drink? It is too gassy. When I got up in the morning I was full
of gas, and as tight as a balloon. I hadn't an article of clothing that
I could wear, except my umbrella.

After breakfast I found the Major making grand preparations again. I
asked what it was for, and he said this was the Prince of Wales's
birthday. It had to be celebrated that evening. We celebrated it. Much
against my expectations, we had another splendid time. We kept it up
till some time after midnight again. I was tired of soda, and so I
changed off for lemonade. I drank several quarts. You may consider
lemonade better for a steady drink than soda-water; but it isn't so. In
the morning it had soured on my stomach. Biting anything was out of the
question--it was equivalent to lockjaw. I was beginning to feel worn and
sad too.

Shortly after luncheon, I found the Major in the midst of some more
preparations. He said this was the Princess Alice's birthday. I
concealed my grief.

"Who is the Princess Alice?" I asked.

"Daughter of her Majesty the Queen," the Major said.

I succumbed. That night we celebrated the Princess Alice's birthday. We
kept it up as late as usual, and really I enjoyed it a good deal. But I
could not stand lemonade. I drank a couple of kegs of ice-water.

In the morning I had toothache, and cramps, and chilblains, and my teeth
were on edge from the lemonade, and I was still pretty gassy, I found
the inexorable Major at it again.

"Who is this for?" I asked.

"His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh," he said.

"Son of the Queen?"

"Yes."

"And this is his birthday--you haven't made any mistake?"

"No; the celebration comes off to-night."

I bowed before the new calamity. We celebrated the day. I drank part of
a barrel of cider. Among the first objects that met my weary and
jaundiced eye the next day was the Major at his interminable
preparations again. My heart was broken, and I wept.

"Whom do we mourn this time?" I said.

"The Princess Beatrice, daughter of the Queen."

"Here, now," I said; "it is time to inquire into this thing. How long is
the Queen's family likely to hold out? Who comes next on the list?"

"Their Royal Highnesses the Duke of Cambridge, the Princess Royal,
Prince Arthur, Princess Mary of Teck, Prince Leopold, the Grand-duke of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, the Grand-duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Prince
..."

"Hold! There's a limit to human endurance. I am only mortal. What man
dare do, I dare; but he who can celebrate this family in detail, and
live to tell it, is less or more than man. If you have to go through
this every year, it is a mercy I was born in America, for I haven't
constitution enough to be an Englishman. I shall have to withdraw from
this enterprise. I am out of drinks. Out of drinks, and so many more to
celebrate! Out of drinks, and only just on the outskirts of the family
yet, as you may say! I am sorry enough to have to withdraw, but it is
plain enough that it has to be done. I am full of gas, and my teeth are
loose, and I am wrenched with cramps, and afflicted with scurvy, and
toothache, measles, mumps, and lockjaw, and the cider last night has
given me the cholera. Gentlemen, I mean well; but really I am not in a
condition to celebrate the other birthdays. Give us a rest."


SIR JOHN WATERS
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

Amongst the distinguished men in the Peninsular War whom my memory
brings occasionally before me, is the well-known and highly popular
Quartermaster-General Sir John Waters, who was born at Margam, a Welsh
village in Glamorganshire. He was one of those extraordinary persons
that seem created by kind nature for particular purposes; and, without
using the word in an offensive sense, he was the most admirable spy that
was ever attached to an army. One would almost have thought that the
Spanish War was entered upon and carried on in order to display his
remarkable qualities. He could assume the character of Spaniards of
every degree and station, so as to deceive the most acute of those whom
he delighted to imitate. In the posada of the village he was hailed by
the contrabandist or the muleteer as one of their own race; in the gay
assemblies he was an accomplished hidalgo; at the bullfight the toreador
received his congratulations as from one who had encountered the toro in
the arena; in the church he would converse with the friar upon the
number of Ave Marias and Paternosters which could lay a ghost, or tell
him the history of every one who had perished by the flame of the
Inquisition, relating his crime, whether carnal or anti-Catholic; and
he could join in the _seguadilla_ or in the _guaracha_.

But what rendered him more efficient than all was his wonderful power of
observation and acute description, which made the information he gave so
reliable and valuable to the Duke of Wellington. Nothing escaped him.
When amidst a group of persons, he would minutely watch the movement,
attitude, and expression of every individual that composed it; in the
scenery by which he was surrounded he would carefully mark every object:
not a tree, not a bush, not a large stone, escaped his observation; and
it was said that in a cottage he noted every piece of crockery on the
shelf, every domestic utensil, and even the number of knives and forks
that were got ready for use at dinner.

His acquaintance with the Spanish language was marvellous; from the
finest works of Calderon to the ballads in the patois of every province,
he could quote, to the infinite delight of those with whom he
associated. He could assume any character that he pleased: he could be
the Castilian, haughty and reserved; the Asturian, stupid and plodding;
the Catalonian, intriguing and cunning; the Andalusian, laughing and
merry,--in short, he was all things to all men. Nor was he incapable of
passing off, when occasion required, for a Frenchman; but, as he spoke
the language with a strong German accent, he called himself an Alsatian.
He maintained that character with the utmost nicety; and as there is a
strong feeling of friendship, almost equal to that which exists in
Scotland, amongst all those who are born in the departments of France
bordering on the Rhine, and who maintain their Teutonic originality, he
always found friends and supporters in every regiment in the French
service.

He was on one occasion entrusted with a very difficult mission by the
Duke of Wellington, which he undertook effectually to perform, and to
return on a particular day with the information that was required.

