The Confessions Of Harry Lorrequer V6 By Charles James Lever

MDCCCXXXIX. Volume 6. (Chapter XLII-LV) Contents: CHAPTER XLII.The Journey CHAPTER XLIII.The Journey CHAPTER XLIV.A Reminscence of the East CHAPTER XLV.A Day in the Phoenix CHAPTER XLVI.An Adventure in Canada CHAPTER XLVII.The Courier’s Passport CHAPTER XLVIII.A Night in Strasbourg CHAPTER XLIX.A Surprise CHAPTER L.Jack Waller’s Story CHAPTER LI.Munich CHAPTER LII.Inn at Munich CHAPTER LIII.The Ball CHAPTER LIV.A Discovery CHAPTER LV.Conclusion CHAPTER XLII. THE JOURNEY. Trevanion came at last. He had obtained my passport, and engaged a carriage to convey me about eight miles, where I should overtake the diligence–such a mode of travelling being judged more likely to favour my escape, by attracting less attention than posting. It was past ten when I left the Rue St. Honore, having shaken hands with Trevanion for the last time, and charged him with ten thousand soft messages for the “friends” I left behind me. When I arrived at the village of St. Jacques, the diligence had not come up. To pass away the time, I ordered a little supper and a bottle of St. Julien. Scarcely had I seated myself to my “cotelette,” when the rapid whirl of wheels was heard without, and a cab drew up suddenly at the door. So naturally does the fugitive suspect pursuit, that my immediate impression was, that I was followed. In this notion I was strengthened by the tones of a cracked, discordant voice, asking in very peculiar French if the “diligence had passed?” Being answered in the negative he walked into the room where I was, and speedily by his appearance, removed any apprehensions I had felt as to my safety. Nothing could less resemble the tall port and sturdy bearing of a gendarme, than the diminutive and dwarfish individual before me. His height could scarcely have reached five feet, of which the head formed fully a fourth part; and even this was rendered in appearance still greater by a mass of loosely floating black hair that fell upon his neck and shoulders, and gave him much the air of a “black lion” on a sign board. His black frock, fur- collared and braided–his ill-made boots, his meerschaum projecting from his breast-pocket, above all, his unwashed hands, and a heavy gold ring upon his thumb–all made up an ensemble of evidences that showed he could be nothing but a German. His manner was bustling, impatient, and had it not been ludicrous, would certainly be considered as insolent to every one about him, for he stared each person abruptly in the face, and mumbled some broken expressions of his opinion of them half-aloud in German. His comments ran on:–“Bon soir, Monsieur,” to the host: “Ein boesewicht, ganz sicher”–“a scoundrel without doubt;” and then added, still lower, “Rob you here as soon as look at you.” “Ah, postillion! comment va?”–“much more like a brigand after all–I know which I’d take you for.” “Ver fluchte fraw”–“how ugly the woman is.” This compliment was intended for the hostess, who curtsied down to the ground in her ignorance. At last approaching me, he stopped, and having steadily surveyed me, muttered, “Ein echter Englander”–“a thorough Englishman, always eating.” I could not resist the temptation to assure him that I was perfectly aware of his flattering impression in my behalf, though I had speedily to regret my precipitancy, for, less mindful of the rebuke than pleased at finding some one who understood German, he drew his chair beside me and entered into conversation. Every one has surely felt, some time or other in life, the insufferable annoyance of having his thoughts and reflections interfered with, and broken in upon by the vulgar impertinence and egotism of some “bore,” who, mistaking your abstraction for attention and your despair for delight, inflicts upon you his whole life and adventures, when your own immediate destinies are perhaps vacillating in the scale. Such a doom was now mine! Occupied as I was by the hope of the future, and my fears lest any impediment to my escape should blast my prospects for ever, I preferred appearing to pay attention to this confounded fellow’s “personal narrative” lest his questions, turning on my own affairs, might excite suspicions as to the reasons of my journey. I longed most ardently for the arrival of the diligence, trusting that with true German thrift, by friend might prefer the cheapness of the “interieure” to the magnificence of the “coupe,” and that thus I should see no more of him. But in this pleasing hope I was destined to be disappointed, for I was scarcely seated in my place when I found him beside me. The third occupant of this “privileged den,” as well as my lamp-light survey of him permitted, afforded nothing to build on as a compensation for the German. He was a tall, lanky, lantern-jawed man, with a hook nose and projecting chin; his hair, which had only been permitted to grow very lately, formed that curve upon his forehead we see in certain old fashioned horse-shoe wigs; his compressed lip and hard features gave the expression of one who had seen a good deal of the world, and didn’t think the better of it in consequence. I observed that he listened to the few words we spoke while getting in with some attention, and then, like a person who did not comprehend the language, turned his shoulder towards us, and soon fell asleep. I was now left to the “tender mercies” of my talkative companion, who certainly spared me not. Notwithstanding my vigorous resolves to turn a deaf ear to his narratives, I could not avoid learning that he was the director of music to some German prince–that he had been to Paris to bring out an opera which having, as he said, a “succes pyramidal,” he was about to repeat in Strasbourg. He further informed me that a depute from Alsace had obtained for him a government permission to travel with the courier; but that he being “social” withal, and no ways proud, preferred the democracy of the diligence to the solitary grandeur of the caleche, (for which heaven confound him,) and thus became my present companion. Music, in all its shapes and forms made up the staple of the little man’s talk. There was scarcely an opera or an overture, from Mozart to Donizetti, that he did not insist upon singing a scene from; and wound up all by a very pathetic lamentation over English insensibility to music, which he in great part attributed to our having only one opera, which he kindly informed me was “Bob et Joan.” However indisposed to check the current of his loquacity by any effort of mine, I could not avoid the temptation to translate for him a story which Sir Walter Scott once related to me, and was so far apropos, as conveying my own sense of the merits of our national music, such as we have it, by its association with scenes, and persons, and places we are all familiar with, however unintelligible to the ear of a stranger. A young French viscomte was fortunate enough to obtain in marriage the hand of a singularly pretty Scotch heiress of an old family and good fortune, who, amongst her other endowments, possessed a large old- fashioned house in a remote district of the highlands, where her ancestors had resided for centuries. Thither the young couple repaired to pass their honeymoon; the enamoured bridegroom gladly availing himself of the opportunity to ingratiate himself with his new connexion, by adopting the seclusion he saw practised by the English on such occasions. However consonant to our notions of happiness, and however conducive to our enjoyment this custom be–and I have strong doubts upon the subject –it certainly prospered ill with the volatile Frenchman, who pined for Paris, its cafes, its boulevards, its maisons de jeu, and its soirees. His days were passed in looking from the deep and narrow windows of some oak-framed room upon the bare and heath-clad moors, or watching the cloud’s shadows as they passed across the dark pine trees that closed the distance. Ennuyee to death, and convinced that he had sacrificed enough and more than enough to the barbarism which demanded such a “sejour,” he was sitting one evening listlessly upon the terrace in front of the house, plotting a speedy escape from his gloomy abode, and meditating upon the life of pleasure that awaited him, when the discordant twang of some savage music broke upon his ear, and roused him from his reverie. The wild scream and fitful burst of a highland pibroch is certainly not the most likely thing in nature to allay the irritable and ruffled feelings of an irascible person–unless, perhaps, the hearer eschew breeches. So thought the viscomte. He started hurriedly up, and straight before him, upon the gravel-walk, beheld the stalwart figure and bony frame of an old highlander, blowing, with all his lungs, the “Gathering of the clans.” With all the speed he could muster, he rushed into the house, and, calling his servants, ordered them to expel the intruder, and drive him at once outside the demesne. When the mandate was made known to the old piper, it was with the greatest difficulty he could be brought to comprehend it–for, time out of mind, his approach had been hailed with every demonstration of rejoicing; and now–but no; the thing was impossible–there must be a mistake somewhere. He was accordingly about to recommence, when a second and stronger hint suggested to him that it were safer to depart. “Maybe the ‘carl’ did na like the pipes,” said the highlander musingly, as he packed them up for his march. “Maybe he did na like me;” “perhaps, too, he was na in the humour of music.” He paused for an instant as if reflecting–not satisfied, probably, that he had hit upon the true solution–when suddenly his eye brightened, his lips curled, and fixing a look upon the angry Frenchman, he said–“Maybe ye are right enow–ye heard them ower muckle in Waterloo to like the skirl o’ them ever since;” with which satisfactory explanation, made in no spirit of bitterness or raillery, but in the simple belief that he had at last hit the mark of the viscomte’s antipathy, the old man gathered up his plaid and departed. However disposed I might have felt towards sleep, the little German resolved I should not obtain any, for when for half an hour together I would preserve a rigid silence, he, nowise daunted, had recourse to some German “lied,” which he gave forth with an energy of voice and manner that must have aroused every sleeper in the diligence: so that, fain to avoid this, I did my best to keep him on the subject of his adventures, which, as a man of successful gallantry, were manifold indeed. Wearying at last, even of this subordinate part, I fell into a kind of half doze. The words of a student song he continued to sing without ceasing for above an hour–being the last waking thought on my memory. Less as a souvenir of the singer than a specimen of its class I give here a rough translation of the well-known Burschen melody called THE POPE I.The Pope, he leads a happy life, He fears not married care, nor strife, He drinks the best of Rhenish wine, I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine. CHORUS.He drinks the best of Rhenish wine. I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine. II.But then all happy’s not his life, He has not maid, nor blooming wife; Nor child has he to raise his hope– I would not wish to be the Pope. III.The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity;His wives are many as he will– I would the Sultan’s throne then fill. IV.But even he’s a wretched man, He must obey his Alcoran;And dares not drink one drop of wine– I would not change his lot for mine. V.So then I’ll hold my lowly stand, And live in German Vaterland;I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. VI.Whene’er my maiden kisses me, I’ll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I’ll fancy then I am the Pope. CHAPTER XLIII. THE JOURNEY. It was with a feeling of pleasure I cannot explain, that I awoke in the morning, and found myself upon the road. The turmoil, the bustle, the never-ending difficulties of my late life in Paris had so over-excited and worried me, that I could neither think nor reflect. Now all these cares and troubles were behind me, and I felt like a liberated prisoner as I looked upon the grey dawn of the coming day, as it gradually melted from its dull and leaden tint to the pink and yellow hue of the rising sun. The broad and richly-coloured plains of “la belle France” were before me–and it is “la belle France,” however inferior to parts of England in rural beauty–the large tracts of waving yellow corn, undulating like a sea in the morning breeze–the interminable reaches of forest, upon which the shadows played and flitted, deepening the effect and mellowing the mass, as we see them in Ruysdael’s pictures–while now and then some tall-gabled, antiquated chateau, with its mutilated terrace and dowager-like air of bye-gone grandeur, would peep forth at the end of some long avenue of lime trees, all having their own features of beauty– and a beauty with which every object around harmonizes well. The sluggish peasant, in his blouse and striped night-cap–the heavily caparisoned horse, shaking