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A Grave Talent: A Novel
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When Constantinople, austerely interpreting the evangelical
ordinances, attempted to destroy reverence for holy images, the
church fought for the right to cultivate the fine arts; and sustained
martyrdom and exile to maintain the privilege of guarding the fine
arts in her sanctuaries. When the reform of the sixteenth century
called the Catholic Church Babylon, because she asked Michael
Angelo and Raphael to immortalize the grandeurs of Christianity,
she resisted again—knowing how to distinguish the exceptional life
of the voluntary anchorite from the social life of the merely honest
man; exacting virtues from all her children, but virtues suitable to
their state, to the mystic life of Mary and to the external life of
Martha, to the viceroy Joseph and to the shoemaker Crispin.

The same church defends, to-day, love and art from the modern
iconoclasts and spurious Puritans.

Discoursing about worship, our author begins by that of Mary,

showing it to be a religious principle in accord with reason; a public
fact, approved by history; a most tender affection, sanctioned by
the heart. It is not long since the chief of the English ritualists,
Doctor Pusey, made the most honorable admissions in reference to
the Catholic dogmas and ceremonies, excepting, however, the
reverence which Catholics have for the Mother of God. Archbishop
Manning's [Footnote 76] reply is one of the most beautiful and
rational apologies for this worship for which Italy is so remarkable.
For all republics were consecrated to her; she was the chosen
patroness of our chief cities; her likeness was impressed on our
coins and seals; our first poets sang her praises, and their echoes
have not yet died; our painters could find no higher or sweeter
model; our architects competed in erecting grand temples to her
honor; our musicians to compose canticles to her praise; great
expeditions were undertaken in her name; colonies were
consecrated to her, where now Italian power, but not Italian
influence, has ceased. And it is Mary who will save our Italy from
humiliations, and from that degradation which seems to be the only
aspiration of her intolerant sons. [Footnote 77]
 [Footnote 76: Probably a mistake for Dr. Newman.]

[Footnote 77: I may be permitted to refer the reader to

the fifty-fourth chapter of my Heretics of Italy, in
which the respect due to saints and to Mary is
discussed.]

The intolerant repeat that laws, decrees, and social organization are
sufficient to regulate civil society.

They are sufficient; but they require science to prepare them and
virtue to apply them; both to be invoked from on high. The safety
of one's country, the fulfilment of its aspirations, the triumph of
justice, must come from heaven. Formerly the Italians marched to
battle under the standard of the saints or of the cross; the heroes
of Legnano, of Fornovo, and of Curzolari prostrated themselves in
prayer before fighting; and the Italians of those times conquered
and gave thanks to God for having given to them a beautiful, great,
and prosperous country. But now we have popular tumults and the
ravings of newspapers.

Our strong-minded heroes consider it degrading to bow before the

Author of all things. Yet, passing over all the wise men of antiquity,
the most free nation in Europe opens its parliaments with prayer,
and obeys the orders of the queen to fast in time of disaster, or
feast in time of great success. The President of the United States,
no matter what may be his creed, orders a day of thanksgiving to
God, and he is obeyed. When the telegraph from America was able
to carry a message to Europe on August 17th, 1858, the first words
which leaped along the wire were, "Europe and America are united.
Glory to God in the highest; peace on earth; to men, good-will."
"What grander spectacle can there be than to see a whole people
united in the duties imposed by its religion in celebrating great
anniversaries? What heroic outbursts, how many noble sacrifices,
were expressed in the monologues of holy days! What high
thoughts and magnificent conceptions arose in the souls of
philosophers and poets! How many generous resolutions were
taken! When the observance of the Sunday was neglected, the last
spark of poetic fire was extinguished in the souls of our poets. It
has been truly said, without religion there is no poetry. We must
add, without external worship and feast days there is no religion. In
the country, where the people are more susceptible of the religious
sentiment, the Sunday still keeps a part of its social influence. The
sight of a rustic population united as one family by the voice of its
pastor, and prostrated in silence and recollection before the invisible
majesty of God, is touching and sublime; is a charm which goes to
the heart."

Who speaks in this way? Proud hon. [sic] And Napoleon says, "Do
you want something sublime? Recite your Pater noster."

The most sublime prayer is the mass—the culminating point of

worship; the perennial expiation of perennial faults. From the mass
Alimonda passes to confession; then to communion; and thence to
the responsibility of present life. He exhorts all to understand and
believe. This is the creed of the Christian: Credere et
intelligere.

VIII.

We have thus far followed the illustrious Alimonda, repeating or

developing his arguments. Let us now examine his manner of
treating the questions which he discusses.

The classic Greek orators had wonderful simplicity of style, in which

the familiarity of their expressions ennobled their sentiments and
gave force to their reasoning. The Eastern fathers followed in their
footsteps. The Latins ornamented eloquence so as to make it a
special art, assigning it a measured cadence, a peculiar intonation
of voice, a system of position and gesture. Hence, the Latin fathers
studied speech even to affectation, sought after rhetorical figures,
yet always more attentive to the practical than to the abstract. The
French formed themselves rather according to the Greek models;
and the noble simplicity of Bossuet, Massilon, and Fénélon renders
them still models for one who would discourse before a polished
people.

The Italians, if you except some of the very earliest preachers,

preferred to ornament their speeches and indulge in artificial
figures. In the ages of bad taste, the worst display of metaphors
disgraced the pulpit; whence the custom passed to the bar and
parliament, where there have been and still are so many examples
of unnatural oratory. Hence, in so great an abundance of literature,
we have no good preachers except Legneri. In modern times, the
style of the pretentious Turchi has been changed to that of the
academic Barbieri; but that style of preaching "whose father is the
Gospel, and whose mother is the Bible," is rarely heard in our
pulpits. Our very best eloquence, that of the pastorals and homilies
of our bishops, is spoiled by too frequent citations, and is often
devoid of that sentiment which comes from the heart and goes to
it. We do not want to borrow the French style. It is a mistake to
steal the language of another nation, either in writing or preaching.
Peoples have different dispositions. It would not do to address the
Carib in the same way as the Parisian, or the contemporaries of
Godfrey as the subjects of Napoleon.

Our author, beside being familiar with the first propagators and
defenders of Christianity, is highly educated in the classics, and has
always ready phrases, hemistichs, and allusions which display his
erudition. His method is prudent, his divisions logical, and the train
of ideas well followed up; his language correct, and the clearness
and marvellous beauty of his style show him to be a finished orator.

He draws an abundance of materials from the most diverse and

recondite sources. He adduces the most recent discoveries of
science regarding the essence of the sun, nebula, aerolites, and on
the nature of matter. Without mentioning the biblical and legendary
portions of his work, there are in it traces of every part of both
ancient and modern history: Camoens and Napoleon, Abelard and
Renan, Isnard and Jouffroy, Donoso Cortes and Cagliostro, Marie
Antoinette and Madame de Swetchine, Ireland and Poland, the
discourses of Napoleon III. and of Cavour. The author brings us
through the byways of London to the prison of Thomas More, to
the solitude of St. Helena, and to the lands where the missionaries
are laboring. He quotes even the heroes of romance: "Renzo" and
the "Unknown," Renato, Werter, St. Preux, the Elvira of George
Sand, Wiseman's Fabiola, and Victor Hugo's Valjean. With the spoils
of the Egyptians Alimonda builds a tabernacle to the living God.
Who will censure him, since our Holy Father, in a brief of
September 20th, 1867, approves his labor?

The nineteenth century can be saved only by means suitable to the

nineteenth century; and Simon Stylites or Torquemada, the
Crusaders or the Flagellants, would be as much out of place to-day
as catapults or the theory of uncreated light. We must fight with
modern weapons.

"Clypeos, Danaumque insignia nobis aptemus." [Footnote 78]

[Footnote 78: "We must use the weapons and dress of

the Greeks." AEneid, lib. ii.]

We must study Catholicity in all its bearings, and reconcile divine

and human traditions with modern exigencies; authority established
on an immovable pedestal, with liberty which is always developing.

Courage! Let us arouse ourselves from lethargy, and not suffer a

condition of affairs for which we are responsible. Let us remember,
with Bacon, that prosperity was the boon of the Old Testament;
adversity, of the New; persuaded, with Donoso Cortes, that "it is
our duty, as Catholics, to struggle, and that we should thank God
who has chosen us to fight for his church," let us display that
energetic will which is so rare among good people. With charity and
faith, by association and perseverance, we can conquer hatred and
unbelief, the divisions of sects, and the onslaughts of error on the
strongholds of Catholic truth.
 Two Months In Spain During
The Late Revolution.

Seville, Fonda De Paris.

September 23, 1869.

The train leaves Cordova at six A.M., and we are delighted to be

again on our journey. The route proves of little interest between
Cordova and Seville; the Guadalquivir is first on one side of us and
then on the other; the hills and mountains bound each side of the
plain, where are olive groves, and peaceful flocks, and ploughmen,
as if no revolution were occurring around them. At Almovar,
(situated on a high hill,) we see the ruins of a Moorish castle where
that half-Moor, Peter the Cruel, confined his sister-in-law, Doña
Juana de Lara. Carmona is another town which has the same
celebrity. Here he imprisoned many of his female favorites when
tired of them. We grow very hungry in spite of these tragic
histories, and our young gentleman buys a great melon de Castile,
which, proving very delicious, we make a good breakfast à
l'espagnol; but are not sorry to see the towers of the Giralda, and
soon after we enter Seville—the most charming of all Spanish
towns; the city of Don Juan and Figaro; the gayest, the most
celebrated for its beautiful women, its graceful men, its bull-fights,
its gypsies, its tertulias, its fandangos, its cachuchas, its Murillos, its
cathedral, (said to rival St. Peter's,) and its Alcazar, which is almost
as wonderful as the Alhambra.

After dinner, we hasten to the cathedral through busy, crowded

streets, by handsome shops; passing occasionally a pretty Sevillian
whose black dress, bare arms and neck seen through the black lace
mantilla, with the dainty pink rose peeping from beneath it,
harmonize exactly with one's idea of the Spanish woman. And
presently, upon a terrace ascended by several steps, we see before
us this wonderful pile of buildings: the Giralda (Moorish tower) on
one side; the Sagrario (the parish church) on the other; the chapter
house, and offices facing the cathedral; and in the centre of all
these the court of oranges! The cathedral is entered from this court
by nine doors. We scarcely know how to describe this magnificent
gothic building, which has affected us more than any we have ever
seen. Coming upon us so immediately after the mosque of
Cordova, (each of these a perfect specimen of its kind,) one sees in
each the reflection of the different faiths they represent. The
graceful, elegant mosque seems to appeal more to the senses, to
speak of a faith which promises material joys, while the grand and
majestic gothic cathedral carries one's heart to the heaven in which
these lofty arches seem to be lost. In despair of being able to do
justice to so high a theme, I must borrow from O'Shea's guide-
book the following description of this building:

"The general style of the edifice is gothic of the best period of

Spain, and though many of its parts belong to different styles,
these form but accessory parts, and the main body remains
strictly gothic. Indeed all the fine arts, and each in turn, at their
acme of strength, have combined to produce their finest
inspiration here. The Moorish Giralda, the Gothic cathedral, the
Greco-Roman exterior, produce variety, and repose the eye.
Inside, its numerous paintings are by some of the greatest
painters that ever breathed; the stained glass, amongst the
finest known; the sculpture, beautiful; the jewellers' and
silversmiths' work unrivalled in composition, execution, and
value. The cathedral of Leon charms us by the chaste elegance
of its airy structure, the purity of its harmonious lines; the fairy-
worked cimborio of that at Burgos, its filagree spires, and pomp
of ornamentation are certainly more striking; and at Toledo, we
feel already humbled and crushed beneath the majesty and
wealth displayed everywhere. But when we enter the cathedral
of Seville, there is a sublimity in these sombre masses and
clusters of spires whose proportions and details are somewhat
 lost and concealed in the mysterious shadows which pervade
the whole, a grandeur which quickens the sense, and makes the
heart throb within us, and we stand as lost among these lofty
naves and countless gilt altars, shining dimly in the dark around
us, the lights playing across them as the rays of the glorious
Spanish sun stream through the painted windows. Vast
proportions, unity of design, severity and sobriety of ornament,
and that simplicity unalloyed by monotony which stamps all the
works of real genius, render this one of the noblest piles ever
raised to God by man, and preferred by many even to St.
Peter's at Rome."

It is said that the canons and chapter resolved to make this church
the wonder of the world; and with this view, sent for the most
celebrated architects and artists of the world to adorn it, denying
themselves almost the necessaries of life to accomplish the great
work.

The pillars are one hundred and fifty feet high; the church, four
hundred feet long, two hundred and ninety-one wide, with ninety-
five windows and thirty-seven chapels; and nearly each one of
these contains some pictures of Murillo, Cespedes, Campana,
Roelas, or some Spanish painter of celebrity. We go from chapel to
chapel, gazing upon these, lingering before the altar "Del Angel de
la Guarda," where is Murillo's exquisite picture of the guardian
angel with the young child by the hand (so often reproduced,) and
lost in awe before his grand picture of St. Anthony of Padua, to
whom the infant Jesus descends, amidst angels and flowers and
sunbeams, into the arms ecstatically extended toward him. In a
little chapel we come upon a lovely Virgin and Child, by Alonso
Caño, called N. S. de Belem, (Bethlehem.)

But the sun declined, and we ascended the Giralda to see his last
beams shine upon so much beauty. What a strange and charming
scene! The forest of white houses painted with delicate blue and
green; the flat roofs decorated with gardens; the four hundred and
seventy-seven narrow streets, some hardly admitting two people
abreast, through which toiled the patient mules bearing burdens of
stones, mortar for building, wood, and vegetables; the one hundred
ornamented squares and promenades; the orange gardens; the
plaza de Toros; the cathedral just beneath us, with its hundreds of
turrets; the Torre del Oro, (Tower of Gold,) so named from its
yellow hue; the Lonja, (Exchange,) with its pink color; the grey
Alcazar; the palace San Telmo by the Guadalquivir, which winds
through the city and over the plain; and convents, and churches,
and palaces; and, beyond all, the verdant plains and the blue
mountains! As the sun sank, the convent bells rang the "Ave
Maria."

"Blessed be the hour!

The time, the chime, the spot."

Certainly we all "felt that moment in its fullest power"!

Thursday, 24.

Our first visit to-day is to San Telmo—the royal palace given by

Queen Isabella to her sister, the Duchess de Montpensier—on the
banks of the Guadalquivir, with enchanting gardens, palms and
citrons, and orange-trees; and within, all oriental in its style and
decorations. Here are some lovely pictures—one of Murillo's most
beautiful Virgins, several splendid Zurbarans, a Sebastian del
Piombo, Holy Family, etc.

Next we visit the great tobacco manufactory, where 4000 women

are employed making cigars. As all these were talking at once, we
were glad soon to escape. And then the Alcazar, the wonderful
Moorish palace, than which not even the Alhambra can be more
beautiful—as it seems to us. We wander in delicious gardens —like
those described in the Arabian Nights—and then enter the
enchanted palace! Passing several courts, we find the great door of
entrance sculptured and painted in arabesque. Here is a long hall,
with exquisitely carved and painted roof, from which we pass into a
square marble court, or patio, with double rows of marble columns
and a fountain in the centre. From the four sides of this patio you
enter by immense doors, carved and inlaid, into the apartments
beyond. First, the Hall of the Ambassadors, which communicates
with others through elegant arches profusely ornamented,
supported by marble pillars of every color with gilded capitals. The
walls and dome are ornamented with sentences from the Koran, in
gilt letters upon grounds of blue and crimson. Every chamber has
different decorations, all equally elegant.

