truly great and admirable. Instead of showing any marks of contrition or
dejection, he rather infused more confidence and assurance into his
looks. He spent most of his hours in drinking with acquaintances, and
with the good chaplain; and being asked whether he was afraid to die, he
answered, "It's only a dance without music. A man can die but once.
Zounds! Who's afraid?"

At length the morning came which Fortune had resolutely ordained for the
consummation of our hero's greatness; he had himself, indeed, modestly
declined the public honour she intended him, and had taken a quantity of
laudanum in order to retire quietly off the stage. But it is vain to
struggle against the decrees of fortune, and the laudanum proved
insufficient to stop his breath.

At the usual hour he was acquainted that the cart was ready, and his
fetters having been knocked off in a solemn and ceremonious manner,
after drinking a bumper of brandy, he ascended the cart, where he was no
sooner seated than he received the acclamations of the multitude, who
were highly ravished with his greatness.

The cart now moved slowly on, preceded by a troop of Horse Guards,
bearing javelins in their hands, through the streets lined with crowds
all admiring the great behaviour of our hero, who rode on, sometimes
sighing, sometimes swearing, sometimes singing or whistling, as his
humour varied.

When he came to the tree of glory, he was welcomed with an universal
shout of the people; but there were not wanting some who maligned this
completion of glory, now about to be fulfilled by our hero, and
endeavoured to prevent it by knocking him on the head as he stood under
the tree, while the chaplain was performing his last office.

They therefore began to batter the cart with stones, brick-bats, dirt,
and all manner of mischievous weapons, so that the ecclesiastic ended
almost in an instant, and conveyed himself into a place of safety in a
hackney coach.

One circumstance must not be omitted. Whilst the chaplain was busy in
his ejaculations, Wild, in the midst of the shower of stones, etc.,
which played upon him, true to his character, applied his hands to the
parson's pocket, and emptied it of his bottle-screw, which he carried
out of the world in his hand.

The chaplain being now descended from the cart, Wild had just
opportunity to cast his eyes around the crowd, and to give them a hearty
curse, when immediately the horses moved on, and, with universal
applause, our hero swung out of this world.

Joseph Andrews

     "Joseph Andrews," Fielding's first novel, was published in
     1742, and was intended to be a satire on Richardson's "Pamela"
     (see Vol. VII), which appeared in 1740. He described it as
     "written in the manner of Cervantes," and in Parson Adams
     there is the same quaint blending of the humorous and the
     pathetic as in the Knight of La Mancha. Although such
     characters as Lady Booby and Mrs. Slipslop are admittedly
     ridiculous, Parson Adams remains an admirable study of a
     simple-minded clergyman of the eighteenth century.

_I.--The Virtues of Joseph Andrews_

Mr. Joseph Andrews was esteemed to be the only son of Gaffer and Gammer
Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela.

At ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to writing
and reading) he was bound an apprentice to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of
Mr. Booby's by the father's side. From the stable of Sir Thomas he was
preferred to attend as foot-boy on Lady Booby, to go on her errands,
stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book
to church; at which place he behaved so well in every respect at divine
service that it recommended him to the notice of Mr. Abraham Adams, the
curate, who took an opportunity one day to ask the young man several
questions concerning religion, with his answers to which he was
wonderfully pleased.

Mr. Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar, a man of good sense and good
nature, but at the same time entirely ignorant of the ways of the world.
At the age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-
three pounds a year, which, however, he could not make any great figure
with, because he was a little encumbered with a wife and six children.

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady than through Mrs.
Slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, for Sir Thomas was too apt to
estimate men merely by their dress or fortune, and my lady was a woman
of gaiety, who never spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other
appellation than that of the brutes.

Mrs. Slipslop, being herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some
respect for Adams; she would frequently dispute with him, and was a
mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that the
parson was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning.

Adams was so much impressed by the industry and application he saw in
young Andrews that one day he mentioned the case to Mrs. Slipslop,
desiring her to recommend him to my lady as a youth very susceptible of
learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake,
by which means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of
footman. He therefore desired that the boy might be left behind under
his care when Sir Thomas and my lady went to London.

"La, Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer
any preambles about any such matter? She is going to London very
concisely, and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind on any
account, for he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a
summer's day; and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with
a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself on one as much as the
other. And why is Latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman?
I am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it, and I
shall draw myself into no such delemy."

So young Andrews went to London in attendance on Lady Booby, and became
acquainted with the brethren of his profession. They could not, however,
teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town
abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which
he greatly improved himself, so that he led the opinion of all the other
footmen at an opera. Though his morals remain entirely uncorrupted, he
was at the same time smarter and genteeler than any of the beaus in town
either in or out of livery.

At this time an accident happened, and this was no other than the death
of Sir Thomas Booby, who left his disconsolate lady closely confined to
her house. During the first six days the poor lady admitted none but
Mrs. Slipslop and three female friends, who made a party at cards; but
on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom we shall hereafter call Joseph, to
bring up her teakettle.

Lady Booby's affection for her footman had for some time been a matter
of gossip in the town, but it is certain that her innocent freedoms had
made no impression on young Andrews.

Now, however, he thought my lady had become distracted with grief at her
husband's death, so strange was her conduct, and wrote to his sister
Pamela on the subject.

     If madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the
     family, so I heartily wish you could get me a place at some
     neighbouring gentleman's. I fancy I shall be discharged very
     soon, and the moment I am I shall return to my old master's
     country seat, if it be only to see Parson Adams, who is the
     best man in the world. London is a bad place, and there is so
     little good fellowship that the next-door neighbours don't
     know one another. Your loving brother,
     JOSEPH ANDREWS.

The sending of this letter was quickly followed by the discharge of the
writer. To Lady Booby's open declarations of love, Joseph replied that a
lady having no virtue was not a reason against his having any.

"I am out of patience!" cries the lady, "did ever mortal hear of a man's
virtue? Will magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach
against it, make any scruple of committing it? And can a boy have the
confidence to talk of his virtue?"

"Madam," says Joseph, "that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be
ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved in her,
should be stained in him. If there are such men as your ladyship
mentions, I am sorry for it, and I wish they had an opportunity of
reading my sister Pamela's letters; nor do I doubt but such an example
would amend them."

"You impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage. "Get out of my sight,
and leave the house this night!"

Joseph having received what wages were due, and having been stripped of
his livery, took a melancholy leave of his fellow-servants and set out
at seven in the evening.

_II.--Adventures on the Road_

It may be wondered why Joseph made such extraordinary haste to get out
of London, and why, instead of proceeding to the habitation of his
father and mother, or to his beloved sister Pamela, he chose rather to
set out full speed to Lady Booby's country seat, which he had left on
his journey to town.

Be it known then, that in the same parish where this seat stood there
lived a young girl whom Joseph longed more impatiently to see than his
parents or his sister. She was a poor girl, formerly bred up in Sir
Thomas's house, and, discarded by Mrs. Slipslop on account of her
extraordinary beauty, was now a servant to a farmer in the parish.

Fanny was two years younger than our hero, and had been always beloved
by him, and returned his affection. They had been acquainted from their
infancy, and Mr. Adams had, with much ado, prevented them from marrying,
and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service and thrift had a
little improved their experience, and enabled them to live comfortably
together.

They followed this good man's advice, as, indeed, his word was little
less than a law in his parish, for during twenty-five years he had shown
that he had the good of his parishioners entirely at heart, so that they
consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his
opinion.

Honest Joseph therefore set out on his travels without delay, in order
that he might once more look upon his Fanny, from whom he had been
absent for twelve months.

But on the road he was attacked by robbers, and, having been left
wounded in a ditch, was mercifully taken to an inn by some later
travellers.

It was at this same inn that, to the great surprise on both sides, Mr.
Abraham Adams found Joseph.

The parson informed his young friend, who was still sick in bed, that
the occasion of the journey he was making to London was to publish three
volumes of sermons, being encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement
lately set forth by the Society of Booksellers; but, though he imagined
he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his
family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in
his present penniless condition. Finally, he told him he had nine
shillings and threepence-halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome
to use as he pleased.

This goodness of Parson Adams brought tears into Joseph's eyes; he had
now a second reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude to
such a friend.

Before pursuing his journey Adams made the acquaintance of another
clergyman named Barnabas at the inn, who in his turn, hearing that Adams
was proposing to publish sermons, introduced him to a stranger who he
said was a bookseller.

Adams, saluting the stranger, answered Barnabas that he was very much
obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no
other business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of returning
with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. To induce
the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, he assured them their
meeting was extremely lucky to himself, for that he had the most
pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost spent.
"So that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune as my making an
immediate bargain with you."

"Sir, sermons are mere drugs," said the stranger. "The trade is so
vastly stocked with them that really, unless they come out with the name
of Whitefield or Wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or
those sort of people, I don't care to touch. However, I will, if you
please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of
it in a very short time."

When, however, Adams began to describe the nature of his sermons the
bookseller drew back, on the ground that the clergy would be certain to
cry down such a book.

An accident prevented Mr. Adams from pursuing a market for his sermons
any further, which he would have done in spite of the advice of Barnabas
and the bookseller. This accident was, that those sermons which the
parson was travelling to London to publish were left behind; what he had
mistaken for them in the saddle-bags were three shirts, which Mrs.
Adams, who thought her husband would need shirts rather than sermons on
his journey, had carefully provided for him.

Joseph, concerned at the disappointment to his friend, begged him to
pursue his journey all the same, and promised he would himself return
with the books to him with the utmost expedition.

"No, thank you, child," answered Adams; "it shall not be so. What would
it avail me to tarry in the great city unless I had my discourses with
me? No; as this accident has happened, I am resolved to return back to
my cure, together with you; which, indeed, my inclination sufficiently
leads me to."

Mr. Adams, whose credit was good wherever he was known, having borrowed
a guinea from a servant belonging to a coach-and-six, who had been
formerly one of his parishioners, discharged the bill for Joseph and
himself, and the two travellers set off.

_III.--More Adventures_

Adams and Joseph Andrews being for a time separated on the road, through
the former's absent-mindedness, it fell to the lot of the parson to
hasten to the assistance of a damsel who in a lonely place was being
attacked by some ruffian.

Adams was as strong as he was brave, and having rescued the maiden, took
her under his protection. It was too dark for either to identify the
other, but on Mr. Adams ejaculating the name of Joseph Andrews, for
whose safety he was anxious, his companion recognised his voice, and the
parson was quickly informed that it was Fanny who was by his side.

The fact was the poor girl had heard of Joseph's misfortune from the
servants of a coach which had stopped at the inn while the poor youth
was confined to his bed; and she had that instant abandoned the cow she
was milking, and taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her
arm, and all the money she was worth in her own purse, immediately set
forward in pursuit of one whom she loved with inexpressible violence,
though with the purest and most delicate passion.

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and
delicately shaped. Her hair was a chestnut brown; her complexion was
fair; and, to conclude all, she had a natural gentility which surprised
all who beheld her.

Can it be wondered that on the following day, when Adams and the damsel
overtook Andrews at a wayside ale-house, the youth imprinted numberless
kisses on her lips, while Parson Adams danced about the room in a
rapture of joy?

It was so late when our travellers left the ale-house that they had not
travelled many miles before night overtook them. They moved forwards
where the nearest light presented itself; and having crossed a common
field, they came to a meadow where they seemed to be at a very little
distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks
of a river. Adams declared he could swim, but Joseph answered, if they
walked along its banks they might be certain of soon finding a bridge,
especially as, by the number of lights, they might be assured a parish
was near.

"That's true, indeed," said Adams. "I did not think of that."

Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows,
and came to a little orchard which led them to a house. Fanny begged of
Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him she was so weary that she
could hardly stand on her feet; and the door being immediately opened, a
plain kind of man appeared at it. Adams acquainted him that they had a
young woman with them, who was so tired with her journey that he should
be much obliged to him if he would suffer her to come in and rest
herself.

The man, who saw Fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his
hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no
apprehensions from the civil behaviour of Adams, presently answered that
the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so
were her company. He then ushered them into a very decent room, where
his wife was sitting at a table; she immediately rose up, and assisted
them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down.

They now sat cheerfully round the fire till the master of the house,
having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock which
appeared under Adams's greatcoat, and the shabby livery of Joseph
Andrews, did not well suit the familiarity between them, began to
entertain some suspicions not much to their advantage. Addressing
himself, therefore, to Adams, he said he perceived he was a clergyman by
his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman.

"Sir," answered Adams, "I am a clergyman, at your service; but as to
that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in
nobody's service; he never lived in any other family than that of Lady
Booby, from whence he was discharged; I assure you, for no crime."

The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the character which Adams gave of
him, entirely cured a jealousy which had lately been in the gentleman's
mind that Fanny was the daughter of some person of fashion and that
Joseph had run away with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot.
Having had a full account from Adams of Joseph's history he became
enamoured of his guests, drank their healths with great cheerfulness;
and, at the parson's request, told something of his own life.