his head amidst a Babel-tower of gaudy worsted tassels and brass bells–the deeply laden waggon, creeping slowly along– are all in keeping with a scene, where the very mist that rises from the valley seems indolent and lazy, and unwilling to impart the rich perfume of verdure with which it is loaded. Every land has its own peculiar character of beauty. The glaciered mountain, the Alpine peak, the dashing cataract of Switzerland and the Tyrol, are not finer in their way than the long flat moorlands of a Flemish landscape, with its clump of stunted willows cloistering over some limpid brook, in which the oxen are standing for shelter from the noon-day heat–while, lower down, some rude water-wheel is mingling its sounds with the summer bees and the merry voices of the miller and his companions. So strayed my thoughts as the German shook me by the arm, and asked if “I were not ready for my breakfast?” Luckily to this question there is rarely but the one answer. Who is not ready for his breakfast when on the road? How delightful, if on the continent, to escape from the narrow limits of the dungeon-like diligence, where you sit with your knees next your collar-bone, fainting with heat and suffocated by dust, and find yourself suddenly beside the tempting “plats” of a little French dejeune, with its cutlets, its fried fish, its poulet, its salad, and its little entre of fruit, tempered with a not despicable bottle of Beaune. If in England, the exchange is nearly as grateful–for though our travelling be better, and our equipage less “genante,” still it is no small alterative from the stage-coach to the inn parlour, redolent of aromatic black tea, eggs, and hot toast, with a hospitable side-board of red, raw surloins, and York hams, that would made a Jew’s mouth water. While, in America, the change is greatest of all, as any one can vouch for who has been suddenly emancipated from the stove-heat of a “nine-inside” leathern “conveniency,” bumping ten miles an hour over a corduroy road, the company smoking, if not worse; to the ample display of luxurious viands displayed upon the breakfast-table, where, what with buffalo steaks, pumpkin pie, gin cock-tail, and other aristocratically called temptations, he must be indeed fastidious who cannot employ his half-hour. Pity it is, when there is so much good to eat, that people will not partake of it like civilized beings, and with that air of cheerful thankfulness that all other nations more or less express when enjoying the earth’s bounties. But true it is, that there is a spirit of discontent in the Yankee, that seems to accept of benefits with a tone of dissatisfaction, if not distrust. I once made this remark to an excellent friend of mine now no more, who, however, would not permit of my attributing this feature to the Americans exclusively, adding, “Where have you more of this than in Ireland? and surely you would not call the Irish ungrateful?” He illustrated his first remark by the following short anecdote:– The rector of the parish my friend lived in was a man who added to the income he derived from his living a very handsome private fortune, which he devoted entirely to the benefit of the poor around him. Among the objects of his bounty one old woman–a childless widow, was remarkably distinguished. Whether commiserating her utter helplessness or her complete isolation, he went farther to relieve her than to many, if not all, the other poor. She frequently was in the habit of pleading her poverty as a reason for not appearing in church among her neighbours; and he gladly seized an opportunity of so improving her condition, that on this score at least no impediment existed. When all his little plans for her comfort had been carried into execution, he took the opportunity one day of dropping in, as if accidentally, to speak to her. By degrees he led the subject to her changed condition in life–the alteration from a cold, damp, smoky hovel, to a warm, clean, slated house–the cheerful garden before the door that replaced the mud-heap and the duck-pool–and all the other happy changes which a few weeks had effected. And he then asked, did she not feel grateful to a bountiful Providence that had showered down so many blessings upon her head? “Ah, troth, its thrue for yer honour, I am grateful,” she replied, in a whining discordant tone, which astonished the worthy parson. “Of course you are, my good woman, of course you are–but I mean to say, don’t you feel that every moment you live is too short to express your thankfulness to this kind Providence for what he has done?” “Ah, darlin’, it’s all thrue, he’s very good, he’s mighty kind, so he is.” “Why then, not acknowledge it in a different manner?” said the parson, with some heat–“has he not housed you, and fed you, and clothed you?” “Yes, alanah, he done it all.” “Well, where is your gratitude for all these mercies?” “Ah, sure if he did,” said the old crone, roused at length by the importunity of the questioner–“sure if he did, doesn’t he take it out o’ me in the corns?” CHAPTER XLIV. A REMINISCENCE OF THE EAST. The breakfast-table assembled around it the three generations of men who issued from the three subdivisions of the diligence, and presented that motley and mixed assemblage of ranks, ages, and countries, which forms so very amusing a part of a traveller’s experience. First came the “haute aristocratie” of the coupe, then the middle class of the interieure, and lastly, the tiers etat of the rotonde, with its melange of Jew money-lenders, under-officers and their wives, a Norman nurse with a high cap and a red jupe; while, to close the procession, a German student descended from the roof, with a beard, a blouse, and a meerschaum. Of such materials was our party made up; and yet, differing in all our objects and interests, we speedily amalgamated into a very social state of intimacy, and chatted away over our breakfast with much good humour and gaiety. Each person of the number seeming pleased at the momentary opportunity of finding a new listener, save my tall companion of the coupe. He preserved a dogged silence, unbroken by even a chance expression to the waiter, who observed his wants and supplied them by a species of quick instinct, evidently acquired by practice. As I could not help feeling somewhat interested about the hermit-like attachment he evinced for solitude, I watched him narrowly for some time, and at length as the “roti” made its appearance before him, after he had helped himself and tasted it, he caught my eye fixed upon him, and looking at me intently for a few seconds, he seemed to be satisfied in some passing doubt he laboured under, as he said with a most peculiar shake of the head–“No mangez, no mangez cela.” “Ah,” said I, detecting in my friend’s French his English origin, “you are an Englishman I find.” “The devil a doubt of it, darlin’,” said he half testily. “An Irishman, too–still better,” said I. “Why then isn’t it strange that my French always shows me to be English, and my English proves me Irish? It’s lucky for me there’s no going farther any how.” Delighted to have thus fallen upon a “character,” as the Irishman evidently appeared, I moved my chair towards his; and finding, however, he was not half pleased at the manner in which my acquaintance had been made with him, and knowing his country’s susceptibility of being taken by a story, I resolved to make my advances by narrating a circumstance which had once befallen me in my early life. Our countrymen, English and Irish, travel so much now a days, that one ought never to feel surprised at finding them anywhere. The instance I am about to relate will verify to a certain extent the fact, by showing that no situation is too odd or too unlikely to be within the verge of calculation. When the 10th foot, to which I then belonged, were at Corfu, I obtained with three other officers a short leave of absence, to make a hurried tour of the Morea, and taking a passing glance at Constantinople–in those days much less frequently visited by travellers than at present. After rambling pleasantly about for some weeks, we were about to return, when we determined that before sailing we should accept an invitation some officers of the “Dwarf” frigate, then stationed there, had given us, to pass a day at Pera, and pic-nic in the mountain. One fine bright morning was therefore selected–a most appetizing little dinner being carefully packed up–we set out, a party of fourteen, upon our excursion. The weather was glorious, and the scene far finer than any of us had anticipated–the view from the mountain extending over the entire city, gorgeous in the rich colouring of its domes and minarets; while, at one side, the golden horn was visible, crowded with ships of every nation, and, at the other, a glimpse might be had of the sea of Marmora, blue and tranquil as it lay beneath. The broad bosom of the Bosphorus was sheeted out like a map before us–peaceful yet bustling with life and animation. Here lay the union-jack of old England, floating beside the lilies of France–we speak of times when lilies were and barricades were not–the tall and taper spars of a Yankee frigate towering above the low timbers and heavy hull of a Dutch schooner–the gilded poop and curved galleries of a Turkish three-decker, anchored beside the raking mast and curved deck of a suspicious looking craft, whose red-capped and dark-visaged crew needed not the naked creese at their sides to bespeak them Malays. The whole was redolent of life, and teeming with food for one’s fancy to conjure from. While we were debating upon the choice of a spot for our luncheon, which should command the chief points of view within our reach, one of the party came to inform us that he had just discovered the very thing we were in search of. It was a small kiosk, built upon a projecting rock that looked down upon the Bosphorus and the city, and had evidently, from the extended views it presented, been selected as the spot to build upon. The building itself was a small octagon, open on every side, and presenting a series of prospects, land and seaward, of the most varied and magnificent kind. Seeing no one near, nor any trace of habitation, we resolved to avail ourselves of the good taste of the founder; and spreading out the contents of our hampers, proceeded to discuss a most excellent cold dinner. When the good things had disappeared, and the wine began to circulate, one of the party observed that we should not think of enjoying ourselves before we had filled a bumper to the brim, to the health of our good king, whose birth-day it chanced to be. Our homeward thoughts and loyalty uniting, we filled our glasses, and gave so hearty a “hip, hip, hurra,” to our toast, that I doubt if the echoes of those old rocks ever heard the equal of it. Scarcely was the last cheer dying away in the distance, when the door of the kiosk opened, and a negro dressed in white muslin appeared, his arms and ancles bearing those huge rings of massive gold, which only persons of rank distinguish their servants by. After a most profound obeisance to the party, he explained in very tolerable French, that his master the Effendi, Ben Mustapha Al Halak, at whose charge (in house rent) we were then resting, sent us greetings, and begged that if not considered as contrary to our usages, &c. we should permit him and his suite to approach the kiosk and observe us at our meal. Independent of his politeness in the mode of conveying the request, as he would prove fully as entertaining a sight to us as we could possibly be to him, we immediately expressed our great willingness to receive his visit, coupled with a half hint that perhaps he might honour us by joining the party. After a half hour’s delay, the door was once more thrown open, and a venerable old Turk entered: he salaamed three times most reverently, and motioned to us to be seated, declining, at the same time, by a gentle gesture of his hand, our invitation. He was followed by a train of six persons, all splendidly attired, and attesting, by their costume and manner, the rank and importance of their chief. Conceiving that his visit had but one object–to observe our convivial customs–we immediately reseated ourselves, and filled our glasses. As one after another the officers of the effendi’s household passed round the apartments, we offered them a goblet of champagne, which they severally declined, with a polite but solemn smile–all except one, a large, savage-looking Turk, with a most ferocious scowl, and the largest black beard I ever beheld. He did not content himself with a mute refusal of our offer, but stopping suddenly, he raised up his hands above his head, and muttered some words in Turkish, which one of the party informed us was a very satisfactory recommendation of the whole company to Satan for their heretic abomination. The procession moved slowly round the room, and when it reached the door again retired, each member of it salaaming three times as they had done on entering. Scarcely had they gone, when we burst into a loud fit of laughter at the savage-looking fellow who thought proper to excommunicate us, and