Below, opening from the garden, we are shown some subterranean

cells said to have been the prisons of Christian captives, and above
these the luxurious baths of Maria de Padilla—the famous mistress
of Peter the Cruel. It was the custom for the king and courtiers to
sit by and see her bathe, and for the latter to pretend to sip the
water of the bath. Seeing one of these fail in this gallant duty one
day, the king asked why he omitted it. "Because, sire," (said the
witty courtier,) "I am afraid to like the sauce so well that I shall
covet the bird." Peter the Cruel lived much in this palace, and did
much to embellish it through the Moorish artists whom he
employed. Many of the Spanish kings lived there, and Charles V.
was married in one of the upper rooms. These we did not see, and
learned afterward that they were inhabited by "Fernan Caballero,"
one of the most popular writers of Spain—whose delightful books
we learned later to admire. Fernan Caballero is the nom de plume
of this lady, who has had many misfortunes, and who by
permission of the queen lives in the Alcazar, devoting her life to
deeds of benevolence amongst the poor, whose traits and trials she
records in many delightful works. It is a pity that out of France
these books should be unknown. One of our party determines to
take some of them to America, that they may be translated and
bring to the knowledge of our people these charming scenes of
Spanish home life so inimitably described.[Footnote 79]
 [Footnote 79: One of "Fernan Caballero's" (Mrs. Fabre)
books, The Alvareda Family, has already been
translated here and published in The Catholic World
three years ago; and two others, The Sea Gull, and
The Castle and Cottage in Spain, have appeared in
an English dress in London, and Lucia Garcia is already
translated and will soon appear in this magazine.—ED.
CATH. W.]

In the evening we go to a ball, to see the Andalusian dances in

their proper costume. Boleros, and cachuchas, and seguidillas, and
manchegas! Such graceful movements, such little feet in such
dainty satin shoes!

Generally to the accompaniment of the guitar, with most peculiar

and monotonous music, singing at the same time, clapping the
hands, stamping the feet, and the dancer always with castanets. All
the dances were peculiar, solos, often in couples, or three at a
time, some of these coquettish—one, especially, danced by a man
and a woman, he in hat and cloak, she with fan and mantilla. How
she wielded this little "weapon"!—now hiding her face, now peeping
from behind it, which he also did with his manta. By and by he
takes off his hat and humbly lays it at her feet. She dances over it
scornfully; without ever losing the step, he recovers it. She flies; he
pursues, opening his manta entreatingly; she relents; again he
throws down the hat; she stoops and gives it to him, and
eventually they dance away with the manta covering both.

Friday, 25.

We go again to the wonderful cathedral; examined many pictures

which yesterday escaped us. In the chapter house is one of
Murillo's "Conceptions," and eight charming heads (ovals) painted
by him, in the same room. In the chapel of the kings lies the body
of St. Ferdinand, and of Murillo; who asked to be buried at the foot
of a picture (The Descent from the Cross) of which he was
particularly fond, which is above the main altar.

Near the great entrance of the cathedral a stone in the pavement

marks the spot where lies Fernando, the son of Christopher
Columbus, with the motto upon it, "A Castilla y á Leon, mundo
nuevo dió Colon." From his tomb we go to the great Columbine
Library given by him to his country, containing some interesting
MSS. of his father—one, a book of quotations containing extracts
from the psalms and prophets, proving the existence of the new
world. There are a series of portraits round the room, of Columbus,
his son, St. Ferdinand, Cardinal Mendoza, and Cardinal Wiseman,
(who was a native of Seville.) There is also preserved here the
great two-edged sword of Ferdinand Gonsalves.

Some of our party go to visit the archbishop, in the hope to get

permission to see the treasures of the church, which are very
valuable; but the presence of the revolution obliges him to deny us
this as well as the entrée to the convent of St. Theresa, which is
said to be exactly the same as when she founded it. It was here
she underwent such great trouble and persecution, and where
(finding she had but two or three coppers with which to begin a
great foundation) she said to her nuns, "Never mind, two cents and
Theresa are nothing; but two cents and God are everything."

And this interesting convent we could not see.[Footnote 80]

Indeed, the time of our visit to Spain was inopportune for seeing
the inside of religious houses. A former revolution having deprived
them of their property, they have now the fear of being turned out
of their convents.

[Footnote 80: For a full description of this convent see

Lady Herbert's Impressions of Spain, just from the
press of the Catholic Publication Society. This work also
contains illustrations of cathedrals, churches, gardens,
 palaces, and other places described in these letters.—ED.
CATH. W.]

While we wait in the church for the return of our friends, we enter
into conversation with two of the little boys of the choir, whose
beauty attracts us, begging them to describe the style in which
they dance before the Blessed Sacrament on Corpus Christi, which
is said to be a ceremony most solemn, grave, and impressive.
These children evinced great curiosity about us, and when told that
one of the party was "a convert," (had been a Protestant,) could
not be made to comprehend what it meant; for they confound all
Protestants with unbelievers. "And did not know about our dear
Lord!" said one little fellow with a look of sorrowful compassion,
reminding one of the scene in one of Fernan Caballero's tales (The
Alvareda Family) where the hero comes home from his travels
and describes a country covered with snow so that people are
sometimes buried under it.

We go to see the house in which Murillo lived and the spot where
he was first buried—passing the house in which Cardinal Wiseman
was born, upon which is a large tablet with a beautiful and
appropriate inscription. In Murillo's house is an extensive gallery
with many of his loveliest pictures, and some of the pictures of
monks for which Zurbaran is so famous.

Here we see the Infant St. John with the Lamb, and the Infant
Saviour, so often repeated by Murillo, apart and together an
exquisite Ecce Homo; several Madonnas, and Saints.

On our way we are shown the shop where dwelt the original
Figaro, and also the house of Don Juan!

The Casa de Pilatos, one of the residences of the Duke of Medina

Coeli, next claims us—a curious old palace, built in the sixteenth
century in imitation of Pilate's House in Jerusalem, which was
visited at that time by the founder. The patio is fine, with a
beautiful fountain, and double row of columns, (one above
another,) with statues at the four corners. The marble staircase and
halls—lined with azulejos, (colored porcelain tiles,) universally used
in this country—are particularly handsome.

Next we go to the "Caridad," one of the most celebrated hospitals

in the world, founded by a young nobleman of Seville in the
seventeenth century, upon ground which belonged to a
brotherhood whose duty it was to give consolation to those about
to die on the scaffold. This young man (Don Miguel de Mañara)
was distinguished for his profligacy, but also for his bravery,
generosity, and his patronage of art. One of our friends told us
some most interesting anecdotes connected with his conversion.

Returning from some orgies, one night, he saw a female figure

upon a low balcony beckon him. Thinking to have an adventure, he
sprang into the open window and found a dead body with a with
lights about it alone in the room. Another time, returning at
midnight through the streets, he saw a church lighted, and,
wondering what could be going on at such an hour, entered. Before
the altar was a bier upon which was extended a body covered with
the mantle of the knights of the order to which he belonged, the
priests about it singing the office for the dead. Asking whose
funeral it was, he was answered, "That of Don Miguel Mañara," and
going to the corpse and uncovering it, saw his own face. The
morning found him stretched upon the pavement, the vision gone.
But the impression remained, in which he recognized a call from
God to a better life, which he soon after entered, giving his whole
fortune to found this institution for the sick, the aged, and
"incurables;" and here he lived and died an example of humility,
piety, and penitence. Murillo and other eminent artists were also
members of this confraternity, and a letter of the former is here
shown in which he asks permission to join the brotherhood. To the
friendship of Don Miguel for Murillo the hospital is indebted for
some of the finest pictures in the world. In the church are two of
his grandest and largest pictures, "Moses striking the Rock," called
here the "Sed," (thirst,) and the "Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes,"
a Visitation, an Infant Saviour, and a St. John. There are also
several most remarkable pictures by Valdes Leal; one, "The Triumph
of Time," in which the skeleton Death stands triumphantly above
crowns and sceptres and "all there is of glory." Opposite to this is
"The Dead Prelate," a picture made at the suggestion of Mañara.
From the top of the picture a pierced hand holds the scales, in
one side of which a kingly crown, and jewels, and sceptre, weigh
against the mystic "I. H. S." and a book, the Word of God. Below
lies a dead prelate, in mitre and crosier, half eaten by the worms;
on the other side, Don Miguel Mañara, wrapped in his knightly
mantle, upon which also the worms run riot. On one of the scales
is written "nor more;" upon the other, "nor less."

Murillo told the painter that he could never pass this picture
without involuntarily "holding his nose." Under the pavement, near
the door, lies the body of the founder; "the ashes of the worst man
that ever lived," so he styles himself in his epitaph; and he
requested that he might lie where the feet of every passer should
walk over him. The sisters conduct us over the clean and airy
wards. On the wall of the patio are these words, from the pen of
Mañara himself, "This house will last as long as God shall be feared
in it, and Jesus Christ be served in the persons of his poor.
Whoever enters here must leave at the door both avarice and
pride." And over his own cell is inscribed, "What is it we mean
when we speak of death? It is being free from the body of sin, and
from the yoke of our passions. Therefore, to live is a bitter death,
and to die is a sweet life."

Another of the charming histories told us by the same lady was of

St. Maria Coronel, whose body is preserved in the convent of St.
Inez, which we could not be permitted to see. Peter the Cruel,
because enamored of her great beauty, condemned her husband to
death, but offered to save him if she would yield to his wishes. The
husband was actually executed, and Maria fled to this convent,
where the king pursued her. One night he entered her cell; and,
seeing no other way to escape him, she seized the burning lamp,
and emptied its boiling contents over her face. The poor lady lived
the life of a saint, and died in this convent. Her body is as fresh as
if she had died yesterday, and the marks of the oil upon her face
as clearly visible as upon the day when the heroic deed was
committed.

In the evening we walk in the crowded streets, and find splendid

shops filled with lovely women, who go at this hour to walk or
shop, never stirring out in the day. As late as eleven, when we
came in, the streets and shops were yet filled with ladies.
 Saturday, 26.

We spend the morning in the gallery, which is considered the finest

in Spain, after that of Madrid. This is especially rich in Murillos, and
has several Zurbarans, the Spanish Caravaggio so famous for his
pictures of monks. Here is "The Apotheosis of St. Thomas Aquinas,"
considered his masterpiece; and of Murillo there are about twenty-
four of his greatest pictures: the "St. Thomas of Villanuova giving
Alms," which was the painter's own favorite; the "St. Anthony of
Padua kneeling before the Infant Saviour," who stands upon his
book—the most perfect type of a child God; and the ecstasy, the
fervor, the humility, in the pale, attenuated face of the monk brings
the tears to one's eyes, you so feel with him. Next this is a picture
preferred to the other by most persons, "St. Felix of Cantalicia,"
with the infant Saviour in his arms, the blessed Mother leaning
forward to receive him. The beauty of the Virgin Mother and the
grace of her attitude is said by critics to be beyond all praise. Then
comes a beautiful "Annunciation," a "St. Joseph with the child
Jesus," "Saints Rufina and Justina," (the patrons of Seville,) "Saints
Leandro and Buonaventura," several "Conceptions," and the
exquisite "Virgin de la Sevilleta," (Virgin of the Napkin,) said to
have been painted on a dinner napkin, and given as a present to
the cook of the convent where Murillo worked. The "St. John
Baptist in the Desert" should also be mentioned, as well as many
others.

This evening we bid farewell to beautiful Seville, with all its

delights, and set out for Cadiz.

Certainly it is the Spaniards, not the French, who are "the politest
people in the world." The conductor opens the railway carriage with
"Good evening, ladies. May I trouble you for your tickets?"
concluding with "A happy night to you." In passing a street, the
other day, a gentleman with whom we had crossed the mountains,
and whose name we do not even know, rushes from his house to
say, "Ladies, is anything wanting? Here is your house." Such is the
pretty exaggerated Spanish phrase. Leaving Seville, we pass
orange-groves and fields divided by aloe and cactus hedges, but
the country is flat and uninteresting; and, except Lebrija, which has
a tower, the rival of the Giralda, and Jerez, we see no towns of any
size or interest till we near Cadiz. "Jerez de la Frontera" (the
frontier town) has always been of importance; one of the earliest
Phoenician colonies. Close to this took place the battle of the
Guadelete, which opened Spain to the Moors. St. Ferdinand
recovered it in 1251; but it was retaken, and again recovered by
his son, Alonzo the Learned, in 1264, who granted to it many
important privileges, peopling it with forty of his hidalgos—the
source of the present Jerez nobility. It has an Alcazar of great
interest—its Alameda—some fine old churches, and near it are the
ruins of a fine old Carthusian convent upon the Guadelete, which
the Moors called the River of Delight. Jerez is now celebrated for its
wines; the sherry so prized in England and America, which occupies
palaces rather than wine-cellars. These are called "bodegas," and
sometimes hold ten thousand casks. As we near Cadiz we see
Puerta San Maria, at the mouth of the Guadelete—a pretty town,
looking upon the sea, with a suspension bridge looking most
picturesque in the moonlight; then Puerto Real, San Fernando,
Cadiz.

Cadiz, Fonda De Paris.

Sunday, 27.

The guide takes us first to hear high mass in the new cathedral—a
handsome building, entirely of white marble, within and without.
Some good pictures, (copies of Murillo,) fine music, and the most
devout of congregations. The loveliest of women, in modest black
dresses, mantillas, and fans, sat or knelt upon the matting, which is
spread upon the space between the high altar and the choir. No
seats are provided. A few bring little black camp-stools. The bishop
(who gave the benediction) is a most dignified and elegant-looking
person; and the guide tells us he is much beloved and respected.
Already the new order of things pulls down churches and banishes
the Jesuits, as the first proof of that "liberty of worship" which is
one of the most popular of the war cries. Such bandit-looking
fellows as we saw yesterday! Catalan soldiers, in red cap, short
pantaloons with red stripe, half-gaiters, and a red blanket on the
left shoulder, a leathern belt, with pistols and a great rifle.

The revolution spreads everywhere, "peacefully," as they say. We

see a handbill posted, in which the queen is spoken of as "Doña
Isabella of Bourbon," to whom they wish "no harm."

Some Spanish ladies who had once lived in America, and are
friends of ours, came to visit us. They are intensely loyal, as are all
the women of Spain whom we encounter. From these we learn
that, as in all revolutions, the dregs of the people come to the top,
and are most conspicuous. It is only they make it who have
nothing to lose, and all to gain. These "juntas," who now rule in
each city under the provisional government, are composed of
people of low birth and bad morals. Here they are taken from the
low trades-people, who are noted drunkards and unbelievers. Into
such hands are committed the destinies of this lovely city. Their
first work has been to try and kill the Jesuits, who, with a hundred
little boys under their care, had to defend themselves from these
men and the rabble they encourage. And but for the officers of the
fleet, who, with pistols in hand, thrust themselves between them,
they must have been murdered. These officers took them on board
the ships for safety, and some are yet secreted in the town, waiting
an opportunity to escape. To-day our guide takes us to several
curious old churches which were formerly convents, with pretty
cloisters and marble courts. These, he says, are doomed by the
junta to be torn down to build houses and theatres, thus destroying
these beautiful old monuments of a past time in their blind fury
against religion.
In the evening we change our hotel to the "Fonda de Cadiz," on
the gay "plaza San Antonio." After dinner walk by the seashore on
the walls. As we pass the streets, we enter several churches, where
the people are hearing sermons, or saying prayers with the priests.
Such picturesque groups!

To-night we see from our windows a procession carrying the

Blessed Sacrament to the sick, from the parish church opposite. A
carriage is always sent, and a long procession, bearing lights,
precedes and follows. One of the ladies present tells us that last
carnival, in the midst of the gayeties on this square, men and
women, in every variety of ridiculous costume, were dancing to
merry music, when suddenly the bell was heard preceding the
Blessed Sacrament, which was being carried to a sick officer, living
upon the square. In an instant every knee was bent of the motley
throng, and the band struck up the Royal March in the most
effective manner, and accompanied the procession to the house;
returning, the fun recommenced. This lady says there was never
anything witnessed more affecting. "And," added she, "this is the
faith these revolutionists would take from us. Already they talk of
introducing every religion, and they will build a mosque and a
synagogue!"

Monday, 28.