"Sir," says Adams, at the conclusion of the history, "fortune has, I
think, paid you all her debts in this sweet retirement."

"Sir," replied the gentleman, whose name was Wilson, "I have the best of
wives and three pretty children; but within three years of my arrival
here I lost my eldest son. If he had died I could have borne the loss
with patience; but, alas, he was stolen away from my door by some wicked
travelling people, whom they call gypsies; nor could I ever, with the
most diligent search, recover him. Poor child, he had the sweetest look!
The exact picture of his mother!" Mr. Wilson went on to say that he
should know his son amongst ten thousand, for he had a mark on his
breast of a strawberry.

_IV.--Joseph Finds his Father_

Our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at Mr. Wilson's house,
renewed their journey next morning with great alacrity, and two days
later reached the parish they were seeking.

The people flocked about Parson Adams like children round a parent; and
the parson, on his side, shook every one by the hand. Nor did Joseph and
Fanny want a hearty welcome from all who saw them. Adams carried his
fellow-travellers home to his house, where he insisted on their
partaking whatever his wife could provide, and on the very next Sunday
he published, for the first time, the banns of marriage between Joseph
Andrews and Fanny Goodwill.

Lady Booby, who was now at her country seat again, was furious when she
heard in church these banns called, and at once sent for Mr. Adams, and
rated him soundly.

"It is my orders that you publish these banns no more, and if you dare,
I will recommend it to your master, the rector, to discard you from his
service," says my lady. "The fellow Andrews is a vagabond, and shall not
settle here and bring a nest of beggars into the parish."

"Madam," answered Adams, "I know not what your ladyship means by the
terms 'master' and 'service.' I am in the service of a Master who will
never discard me for doing my duty; and if the rector thinks proper to
turn me from my cure, God will provide me, I hope, another."

The malice of Lady Booby did not stop at this; she endeavoured to get
Joseph and Fanny convicted on a trumped-up charge of trespass. In this
base wickedness she was defeated by her nephew, young Squire Booby, who
had married the virtuous Pamela, Joseph's sister; and at once stopped
the proceedings. More than that, he carried off Andrews to Lady Booby's,
and on his arrival, said, "Madam, as I have married a virtuous and
worthy woman, I am resolved to own her relations, and show them all
respect; I shall think myself, therefore, infinitely obliged to all mine
who will do the same. It is true her brother has been your servant, but
he has now become my brother."

Lady Booby answered that she would be pleased to entertain Joseph
Andrews; but when the squire went on to speak of Fanny, his aunt put her
foot down resolutely against her civility to the young woman.

And now both Pamela and her husband were inclined to urge Joseph to
break off the engagement with Fanny, but the young man would not give
way, and in this he was supported by Mr. Adams.

The arrival of a peddler in the parish, who had shown some civility to
Adams and Andrews when they were travelling on the road, threatened the
marriage prospect much more dangerously for a time.

According to the pedaler, who was a man of some education and birth,
Fanny had been stolen away from her home when an infant, and sold for
three guineas to Sir Thomas Booby; the name of her family was Andrews,
and they had a daughter of a very strange name, Pamela. This story he
had received from a dying woman when he had been a drummer in an Irish
regiment.

The only thing now to be done was to send for old Mr. Andrews and his
wife; and, in the meantime, the pedal was bidden to Booby Hall to tell
the whole story again. All who heard him were well satisfied of the
truth, except Pamela, who imagined as neither of her parents had ever
mentioned such an incident to her, it must be false; and except Lady
Booby, who suspected the falsehood of the story from her ardent desire
that it should be true; and Joseph, who feared its truth, from his
earnest wishes that it might prove false.

On the following morning news came of the arrival of old Mr. Andrews and
his wife. Mr. Andrews assured Mr. Booby that he had never lost a
daughter by gypsies, nor ever had any other children than Joseph and
Pamela. But old Mrs. Andrews, running to Fanny, embraced her, crying
out, "She is--she is my child!"

The company were all amazed at this disagreement, until the old woman
explained the mystery. During her husband's absence at Gibraltar, when
he was a sergeant in the army, a party of gypsies had stolen the little
girl who had been born to him, and left a small male child in her place.
So she had brought up the boy as her own.

"Well," says Gaffer Andrews, "you have proved, I think, very plainly,
that this girl does not belong to us; I hope you are certain the boy is
ours."

Then it turned out that Joseph had a strawberry mark on his left breast,
and this made the peddler, who knew all about Mr. Wilson's loss,
satisfied that Joseph was no other than Mr. Wilson's son.

So Mr. Wilson had to be sent for, who, on his arrival, no sooner saw the
mark than he cried out with tears of joy, "I have discovered my son!"

The banns having been duly called, there was now nothing to prevent the
wedding, which, having taken place, Joseph and his wife settled down in
Mr. Wilson's parish, Mr. Booby having given Fanny a fortune of £2,000.
He also presented Mr. Adams with a living of £130 a year.

Tom Jones

     "The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling," described in the
     dedication as the "labour of some years of my life," appeared
     in six volumes, on February 28, 1749, a short time after
     Fielding's appointment as justice of peace for Westminster.
     Though its broad humour and coarseness of expression are
     perhaps hard to bear in these times, it is by common consent
     Fielding's masterpiece, and by way of being one of the
     greatest novels in the language. For experience of life,
     observation of character, and sheer humanity, it is certainly
     an outstanding specimen of the English novel and manners. Like
     others of his books, "Tom Jones" was written during a period
     of great mental strain. Ever haunted by poverty, Fielding
     acknowledges his debt to his old schoolfellow Lyttelton, to
     whom he owed his "existence during the composition of the
     book." The story was popular from the first.

_I.--Mr. Allworthy Makes a Discovery_

In that part of the country which is commonly called Somersetshire there
lately lived a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be
called the favourite of both nature and fortune. From the former of
these he derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid
understanding, and a benevolent heart; by the latter he was decreed to
the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the country.

Mr. Allworthy lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one
sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady, Miss Bridget
Allworthy, now somewhat past the age of thirty, was of that species of
women whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty.

Mr. Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London on some
very particular business, and having returned to his house very late in
the evening, retired, much fatigued, to his chamber. Here, after he had
spent some minutes on his knees--a custom which he never broke through
on any account--he was preparing to step into bed, when, upon opening
the clothes, to his great surprise, he beheld an infant wrapped up in
some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between his sheets. He
stood for some time lost in astonishment at this sight; but soon began
to be touched with sentiments of compassion for the little wretch before
him. He then rang his bell, and ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise
immediately and come to him.

The consternation of Mrs. Deborah Wilkins at the finding of the little
infant was rather greater than her master's had been; nor could she
refrain from crying out, with great horror, "My good sir, what's to be
done?"

Mr. Allworthy answered she must take care of the child that evening, and
in the morning he would give orders to provide it a nurse.

"Yes, sir," says she, "and I hope your worship will send out your
warrant to take up the hussy its mother. Indeed, such wicked sluts
cannot be too severely punished for laying their sins at honest men's
doors; and though your worship knows your own innocence, yet the world
is censorious, and if your worship should provide for the child it may
make the people after to believe. If I might be so bold as to give my
advice, I would have it put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the
churchwarden's door. It is a good night, only a little rainy and windy,
and if it was well wrapped up and put in a warm basket, it is two to one
but it lives till it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we
have discharged our duty in taking care of it; and it is, perhaps,
better for such creatures to die in a state of innocence than to grow up
and imitate their mothers."

But Mr. Allworthy had now got one of his fingers into the infant's hand,
which, by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his assistance,
certainly outpleaded the eloquence of Mrs. Deborah. Mr. Allworthy gave
positive orders for the child to be taken away and provided with pap and
other things against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper clothes
should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be
brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.

Such was the respect Mrs. Wilkins bore her master, under whom she
enjoyed a most excellent place, that her scruples gave way to his
peremptory commands, and, declaring the child was a sweet little infant,
she walked off with it to her own chamber.

Allworthy betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart that
hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied.

In the morning Mr. Allworthy told his sister he had a present for her,
and, when Mrs. Wilkins produced the little infant, told her the whole
story of its appearance.

Miss Bridget took the good-natured side of the question, intimated some
compassion for the helpless little creature, and commended her brother's
charity in what he had done. The good lady subsequently gave orders for
providing all necessaries for the child, and her orders were indeed so
liberal that had it been a child of her own she could not have exceeded
them.

_II.--The Foundling Achieves Manhood_

Miss Bridget having been asked in marriage by one Captain Blifil, a
half-pay officer, and the nuptials duly celebrated, Mrs. Blifil was in
course of time delivered of a fine boy.

Though the birth of an heir to his beloved sister was a circumstance of
great joy to Mr. Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections from
the little foundling to whom he had been godfather, and had given his
own name of Thomas; the surname of Jones being added because it was
believed that was the mother's name.

He told his sister, if she pleased, the newborn infant should be bred up
together with little Tommy, to which she consented, for she had truly a
great complaisance for her brother.

The captain, however, could not so easily bring himself to bear what he
condemned as a fault in Mr. Allworthy; for his meditations being chiefly
employed on Mr. Allworthy's fortune, and on his hopes of succession, he
looked on all the instances of his brother-in-law's generosity as
diminutions of his own wealth.

But one day, while the captain was exulting in the happiness which would
accrue to him by Mr. Allworthy's death, he himself died of apoplexy.

So the two boys grew up together under the care of Mr. Allworthy and
Mrs. Blifil, and by the time he was fourteen Tom Jones--who, according
to universal opinion, was certainly born to be hanged--had been already
convicted of three robberies--_viz._, of robbing an orchard, of stealing
a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master Blifil's pocket of
a ball.

The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the virtues
of Master Blifil, his companion. He was, indeed, a lad of remarkable
disposition--sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age; and many
expressed their wonder that Mr. Allworthy should suffer such a lad as
Tom Jones to be educated with his nephew lest the morals of the latter
should be corrupted by his example.

To say the truth, the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were
converted to the use of Tom's friend, the gamekeeper, and his family;
though, as Jones alone was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the
whole smart, but the whole blame.

Mr. Allworthy had committed the instruction of the two boys to a learned
divine, the Reverend Mr. Thwackum, who resided in the house; but though
Mr. Allworthy had given him frequent orders to make no difference
between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as kind and gentle to
Master Blifil as he was harsh, nay, even barbarous, to the other. In
truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master's affections; partly by the
profound respect he always showed his person, but much more by the
decent reverence with which he received his doctrine, for he had got by
heart, and frequently repeated, his phrases, and maintained all his
master's religious principles, with a zeal which was surprising in one
so young.

Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward tokens
of respect, often forgetting to pull off his cap at his master's
approach, but was altogether unmindful both of his master's precepts and
example.

At the, age of twenty, however, Tom, for his love of hunting, had become
a great favourite with Mr. Allworthy's neighbour, Squire Western; and
Sophia, Mr. Western's only child, lost her heart irretrievably to him
before she suspected it was in danger. On his side, Tom was truly
sensible of the great worth of Sophia. He liked her person extremely, no
less admired her accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In
reality, as he had never once entertained any thoughts of possessing
her, nor had ever given the least voluntary indulgence to his
inclinations, he had a much stronger passion for her than he himself was
acquainted with.

An accident occurred on the hunting-field in saving Sophia from her too
mettlesome horse kept Jones a prisoner for some time in Mr. Western's
house, and during those weeks he not only found that he loved Sophia
with an unbounded passion, but he plainly saw the tender sentiments she
had for him; yet could not this assurance lessen his despair of
obtaining the consent of her father, nor the horrors which attended his
pursuit of her by any base or treacherous method.

Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he grew pale; and, if this was
sudden, started. If his eyes accidentally met hers, the blood rushed
into his cheeks, and his countenance became all over scarlet. If he
touched her, his hand, nay, his whole frame, trembled.

All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire, but not so of
Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was at
no loss to discover the cause; for, indeed, she recognised it in her own
breast. In a word, she was in love with him to distraction. It was not
long before Jones was able to attend her to the harpsichord, where she
would kindly condescend for hours together to charm him with the most
delicious music.

The news that Mr. Allworthy was dangerously ill (for a servant had
brought word that he was dying) broke off Tom's stay at Mr. Western's,
and drove all the thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried instantly
into the chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the coachman to
drive with all imaginable haste; nor did the idea of Sophia once occur
to him on the way.

_III.--Tom Jones Falls into Disgrace_

On the night when the physician announced that Mr. Allworthy was out of
danger Jones was thrown into such immoderate excess of rapture by the
news that he might be truly said to be drunk with joy--an intoxication
which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and as he was very free,
too, with the bottle, on this occasion he became very soon literally
drunk.

Jones had naturally violent animal spirits, and Thwackum, resenting his
speeches, only the doctor's interposition prevented wrath kindling.
After which, Jones gave loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs,
and fell into every frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to
inspire; but so far was he from any disposition to quarrel that he was
ten times better-humoured, if possible, than when he was sober.