were about to discuss his more than common appearance of disgust at our proceedings, when again the door opened, and a turbaned head peeped in, but so altered were the features, that although seen but the moment before, we could hardly believe them the same. The dark complexion–the long and bushy beard were there–but instead of the sleepy and solemn character of the oriental, with heavy eye and closed lip, there was a droll, half-devilry in the look, and partly open mouth, that made a most laughable contrast with the head-dress. He looked stealthily around him for an instant, as if to see that all was right, and then, with an accent and expression I shall never forget, said, “I’ll taste your wine, gentleman, an it be pleasing to ye.” CHAPTER XLV. A DAY IN THE PHOENIX. When we were once more in the coupe of the diligence, I directed my entire attention towards my Irish acquaintance, as well because of his apparent singularity, as to avoid the little German in the opposite corner. “You have not been long in France, then, sir,” said I, as we resumed our conversation. “Three weeks, and it seems like three years to me–nothing to eat– nothing to drink–and nobody to speak to. But I’ll go back soon–I only came abroad for a month.” “You’ll scarcely see much of the Continent in so short a time.” “Devil a much that will grieve me–I didn’t come to see it.” “Indeed!” “Nothing of the kind; I only came–to be away from home.” “Oh! I perceive.” “You’re quite out there,” said my companion, misinterpreting my meaning. “It wasn’t any thing of that kind. I don’t owe sixpence. I was laughed out of Ireland–that’s all, though that same is bad enough.” “Laughed out of it!” “Just so–and little you know of Ireland if that surprises you.” After acknowledging that such an event was perfectly possible, from what I myself had seen of that country, I obtained the following very brief account of my companion’s reasons for foreign travel: “Well, sir,” began he, “it is about four months since I brought up to Dublin from Galway a little chesnut mare, with cropped ears and a short tail, square-jointed, and rather low–just what you’d call a smart hack for going to cover with–a lively thing on the road with a light weight. Nobody ever suspected that she was a clean bred thing–own sister to Jenny, that won the Corinthians, and ran second to Giles for the Riddlesworth–but so she was, and a better bred mare never leaped the pound in Ballinasloe. Well, I brought her to Dublin, and used to ride her out two or three times a week, making little matches sometimes to trot–and, for a thorough bred, she was a clipper at trotting–to trot a mile or so on the grass–another day to gallop the length of the nine acres opposite the Lodge–and then sometimes, back her for a ten pound note, to jump the biggest furze bush that could be found–all or which she could do with ease, nobody thinking, all the while, that the cock- tailed pony was out of Scroggins, by a “Lamplighter mare.” As every fellow that was beat to-day was sure to come back to-morrow, with something better, either of his own or a friend’s, I had matches booked for every day in the week–for I always made my little boy that rode, win by half a neck, or a nostril, and so we kept on day after day pocketing from ten to thirty pounds or thereabouts. “It was mighty pleasant while it lasted, for besides winning the money, I had my own fun laughing at the spoonies that never could book my bets fast enough. Young infantry officers and the junior bar–they were for the most part mighty nice to look at, but very raw about racing. How long I might have gone on in this way I cannot say; but one morning I fell in with a fat, elderly gentleman, in shorts and gaiters, mounted on a dun cob pony, that was very fidgety and hot tempered, and appeared to give the rider a great deal of uneasiness. “‘He’s a spicy hack you’re on, sir,’ said I, ‘and has a go in him, I’ll be bound.’ “‘I rayther think he has,’ said the old gentleman, half testily. “‘And can trot a bit, too.’ “‘Twelve Irish miles in fifty minutes, with my weight.’ Here he looked down at a paunch like a sugar hosghead. “‘Maybe he’s not bad across a country,’ said I, rather to humour the old fellow, who, I saw, was proud of his poney. “‘I’d like to see his match, that’s all.’ Here he gave a rather contemptuous glance at my hack. “Well, one word led to another, and it ended at last in our booking a match, with which one party was no less pleased than the other. It was this: each was to ride his own horse, starting from the school in the Park, round the Fifteen Acres, outside the Monument, and back to the start–just one heat, about a mile and a half–the ground good, and only soft enough. In consideration, however, of his greater weight, I was to give odds in the start; and as we could not well agree on how much, it was at length decided that he was to get away first, and I to follow as fast as I could, after drinking a pewter quart full of Guinness’s double stout–droll odds, you’ll say, but it was the old fellow’s own thought, and as the match was a soft one, I let him have his way. “The next morning the Phoenix was crowded as if for a review. There were all the Dublin notorieties, swarming in barouches, and tilburies, and outside jaunting-cars–smart clerks in the post-office, mounted upon kicking devils from Dycer’s and Lalouette’s stables–attorney’s wives and daughters from York-street, and a stray doctor or so on a hack that looked as if it had been lectured on for the six winter months at the College of Surgeons. My antagoist was half an hour late, which time I occupied in booking bets on every side of me–offering odds of ten, fifteen, and at last, to tempt the people, twenty-five to one against the dun. At last, the fat gentleman came up on a jaunting-car, followed by a groom leading the cob. I wish you heard the cheer that greeted him on his arrival, for it appeared he was a well-known character in town, and much in favour with the mob. When he got off the car, he bundled into a tent, followed by a few of his friends, where they remained for about five minutes, at the end of which he came out in full racing costume– blue and yellow striped jacket, blue cap and leathers–looking as funny a figure as ever you set eyes upon. I now thought it time to throw off my white surtout, and show out in pink and orange, the colours I had been winning in for two months past. While some of the party were sent on to station themselves at different places round the Fifteen Acres, to mark out the course, my fat friend was assisted into his saddle, and gave a short preliminary gallop of a hundred yards or so, that set us all a-laughing. The odds were now fifty to one in my favour, and I gave them wherever I could find takers. ‘With you, sir, if you please, in pounds, and the gentleman in the red whiskers, too, if he likes–very well, in half sovereigns, if you prefer it.’ So I went on, betting on every side, till the bell rung to mount. As I knew I had plenty of time to spare, I took little notice, and merely giving a look to my girths, I continued leisurely booking my bets. At last the time came, and at the word ‘Away!’ off went the fat gentleman on the dun, at a spluttering gallop, that flung the mud on every side of us, and once more threw us all a-laughing. I waited patiently till he got near the upper end of the park, taking bets every minute; and now that he was away, every one offered to wager. At last, when I had let him get nearly half round, and found no more money could be had, I called out to his friends for the porter, and, throwing myself into the saddle, gathered up the reins in my hand. The crowd fell back on each side, while from the tent I have already mentioned came a thin fellow with one eye, with a pewter quart in his hand: he lifted it up towards me, and I took it; but what was my fright to find that the porter was boiling, and the vessel so hot I could barely hold it. I endeavoured to drink, however: the first mouthful took all the skin off my lips and tongue–the second half choked, and the third nearly threw me into an apoplectic fit–the mob cheering all the time like devils. Meantime, the old fellow had reached the furze, and was going along like fun. Again I tried the porter, and a fit of coughing came on that lasted five minutes. The pewter was now so hot that the edge of the quart took away a piece of my mouth at every effort. I ventured once more, and with the desperation of a madman I threw down the hot liquid to its last drop. My head reeled–my eyes glared–and my brain was on fire. I thought I beheld fifty fat gentlemen galloping on every side of me, and all the sky raining jackets in blue and yellow. Half mechanically I took the reins, and put spurs to my horse; but before I got well away, a loud cheer from the crowd assailed me. I turned, and saw the dun coming in at a floundering gallop, covered with foam, and so dead blown that neither himself nor the rider could have got twenty yards farther. The race was, however, won. My odds were lost to every man on the field, and, worse than all, I was so laughed at, that I could not venture out in the streets, without hearing allusions to my misfortune; for a certain friend of mine, one Tom O’Flaherty–“ “Tom of the 11th light dragoons?” “The same–you know Tom, then? Maybe you have heard him mention me– Maurice Malone?” “Not Mr. Malone, of Fort Peak?” “Bad luck to him. I am as well known in connexion with Fort Peak, as the Duke is with Waterloo. There is not a part of the globe where he has not told that confounded story.” As my readers may not possibly be all numbered in Mr. O’Flaherty’s acquaintance, I shall venture to give the anecdote which Mr. Malone accounted to be so widely circulated. CHAPTER XLVI. AN ADVENTURE IN CANADA. Towards the close of the last war with America, a small detachment of military occupied the little block house of Fort Peak, which, about eight miles from the Falls of Niagara, formed the last outpost on the frontier. The Fort, in itself inconsiderable, was only of importance as commanding a part of the river where it was practicable to ford, and where the easy ascent of the bank offered a safe situation for the enemy to cross over, whenever they felt disposed to carry the war into our territory. There having been, however, no threat of invasion in this quarter, and the natural strength of the position being considerable, a mere handful of men, with two subaltern officers, were allotted for this duty–such being conceived ample to maintain it till the arrival of succour from head-quarters, then at Little York, on the opposite side of the lake. The officers of this party were our old acquaintance Tom O’Flaherty, and our newly-made one Maurice Malone. Whatever may be the merits of commanding officers, one virtue they certainly can lay small claim to–viz. any insight into character, or at least any regard for the knowledge. Seldom are two men sent off on detachment duty to some remote quarter, to associate daily and hourly for months together, that they are not, by some happy chance, the very people who never, as the phrase is, “took to each other” in their lives. The grey-headed, weather-beaten, disappointed “Peninsular” is coupled with the essenced and dandified Adonis of the corps; the man of literary tastes and cultivated pursuits, with the empty headed, ill informed youth, fresh from Harrow or Westminster. This case offered no exception to the rule; for though there were few men possessed of more assimilating powers than O’Flaherty, yet certainly his companion did put the faculty to the test, for any thing more unlike him, there never existed. Tom all good humour and high spirits–making the best of every thing–never non- plussed–never taken aback–perfectly at home, whether flirting with a Lady Charlotte in her drawing-room, or crossing a grouse mountain in the highlands–sufficiently well read to talk on any ordinary topic–and always ready-witted enough to seem more so. A thorough sportsman, whether showing forth in the “park” at Melton, whipping a trout-stream in Wales, or filling a country-house with black cock and moor-fowl; an unexceptionable judge of all the good things in life, from a pretty ancle to a well hung tilbury–from the odds at hazard to the “Comet vintage.” Such, in brief, was Tom. Now his confrere was none of these; he had been drafted from the Galway militia to the line, for some election services rendered by his family to the government candidate; was of a saturnine and discontented habit; always miserable about some trifle or other, and never at rest till he had drowned his sorrows in Jamaica rum–which, since the regiment was abroad, he had copiously used as a substitute for whiskey. To such an extent had this passion gained upon him, that a corporal’s guard was always in attendance whenever he dined out, to convey him home to the barracks. The wearisome monotony of a close garrison, with so ungenial a companion, would have damped any man’s spirits but O’Flaherty’s. He, however, upon this, as other occasions in life, rallied himself to make the best of it; and by short excursions within certain