Great was the disappointment when it was ascertained beyond a doubt
that, just after leaving the camp, he had been taken prisoner before he
had time to exchange his uniform. Such, however, was the case; a troop
of dragoons had intercepted him, and carried him off; and the commanding
officer desired two soldiers to keep a strict watch over him and carry
him to headquarters. He was, of course, disarmed, and, being placed on a
horse, was, after a short time, galloped off by his guards. He slept one
night under durance vile at a small inn, where he was allowed to remain
in the kitchen; conversation flowed on very glibly, and, as he appeared
a stupid Englishman, who could not understand a word of French or
Spanish, he was allowed to listen, and thus obtained precisely the
intelligence that he was in search of. The following morning, being
again mounted, he overheard a conversation between his guards, who
deliberately agreed to rob him, and to shoot him at a mill where they
were to stop, and to report to their officer that they had been
compelled to fire at him in consequence of his attempt to escape.

Shortly before they arrived at the mill, for fear that they might meet
with some one who would insist on having a portion of the spoil, the
dragoons took from their prisoner his watch and his purse, which he
surrendered with a good grace. On their arrival at the mill they
dismounted, and, in order to give some appearance of truth to their
story, they went into the house, leaving their prisoner outside, in the
hope that he would make some attempt to escape. In an instant Waters
threw his cloak upon a neighbouring olive-bush, and mounted his cocked
hat on the top. Some empty flour-sacks lay upon the ground, and a horse
laden with well-filled flour-sacks stood at the door. Sir John contrived
to enter one of the empty sacks and throw himself across the horse. When
the soldiers came out of the house they fired their carbines at the
supposed prisoner, and galloped off at the utmost speed.

A short time after the miller came out and mounted his steed; the
general contrived to rid himself of the encumbrance of the sack, and sat
up, riding behind the man, who, suddenly turning round, saw a ghost, as
he believed, for the flour that still remained in the sack had
completely whitened his fellow-traveller and given him a most unearthly
appearance. The frightened miller was "putrified," as Mrs. Malaprop
would say, at the sight, and a push from the white spectre brought the
unfortunate man to the ground, when away rode the gallant quartermaster
with his sacks of flour, which, at length bursting, made a ludicrous
spectacle of man and horse.

On reaching the English camp, where Lord Wellington was anxiously
deploring his fate, a sudden shout from the soldiers made his lordship
turn round, when a figure, resembling the statue in "Don Juan," galloped
up to him. The duke, affectionately shaking him by the hand, said:

"Waters, you never yet deceived me; and, though you have come in a most
questionable shape, I must congratulate you and myself."

When this story was told at the Club, one of those listeners who always
want something more called out, "Well, and what did Waters say?" to
which Alvanley replied:

"Oh, Waters made a very _flowery_ speech, like a well-bred man."


LORD WESTMORELAND
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

When I was presented at the Court of Louis XVIII. Lord Westmoreland, the
grandfather of the present lord, accompanied Sir Charles Stewart to the
Tuileries. On our arrival in the room where the King was we formed
ourselves into a circle, when the King good-naturedly inquired after
Lady Westmoreland, from whom his lordship was divorced, and whether she
was in Paris. Upon this the noble lord looked sullen, and refused to
reply to the question put by the King. His Majesty, however, repeated
it, when Lord Westmoreland hallooed out, in bad French, "Je ne sais pas,
je ne sais pas, je ne sais pas." Louis, rising, said, "Assez, milord;
assez, milord."

On one occasion, Lord Westmoreland, who was Lord Privy Seal, being asked
what office he held, replied, "Le Chancellier est le grand sceau (sot);
moi je suis le petit sceau d'Angle-terre." On another occasion, he
wished to say "I would if I could, but I can't," and rendered it, "Je
voudrais si je coudrais, mais je ne cannais pas."


COLONEL KELLY AND HIS BLACKING
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

Among the odd characters I have met with, I do not recollect any one
more eccentric than the late Lieutenant-Colonel Kelly, of the First Foot
Guards, who was the vainest man I ever encountered. He was a thin,
emaciated-looking dandy, but had all the bearing of a gentleman. He was
haughty in the extreme, and very fond of dress; his boots were so well
varnished that the polish now in use could not surpass Kelly's blacking
in brilliancy; his pantaloons were made of the finest leather, and his
coats were inimitable; in short, his dress was considered perfect.

His sister held the place of housekeeper to the Custom-house, and when
it was burnt down, Kelly was burnt with it, in endeavouring to save his
favourite boots. When the news of his horrible death became known, all
the dandies were anxious to secure the service of his valet, who
possessed the mystery of the inimitable blacking. Brummell lost no time
in discovering his place of residence, and asked what wages he required;
the servant answered, his late master gave him £150 a year, but it was
not enough for his talents, and he should require £200; upon which
Brummell said, "Well, if you will make it guineas, _I_ shall be happy to
attend upon _you_." The late Lord Plymouth eventually secured this
phoenix of valets at £200 a year, and bore away the sovereignty of
boots.


JOHN KEMBLE
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

John Kemble had the honour of giving the Prince of Wales some lessons in
elocution. According to the vitiated pronunciation of the day, the
Prince, instead of saying "oblige," would say "obleege," upon which
Kemble, with much disgust depicted upon his countenance, said:

"Sir, may I beseech your Royal Highness to open your royal jaws, and say
'oblige'?"


