The World’s Greatest Books Vol 8 (page 3)

At seven o’clock next morning the Prince summoned Rassi, and dictated to him another letter. The sentence of twenty years, upon the criminal del Dongo was to be reduced by the Prince’s clemency, at the supplication of the Duchess Sanseverina, to twelve years; and the police were instructed to do their utmost to arrest the offender.

The only difficulty was that of tempting Fabrice into the territory of Parma. A hint to the Marchioness Raversi and her associates removed the obstacle. A forged letter, purporting to be from the Duchess, reached Fabrice at Bologna, telling him that there would be little danger in his meeting her at Castelnovo, within the frontier. Fabrice repaired joyfully to Castelnovo. That night he lay a prisoner in the citadel of Parma; while the Duchess, alone in her room with locked door, sobbed her heart out and raved helplessly against the treachery of princes.

“So long as her nephew is in the citadel,” said the Prince to himself, “the Duchess will be in Parma.”

The citadel of Parma is a colossal building with a flat roof 180 feet above the level of the ground. On this roof are erected two structures: one, the governor’s residence; the other, the Famese tower, a prison specially erected for a recalcitrant prince of earlier days. In this tower Fabrice, as a prisoner of importance, was confined; and as he looked from the window on the evening of his arrival and beheld the superb panorama of the distant Alps, he reflected pleasantly that he might have found a worse dungeon.

On the next morning his attention was absorbed by something nearer at hand. His window overlooked one belonging to the governor’s palace; in this window were many bird cages, and at eleven o’clock a maiden came to feed the birds. Fabrice recognised her as Celia Conti, the governor’s daughter. He succeeded in attracting her attention; she blushed and withdrew. But next day she came again at the same hour. On the third day, however, a heavy wooden shutter was clapped upon the window. Nothing daunted, Fabrice proceeded patiently to cut a peep-hole in the shutter by aid of the mainspring of his watch. When he had succeeded in removing a square piece of the wood, he looked with delight upon Clelia gazing at his window with eyes of profound pity, unconscious that she was observed.

Gradually he broke down the maiden’s reserve. She discovered the secret of the peep-hole; she consented to communicate with him; finally the two conversed by a system of signals. Fabrice even dared to tell Clelia that he loved her–and truly he was in love, for the first time in his life. The worst of it was that these declarations were apt to bring the conversation to an end; so Fabrice was sparing of them.

Clelia, meanwhile, was in sore perplexity. Her father, General Fabio Conti the governor, was a political opponent of Count Mosca, and had ambitions of office. These ambitions might be forwarded, he deemed, by the successful marriage of his daughter. He did not desire that she should remain a lovely recluse, feeding birds on the top of the citadel. Accordingly he had presented to her an ultimatum; either she must marry the Marquis Crescenzi, the wealthiest nobleman of Parma, who sought her hand, or she must retire to a convent.

The signalled conversations with Fabrice, therefore, could not last long. And yet she had beyond doubt fallen deeply in love with Fabrice. She knew he was her father’s prisoner, and belonged to the party hostile to her father; she was ashamed, as a daughter, of her love for him. But she admired him, and pitied him; she was well aware that he was a victim of political intrigue, for why should a nobleman of Fabrice’s standing be thus punished for killing a mere actor? The stolen interviews with the captive were as dear to her as to him; and so dear were they to him that, after months of imprisonment he declared that he had never been so happy in his life.

_IV.–The Escape_

One night, as Fabrice looked through his peep-hole, he became aware of a light flashing from the town. Obviously some attempt was being made at signalling. He observed the flashes, counting them in relation to the order of the letters in the alphabet–one for A, two for B, and so on. He discovered that the message was from the Duchess, and was directed to himself. He replied, on the same system, by passing his lantern in front of the peep-hole. The answer from the distance was important; arrangements were being made for his escape. But he did not want to escape.

Next day he told Clelia of his message, and of his unwillingness to leave the prison. She gave no answer, but burst into tears. How could she tell him that she herself must presently leave–for marriage or a convent?