prescribed limits along the river side, contrived to shoot and fish enough to get through the day, and improve the meagre fare of his mess-table. Malone never appeared before dinner–his late sittings at night requiring all the following day to recruit him for a new attack upon the rum bottle. Now, although his seeing so little of his brother officer was any thing but unpleasant to O’Flaherty, yet the ennui of such a life was gradually wearing him, and all his wits were put in requisition to furnish occupation for his time. Never a day passed without his praying ardently for an attack from the enemy; any alternative, any reverse, had been a blessing compared with his present life. No such spirit, however, seemed to animate the Yankee troops; not a soldier was to be seen for miles around, and every straggler that passed the Fort concurred in saying that the Americans were not within four day’s march of the frontier. Weeks passed over, and the same state of things remaining unchanged, O’Flaherty gradually relaxed some of his strictness as to duty; small foraging parties of three and four being daily permitted to leave the Fort for a few hours, to which they usually returned laden with wild turkeys and fish–both being found in great abundance near them. Such was the life of the little garrison for two or three long summer months–each day so resembling its fellow, that no difference could be found. As to how the war was faring, or what the aspect of affairs might be, they absolutely knew nothing. Newspapers never reached them; and whether from having so much occupation at head-quarters, or that the difficulty of sending letters prevented, their friends never wrote a line; and thus they jogged on, a very vegetable existence, till thought at last was stagnating in their brains, and O’Flaherty half envied his companion’s resource in the spirit flask. Such was the state of affairs at the Fort, when one evening O’Flaherty appeared to pace the little rampart that looked towards Lake Ontario, with an appearance of anxiety and impatience strangely at variance with his daily phlegmatic look. It seemed that the corporal’s party he had despatched that morning to forage, near the “Falls,” had not returned, and already were four hours later than their time away. Every imaginable mode of accounting for their absence suggested itself to his mind. Sometimes he feared that they had been attacked by the Indian hunters, who were far from favourably disposed towards their poaching neighbours. Then, again, it might be merely that they had missed their track in the forest; or could it be that they had ventured to reach Goat Island in a canoe, and had been carried down the rapids. Such were the torturing doubts that passed as some shrill squirrel, or hoarse night owl pierced the air with a cry, and then all was silent again. While thus the hours went slowly by, his attention was attracted by a bright light in the sky. It appeared as if part of the heavens were reflecting some strong glare from beneath, for as he looked, the light, at first pale and colourless, gradually deepened into a rich mellow hue, and at length, through the murky blackness of the night, a strong clear current of flame rose steadily upwards from the earth, and pointed towards the sky. From the direction, it must have been either at the Falls, or immediately near them; and now the horrible conviction flashed upon his mind that the party had been waylaid by the Indians, who were, as is their custom, making a war feast over their victims. Not an instant was to be lost. The little garrison beat to arms; and, as the men fell in, O’Flaherty cast his eyes around, while he selected a few brave fellows to accompany him. Scarcely had the men fallen out from the ranks, when the sentinel at the gate was challenged by a well-known voice, and in a moment more the corporal of the foraging party was among them. Fatigue and exhaustion had so overcome him, that for some minutes he was speechless. At length he recover sufficiently to give the following brief account:– The little party having obtained their supply of venison above Queenston, were returning to the Fort, when they suddenly came upon a track of feet, and little experience in forest life soon proved that some new arrivals had reached the hunting grounds, for on examining them closely, they proved neither to be Indian tracks, nor yet those made by the shoes of the Fort party. Proceeding with caution to trace them backwards for three or four miles, they reached the bank of the Niagara river, above the whirlpools, where the crossing is most easily effected from the American side. The mystery was at once explained: it was a surprise party of the Yankees, sent to attack Fort Peak; and now the only thing to be done was to hasten back immediately to their friends, and prepare for their reception. With this intent they took the river path as the shortest, but had not proceeded far when their fears were confirmed; for in a little embayment of the bank they perceived a party of twenty blue coats, who, with their arms piled, were lying around as if waiting for the hour of attack. The sight of this party added greatly to their alarm, for they now perceived that the Americans had divided their force–the foot-tracks first seen being evidently those of another division. As the corporal and his few men continued, from the low and thick brushwood, to make their reconnaisance of the enemy, they observed with delight that they were not regulars, but a militia force. With this one animating thought, they again, with noiseless step, regained the forest, and proceeded upon their way. Scarcely, however, had they marched a mile, when the sound of voices and loud laughter apprised them that another party was near, which, as well as they could observe in the increasing gloom, was still larger than the former. They were now obliged to make a considerable circuit, and advance still deeper into the forest–their anxiety hourly increasing, lest the enemy should reach the Fort before themselves. In this dilemma it was resolved that the party should separate–the corporal determining to proceed alone by the river bank, while the others, by a detour of some miles, should endeavour to learn the force of the Yankees, and, as far as they could, their mode of attack. From that instant the corporal knew no more; for, after two hours’ weary exertion, he reached the Fort, which, had it been but another mile distant, his strength had not held out for him to attain. However gladly poor O’Flaherty might have hailed such information under other circumstances, now it came like a thunderbolt upon him. Six of his small force were away, perhaps ere this made prisoners by the enemy; the Yankees, as well as he could judge, were a numerous party; and he himself totally without a single adviser–for Malone had dined, and was, therefore, by this time in that pleasing state of indifference, in which he could only recognise an enemy, in the man that did not send round the decanter. In the half indulged hope that his state might permit some faint exercise of the reasoning faculty, O’Flaherty walked towards the small den they had designated as the mess-room, in search of his brother officer. As he entered the apartment, little disposed as he felt to mirth at such a moment, the tableau before him was too ridiculous not to laugh at. At one side of the fire-place sat Malone, his face florid with drinking, and his eyeballs projecting. Upon his head was a small Indian skull cap, with two peacock feathers, and a piece of scarlet cloth which hung down behind. In one hand he held a smoking goblet of rum punch, and in the other a long, Indian Chibook pipe. Opposite to him, but squatted upon the floor, reposed a red Indian, that lived in the Fort as a guide, equally drunk, but preserving, even in his liquor, an impassive, grave aspect, strangely contrasting with the high excitement of Malone’s face. The red man wore Malone’s uniform coat, which he had put on back foremost–his head-dress having, in all probability been exchanged for it, as an amicable courtesy between the parties. There they sat, looking fixedly at each other; neither spoke, nor even smiled–the rum bottle, which at brief intervals passed from one to the other, maintained a friendly intercourse that each was content with. To the hearty fit of laughing of O’Flaherty, Malone replied by a look of drunken defiance, and then nodded to his red friend, who returned the courtesy. As poor Tom left the room, he saw that nothing was to be hoped for in this quarter, and determined to beat the garrison to arms without any further delay. Scarcely had he closed the door behind him, when a sudden thought flashed through his brain. He hesitated, walked forward a few paces, stopped again, and calling out to the corporal, said– “You are certain they were militia?” “Yes, sir; quite sure.” “Then, by Jove, I have it,” cried O’Flaherty. “If they should turn out to be the Buffalo fencibles, we may get through this scrape better than I hoped for.” “I believe you are right, sir; for I heard one of the men as I passed observe, ‘what will they say in Buffalo when it’s over?’.” “Send Mathers here, corporal; and do you order four rank and file, with side-arms to be in readiness immediately.” “Mathers, you have heard the news,” said O’Flaherty, as the sergeant entered. “Can the Fort hold out against such a force as Jackson reports? You doubt; well, so do I; so let’s see what’s to be done. Can you remember, was it not the Buffalo militia that were so tremendously thrashed by the Delawares last autumn?” “Yes, sir, they chased them for two days and nights, and had they not reached the town of Buffalo, the Delawares would not have left a scalp in the regiment.” “Can you recollect the chief’s name–it was Carran–something, eh?” “Caudan-dacwagae.” “Exactly. Where is he supposed to be now?” “Up in Detroit, sir, they say, but no one knows. Those fellows are here to-day, and there to-morrow.” “Well then, sergeant, here’s my plan.” Saying these words, O’Flaherty proceeded to walk towards his quarters, accompanied by the sergeant, with whom he conversed for some time eagerly–occasionally replying, as it appeared, to objections, and offering explanations as the other seemed to require them. The colloquy lasted half an hour–and although the veteran sergeant seemed difficult of conviction, it ended by his saying, as he left the room, “Well, sir, as you say, it can only come to hard knocks at worst. Here goes–I’ll send off the scout party to make the fires and choose the men for the out picquets, for no time is to be lost.” In about an hour’s time from the scene I have mentioned, a number of militia officers, of different grades, were seated round a bivouac fire, upon the bank of the Niagara river. The conversation seemed of an angry nature, for the voices of the speakers were loud and irrascible, and their gestures evidenced a state of high excitement. “I see,” said one, who seemed the superior of the party–“I see well where this will end. We shall have another Queenston affair, as we had last fall with the Delawares.” “I only say,” replied another, “that if you wish our men to stand fire to-morrow morning, the less you remind them of the Delawares the better. What is that noise? Is not that a drum beating?” The party at these words sprung to their legs, and stood in an attitude of listening for some seconds. “Who goes there?” sung out a sentinel from his post; and then, after a moment’s delay, added–“Pass flag of truce to Major Brown’s quarters.” Scarcely were the words spoken, when three officers in scarlet, preceded by a drummer with a white flag, stood before the American party. “To whom may I address myself?” said one of the British–who, I may inform my reader, en passant, was no other than O’Flaherty–“To whom may I address myself as the officer in command?” “I am Major Brown,” said a short, plethoric little man, in a blue uniform and round hat–“And who are you?” “Major O’Flaherty, of his majesty’s fifth foot,” said Tom, with a very sonorous emphasis on each word–“the bearer of a flag of truce and an amicable proposition from Major-General Allen, commanding the garrison of Fort Peak.” The Americans, who were evidently taken by surprise at their intentions of attack being known, were silent, while he continued– “Gentlemen, it may appear somewhat strange that a garrison, possessing the natural strength of a powerful position–supplied with abundant ammunition and every muniment of war–should despatch a flag of truce on the eve of an attack, in preference to waiting for the moment, when a sharp and well-prepared reception might best attest its vigilance and discipline. But the reasons for this step are soon explained. In the first place, you intend a surprise. We have been long aware of your projected attack. Our spies have tracked you from your crossing the river above the whirlpool to your present position. Every man of your party is numbered by us; and, what is still more, numbered by our allies –yes, gentlemen, I must repeat it, “allies”–though, as a Briton, I blush at the word. Shame and disgrace