The morning is given to shopping, to see the lovely mantillas of

every shape and style; fans of wonderful workmanship and
exquisite painting on kid or silk; the beautiful figures in every
variety of Spanish costumes, made in Malaga, of a particular kind
of clay for which Spain is famous; the pretty mattings of Cadiz, etc.
In the evening we walk with our friends upon the "Alameda," a
charming promenade by the seaside, where stately palm-trees
wave above marble seats and columns. Entering the church of
Mount Carmel we find it filled with people saying prayers and the
rosary. To-night we are kept awake by the mob, who are marching
with drums and ringing the church bells in honor of a victory over
the queen's troops near Cordova.

Tuesday, 29.

At eight o'clock we set out upon an excursion to Jerez, to visit the

bodegas and taste the fine wines. Passing the salt-meadows we see
the white pyramids of salt glistening in the sunlight, which had so
puzzled us when we last saw them by moonlight. The bay of Cadiz
is on one side, the broad ocean on the other, in the distance the
mountains of the Sierra del Pinal. A friend joins us at Puerta Real,
and takes us to one of the largest bodegas in Jerez, where are
10,000 casks of wine—each cask valued at $500! The proprietor (a
gentleman of English or Irish descent) is most kind, shows us this
extraordinary place, and gives us to taste of the finest wines—
brown sherry and pale sherry, fifty years of age. But the most
delicious of all are the sweet wines—which are also sherries—and
are called "Pedro Ximenes" from the name of the person who first
introduced this grape. These wines are rich and oily, (perfect
"nectar,") and are made from the grape when almost as dry as
raisins—twelve days from off the vine. In the midst of these oceans
of fine wines, Mr. Graves (the proprietor) tells us he rarely tastes
them, only occasionally taking a glass of the sweet wine.

Jerez is said to be the richest town in Spain, the richest of its size
in the world. Beautiful plazas planted with palms, and fine old
palaces. We visited an ornamental garden belonging to one of
these wine princes, where were lakes, and streams, and grottoes,
and bridges, and groves, and flowers of every variety, birds and
fowls, and model cattle, etc. And then we saw San Miguel, one of
the finest churches we have seen, (gothic interior,) of the fifteenth
century, (1432,) elegantly ornamented. There is also a cathedral
and another most interesting church, (St. Dionisius,) built by Alonzo
the Learned in the thirteenth century, said to be a particularly fine
specimen of the gothic moresque of that period. After a fine
breakfast of the delicious Spanish ham, chocolate, cakes, and
sherry, we return to Cadiz. Passing "Puerta San Maria," we see the
Jesuit college, from which they have just been ejected, the broken
trees, the trampled gardens telling their own story of violence. One
of the gentlemen in the train tells us there were two hundred and
fifty boys cared for here, and that the Jesuits fed five hundred poor
each day with soup from the leavings of the table. The great
building looked a picture of desolation.

To-night we have another ringing of bells and marching to the

sound of the odious revolutionary hymn. One of the gentlemen of
our party goes out to hear the speeches in the square. Some of the
speakers propose to offer the crown to the father of the King of
Portugal, (of the Catholic branch of that lucky Coburg family who,
possessing nothing, gain everything by marriage,) others are for
the Duke of Montpensier. Some cry "Vive Napoleon." In fact, they
are in great embarrassment—have caught the elephant and do not
know what to do with him, like another nation we know of.

Wednesday, 30.

To-day we hear that all Catalonia has "pronounced," and even

Madrid, and that the rejoicings of last night were for the victory of
"Alcolea," just won, over the queen's troops, in which, however, the
liberals have lost three thousand men. These troops were
commanded by Serrano, (Duke de Torres,) who owes everything to
the queen's favor; and on the queen's side by the Marquis de
Novaliches, "faithful found amongst the faithless." We hear of one
of her officers (the young Count de Cheste) who has shut himself
with his men in the fortress of Montjuich, at Barcelona, resolving to
die rather than submit. One must admire such devotion, in
whatever cause it is shown. "Loyalty! the most pure and beautiful
feeling of the human breast. It is a love which exists without
requiring the usual nourishment of return; a feeling void of every
shade of egotism; that desires and requires nothing but the
happiness of loving, that causes one joyfully to sacrifice life and
property for the exalted object whose voice, perhaps, never
reached his ear. This feeling, in its highest purity, is the very
triumph of human capacity." Such is the true definition of "Loyalty,"
which, like "Liberty," is often profaned and constantly
misunderstood. With our pretty Spanish friends we go to see a
church called the "Cave," a church only for gentlemen, where they
may go privately to their confession and devotions. The
confessionals are unlike those used for women, for the men go in
front and kneel face to face with the priest. It is a beautiful chapel,
wonderfully rich in marbles and fine vestments and bassi-relievi,
and below it is a gloomy chapel from whence the church derives its
name. Over the altar is represented the crucifixion. It is dimly
lighted through a dome, and the figures (large as life) seem to live.
Here the men go for meditation, and for the Good Friday and other
solemn festivals. At one end of the chapel is a carved chair, raised
on a platform, upon which the priest sits to give his instructions,
while a lamp is so arranged that the light falls only upon the
speaker's face, leaving the rest of the chapel in darkness. The
young priest who showed us the church had the face of an angel,
so fair and young and holy; or, rather, such a face as is represented
in a picture of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, the patron of youth.

As we wander from shop to shop one of our pretty friends meets

one of the beaux of Cadiz, whose "loyalty" she suspects and whom
she berates most violently for deserting his queen in her need, and
helping to embarrass his country. The pretty way with which she
shakes her fan at him, and gesticulates with her hands, the
expressive eyes and play of feature, is altogether charming and
Andalusian.

Late this evening, we hear particulars of the late battle. Novaliches

fought against fearful odds—three thousand men to sixteen
thousand. He was severely if not mortally wounded, and was
carried off by his men to Portugal, the only way of retreat open to
them. This defeat, we suppose, will put an end to the war.

Thursday, Oct. 1.

This is the feast of the Guardian Angel of Spain, so we hear mass

where the devotion of the forty hours begins. As in Italy, two by
two, kneeling and holding lights, the men of the congregation keep
watch before the Blessed Sacrament during these forty hours, while
hundreds of adorers continually coming and going attest the
devotion of this pious people. The Church of the Guardian Angel is
near that belonging to the military hospital; and on the opposite
side of the square is an asylum for widows, founded many years
ago by a converted Moor—a most interesting institution. Widows of
all ranks and conditions find shelter here when their necessities
require it. Each one has her own chamber and sitting-room, and
each one her little cooking apparatus separate. The court with its
open corridors on every story, its pretty flowers, its fine promenade
on the roof, makes it a very inviting abode; and, with the usual
Spanish courtesy, the old widow who showed us about (the widow
of an officer, who had been there these forty years) placed it at our
"disposition." These poor women go out to walk, and to church
when they wish, though there is also a chapel in the house.

We go next to see the "Albergo dei Poveri," a magnificent charity,

founded and endowed by one man in memory of his mother, and
dedicated to St. Helena. Here five hundred children of both sexes
are taught weaving, sewing, washing, shoemaking, etc., and there
is also an asylum for five hundred old men and old women. The
school-rooms and dormitories are large and airy; the marble courts,
where the children play, and the sewing-room, where a hundred
girls sat at work, looked out upon the sea, and were deliciously
cool and comfortable. The school-rooms were decorated with
pictures of Bible history, and seemed to have all the modern
inventions which make easy the way to learning. The sister told us
how much they had been disturbed by this revolutionary
movement. Her little orphan boys (who had been taught music with
the view to enter the army as musicians) had been carried off at
night to play the revolutionary hymn, kept out marching over the
town till two o'clock in the morning, and then sent home foot-sore
and with aching heads.

The most interesting thing of all was to see the old men at dinner
—that helpless thing, an old man. Placed by the nice table, a man
with snow-white apron served the soup, a sister gave round the
meat, and then came a pudding. The bread was as white as is all
the bread of Spain, (even the poorest people have bread of this
very white flour,) and there seemed about a hundred of these men
over sixty years of age. The rain drives us home, but by and by we
go out again to buy some of the boots and shoes of Cadiz, which
are the prettiest in the world and cover the prettiest of feet.

Feast Of The Guardian Angels.

Friday, Oct. 2.

We go to the lovely church of the Rosary for high mass. The

decorations are very tasteful and beautiful, and hundreds of men
and women, in their grave black garments, assist most devoutly;
the men have benches on each side, the women sit or kneel upon
a bit of matting before the altar.

From this we go to the "Capuchinos," where we see three of

Murillo's finest pictures, the "Marriage of St. Catherine," over the
altar, which he left unfinished and which is surrounded, in five
compartments, by five pictures of Zurbaran, almost equal to the
centre piece. There is here another "Conception," and that picture
of pictures, "St. Francis receiving the Stigmata," which is certainly
the most extraordinary of all the works of this great master. The
face of the saint seems to come entirely out of its dark
surroundings, and so do the wonderful hands. These all look like
the living flesh, and move us as if they were so.

This Capuchin convent, which Murillo loved to adorn, and in

painting for which he lost his life, is now a hospital for lunatics—the
monks all gone; the present Bishop of Cadiz was one [of] them.
And to show the devotion of the common people to Murillo, they
will not allow the bishop to move this picture of St. Francis to an
opposite altar, where it would be in a better light and preserved
from the smoke of the altar candles. "No; the place for which
Murillo painted it must be the best place, and there it shall stay." In
a chapel near by is a lovely picture of "Our Lady of the Rosary,"
which must be a copy of the one in the gallery of Madrid so
celebrated. In this chapel and everywhere here we see statues or
pictures of the "Martyrs of Cadiz," (Servando and Germano,) two
young Roman soldiers who, becoming converts, died for the faith
on a spot near the present city gates. It is said that on the
occasion of the terrible earthquake which occurred here November
1st, 1755, when the sea rose and threatened to devour the city,
two young men in strange garments appeared on the spot of their
martyrdom and were seen by hundreds of the inhabitants to stay
the waves, speaking to the people and bidding them pray to God.
On another side of the city the Dominican priests bore the favorite
statue of "Our Lady of the Rosary," with many prayers, to the
waters' brink, and "the waves receded and there was a great calm."

On the third side, where Cadiz is most exposed to the sea, is a

little church in which the priest was saying mass on the eventful
morning. 'The people ran to him saying, "Behold! the sea is at the
very door." He made haste to consume the consecrated Host, then
seizing the crucifix and the banner of "Our Lady of Mercy," went
out upon the door-step where the waves already licked his feet:
"My Mother, let them not come further"—and they did not!
What is so remarkable in the accounts of this earthquake is, that
there had been no storm to precede it, but on a soft sunshiny day
came this terrible convulsion of the elements. We went to see this
church, where is yet shown the crucifix and the banner which
played so important a part on this occasion; and see the point to
which the water rose, and an inscription on the wall of a house
recording the event exactly as here related. Next we visit the
church of San Lorenzo, and afterward that of the Scalzi, (barefoot
friars,) where to-day was said the "last mass;" the "junta" having
decreed that it be torn down to build a theatre. The work of
destruction had already commenced. How the strong old walls
resisted! A dozen carpenters were taking down the gilded altars
and curiously carved "retablos," which, belonging to the days when
Spain had her argosies from the new world laden with gold, were
made to resist "all time." Four men with iron crowbars were striving
to dislodge an angel suspended over an altar, which positively
refused to come down; while below him, on the floor, stood saints
and martyrs covered with dust and débris, hastily dislodged from
the pedestals on which they had rested for centuries—a rueful
group! No wonder the women wept, and eyed resentfully the
malicious-looking revolutionists employed to order the work; while
armed soldiers, with the hateful red ribbon on the arm, (the
revolutionary mark,) kept off the populace, who strove to get in at
the doors, by the market, to bid farewell to these ancient altars. It
had been the church of the market people, the cradle of some of
popular saints, the scene of the "first communion," the "nuptial
mass," the baptism of their children, the funeral mass for their
dead. Great is the clamor outside! Old people kiss the walls, and
the young gather bits of the broken altars, while sorrowful-looking
priests are permitted to carry away the mutilated statues and
gildings.

The convent of the Good Shepherd, opening into the church, is also
to be torn down, and its unhappy inmates driven elsewhere to seek
shelter. They are putting into the same convent these, with
Carmelites, Ursulines, and others; crowding together those who
teach with those who save the Magdalens in strange and painful
confusion. Such are some of the fruits of revolution! And this is the
"liberty" which England and America seek for the Spaniard!

To-night we hear that the Marquis de Novaliches has died of

lockjaw, his face having been dreadfully wounded by a ball. The
Conte de la Cheste, who held Monjuich at Barcelona, has gone to
join the queen, abandoning his "forlorn hope" at her request.

Saturday, October 3.

To-day we hear the high mass in the cathedral, and go to see the
jewels in the sacristia. They have a remarkable "custodia," (the gift
of an ancestor of the Calderon de la Barca,) set in pearls and
emeralds of immense value; a superbly chased crucifix, the gift of
Alonzo the Learned; a small but exquisitely worked tabernacle of
gold with beautiful amethysts forming a cross, given by the same
king. After the mass we go to buy some of the famous Cadiz
gloves, and then drive on the ramparts to see the fine sea view. In
the evening, to the church of the Carmel. As it is the eve of the
feast of "Our Lady of the Rosary," the church of the Rosary is
illuminated, and most of the houses throughout the city.

Sunday, Oct. 4.

In the church of the Rosary is a beautiful ceremony. The music is

lovely; the wind instruments, in certain parts of the mass, most
effective, and the whole one of the most solemn services at which
we have assisted.

The sermon is delivered with such grace and unction that we could
but realize the truth of that saying of Charles V., that Spanish is the
language in which to speak to God! So grand, so sonorous! And
there is something in the grave dignity of the Spanish priest which
makes him seem the perfection of ecclesiastical character. We are
all struck with the decorum of the people in the churches, the quiet
and devotion; none of the running in and out and the familiarity
with holy things which in Italy makes one see that the people
regard the church as their father's house, in which they take
liberties. Here, it is alone the house of God, as is seen in the
reverential manner and careful costume. All wear black, and not
even is a lace mantilla usual, but the Spanish mantilla of modest
silk. The men are alike reverential, and nowhere have we seen so
many men in church, particularly at night.

To-day we hear the good news that the government of the city is
taken from the hands of the junta and given into the care of the
former military governor of Cadiz, in conjunction with the admiral of
the fleet. This is received with great favor by the people of
moderate opinion of both sides, as putting a stop to extreme
measures. They have countermanded the destruction of the two old
churches, the Franciscan and the Scalzi; of the last-named they tell
a most extraordinary story to-day. Yesterday the destroyers had
knocked down a portion of the thick old wall. This morning it was
found rebuilt as if by invisible hands, with the same heavy masonry,
as strong as before, and even the white plaster upon the outside
dry and barely to be distinguished from the rest of the building.
Everybody runs to look at it. The people cry "a miracle," and say
that the Blessed Virgin, whose feast it is to-day, had a hand in it.

Monday, Oct. 5.

We go for the last time to the shops, and to hear our last mass in
San Antonio; for to-morrow we leave beautiful Cadiz and the dear
friends who have made our stay so delightful. The political horizon
to-day is a little clearer. In consequence of some outrages upon
priests and churches one man has been banished to Ceuta, and
large placards are upon the streets threatening with like
punishment every one who insults a priest or injures a church. The
banished man had harangued the mob, assuring them that a
Dominican father in the convent of that order had some
instruments of torture, formerly used in the Inquisition, and that he
applied them to his penitents. The unthinking mob, guided by him,
rushed to search the convent, broke the church windows, and not
finding what was promised them, turned their fury upon the man
who had deceived them.

In the war of 1835, when Saragossa began the work of burning the
monasteries and murdering the monks, Cadiz gave her monks five
hours to get away, and armed guards saved the monasteries. To be
sure, the populace burned the libraries and furniture; but as Cadiz
was then more moderate than her sister cities, she will not now be
less kind than then. How impossible to believe, in looking out upon
a city so smiling and so lovely, that evil passions should lurk in it
anywhere!