Blifil, whose mother had died during her brother's illness, was highly
offended at a behaviour which was so inconsistent with the sober and
prudent reserve of his own temper. The recent death of his mother, he
declared, made such conduct very indecent.

"It would become them better," he said, "to express the exultations of
their hearts at Mr. Allworthy's recovery in thanksgiving, than in
drunkenness and riot."

Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones as to prevent him recollecting
Blifil's loss the moment it was mentioned. He at once offered to shake
Mr. Blifil by the hand, and begged his pardon, saying his excessive joy
for Mr. Allworthy's recovery had driven every other thought out of his
mind.

Blifil scornfully rejected his hand, and with an insulting illusion to
the misfortune of Jones's birth provoked the latter to blows. The
scuffle which ensued might have produced mischief had it not been for
the interference of Thwackum and the physician.

Blifil, however, only waited for an opportunity to be revenged on Jones,
and the occasion was soon forthcoming when Mr. Allworthy was fully
recovered from his illness.

Mr. Western had found out that his daughter was in love with Tom Jones,
and at once decided that she should marry Blifil, to whom Sophia
professed great abhorrence.

As for Blifil, the success of Jones was much more grievous to him than
the loss of Sophia, whose estate, indeed, was dearer to him than her
person.

Mr. Western swore that his daughter shouldn't have a ha'penny, nor the
twentieth part of a brass farthing, if she married Jones; and Blifil,
with many sighs, professed to his uncle that he could not bear the
thought of Sophia being ruined by her preference for Jones.

"This lady, I am sure, will be undone in every sense; for, besides the
loss of most part of her own fortune, she will be married to a beggar.
Nay, that is a trifle; for I know him to be one of the worst men in the
world."

"How?" said Mr. All worthy. "I command you to tell me what you mean."

"You know, sir," said Blifil, "I never disobeyed you. In the very day of
your utmost danger, when myself and all the family were in tears, he
filled the house with riot and debauchery. He drank, and sang, and
roared; and when I gave him a gentle hint of the indecency of his
actions, he fell into a violent passion, swore many oaths, called me
rascal, and struck me. I am sure I have forgiven him that long ago. I
wish I could so easily forget his ingratitude to the best of
benefactors."

Thwackum was now sent for, and corroborated every circumstance which the
other had deposed.

Poor Jones was too full of grief at the thought that Western had
discovered the whole affair between him and Sophia to make any adequate
defence. He could not deny the charge of drunkenness, and out of modesty
sunk everything that related particularly to himself.

Mr. Allworthy answered that he was now resolved to banish him from his
sight for ever. "Your audacious attempt to steal away a young lady calls
upon me to justify my own character in punishing you. And there is no
part of your character which I resent more than your ill-treatment of
that good young man (meaning Blifil), who hath behaved with so much
tenderness and honour towards you."

A flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of
speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before
he was able to obey Allworthy's peremptory commands of departing, which
he at length did, having first kissed his hands with a passion difficult
to be affected, and as difficult to be described.

Mr. Allworthy, however, did not permit him to leave the house penniless,
but presented him with a note for £500. He then commanded him to go
immediately, and told Jones that his clothes, and everything else,
should be sent to him whithersoever he should order them.

Jones had hardly set out, which he did with feelings of agony and
despair, before Sophia Western decided that only in flight could she be
saved from marriage with the detested Blifil.

Mr. Western, in spite of tremendous love for his daughter, thought her
inclinations of as little consequence as Blifil himself conceived them
to be; and Mr. Allworthy, who said "he would on no account be accessory
to forcing a young lady into a marriage contrary to her own will," was
satisfied by his nephew's disingenuous statement that the young lady's
behaviour to him was full as forward as he wished it.

Sophia, having appointed her maid to meet her at a certain place not far
from the house, exactly at the ghostly and dreadful hour of twelve,
began to prepare for her own departure.

But first she was obliged to give a painful audience to her father, and
he treated her in so violent and outrageous a manner that he frightened
her into an affected compliance with his will, which so highly pleased
the good squire that he at once changed his frowns into smiles, and his
menaces into promises.

He vowed his whole soul was wrapped in hers, that her consent had made
him the happiest of mankind.

He then gave her a large bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she
pleased, and kissed and embraced her in the fondest manner.

Sophia reverenced her father piously and loved him passionately, but the
thoughts of her beloved Jones quickly destroyed all the regretful
promptings of filial love.

_IV.--Tom Jones's Restoration_

After many adventures on the road Mr. Jones reached London; and as he
had often heard Mr. Allworthy mention the gentlewoman at whose house in
Bond Street he used to lodge when he was in town, he sought the house,
and was soon provided with a room there on the second floor. Mrs.
Miller, the person who let these lodgings, was the widow of a clergyman,
and Mr. Allworthy had settled an annuity of £50 a year on her, "in
consideration of always having her first floor when he was in town."

Tom Jones's fortunes were now very soon at the lowest. Having been
forced into a quarrel in the streets with an acquaintance named
Fitzpatrick, and having wounded him with his sword, a number of fellows
rushed in and carried Jones off to the civil magistrate, who, being
informed that the wound appeared to be mortal, straightway committed the
prisoner to the Gatehouse.

Sophia Western was also in London at the house of her aunt; and soon
afterwards Mr. Western, Mr. Allworthy, and Blifil all reached the city.

It was just at this time that Mr. Allworthy, consenting to his nephew
once more offering himself to Sophia, came with Blifil to his accustomed
lodgings in Bond Street. Mrs. Miller, to whom Jones had showed many
kindnesses, at once put in a good word for the unfortunate young man;
and, on Blifil exulting over the manslaughter Jones was alleged to have
committed, declared that the wounded man, whoever he was, was in fault.
This, indeed, was shortly afterwards corroborated by Fitzpatrick
himself, who acknowledged his mistake.

But it was not till Mr. Allworthy discovered that Blifil had been
arranging with a lawyer to get the men who had arrested Jones to bear
false witness, and learnt further that Tom Jones was his sister
Bridget's child, and that on her death-bed Mrs. Blifil's message to her
brother confessing the fact had been suppressed by her son, that his old
feelings of affection for Tom Jones returned. Before setting out to
visit Jones in the prison Mr. Allworthy called on Sophia to inform her
that he regretted Blifil had ever been encouraged to give her annoyance,
and that Mr. Jones was his nephew and his heir.

Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner was Western informed of Mr. Allworthy's
intention to make Jones his heir than he joined heartily with the uncle
in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for his
daughter's marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her to
Blifil.

Fitzpatrick being recovered of his wound, and admitting the aggression,
Jones was released from custody and returned to his lodgings to meet Mr.
Allworthy.

It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than this
meeting between the uncle and nephew. Allworthy received Jones into his
arms. "O my child!" he cried, "how have I been to blame! How have I
injured you! What amends can I ever make you for those unkind
suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the sufferings they
have occasioned you?"

"Am I not now made amends?" cried Jones. "Would not my sufferings, had
they been ten times greater, have been now richly repaid?"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who
could no longer be kept away even by the authority of Allworthy himself.
Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, "My old friend Tom, I
am glad to see thee, with all my heart. All past must be forgotten. Come
along with me; I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment."

Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire was obliged to consent to
delay introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon.

Blifil, now thoroughly exposed in his treachery, was at first sullen and
silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny all; but
finding at last the evidence too strong against him, betook himself to
confession, and was now as remarkably mean as he had been before
remarkably wicked. Mr. Allworthy subsequently settled £200 a year upon
him, to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this income
Blifil lives in one of the northern counties. He is also lately turned
Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect. Sophia
would not at first permit any promise of an immediate engagement with
Jones because of certain stories of his inconstancy, but Mr. Western
refused to hear of any delay.

"To-morrow or next day?" says Western, bursting into the room where
Sophia and Jones were alone.

"Indeed, sir," says she, "I have no such intention."

"But I can tell thee," replied he, "why hast not; only because thou dost
love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father. When I forbid
her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing
and writing; now I am for thee--(this to Jones)--she is against thee.
All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and
governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to
disoblige and contradict me."

"What would my papa have me do?" cries Sophia.

"What would I ha' thee do?" says he, "why gee un thy hand this moment."

"Well, sir," said Sophia, "I will obey you. There is my hand, Mr.
Jones."

"Well, and will you consent to ha' un to-morrow morning?" says Western.

"I will be obedient to you, sir," cries she.

"Why, then, to-morrow morning be the day," cries he.

"Why, then, to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will
have it so," said Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees and kissed her
hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about
the room, presently crying out, "Where the devil is Allworthy?" He then
sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left the lovers to
enjoy a few tender minutes alone.

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, "If you won't believe me,
you may ask her yourself. Hast not gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married
to-morrow?"

"Such are your commands, sir," cries Sophia, "and I dare not be guilty
of disobedience."

"I hope there is not the least constraint," cries Allworthy.

"Why, there," cried Western, "you may bid her unsay all again if you
will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophy?"

"Indeed, papa," cried she. "I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever
shall, of any promise in favour of Mr. Jones."

"Then, nephew," cries Allworthy, "I felicitate you most heartily, for I
think you are the happiest of men."

Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Western, and Mrs. Miller were the only persons
present at the wedding, and within two days of that event Mr. Jones and
Sophia attended Mr. Western and Mr. Allworthy into the country.

There is not a neighbour or a servant, who doth not most gratefully
bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to Sophia.

CAMILLE FLAMMARION

Urania

     Camille Flammarion is one of the most remarkable of modern
     French scientists. Born on February 25, 1842, he was
     apprenticed at an early age to an engraver, but, attracted by
     astronomy, he studied so well that, when a lad of sixteen, he
     was admitted as a pupil to the Paris Observatory. There is no
     doubt that the great French mathematician, Le Verrier,
     regarded Flammarion with a certain disdain as more of a poet
     than an astronomer; but he soon vindicated, by several
     important discoveries, his title to be regarded as a man of
     science. "Urania," which appeared in 1889, is an excellent
     example of his ability as a thinker, and of his charm as a
     writer. The work is hardly a novel, though it is far more
     popular than many books of fiction. It is really an essay in
     philosophy dealing with the question of the immortality of the
     soul; and it has an especial interest for English readers
     owing to the fact that much in it that seems to be pure
     fantasy is based on researches undertaken by the British
     Society for Psychical Research. The plot and the characters
     are of secondary importance; they are only used for the
     purpose of illustrating certain ideas.

_I.--The Muse of Astronomy_

I was seventeen years old when I fell in love with Urania. Was she a
fair, young, blue-eyed daughter of Eve? No; she was an exquisite statue
of the Muse of Astronomy, chiselled by Pradier in the days of the
Empire. She stood on the mantelpiece in the study of the famous
mathematician, Le Verrier, who directed the Paris Observatory, where I
was working. At four o'clock in the afternoon my illustrious chief used
to depart, and I would then steal into his room and sit down before
Urania and dream of lovelier worlds than ours, hidden in the infinite
spaces of the starry sky. Sometimes my friend and companion in studies,
Georges Spero, would come and sit beside me; and, inspired by the
immortal beauty of Urania, we would let our young and ardent
imaginations play over the glories and wonders of the heavens.

"You will be too late for Jupiter," said Le Verrier, entering
unexpectedly one evening, and catching me in an attitude of adoration
before Urania. "I am afraid you are more of a poet than an astronomer."

The great man of science himself certainly did not love beauty as much
as he loved wisdom, for the next day he sold the lovely image of Urania
in order to buy an old Chinese astronomical clock. I was almost
heartbroken when I entered his room and found that Urania had
disappeared. With her had gone the vivifying power of imagination which
had transmuted the abstruse calculations on which I was engaged into
glimpses of heavenly visions of infinite life. With what wild joy then
did I see, when I returned home, Urania shining in all her loveliness on
my own mantelpiece. Knowing my love for the beautiful figure of the
muse, Georges Spero had bought it back from the watchmaker to whom Le
Verrier had sent it, and placed it in my room as a gift.

It was an extraordinary mark of friendship, for Georges loved Urania
even more passionately than I did. To him she was the personification of
everything in life that lifted man above the level of the brute.

Possessing a nobler and finer intellect than mine, he had thrown himself
into the study of the problems of the soul with a fury of passion and a
concentration of thought that almost killed him. Are our souls immortal,
or do they perish with our bodies? This was the question that tormented
him to madness. One night I found him sitting in his room in the Place
du Panthéon with a glass of poison in his hand.

"This is the quickest road to the knowledge I want," he said, with a
smile. "I shall soon know if the soul is immortal."

He had been dissecting a skull; and by his side was a microscope with
which he had been studying the grey matter of the brain. Convinced at
last of the uncertainty of the positive sciences, he had fallen into
violent despair. But Urania was at hand to comfort him, and his mind
became calmer and clearer when we ceased to talk about earthly things,
and ascended into high regions of philosophic speculation over which the
muse of heaven presides.