for ever be that man’s portion, who first associated the honourable usages of war with the atrocious and bloody cruelties of the savage. Yet so it is: the Delawares of the hills”–here the Yankees exchanged very peculiar looks–“have this morning arrived at Fort Peak, with orders to ravage the whole of your frontier, from Fort George to Lake Erie. They brought us the information of your approach, and their chief is, while I speak, making an infamous proposition, by which a price is to paid for every scalp he produces in the morning. Now, as the general cannot refuse to co-operate with the savages, without compromising himself with the commander-in-chief, neither can he accept of such assistance without some pangs of conscience. He has taken the only course open to him: he has despatched myself and my brother officers here”–O’Flaherty glanced at two privates dressed up in his regimentals–“to offer you terms”– O’Flaherty paused when he arrived thus far, expecting that the opposite party would make some reply; but they continued silent: when suddenly, from the dense forest, there rung forth a wild and savage yell, that rose and fell several times, like the pibroch of the highlander, and ended at last in a loud whoop, that was echoed and re-echoed again and again for several seconds after. “Hark!” said O’Flaherty, with an accent of horror–“Hark! the war-cry of the Delawares! The savages are eager for their prey. May it yet be time enough to rescue you from such a fate! Time presses–our terms are these–as they do not admit of discussion, and must be at once accepted or rejected, to your own ear alone can I impart them.” Saying which, he took Major Brown aside, and, walking apart from the others, led him, by slow steps, into the forest. While O’Flaherty continued to dilate upon the atrocities of Indian war, and the revengeful character of the savages, he contrived to be always advancing towards the river side, till at length the glare of a fire was perceptible through the gloom. Major Brown stopped suddenly, and pointed in the direction of the flame. “It is the Indian picquet,” said O’Flaherty, calmly; “and as the facts I have been detailing may be more palpable to your mind, you shall see them with your own eyes. Yes, I repeat it, you shall, through the cover of this brushwood, see Caudan-dacwagae himself–for he is with them in person.” As O’Flaherty said this, he led Major Brown, now speechless with terror, behind a massive cork tree, from which spot they could look down upon the river side, where in a small creek sat five or six persons in blankets, and scarlet head-dresses; their faces streaked with patches of yellow and red paint, to which the glare of the fire lent fresh horror. In the midst sat one, whose violent gestures and savage cries gave him the very appearance of a demon, as he resisted with all his might the efforts of the others to restrain him, shouting like a maniac all the while, and struggling to rise. “It is the chief,” said O’Flaherty; “he will wait no longer. We have bribed the others to keep him quiet, if possible, a little time; but I see they cannot succeed.” A loud yell of triumph from below interrupted Tom’s speech. The infuriated savage–who was no other than Mr. Malone–having obtained the rum bottle, for which he was fighting with all his might–his temper not being improved in the struggle by occasional admonitions from the red end of a cigar, applied to his naked skin by the other Indians–who were his own soldiers acting under O’Flaherty’s orders. “Now,” said Tom, “that you have convinced yourself, and can satisfy your brother officers, will you take your chance? or will you accept the honoured terms of the General–pile your arms, and retreat beyond the river before day-break? Your muskets and ammunition will offer a bribe to the cupidity of the savage, and delay his pursuit till you can reach some place of safety.” Major Brown heard the proposal in silence, and at last determined upon consulting his brother officers. “I have outstaid my time,” said O’Flaherty, “but stop; the lives of so many are at stake, I consent.” Saying which, they walked on without speaking, till they arrived where the others were standing around the watch-fire. As Brown retired to consult with the officers, Tom heard with pleasure how much his two companions had worked upon the Yankees’ fears, during his absence, by details of the vindictive feelings of the Delawares, and their vows to annihilate the Buffalo militia. Before five minutes they had decided. Upon a solemn pledge from O’Flaherty that the terms of the compact were to be observed as he stated them, they agreed to march with their arms to the ford, where, having piled them, they were to cross over, and make the best of their way home. By sunrise the next morning, all that remained of the threatened attack on Fort Peak, were the smouldering ashes of some wood fires–eighty muskets piled in the fort–and the yellow ochre, and red stripes that still adorned the countenance of the late Indian chief,–but now snoring Lieutenant Maurice Malone. CHAPTER XLVII. THE COURIER’S PASSPORT. A second night succeeded the long dreary day of the diligence, and the only one agreeable reflection arose in the feeling that every mile travelled, was diminishing the chance of pursuit, and removing me still further from that scene of trouble and annoyance that was soon to furnish gossip for Paris–under the title of “The Affaire O’Leary.” How he was ever to extricate himself from the numerous and embarrassing difficulties of his position, gave me, I confess, less uneasiness than the uncertainty of my own fortunes. Luck seemed ever to befriend him–me it had always accompanied far enough through life to make its subsequent desertion more painful. How far I should blame myself for this, I stopped not to consider; but brooded over the fact in a melancholy and discontented mood. The one thought uppermost in my mind was, how will Lady Jane receive me–am I forgotten–or am I only remembered as the subject of that unlucky mistake, when, under the guise of an elder son, I was feted and made much of. What pretensions I had, without fortune, rank, influence, or even expectations of any kind, to seek the hand of the most beautiful girl of the day, with the largest fortune as her dowry, I dare not ask myself–the reply would have dashed all my hopes, and my pursuit would have at once been abandoned. “Tell the people you are an excellent preacher,” was the advice of an old and learned divine to a younger and less experienced one–“tell them so every morning, and every noon, and every evening, and at last they will begin to believe it.” So thought I. I shall impress upon the Callonbys that I am a most unexceptionable “parti.” Upon every occasion they shall hear it–as they open their newspapers at breakfast–as they sip their soup at luncheon–as they adjust their napkin at dinner–as they chat over their wine at night. My influence in the house shall be unbounded–my pleasures consulted–my dislikes remembered. The people in favour with me shall dine there three times a-week–those less fortunate shall be put into schedule A. My opinions on all subjects shall be a law–whether I pronounce upon politics, or discuss a dinner: and all this I shall accomplish by a successful flattery of my lady–a little bullying of my lord–a devoted attention to the youngest sister–a special cultivation of Kilkee–and a very “prononce” neglect of Lady Jane. These were my half-waking thoughts, as the heavy diligence rumbled over the pave into Nancy; and I was aroused by the door being suddenly jerked open, and a bronzed face, with a black beard and moustache, being thrust in amongst us. “Your passports, Messieurs,” as a lantern was held up in succession across our faces, and we handed forth our crumpled and worn papers to the official. The night was stormy and dark–gusts of wind sweeping along, bearing with them the tail of some thunder cloud–mingling their sounds with a falling tile from the roofs, or a broken chimney-pot. The officer in vain endeavoured to hold open the passports while he inscribed his name; and just as the last scrawl was completed, the lantern went out. Muttering a heavy curse upon the weather, he thrust them in upon us en masse, and, banging the door to, called out to the conducteur, “en route.” Again we rumbled on, and, ere we cleared the last lamps of the town, the whole party were once more sunk in sleep, save myself. Hour after hour rolled by, the rain pattering upon the roof, and the heavy plash of the horses’ feet contributing their mournful sounds to the melancholy that was stealing over me. At length we drew up at the door of a little auberge; and, by the noise and bustle without, I perceived there was a change of horses. Anxious to stretch my legs, and relieve, if even for a moment, the wearisome monotony of the night, I got out and strode into the little parlour of the inn. There was a cheerful fire in an open stove, beside which stood a portly figure in a sheepskin bunta and a cloth travelling cap, with a gold band; his legs were cased in high Russia leather boots, all evident signs of the profession of the wearer, had even his haste at supper not bespoke the fact that he was a government courier. “You had better make haste with the horses, Antoine, if you don’t wish the postmaster to hear of it,” said he, as I entered, his mouth filled with pie crust and vin de Beaune, as he spoke. A lumbering peasant, with a blouse, sabots, and a striped nightcap, replied in some unknown patois; when the courier again said– “Well, then, take the diligence horses; I must get on at all events; they are not so presse, I’ll be bound; besides it will save the gens-d’armes some miles of a ride if they overtake them here.” “Have we another vise of our passports here, then?” said I, addressing the courier, “for we have already been examined at Nancy?” “Not exactly a vise,” said the courier, eyeing me most suspiciously as he spoke, and then continuing to eat with his former voracity. “Then, what, may I ask, have we to do with the gens-d’armes?” “It is a search,” said the courier, gruffly, and with the air of one who desired no further questioning. I immediately ordered a bottle of Burgundy, and filling the large goblet before him, said, with much respect, “A votre bonne voyage, Monsier le Courier.” To this he at once replied, by taking off his cap and bowing politely as he drank off the wine. “Have we any runaway felon or a stray galerien among us?” said I, laughingly, “that they are going to search us?” “No, monsieur,” said the courier; “but there has been a government order to arrest a person on this road connected with the dreadful Polish plot, that has just eclated at Paris. I passed a vidette of cavalry at Nancy, and they will be up here in half an hour.” “A Polish plot! Why, I left Paris only two days ago, and never heard of it.” “C’est bien possible, Monsieur? Perhaps, after all, it may only be an affair of the police; but they have certainly arrested one prisoner at Meurice, charged with this, as well as the attempt to rob Frascati, and murder the croupier.” “Alas,” said I, with a half-suppressed groan, “it is too true; that infernal fellow O’Leary has ruined me, and I shall be brought back to Paris, and only taken from prison to meet the open shame and ignominy of a public trial.” What was to be done?–every moment was precious. I walked to the door to conceal my agitation. All was dark and gloomy. The thought of escape was my only one; but how to accomplish it! Every stir without suggested to my anxious mind the approaching tread of horses–every rattle of the harness seemed like the clink of accoutrements. While I yet hesitated, I felt that my fate was in the balance. Concealment where I was, was impossible; there were no means of obtaining horses to proceed. My last only hope then rested in the courier; he perhaps might be bribed to assist me at this juncture. Still his impression as to the enormity of the crime imputed, might deter him; and there was no time for explanation, if even he would listen to it. I returned to the room; he had finished his meal, and was now engaged in all the preparations for encountering a wet and dreary night. I hesitated; my fears that if he should refuse my offers, all chance of my escape was gone, deterred me for a moment. At length as he wound a large woollen shawl around his throat, and seemed to have completed his costume, I summoned nerve for the effort, and with as much boldness in my manner as I could muster, said– “Monsieur le Courier, one word with you.” I here closed the door, and continued. “My fortunes–my whole prospects in life depend upon my reaching Strasbourg by to-morrow night. You alone can be the means of my doing so. Is there any price you can mention, for which you will render me this service?