Next day, Fabrice, by his gaoler’s connivance, received a long letter from Clelia. She urged him to escape, declaring that at any time the Prince might order his execution, and in addition that he was in danger of death by poison. Straightway he sought an interview with Clelia, with whom he had not hitherto conversed save by signals from their windows. The gaoler arranged that they should meet when Fabrice was being conducted from his cell to the roof of the Farnese tower, where he was occasionally allowed to take exercise.

“I can speak but few words to you,” she said trembling, with tears in her eyes. “Swear that you will obey the Duchess, and escape when she wishes and as she wishes.”

“And condemn myself to live far away from her whom I love?”

“Swear it! for my sake, swear it!” she implored hint.

“Well then, I swear it!”

The preparations were quickly advanced. Three knotted ropes were smuggled with Clelia’s aid into Fabrice’s cell–one for descending the 35 feet between his window and the roof of the citadel; another for descending the tremendous wall of 180 feet between the roof and the ramparts; a third for the 30 feet between the top of the ramparts and the ground.

A feast-day, when the garrison of the citadel would presumably be drunk, was chosen for the attempt. Fabrice spent the time of waiting in cutting a hole in his shutter large enough to enable him to get through. Fortunately, on the night of the feast-day a thick fog arose and enveloped the citadel. The Duchess had seen to it that the garrison was plentifully supplied with wine.

Fabrice attached one of the shorter ropes to his bed, and struggled through the shutter–an ungainly figure, for round his body was wound the immense rope necessary for the long descent. Once on the roof-platform he made his way along the parapet until he came to a new stove which he had been told marked the best spot for lowering the rope. He could hear the soldiers talking near at hand, but the fog made him invisible. Unrolling his rope, and fastening his rope to the parapet by threading it through a water-duct, he flung it over; then, with a prayer and a thought of Clelia, he began to descend.

At first he went down mechanically, as if doing the feat for a wager. About half-way down, his arms seemed to lose their strength; he nearly let go–he might have fallen had he not supported himself by clinging to the vegetation on the wall. From time to time he felt horrible pain between the shoulders. Birds hustled against him now and then; he feared at the first contact with them that pursuers were coming down the rope after him. But he reached the rampart undamaged save for bleeding hands.

He was quite exhausted; for a few minutes he slept. On waking and realising the situation, he attached his third rope to a cannon, and hurried down to the ground. Two men seized him just as he fainted at the foot.

A few hours afterwards a carriage crossed the frontier with Ludovico on the box, and within it the Duchess watching over the sleeping Fabrice. The journey did not end until they had reached Locarno on Lake Maggiore.

_V.–Clelia’s Vow_

To Locarno soon afterwards came die news that Ranuce Ernest IV. was dead. Fabrice could now safely return, for the young Ranuce Ernest V. was believed to be entirely under the influence of Count Mosca, and was an honest youth without the tyrannical instincts of his father. Nevertheless the Duchess returned first, to make certain of Fabrice’s security. She employed her whole influence to hasten forward the wedding of Clelia with the Marquis Crescenzi; she was jealous of the ascendancy the girl had gained over her beloved nephew.

Fabrice, on reaching Parma, was well received by the young Prince. Witnesses, he was told, had been found who could prove that he had killed Giletti in self-defence. He would spend a few days in a purely nominal confinement in the city gaol, and then would be tried by impartial judges and released.

Imagine the consternation of the Duchess when she learnt that Fabrice, having to go to prison, had deliberately given himself up at the citadel!

She saw the danger clearly. Fabrice was in the hands of Count Mosca’s political opponents, among whom General Conti was still a leading spirit. They would not suffer him to escape this time. Fabrice would be poisoned.

Clelia, too, knew that this would be his fate. When she saw him once again at the old window, happily signalling to her, she was smitten with panic terror. Her alarm was realised when she learnt of a plot between Rassi and her father to poison the prisoner.