To Be Continued.
dismissed without a character. She too wanders off forlorn into a
world that has no haven of rest or voice of welcome for her—
wanders off, without so much as a dirty bundle in her hand—
wanders off, voiceless, with the unchanging grin on the smut-
covered face. How shocked we should all be, if we opened a book
about a savage country, and saw a portrait of Number Two in the
frontispiece as a specimen of the female population!
Number Three comes to us all the way from Wales; arrives late one
evening, and is found at seven the next morning, crying as if she
would break her heart, on the door-step. It is the first time she has
been away from home. She has not got used yet to being a forlorn
castaway among strangers. She misses the cows of a morning, the
blessed fields with the blush of sunrise on them, the familiar faces,
the familiar sounds, the familiar cleanliness of her country home.
There is not the faintest echo of mother's voice, or of father's sturdy
footfall here. Sweetheart John Jones is hundreds of miles away; and
little brother Joe toddles up door-steps far from these to clamour for
the breakfast which he shall get this morning from other than his
sister's hands. Is there nothing to cry for in this? Absolutely nothing,
as Mrs. Glutch thinks. What does this Welsh barbarian mean by
clinging to my area-railings when she ought to be lighting the fire;
by sobbing in full view of the public of Smeary Street when the
lodgers' bells are ringing angrily for breakfast? Will nothing get the
girl in-doors? Yes, a few kind words from the woman who passes by
her with my breakfast will. She knows that the Welsh girl is hungry
as well as home-sick, questions her, finds out that she has had no
supper after her long journey, and that she has been used to
breakfast with the sunrise at the farm in Wales. A few merciful
words lure her away from the railings, and a little food inaugurates
the process of breaking her in to London service. She has but a few
days allowed her, however, to practise the virtue of dogged
resignation in her first place. Before she has given me many
opportunities of studying her character, before she has done knitting
her brows with the desperate mental effort of trying to comprehend
the mystery of my illness, before the smut has fairly settled on her
rosy cheeks, before the London dirt has dimmed the pattern on her
neat print gown, she, too, is cast adrift into the world. She has not
suited Mrs. Glutch (being, as I imagine, too offensively clean to form
an appropriate part of the kitchen furniture)—a friendly maid-of-all-
work, in service near us, has heard of a place for her—and she is
forthwith sent away to be dirtied and deadened down to her proper
social level in another Lodging-house.
With her, my studies of character among maids-of-all-work come to
an end. I hear vague rumours of the arrival of Number Four. But
before she appears, I have got the doctor's leave to move into the
country, and have terminated my experience of London lodgings, by
making my escape with all convenient speed from the perpetual
presence and persecutions of Mrs. Glutch. I have witnessed some
sad sights during my stay in Smeary Street, which have taught me
to feel for my poor and forlorn fellow-creatures as I do not think I
ever felt for them before, and which have inclined me to doubt for
the first time whether worse calamities might not have overtaken me
than the hardship of falling ill.
 SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.—II.
A SHOCKINGLY RUDE ARTICLE.

[Communicated by A Charming Woman.]

Before I begin to write, I know that this will be an unpopular
composition in certain select quarters. I mean to proceed with it,
however, in spite of that conviction, because when I have got
something on my mind, I must positively speak. Is it necessary, after
that, to confess that I am a woman? If it is, I make the confession—
to my sorrow. I would much rather be a man.
I hope nobody will be misled by my beginning in this way, into
thinking that I am an advocate of the rights of women. Ridiculous
creatures! they have too many rights already; and if they don't hold
their chattering tongues, one of these days the poor dear deluded
men will find them out.
The poor dear men! Mentioning them reminds me of what I have
got to say. I have been staying at the seaside, and reading an
immense quantity of novels and periodicals, and all that sort of
thing, lately; and my idea is, that the men-writers (the only writers
worth reading) are in the habit of using each other very unfairly in
books and articles, and so on. Look where I may, I find, for instance,
that the large proportion of the bad characters in their otherwise
very charming stories, are always men. As if women were not a
great deal worse! Then, again, most of the amusing fools in their
books are, strangely and unaccountably, of their own sex, in spite of
its being perfectly apparent that the vast majority of that sort of
character is to be found in ours. On the other hand, while they make
out their own half of humanity (as I have distinctly proved) a great
deal too bad, they go to the contrary extreme the other way, and
make out our half a great deal too good. What in the world do they
mean by representing us as so much better, and so much prettier,
than we really are? Upon my word, when I see what angels the dear
nice good men make of their heroines, and when I think of myself,
and of the whole circle of my female friends besides, I feel quite
disgusted,—I do, indeed.
I should very much like to go into the whole of this subject at once,
and speak my sentiments on it at the fullest length. But I will spare
the reader, and try to be satisfied with going into a part of the
subject instead; for, considering that I am a woman, and making
immense allowances for me on that account, I am really not
altogether unreasonable. Give me a page or two, and I will show in
one particular, and, what is more, from real life, how absurdly partial
the men-writers are to our sex, and how scandalously unjust they
are to their own.
Bores.—What I propose is, that we take for our present example
characters of Bores alone. If we were only to read men's novels,
articles, and so forth, I don't hesitate to say we should assume that
all the Bores in the human creation were of the male sex. It is
generally, if not always, a man, in men's books, who tells the long-
winded story, and turns up at the wrong time, and makes himself
altogether odious and intolerable to everybody he comes in contact
with, without being in the least aware of it himself. How very unjust,
and, I must be allowed to add, how extremely untrue! Women are
quite as bad, or worse. Do, good gentlemen, look about you
impartially, for once in a way, and own the truth. Good gracious! is
not society full of Lady-Bores? Why not give them a turn when you
write next?
Two instances: I will quote only two instances out of hundreds I
could produce from my own acquaintance. Only two: because, as I
said before, I am reasonable about not taking up room. I can put
things into a very small space when I write, as well as when I travel.
I should like the literary gentleman who kindly prints this (I would
not allow a woman to print it for any sum of money that could be
offered me) to see how very little luggage I travel with. At any rate,
he shall see how little room I can cheerfully put up with in these
pages.
My first Lady-Bore—see how quickly I get to the matter in hand,
without wasting so much as a single line in prefatory phrases!—my
first Lady-Bore is Miss Sticker. I don't in the least mind mentioning
her name; because I know, if she got the chance, she would do just
the same by me. It is of no use disguising the fact, so I may as well
confess at once that Miss Sticker is a fright. Far be it from me to give
pain where the thing can by any means be avoided; but if I were to
say that Miss Sticker would ever see forty again, I should be guilty of
an unwarrantable deception on the public. I have the strongest
imaginable objection to mentioning the word petticoats; but if that is
the only possible description of Miss Sticker's figure which conveys a
true notion of its nature and composition, what am I to do? Perhaps
I had better give up describing the poor thing's personal
appearance. I shall get into deeper and deeper difficulties, if I
attempt to go on. The very last time I was in her company, we were
strolling about Regent Street, with my sister's husband for escort. As
we passed a hairdresser's shop, the dear simple man looked in, and
asked me what those long tails of hair were for, that he saw hanging
up in the windows. Miss Sticker, poor soul, was on his arm, and
heard him put the question. I thought I should have dropped.
This is, I believe, what you call a digression. I shall let it stop in,
however, because it will probably explain to the judicious reader why
I carefully avoid the subject—the meagre subject, an ill-natured
person might say—of Miss Sticker's hair. Suppose I pass on to what
is more importantly connected with the object of these pages—
suppose I describe Miss Sticker's character next.
Some extremely sensible man has observed somewhere, that a Bore
is a person with one idea. Exactly so. Miss Sticker is a person with
one idea. Unhappily for society, her notion is, that she is bound by
the laws of politeness to join in every conversation which happens to
be proceeding within the range of her ears. She has no ideas, no
information, no flow of language, no tact, no power of saying the
right word at the right time, even by chance. And yet she will
converse, as she calls it. "A gentlewoman, my dear, becomes a mere
cipher in society unless she can converse." That is her way of
putting it; and I deeply regret to add, she is one of the few people
who preach what they practise. Her course of proceeding is, first, to
check the conversation by making a remark which has no kind of
relation to the topic under discussion. She next stops it altogether by
being suddenly at a loss for some particular word which nobody can
suggest. At last the word is given up; another subject is started in
despair; and the company become warmly interested in it. Just at
that moment, Miss Sticker finds the lost word; screams it out
triumphantly in the middle of the talk; and so scatters the second
subject to the winds, exactly as she has already scattered the first.
The last time I called at my aunt's—I merely mention this by way of
example—I found Miss Sticker there, and three delightful men. One
was a clergyman of the dear old purple-faced Port-wine school. The
other two would have looked military, if one of them had not been
an engineer, and the other an editor of a newspaper. We should
have had some delightful conversation if the Lady-Bore had not been
present. In some way, I really forget how, we got to talking about
giving credit and paying debts; and the dear old clergyman, with his
twinkling eyes and his jolly voice, treated us to a professional
anecdote on the subject.
"Talking about that," he began, "I married a man the other day for
the third time. Man in my parish. Capital cricketer when he was
young enough to run. 'What's your fee?' says he. 'Licensed
marriage?' says I; 'guinea of course.'—'I've got to bring you your
tithes in three weeks, sir,' says he; 'give me tick till then.' 'All right,'
says I, and married him. In three weeks he comes and pays his
tithes like a man. 'Now, sir,' says he, 'about this marriage-fee, sir? I
do hope you'll kindly let me off at half-price, for I have married a
bitter bad 'un this time. I've got a half-a-guinea about me, sir, if
you'll only please to take it. She isn't worth a farthing more—on the
word of a man, she isn't, sir!' I looked hard in his face, and saw two
scratches on it, and took the half-guinea, more out of pity than
anything else. Lesson to me, however. Never marry a man on credit
again, as long as I live. Cash on all future occasions—cash down, or
no marriage!"
While he was speaking, I had my eye on Miss Sticker. Thanks to the
luncheon which was on the table, she was physically incapable of
"conversing" while our reverend friend was telling his humorous little
anecdote. Just as he had done, and just as the editor of the
newspaper was taking up the subject, she finished her chicken, and
turned round from the table.
"Cash down, my dear sir, as you say," continued the editor. "You
exactly describe our great principle of action in the Press. Some of
the most extraordinary and amusing things happen with subscribers
to newspapers——"
"Ah, the Press!" burst in Miss Sticker, beginning to converse. "What a
wonderful engine! and how grateful we ought to feel when we get
the paper so regularly every morning at breakfast. The only question
is—at least, many people think so—I mean with regard to the Press,
the only question is whether it ought to be——"
Here Miss Sticker lost the next word, and all the company had to
look for it.
"With regard to the Press, the only question is, whether it ought to
be——O, dear, dear, dear me!" cried Miss Sticker, lifting both her
hands in despair, "what is the word?"
"Cheaper?" suggested our reverend friend. "Hang it, ma'am! it can
hardly be that, when it is down to a penny already."
"O no; not cheaper," said Miss Sticker.
"More independent?" inquired the editor. "If you mean that, I defy
anybody to find more fearless exposures of corruption——"
"No, no!" cried Miss Sticker, in an agony of polite confusion. "I didn't
mean that. More independent wasn't the word."
"Better printed?" suggested the engineer.
"On better paper?" added my aunt.
"It can't be done—if you refer to the cheap press—it can't be done
for the money," interposed the editor, irritably.
"O, but that's not it!" continued Miss Sticker, wringing her bony
fingers, with horrid black mittens on them. "I didn't mean to say
better printed, or better paper. It was one word I meant, not two.—
With regard to the Press," pursued Miss Sticker, repeating her own
ridiculous words carefully, as an aid to memory, "the only question
is, whether it ought to be——Bless my heart, how extraordinary!
Well, well, never mind: I'm quite shocked, and ashamed of myself.
Pray go on talking, and don't notice me."
It was all very well to say, Go on talking; but the editor's amusing
story about subscribers to newspapers, had been, by this time,
fatally interrupted. As usual, Miss Sticker had stopped us in full flow.
The engineer considerately broke the silence by starting another
subject.
"Here are some wedding-cards on your table," he said, to my aunt,
"which I am very glad to see there. The bridegroom is an old friend
of mine. His wife is really a beauty. You know how he first became
acquainted with her? No? It was quite an adventure, I assure you.
One evening he was on the Brighton Railway; last down train. A
lovely girl in the carriage; our friend Dilberry immensely struck with
her. Got her to talk after a long time, with great difficulty. Within half
an hour of Brighton, the lovely girl smiles, and says to our friend,
'Shall we be very long now, sir, before we get to Gravesend?' Case of
confusion at that dreadful London Bridge Terminus. Dilberry
explained that she would be at Brighton in half an hour, upon which
the lovely girl instantly and properly burst into tears. 'O, what shall I
do! O, what will my friends think!' Second flood of tears.—'Suppose
you telegraph?' says Dilberry soothingly.—'O, but I don't know how!'
says the lovely girl. Out comes Dilberry's pocket-book. Sly dog! he
saw his way now to finding out who her friends were. 'Pray let me
write the necessary message for you,' says Dilberry. 'Who shall I
direct to at Gravesend?'—'My father and mother are staying there
with some friends,' says the lovely girl. 'I came up with a day-ticket,
and I saw a crowd of people when I came back to the station, all
going one way, and I was hurried and frightened, and nobody told
me, and it was late in the evening, and the bell was ringing, and, O
Heavens! what will become of me!' Third burst of tears.—'We will
telegraph to your father,' says Dilberry. 'Pray don't distress yourself.
Only tell me who your father is.'—'Thank you a thousand times,'
says the lovely girl, 'my father is——'"
"Anonymous!" shouts Miss Sticker, producing her lost word with a
perfect burst of triumph. "How glad I am I remembered it at last!
Bless me," exclaims the Lady-Bore, quite unconscious that she has
brought the engineer's story to an abrupt conclusion, by giving his
distressed damsel an anonymous father; "Bless me! what are you all
laughing at? I only meant to say that the question with regard to the
Press was, whether it ought to be anonymous. What in the world is
there to laugh at in that? I really don't see the joke."
And this woman escapes scot-free, while comparatively innocent
men are held up to ridicule, in novel after novel, by dozens at a
time! When will the deluded male writers see my sex in its true
colours, and describe it accordingly? When will Miss Sticker take her
proper place in the literature of England?

My second Lady-Bore is that hateful creature, Mrs. Tincklepaw.