"Ah, Camille," he exclaimed, "the Uranian way is the best. It is only by
studying the heavens that we shall be able to understand this little
earth of ours, and the part we play in it. Look at the midnight sky,
streaming with the light of infinite suns, and filled with an unending
procession of worlds in which the spirit of life clothes itself in an
unimaginable variety of forms. This clot of dust on which we live will
grow cold, and break and scatter in the abysses of space. But it is not
our home; we are only passengers, and when our journey here is done,
fairer mansions are waiting for us in the depths of the sky. If I die
before you, I will return and convince you of this truth."

Returning to the study of astronomy, Spero built up a system of
philosophy which made him, at the age of twenty-five, one of the most
famous men in France.

_II.--Love and Death_

By way of relief from his severer work, Georges Spero resolved to go to
Norway and study the wild and beautiful phenomena of the Aurora
Borealis, and I went with him. One morning, as we were standing on a
mountain looking at a magnificent sunrise, I saw a girl climbing a
neighbouring peak. She did not perceive us; but when she reached the
summit the image of Spero was thrown on a cloud in front of her, by one
of those curious plays of sunlight and mist which sometimes occur in
hazy, mountainous regions. His fine, austere features and graceful
figure were enlarged into a vast, god-like apparition, with a halo of
bright colours shining like a glory around his head, and a fainter
circle of rainbow hues framing his whole form. It was the first anthelia
that the lovely girl had seen, and it filled her with wonder and awe.

Theirs was a strange courtship--Spero's and Iclea's. The lovely young
Norwegian lady had recently lost her mother, and being, like many of the
cultivated women of Northern Europe, somewhat dubious of the dogmas of
religion, she had found death a terrible mystery when it was thus
brought sharply home to her. She was wandering in the dreadful labyrinth
of modern doubt, vainly seeking to forget her trouble in the excitements
of mountaineering, when she saw the unearthly apparition of the young
French philosopher. A study of his works heightened the feeling of awe
with which she already regarded him. At first there was no room for love
in the passionate desire after knowledge which drew her to him. She was
merely a disciple sitting at the feet of the great master. Accompanied
by her father, she continued her studies under him when he returned to
Paris, and for three months they were bound together wholly by
intellectual interest. For several hours every day they studied side by
side, and much of Iclea's time was spent in translating papers in
foreign languages, bearing on subjects in which Georges was interested.
One morning he arrived earlier than usual, his eyes shining with joy.

"I have settled the problem," he cried, leaning against the mantelpiece.
"At least," he added, with his usual modesty, "I have settled it to my
own satisfaction."

Striding up and down the room, he rapidly sketched out a system of
philosophy in which the ultimate truths of modern science were
transformed into the bases of religion. Iclea listened to him in silence
as he went on to explain the spiritual forces still dormant in the human
soul.

"We are still in our spiritual infancy," he said. "It is scarcely four
thousand years since mankind began to manifest its higher powers. Our
greatest conquests over nature are all of recent date, and they are the
work of a few noble souls who have erected themselves above the animal
conditions of life. The reign of brute force is over, and I am certain
that as soon as we learn to exercise the powers of our soul we shall
acquire transcendental faculties that will enable us to transport
ourselves from one world to another."

"That, too, is my belief," said Iclea.

Georges bent over her and gazed into her eyes of heavenly blue through
which her very soul was speaking. There was a strange silence, and then
their lips met.

For some months I lost sight of my two friends. In the ecstasy of their
love they forgot for a while the problems of philosophy which had
brought them together. The joys of intellectual communion were submerged
and almost lost in the new, strange feeling which crowned and glorified
their lives. Hand in hand the lovers wandered about Paris, which had now
become to them a city in fairyland. Meeting them one evening on the
banks of the Seine, I learned that they were returning to Norway with
Iclea's father, and that they were to be married at Christiania on the
anniversary of the mysterious apparition on the mountain which had
brought them together. Georges was about to resume his interrupted
studies of the Aurora Borealis, which he wished to trace to its source
by means of a balloon ascent, and Iclea intended to accompany him in his
voyage through the air.

To my great regret I was unable to go with them to Norway, as my duties
as an astronomer kept me in Paris. I anxiously awaited that
extraordinary agitation of the magnetic needle which announces the
existence of an Aurora Borealis in Northern Europe. When at last the
magnetic perturbation occurred in the observatory, I rejoiced to think
that Spero and his bride were floating high, feasting their eyes on the
most gorgeous of spectacles.

But suddenly an indefinable feeling of uneasiness came over me, which
grew into a dreadful presentiment of disaster. Long before the telegram
arrived from Christiania I knew what had happened. Georges and Iclea
were dead!

Every reader of the newspapers next morning knew as much as I did. An
escape of gas which could not be stopped sent the balloon hurtling to
the earth. Spero threw everything movable out of the car in a vain
attempt to lighten it and break the force of the descent. The balloon
still kept falling; then Iclea, with a wild courage born of love, saved
Georges' life by leaping out of the car. Relieved of her weight, the
balloon rose up, but Spero had now no wish to live. He jumped out with a
wild cry, and his body crashed on the edge of the lake into which Iclea
had fallen. There the mortal remains of the two lovers now lie, covered
by a single stone. But where were their souls?

One night Georges Spero remembered his promise to me, and returned to
earth.

_III.--A Soul from Mars_

Sitting alone on the top of the ancient castle of Montlhéry, I was
conducting an experiment in optics by means of electrical communications
with two assistants at Paris and Juvisy. I was trying to find out if the
rays of different colours in the spectrum travel at the same rate. It
was just on midnight before I brought the experiment to a successful
conclusion. As I covered up my instruments, some one said, "You would
not have brought that off, Camille, if it had not been for me. I gave
you the idea of comparing the violet vibrations with the red."

I turned round with a cry of fear. Georges Spero was sitting in the
moonlight on the parapet, looking at me with a smile.

"Are you afraid of me, Camille?" he said.

"You, Georges! You!" I stammered. "Is it really you? Keep still, and let
me touch you."

I put my hands on his face, and stroked his hair, and felt his body. I
could no longer doubt that I had him before me in the actual flesh, but
he read my thoughts.

"You are mistaken, Camille," he said. "My real body is asleep on Mars."

"So you still live?" I exclaimed. "You have solved the great problem.
And Iclea?"

"Let us sit here and talk," he replied. "There are many things I want to
tell you."

My fears had vanished, and I sat by my beloved friend.

"It seemed to me," said Georges, "that my fall from the balloon knocked
me senseless. When I came to, I was lying in the darkness with the
ripple of lake-water breaking on my ear. What amazed me was a strange
sense of lightness that made me feel I could rise up and float away if I
wanted to. Thinking this was a disorder of the mind, I did not attempt
to move, but watched with wondering eyes the sky above me. It was
lighted by two strange moons. When the day broke, and showed around me a
world of unimaginable splendour, I knew the meaning of the two moons and
of my strange feeling of lightness. I was a disembodied spirit that had
been transported to Mars.

"Do you know, Camille, that the soul is able to choose its mortal
covering? This is, at least, the case on Mars. For some time I wandered
about in an invisible form, studying the conditions of life there.
Animal strength, I found, counted for nothing. The Martians are an
aerial race, with exquisite senses, which respond in a way unknown on
earth to spiritual influences. Do you remember I read your thoughts when
we first met, and answered them before you spoke? That is one of the
Martians' gifts. Finding that these wonderful faculties were better
developed in the women of Mars than in the men, I chose the feminine
form for my reincarnation."

"And Iclea?" I said.

"Iclea," said Spero, "was re-born in a masculine shape. It was partly
because of the mystic attraction that I felt for her that I chose the
other form. Neither of us remembered our earthly existence, but a vague
yet deep sentiment of our spiritual relationship made me seek her out
and unite myself to her. It was your beloved muse Uriana," he added,
"who revealed the ties that bound us in our former lives.

"Owing to their superior faculties, the Martians have carried every
science to a perfection undreamt of on this earth. In astronomical
observations, for instance, they employ a system of telephotography. For
thousands of years their instruments have been photographing, on an
unending roll of paper, the wild spectacle of terrestrial life.

"One day, as Iclea and I were examining recent photographs, we saw a
picture of Paris during the Great Exhibition. Seizing a microscope, we
looked at the figures, and recognised ourselves among them. Strange
memories stirred within us, and we stared at each other in silent
amazement. Suddenly I remembered the sacred words I learnt at my
mother's knee. Yes, there were many mansions in our Father's house! The
blood-stained planet from which we had escaped was neither the cradle
nor the grave of His children.

"Then we wept as we thought of the cruelty, ignorance, misery, and
grossness of existence on earth. It was, dear Camille, with no joy that
I recollected the promise I had made to you. But, you see, I have
carried it out. I wish to convince you, and, through you, all the rest
of mankind, that the soul is immortal, and that the earth is only a
temporary stage of existence in a spiritual progress in which the whole
universe is included."

"But how is it possible for you, Georges," I interrupted, "to appear to
me in the body you wore on earth?"

"All this," said Spero, touching his body, "is an illusion. Do you not
recollect my saying that only invisible things are real? You do not see
me with your eyes, or feel me with your hands, as you think you do. The
impression which you have of my presence is born of the influence which
my mind is exerting in an invisible way on your mind. Can't you
understand? It is a kind of hypnotism. At the present moment, as I have
said, I am lying asleep on Mars, but my spirit is in direct
communication with yours. The form you see sitting beside you on this
parapet is only an illusion of your senses. My soul is speaking to your
soul."

"But could you not," I said, "give me some description of life on Mars?"

"A dream," he replied, "would be more vivid than a mere description,
though it would only be a shadow of the reality. For since you have not,
my dear friend, our exquisite faculties of knowledge, your mind could
not clearly mirror our life. Hark! Iclea is awake, and calling me. I
cannot stay any longer. Shut your eyes, and I will send you a dream."

I turned to say good-bye, but Spero had vanished. A deep drowsiness fell
upon me, and just as I got off the parapet and found a safer position I
fell asleep.

_IV.--The Eternal Progress_

I was sitting under a strange tree covered with gigantic red flowers. In
the sky above me were two moons that shed a dim brightness on the lovely
and fantastic scenery. A multitude of radiant shapes fluttered and
darted through the air. They were Martians--exquisite, aerial, and
divinely beautiful figures glowing with luminous tints. Airy gondolas,
which seemed to be fashioned from phosphorescent flowers, passed above
my head, and one of them floated down to the tree under which I was
lying. In it were Iclea and Georges, but etherealised beyond the reach
of human imagination.

They took me in their flying chariot as day was breaking, and we
coursed, with a strange silent interchange of thoughts, over the
orange-coloured land of Mars. I could not understand everything which
was communicated to me, now by Iclea and now by Georges; but I perceived
that all manual labour on the planet was done by means of machines
directed by animals whose intelligence was on a level with my own. The
Martians themselves lived only for the things of the mind; they had
twelve senses instead of five, and their bodies, in which electricity
played the part that blood does in our systems, were so finely and yet
so strongly organised that they possessed an extraordinary power over
the forces of nature. Everything on their world, seas, mountains and
rivers were like their wonderful canals, works of art and science.
Nature was completely plastic in their hands. There was no poverty and
no crime. Deriving their food from the air which they breathe, the
Martians were liberated from material cares and immersed in the joys of
intellectual pursuits.

"You now see, Camille," said Spero, resorting at last to language which
I could clearly understand, "that life on Mars has developed as
peacefully and nobly as it began. There is no break between our
vegetable kingdom and our animal kingdom. We are nourished, like your
plants, trees, and herbs, by the air which we breathe. Ten million years
ago your world was also a scene of innocence and tranquil felicity. The
land was overgrown with a wildly beautiful vegetation that fed on the
gentle winds of heaven, and primitive forms of animal life had spread
from the depths of the sea along the shallow shores, and were there
learning to extract from the air a nourishment similar to that which
they obtained from the water. But by a woeful chance, one of your
primitive animals--a deaf, blind, sexless clot of jelly--then had its
body pierced by a drop of sea-water thicker than usual, and it found
that this way of feeding was quicker than simple respiration. Such was
the origin of the first digestive tube, which has exercised so baleful
an influence on the course of terrestrial life, and turned the earth
into a vast slaughterhouse."

"Is there no hope for us?" I said.

"No," he replied; "the earth is a shipwrecked planet. None of the higher
organisms there will ever rise to our level. How can they alter the
structure of their bodies, and empty their veins of blood, and fill them
with the subtle electricity which serves us as a life force? And the
grossness of their blood-fed senses! How can all the fine powers of the
immortal soul ever develop along with such degraded instruments of
knowledge?"