On the second day of his confinement Fabrice was about to eat his dinner when Clelia, in desperate agitation, forced her way into his cell.

“Have you tasted it?” she cried, grasping his arm.

Fabrice guessed the state of affairs with delight. He seized her in his arms and kissed her.

“Help me to die,” he said.

“Oh, my beloved,” she answered, “let me die with you.”

“Let me not spoil our happiness with a lie,” said he as he embraced her. “I have not yet tasted.”

For an instant Clelia looked at him in anger; then she fell again into his arms.

At that instant there came a sound of men hurrying. There entered the Prince’s aide-de-camp, with order to remove Fabrice from the citadel and to seize the poisoned food. The Duchess had heard of the plot, and had persuaded the Prince to take instant action.

Clelia, when her father was in danger of death on account of the plot, vowed before the Virgin Mary never again to look upon the face of Fabrice. Her father escaped with a sentence of banishment; and Clelia, to the profound satisfaction of the Duchess, was wedded to the Marquis Crescenzi. The Duchess was now a widow, Count Mosca a widower. Their long friendship, after Fabrice’s triumphant acquittal, was cemented by marriage.

The loss of Clelia left Fabrice inconsolable. He shunned society; he lived a life of religious retirement, and gained a reputation for piety that even inspired the jealousy of his good friend the Archbishop.

At length Fabrice emerged from his solitude; he came forth as a preacher, and his success was unequalled. All Parma, gentle and simple, flocked to hear the famous devotee–slender, ill-clad, so handsome and yet so profoundly melancholy. And ere he began each sermon, Fabrice looked earnestly round his congregation to see if Clelia was there.

But Clelia, adhering to her vow, stayed away. It was not until she was told that a certain Anetta Marini was in love with the preacher, and that gossip asserted that the preacher was smitten with Anetta Marini, that she changed her mind.

One evening, as Fabrice stood in the pulpit, he saw Clelia before him. Her eyes were filled with tears; he looked so pale, so thin, so worn. But never had he preached as he preached that night.

After the sermon he received a note asking him to be at a small garden door of the Crescenzi Palace at midnight on the next night. Eagerly he obeyed; when he reached the door, a voice called him enter. The darkness was intense; he could see nothing.

“I have asked you to come here,” said the voice, “to say that I still love you. But I have vowed to the Virgin never to see your face; that is why I receive you in this darkness. And let me beg you–never preach again before Anetta Marini.

“My angel,” replied the enraptured Fabrice, “I shall never preach again before anyone; it was only in the hope of seeing you that I preached at all.”

During the following three years the two often met in darkness. But twice, by accident, Clelia again broke her vow by looking on Fabrice’s face. Her conscience preyed upon her; she wore away and died.

A few days afterwards Fabrice resigned his reversion to the Archbishopric, and retired to the Chartreuse of Parma. He ended his days in the monastery only a year afterwards.

* * * * *

LAURENCE STERNE

Tristram Shandy

A more uncanonical book than the Rev. Laurence Sterne’s “Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,” has never been printed since the monk Rabelais gave to the world his celebrated masterpiece. “Shandy” made its first appearance in 1757 at York, whose inhabitants were greatly shocked, generally, at its audacious wit; and particularly at the caricature of a local physician. But the success of “Shandy” was pronounced: it spread to the southern counties and to London, where a second edition was published in 1760. “Parson Yorick,” as he styles himself in the book, was continually invited to add to it, with the result that between 1761 and 1767 eight more numbers were added to the original slim volume. There are many imperfections in “Tristram Shandy,” both from the standpoint of art and taste; yet withal it remains one of the great classics in English literature, its many passages of genuine humour and wit ensuring an immortality for the wayward genius of Laurence Sterne. (Sterne, biography: See Vol. XIX.)