Where, over the whole interesting surface of male humanity
(including Cannibals)—where is the man to be found whom it would
not be scandalous to mention in the same breath with Mrs.
Tincklepaw? The great delight of this shocking woman's life, is to
squabble with her husband (poor man, he has my warmest
sympathy and best good wishes), and then to bring the quarrel away
from home with her, and to let it off again at society in general, in a
series of short spiteful hints. Mrs. Tincklepaw is the exact opposite of
Miss Sticker. She is a very little woman; she is (and more shame for
her, considering how she acts) young enough to be Miss Sticker's
daughter; and she has a kind of snappish tact in worrying innocent
people, under every possible turn of circumstances, which
distinguishes her (disgracefully) from the poor feeble-minded Maid-
Bore, to whom the reader has been already introduced. Here are
some examples—all taken, be it observed, from my own personal
observation—of the manner in which Mrs. Tincklepaw contrives to
persecute her harmless fellow-creatures wherever she happens to
meet with them:
Let us say I am out walking, and I happen to meet Mr. and Mrs.
Tincklepaw. (By the bye, she never lets her husband out of her sight
—he is too necessary to the execution of her schemes of petty
torment. And such a noble creature, to be used for so base a
purpose! He stands six feet two, and is additionally distinguished by
a glorious and majestic stoutness, which has no sort of connection
with the comparatively comic element of fat. His nature, considering
what a wife he has got, is inexcusably meek and patient. Instead of
answering her, he strokes his magnificent flaxen whiskers, and looks
up resignedly at the sky. I sometimes fancy that he stands too high
to hear what his dwarf of a wife says. For his sake, poor man, I hope
this view of the matter may be the true one.)
I am afraid I have contrived to lose myself in a long parenthesis.
Where was I? O! out walking and happening to meet with Mr. and
Mrs. Tincklepaw. She has had a quarrel with her husband at home,
and this is how she contrives to let me know it.
"Delightful weather, dear, is it not?" I say, as we shake hands.
"Charming, indeed," says Mrs. Tincklepaw. "Do you know, love, I am
so glad you made that remark to me, and not to Mr. Tincklepaw?"
"Really?" I ask. "Pray tell me why?"
"Because," answers the malicious creature, "if you had said it was a
fine day to Mr. Tincklepaw, I should have been so afraid of his
frowning at you directly, and saying, 'Stuff! talk of something worth
listening to, if you talk at all.' What a love of a bonnet you have got
on! and how Mr. Tincklepaw would have liked to be staying in your
house when you were getting ready to-day to go out. He would have
waited for you so patiently, dear. He would never have stamped in
the passage; and no such words as, 'Deuce take the woman! is she
going to keep me here all day?' would by any possibility have
escaped his lips. Don't love! don't look at the shops, while Mr.
Tincklepaw is with us. He might say, 'Oh, bother! you're always
wanting to buy something!' I shouldn't like that to happen. Should
you, dear?"
Once more. Say I meet Mr. and Mrs. Tincklepaw at a dinner-party,
given in honour of a bride and bridegroom. From the instant when
she enters the house, Mrs. Tincklepaw never has her eye off the
young couple. She looks at them with an expression of heart-broken
curiosity. Whenever they happen to speak to each other, she
instantly suspends any conversation in which she is engaged, and
listens to them with a mournful eagerness. When the ladies retire,
she gets the bride into a corner; appropriates her to herself for the
rest of the evening; and persecutes the wretched young woman in
this manner:—
"May I ask, is this your first dinner, since you came back?"
"O, no! we have been in town for some weeks."
"Indeed? I should really have thought, now, that this was your first
dinner."
"Should you? I can't imagine why."
"How very odd, when the reason is as plain as possible! Why, I
noticed you all dinner time, eating and drinking what you liked,
without looking at your husband for orders. I saw nothing rebellious
in your face when you eat all these nice sweet things at dessert.
Dear! dear! don't you understand? Do you really mean to say that
your husband has not begun yet? Did he not say, as you drove here
to day, 'Now, mind, I'm not going to have another night's rest
broken, because you always choose to make yourself ill with stuffing
creams and sweets, and all that sort of thing?' No!!! Mercy on me,
what an odd man he must be! Perhaps he waits till he gets home
again? O, come, come, you don't mean to tell me that he doesn't
storm at you frightfully, for having every one of your glasses filled
with wine, and then never touching a drop of it, but asking for cold
water instead, at the very elbow of the master of the house? If he
says, 'Cursed perversity, and want of proper tact' once, I know he
says it a dozen times. And as for treading on your dress in the hall,
and then bullying you before the servant, for not holding it up out of
his way, it's too common a thing to be mentioned—isn't it? Did you
notice Mr. Tincklepaw particularly? Ah, you did, and you thought he
looked good-natured? No! no! don't say any more; don't say you
know better than to trust to appearances. Please do take leave of all
common sense and experience, and pray trust to appearances,
without thinking of their invariable deceitfulness, this once. Do, dear,
to oblige me."
I might fill pages with similar examples of the manners and
conversation of this intolerable Lady-Bore. I might add other equally
aggravating characters, to her character and to Miss Sticker's,
without extending my researches an inch beyond the circle of my
own acquaintance. But I am true to my unfeminine resolution to
write as briefly as if I were a man; and I feel that I have said
enough, already, to show that I can prove my case. When a woman
like me can produce, without the least hesitation, or the slightest
difficulty, two such instances of Lady-Bores as I have just exhibited,
the additional number which she might pick out of her list, after a
little mature reflection, may be logically inferred by all impartial
readers.
In the meantime, let me hope I have succeeded sufficiently well in
my present purpose to induce our next great satirist to pause before
he, too, attacks his harmless fellow-men, and to make him turn his
withering glance in the direction of our sex. Let all rising young
gentlemen who are racking their brains in search of originality, take
the timely hint which I have given them in these pages. Let us have
a new fictitious literature, in which not only the Bores shall be
women, but the villains too. Look at Shakespeare—do, pray, look at
Shakespeare. Who is most in fault, in that shocking business of the
murder of King Duncan? Lady Macbeth, to be sure! Look at King
Lear, with a small family of only three daughters, and two of the
three, wretches; and even the third an aggravating girl, who can't be
commonly civil to her own father in the first Act, out of sheer
contradiction, because her elder sisters happen to have been civil
before her. Look at Desdemona, who falls in love with a horrid
copper-coloured foreigner, and then, like a fool, instead of managing
him, aggravates him into smothering her. Ah! Shakespeare was a
great man, and knew our sex, and was not afraid to show he knew
it. What a blessing it would be, if some of his literary brethren, in
modern times, could muster courage enough to follow his example!
I have fifty different things to say, but I shall bring myself to a
conclusion by only mentioning one of them. If it would at all
contribute towards forwarding the literary reform that I advocate, to
make a present of the characters of Miss Sticker and Mrs.
Tincklepaw, to modern writers of fiction, I shall be delighted to
abandon all right of proprietorship in those two odious women. At
the same time, I think it fair to explain that when I speak of modern
writers, I mean gentlemen-writers only. I wish to say nothing uncivil
to the ladies who compose books, whose effusions may, by the rule
of contraries, be exceedingly agreeable to male readers; but I
positively forbid them to lay hands upon my two characters. I am
charmed to be of use to the men, in a literary point of view, but I
decline altogether to mix myself up with the women. There need be
no fear of offending them by printing this candid expression of my
intentions. Depend on it, they will all declare, on their sides, that
they would much rather have nothing to do with me.
 NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HISTORY.

II.
THE GREAT (FORGOTTEN) INVASION.

Preamble.
It happened some sixty years ago; it was a French invasion; and it
actually took place in England. Thousands of people are alive at the
present moment, who ought to remember it perfectly well. And yet it
has been forgotten. In these times, when the French invasion that
may come, turns up perpetually, in public and in private, as a subject
of discussion—the French invasion that did come, is not honoured
with so much as a passing word of notice. The new generation
knows nothing about it. The old generation has carelessly forgotten
it. This is discreditable, and it must be set right; this is a dangerous
security, and it must be disturbed; this is a gap in the Modern
History of England, and it must be filled up.
Fathers and mothers, read and be reminded; British youths and
maidens, read and be informed. Here follows the true history of the
great forgotten Invasion of England, at the end of the last century;
divided into scenes and periods, and carefully derived from proved
and written facts recorded in Kelly's History of the Wars:
I. Of the French Invasion as seen from Ilfracombe.
On the twenty-second day of February, in the year seventeen
hundred and ninety-seven, the inhabitants of North Devonshire
looked towards the Bristol Channel, and saw the French invasion
coming on, in four ships.
The Directory of the French Republic had been threatening these
islands some time previously; but much talk and little action having
characterised the proceedings of that governing body in most other
matters, no great apprehension was felt of their really carrying out
their expressed intention in relation to this country. The war
between the two nations was, at this time, confined to naval
operations, in which the English invariably got the better of the
French. North Devonshire (as well as the rest of England) was aware
of this, and trusted implicitly in our supremacy of the seas. North
Devonshire got up on the morning of the twenty-second of February,
without a thought of the invasion; North Devonshire looked out
towards the Bristol Channel, and there—in spite of our supremacy of
the seas—there the invasion was, as large as life.
Of the four ships which the Directory had sent to conquer England,
two were frigates and two were smaller vessels. This formidable
fleet sailed along, in view of a whole panic-stricken, defenceless
coast; and the place at which it seemed inclined to try the invading
experiment first, was Ilfracombe. The commander of the expedition
brought his ships up before the harbour, scuttled a few coasting
vessels, prepared to destroy the rest, thought better of it, and
suddenly turned his four warlike sterns on North Devonshire, in the
most unaccountable manner. History is silent as to the cause of this
abrupt and singular change of purpose. Did the chief of the invaders
act from sheer indecision? Did he distrust the hotel accommodation
at Ilfracombe? Had he heard of the clotted cream of Devonshire, and
did he apprehend the bilious disorganisation of the whole army, if
they once got within reach of that luscious delicacy? These are
important questions, but no satisfactory answer can be found to
them. The motives which animated the commander of the invading
Frenchmen, are buried in oblivion: the fact alone remains, that he
spared Ilfracombe. The last that was seen of him from North
Devonshire, he was sailing over ruthlessly to the devoted coast of
Wales.
II. Of the French Invasion as seen by Welshmen in general.
In one respect it may be said that Wales was favoured by
comparison with North Devonshire. The great fact of the French
invasion had burst suddenly on Ilfracombe; but it only dawned in a
gradual manner on the coast of Pembrokeshire. In the course of his
cruise across the Bristol Channel, it had apparently occurred to the
commander of the expedition, that a little diplomatic deception, at
the outset, might prove to be of ultimate advantage to him. He
decided, therefore, on concealing his true character from the eyes of
the Welshmen; and when his four ships were first made out, from
the heights above Saint Bride's Bay, they were all sailing under
British colours.
There are men in Wales, as in the rest of the world, whom it is
impossible to satisfy; and there were spectators on the heights of
Saint Bride's who were not satisfied with the British colours, on this
occasion, because they felt doubtful about the ships that bore them.
To the eyes of these sceptics all four vessels had an unpleasantly
French look, and manœuvred in an unpleasantly French manner.
Wise Welshmen along the coast collected together by twos and
threes, and sat down on the heights, and looked out to sea, and
shook their heads, and suspected. But the majority, as usual, saw
nothing extraordinary where nothing extraordinary appeared to be
intended; and the country was not yet alarmed; and the four ships
sailed on till they doubled Saint David's Head; and sailed on again, a
few miles to the northward; and then stopped, and came to single
anchor in Cardigan Bay.
Here, again, another difficult question occurs, which recalcitrant
History once more declines to solve. The Frenchmen had hardly
been observed to cast their single anchors in Cardigan Bay, before
they were also observed to pull them up again, and go on. Why?
The commander of the expedition had doubted already at
Ilfracombe—was he doubting again in Cardigan Bay? Or did he
merely want time to mature his plans; and was it a peculiarity of his
nature that he always required to come to anchor before he could
think at his ease? To this mystery, as to the mystery at Ilfracombe,
there is no solution; and here, as there, nothing is certainly known
but that the Frenchman paused—threatened—and then sailed on.
III. Of One Welshman in Particular, and of what he saw.
He was the only man in Great Britain who saw the invading army
land on our native shores—and his name has perished.
It is known that he was a Welshman, and that he belonged to the
lower order of the population. He may be still alive—this man, who is
connected with a crisis in English History, may be still alive—and
nobody has found him out; nobody has taken his photograph;
nobody has written a genial biographical notice of him; nobody has
made him into an Entertainment; nobody has held a
Commemoration of him; nobody has presented him with a
testimonial, relieved him by a subscription, or addressed him with a
speech. In these enlightened times, this brief record can only single
him out and individually distinguish him—as the Hero of the
Invasion. Such is Fame.
The Hero of the Invasion, then, was standing, or sitting—for even on
this important point tradition is silent—on the cliffs of the Welsh
coast, near Lanonda Church, when he saw the four ships enter the
bay below him, and come to anchor—this time, without showing any
symptoms of getting under weigh again. The English colours, under
which the Expedition had thus far attempted to deceive the
population of the coast, were now hauled down, and the threatening
flag of France was boldly hoisted in their stead. This done, the boats
were lowered away, were filled with a ferocious soldiery, and were
pointed straight for the beach.
It is on record that the Hero of the Invasion distinctly saw this; and
it is not on record that he ran away. Honour to the unknown brave!
Honour to the solitary Welshman who faced the French army!
The boats came on straight to the beach—the ferocious soldiery
leapt out on English soil, and swarmed up the cliff, thirsting for the
subjugation of the British Isles. The Hero of the Invasion, watching
solitary on the cliffs, saw the Frenchmen crawling up below him—
tossing their muskets on before them—climbing with the cool
calculation of an army of chimney-sweeps—nimble as the monkey,
supple as the tiger, stealthy as the cat—hungry for plunder,
bloodshed, and Welsh mutton—void of all respect for the British
Constitution—an army of Invaders on the Land of the Habeas
Corpus!
The Welshman saw that, and vanished. Whether he waited with
clenched fist till the head of the foremost Frenchman rose parallel
with the cliff-side, or whether he achieved a long start, by letting the
army get half-way up the cliff, and then retreating inland to give the
alarm—is, like every other circumstance in connection with the Hero
of the Invasion, a matter of the profoundest doubt. It is only known
that he got away at all, because it is not known that he was taken
prisoner. He parts with us here, the shadow of a shade, the most
impalpable of historical apparitions. Honour, nevertheless, to the
crafty brave! Honour to the solitary Welshman who faced the French
army without being shot, and retired from the French army without
being caught!
IV. Of what the Invaders did when they got on shore.
The Art of Invasion has its routine, its laws, manners, and customs,
like other Arts. And the French army acted strictly in accordance with
established precedents. The first thing the first men did, when they
got to the top of the cliff, was to strike a light and set fire to the
furze-bushes. While national feeling deplores this destruction of
property, unprejudiced History looks on at her ease. Given Invasion
as a cause, fire follows, according to all known rules, as an effect. If
an army of Englishmen had been invading France under similar
circumstances, they, on their side, would necessarily have begun by
setting fire to something; and unprejudiced History would, in that
case also, have looked on at her ease.
While the furze-bushes were blazing, the remainder of the invaders
—assured by the sight of the flames, of their companions' success so
far—was disembarking, and swarming up the rocks. When it was
finally mustered on the top of the cliff, the army amounted to
fourteen hundred men. This was the whole force which the Directory
of the French Republic had thought it desirable to despatch for the
subjugation of Great Britain. History, until she is certain of results,
will pronounce no opinion on the wisdom of this proceeding. She
knows that nothing in politics, is abstractedly rash, cruel,
treacherous, or disgraceful—she knows that Success is the sole
touchstone of merit—she knows that the man who fails is
contemptible, and the man who succeeds is illustrious, without any
reference to the means used in either case; to the character of the
men; or to the nature of the motives under which they may have
proceeded to action. If the Invasion succeeds, History will applaud it
as an act of heroism: if it fails, History will condemn it as an act of
folly.
It has been said that the Invasion began creditably, according to the
rules established in all cases of conquering. It continued to follow
those rules with the most praiseworthy regularity. Having started
with setting something on fire, it went on, in due course, to
accomplish the other first objects of all Invasions, thieving and killing
—performing much of the former, and little of the latter. Two rash
Welshmen, who persisted in defending their native leeks, suffered
accordingly: the rest lost nothing but their national victuals, and
their national flannel. On this first day of the Invasion, when the
army had done marauding, the results on both sides may be thus
summed up. Gains to the French:—good dinners, and protection
next the skin. Loss to the English:—mutton, stout Welsh flannel, and
two rash countrymen.
V. Of the British Defence, and of the way in which the women
contributed to it.
The appearance of the Frenchmen on the coast, and the loss to the
English, mentioned above, produced the results naturally to be
expected. The country was alarmed, and started up to defend itself.
On the numbers of the invaders being known, and on its being
discovered that, though they were without field-pieces, they had
with them seventy cart-loads of powder and ball, and a quantity of
grenades, the principal men in the country bestirred themselves in
setting up the defence. Before nightfall, all the available men who
knew anything of the art of fighting were collected. When the ranks
were drawn out, the English defence was even more ridiculous in
point of numbers than the French attack. It amounted, at a time
when we were at war with France, and were supposed to be
prepared for any dangers that might threaten—it amounted,
including militia, fencibles, and yeomanry cavalry, to just six hundred
and sixty men, or, in other words, to less than half the number of
the invading Frenchmen.
Fortunately for the credit of the nation, the command of this
exceedingly compact force was taken by the principal grandee in the
neighbourhood. He turned out to be a man of considerable cunning,
as well as a man of high rank; and he was known by the style and
title of the Earl of Cawdor.
The one cheering circumstance in connection with the heavy
responsibility which now rested on the shoulders of the Earl,
consisted in this: that he had apparently no cause to dread internal
treason as well as foreign invasion. The remarkably inconvenient
spot which the French had selected for their landing, showed, not
only that they themselves knew nothing of the coast, but that none
of the inhabitants, who might have led them to an easier place of
disembarkation, were privy to their purpose. So far so good. But still,
the great difficulty remained of facing the French with an equality of
numbers, and with the appearance, at least, of an equality of
discipline. The first of these requisites it was easy to fulfil. There
were hosts of colliers and other labourers in the neighbourhood,—
big, bold, lusty fellows enough; but so far as the art of marching and
using weapons was concerned, as helpless as a pack of children.
The question was, how to make good use of these men for show-
purposes, without allowing them fatally to embarrass the
proceedings of their trained and disciplined companions. In this
emergency, Lord Cawdor hit on a grand Idea. He boldly mixed the
women up in the business—and it is unnecessary to add, that the
business began to prosper from that lucky moment.
In those days, the wives of the Welsh labourers wore, what the
wives of all classes of the community have been wearing since—red
petticoats. It was Lord Cawdor's happy idea to call on these patriot-
matrons to sink the question of skirts; to forego the luxurious
consideration of warmth; and to turn the colliers into military men
(so far as external appearances, viewed at a distance, were
concerned), by taking off the wives' red petticoats and putting them
over the husbands' shoulders. Where patriot-matrons are concerned,
no national appeal is made in vain, and no personal sacrifice is
refused. All the women seized their strings, and stepped out of their
petticoats on the spot. What man in that make-shift military but
must think of "home and beauty," now that he had the tenderest
memento of both to grace his shoulders and jog his memory? In an
inconceivably short space of time every woman was shivering, and
every collier was turned into a soldier.
VI. Of how it all ended.
Thus recruited, Lord Cawdor marched off to the scene of action; and
the patriot women, deprived of their husbands and their petticoats,
retired, it is to be hoped and presumed, to the friendly shelter of
bed. It was then close on nightfall, if not actually night; and the
disorderly marching of the transformed colliers could not be
perceived. But, when the British army took up its position, then was
the time when the excellent stratagem of Lord Cawdor told at its
true worth. By the uncertain light of fires and torches, the French
scouts, let them venture as near as they might, could see nothing in
detail. A man in a scarlet petticoat looked as soldier-like as a man in
a scarlet coat, under those dusky circumstances. All that the enemy
could now see were lines on lines of men in red, the famous uniform
of the English army.
The council of the French braves must have been a perturbed
assembly on that memorable night. Behind them, was the empty bay
—for the four ships, after landing the invaders, had set sail again for
France, sublimely indifferent to the fate of the fourteen hundred.
Before them, there waited in battle array an apparently formidable
force of British soldiers. Under them was the hostile English ground
on which they were trespassers caught in the fact. Girt about by
these serious perils, the discreet commander of the Invasion fell
back on those safeguards of caution and deliberation of which he
had already given proofs on approaching the English shore. He had
doubted at Ilfracombe; he had doubted again in Cardigan Bay; and
now, on the eve of the first battle, he doubted for the third time—
doubted, and gave in. If History declines to receive the French
commander as a hero, Philosophy opens her peaceful doors to him,
and welcomes him in the character of a wise man.
At ten o'clock that night, a flag of truce appeared in the English
camp, and a letter was delivered to Lord Cawdor from the prudent
chief of the invaders. The letter set forth, with amazing gravity and
dignity, that the circumstances under which the French troops had
landed, having rendered it "unnecessary" to attempt any military
operations, the commanding officer did not object to come forward
generously and propose terms of capitulation. Such a message as
this was little calculated to impose on any man—far less on the artful
nobleman who had invented the stratagem of the red petticoats.
Taking a slightly different view of the circumstances, and declining
altogether to believe that the French Directory had sent fourteen
hundred men over to England to divert the inhabitants by the
spectacle of a capitulation, Lord Cawdor returned for answer that he
did not feel himself at liberty to treat with the French commander,
except on the condition of his men surrendering as prisoners of war.
On receiving this reply, the Frenchman gave an additional proof of
that philosophical turn of mind which has been already claimed for
him as one of his merits, by politely adopting the course which Lord
Cawdor suggested. By noon the next day, the French troops were all
marched off, prisoners of war—the patriot-matrons had resumed
their petticoats—and the short terror of the invasion had happily
passed away.
The first question that occurred to everybody, as soon as the alarm
had been dissipated, was, what this extraordinary burlesque of an
invasion could possibly mean. It was asserted, in some quarters,
that the fourteen hundred Frenchmen had been recruited from those
insurgents of La Vendée who had enlisted in the service of the
Republic, who could not be trusted at home, and who were
therefore despatched on the first desperate service that might offer
itself abroad. Others represented the invading army as a mere gang
of galley-slaves and criminals in general, who had been landed on
our shores with the double purpose of annoying England and ridding
France of a pack of rascals. The commander of the expedition,
however, disposed of this latter theory by declaring that six hundred
of his men were picked veterans from the French army, and by
referring, for corroboration of this statement, to his large supplies of
powder, ball, and hand-grenades, which would certainly not have
been wasted, at a time when military stores were especially
precious, on a gang of galley-slaves.
The truth seems to be, that the French (who were even more
densely ignorant of England and English institutions at that time
than they are at this) had been so entirely deceived by false reports
of the temper and sentiments of our people, as to believe that the
mere appearance of the troops of the Republic on these Monarchical
shores, would be the signal for a revolutionary rising of all the
disaffected classes from one end of Great Britain to the other.
Viewed merely as materials for kindling the insurrectionary spark,
the fourteen hundred Frenchmen might certainly be considered
sufficient for the purpose—providing the Directory of the Republic
could only have made sure beforehand that the English tinder might
be depended on to catch light!
One last event must be recorded before this History can be
considered complete. The disasters of the invading army, on shore,
were matched, at sea, by the disasters of the vessels that had
carried them. Of the four ships which had alarmed the English coast,
the two largest (the frigates) were both captured, as they were
standing in for Brest Harbour, by Sir Harry Neale. This smart and
final correction of the fractious little French invasion was
administered on the ninth of March, seventeen hundred and ninety-
seven.
Moral.
This is the history of the Great (Forgotten) Invasion. It is short, it is
not impressive, it is unquestionably deficient in serious interest. But
there is a Moral to be drawn from it, nevertheless. If we are invaded
again, and on a rather larger scale, let us not be so ill-prepared, this
next time, as to be obliged to take refuge in our wives' red
petticoats.
 CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.—I.
THE UNKNOWN PUBLIC.