–if so, name it.” “So then, Monsieur,” said the Courier, slowly–“so, then, you are the–“ “You have guessed it,” said I, interrupting. “Do you accept my proposal?” “It is impossible,” said he, “utterly impossible; for even should I be disposed to run the risk on my own account, it would avail you nothing; the first town we entered your passport would be demanded, and not being vised by the minister to travel en courier, you would at once be detained and arrested.” “Then am I lost,” said I, throwing myself upon a chair; at the same instant my passport, which I carried in my breast pocket, fell out at the feet of the courier. He lifted it and opened it leisurely. So engrossed was I by my misfortunes, that for some minutes I did not perceive, that as he continued to read the passport, he smiled from time to time, till at length a hearty fit of laughing awoke me from my abstraction. My first impulse was to seize him by the throat; controlling my temper, however, with an effort, I said– “And pray, Monsieur, may I ask in what manner the position I stand in at this moment affords you so much amusement? Is there any thing so particularly droll–any thing so excessively ludicrous in my situation– or what particular gift do you possess that shall prevent me throwing you out of the window?” “Mais, Monsieur,” said he, half stifled with laughter, “do you know the blunder I fell into? it is really too good. Could you only guess who I took you for, you would laugh too.” Here he became so overcome with merriment, that he was obliged to sit down, which he did opposite to me, and actually shook with laughter. “When this comedy is over,” thought I, “we may begin to understand each other.” Seeing no prospect of this, I became at length impatient, and jumping on my legs, said– “Enough, sir, quite enough of this foolery. Believe me, you have every reason to be thankful that my present embarrassment should so far engross me, that I cannot afford time to give you a thrashing.” “Pardon, mille pardons,” said he humbly; “but you will, I am sure, forgive me when I tell you that I was stupid enough to mistake you for the fugitive Englishman, whom the gens-d’armes are in pursuit of. How good, eh?” “Oh! devilish good–but what do you mean?” “Why, the fellow that caused the attack at Frascati, and all that, and–“ “Yes–well, eh? Did you think I was him?” “To be sure I did, till I saw your passport.” “Till you saw my passport!” Why, what on earth can he mean? thought I. “No, but,” said I, half jestingly, “how could you make such a blunder?” “Why, your confused manner–your impatience to get on–your hurried questions, all convinced me. In fact, I’d have wagered any thing you were the Englishman.” “And what, in heaven’s name, does he think me now?” thought I, as I endeavoured to join the laugh so ludicrous a mistake occasioned. “But we are delaying sadly,” said the courier. “Are you ready?” “Ready?–ready for what?” “To go on with me, of course. Don’t you wish to get early to Strasbourg?” “To be sure I do.” “Well, then, come along. But, pray, don’t mind your luggage, for my caleche is loaded. Your instruments can come in the diligence.” “My instruments in the diligence! He’s mad–that’s flat.” “How they will laugh at Strasbourg at my mistake.” “That they will,” thought I. “The only doubt is, will you join in the merriment?” So saying, I followed the courier to the door, jumped into his caleche, and in another moment was hurrying over the pave at a pace that defied pursuit, and promised soon to make up for all our late delay. Scarcely was the fur-lined apron of the caleche buttoned around me, and the German blinds let down, when I set to work to think over the circumstance that had just befallen me. As I had never examined my passport from the moment Trevanion handed it to me in Paris, I knew nothing of its contents; therefore, as to what impression it might convey of me, I was totally ignorant. To ask the courier for it now might excite suspicion; so that I was totally at sea how to account for his sudden change in my favour, or in what precise capacity I was travelling beside him. Once, and once only, the thought of treachery occurred to me. Is he about to hand me over to the gens-d’armes? and are we now only retracing our steps towards Nancy? If so, Monsieur le Courier, whatever be my fate, your’s is certainly an unenviable one. My reflections on this head were soon broken in upon, for my companion again returned to the subject of his “singular error,” and assured me that he was as near as possible leaving me behind, under the mistaken impression of my being “myself;” and informed me that all Strasbourg would be delighted to see me, which latter piece of news was only the more flattering, that I knew no one there, nor had ever been in that city in my life; and after about an hour’s mystification as to my tastes, habits, and pursuits, he fell fast asleep, leaving me to solve the difficult problem as to whether I was not somebody else, or the only alternative–whether travelling en courier might not be prescribed by physicians as a mode of treating insane patients. CHAPTER XLVIII. A NIGHT IN STRASBOURG. With the dawn of day my miseries recommenced; for after letting down the sash, and venting some very fervent imprecations upon the postillion for not going faster than his horses were able, the courier once more recurred to his last night’s blunder, and proceeded very leisurely to catechise me as to my probable stay at Strasbourg, when I should go from there, &c. As I was still in doubt what or whom he took me for, I answered with the greatest circumspection–watching, the while, for any clue that might lead me to a discovery of myself. Thus, occasionally evading all pushing and home queries, and sometimes, when hard pressed, feigning drowsiness, I passed the long and anxious day–the fear of being overtaken ever mingling with the thoughts that some unlucky admission of mine might discover my real character to the courier, who, at any post station, might hand me over to the authorities. Could I only guess at the part I am performing, thought I, and I might manage to keep up the illusion; but my attention was so entirely engrossed by fencing off all his threats, that I could find out nothing. At last, as night drew near, the thought that we were approaching Strasbourg rallied my spirits, suggesting an escape from all pursuit, as well as the welcome prospect of getting rid of my present torturer, who, whenever I awoke from a doze, reverted to our singular meeting with a pertinacity that absolutely seemed like malice. “As I am aware that this is your first visit to Strasbourg,” said the courier, “perhaps I can be of service to you in recommending a hotel. Put up, I advise you, at the ‘Bear’–a capital hotel, and not ten minutes’ distance from the theatre.” I thanked him for the counsel; and, rejoicing in the fact that my prototype, whoever he might be, was unknown in the city, began to feel some little hope of getting through this scrape, as I had done so many others. “They have been keeping the ‘Huguenots’ for your arrival, and all Strasbourg is impatient for your coming.” “Indeed!” said I, mumbling something meant to be modest. “Who the devil am I, then, to cause all this fracas? Heaven grant, not the new ‘prefect,’ or the commander of the forces.” “I am told the ‘Zauberflotte’ is your favourite opera?” “I can’t say that I ever heard it–that is, I mean that I could say–well got up.” Here I floundered on having so far forgot myself as to endanger every thing. “How very unfortunate! Well, I hope you will not long have as much to say. Meanwhile, here we are–this is the ‘Bear.’” We rattled into the ample porte cochere of a vast hotel–the postillion cracking his enormous whip, and bells ringing on every side, as if the crown prince of Russia had been the arrival, and not a poor sub. in the __th. The courier jumped out, and running up to the landlord, whispered a few words in his ear, to which the other answered by a deep “ah, vraiment!” and then saluted me with an obsequiousness that made my flesh quake. “I shall make ‘mes hommages’ in the morning,” said the courier, as he drove off at full speed to deliver his despatches, and left me to my own devices to perform a character, without even being able to guess what it might be. My passport, too, the only thing that could throw any light upon the affair, he had taken along with him, promising to have it vised, and save me any trouble. Of all my difficulties and puzzling situations in life, this was certainly the worst; for however often my lot had been to personate another, yet hitherto I had had the good fortune to be aware of what and whom I was performing. Now I might be any body from Marshal Soult to Monsieur Scribe; one thing only was certain, I must be a “celebrity.” The confounded pains and trouble they were taking to receive me, attested that fact, and left me to the pleasing reflection that my detection, should it take place, would be sure of attracting a very general publicity. Having ordered my supper from the landlord, with a certain air of reserve, sufficient to prevent even an Alsace host from obtruding any questions upon me, I took my opportunity to stroll from the inn down to the river side. There lay the broad, rapid Rhine, separating me, by how narrow a gulph, from that land, where, if I once arrived, my safety was certain. Never did that great boundary of nations strike me so forcibly, as now when my own petty interests and fortunes were at stake. Night was fast settling upon the low flat banks of the stream, and nothing stirred, save the ceaseless ripple of the river. One fishing barque alone was on the water. I hailed the solitary tenant of it, and after some little parley, induced him to ferry me over. This, however, could only be done when the night was farther advanced–it being against the law to cross the river except at certain hours, and between two established points, where officers of the revenue were stationed. The fisherman was easily bribed, however, to evade the regulation, and only bargained that I should meet him on the bank before daybreak. Having settled this point to my satisfaction, I returned to my hotel in better spirits; and with a Strasbourg pate, and a flask of Nierensteiner, drank to my speedy deliverance. How to consume the long, dreary hours between this time and that of my departure, I knew not; for though greatly fatigued, I felt that sleep was impossible; the usual resource of a gossip with the host was equally out of the question; and all that remained was the theatre, which I happily remembered was not far from the hotel. It was an opera night, and the house was crowded to excess; but with some little management, I obtained a place in a box near the stage. The piece was “Les Franc Macons,” which was certainly admirably supported, and drew down from the audience–no mean one as judges of music–the loudest thunders of applause. As for me, the house was a great a curiosity as the opera. The novel spectacle of some hundred (thousand?) people relishing and appreciating the highest order of musical genius, was something totally new and surprising to me. The curtain at length fell upon the fifth act. And now the deafening roar of acclamation was tremendous; and amid a perfect shout of enthusiasm, the manager announced the opera for the ensuing evening. Scarcely had this subsided, when a buzz ran through the house; at first subdued, but gradually getting louder–extending from the boxes to the balcone–from the balcone to the parterre–and finally even to the galleries. Groups of people stood upon the benches, and looked fixedly in one part of the house; then changed and regarded as eagerly the other. What can this mean? thought I. Is the theatre on fire? Something surely has gone wrong! In this conviction, with the contagious spirit of curiosity, I mounted upon a seat, and looked about me on every side; but unable still to catch the object which seemed to attract the rest, as I was about to resume my place, my eyes fell upon a well-known face, which in an instant I remembered was that of my late fellow-traveller the courier. Anxious to avoid his recognition, I attempted to get down at once; but before I could accomplish it, the wretch had perceived and recognised me; and I saw him, even with a gesture of delight, point me out to some friends beside him. “Confound the fellow,” muttered I; “I must leave this at once, or I shall be involved in some trouble.” Scarcely was my my resolve taken, when a new burst of voices arose from the pit–the words ‘l’Auteur,” “l’Auteur,” mingling with loud cries for “Meerberger,” “Meerberger,” to appear. So, thought I, it seems the great composer is here. Oh, by Jove! I must have a peep at him before I go. So, leaning over the front rail of the box, I looked anxiously about to catch one hasty glimpse of one of the great men of his day and country. What was my surprise, however, to perceive that about two thousand eyes were firmly rivetted upon the box I was seated in; while about half the number of tongues called out unceasingly, “Mr. Meerberger–vive Meerberger–vive l’Auteur des Franc Macons–vive Franc Macons,” &c. Before I could turn to look for the hero of the scene, my legs were taken from under me, and I felt myself lifted by several strong men and held out in front of the box, while the whole audience, rising en masse, saluted me–yes, me, Harry Lorrequer–with a cheer