_I_

On the fifth day of November, 1718, was I, Tristram Shandy, gentleman, brought forth into this scurvy and disastrous world of ours. I wish I had been born in the moon, or in any of the planets (except Jupiter or Saturn), because I never could bear cold weather; for it could not well have fared worse with me in any of them (though I will not answer for Venus) than it has in this vile dirty planet of ours, which of my conscience with reverence be it spoken I take to be made up of the shreds and clippings of the rest; not but the planet is well enough, provided a man could be born in it to a great title or to a great estate, or could anyhow contrive to be called up to public charges and employments of dignity and power; but that is not my case; and therefore every man will speak of the fair as his own market has gone in it; for which cause I affirm it over again to be one of the vilest worlds that ever was made; for I can truly say, that from the first hour I drew breath in it, to this–I can now scarce draw it at all, for an asthma I got in skating against the wind in Flanders–I have been the continual sport of what the world calls Fortune, and though I will not wrong her by saying she has ever made me feel the weight of any great and signal evil, yet with all the good temper in the world, I affirm it of her, that in every stage of my life, and at every turn and corner where she could get fairly at me, the ungracious duchess has pelted me with a set of as pitiful misadventures and cross accidents as ever small hero sustained.

_II_

“I wonder what’s all that noise and running backwards and forwards for above stairs?” quoth my father, addressing himself after an hour and a half’s silence to my Uncle Toby, who, you must know, was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, smoking his pipe all the time in mute contemplation of a new pair of black plush breeches which he had got on. “What can they be doing, brother?” quoth my father; “We can scarce hear ourselves talk.”

“I think,” replied my uncle Toby, taking his pipe from his mouth and striking the head of it two or three times upon the nail of his left thumb as he began his sentence; “I think,” says he–but to enter rightly into my Uncle Toby’s sentiments upon this matter, you must be made to enter just a little into his character.

_III_

The wound in my Uncle Toby’s groin, which he received at the siege of Namur, rendering him unfit for the service, it was thought expedient he should return to England, in order, if possible, to be set to rights.

He was four years totally confined, partly to his bed and all of it to his room; and in the course of his cure, which was all that time in hand, suffered unspeakable misery.

My father at that time was just beginning business in London, and had taken a house, and as the truest friendship and cordiality subsisted between the two brothers, and as my father thought my Uncle Toby could nowhere be so well nursed and taken care of as in his own house, he assigned him the very best apartment in it. And what was a much more sincere mark of his affection still, he would never suffer a friend or acquaintance to step into the house, but he would take him by the hand, and lead him upstairs to see his brother Toby, and chat an hour by his bedside.

The history of a soldier’s wound beguiles the pain of it–my uncle’s visitors at least thought so, and they would frequently turn the discourse to that subject, and from that subject the discourse would generally roll on to the siege itself.

_IV_

When my Uncle Toby got his map of Namur to his mind he began immediately to apply himself, and with the utmost diligence, to the study of it. The more my Uncle Toby pored over the map, the more he took a liking to it.

In the latter end of the third year my Uncle began to break in upon daily regularity of a clean shirt, and to allow his surgeon scarce time sufficient to dress his wound, concerning himself so little about it as not to ask him once in seven times dressing how it went on, when, lo! all of a sudden–for the change was as quick as lightning–he began to sigh heavily for his recovery, complained to my father, grew impatient with the surgeon; and one morning, as he heard his foot coming upstairs, he shut up his books and thrust aside his instruments, in order to expostulate with him upon the protraction of his cure, which he told him might surely have been accomplished at least by that time.

Desire of life and health is implanted in man’s nature; the love of liberty and enlargement is a sister-passion to it. These my Uncle Toby had in common with his species. But nothing wrought with our family after the common way.

_V_

When a man gives himself up to the government of a ruling passion, or, in other words, when his hobbyhorse grows headstrong, farewell cool reason and fair discretion. My Uncle Toby’s wound was near well; he broiled with impatience to put his design in execution; and so, without consulting further, with any soul living, which, by the way, I think is right, when you are predetermined to take no one soul’s advice, he privately ordered Trim, his man, to pack up a bundle of lint and dressings, and hire a chariot and four to be at the door exactly by twelve o’clock that day, when he knew my father would be upon change. So, leaving a banknote upon the table for the surgeon’s care of him, and a letter of tender thanks for his brother’s, he packed up his maps, his books of fortification, his instruments, and so forth, and by the help of a crutch on one side and Trim on the other, my Uncle Toby embarked for Shandy Hall.