Do the customers at publishing-houses, the members of book-clubs

and circulating libraries, and the purchasers and borrowers of
newspapers and reviews, compose altogether the great bulk of the
reading public of England? There was a time when, if anybody had
put this question to me, I, for one, should certainly have answered,
Yes.
I know better now. So far from composing the bulk of English
readers, the public just mentioned represents nothing more than the
minority.
This startling discovery dawned upon me gradually. I made my first
approaches towards it, in walking about London, more especially in
the second and third rate neighbourhoods. At such times, whenever
I passed a small stationer's or small tobacconist's shop, I became
mechanically conscious of certain publications which invariably
occupied the windows. These publications all appeared to be of the
same small quarto size; they seemed to consist merely of a few
unbound pages; each one of them had a picture on the upper half of
the front leaf, and a quantity of small print on the under. I noticed
just as much as this, for some time, and no more. None of the
gentlemen who profess to guide my taste in literary matters, had
ever directed my attention towards these mysterious publications.
My favourite Review is, as I firmly believe, at this very day,
unconscious of their existence. My enterprising librarian—who forces
all sorts of books on my attention that I don't want to read, because
he has bought whole editions of them a great bargain—has never
yet tried me with the limp unbound picture-quarto of the small
shops. Day after day, and week after week, the mysterious
publications haunted my walks, go where I might; and, still, I was
too careless to stop and notice them in detail. I left London and
travelled about England. The neglected publications followed me.
There they were in every town, large or small. I saw them in fruit-
shops, in oyster-shops, in cigar-shops, in lozenge-shops. Villages
even—picturesque, strong-smelling villages—were not free from
them. Wherever the speculative daring of one man could open a
shop, and the human appetites and necessities of his fellow-mortals
could keep it from shutting up again—there, as it appeared to me,
the unbound picture-quarto instantly entered, set itself up
obtrusively in the window, and insisted on being looked at by
everybody. "Buy me, borrow me, stare at me, steal me. Oh,
inattentive stranger, do anything but pass me by!"
Under this sort of compulsion, it was not long before I began to stop
at shop-windows and look attentively at these all-pervading
specimens of what was to me a new species of literary production. I
made acquaintance with one of them among the deserts of West
Cornwall; with another in a populous thoroughfare of Whitechapel;
with a third in a dreary little lost town at the north of Scotland. I
went into a lovely county of South Wales; the modest railway had
not penetrated to it, but the audacious picture-quarto had found it
out. Who could resist this perpetual, this inevitable, this
magnificently unlimited appeal to notice and patronage? From
looking in at the windows of the shops, I got on to entering the
shops themselves—to buying specimens of this locust-flight of small
publications—to making strict examination of them from the first
page to the last—and finally, to instituting inquiries about them in all
sorts of well-informed quarters. The result has been the discovery of
an Unknown Public; a public to be counted by millions; the
mysterious, the unfathomable, the universal public of the penny-
novel-Journals.[2]
I have five of these journals now before me, represented by one
sample copy, bought hap-hazard, of each. There are many more;
but these five represent the successful and well-established
members of the literary family. The eldest of them is a stout lad of
fifteen years' standing. The youngest is an infant of three months
old. All five are sold at the same price of one penny; all five are
published regularly once a week; all five contain about the same
quantity of matter. The weekly circulation of the most successful of
the five, is now publicly advertised (and, as I am informed, without
exaggeration) at half a Million. Taking the other four as attaining
altogether to a circulation of another half million (which is probably
much under the right estimate) we have a sale of a Million weekly
for five penny journals. Reckoning only three readers to each copy
sold, the result is a public of three millions—a public unknown to the
literary world; unknown, as disciples, to the whole body of professed
critics; unknown, as customers, at the great libraries and the great
publishing-houses; unknown, as an audience, to the distinguished
English writers of our own time. A reading public of three millions
which lies right out of the pale of literary civilisation, is a
phenomenon worth examining—a mystery which the sharpest man
among us may not find it easy to solve.
In the first place, who are the three millions—the Unknown Public—
as I have ventured to call them?
The known reading public—the minority already referred to—are
easily discovered and classified. There is the religious public, with
booksellers and literature of its own, which includes reviews and
newspapers as well as books. There is the public which reads for
information, and devotes itself to Histories, Biographies, Essays,
Treatises, Voyages and Travels. There is the public which reads for
amusement, and patronises the Circulating Libraries and the railway
book-stalls. There is, lastly, the public which reads nothing but
newspapers. We all know where to lay our hands on the people who
represent these various classes. We see the books they like on their
tables. We meet them out at dinner, and hear them talk of their
favourite authors. We know, if we are at all conversant with literary
matters, even the very districts of London in which certain classes of
people live who are to be depended upon beforehand as the picked
readers for certain kinds of books. But what do we know of the
enormous outlawed majority—of the lost literary tribes—of the
prodigious, the overwhelming three millions? Absolutely nothing.
I myself—and I say it to my sorrow—have a very large circle of
acquaintance. Ever since I undertook the interesting task of
exploring the Unknown Public, I have been trying to discover among
my dear friends and my bitter enemies (both alike on my visiting
list), a subscriber to a penny-novel-journal—and I have never yet
succeeded in the attempt. I have heard theories started as to the
probable existence of penny-novel-journals in kitchen dressers, in
the back parlours of Easy Shaving Shops, in the greasy seclusion of
the boxes at the small Chop Houses. But I have never yet met with
any man, woman, or child who could answer the inquiry, "Do you
subscribe to a penny journal?" plainly in the affirmative, and who
could produce the periodical in question. I have learnt, years ago, to
despair of ever meeting with a single woman, after a certain age,
who has not had an offer of marriage. I have given up, long since,
all idea of ever discovering a man who has himself seen a ghost, as
distinguished from that other inevitable man who has had a bosom
friend who has unquestionably seen one. These are two among
many other aspirations of a wasted life which I have definitely
resigned. I have now to add one more to the number of my
vanished illusions.
In the absence, therefore, of any positive information on the subject,
it is only possible to pursue the present investigation by accepting
such negative evidence as may help us to guess with more or less
accuracy, at the social position, the habits, the tastes, and the
average intelligence of the Unknown Public. Arguing carefully by
inference, we may hope, in this matter, to arrive at something like a
safe, if not a satisfactory, conclusion.
To begin with, it may be fairly assumed—seeing that the staple
commodity of each one of the five journals before me, is composed
of Stories—that the Unknown Public reads for its amusement more
than for its information.
Judging by my own experience, I should be inclined to add, that the
Unknown Public looks to quantity rather than quality in spending its
penny a-week on literature. In buying my five specimen copies, at
five different shops, I purposely approached the individual behind
the counter, on each occasion, in the character of a member of the
Unknown Public—say, Number Three Million and One—who wished
to be guided in laying out a penny entirely by the recommendation
of the shopkeeper himself. I expected, by this course of proceeding,
to hear a little popular criticism, and to get at what the conditions of
success might be, in a branch of literature which was quite new to
me. No such result rewarded my efforts in any case. The dialogue
between buyer and seller always took some such practical turn as
this:
Reader, Number Three Million and One.—"I want to take in one of
the penny journals. Which do you recommend?"
Enterprising Publisher.—"Some likes one, and some likes another.
They're all good pennorths. Seen this one?"
"Yes."
"Seen that one?"
"No."
"Look what a pennorth!"
"Yes—but about the stories in this one? Are they as good, now, as
the stories in that one?"
"Well, you see, some likes one, and some likes another. Sometimes I
sells more of one, and sometimes I sells more of another. Take 'em
all the year round, and there ain't a pin, as I knows of, to choose
"You haven't any gun," Ann said. "Wolves killed three of William
Green's pigs yesterday, and last week there was a great big
catamount at Honey Grove."
"Do you remember what I did to Armstrong? I did a catamount that
same way once. I always carry my weapons. God fastened them to
me so tight I can't leave them."
Ann and her mother laughed. Abe Lincoln went out into the cold;
and they heard the sharp crunching of the snow under his quick
footsteps.
"I'm going to spin to-night, Mother," Ann said. "You don't care if I
put the kettle on and make Abraham something hot to drink when
he comes home, do you?"
"A very good idea," Mrs. Rutledge said. After she had done some
mending she put the water pail by the fire, hung a roll of pork
sausage on the wall, and, after having taken other precautions to
insure a good warm breakfast when everything would be frozen up
the next morning, she went to bed, and Ann was left to spin and to
think.
Never was Ann Rutledge long alone that she was not singing. So
now, as her wheel turned in the firelight, she began to sing a glad
song full of life and hope and joy crowded into the words and
melody of the old tune, "O, how I love Jesus!"
As the fire, eating its way through the back log, told the passage of
time she stopped and listened. The kettle was steaming and on the
kitchen table was a plate of food waiting to be brought in.
At last the crunching of the snow under heavy footfalls told her he
was coming. But she only turned her wheel a little faster and sung a
little heartier as he entered, lest he should know she had been
watching.
"O, how I love Jesus!" Abe Lincoln hummed as he came by the fire
and rubbed his hands; "go on with your song and your work. While I
get warm I will tell you a story."
"Once there was a great camp-meetin'," he began, settling himself in
John Rutledge's big splint-bottom chair. "There was an exhorter
named Barcus who helped stir things up to the boilin'-over point.
Among those who got shoutin' happy was a fair and fond sister.
Brother Barcus and the sister both danced and shouted toward each
other. When they met, he said, his benign countenance shinin' with
joy, 'Sister, do you love Jesus?' 'Oh, yes,' she whispered rapturously;
'yes—yes—yes.'
"'Then kiss brother Barcus,' was this shepherd's advice to his
beloved sheep."
Abe Lincoln settled back. Ann laughed. Then she said, "Abraham, we
are bad; you for telling such a story and I for listening."
"No, we are good," he corrected, "you for not askin' the woman's
name and I for not tellin' whether she kissed Brother Barcus."
Again Ann laughed. Then she glanced at Abe Lincoln and from him
to the peg where his hat hung.
"Where is your muffler?" she asked. "You didn't lose it, did you?"
The tall man looked into the fire a moment before saying, "No—I
gave it away."
"Gave it away?"—and there was a tone of disappointment in her
voice.
"Yes. I'll tell you about it. When I got out to Kelly's I found the poor
woman in bed, and a new-born baby. The little thing didn't have any
clothes or any warm blanket to wrap around it. I looked at that fine,
thick, warm, wool muffler all made by your hands, and I hated to
give it up. But that baby, Ann—it was such a little helpless thing and
so pitiful, and its mother's eyes looked in such a hungry way at that
gray muffler, I couldn't help it. So I wrapped it up myself. And I felt
that if you had been there you would have done the wrappin'. In
fact, I could see you foldin' the warm cover around that poor little
thing. You would have done it—wouldn't you, Ann?"
"Yes, Abraham."
"I was sure of it. Perhaps you'll make me another some time. Now
go on with your spinnin' and your song. It is the best music a tired
man could ever hear."
Ann turned the wheel a few times, but she did not sing. "When a
woman gets loving Jesus," he observed, "it's a sign she's lovin'
somebody else. Who do you love, Ann?"
This unexpected question took Ann quite by surprise.
"You know as well as I do that I am engaged to marry John McNeil.
And don't you think he is one of the best young men in town?"
There was a suggestion of appeal in the question.
"I am sure he is—one of the very best in the county. But tell me,
Ann, what it is to love. You know the spellin' book definition. It's in
the Bible, too, that love is stronger than death. But they both came
out of somebody's mind first, somebody who loved. Tell me about
it."
"Why should I know?"
He mused a moment, then he said as if to the fire instead of Ann:
"It won't be until I know, that I promise to marry a woman."
Ann glanced at Lincoln. He seemed for the moment unconscious of
her existence. She called him from his reflections by speaking his
name.
"Abraham," she said as the wheel spun slowly, "I have a secret to
tell you, a confession to make."
He was all attention in a minute. She dropped her hands in her lap
and moved a little way from behind the wheel.
"Do you remember the camp-meeting, and Brother Cartwright
saying you were a deluded sinner, and saying you were worth
praying for?"
"Did he? I believe he did."
"Well, since that night, every day I have been remembering you at
the throne of grace, but I have made up my mind it is only wasting
time. I still don't understand how anybody can be saved and not
believe in hell, and you do some things that are not right, like the
day at the quilting-bee, which was not fair to John McNeil. My Bible
says, 'by their fruits shall men be known,' and, Abraham, your life
bears fruit, much better fruit and more of it than do some of those
who call you a sinner. So I've decided it's just wasting my time and
God's to pray for you any more."
In the moment of silence that followed this speech, Ann turned back
to the wheel.
"Don't spin," he said; "there's something I want to say."
She folded her hands in her lap and waited. There was no sound in
the room save the sputter of the fire. A bit of charred wood fell into
the ashes. Lincoln took the tongs and threw it back, then he sat
looking at it.
Presently he turned to Ann. "And you have been rememberin' me at
the throne of Grace? I don't know anything about thrones and
mighty little about grace, for the grace of life has not been my
portion. But this is what I want to say. If a man can get to God
through the intercession of a true and noble and pure-hearted man,
as all Christians say they do, I don't see why a man can't get to God
through the pleadin's of a true and noble and pure-hearted woman."
Ann looked at him questioningly.
"I don't know what you mean, Abraham," she said.
"I mean just this—if ever I reach the throne of grace where just men
get nearer glimpses of God, it will be through—Ann Rutledge. Do
you understand this?"
Ann's eyes had not for an instant left the figure of the man who was
speaking. The homely, bronzed face in the frame of black hair, the
slightly stooping shoulders, the big hands stretched at full length on
the arms of the chair, made a firelight picture fascinating to the girl.
He had asked a question—she had not answered it, yet she leaned
forward, and after studying his face a moment she said, "Abraham,
you look as if you were starving. I must get you something to eat";
and she hurried to the kitchen.
Lincoln leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. "It wouldn't
be fair to John McNeil," he seemed to hear her saying again, and
with a deep sigh he said in his heart: "Separated by the rules of the
game of honor."