"But even if our earth is a shipwrecked planet," I exclaimed, "there is
at least some means of escaping from it. You and Iclea, for instance----"

"Yes, there is a way of escape," said Spero, "the Uranian way. By
soaring aloft into the serene region of spiritual ideas, a terrestrial
soul can still free itself from its animality. Some save themselves by
their high moral qualities, others are purified and uplifted by their
imagination and intellect. Virtue and science are the wings that enable
earth-born spirits to mount the skies. The destiny of a soul is
determined by its works and aspirations. Lovers of knowledge sojourn
awhile on Mars, which is only the first stage in the eternal progress.
Spirits animated by divine feelings rise at once into high regions of
starry splendour. The Uranian way is open to all, and the day will
arrive when every inhabitant of your wild, dark planet will recognise
that he, too, is a citizen of heaven. Then Urania will at last inspire
and direct him, and point out the path by which he can ascend from the
blood-stained earth to the fairer mansions prepared for him in the
skies."

As he was speaking our aerial chariot floated down to a fairy palace by
the shore of an enchanted sea. I alighted; and a radiant, flower-like
maiden, who was standing by the portal, unfolded her rainbow wings and
shadowed me with them, and murmured, "Do you wish to return to earth?"

"No," I cried, running up to clasp her in my arms.

I awoke with a sudden shock. I was lying on the top of the tower of
Montlhéry; the sun was rising, and the vast circle of country below me
shone clear and distinct in the morning light.

"Was it a dream?" I said to myself. "Surely not. The earth is not the
only home of life in the universe. Urania, the celestial muse, is now
unfolding before our astonished eyes the panoramas of infinity, and we
know at last that we are not the children of the earth, but citizens of
the heavens."

DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ

Undine

     Friedrich Heinrich Karl Fouqué, Baron de la Motte, was born at
     Brandenburg, in Prussia, Feb. 12, 1777, and died in Berlin
     January 23, 1843. The mixed nationality indicated by his name
     is accounted for by his descent from a French Huguenot family.
     He served as a Prussian cavalryman in the two campaigns
     against Napoleon of 1792 and 1813, but during the long
     interval between devoted himself actively to intellectual
     culture and literary pursuits. He began his career as an
     author by translating the "Numancia" of Cervantes, but his
     admiration of the ancient Norse sagas and the old German
     legends led him into the composition of exquisitely beautiful
     and tender, though exceedingly fantastic, romances which
     speedily gained immense popularity. In these productions fairy
     and magical elements predominate. His masterpiece is "Undine,"
     published in 1814, the other best-known works being "Sintram,"
     "Aslauga's Knight," and "The Two Captains." In all Fouqué's
     stories the marks of genius appear in his brilliant
     imagination and pure and fascinating diction.

_I.--The Water Sprite_

About a century ago an aged fisherman sat mending his nets by his
cottage door, in front of a lovely lake. Behind his dwelling stretched a
sombre forest, reputed to be haunted by goblin creatures. Through this
gloomy solitude the pious old fisherman frequently passed, religiously
dispelling all terrors by singing hymns as he went with his fish to a
town near the border of the forest.

One evening he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs, and presently
appeared a knight riding on a splendid steed, and clad in resplendent
armour. The stranger stopped, and besought shelter for the night, and
the good old fisherman accorded him a most cheery welcome, taking him
into the cottage, where sat his aged wife by a scanty fire. Soon the
three were freely conversing. The knight told of his travels and
revealed that he was Sir Huldbrand of Ringstetten, where he had a castle
by the Rhine.

A splash against the window surprising the guest he was informed by his
host, with some little show of vexation, that little tricks were often
played by a foster-child of the old couple, named Undine, a girl of
eighteen.

The door flew open, and a lovely girl glided, laughing, into the room.
Without the slightest token of shyness she gazed at the knight for a few
moments, then asked why he had come to the poor cottage.

"Have you come through the wild forest?"

He confessed that he had, and she instantly demanded a recital of his
adventures. With a slight shudder at his own recollections of the
strange creatures he had encountered, Huldbrand consented, but a reproof
from the fisherman at her obtrusiveness angered Undine. The girl sprang
up and rushed forth into the night, exclaiming, "Sleep alone in your
smoky old hut!"

In great alarm, the fisherman and Huldbrand rose to follow the girl, but
she had vanished in the darkness. Remarking that she had acted so
before, the old fisherman invited Huldbrand to sit by the fire and talk
awhile, and began to relate how Undine had come to live with them.

The couple had lost their only child, a wonderfully beautiful little
girl. At the age of three, when sitting in her mother's lap at the edge
of the lake, she seemed to be attracted by some lovely apparition in the
water, for, suddenly stretching out her hands and laughing, she had in a
moment sprung into the lake. No trace of the child could ever be found.
But the same evening a lovely little girl, three or four years old, with
water streaming from her golden tresses, suddenly entered the cottage,
smiling sweetly at the fisherman and his wife. They hastily undressed
the little stranger and put her to bed. She uttered not a word, but
simply smiled. In the morning she talked a little, confusedly telling
how she had been in a boat on the lake with her mother, and had fallen
in, and could recollect nothing more. She could say nothing as to who
she was or whence she came. But she talked often of golden castles and
crystal domes.

While the fisherman was talking thus to the knight, he was suddenly
interrupted by the noise of rushing water. Floods seemed to be bursting
forth, and he and his guest, going hastily to the door, saw by the
moonlight that the brook which issued from the forest was surging in a
wild torrent over its margin, while a roaring wind was lashing the lake.
In great alarm both shouted, "Undine! Undine!" But there was no
response, and the two ran off in different directions in search of the
fugitive.

It was Huldbrand who discovered the girl. Clambering down some rocks at
the edge of the stream, thinking Undine might have fallen there, he was
hailed by the sweet voice of the girl herself.

"Venture not," she cried. "The old man of the stream is full of tricks."

Looking across at a tiny isle in the stream, the knight saw her nestling
in the grass, smiling, and in an instant he had crossed.

"The fisherman is distressed at your absence," said he. "Let us go
back."

Looking at him with her beautiful blue eyes, the girl replied. "If you
think so, well; whatever you think is right to me."

Taking Undine in his arms, Huldbrand bore her over the stream to the
cottage, where she was received with joy. Dawn was breaking, and
breakfast was prepared under the trees. Undine flung herself on the
grass at Huldbrand's feet, and at her renewed request the knight told
the story of his forest adventures.

"It is now about eight days since I rode into the city on the other side
of the forest to join in a great tournament. In one of the intervals
between the jousts I noticed a lovely lady among the spectators. I
learned that she was Bertalda, foster-daughter of a great duke, and each
evening I became her partner in the dances.

"This Bertalda was a wayward girl, and each day pleased me less and
less; but I continued in her company, and asked her jestingly to give me
a glove. She said she would do so if I would explore alone the haunted
forest. As an honourable knight I could not decline the challenge, and
yesterday I set out on the enterprise. Before I had penetrated very far
within the glades, I saw what looked like a bear in the branches of an
oak; but the creature, in a harsh, human voice, growled that it was
getting branches with which to roast me at night. My horse was scared at
this, and other grim apparitions, but at last I emerged from the forest,
and saw the lake and this cottage."

When he had finished, the fisherman spoke of the best way by which the
visitor could return to the city; but, with sly laughter, Undine
declared that the knight could not depart, for if he attempted now to
cross the deluged wood, he would be overwhelmed.

_II.--"I Have No Soul!"_

Huldbrand, detained at the cottage by the increasing overflow of the
stream, enjoyed the most perfect satisfaction with his sojourn.

The old folks with pleasure regarded the two young people as being
betrothed, and Huldbrand assumed that he was accepted by the girl, whom
he had come to look upon as not being in reality one of this poor
household, but one of some illustrious family, and when, one evening, an
aged priest appeared at the cottage, driven in by the storm, Huldbrand
addressed to him a request that he should on the spot at once unite him
and the maiden, as they were pledged to each other. A discussion arose,
but matters were at length settled, and the old wife produced two
consecrated tapers. Lighting these, the priest, with brief, solemn
ceremony, celebrated the nuptials.

Undine had been quiet and grave during these proceedings, but a singular
change took place in her demeanour as soon as the rite had been
performed. She began at intervals to indulge in wild freaks, teasing the
priest, and indulging in a variety of silly tricks. At length the priest
gently expostulated with Undine, exhorting her so to attune her soul
that it might always be in concord with that of her husband.

Her reply amazed the listeners, for she said, "If one has no soul, as I
have none, what is there to harmonise?" Then she burst into a fit of
passionate weeping, to the consternation of all the little company. As
she again and again wept, the priest, fearing that she was possessed by
some evil spirit, sought to exorcise it. The priest turned to the
bridegroom with the assurance that he could discover nothing evil in the
bride, mysterious though her behaviour was, and he commended him to be
loving and true to her.

The next morning Undine, when she and her husband made their appearance,
responded gracefully to the paternal greeting of the priest, beseeching
his pardon for her folly of the previous evening, and begging him to
pray for the good of her soul. Through the whole day Undine behaved
angelically. She was kind, quiet, and gentle. At eventide she led her
husband out to the edge of the stream, which, to the wonder of
Huldbrand, had subsided into gentle, rippling waves.

She whispered, "Carry me across to that little isle, and we will decide
there."

Wondering, he carried her across, and, laying her on the turf, listened
as she began.

"My loved one, know that there are strange beings which, though seeming
almost mortals, are rarely visible to human eyes--salamanders in the
flames, gnomes down in the earth, spirits in the air. And in the water
are myriads of spirits dwelling in crystal domes, in the coral-trees,
and in the lovely shells. These are far more beautiful than the fairest
of human beings, and sometimes a fisherman has seen a tender mermaid,
and has listened to her song. Such wonderful creatures are called
Undines, and one of these you see now before you!

"We should be far superior to other beings--for we consider ourselves
human--but for one defect. We have no souls, and nothing remains of us
after this mortal life is over. Yet every being aspires to rise higher,
and so my father, who is a great water prince in the Mediterranean Sea,
desired that his only daughter should become possessed of a soul. But
this can only come to pass with loving union with one of your race. Now,
O my dearly beloved, I have to thank you that I am gifted with a soul,
and it will be due to you should all my life be made wretched. For what
will become of me if you forsake me? If you would do so, do it now! Then
I will plunge into the stream--which is my uncle--and as he brought me
here, so will he take me back to my parents, a loving, suffering woman
with a soul."

Undine would have said yet more, but Huldbrand, astonishing though the
recital was, with tears and kisses vowed he would never leave his lovely
wife; and with her leaning in loving trustfulness on his arm, they
returned to the hut.

The next day, at Undine's strange urgency, farewell was said with bitter
tears and lamentations.

Undine was placed on the beautiful horse, and Huldbrand and the priest
walked on either side as the three passed through the solemn glades of
the wood. A fourth soon joined them. He was dressed in a white robe,
like that of the priest, and presently attempted to speak to Undine. But
she shrank from him, declaring she wished to have nothing to do with
him.

"Oh, oh!" cried the stranger, with a laugh. "What kind of a marriage is
this you have made, that you must not speak to your relative? Do you not
know I am your uncle Kühleborn, who brought you to this region, and that
I am here to protect you from goblins and sprites? So let me quietly
accompany you."

"We are near the end of the forest, and shall not need you further," was
her rejoinder. But he grinned at her so frightfully that she shrieked
for help, and the knight aimed at his head a blow from his sword.
Instantly Kühleborn was transformed into a gushing waterfall, foaming
over them from a rock near by and drenching all three.

_III.--"Woe! Woe!"_

The sudden disappearance of the young knight had caused a sensation in
the city, for the duke and duchess, and the friends and servants of
Huldbrand, feared he had perished in the forest during the terrible
tempest When he suddenly reappeared, all rejoiced except Bertalda, who
was profoundly vexed at seeing with him a beautiful bride. She so far
reconciled herself to the conditions that a warm friendship sprang up
between Undine and herself.

It was agreed that Bertalda should accompany the wedded pair to
Ringstetten, and with the consent of the noble foster-parents of
Bertalda the three appointed a day for departure. One beautiful evening,
as they walked about the market-place round the great fountain, suddenly
a tall man emerged from among the people and stopped in front of Undine.
He quickly whispered something in her ear, and though at first she
seemed vexed at the intrusion, presently she clapped her hands and
laughed joyously. Then the stranger mysteriously vanished, and seemed to
disappear in the fountain.

Huldbrand had suspected that he had seen the man before, and now felt
assured that he was Kühleborn. Undine admitted the fact, and said that
her uncle had told her a secret, which she was to reveal on the third
day afterwards, which would be the anniversary of Bertalda's nameday.

The anniversary came, and strange incidents happened. After the banquet
given by the duke and duchess, Undine suddenly gave a signal, and from
among the retainers at the door came forth the old fisherman and his
wife, and Undine declared that in these Bertalda saw her real parents.
The proud maiden instantly flew into a violent rage, weeping
passionately, and utterly refused to acknowledge the old couple as her
father and mother. She declared that Undine was an enchantress and a
witch, sustaining intercourse with evil spirits.