The reason, or rather the rise, of this sudden demigration was as follows:

The table in my Uncle Toby’s room, being somewhat of the smallest, for that infinity of great and small instruments of knowledge which usually lay crowded upon it, he had the accident in reaching over for his tobacco box to throw down his compasses, and in stooping to take the compasses up, with his sleeve he threw down his case of instruments and snuffers; and in his endeavouring to catch the snuffers in falling, he thrust his books off the table. ‘Twas to no purpose for a man, lame as my Uncle Toby was, to think of redressing all these evils by himself; he rung his bell for his man Trim,–“Trim,” quoth my Uncle Toby, “prithee see what confusion I have been making. I must have some better contrivance, Trim.”

I must here inform you that this servant of my Uncle Toby’s, who went by the name of Trim, had been a corporal in my Uncle’s own company. His real name was James Butter, but having got the nickname of Trim in the regiment, my Uncle Toby, unless when he happened to be very angry with him, would never call him by any other name.

The poor fellow had been disabled for the service by a wound on his left knee by a musket bullet at the Battle of Landen, which was two years before the affair of Namur; and as the fellow was well-beloved in the regiment, and a handy fellow into the bargain, my Uncle Toby took him for his servant, and of excellent use was he, attending my Uncle Toby in the camp and in his quarters as valet, groom, barber, cook, sempster, and nurse; and indeed, from first to last, waited upon him and served him with great fidelity and affection.

My Uncle Toby loved the man in return, and what attached him more to him still, was the similitude of their knowledge; for Corporal Trim by four years occasional attention to his master’s discourse upon fortified towns had become no mean proficient in the science, and was thought by the cook and chambermaid to know as much of the nature of strongholds as my Uncle Toby himself.

“If I durst presume,” said Trim, “to give your honour my advice, and speak my opinion in this matter”–“Thou art welcome, Trim,” quoth my Uncle Toby. “Why then,” replied Trim, pointing with his right hand towards a map of Dunkirk: “I think with humble submission to your honour’s better judgement, that the ravelins, bastions, and curtains, make but a poor, contemptible, fiddle-faddle piece of work of it here upon paper, compared to what your honour and I could make of it were we out in the country by ourselves, and had but a rood and a half of ground to do what we pleased with. As summer is coming on,” continued Trim, “your honour might sit out of doors and give me the nography”–(call it icnography, quoth my uncle)–“of the town or citadel your honour was pleased to sit down before, and I will be shot by your honour upon the glacis of it if I did not fortify it to your honour’s mind.”–“I dare say thou wouldst, Trim,” quoth my uncle. “I would throw out the earth,” continued the corporal, “upon this hand towards the town for the scarp, and on the right hand towards the campaign for the counterscarp.”–“Very right, Trim,” quoth my Uncle Toby.–“And when I had sloped them to your mind, an’ please your honour, I would face the glacis, as the finest fortifications are done in Flanders, with sods, and as your honour knows they should be, and I would make the walls and parapets with sods too.”–“The best engineers call them gazons, Trim,” said my Uncle Toby.

“Your honour understands these matters,” replied corporal Trim, “better than any officer in His Majesty’s service; but would your honour please but let us go into the country, I would work under your honour’s directions like a horse, and make fortifications for you something like a Tansy with all their batteries, saps, ditches, and pallisadoes, that it should be worth all the world to ride twenty miles to go and see it.”

My Uncle Toby blushed as red as scarlet as Trim went on, but it was not a blush of guilt, of modesty, or of anger–it was a blush of joy; he was fired with Corporal Trim’s project and description. “Trim,” said my Uncle Toby, “say no more; but go down, Trim, this moment, my lad, and bring up my supper this instant.”