"Ann," said Mrs. Rutledge the next morning, "what did you and Abe
Lincoln find to talk about so long last night?"
"Camp-meetings and mufflers and Kelly's new baby," Ann answered.
"You must be careful, Ann," her mother said. "Your word is out to
John McNeil and he has a good start in life. Abe is a fine boy and
honest as the day is long, but he hasn't got anything to take care of
a woman on. Besides, he does all sorts of queer things. For all we
know he may yet take to writing poetry. You must not give him any
encouragement. Since that quilting-bee I've had some thoughts. He
wasn't there to learn to quilt. He'd be fearful hard to get shut of if he
got in love good and hard."
"He has no idea of love at all," Ann hastened to assure her mother.
"He doesn't even know what it means. He told me so."
"That's the worst kind to get stirred up. The kind that just naturally
knows how are always having attacks of love the same as they do
attacks of measles. But the kind that has to be waked up and taught
by some woman have terrible bad cases. Don't you get Abe Lincoln
stirred up."
"He doesn't care for girls, anyway—no particular ones. He likes
books and is not the kind to fall in love."
"Love can pipe through any kind of a reed," was Mrs. Rutledge's
answer. "Don't stir Abe Lincoln up."

CHAPTER XXII
TOWN TOPICS
Nor many months had elapsed after Abraham Lincoln went into the
"store business" before those interested began to feel that John
McNeil had not been mistaken when he said Lincoln would not be a
success as a business man.
After everybody else in town was questioning whether or not the
store was making money, Lincoln himself declared it was petering
out.
This in no way interfered with his story-telling and studying hours.
The store was head-quarters for political and all other kinds of
discussions, and study-hall for the most unwearying scholar in the
village.
So it happened that when Abraham should have been devising
schemes to make money he was memorizing Blackstone, debating
some point of Constitutional law, or working out some rule of
grammar.
Nor was this the worst. While Lincoln was letting the store go to ruin
for lack of business skill and application, his partner, Berry, was
drinking up the wet portion of the stock.
John McNeil looked on with disgust and made comments, many of
them to Ann Rutledge. She could not deny them, for she had found
Abe Lincoln a most absent-minded and in some ways a most
unsatisfactory boarder.
More than once she had rung the bell at meal-time with no success
at bringing Abe Lincoln to the table. Once when she was sure he
must be half-starved she went to the store to bring him. She found
him stretched on the counter with head propped up against a roll of
calico, deeply buried in a dingy, leather-bound book. When she
finally drew attention to herself from the book he said: "Run back
home, Ann, Blackstone is making a point. I'll be there in a few
minutes."
Determined that he should eat, after waiting an hour she went back
to the store carrying a plate of food. "Abraham Lincoln," she said,
"you've got to eat."
"What for?" he asked absently.
"Because if you don't you'll get to be nothing more than a human
grape-vine and you won't even be as good looking as you are now."
"What's that?" he said, looking up after finishing the sentence he
was reading. "Say that again."
She repeated her remark. Lincoln laughed. Then he said, "Put the
feed on the molasses barrel. I'll get it in a minute," and he turned
back to the book.
When the Lincoln and Berry mercantile company had so far gone to
the bad that the end was in sight, the nominal owners sold out to a
couple of men who paid them, as they had paid, with notes.
Free from the store Lincoln was now ready for another occupation,
and at this time was appointed postmaster, a very small job since
the mail came but twice a week in good weather, with pay
accordingly.
It gave him time for study, however, which he continued on his
rounds of delivery, for with the three or four letters that might come
in a week placed carefully in the top of his hat, he would start out to
deliver them. Between stops he would mount a fence where the rails
crossed under the shade of some tree, and here he would read and
reflect and memorize, oblivious of time or men or finances.
There was always plenty to talk about in New Salem, and for that
matter plenty to do the talking. The last baby's first tooth had a
significance, for by the baby's age might be forecasted the time of
the next one's arrival. The last tooth of the oldest citizen was
likewise of importance, as it called out all the best recipes for mush
and other nourishing soft edibles.
Among the more important news was the announcement, after he
had served some months as postmaster, that to this official duty Abe
Lincoln was to add the most important one of surveyor. He had
already received the appointment and was taking lessons in figures
from Mentor Graham, preparatory to starting out with his rod and
chain.
It seemed to make no difference in Abe Lincoln's popularity that he
had failed as a business man. He was still considered the best man
in town, the best judge or referee, an authority in disputes and a
peace-maker. He was the best-informed man on general subjects
and the gentlest as well as the strongest man among them.
His wider acquaintance throughout the county served to enlarge the
number of his friends, and New Salem politicians again decided to
make him their candidate for the Legislature.
In addition to his new professional work, Abe Lincoln had entered
the ranks of the reformer in a manner as strenuous as it was unique.
Having become exasperated with the drunkenness of Snoutful Kelly
and the consequent neglect of his family, Abe Lincoln and a
sufficient corps of assistants determined to get some sense into his
head by a new way. Accordingly they captured Kelly while lying by
the roadside in a drunken sleep, and removing him quietly to the top
of the long, sloping street at New Salem, proceeded to fasten him
up, in an empty whiskey barrel, which they started on its way down
hill.
Long before the barrel reached the bottom of the road it gave forth
such sounds as never disgraced a music-box, and the men waiting at
the foot of the hill roared with laughter as the barrel went its way
down, emitting howl after howl, and yell after yell, as it bumped its
course to the bottom.
When it had reached its stopping-point, Lincoln stood it on its end
and through the bung hole called Kelly's attention to the ducking he
had once got with such salutary effect and made him swear by the
God above him, and those present, that he would never touch
another drop, lest a more horrible fate should befall him.
When the victim of reform crawled out he was brushed off by
Lincoln and given a handful of change, with instructions to proceed
back where he got his whiskey, which he had relieved himself of in
the barrel, and buy some meat and flour to take home.
This reform experiment had not been advertised. But it was town
talk the next day. The men generally said it was a good thing for old
Kelly. Some of the women disagreed. Ann Rutledge said the man
who had sold whiskey had no business punishing the man who
drank it.
After this came a few days of another kind of discussion of Abe
Lincoln. It was rumored that he was studying to be a lawyer. Opinion
was divided as to whether this would make a man of him or ruin
him.
Mentor Graham and Dr. Allen were agreed that he already knew the
Constitution as well as any lawyer in Springfield and would make a
good lawyer. To others it seemed a pity that an otherwise honest
citizen should aspire to nothing better than being a "limb of the law,"
and when Ole Bar heard it he said with a touch of real sadness,
"Lord God, has Abry Linkhorn fallen to this? I'd ruther he'd a been a
bar."
Whatever might be the outcome, New Salem never worried long
over any one matter. There was too much coming on afresh.
The next topic, and one that especially interested the female portion
of the community, was the discovery that John McNeil's partner was
also in love with Ann Rutledge.
This leaked out in an unexpected way.
Abe Lincoln being everybody's friend and knowing how to read and
write, was often called on to write letters for less educated lovers,
for children and sometimes for business men. He also read for those
who could not read. This was expected of him as postmaster. One
day a schoolchild brought a roll of written matter to him. It was
composed of bills from the Hill and McNeil store. But inside was a
letter from Hill to McNeil charging that if McNeil had played fair, his
partner, too, might have had some chance to win the fair Ann
Rutledge.
When Abraham Lincoln read this letter he was for some reason well
pleased, and he understood why Hill was always so exceptionally
nice to Ann Rutledge and gave her better bargains than his close
and business-like partner would have thought of doing.
Yet he felt sure that Ann did not know of his burning affection or she
would not so often have gone to the store or accepted so many
favors of him.
After some consideration his sense of humor got the best of him and
he decided to take the papers to McNeil himself. This he did. When
asked if he had read the letter he admitted without hesitation that
he had, and offered a friendly bit of jollification.
Immediately there were words between Hill and McNeil. Lincoln tried
to act as pacifier and the letter was put in the stove. Several
bystanders had heard the difficulty, however, and were not slow to
get its meaning. Hill was in love with Ann Rutledge. He charged
McNeil with some unfair advantage of him. The news spread like a
delicious ripple, much to the embarrassment of Ann Rutledge
herself, who was informed of it by Nance Cameron before sun-down.
But the town gossip which went farthest and quickest and was to
last longest, started about a week later when John McNeil disposed
of his interest in his store and his farm, and suddenly left New
Salem.
It was reported that he left town on his best horse, that Mrs.
Rutledge and Ann had seen him off, and that he had said he was
going back East to get his family.
"What did he sell the best farm in Sangamon County for if he
expected to return? Was he still engaged to Ann Rutledge—or was
their engagement broken off? Had Hill had anything to do with it? Or
did McNeil think Abe Lincoln liked Ann?" These and many other
questions were asked.
Abe Lincoln asked no questions, but for the time Blackstone and
Shakespeare, his grammar and his poem were alike forgotten, and
he enjoyed the half-fearful sensation of one walking in the dark
toward a sunrise.