that shook the building. Fearful of precipitating myself into the pit beneath, if I made the least effort, and half wild with terror and amazement, I stared about like a maniac, while a beautiful young woman tripped along the edge of the box, supported by her companion’s hand, and placed lightly upon my brow a chaplet of roses and laurel. Here the applause was like an earthquake. “May the devil fly away with half of ye,” was my grateful response, to as full a cheer of applause as ever the walls of the house re-echoed to. “On the stage–on the stage!” shouted that portion of the audience who, occupying the same side of the house as myself, preferred having a better view of me; and to the stage I was accordingly hurried, down a narrow stair, through a side scene, and over half the corps de ballet who were waiting for their entree. Kicking, plunging, buffetting like a madman, they carried me to the “flats,” when the manager led me forward to the foot lights, my wreath of flowers contrasting rather ruefully with my bruised cheeks and torn habiliments. Human beings, God be praised, are only capable of certain efforts–so that one-half the audience were coughing their sides out, while the other were hoarse as bull-frogs from their enthusiasm in less than five minutes. “You’ll have what my friend Rooney calls a chronic bronchitis for this, these three weeks,” said I, “that’s one comfort,” as I bowed my way back to the “practicable” door, through which I made my exit, with the thousand faces of the parterre shouting my name, or, as fancy dictated, that of one of “my” operas. I retreated behind the scenes, to encounter very nearly as much, and at closer quarters, too, as that lately sustained before the audience. After an embrace of two minutes duration from the manager, I ran the gauntlet from the prima donna to the last triangle of the orchestra, who cut away a back button of my coat as a “souvenir.” During all this, I must confess, very little acting was needed on my part. They were so perfectly contented with their self- deception, that if I had made an affidavit before the mayor–if there be such a functionary in such an insane town–they would not have believed me. Wearied and exhausted at length, by all I had gone through, I sat down upon a bench, and, affecting to be overcome by my feelings, concealed my face in my handkerchief. This was the first moment of relief I experienced since my arrival; but it was not to last long, for the manager, putting down his head close to my ear, whispered– “Monsieur Meerberger, I have a surprise for you–such as you have not had for some time, I venture to say”– “I defy you on this head,” thought I. “If they make me out king Solomon now, it will not amaze me”– “And when I tell you my secret,” continued he, “you will acknowledge I cannot be of a very jealous disposition. Madame Baptiste has just told me she knew you formerly, and that–she–that is, you–were–in fact, you understand–there had been–so to say–a little ‘amourette’ between you.” I groaned in spirit as I thought, now am I lost without a chance of escape–the devil take her reminiscences. “I see,” continued le bon mari, “you cannot guess of whom I speak; but when I tell you of Amelie Grandet, your memory will, perhaps, be better.” “Amelie Grandet!” said I, with a stage start. I need not say that I had never heard the name before. “Amelie Grandet here!” “Yes, that she is,” said the manager, rubbing his hands; “and my wife, too”– “Married!–Amelie Grandet married! No, no; it is impossible–I cannot believe it. But were it true–true, mark me–for worlds would I not meet her.” “Comment il est drole,” said the manager, soliloquising aloud; “for my wife takes it much easier, seeing they never met each other since they were fifteen.” “Ho, ho!” thought I, “the affair is not so bad either–time makes great changes in that space.” “And does she still remember me?” said I, in a very Romeo-in-the-garden voice. “Why, so far as remembering the little boy that used to play with her in the orchard at her mother’s cottage near Pirna, and with whom she used to go boating upon the Elbe, I believe the recollection is perfect. But come along–she insists upon seeing you, and is this very moment waiting supper in our room for you.” “A thorough German she must be,” thought I, “with her sympathies and her supper–her reminiscences and her Rhine wine hunting in couples through her brain.” Summoning courage from the fact of our long absence from each other, I followed the manager through a wilderness of pavilions, forests, clouds and cataracts, and at length arrived at a little door, at which he knocked gently. “Come in,” said a soft voice inside. We opened, and beheld a very beautiful young woman, in Tyrolese costume. She was to perform in the afterpiece–her low boddice and short scarlet petticoat displaying the most perfect symmetry of form and roundness of proportion. She was dressing her hair before a low glass as we came in, and scarcely turned at our approach; but in an instant, as if some sudden thought had struck her, she sprung fully round, and looking at me fixedly for above a minute–a very trying one for me–she glanced at her husband, whose countenance plainly indicated that she was right, and calling out, “C’est lui–c’est bien lui,” threw herself into my arms, and sobbed convulsively. “If this were to be the only fruits of my impersonation,” thought I, “it is not so bad–but I am greatly afraid these good people will find out a wife and seven babies for me before morning.” Whether the manager thought that enough had been done for stage effect, I know not; but he gently disengaged the lovely Amelie, and deposited her upon a sofa, to a place upon which she speedily motioned me by a look from a pair of very seducing blue eyes. “Francois, mon cher, you must put off La Chaumiere. I can’t play to-night.” “Put it off! But only think of the audience, ma mie–they will pull down the house.” “C’est possible,” said she, carelessly. “If that give them any pleasure, I suppose they must be indulged; but I, too, must have a little of my own way. I shall not play.” The tone this was said in–the look–the easy gesture of command–no less than the afflicted helplessness of the luckless husband, showed me that Amelie, however docile as a sweetheart, had certainly her own way as wife. While Le cher Francois then retired, to make his proposition to the audience, of substituting something for the Chaumiere–the “sudden illness of Madame Baptiste having prevented her appearance,”–we began to renew our old acquaintance, by a thousand inquiries from that long-past time, when we were sweethearts and lovers. “You remember me then so well?” said I. “As of yesterday. You are much taller, and your eyes darker; but still– there is something. You know, however, I have been expecting to see you these two days; and tell me frankly how do you find me looking?” “More beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever–all save in one thing, Amelie.” “And that is–“ “You are married.” “How you jest. But let us look back. Do you ever think on any of our old compacts?” Here she pulled a leaf from a rose bud in her bouquet, and kissed it. “I wager you have forgotten that.” How I should have replied to this masonic sign, God knows; but the manager fortunately entered, to assure us that the audience had kindly consented not to pull down the house, but to listen to a five act tragedy instead, in which he had to perform the principal character. “So, then, don’t wait supper, Amelie; but take care of Monsieur Meerberger till my return.” Thus, once more were we left to our souvenirs, in which, whenever hard pushed myself, I regularly carried the war into the enemy’s camp, by allusions to incidents, which I need not observe had never occurred. After a thousand stories of our early loves, mingled with an occasional sigh over their fleeting character–now indulging a soft retrospect of the once happy past–now moralising on the future–Amelie and I chatted away the hours till the conclusion of the tragedy. By this time, the hour was approaching for my departure; so, after a very tender leave-taking with my new friend and my old love, I left the theatre, and walked slowly along to the river. “So much for early associations,” thought I; “and how much better pleased are we ever to paint the past according to our own fancy, than to remember it as it really was. Hence all the insufferable cant about happy infancy, and ‘the glorious schoolboy days,’ which have generally no more foundation in fact than have the ‘Chateaux en Espagne’ we build up for the future. I wager that the real Amant d’enfance, when he arrives, is not half so great a friend with the fair Amelie as his unworthy shadow. At the same time, I had just as soon that Lady Jane should have no ‘premiers amours’ to look back upon, except such as I have performed a character in.” The plash of oars near me broke up my reflections, and the next moment found me skimming the rapid Rhine, as I thought for the last time. What will they say in Strasbourg to-morrow? How will they account for the mysterious disappearance of Monsieur Meerberger? Poor Amelie Grandet! For so completely had the late incidents engrossed my attention, that I had for the moment lost sight of the most singular event of all–how I came to be mistaken for the illustrious composer. CHAPTER XLIX. A SURPRISE. It was late upon the following day ere I awoke from the long deep sleep that closed my labours in Strasbourg. In the confusion of my waking thoughts, I imagined myself still before a crowded and enthusiastic audience–the glare of the foot-lights–the crash of the orchestra–the shouts of “l’Auteur,” “l’Auteur,” were all before me, and so completely possessed me, that, as the waiter entered with hot water, I could not resist the impulse to pull off my night-cap with one hand, and press the other to my heart in the usual theatrical style of acknowledgments for a most flattering reception. The startled look of the poor fellow as he neared the door to escape, roused me from my hallucination, and awakened me to the conviction that the suspicion of lunacy might be a still heavier infliction than the personation of Monsieur Meerberger. With thoughts of this nature, I assumed my steadiest demeanour–ordered my breakfast in the most orthodox fashion–eat it like a man in his senses; and when I threw myself back in the wicker conveniency they call a caleche, and bid adieu to Kehl, the whole fraternity of the inn would have given me a certificate of sanity before any court in Europe. “Now for Munich,” said I, as we rattled along down the steep street of the little town. “Now for Munich, with all the speed that first of postmasters and slowest of men, the Prince of Tour and Taxis, will afford us.” The future engrossed all my thoughts; and puzzling as my late adventures had been to account for, I never for a moment reverted to the past. “Is she to be mine?” was the ever-rising question in my mind. The thousand difficulties that had crossed my path might long since have terminated a pursuit where there was so little of promise, did I not cherish the idea in my heart, that I was fated to succeed. Sheridan answered the ribald sneers of his first auditory, by saying, “Laugh on; but I have it in me, and by ____ it shall come out.” So I whispered to myself:–Go on Harry. Luck has been hitherto against you, it is true; but you have yet one throw of the dice, and something seems to say, a fortunate one in store; and, if so—-, but I cannot trust myself with such anticipations. I am well aware how little the world sympathises with the man whose fortunes are the sport of his temperament–that April-day frame of mind is ever the jest and scoff of those hardier and sterner natures, who, if never overjoyed by success, are never much depressed by failure. That I have been cast in the former mould, these Confessions have, alas! plainly proved; but that I regret it, I fear also, for my character for sound judgment, I must answer “No.” Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than be blest with light, and see That light for ever flying is, doubtless, very pretty poetry, but very poor philosophy. For myself –and some glimpses of sunshine this fair world has afforded me, fleeting and passing enough, in all conscience–and yet I am not so ungrateful as to repine at my happiness, because it was not permanent, as I am thankful for those bright hours of “Love’s young dream,” which, if nothing more, are at least delightful souvenirs. They form the golden thread in the tangled web of our existence, ever appearing amid the darker surface around, and throwing a fair halo of brilliancy on what, without it, were cold, bleak, and barren. No, no– The light that liesIn woman’s eyes, were it twice as fleeting–as it is ten times more brilliant–than the forked lightning, irradiates the dark gloom within us for many a long day after it has ceased to shine upon us. As in boyhood it is the humanizing influence that tempers the fierce and unruly passions of our nature, so in manhood it forms the goal to which all our better and higher aspirations tend, telling us there is something more worthy than gold, and a more lofty pinnacle of ambition than the praise and envy of our fellow-men; and we may rest assured, that when this feeling dies within us, that all the ideal of life dies with it, and nothing remains save the dull reality of our daily cares and occupations. “I have lived and have loved,” saith Schiller; and if it were not that there seems some tautology in the phrase, I should say, such is my own motto. If Lady Jane but prove true–if I have really succeeded–if, in a word–but why speculate upon such chances?