Undine, with great dignity, indignantly denied the accusation, while
Bertalda's violent conduct created a feeling of disgust in the minds of
all in the assembly. The matter was settled in a simple manner, for the
duke commanded Bertalda to withdraw to a private apartment with the
duchess and the two old folks from the hut, that an investigation might
be made. It was soon over, for the noble lady was able presently to
inform the company that Undine's story was absolutely true. The guests
silently departed, and Undine sank sobbing into her husband's arms.

Next day Bertalda, humbled by these events, sought pardon of Undine for
her evil behaviour, and was instantly welcomed with loving assurances of
forgiveness, moreover, she was cordially invited to go with the pair to
Ringstetten.

"We will share all things there as sisters," said Undine.

The three journeyed to the distant castle, and took up their abode
together. Soon Kühleborn appeared on the scene, but Undine at once
repulsed him. Next, when her husband was one day hunting, she ordered
the great well in the courtyard to be covered with a big stone, on which
she cut some curious characters.

Bertalda waywardly complained that this proceeding deprived her of water
that was good for her complexion, but Undine privately explained to
Huldbrand that she had caused the servants to seal up this spring
because only by that way of access could her uncle Kühleborn come to
disturb their peace.

As time passed on, Huldbrand gradually cooled toward his wife and turned
affectionately towards Bertalda. Undine bore patiently and silently the
sorrow thus inflicted on her. But when her husband was impatient and
angry she would plead with him never to speak to her in accents of
unkindness when they happened to be on the water, for the water spirits
had her completely in their power on their element, and would seek to
protect her, and even seize her and take her down for ever to dwell in
the crystal castles of the deep.

After some estrangements, Undine and Bertalda had again become loving
friends, and Huldbrand's affection for his wife had revived with its old
and welcome warmth, while the attachment between him and Bertalda seemed
forgotten.

One day the three were enjoying a delightful excursion on the glorious
Danube. Bertalda had taken off a beautiful coral necklace which
Huldbrand had given her. She leaned over and drew the coral beads across
the surface, enjoying the glitter thus caused, when suddenly a great
hand from beneath seized the necklace and snatched it down. The maiden's
scream of terror was answered by mocking laughter from the water.

In an outburst of passion, Huldbrand started up and poured forth curses
on the river and its denizens, whether spirits or sirens. With tears in
her eyes, Undine besought him softly not to scold her there, and she
took from her neck a beautiful necklace and offered it to Bertalda as a
compensation.

But the angry knight snatched it away, and hurled it into the river,
exclaiming, "Are you still connected with them? In the name of all the
witches, remain among them with your presents, and leave us mortals in
peace, you sorceress!"

Bitterly weeping and crying, "Woe! Woe!" she vanished over the side of
the vessel. Her last words were, "Remain true! Woe! Woe!" Huldbrand lay
swooning on the deck, and little waves seemed to be sobbing on the
surface of the Danube, "Woe! Woe! Remain true!"

_IV.--The White Stranger_

For a time deep sorrow fell on the lord of Ringstetten and Bertalda.
They lived long in the castle quietly, often weeping for Undine,
tenderly cherishing her memory. Undine often visited Huldbrand in his
dreams, caressing him and weeping silently so that his cheeks were wet
when he awoke. But these visions grew less frequent, and the knight's
grief diminished by degrees. At length he and Bertalda were married, but
it was in spite of a grave warning from Father Heilmann, who declared
that Undine had appeared to him in visions, beseeching him to warn
Huldbrand and Bertalda to leave each other. They were too infatuated to
heed the admonition, and a priest from a neighbouring monastery promised
to perform the ceremony in a few days.

Meantime, when lying between sleeping and waking, the knight seemed
fanned by the wings of a swan, and, as he fell asleep, seemed borne
along on the wings of swans which sang their sweetest music. All at once
he seemed to be hovering over the Mediterranean Sea. Its waters were so
crystalline that he could see through them to the bottom, and there,
under a crystal arch, sat Undine, weeping bitterly. She seemed not to
perceive him. Kühleborn approached her, and told her that Huldbrand was
to be wedded again, and that it would be her duty, from which nothing
could release her, to end his life.

"That I cannot do," said she. "I have sealed up the fountain against my
race."

Huldbrand felt as if he were soaring back again over the sea, and at
length he seemed to reach his castle. He awoke on his couch, but he
could not bring himself to break off the arrangements that had been
made.

The marriage feast at Ringstetten was not as bright and happy as such
occasions usually are, for a veil of gloom seemed to rest over the
company. Even the bride affected a happy and thoughtless demeanour which
she did not really feel. The company dispersed early, Bertalda retiring
with her maidens, and Huldbrand with his attendants.

In her apartment Bertalda, with a sigh, noticed how freckled was her
neck, and a remark she made to her maidens as she gazed in the mirror
excited the eager attention of one of them. She heard her fair mistress
say, "Oh, that I had a flask of the purifying water from the closed
fountain!" Presently the officious waiting-woman was seen leading men to
the fountain. With levers they quickly lifted the stone, for some
mysterious force within seemed to aid them.

Then from the fountain solemnly rose a white column of water. It was
presently perceived that it was a pale female figure, veiled in white.
She was weeping bitterly as she walked slowly to the building, while
Bertalda and her attendants, pale with terror, watched from the window.
The figure passed on, and at the door of Huldbrand's room, where the
knight was partly undressed, was heard a gentle tap. The white figure
slowly entered. It was Undine, who softly said, "They have opened the
spring, and now I am here and you must die." Said the knight, "It must
be so! But let me die in your embrace."

"Most gladly, my loved one," said she, throwing back her veil and
disclosing her face divinely smiling. Imprinting on his lips a sacred
kiss, Undine clasped the knight in her arms, weeping as if she would
weep her very soul away. Huldbrand fell softly back on the pillows of
his couch, a corpse.

At the funeral of Huldbrand the veiled figure appeared when the
procession formed a circle round the grave. All knelt in mute devotion
at a signal from Father Heilmann. When they rose again the white
stranger had vanished, and on the spot where she had knelt a silvery
little fountain gushed forth, which almost encircled the grave and then
ran on till it reached a lake near by. And to this day the inhabitants
cherish the tradition that thus the poor rejected Undine still lovingly
embraces her husband.

ÉMILE GABORIAU

"File No. 113"

     Émile Gaboriau, one of the best-known exponents of the "police
     story," was born at Saujon, in France, on November 9, 1833. He
     began life in a lawyer's office, became a volunteer in a
     cavalry regiment, and, later, secretary to Paul Feval, the
     novelist and dramatist. In the meantime, Gaboriau had
     contributed a number of sketches dealing with military and
     fashionable life to various minor Parisian journals, but it
     was not until 1866, with the publication of "L'Affaire
     Lerouge," that he suddenly sprang into fame. From that time
     until his death, on September 28, 1873, story after story
     appeared rapidly from his pen. "File No. 113" ("Le Dossier
     113") was published in 1867, and was the first of a remarkable
     series of detective tales introducing the figure of Lecoq.
     "File No. 113" is perhaps the most characteristic specimen of
     his work, exhibiting as it does a careful study of the Paris
     police system, and a thorough acquaintance with all phases of
     criminal life.

_I.--The Robbery and a Clue_

The first mention of the celebrated robbery which took place at M.
Fauvel's bank in Paris--the _dossier_ of the case is numbered 113 in the
police files--appeared in the evening papers, February 28, 1866.

On the previous day a certain Count Louis de Clameran sent word to M.
Fauvel that he wished to withdraw the following morning at ten o'clock
the sum of £12,000 which had been deposited in the bank by his brother,
an ironmaster from the south of France who had recently died.

M. Fauvel made it a rule never to keep any large sums of money on the
premises, but to deposit all such amounts in the keeping of the Bank of
France. As this sum, however, had to be paid the first thing in the
morning, the chief cashier, M. Prosper Bertomy, thought he was justified
in obtaining the amount from the Bank of France on the evening of the
27th, and in locking it up in the bank safe against the morning.

The safe was a formidable-looking affair constructed entirely of wrought
iron of treble thickness. An ingenious device regulated its opening. On
the massive door were five movable steel buttons engraved with the
letters of the alphabet. Before the key could be inserted in the lock,
these buttons had to be manipulated in the same order in which they had
been used when the safe was last shut. The buttons were arranged so that
the letters on them formed some word, which was changed from time to
time. This word was known only to M. Fauvel and his cashier, each of
whom possessed a key of the safe.

As soon as the bank opened on the morning of February 28, the count put
in an appearance, and Prosper Bertomy went to the safe to obtain the
money. When, a second later, he reappeared, his face was ashy pale, and
his steps tottered as he walked. The £12,000 had disappeared from within
the safe. What made the affair all the more mysterious was that the safe
was locked just as the cashier had left it the night before.

The room in which the safe was situated communicated with the bank by
another room in which every night a tried servant of the establishment
slept. By a second door admittance was obtained to the private
apartments of M. and Madame Fauvel and their niece Madeline.

As soon as M. Fauvel had heard the startling news, he first obtained the
necessary money from the Bank of France, settled the business with the
count, and then turned his attention to the elucidation of the robbery.
He summoned the cashier to his presence.

Bertomy was a young man of thirty to whom M. Fauvel had shown great
kindness, advancing his interests wherever possible until, though very
young for the position, he was his most important and most confidential
employee. Besides the paternal affection with which the bank manager
regarded his cashier, another tie tended to make their relations all the
stronger and more personal. Bertomy loved M. Fauvel's niece Madeline,
and though a curious estrangement had sprung up between them during the
previous nine or ten months, the banker always regarded their marriage
as practically arranged.

The interview between the two men was a curious one. To each it appeared
that the other must be the thief. They alone had the keys of the safe;
they alone knew the magic word which could open the massive door. The
banker urged Bertomy to confess, promising him forgiveness; the other
haughtily rejected the suggestion, and hinted that his employer had
converted the £12,000 to his own use. In the end M. Fauvel lost his
temper, sent for the police, and before twenty-four hours were up,
Prosper Bertomy, who but the day before had held one of the most
important and envied positions in the financial world of Paris, was
charged before a magistrate as being a common thief.

Investigation of the case was at first entrusted to a detective named
Fanferlot, nicknamed by his comrades the "Squirrel." Fanferlot's
examination of the premises resulted in little. All he discovered was a
scratch upon the door of the safe, but certain words that passed between
M. Fauvel and his niece, which seemed to indicate that the former was
secretly opposed to the marriage of Madeline with Bertomy, caused him to
jump to the conclusion that the banker had robbed his own safe in order
to bring disgrace upon his cashier. He connived, however, at the arrest
of Bertomy, hoping that later on he might obtain great kudos for himself
by unmasking the banker. What might have been the result of his improper
and unofficial methods will never be known, but in all probability great
inconvenience would have been caused to a number of innocent persons and
the whole course of justice thwarted had it not been for the
intervention of the great and famous M. Lecoq.

M. Lecoq's interest in the bank robbery case was largely a personal one.
Even detectives have hearts, and M. Lecoq had loved with heart and soul
a charming young girl named Nina Gipsy. Under the name of Caldas in one
of his innumerable disguises, he had wooed her for many months. When he
thought at last that he had won her affections, she had fled to the
protection of no less a person than Prosper Bertomy himself. The cashier
cared nothing for her, but embittered by an estrangement that had sprung
up between Madeline and himself, he had sought forgetfulness in her
society. Bertomy's arrest gave Lecoq an opportunity for a noble revenge.
He determined to prove to the woman he loved his superiority over his
rival by saving the cashier from disgrace.

Though the case looked black against Bertomy, for it was shown that he
was heavily in debt, and living far beyond his means, Lecoq was
satisfied that he had not committed the crime. When Fanferlot,
hopelessly befogged, called for his advice at his house in the Rue
Montmartre, the great detective deigned to explain the preliminary data
and the deductions from the data he had made.

The scratch on the safe door, slight and minute as it was, was his
starting-point. How had it been made? He had found by experiment that it
was impossible to make such a scratch upon the varnish without the
exercise of considerable force. It was clear, therefore, that the
scratch by the keyhole could not have been made by the thief in his
trembling anxiety to get the business he had undertaken accomplished.
But why was such force used?

For a long time Lecoq puzzled over this problem. Then, with Fanferlot,
he tried an experiment. In his room was an iron box varnished like the
safe. Taking the key of this box from his pocket, he ordered Fanferlot
to seize his arm just as he put it near the lock. The key slipped,
pulled away from the lock, and sliding along the surface of the door,
left upon it a diagonal scratch, almost an exact reproduction of the one
on the safe.

From this simple experiment Lecoq deduced that two people were present
when the safe was robbed; one wanted to take the money, the other wanted
to prevent it being taken. This was the basis of the case which he set
out to draw up against some person or persons unknown. He argued, with
his usual clear logic, that neither Fauvel nor Bertomy could have robbed
the safe. Both of them had keys; both of them knew the secret word and
could have robbed the safe whenever they pleased. Therefore, neither of
them would have committed the theft in the presence of somebody else.