CHAPTER XXIII
ALIAS McNEIL
Of all the people in New Salem who were surprised at the sudden
and mysterious leave-taking of the lover of Ann Rutledge, no one
was so mystified and troubled as Ann herself. Especially was she
perplexed and troubled about a promise he had exacted from her
the last night they were together.
"Ann," he said, "you've promised to marry me—haven't you?"
Ann looked at him questioningly. "Of course—why do you ask such a
question?"
"Will you wait for me if I should go away for a time?"
"Surely you believe I will."
"Yes, you'll wait unless Abe Lincoln gets you while I'm away."
"Abe Lincoln," she repeated. "What makes you say that?"
"Abe Lincoln has not been keeping company with any of the girls,
and it's not their fault. No more is it natural for a young fellow as full
of life as Abe Lincoln is not to like the girls—except when they like
one. I'm not blind. There's no other girl in New Salem like you;
maybe no other one good enough for Abe Lincoln. He'll want
something extra on account of his book-learning. Abe's a good
fellow, but he's lazy as a dog, always lying around when he ought to
be laying by some dollars."
"But he is studying and reading when he is lying around. When
anybody's mind is at work they're not lazy."
"You always take up for Abe Lincoln I notice—ever since the day his
ark got stuck on the dam. I suppose it's because he was born under
a lucky star."
"What's lucky about Abraham Lincoln?"
"Everything. The way he got to bring the steamboat down the river;
the way he got to be captain in the Black Hawk war. And now they
says he is certain to go to the Legislature."
"But it's not luck. It's because he can do things. 'I will prepare
myself,' he often says, 'and when my chance comes I will be ready.'"
"Yes, that's what he says, and that's exactly the reason he'll get you
while I'm away."
"But I have promised you, John."
"Out of sight out of mind," he answered.
"Do you think I would forget a solemn promise?" There was surprise
and something of resentment in her tone.
"Not exactly that, though Abe Lincoln could talk black into white if
he took a notion. But a fellow don't care to have a girl stick to him
just on account of a sacred promise."
"What makes you talk so strangely?" she asked. "And tell me, where
are you going? You haven't told me this yet."
"I'm going back where I came from—back where I left my people
when I came out here."
"That was in New York somewhere."
"Yes, in New York somewhere. I expect to come back and bring
them."
"When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow! So soon?" she exclaimed in surprise and pain. "Will you
be gone long?"
"Maybe—I don't know how long. But before I go I've a secret to tell
you."
"Something you have never told me?"
"Something I have never told anybody. Something you must not
tell."
"Not even my mother? I tell her everything."
"Not even your mother, nor father."
"What is it, John?" and Ann's face was troubled as she asked the
question.
"You solemnly promise you will not tell—at least not until I come
back?"
"I'd like to know what it is before I promise. It doesn't seem right to
keep things from Father and Mother. I never do."
"Not even my secrets? Don't you trust me, Ann?"
"Of course I do, John."
"Then promise."
Ann was sorely puzzled. Her lips twitched.
"Promise," he repeated, "and don't cry. It's nothing to cry about."
Still Ann hesitated. "Father would think it strange."
"How can he think it strange if he knows nothing about it?"
"I promise," she said solemnly.
"All right, then, my name is not John McNeil at all."
Ann stared at him a moment. Then with something like a gasp she
said, "Your name is not John McNeil? What is it? Who are you?"
"Just this. I came here from—nobody knows just where, not even
you, Ann. I named myself John McNeil because I wanted to lose
myself."
"What for?" she questioned mechanically.
"Back where I came from my folks are poor—these no-account poor
that every enterprising man despises. I wanted to get something
together and knew I should never be able to do it if they learned
where I was, for I was eternally being called on to help them and
keep them from starving when I was where they could call on me."
"Have you heard nothing from them since you came here?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, John! how could you? Perhaps your mother has wanted for
something."
"She would have wanted just the same if I had been there."
"She might even be dead."
"I don't think so and hope not. At any rate, I have made some
money. Now I'm going back to get the rest of them and I want you
to wait for me until I come back. But your name will never be Ann
McNeil."
"What will it be?" she asked with pale lips.
"Well," he said, looking at her with a half-smile, "if it's not Mrs.
Abraham Lincoln before I return, it will be Mrs. James McNamra."
"James McNamra," she repeated as if puzzled. "I never heard the
name."
"It is my name. You will get used to it."
Ann was silent. She was making an effort to choke back great lumps
that kept rising in her throat. Then the tears came and ran over the
rims of her dark, blue eyes.
"How funny women are," McNeil said. "There's nothing to cry about,
and I want to see you laughing the last time."
"I want to tell Mother and Father," she sobbed.
"You said you wouldn't. Are you going to keep your promise?"
"Yes," she answered.
"Then kiss me good-night. To-morrow I will ride past here on my
way to Springfield. But there'll be no kissing then. The town folks will
have enough to talk about as it is."

After McNeil had left town Ann began watching the post-office, and
the postmaster rendered her careful help in the matter.
But days went by and no letter came. The fair face of Ann Rutledge
took on a worried look, and had it not been for the kindly assistance
of the postmaster the gossips might have known more of Ann's
correspondence—or lack of it, than they had yet been able to learn.
The strain on Ann, the worst part of it being the secret, which to her
was fast coming to seem little short of a crime against her good
father and mother, began to tell on her. She laughed little and sang
less. She was more seldom seen with the young people.
Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge noticed this, as well as did Abraham Lincoln,
and one night, when Ann's face showed that she had been
particularly disappointed because of no letter, Abe Lincoln suggested
that Ann learn grammar with him out of his highly prized little book.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge accepted the offer as a special favor.
So it happened that Ann and Abe were left together, and with the
precious grammar spread on Ann's little work-table they sat down to
their task, he on one side, she on the other. The book was not large,
and bending over it the mop of coarse, black hair all but touched the
crown of fine-spun gold.
"I will be the teacher," Abe Lincoln said after they had looked
through the book, which was the only one of the kind in New Salem.
"We will new study the verb 'to love,'" and turning the pages he
found the place.
"I love," he said, looking across at Ann.
Her eyes were on the book.
"Next is 'You love'?" He spoke the words as a question with the
accent on the "you."
"Say it now, Ann, just as I have, and look at your teacher. First, 'I
love.'"
"I love," she repeated.
"Might be better," he said. "Now the next, and look at your teacher
and repeat after me, 'You love'?"
As Ann repeated the question her face took on a touch of pink.
"Very good—very good, indeed. Now the next is, 'We love.' We will
say that together with the accent on the 'we.' Now—one—two—
three—'we,'" and he beat three times slowly with his big hand
"Ready, 'We love.'"
There was much more emphasis in the teacher's statement than in
that of the pupil. The effect on Ann was to cause a merry laugh.
"Ann," said Abe Lincoln, "I'm goin' to give you this grammar. I know
it by heart—by heart, Ann—especially the verb 'I love.' I want you to
learn it"; and he wrote across the top, "Ann Rutledge is learning
grammar," and pushed it across the table to her.
"What a splendid present!" she said with a smiling face. "How I wish
I had something to give you, Abraham—would you take my little
Bible—and read it?"
"Oh, Ann!—would you give it to me?" he asked with the joy of a
child.
"You won't give it away like you did the muffler, will you?"
"Wouldn't you be willin' if I should run across a bigger sinner than
Abe Lincoln?" he answered laughing.
From a chest of drawers she took a little, brown book and handed it
to him.
"It must be marked, Ann," and, taking the pencil he had written on
the grammar with, he handed it to her, saying, "Now we will find a
place where the verb 'to love' is found."
The quick ease with which he turned to the passage he had in mind
surprised Ann. With the open page before him he said, "You are
religious, Ann. You obey the commands of the Holy Scriptures, don't
you?"
"I try to."
"And you'll do anything in reason you are told to by the Book?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Take your pencil and mark this"; and, with his long forefinger
pointing to the text, he read impressively, "'This is my
commandment, that you love one another.'"
Whether in the Scriptures or out of it, Ann and Abe soon found
something to laugh at. "Ann is laughing," Mr. Rutledge said to his
wife. "How good it sounds! What on earth has been the matter with
her?"
"She hasn't heard from John McNeil," Mrs. Rutledge answered.
"McNeil seems to be a good fellow and unusually successful," John
Rutledge observed after a moment of reflection, "but Ann's not
married to him yet."
 CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE CELLAR
After months of waiting Ann Rutledge received a letter from John
McNeil. It was a straightforward explanation of the delay, mentioning
sickness along the way, and other obstacles.
Ann Rutledge was delighted. In some way it seemed to lift a burden
and answer a question.
Nance Cameron had the pleasure of starting the news of the letter,
and its satisfactory contents, which allayed gossip, and for a time
Ann was quite herself again. But no more letters came, and Ann was
soon again cast down by the strangeness of her lover's silence. Once
when she had hurried to the post-office after the weekly mail had
arrived only to be told by the postmaster there was no letter, she
made an appeal to him which touched his heart.
"He ought to write to me," she half sobbed. "Everybody is wondering
about it. I don't want people to know he never writes. Don't tell it."
The postmaster promised, but Ann's troubled face haunted him, and
he found himself getting thoroughly indignant with McNeil, even
though glad beyond expression that he was treating her just as he
was.
As the days and weeks went by Ann found the burden of the secret
weighing heavily on her conscience, and the thought kept intruding
itself that since he had deceived her in one way he might have done
so in other ways. It was hard to think this, and yet it was almost as
easy to believe as that his name was not McNeil and that he had
been gone months without writing. She felt that she had done very
wrong to promise to keep a secret, and such a grave and important
secret, from her parents. Yet she had promised, and, torn between
the feeling that she must confide in her parents and that she must
keep her promise, she grew pale and quiet and unlike the laughing,
singing Ann of a few months previous. Her parents noticed this with
concern, and it hurt the heart of Abe Lincoln, yet none of them
surmised the real trouble.
One day after Ann had been her unreal self for several months,
Lincoln came home for supper early and went into the kitchen to
help Mrs. Rutledge.
"I want a pan of potatoes," she said. "They're in the short bin near
the door. I sent Ann for them half an hour ago, but she must have
gone somewhere else."
"Mrs. Rutledge," said Abe Lincoln as he tucked the pan under his
arm, "what ails Ann?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Her father and I have wondered. It's
something about John McNeil I think. I suppose she's heard the talk.
I can't understand John McNeil. He's too fine a young fellow to do
anything mean I'm sure. I hope John Rutledge don't turn against
him. He's slow to rile up, but the fur flies when he does get mad.
Run on now after the taters."
Abe Lincoln made his way down the cellar-steps softly. The door was
not closed. As he entered he thought he saw some object move in
one of the dark corners. Opening the door a little more he looked
into the dark. When his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom
he saw the outlines of a human figure huddled together, and putting
down his pan, with shoulders and head bent, he walked over the
hard, earthen floor to the dark corner.
Here he found Ann Rutledge sitting on the edge of a turnip-box with
her head leaning against the log and earthen wall.
"Ann—Ann Rutledge," he said softly. A sob was his only answer.
"Ann—Ann," he said, bending over her.
"Go away, please," she said.
"No, I will not go away. You are in trouble. I want to help you."
"You cannot—nobody can help me," and again her voice was choked
with sobs.
"Of course somebody can help you. Tell me about it. Perhaps I can
help you."
"But I cannot tell—my trouble—is—is—a secret."
"A secret," Lincoln said—"a secret—who from?"
"From everybody in the world but John McNeil. I promised him I
would not tell—not even my mother."
"He got you to swear to a secret you could not confide in your
mother?" and Lincoln seemed aghast.
"Yes—and I never had a secret from Father and Mother before."
"Ann—Ann Rutledge!" and Lincoln's voice was no longer gentle; "a
secret from a girl's mother is never the right kind of a secret. A
mother is the one person on earth no honorable man would want
secrets kept from. It is wrong Ann—wrong."
"I believe it is. It is wearing me out—it is breaking my heart—I feel
that I cannot keep it—and yet I promised."
"Ann Rutledge!" Lincoln was bending over her and there was a tone
in his voice that compelled her to look up. In the gloom his face had
taken on a strange, white cast and something of the expression it
had borne when Jack Armstrong had tried the unfair trick.
"Ann Rutledge," he whispered under his breath, "has John McNeil in
any way wronged you? If he has—if he has—I—will choke the life
out of him, and that without warnin'."
"Oh, Abraham!" she cried, "don't talk so. I don't know whether he
has wronged me or not. That's what the secret's about—I don't
know and I wish I could die right here in this cellar," and again she
turned her face to the wall and sobbed.
Speechless, Abraham Lincoln looked down upon her. His face was
pale, his teeth set—his great fists were clenched, yet what could he
do?
The sobs of the girl beat against his heart, strongly fanning the pain
and fierce passion.
"What shall I do—what shall I do?" she said brokenly.
"You shall go straight to your mother," he said firmly. "Tell her
everything."
"But I promised—gave an honorable promise, a solemn promise that
I would not tell."
"There can be no such thing as an honorable promise to the kind of
a man who does not know the meanin' of the word. There can be no
such thing as a sacred promise to a man who has no more
conception of sacredness than a beast. The man who has brought
you to this trouble, of whatever kind it may be, is unfit for
consideration. Go to your mother. If you don't go I'll carry you there
in my arms."
A moment she hesitated. Then she arose. He twined his fingers
around her arm and without speaking they crossed the cellar. At the
door she paused. "Come on, Ann," he said, and they went up the
steps together.
Entering the kitchen, Abe Lincoln said, "I found your little girl in the
cellar—in trouble. She has come to tell her mother about it. I'll go
fetch the potatoes."

CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
After Ann Rutledge confided her heart-troubling secret to her
mother, Mrs. Rutledge lost no time in laying the matter before her
husband. She feared it would be hard to make him see that John
McNeil's conduct toward Ann had been honorable, and John
Rutledge believed in the kind of honor that makes a man's word as
good as his bond, and would take advantage of no situation to
perpetrate an injustice.
He listened in silence as Mrs. Rutledge told him Ann's secret, the
secret that was changing the glad-hearted girl into a quiet, nervous
woman. Several times he seemed about to speak. He listened,
however, until the end, but Mrs. Rutledge knew he was angry.
"Now, John," she counseled, "don't be too hard on John McNeil.
What he said may all be true. He may go back and get his people
and bring them right here as he said."
"Maybe he will—but does that change the fact that he played
double? Does that change the fact that during his years of plenty he
has never helped those of his own flesh and blood who may have
suffered? John McNeil is as cold a trade-driver as ever hit the trail to
the West, and if he comes back here——"
"Now, John, be careful. Aside from the awful effect the whole thing
has had on poor Ann, there may be no real sin committed."
"Aside from the effect on our Ann? My God! how much more sin
could a man commit unless he had ruined her reputation—and if he
had done that——" and John Rutledge arose and paced the floor.
"But he didn't. How can you let such a thought come into your head
about Ann? Don't get yourself all worked up over a straw man."
"Straw man?" he exclaimed angrily. "Is it a straw man that our Ann
laughs no more? Is it a straw man that we never hear her singing
home across the bluffs? Is it a straw man that her sweet face has
been taking on lines of worry, ill fitting the face of Ann Rutledge? Is
it a straw man that she was forced into a promise to keep a secret—
a dishonorable secret—from her own father and mother? There's no
straw man about any such thing as this."
John Rutledge sat down and lit his pipe. After it was smoking well,
Mrs. Rutledge said, "What shall I say to Ann?"
"Tell Ann to come to me," he said shortly.
Mrs. Rutledge went out, and a moment later Ann came. When she
entered the room her father was standing with his back to the
fireplace, his hands behind him.
"Yes, father," she said quietly.
John Rutledge surveyed her a moment. What he was thinking of she
had not time to consider, but the expression on his face seemed to
be a combination of wrath and pity, of love and outraged justice.
"A man called John McNeil asked my consent to marry you, Ann."
"Yes, Father"; her voice was a trifle unsteady.
"I supposed him to be the honorable and straight-faced young
gentleman he seemed to be."
She made no reply. John Rutledge blew out a couple of puffs of
smoke.
"From your mother I have just learned that there is no such person
as John McNeil."
"No, Father."
"This McNamra, or whoever he may be, may turn up in these parts
again some time."
"I don't know"; and the tremor had not left her voice.
"He might have the unmitigated hardihood to expect to marry the
daughter of John Rutledge, the girl he courted under the name of
McNeil. If he should—if he should come back and should even look
like he thought of such a thing—I would—would——"
"Father," Ann said softly, stepping nearer him, for she saw that he
was angry, "you wouldn't do anything wrong."
"Wrong?" he said. "Wrong—no—nothing wrong—what I'd do would
be right"; and he turned and knocked his pipe against the chimney
with such force as to threaten its existence.
"Perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps he will return some day
just as he said he would."
"Perhaps—perhaps. But is he telling the truth about his name? No,
he is lying. One way or another he has lied to a woman, and a man
who will desert his own father and mother would desert his wife. I'm
not condemning him too hard, but he will never marry John
Rutledge's daughter. Do you understand, Ann."
"Yes, Father"; her voice was unsteady.
"He has put you in a most embarrassing position—more than you
know. You will be talked about when his double life is known, and,
since it is bound to come out, the sooner the better, and I shall see
to that. Gossips will discuss matters that's none of their business,
but they will not go too far, my girl, for John Rutledge is your father."
"Perhaps I will hear from him—even yet," she said with an effort.
"If you do, hand the letter to me. I'll give the young man some
advice about swearing dutiful daughters to keep secrets from their
parents."
The tears which Ann had struggled to keep back now stood in her
eyes, and she feared to speak lest the slightest movement of her
face would start them running down her cheeks.
John Rutledge looked at her. The expression on his stern face
changed instantly, and the voice was wonderfully softened as he
said, "Ann, my little girl, don't cry. Don't waste good tears. It's not
too late to mend the harm. To-night when you say your prayers add
a couple of lines telling your Creator that the best thing He has done
for you up to this good time is to save you from being the wife of a
man whose word would have no other meaning to you than so much
noise. Run on now, my girl, and tell your mother I'd like to see her."

CHAPTER XXVI
GLOOM AND THE LIGHT