ROGERS AND LUTTRELL
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

I saw a good deal of the poet Rogers during his frequent visits to
Paris; and often visited him in his apartments, which were always on the
fourth or fifth story of the hotel or private house in which he lived.
He was rich, and by no means avaricious, and chose those lofty chambers
partly from a poetic wish to see the sun rise with greater brilliancy,
and partly from a fancy that the exercise he was obliged to take in
going up and down stairs would prove beneficial to his liver.

I could relate many unpublished anecdotes of Rogers, but they lose their
piquancy when one attempts to narrate them. There was so much in his
appearance, in that cadaverous, unchanging countenance, in the peculiar
low, drawling voice, and rather tremulous accents in which he spoke. His
intonations were very much those one fancies a ghost would use if forced
by some magic spell to give utterance to sounds. The mild venom of every
word was a remarkable trait in his conversation. One might have compared
the old poet to one of those velvety caterpillars that crawl gently and
quietly over the skin, but leave an irritating blister behind. To those,
like myself, who were _sans_ consequence, and with whom he feared no
rivalry, he was very good-natured and amiable, and a most pleasant
companion, with a fund of curious anecdote about everything and
everybody. But woe betide those in great prosperity and renown; they
had, like the Roman emperor, in Rogers the personification of the slave
who bade them "remember they were mortal."

At an evening party many years since at Lady Jersey's every one was
praising the Duke of B----, who had just come in, and who had lately
attained his majority. There was a perfect chorus of admiration to this
effect: "Everything is in his favour--he has good looks, considerable
abilities, and a hundred thousand a year." Rogers, who had been
carefully examining the "young ruler," listened to these encomiums for
some time in silence, and at last remarked, with an air of great
exultation, and in his most venomous manner, "Thank God, he has got bad
teeth!"

His well-known epigram on Mr. Ward, afterwards Lord Dudley--

  They say that Ward's no heart, but I deny it;
  He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it--

was provoked by a remark made at table by Mr. Ward. On Rogers observing
that his carriage had broken down, and that he had been obliged to come
in a hackney-coach, Mr. Ward grumbled out in a very audible whisper, "In
a hearse, I should think," alluding to the poet's corpse-like
appearance. This remark Rogers never forgave, and, I have no doubt,
pored over his retaliatory impromptu, for he had no facility in
composition. Sydney Smith used to say that, if Rogers was writing a
dozen verses, the street was strewn with straw, the knocker tied up,
and the answer to the tender inquiries of his anxious friends was, that
Mr. Rogers was as well as could be expected.

It used to be very amusing in London to see Rogers with his _fidus
Achates_, Luttrell. They were inseparable, though rival wits, and
constantly saying bitter things to each other. Luttrell was the natural
son of Lord Carhampton, Commander-in-Chief in Ireland, and in his youth
known as the famous Colonel Luttrell of Junius. I consider him to have
been the most agreeable man I ever met. He was far more brilliant in
conversation than Rogers; and his animated, bustling manner formed an
agreeable contrast with the spiteful calmness of his corpse-like
companion. He was extremely irritable, and even passionate; and in his
moments of anger he would splutter and stutter like a maniac in his
anxiety to give utterance to the flow of thoughts which crowded his
mind, and, I might almost say, his mouth.

On one occasion the late Lady Holland took him a drive in her carriage
over a rough road, and, as she was very nervous, she insisted on being
driven at a foot's pace. This ordeal lasted some hours, and when he was
at last released, poor Luttrell, perfectly exasperated, rushed into the
nearest club-house, and exclaimed, clenching his teeth and hands, "The
very funerals passed us!"


THE PIG-FACED LADY
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

Among the many absurd reports and ridiculous stories current in former
days, I know of none more absurd or more ridiculous than the general
belief of everybody in London, during the winter of 1814, in the
existence of a lady with a pig's face. This interesting specimen of
porcine physiognomy was said to be the daughter of a great lady residing
in Grosvenor Square.

It was rumoured that during the illuminations which took place to
celebrate the peace, when a great crowd had assembled in Piccadilly and
St. James's Street, and when carriages could not move on very rapidly,
_horresco referens!_ an enormous pig's snout had been seen protruding
from a fashionable-looking bonnet in one of the landaus which were
passing. The mob cried out, "The pig-faced lady! Stop the carriage--stop
the carriage!" The coachman, wishing to save his bacon, whipped his
horses, and drove through the crowd at a tremendous pace; but it was
said that the coach had been seen to set down its monstrous load in
Grosvenor Square.

Another report was also current. Sir William Elliot, a youthful baronet,
calling one day to pay his respects to the great lady in Grosvenor
Square, was ushered into a drawing-room, where he found a person
fashionably dressed, who, on turning towards him, displayed a hideous
pig's face. Sir William, a timid young gentleman, could not refrain from
uttering a shout of horror, and rushed to the door in a manner the
reverse of polite; when the infuriated lady or animal, uttering a series
of grunts, rushed at the unfortunate baronet as he was retreating, and
inflicted a severe wound on the back of his neck. This highly improbable
story concluded by stating that Sir William's wound was a severe one,
and had been dressed by Hawkins, the surgeon, in St. Audley Street.

I am really almost ashamed to repeat this absurd story; but many persons
now alive can remember the strong belief in the existence of the
pig-faced lady which prevailed in the public mind at the time of which I
speak. The shops were full of caricatures of the pig-faced lady, in a
poke bonnet and large veil, with "A pig in a poke" written underneath
the print. Another sketch represented Sir William Elliot's misadventure,
and was entitled, "Beware the pig-sty!"