_II.--A Mysterious Journey_

Lecoq's first steps after establishing these preliminary deductions was
to secure the release of Bertomy on the grounds of insufficient
evidence.

On the very morning of his release, Bertomy had received a mysterious
letter composed of printed words cut out letter by letter from a book
and pasted on paper.

"My dear Prosper," so the epistle ran, "a friend who knows the horror of
your situation sends you this help. There is one heart at least which
feels for you. Leave France; you are yourself. The future is before you.
Go, and may this money be of use."

Enclosed with this note were banknotes for £400. Lecoq, disguised as a
M. Verduret, a country merchant, a friend of Bertomy's father, secured
this epistle and studied it carefully. His knowledge of the various
types used by the printers in Paris showed him that the letters had been
taken from a book printed by a well-known firm who published volumes of
devotion. The correctness of this conclusion was established by the
discovery on the back of one of the small cuttings the word "Deus." The
words had been cut from a Catholic prayer-book. To find that prayer-book
was his next business.

In another disguise he sought out Nina Gipsy, and, by asking her
assistance to clear Prosper, induced her to take up the position of
lady's-maid in the Fauvel family, for it was there, he conceived, the
mutilated book of devotion would be found. Again his wonderful instinct
proved right. In a few days Nina brought him the very book--a prayer-
book, belonging to Madeline, which had been given her by Bertomy.

Why had Madeline sent the cashier this elaborately disguised letter? Why
had she wished him to leave France, confident as she was, so she told
him, of his innocence?

To find an answer to these important queries, Lecoq closely questioned
Bertomy. He learnt that the night before the robbery the cashier had
dined with his friend Raoul de Lagors, the wealthy, dissolute young
nephew of M. Fauvel's wife. This Lagors was the friend of Count Louis de
Clameran, whose demand for the £12,000 left him by his dead brother had
resulted in the discovery of the mysterious robbery.

Bertomy had nothing but the highest praise for Lagors, but, on the other
hand, spoke most disparagingly of the count. The count, it appeared, had
proposed for the hand of Madeline, and had pressed his suit with great
determination. And Madeline--and this was what provided a new problem
for Lecoq's consideration--had tacitly accepted his attention.

Through Nina, Lecoq had arranged a meeting between Bertomy and Madeline,
and satisfied himself that the girl was whole-heartedly and devotedly
attached to her uncle's cashier. Then why was she favouring the suit of
the count? Lecoq at once made it his business to inquire into the
count's past.

He was the second son of an old and noble family. His elder brother,
Gaston, having to fly the country in consequence of causing the death of
several men, he had inherited the property. A life of dissolute
pleasures had soon exhausted his patrimony and he was reduced to living
by his wits. Some weeks before the robbery, he had discovered that his
brother Gaston was alive and was living on a large estate in the south
of France, which he had purchased with the wealth he had accumulated in
business. Six weeks after the two brothers met again, the elder died and
the younger inherited his vast fortune.

Raoul de Lagors was the next character in the drama whose past the
detective made it his business to expose. Lagors, it has been said, was
the nephew of Madame Fauvel. To his surprise, Lecoq discovered, by
inquiries in her native place, that the banker's wife had never had any
brothers or sisters. Lagors, therefore, was not her nephew.

Fanferlot, acting on instructions, had kept a strict watch on the
movements of Madeline, and by this means Lecoq received timely warning
of a mysterious excursion which the girl made one night. He followed her
to a lonely house on the outskirts of the city. When she had gained
admittance, the appearance of a light in one of the windows on the first
floor seemed to indicate the room to which she had been taken. By the
aid of a ladder, Lecoq was able to watch what was going on within
through the shutters.

He saw Madeline standing opposite Lagors, evidently, from her attitude,
pleading with him. For some time he listened to her, with a cynical
smile upon his face, but after an hour he seemed to decide, with evident
reluctance, to comply with her request. Going to a cabinet, he took out
a bundle of pawn tickets and flung them on the table. Hastily going
through the collection, she selected three, and concealing them in her
dress, left the house.

By following her to a pawnshop, Lecoq discovered that she had redeemed
certain valuable articles of jewelry belonging to Madame Fauvel. Lecoq
knew, through Nina Gipsy, who still filled the part of lady's-maid in
the Fauvel family, that M. Fauvel had insisted on his wife accompanying
him on the following evening to a great fancy-dress ball which was to be
given by one of the wealthiest families in the capital. Obviously, then,
the jewelry that Madeline had redeemed was required by Madame Fauvel for
the occasion. Why had she pawned it for Lagors?

A theory had half formed itself in Lecoq's brain. He determined to prove
its truth. Disguised as a clown, he attended the fancy-dress ball, and
in the character of a mountebank collected a group of ladies and
gentlemen around him while he related with the inimitable skill of a
buffoon a romantic narrative. To most of the people present it was
simply an amusing story, but to the count and Lagors and Madame Fauvel,
who were among the listeners, it seemed something much more, for Lecoq
dressed out his theory of the robbery in the trappings of romance. Just
as he reached the climax of the story there was a cry, and Madame Fauvel
almost fell fainting on the floor. The count and Lagors rushed up
furiously to Lecoq.

"Master Clown," said Lagors, "your tongue is too long."

"Perhaps, my pretty boy," retorted Lecoq, "perhaps it is. But it is, I
can assure you, not so long as my arm."

"Who are you, M. le Clown?" the count exclaimed angrily.

"I am," replied Lecoq, "the best friend your brother Gaston had. I was
his counsellor. I am the confidant of his last wishes."

Though the solution of the problem seemed so tantalisingly near, there
were still some threads in the tangle which required sorting out before
Lecoq could say that the case was complete. Among other matters he
inquired of Bertomy the word which had been used to lock the safe on,
the night of the robbery. The word had been "gipsy." Bertomy was
confident that he had not mentioned it to anybody, but Nina Gipsy was
able to throw light on this part of the problem. She recollected a
chance remark of Bertomy's while sitting at dinner with herself and
Lagors on the night of the robbery. She had reproached Bertomy with
neglecting her.

"It's too bad for you to reproach me," cried the cashier, "for it is
your name which at this very moment guards the safe of M. Fauvel."

Lagors, therefore, had known the password. What did this new discovery
imply? How did it fit in with the rest of the data which Lecoq had so
brilliantly collected?

After his custom, he marshalled once more in his mind all the facts at
his disposal, but they were like so many loose links in a chain. They
required the connecting link to make the chain complete. To find that
link Lecoq spent a month in visiting the old home of the De Clamerans,
the estate formerly occupied by Gaston de Clameron, who had died a few
days before the robbery, and also in a trip to England. When he returned
to Paris, _dossier_ No. 113 was complete.

_III.--The Dossier_

In her extreme youth, Madame Fauvel had been secretly loved by Gaston de
Clameron. It was a result of certain contemptuous words spoken of the
girl he loved that Gaston had committed those deeds which had compelled
him to fly the country. Shortly after his flight, the girl, finding that
she was about to give birth to a child, imparted the secret to her
mother. Fearing a scandal, the mother, accompanied by a faithful nurse,
took her daughter over to England. There, near London, a child was born,
who was immediately handed over to some simple country people to adopt.
The unhappy girl returned to France, and shortly after married M.
Fauvel, the banker.

Years after, the Count Louis de Clameron, who had inherited and ruined
the estates of which his brother Gaston had been deprived, discovered
this secret from the nurse, and finding on inquiries in London that the
child had died, persuaded a young ne'er-do-well Englishman to play the
_rôle_ of his brother's son. He secretly introduced him to Madame
Fauvel, and through this means obtained what money he required from the
unhappy woman, who feared the discovery of her past secret by her
husband. The situation was complicated by the count falling in love with
Madeline and the sudden appearance of Gaston de Clameron, who was
thought to be dead.

The count poisoned his brother, and then, finding that Madeline refused
to give up Bertomy, determined to accomplish the cashier's ruin, and at
the same time obtain an amount of money large enough to buy off his
fellow-conspirator Lagors. Lagors, having learnt by chance the password
that guarded the safe, was sent to Madame Fauvel late at night with a
request for money.

At this time Madame Fauvel was at the end of her resources. Lagors
suggested taking the money from the safe. Tom between a desire to help
her supposed son and the risk of discovery, she at last consented.
Taking M. Fauvel's key, they descended silently to the safe-room. At the
last moment, just as the key was in the lock, Madame Fauvel attempted to
deter Lagors from his purpose. In the struggle that scratch was made on
the door which formed the basis of Lecoq's inquiries and enabled the
great detective to unravel the mystery.

Madeline, who all the while half guessed at the truth, and perceived
without being told that Madame Fauvel was at the mercy of the count, had
been prepared to sacrifice her future happiness in order to prevent the
scandal being made public.

M. Lecoq, armed with these facts, sought out Lagors. He arrived only in
time to prevent a tragedy. Warned by an anonymous letter that his wife
had pawned her diamonds for the benefit of Lagors, the banker came upon
them when they were together in Lagor's rooms. Imagining the young man
was his wife's lover, the banker drew a revolver and fired four times.
Fortunately, none of the shots took effect, and before he could fire
again Lecoq had rushed into the room and torn the weapon from his grasp.
It was the moment of the great detective's triumph. With the dramatic
skill of which he was a master, he laid bare the whole story and
disclosed the true identity of Raoul Lagors. Before he left he compelled
Lagors to refund the £12,000 he had stolen, and in order to avoid a
scandal allowed the young man to go free. Then, that nothing should be
wanting to his triumph, he obtained the consent of the banker to
Bertomy's marriage with Madeline.

Hurrying from the banker's house, Lecoq hastened to effect the arrest of
the count. He arrived too late. Realising that he was hopelessly in the
toils, the count was bereft of his senses and become a hopeless maniac.

Four days later M. Lecoq, the official M. Lecoq, awaited the arrival of
Nina Gipsy and Prosper Bertomy. They declared that they had come to meet
M. Verduret, who had saved Prosper Bertomy. The detective retired,
promising to summon the man they had come to see. A quarter of an hour
later M. Verduret entered the room. Facing them, he told them how a
friend of his named Caldas had fallen in love with a girl, and how that
girl had been won from him by a man who cared nothing for her.

"Caldas determined to revenge himself in his own way. It was his hand
that saved the man on the very verge of disgrace. I see you know that
you, Nina, are the woman, and you, Prosper, the man; while Caldas
is...."

With a quick gesture he removed his wig and whiskers, and the true Lecoq
appeared.

"Caldas!" cried Nina.

"No, not Caldas, not Verduret, but Lecoq, the detective."

After the moments of amazement had passed, Lecoq turned to leave the
room, but Nina barred the way.

"Caldas," she cried, "have you not punished me enough? Caldas...."

Prosper went from the office alone.

JOHN GALT

Annals of the Parish

     John Gait, poet, dramatist, historian, and novelist, was born
     at Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, on May 2, 1779. He was trained
     for a commercial career in the Greenock Custom House, and in
     the office of a merchant in that seaport. Removing to London,
     Gait engaged in business and afterwards travelled extensively
     to forward mercantile enterprises in all the countries
     bordering on the Mediterranean and the Near East, where he
     repeatedly met Lord Byron. His first work of fiction was a
     Sicilian story, published in 1816, but it was not until 1820
     that he found his true literary expression, when the "Ayrshire
     Legatees" appeared in "Blackwood's Magazine." The success of
     this tale was so great that Gait finished the "Annals of the
     Parish; or the Chronicle of Dalmailing, during the Ministry of
     the Rev. Micah Balwhidder," which he had really begun in 1813,
     and they were published in 1821. The "Annals" contain a lively
     and humorous picture of Scottish character, manners, and
     feeling during the era described. In the latter part of his
     life Gait wrote several novels, a life of Byron, an
     autobiography, and his "Literary Life and Miscellanies." He
     died on April 11, 1838.

_I.--The Placing of Mr. Balwhidder_

The year A.D. 1760 was remarkable for three things in the parish of
Dalmailing. First and foremost, there was my placing, then the coming of
Mrs. Malcolm with her five children to settle among us, and next my
marriage with my own cousin, Miss Betty Lanshaw. The placing was a great
affair, for I was put in by the patron, and the people knew nothing of
me whatsoever. They were really mad and vicious, insomuch that there was
obliged to be a guard of soldiers to protect the presbytery. Dirt was
flung upon us as we passed, and the finger of scorn held out to me. But
I endured it with a resigned spirit, compassionating their wilfulness
and blindness.

The kirk door was nailed up and we were obligated to go in by the
window, making the Lord's house like an inn on a fair-day with their
grievous yelly hooing. Thomas Thorl, the weaver, a pious zealot, got up
at the time of the induction and protested, and said, "Verily, verily, I
say unto you, he that entereth not by the door of the sheepfold, but
climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber."