–what pretensions have I?–what reasons to look for such a prize? Alas! and alas! were I to catechise myself too closely, I fear that my horses’ heads would face towards Calais, and that I should turn my back upon the only prospect of happiness I can picture to myself in this world. In reflections such as these, the hours rolled over, and it was already late at night when we reached the little village of Merchem. While fresh horses were being got ready, I seized the occasion to partake of the table d’hote supper of the inn, at the door of which the diligence was drawn up. Around the long, and not over- scrupulously clean table, sat the usual assemblage of a German “Eilwagen”–smoking, dressing salad, knitting, and occasionally picking their teeth with their forks, until the soup should make its appearance. Taking my place amid this motley assemblage of mustachioed shopkeepers and voluminously-petticoated frows, I sat calculating how long human patience could endure such companionship, when my attention was aroused by hearing a person near me narrate to his friend the circumstances of my debut at Strasbourg, with certain marginal notes of his own that not a little surprised me. “And so it turned out not to be Meerberger, after all,”: said the listener. “Of course not,” replied the other. “Meerberger’s passport was stolen from him in the diligence by this English escroc, and the consequence was, that our poor countryman was arrested, the other passport being found upon him; while the Englishman, proceeding to Strasbourg, took his benefit at the opera, and walked away with above twelve thousand florins. “Sappermint” said the other, tossing off his beer. “He must have been a clever fellow, though, to lead the orchestra in the Franc Macons.” “That is the most astonishing part of all; for they say in Strasbourg that his performance upon the violin was far finer than Paganini’s; but there seems some secret in it, after all: for Madame Baptiste swears that he is Meerberger; and in fact the matter is far from being cleared up– nor can it be till he is apprehended.” “Which shall not be for some time to come,” said I to myself, as, slipping noiselessly from the room, I regained my “caleche,” and in ten minutes more was proceeding on my journey. So much for correct information, thought I. One thing, however, is certain–to the chance interchange of passports I owe my safety, with the additional satisfaction that my little German acquaintance is reaping a pleasant retribution for all his worry and annoyance of me in the coupe. Only he who has toiled over the weary miles of a long journey– exclusively occupied with one thought–one overpowering feeling–can adequately commiserate my impatient anxiety as the days rolled slowly over on the long tiresome road that leads from the Rhine to the south of Germany. The morning was breaking on the fourth day of my journey as the tall spires of Munich rose to my view, amid the dull and arid desert of sand that city is placed in. At last! was my exclamation as the postilion tapped at the window with his whip, and then pointed towards the city. At last! Oh! what would be the extacy of my feelings now could I exchange the torturing anxieties of suspense for the glorious certainty my heart throbs for; now my journey is nearing its end to see me claim as my own what I now barely aspire to in the sanguine hope of a heart that will not despair. But cheer up, Harry. It is a noble stake you play for; and it is ever the bold gambler that wins. Scarcely was this reflection made half aloud, when a sudden shock threw me from my seat. I fell towards the door, which, bursting open, launched me out upon the road, at the same moment that the broken axletree of the caleche had upset it on the opposite side, carrying one horse along with it, and leaving the other with the postillion on his back, kicking and plunging with all his might. After assisting the frightened fellow to dismount, and having cut the traces of the restive animal, I then perceived that in the melee I had not escaped scatheless. I could barely stand; and, on passing my hand upon my instep, perceived I had sprained my ancle in the fall. The day was only breaking, no one was in sight, so that after a few minutes’ consideration, the best thing to do, appeared to get the other horse upon his legs, and despatching the postillion to Munich, then about three leagues distant, for a carriage, wait patiently on the road- side for his return. No sooner was the resolve made than carried into execution; and in less than a quarter of an hour from the moment of the accident, I was seated upon the bank, watching the retiring figure of the postillion, as he disappeared down a hill, on his way to Munich. When the momentary burst of impatience was over, I could not help congratulating myself, that I was so far fortunate in reaching the end of my journey ere the mischance befell me. Had it occurred at Stuttgard I really think that it would have half driven me distracted. I was not long in my present situation till a number of peasants, with broad-brimmed hats, and many-buttoned coats, passed on their way to work; they all saluted me respectfully; but although they saw the broken carriage, and might well guess at the nature of my accident, yet not one ever thought of proffering his services, or even indulging curiosity, by way of inquiry. “How thoroughly German,” thought I; “these people are the Turks of Europe, stupified with tobacco and ‘starkes bier.’ They have no thought for any thing but themselves, and their own immediate occupations.” Perceiving at length one whose better dress and more intelligent look bespoke a rank above the common, I made the effort with such “platt deutsch,” as I could muster, to ask if there were any house near, where I could remain till the postillion’s return? and learned greatly to my gratification, that by taking the path which led through a grove of pine trees near me, I should find a chateau; but who was the proprietor he knew not; indeed the people were only newly come, and he believed were foreigners. English he thought. Oh, how my heart jumped as I said, “can they be the Callonbys; are they many in family; are there ladies–young ladies, among them?”–he knew not. Having hastily arranged with my new friend to watch the carriage till my return, I took the path he showed me, and smarting with pain at every step, hurried along as best I could towards the chateau. I had not walked many minutes, when a break in the wood gave me a view of the old mansion, and at once dispelled the illusion that was momentarily gaining upon me. “They could not be the Callonbys.” The house was old; and though it had once been a fine and handsome structure, exhibited now abundant traces of decay; the rich cornices which supported the roof had fallen in many places, and lay in fragments upon the terrace beneath; the portico of the door was half tumbling; and the architraves of the windows were broken and dismantled; the tall and once richly ornamented chimnies, were bereft of all their tracery, and stood bolt upright in all their nakedness above the high pitched roof. A straggling “jet d’eau” was vigorously fighting its way amid a mass of creeping shrubs and luxuriant lichens that had grown around and above a richly carved fountain, and fell in a shower of sparkling dew upon the rank grass and tall weeds around. The gentle murmur was the only sound that broke the stillness of the morning. A few deities in lead and stone, mutilated and broken, stood like the Genii loci, guarding the desolation about them, where an old, superannuated peacock, with dropping, ragged tail was the only living thing to be seen. All bespoke the wreck of what once was great and noble, and all plainly told me that such could not be the abode of the Callonbys. Half doubting that the house were inhabited, and half scrupling if so to disturb its inmates from their rest, I sat down upon the terrace steps and fell into a fit of musing on the objects about. That strange propensity of my countrymen to settle down in remote and unfrequented spots upon the continent, had never struck me so forcibly; for although unquestionably there were evident traces of the former grandeur of the place, yet it was a long past greatness; and in the dilapidated walls, broken statues, weed grown walls, and dark and tangled pine grove, there were more hints for sadness than I should willingly surround myself by in a residence. The harsh grating of a heavy door behind roused me; I turned and beheld an old man in a species of tarnished and worm-eaten livery, who, holding the door, again gazed at me with a mingled expression of fear and curiosity. Having briefly explained the circumstances which had befallen me, and appealed to the broken caleche upon the road to corroborate a testimony that I perceived needed such aid, the old man invited me to enter, saying that his master and mistress were not risen, but that he would himself give me some breakfast, of which by this time I stood much in want. The room into which I was ushered, corresponded well with the exterior of the house. It was large, bleak, and ill furnished; the ample, uncurtained windows; the cold, white pannelled walls; the uncarpeted floor; all giving it an air of uninhabitable misery. A few chairs of the Louis-quatorze taste, with blue velvet linings, faded and worn, a cracked marble table upon legs that once had been gilt; two scarcely detectable portraits of a mail-clad hero and a scarcely less formidable fair, with a dove upon her wrist, formed the principal articles of furniture in the dismal abode, where so “triste” and depressing did every thing appear, that I half regretted the curiosity that had tempted me from the balmy air, and cheerful morning without, to the gloom and solitude around me. The old man soon re-appeared with a not despicable cup of “Cafe noir,” and a piece of bread as large as a teaspoon, and used by the Germans pretty much in the same way. As the adage of the “gift horse” is of tolerably general acceptation, I eat and was thankful, mingling my acknowledgments from time to time with some questions about the owners of the mansion, concerning whom I could not help feeling curious. The ancient servitor, however, knew little or nothing of those he served; his master was the honourable baron; but of his name he was ignorant; his mistress was young; they had not been many months there; they knew no one–had no visitors–he had heard they were English, but did not know it himself; they were “Gute leute,” “good people,” and that was enough for him. How strange did all this seem, that two people, young, too, should separate themselves from all the attractions and pleasures of the world, and settle down in the dark and dreary solitude, where every association was of melancholy, every object a text for sad reflections. Lost in these thoughts I sat down beside the window, and heeded not the old man as he noiselessly left the room. My thoughts ran on over the strange phases in which life presents itself, and how little after all external influences have to do with that peace of mind whose origin is within. The Indian, whose wigwam is beside the cataract, heeds not its thunders, nor feels its sprays as they fall in everlasting dews upon him; the Arab of the desert sees no bleakness in those never ending plains, upon whose horizon his eye has rested from childhood to age. Who knows but he who inhabits this lonely dwelling may have once shone in the gay world, mixing in its follies, tasting of its fascination; and to think that now –the low murmurs of the pine tops, the gentle rustle of the water through the rank grass, and my own thoughts combining, overcame me at length, and I slept–how long I know not; but when I awoke, certain changes about showed me that some length of time had elapsed; a gay wood fire was burning on the hearth; an ample breakfast covered the table; and the broadsheet of the “Times” newspaper was negligently reposing in the deep hollow of an arm chair. Before I had well thought how to apologize for the cool insouciance of my intrusion, the door opened, and a tall, well built man entered; his shooting jacket and gaiters were evidence of his English origin, while a bushy moustache and most ample “Henri quatre” nearly concealed features, that still were not quite unknown to me; he stopped, looked steadily at me, placed a hand on either shoulder, and calling out, “Harry–Harry Lorrequer, by all that’s glorious!” rushed from the room in a transport of laughter. Page 1Page 2Page 3 Share on