HOBY, THE BOOTMAKER, OF ST. JAMES'S STREET
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

Hoby was not only the greatest and most fashionable bootmaker in London,
but, in spite of the old adage, _ne sutor ultra crepidam_, he employed
his spare time with considerable success as a Methodist preacher at
Islington. He was said to have in his employment three hundred workmen;
and he was so great a man in his own estimation that he was apt to take
rather an insolent tone with his customers. He was, however, tolerated
as a sort of privileged person, and his impertinence was not only
overlooked but was considered as rather a good joke. He was a pompous
fellow, with a considerable vein of sarcastic humour.

I remember Horace Churchill (afterwards killed in India with the rank of
major-general), who was then an ensign in the Guards, entering Hoby's
shop in a great passion, saying that his boots were so ill made that he
should never employ Hoby for the future. Hoby, putting on a pathetic
cast of countenance, called to his shopman:

"John, close the shutters. It is all over with us. I must shut up shop;
Ensign Churchill withdraws his custom from me."

Churchill's fury can be better imagined than described.

On another occasion the late Sir John Shelley came into Hoby's shop to
complain that his top-boots had split in several places. Hoby quietly
said:

"How did that happen, Sir John?"

"Why, in walking to my stables."

"Walking to your stables!" said Hoby, with a sneer. "I made the boots
for riding, not walking."

Hoby was bootmaker to the Duke of Kent; and, as he was calling on H.R.H.
to try on some boots, the news arrived that Lord Wellington had gained a
great victory over the French army at Vittoria. The duke was kind enough
to mention the glorious news to Hoby, who coolly said:

"If Lord Wellington had had any other bootmaker than myself he never
would have had his great and constant successes; for my boots and
prayers bring his lordship out of all his difficulties."

One may well say that there is nothing like leather; for Hoby died worth
a hundred and twenty thousand pounds.

Hoby was bootmaker to George III., the Prince of Wales, the royal dukes,
and many officers in the Army and Navy. His shop was situated at the top
of St. James's Street, at the corner of Piccadilly, next to the Old
Guards Club. He was bootmaker to the Duke of Wellington from his
boyhood, and received innumerable orders in the duke's handwriting, both
from the Peninsula and France, which he always religiously preserved.
Hoby was the first man who drove about London in a tilbury. It was
painted black, and drawn by a beautiful black cob. This vehicle was
built by the inventor, Mr. Tilbury, whose manufactory was, fifty years
back, in a street leading from South Audley Street into Park Street.


HARRINGTON HOUSE AND LORD PETERSHAM
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

When our army returned to England in 1814 my young friend, Augustus
Stanhope, took me one afternoon to Harrington House, in Stable-yard,
St. James's, where I was introduced to Lord and Lady Harrington, and all
the Stanhopes. On entering a long gallery, I found the whole family
engaged in their sempiternal occupation of tea-drinking. Neither in
Nankin, Pekin, nor Canton was the teapot more assiduously and constantly
replenished than at this hospitable mansion. I was made free of the
corporation, if I may use the phrase, by a cup being handed to me; and I
must say that I never tasted any tea so good before or since.

As an example of the undeviating tea-table habits of the house of
Harrington, General Lincoln Stanhope once told me that, after an absence
of several years in India, he made his reappearance at Harrington House,
and found the family, as he had left them on his departure, drinking tea
in the long gallery. On his presenting himself, his father's only
observation and speech of welcome to him was, "Hallo, Linky, my dear
boy! delighted to see you. Have a cup of tea?"


LORD ALVANLEY
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

From the time of good Queen Bess, when the English language first began
to assume somewhat of its present form, idiom, and mode of expression,
to the day of our most gracious sovereign Queen Victoria, every age has
had its punsters, humorists, and eloquent conversationalists; but I much
doubt whether the year 1789 did not produce the greatest wit of modern
times, in the person of William Lord Alvanley.

After receiving a very excellent and careful education, Alvanley entered
the Coldstream Guards at an early age, and served with distinction at
Copenhagen and in the Peninsula; but, being in possession of a large
fortune, he left the Army, gave himself up entirely to the pursuit of
pleasure, and became one of the principal dandies of the day. With the
brilliant talents which he possessed, he might have attained to the
highest eminence in any line of life he had embraced.

Not only was Alvanley considered the wittiest man of his day in England,
but, during his residence in France, and tours through Russia and other
countries, he was universally admitted to possess, not only great wit
and humour, but _l'esprit français_ in its highest perfection; and no
greater compliment could be paid him by foreigners than this. He was one
of the rare examples (particularly rare in the days of the dandies, who
were generally sour and spiteful) of a man combining brilliant wit and
repartee with the most perfect good-nature. His manner, above all, was
irresistible; and the slight lisp, which might have been considered as a
blemish, only added piquancy and zest to his sayings.

In appearance he was about the middle height, and well and strongly
built, though he latterly became somewhat corpulent. He excelled in all
manly exercises, was a hard rider to hounds, and was what those who do
not belong to the upper ten thousand call "a good-plucked one." His face
had somewhat of the rotund form and smiling expression which
characterises the jolly friars one meets with in Italy. His hair and
eyes were dark, and he had a very small nose, to which, after deep
potations, his copious pinches of snuff had some difficulty in finding
their way, and were in consequence rather lavishly bestowed upon his
florid cheek. He resided in Park Street, St. James's, and his dinners
there and at Melton were considered to be the best in England. He never
invited more than eight people, and insisted upon having the somewhat
expensive luxury of an apricot-tart on the sideboard the whole year
round.

Alvanley was a good speaker; and, having made some allusion to O'Connell
in rather strong terms in the House of Lords, the latter very coarsely
and unjustly denounced him, in a speech he made in the House of Commons,
as a bloated buffoon. Alvanley thereupon called out the Liberator, who
would not meet him, but excused himself by saying, "There is blood
already on this hand"--alluding to his fatal duel with D'Esterre.