When the laying on of the hands upon me was adoing, Mr. Given, minister
of Lugton, a jocose man, who could not get near, stretched out his staff
and touched my head, saying, to the great diversion of the rest, "This
will do well enough--timber to timber."

After the ceremony we went to the manse, and there had an excellent
dinner. Although my people received me in this unruly manner, I was
resolved to cultivate civility among them; and next morning I began a
round of visitations. But, oh! it was a steep brae to climb. The doors
in some places were barred against me; in others the bairns ran crying
to their mothers, "Here's the feckless Mess-John." But Thomas Thorl
received me kindly, and said that this early visitation was a symptom of
grace, and that not to condemn me without trial he and some neighbours
would be at the kirk at the next Lord's day, so that I would not have to
preach just to the bare walls and the laird's family.

As to Mrs. Malcolm, she was the widow of a Clyde shipmaster that was
lost at sea with his vessel. A genty body, she never changed her widow's
weeds, and span frae morning tae nicht to keep her bairns and herself.
When her daughter Effie was ill, I called on her in a sympathising way,
and offered her some assistance frae the Session, but she refused help
out of the poor's-box, as it might be hereafter cast up to her bairns.

It was in the year 1761 that the great smuggling trade corrupted the
west coast. Tea was going like chaff, and brandy like well-water. There
was nothing minded but the riding of cadgers by day and excisemen by
night, and battles between the smugglers and the king's men, both by sea
and land; continual drunkenness and debauchery, and our Session had an
awful time o't.

I did all that was in my power to keep my people from the contagion. I
preached sixteen times from the text, "Render to Caesar the things that
are Caesar's." I visited, exhorted, warned, and prophesied, but the evil
got in among us. The third year of my ministry was long held in
remembrance. The small-pox came in among the poor bits o' weans of the
parish, and the smashing it made among them was woeful. When the
pestilence was raging, I preached a sermon about Rachel weeping for her
children, which Thomas Thorl, a great judge of good preaching, said,
"was a monument of divinity whilk searched the heart of many a parent
that day"--a thing I was well pleased to hear, and was minded to make
him an elder the next vacancy. But, worthy man, it was not permitted him
to arrive at that honour; for that fall it pleased Him that alone can
give and take to pluck him from this life.

In this year Charlie Malcolm, Mrs. Malcolm's eldest son, was sent to sea
in a tobacco-trader that sailed between Port Glasgow and Virginia.
Tea-drinking was beginning to spread more openly, in so much that by the
advice of the first Mrs. Balwhidder, Mrs. Malcolm took in tea to sell to
eke out something to the small profits of her wheel. I lost some of my
dislike to the tea after that, and we had it for breakfast at the manse
as well as in the afternoon. But what I thought most of it for was that
it did no harm to the head of the drinkers, which was not always the
case with the possets in fashion before, when I remember decent ladies
coming home with red faces from a posset-masking. So I refrained from
preaching against tea henceforth, but I never lifted the weight of my
displeasure from off the smuggling trade, until it was utterly put down
by the strong hand of government.

_II.--The Minister's Second Marriage_

A memorable year, both in public and private, was 1763. The king granted
peace to the French. Lady Macadam, widow of General Macadam, who lived
in her jointure-house, took Kate Malcolm to live with her as companion,
and she took pleasure in teaching Kate all her accomplishments and how
to behave herself like a lady. The lint-mill on Lugton Water was burned
to the ground, with not a little of the year's crop of lint in our
parish. The first Mrs. Balwhidder lost upwards of twelve stone, which
was intended for sarking to ourselves and sheets and napery. A great
loss indeed it was, and the vexation thereof had a visible effect on her
health, which from the spring had been in a dwining way. But for it, I
think she might have wrestled through the winter. However, it was
ordered otherwise, and she was removed from mine to Abraham's bosom on
Christmas Day, and buried on Hogmanay, for it was thought uncanny to
have a dead corpse in the house on the New Year's Day.

Just by way of diversion in my heavy sorrow, I got a well-shapen
headstone made for her; but a headstone without a epitaph being no
better than a body without the breath of life in't, I made a poesy for
the monument, not in the Latin tongue, which Mrs. Balwhidder, worthy
woman as she was, did not understand, but in sedate language, which was
greatly thought of at the time. My servant lassies, having no eye of a
mistress over them, wasted everything at such a rate that, long before
the end of the year, the year's stipend was all spent, and I did not
know what to do. At lang and length I sent for Mr. Auld, a douce and
discreet elder, and told him how I was situated. He advised me, for my
own sake, to look out for another wife, as soon as decency would allow.

In the following spring I placed my affections, with due consideration,
on Miss Lizzy Kibbock, the well-brought-up daughter of Mr. Joseph
Kibbock, of the Gorbyholm, farmer; and we were married on the 29th day
of April, on account of the dread we had of being married in May, for it
is said, "Of the marriages in May, the bairns die of a decay." The
second Mrs. Balwhidder had a genius for management, and started a dairy,
and set the servant lassies to spin wool for making blankets and lint
for sheets and napery. She sent the butter on market days to Irville,
her cheese and huxtry to Glasgow. We were just coining money, in so much
that, after the first year, we had the whole tot of stipend to put into
the bank.

The opening of coal-pits in Douray Moor brought great prosperity to the
parish, but the coal-carts cut up the roads, especially the Vennel, a
narrow and crooked street in the clachan. Lord Eglesham came down from
London in the spring of 1767 to see the new lands he had bought in our
parish. His coach couped in the Vennel, and his lordship was thrown head
foremost into the mud. He swore like a trooper, and said he would get an
act of parliament to put down the nuisance. His lordship came to the
manse, and, being in a woeful plight, he got the loan of my best suit of
clothes. This made him wonderful jocose both with Mrs. Balwhidder and
me, for he was a portly man, and I but a thin body, and it was really
droll to see his lordship clad in my garments. Out of this accident grew
a sort of neighbourliness between Lord Eglesham and me.

_III.--A Runaway Match_

About Christmas, Lady Macadam's son, having been perfected in the art of
war at a school in France, had, with the help of his mother's friends
and his father's fame, got a stand of colours in the Royal Scots
Regiment. He came to show himself in his regimentals to his lady mother,
and during the visit he fell in love and entered into correspondence
with Kate Malcolm. A while after, her ladyship's flunkey came to the
manse and begged me to go to her. So I went; and there she was, with
gum-flowers on her head, sitting on a settee, for she was lame, and in
her hand she held a letter.

"Sir," she said, as I came into the room, "I want you to go instantly to
your clerk," meaning Mr. Lorimore, the schoolmaster, "and tell him I
will give him a couple of hundred pounds to marry Miss Malcolm without
delay."

"Softly, my lady; you must first tell me the meaning of all this haste
of kindness," said I, in my calm, methodical manner. At which she began
to sob, and bewail her ruin and the dishonour of her family. I was
confounded, but at length it came out that she had accidentally opened a
letter that had come from London for Kate, that she had read it, by
which she came to know that Kate and her darling son were trysted, and
that this was not the first love-letter which had passed between them.
Mr. Lorimore promptly declined her ladyship's proposal, as he was
engaged to be married to his present worthy helpmate. Although her
ladyship was so overcome with passion, she would not part with Kate, nor
allow her to quit the house.

Three years later the young Laird Macadam, being ordered with his
regiment for America, got leave from the king to come and see his lady
mother before his departure. But it was not to see her only. He arrived
at a late hour unwarned, lest his mother would send Kate out of the way;
but no sooner did her ladyship behold his face than she kindled upon
both him and Kate, and ordered them out of her sight and house. The
young folk had discretion. Kate went home to her mother, and the laird
came to the manse and begged us to take him in.

He asked me to perform the ceremony, as he was resolved to marry Kate.
We stepped over to Mrs. Malcolm's house, where we found the saintly
woman with Kate and Erne and Willie, preparing to read their Bible for
the night. After speaking to Mrs. Malcolm for a time, she consented to
the marriage. It was sanctified by me before we left Mrs. Malcolm's, the
young couple setting off in the laird's chaise to Glasgow, and
authorising me to break the matter to Lady Macadam. I was spared this
performance, for the servants jealoused what had been done, and told her
ladyship. When I entered the room she was like a mad woman in Bedlam.
She sent her coachman on horseback to overtake them, which he did at
Kilmarnock, and they returned in the morning, when her ladyship was as
cagey and meikle taken up with them as if they had gotten her full
consent and privilege from the first. Captain Macadam afterwards bought
a house at the Braehead, and gave it, with a judicious income, to Mrs.
Malcolm, telling her it was not becoming that she should any longer be
dependent upon her own industry. For this the young man got a name like
a sweet odour in all the country-side.

It will be remembered that Charlie Malcolm went a-sailing in a
tobacco-trader to America. When his ship was lying in the harbour of
Virginia, a press-gang, that was in need of men for the Avenger,
man-of-war, came on board and pressed poor Charles. I wrote to Lord
Eglesham anent the matter, and his lordship's brother being connected
with the Admiralty, the captain of the man-of-war was instructed to make
a midshipman of Charles. This was done, and Mrs. Malcolm heard from time
to time from her son, saying that he had found a friend in the captain,
that was just a father to him.

In the latter end of 1776, the man-of-war, with Charles Malcolm in her,
came to the Tail of the Bank at Greenock, and Charles got leave from his
captain to come and see his mother. He brought with him Mr. Howard,
another midshipman, the son of a great Parliament man in London. They
were dressed in their fine gold-laced garbs. When Charles had seen his
mother and his sister, Effie, he came with his friend to see me at the
manse, and got Mrs. Balwhidder to ask his friend to sleep there. In
short, we had a ploy the whole two days they stayed with us, Lady
Macadam made for them at a ball, and it was a delight to see how old and
young of all degrees made much of Charles.

_IV.--Years of Lamentation_

I was named in the year 1779 for the General Assembly, and Mrs.
Balwhidder, by her continual thrift, having made our purse able to stand
a shake against the wind, we resolved to go into Edinburgh in a
creditable manner. We put up at Widow M'Vicar's, a relation to my first
wife, a gawsy, furthy woman, taking great pleasure in hospitality. In
short, everybody in Edinburgh was in a manner wearisome kind.

I was delighted and surprised to find Lord Eglesham at the levee, and he
introduced me to his grace the Commissioner, who required me to preach
before him. Fain would I have eschewed the honour that was thus thrust
upon me; but both my wife and Mrs. M'Vicar were just lifted out of
themselves at the thought. After the sermon the Commissioner
complimented me on my apostolic earnestness, and Mrs. M'Vicar said I had
surprised everybody; but I was fearful there was something of jocularity
at the bottom of all this.

The year 1781 was one of dolour and tribulation, for Lord Eglesham was
shot dead by a poaching exciseman, and Lady Macadam died of paralysis;
but the year after was one of greater lamentation. Three brave young
fellows belonging to the clachan, who had gone as soldiers in America,
were killed in battle with the rebels, for which there was great grief.
Shortly after this the news came of a victory over the French fleet, and
by the same post I got a letter from Mr. Howard, the midshipman, telling
me that poor Charles had been mortally wounded in the action, and had
afterwards died of his wounds.

Mrs. Malcolm heard the news of the victory through the steeple bell
being set a-ringing, and she came over to the manse in great anxiety.
When I saw her I could not speak, but looked at her in pity, and, the
tears fleeing into my eyes, she guessed what had happened. After giving
a deep and sore sigh, she inquired, "How did he behave? I hope well, for
he was aye a gallant laddie!" And then she wept very bitterly. I gave
her the letter, which she begged me to give to her to keep, saying,
"It's all that I have left now of my pretty boy; but it is mair precious
to me than the wealth of the Indies!"

_V.--Death of the Second Mrs. Balwhidder_

Some time after this a Mr. Cayenne, a man of crusty temper but good
heart, and his family, American loyalists, settled among us. In the year
1788, a proposal came from Glasgow to build a cotton mill on the banks
of the Brawl burn, a rapid stream which ran through the parish. Mr.
Cayenne took a part in the profit or loss of the concern, and the cotton
mill and a new town was built, and the whole called Cayenneville.
Weavers of muslin were brought to the mill, and women to teach the
lassie bairns in our old clachan tambouring instead of hand-spinning.

Prosperity of fortune is like the golden hue of the evening cloud that
delighteth the spirit and passeth away. In the month of February 1796,
my second wife was gathered to the Lord. Her death was to me a great
sorrow, for she was a most excellent wife, industrious to a degree. With
her I had grown richer than any other minister in the presbytery.

I laid her by the side of my first love, Betty Lanshaw, and I inscribed
her name upon the same headstone. Time had drained my poetical vein, and
I have not yet been able to indite an epithet on her merits and virtues,
for she had an eminent share of both. Above all, she was the mother of
my children. She was not long deposited in her place of rest until