Alvanley then threatened O'Connell with personal chastisement. Upon
this, Morgan O'Connell, a very agreeable, gentlemanlike man, who had
been in the Austrian service, and whom I knew well, said he would take
his father's place. A meeting was accordingly agreed upon at Wimbledon
Common, Alvanley's second was Colonel George Dawson Damer, and our late
consul at Hamburgh, Colonel Hodges, acted for Morgan O'Connell. Several
shots were fired without effect, and the seconds then interfered and put
a stop to any further hostilities.

On their way home in a hackney-coach, Alvanley said, "What a clumsy
fellow O'Connell must be, to miss such a fat fellow as I am! He ought to
practise at a haystack to get his hand in." When the carriage drove up
to Alvanley's door, he gave the coachman a sovereign. Jarvey was profuse
in his thanks and said, "It's a great deal for only having taken your
lordship to Wimbledon."

"No, my good man," said Alvanley; "I give it you, not for taking me, but
for bringing me back."

Everybody knows the story of Gunter, the pastrycook. He was mounted on a
runaway horse with the King's hounds, and excused himself for riding
against Alvanley by saying, "Oh my lord, I can't hold him, he's so hot!"
"Ice him, Gunter--ice him!" was the consoling rejoinder.

In the hunting-field in a northern county, Sir Charles S----, whose
married life was not a very happy one, wore one morning at the meet a
wonderful greatcoat, with enormous horn buttons. Alvanley, riding up to
him, and apparently looking at the buttons with great admiration, said,
"A little attention of Lady S----'s, I presume, Sir Charles?"

Alvanley had a delightful recklessness and _laisser aller_ in
everything. His manner of putting out his light at night was not a very
pleasant one for his host for the time being. He always read in bed, and
when he wanted to go to sleep he either extinguished his candle by
throwing it on the floor in the middle of the room, and taking a shot at
it with the pillow, or else quietly placed it, when still lighted, under
the bolster. At Badminton, and other country houses, his habits in this
respect were so well known that a servant was ordered to sit up in the
passage to keep watch over him.

Alvanley's recklessness in money matters was almost incredible. His
creditors having become at last very clamorous, that able and astute man
of the world, Mr. Charles Greville, with the energetic and bustling
kindness in mixing himself up in all his friends' affairs which still
distinguishes him, had undertaken to settle those of Alvanley. After
going through every item of the debts, matters looked more promising
than Mr. Greville expected, and he took his leave. In the morning he
received a note from Alvanley, to say that he had quite forgotten to
take into account a debt of fifty-five thousand pounds.


SALLY LUNN
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

Some fifty years back, or thereabouts, Albinia, Countess of
Buckinghamshire, lived in her charming villa in Pimlico, surrounded by a
large and beautiful garden. It was here she used to entertain the
_élite_ of London society with magnificent _fêtes, bal champêtres_, and
public breakfasts. After one of those _fêtes_, I called one morning to
pay my respects; and, on ringing the bell, the servant ushered me into
the conservatory, where I found Lady Harrington, the celebrated
cantatrice Mrs. Billington, and the Duke of Sussex, who was said to be
very much _épris_ with the English "Catalani," as she was called.

Mrs. Billington was extremely beautiful, though it was absurd to compare
her to Catalani as a singer; but she was the favourite of the Duke of
Sussex, which made her many friends. During my visit, chocolate and
tea-cakes were served to our party, when Lady Harrington related a
curious anecdote about those cakes. She said her friend Madame de
Narbonne, during the emigration, determined not to live upon the bounty
of foreigners, found means to amass money enough to enable her to open a
shop in Chelsea, not far from the then fashionable balls of Ranelagh.

It had been the custom in France, before the Revolution, for young
ladies in some noble families to learn the art of making preserves and
pastry; accordingly, Madame de Narbonne commenced her operations under
the auspices of some of her acquaintances; and all those who went to
Ranelagh made a point of stopping and buying some of her cakes. Their
fame spread like lightning throughout the West End, and orders were
given to have them sent for breakfast and tea in many great houses in
the neighbourhood of St. James's. Madame de Narbonne employed a Scotch
maid-servant to execute her orders. The name of this woman was "Sally
Lunn," and ever since a particular kind of tea-cake has gone by that
name.

Madame de Narbonne, not speaking English, replied to her customers (when
they inquired the name of the _brioches_), "bon." Hence the etymology of
"bun," according to Lady Harrington; but I confess that I do not feel
quite satisfied with her derivation.


"MONK" LEWIS
[Sidenote: _Captain Gronow_]

"Monk" Lewis had a black servant, affectionately attached to his master;
but so ridiculously did this servant repeat his master's expressions,
that he became the laughing-stock of all his master's friends. Brummell
used often to raise a hearty laugh at Carlton House by repeating
witticisms which he pretended to have heard from Lewis's servant; some
of these were very stale; yet they were considered so good as to be
repeated at the clubs, and greatly added to the reputation of the Beau
as a teller of good things. "On one occasion," said Brummell, "I called
to inquire after a young lady who had sprained her ankle. Lewis, on
being asked how she was, had said, in the black's presence, 'The doctor
has seen her, put her legs straight, and the poor chicken is doing
well.' The servant, therefore, told me, with a mysterious and knowing
look, 'Oh, sir, the doctor has been here, she has laid eggs, and she and
the chickens are doing well.'"


THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD
[Sidenote: _Hood_]

  I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
  Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;
  And whiles His flatterynge Vowes she drank,
  Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

  All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
  For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
  The Sunne went down before She wist
  Another Sonne had sett behinde!

  With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
  That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,
  She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
  Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

  She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
  With Shrikes that Echo answered round--
  O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde
  The Momente that her Care was drownd!


SHY NEIGHBOURHOODS
[Sidenote: _Charles Dickens_]

One of the pleasantest things I have lately met with, in a vagabond
course of shy metropolitan neighbourhoods and small shops, is the fancy
of a humble artist, as exemplified in two portraits representing Mr.
Thomas Sayers, of Great Britain, and Mr. John Heenan, of the United
States of America. These illustrious men are highly coloured in fighting
trim and fighting attitude. To suggest the pastoral and meditative
nature of their peaceful calling, Mr. Heenan is represented on emerald
sward, with primroses and other modest flowers springing up under the
heels of his half-boots; while Mr. Sayers is impelled to the
administration of his favourite blow, the Auctioneer, by the silent
eloquence of a village church. The humble homes of England, with their
domestic virtues and honeysuckle porches, urge both heroes to go in and
win; and the lark and other singing birds are observable in the upper
air, ecstatically carolling their thanks to Heaven for a fight. On the
whole, the associations entwined with the pugilistic art by this artist
are much in the manner of Izaak Walton.

But it is with the lower animals of back streets and by-ways that my
present purpose rests. For human notes we may return to such
neighbourhoods when leisure and opportunity serve.

Nothing in shy neighbourhoods perplexes my mind more than the bad
company birds keep. Foreign birds often get into good society, but
British birds are inseparable from low associates. There is a whole
street of them in St. Giles's; and I always find them in poor and
immoral neighbourhoods, convenient to the public-house and the
pawnbroker's. They seem to lead people into drinking, and even the man
who makes their cages usually gets into a chronic state of black eye.
Why is this? Also, they will do things for people in short-skirted
velveteen coats with bone buttons, or in sleeved waistcoats and fur
caps, which they cannot be persuaded by the respectable orders of
society to undertake. In a dirty court in Spitalfields, once, I found a
goldfinch drawing his own water, and drawing as much of it as if he were
in a consuming fever. That goldfinch lived at a bird-shop, and offered,
in writing, to barter himself against old clothes, empty bottles, or
even kitchen stuff. Surely a low thing and a depraved taste in any
finch! I bought that goldfinch for money. He was sent home, and hung
upon a nail over against my table. He lived outside a counterfeit
dwelling-house, supposed (as I argued) to be a dyer's; otherwise it
would have been impossible to account for his perch sticking out of the
garret window. From the time of his appearance in my room, either he
left off being thirsty--which was not in the bond--or he could not make
up his mind to hear his little bucket drop back into his well when he
let it go; a shock which in the best of times had made him tremble. He
drew no water but by stealth and under the cloak of night. After an
interval of futile and at length hopeless expectation, the merchant who
had educated him was appealed to. The merchant was a bow-legged
character, with a flat and cushiony nose, like the last new strawberry.
He wore a fur cap and shorts, and was of the velveteen race, velveteeny.
He sent word that he would "look round." He looked round, appeared in
the doorway of the room, and slightly cocked up his evil eye at the
goldfinch. Instantly a raging thirst beset that bird; when it was
appeased, he still drew several unnecessary buckets of water; and
finally, leaped about his perch and sharpened his bill as if he had been
to the nearest wine-vaults and got drunk.

Donkeys, again. I know shy neighbourhoods where the donkey goes in at
the street-door, and appears to live upstairs, for I have examined the
back-yard from over the palings, and have been unable to make him out.
Gentility, nobility, royalty, would appeal to that donkey in vain to do
what he does for a costermonger. Feed him with oats at the highest
price, put an infant prince and princess in a pair of panniers on his
back, adjust his delicate trappings to a nicety, take him to the softest
slopes at Windsor, and try what pace you can get out of him. Then starve
him, harness him anyhow to a truck with a flat tray on it, and see him
bowl from Whitechapel to Bayswater. There appears to be no particular
private understanding between birds and donkeys, in a state of nature;
but in the shy neighbourhood state you shall see them always in the same
hands and always developing their very best energies for the very worst
company. I have known a donkey--by sight; we were not on speaking
terms--who lived over on the Surrey side of London Bridge, among the
fastnesses of Jacob's Island and Dockhead. It was the habit of that
animal, when his services were not in immediate requisition, to go out
alone idling. I have met him a mile from his place of residence,
loitering about the streets; and the expression of his countenance at
such times was most degraded. He was attached to the establishment of an
elderly lady who sold periwinkles, and he used to stand on Saturday
nights with a cartful of those delicacies outside a gin-shop, pricking
up his ears when a customer came to the cart, and too evidently deriving
satisfaction from the knowledge that they got bad measure. His mistress
was sometimes overtaken by inebriety. The last time I ever saw him
(about five years ago) he was in circumstances of difficulty, caused by
this failing. Having been left alone with the cart of periwinkles, and
forgotten, he went off idling. He prowled among his usual low haunts for
some time, gratifying his depraved tastes, until, not taking the cart
into his calculations, he endeavoured to turn up a narrow alley, and
became greatly involved. He was taken into custody by the police, and,
the Green Yard of the district being near at hand, was backed into that
place of durance. At that crisis I encountered him; the stubborn sense
he evinced of being--not to compromise the expression--a blackguard, I
never saw exceeded in the human subject. A flaring candle in a paper
shade, stuck in among his periwinkles, showed him, with his ragged
harness broken and his cart extensively shattered, twitching his mouth
and shaking his hanging head, a picture of disgrace and obduracy. I have
seen boys being taken to station-houses, who were as like him as his own
brother.

The dogs of shy neighbourhoods I observe to avoid play, and to be
conscious of poverty. They avoid work, too, if they can, of course; that
is in the nature of all animals. I have the pleasure to know a dog in a
back street in the neighbourhood of Walworth who has greatly
distinguished himself in the minor drama, and who takes his portrait
with him when he makes an engagement, for the illustration of the
playbill. His portrait (which is not at all like him) represents him in
the act of dragging to the earth a recreant Indian, who is supposed to
have tomahawked, or essayed to tomahawk, a British officer. The design
is pure poetry, for there is no such Indian in the piece, and no such
incident. He is a dog of the Newfoundland breed, for whose honesty I
would be bail to any amount; but whose intellectual qualities in
association with dramatic fiction I cannot rate high. Indeed, he is too
honest for the profession he has entered. Being at a town in Yorkshire
last summer, and seeing him posted in the bill of the night, I attended
the performance. His first scene was eminently successful; but, as it
occupied a second in its representation (and five lines in the bill), it
scarcely afforded ground for a cool and deliberate judgment of his
powers. He had merely to bark, run on, and jump through an inn window,
after a comic fugitive. The next scene of importance to the fable was a
little marred in its interest by his over-anxiety; forasmuch as while
his master (a belated soldier in a den of robbers on a tempestuous
night) was feelingly lamenting the absence of his faithful dog, and
laying great stress on the fact that he was thirty leagues away, the
faithful dog was barking furiously in the prompter's box, and clearly
choking himself against his collar. But it was in his greatest scene of
all that his honesty got the better of him. He had to enter a dense and
trackless forest, on the trail of the murderer, and there to fly at the
murderer when he found him resting at the foot of a tree, with his
victim bound ready for slaughter. It was a hot night, and he came into
the forest from an altogether unexpected direction, in the sweetest
temper, at a very deliberate trot, not in the least excited; trotted to
the foot-lights with his tongue out; and there sat down, panting, and
amiably surveying the audience, with his tail beating the boards, like a
Dutch clock. Meanwhile the murderer, impatient to receive his doom, was
audibly calling to him "Co-o-ome here!" while the victim, struggling
with his bonds, assailed him with the most injurious expressions. It
happened, through these means, that when he was in course of time
persuaded to trot up and rend the murderer limb from limb, he made it
(for dramatic purposes) a little too obvious that he worked out that
awful retribution by licking butter off his blood-stained hands.

In a shy street behind Long Acre, two honest dogs live who perform in
Punch's shows. I may venture to say that I am on terms of intimacy with
both, and that I never saw either guilty of the falsehood of failing to
look down at the man inside the show, during the whole performance. The
difficulty other dogs have in satisfying their minds about these dogs
appears to be never overcome by time. The same dogs must encounter them
over and over again, as they trudge along in their off-minutes behind
the legs of the show and beside the drum; but all dogs seem to suspect
their frills and jackets, and to sniff at them as if they thought those
articles of personal adornment an eruption--a something in the nature of
mange, perhaps. From this Covent-garden window of mine I noticed a
country dog only the other day, who had come up to Covent Garden Market
under a cart, and had broken his cord, an end of which he still trailed
along with him. He loitered about the corners of the four streets
commanded by my window; and bad London dogs came up and told him lies
that he didn't believe; and worse London dogs came up and made proposals
to him to go end steal in the market, which his principles rejected; and
the ways of the town confused him, and he crept aside and lay down in a
doorway. He had scarcely got a wink of sleep, when up comes Punch with
Toby. He was darting to Toby for consolation and advice, when he saw the
frill, and stopped, in the middle of the street, appalled. The show was
pitched, Toby retired behind the drapery, the audience formed, the drum
and pipes struck up. My country dog remained immovable, intently staring
at these strange appearances, until Toby opened the drama by appearing
on his ledge, and to him entered Punch, who put a tobacco-pipe into
Toby's mouth. At this spectacle the country dog threw up his head, gave
one terrible howl, and fled due west.

We talk of men keeping dogs, but we might often talk more expressively
of dogs keeping men. I know a bull-dog in a shy corner of Hammersmith
who keeps a man. He keeps him up a yard, and makes him go to the
public-houses and lay wagers on him, and obliges him to lean against
posts and look at him, and forces him to neglect work for him, and keeps
him under rigid coercion. I once knew a fancy terrier who kept a
gentleman--a gentleman who had been brought up at Oxford, too. The dog
kept the gentleman entirely for his glorification, and the gentleman
never talked about anything but the terrier. This, however, was not in a
shy neighbourhood, and is a digression consequently.

There are a great many dogs in shy neighbourhoods who keep boys. I have
my eye on a mongrel in Somerstown who keeps three boys. He feigns that
he can bring down sparrows and unburrow rats (he can do neither), and he
takes the boys out on sporting pretences into all sorts of suburban
fields. He has likewise made them believe that he possesses some
mysterious knowledge of the art of fishing, and they consider themselves
incompletely equipped for the Hampstead ponds, with a pickle-jar and
wide-mouthed bottle, unless he is with them and barking tremendously.
There is a dog residing in the Borough of Southwark who keeps a blind
man. He may be seen most days, in Oxford Street, haling the blind man
away on expeditions wholly uncontemplated by, and unintelligible to, the
man; wholly of the dog's conception and execution. Contrariwise, when
the man has projects, the dog will sit down in a crowded thoroughfare
and meditate. I saw him yesterday, wearing the money-tray like an easy
collar, instead of offering it to the public, taking the man against his
will, on the invitation of a disreputable cur, apparently to visit a dog
at Harrow--he was so intent on that direction. The north wall of
Burlington House Gardens, between the Arcade and the Albany, offers a
shy spot for appointments among blind men at about two or three o'clock
in the afternoon. They sit (very uncomfortably) on a sloping stone
there, and compare notes. Their dogs may always be observed, at the same
time, openly disparaging the men they keep, to one another, and settling
where they shall respectively take their men when they begin to move
again. At a small butcher's in a shy neighbourhood (there is no reason
for suppressing the name; it is by Notting Hill, and gives upon the
district called the Potteries), I know a shaggy black-and-white dog who
keeps a drover. He is a dog of an easy disposition, and too frequently
allows this drover to get drunk. On these occasions it is the dog's
custom to sit outside the public-house, keeping his eye on a few sheep,
plainly casting up in his mind how many he began with when he left the
market, and at what places he has left the rest. I have seen him
perplexed by not being able to account to himself for certain particular
sheep. A light has gradually broken on him, he has remembered at what
butcher's he left them, and in a burst of grave satisfaction has caught
a fly off his nose, and shown himself much relieved. If I could at any
time have doubted the fact that it was he who kept the drover, and not
the drover who kept him, it would have been abundantly proved by his way
of taking undivided charge of the six sheep, when the drover came out
besmeared with red ochre and beer, and gave him wrong directions, which
he calmly disregarded. He has taken the sheep entirely into his own
hands, has merely remarked with respectful firmness, "That instruction
would place them under an omnibus; you had better confine your attention
to yourself--you will want it all"; and has driven his charge away, with
an intelligence of ears and tail, and a knowledge of business, that has
left his lout of a man very, very far behind.

As the dogs of shy neighbourhoods usually betray a slinking
consciousness of being in poor circumstances--for the most part
manifested in an aspect of anxiety, an awkwardness in their play, and a
misgiving that somebody is going to harness them to something, to pick
up a living--so the cats of shy neighbourhoods exhibit a strong tendency
to relapse into barbarism. Not only are they made selfishly ferocious by
ruminating on the surplus population around them, and on the densely
crowded state of all the avenues to cats'-meat; not only is there a
moral and politico-economical haggardness in them, traceable to these
reflections; but they evince a physical deterioration. Their linen is
not clean, and is wretchedly got up; their black turns rusty, like old
mourning; they wear very indifferent fur; and take to the shabbiest
cotton velvet, instead of silk velvet. I am on terms of recognition with
several small streets of cats, about the Obelisk in Saint George's
Fields, and also in the vicinity of Clerkenwell Green, and also in the
back settlements of Drury Lane. In appearance, they are very like the
women among whom they live. They seem to turn out of their unwholesome
beds into the street, without any preparation. They leave their young
families to stagger about the gutters, unassisted, while they frouzily
quarrel and swear and scratch and spit at street corners. In particular,
I remark that when they are about to increase their families (an event
of frequent recurrence) the resemblance is strongly expressed in a
certain dusty dowdiness down-at-heel self-neglect, and general giving up
of things. I cannot honestly report that I have ever seen a feline
matron of this class washing her face when in an interesting condition.

Not to prolong these notes of uncommercial travel among the lower
animals of shy neighbourhoods by dwelling at length upon the exasperated
moodiness of the tom-cats and their resemblance in many respects to a
man and a brother, I will come to a close with a word on the fowls of
the same localities.

That anything born of an egg and invested with wings should have got to
the pass that it hops contentedly down a ladder into a cellar, and calls
_that_ going home, is a circumstance so amazing as to leave one nothing
more in this connexion to wonder at. Otherwise I might wonder at the
completeness with which these fowls have become separated from all the
birds of the air--have taken to grovelling in bricks and mortar and
mud--have forgotten all about live trees and make roosting-places of
shop-boards, barrows, oyster-tubs, bulk-heads, and door-scrapers. I
wonder at nothing concerning them, and take them as they are. I accept
as products of nature and things of course a reduced Bantam family of my
acquaintance in the Hackney Road, who are incessantly at the
pawnbroker's. I cannot say that they enjoy themselves, for they are of a
melancholy temperament; but what enjoyment they are capable of they
derive from crowding together in the pawnbroker's side-entry. Here, they
are always to be found in a feeble flutter, as if they were newly come
down in the world, and were afraid of being identified. I know a low
fellow, originally of a good family from Dorking, who takes his whole
establishment of wives, in single file, in at the door of the jug
department of a disorderly tavern near the Haymarket, manoeuvres them
among the company's legs, emerges with them at the Bottle Entrance, and
so passes his life. Over Waterloo Bridge there is a shabby old speckled
couple (they belong to the wooden French-bedstead, washingstand, and
towel-horse-making trade) who are always trying to get in at the door of
a chapel. Whether the old lady, under a delusion reminding one of Mrs.
Southcott, has an idea of entrusting an egg to that particular
denomination, or merely understands that she has no business in the
building and is consequently frantic to enter it, I cannot determine;
but she is constantly endeavouring to undermine the principal door;
while her partner, who is infirm upon his legs, walks up and down,
encouraging her and defying the Universe. But the family I have been
best acquainted with, since the removal from this trying sphere of a
Chinese circle at Brentford, reside in the densest part of Bethnal
Green. Their abstraction from the obj