Trim ran down and brought up his master’s supper, to no purpose. Trim’s plan of operation ran so in my Uncle Toby’s head, he could not taste it. “Trim,” quoth my Uncle Toby, “get me to bed.” ‘Twas all one. Corporal Trim’s description had fired his imagination. My Uncle Toby could not shut his eyes. The more he considered it, the more bewitching the scene appeared to him; so that two full hours before daylight he had come to a final determination, and had concerted the whole plan of his and Corporal Trim’s decampment.

My Uncle Toby had a neat little country house of his own in the village where my father’s estate lay at Shandy. Behind this house was a kitchen garden of about half an acre; and at the bottom of the garden, and cut off from it by a tall yew hedge, was a bowling-green, containing just about as much ground as Corporal Trim wished for. So that as Trim uttered the words, “a rood and a half of ground, to do what they would with,” this identical bowling-green instantly presented itself upon the retina of my Uncle Toby’s fancy.

Never did lover post down to a beloved mistress with more heat and expectation than my Uncle Toby did to enjoy this self-same thing in private.

_VI_

“Then reach my breeches off the chair,” said my father to Susanah.–“There’s not a moment’s time to dress you, sir,” cried Susanah; “bless me, sir, the child’s in a fit. Mr. Yorick’s curate’s in the dressing room with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name; and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as Captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him.”

“Were one sure,” said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, “that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as not, and ‘twould be a pity in such a case to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him. But he may recover.”

“No, no,” said my father to Susanah, “I’ll get up.”–“There’s no time,” cried Susanah, “the child’s as black as my shoe.”–“Trismegistus,” said my father: “but stay; thou art a leaky vessel, Susanah; canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head the length of the gallery without scattering?”–“Can I,” cried Susanah, shutting the door in a huff.–“If she can, I’ll be shot,” said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark and groping for his breeches.

Susanah ran with all speed along the gallery.

My father made all possible speed to find his breeches. Susanah got the start and kept it. “‘Tis Tris something,” cried Susanah.–“There is no Christian name in the world,” said the curate, “beginning with Tris, but Tristram.”–“Then ’tis Tristram-gistus,” quoth Susanah.

“There is no gistus to it, noodle; ’tis my own name,” replied the curate, dipping his hand as he spoke into the basin. “Tristram,” said he, etc., etc. So Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.

_VII.–The Story of Le Fevre_

It was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the Allies, which was about seven years after the time that my Uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father’s house in town, in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest cities in Europe, when my Uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard, when the landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack: “‘Tis for a poor gentleman, I think, of the Army,” said the landlord, “who has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste anything, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast: ‘I think,’ says he, ‘it would comfort me.’ If I could neither beg, borrow nor buy such a thing,” added the landlord, “I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in God he will still mend, we are all of us concerned for him.”

“Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee,” cried my Uncle Toby, “and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman’s health in a glass of sack thyself, and take a couple of bottles with my service and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do him good.”

“Though I am persuaded,” said my Uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, “he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something more than common in him, that in so short a time should win so much upon the affections of his host.”–“And of his whole family,” added the Corporal, “for they are all concerned for him.”–“Step after him,” said my Uncle Toby; “do, Trim, ask if he knows his name.”

“I have quite forgot it truly,” said the landlord, coming back to the parlour with the Corporal, “but I can ask his son again.”–“Has he a son with him, then?” said my Uncle Toby.–“A boy,” replied the landlord, “of about eleven or twelve years of age; but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bedside these two days.”

My Uncle Toby lay down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took it away without saying one word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco.

“Trim,” said my Uncle Toby, after he had lighted his pipe and smoked about a dozen whiffs; “I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm and paying a visit to this poor gentleman.” “Leave it, an’ please your honour, to me,” quoth the Corporal; “I’ll take my hat and stick and go to the house and reconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honour a full account in an hour.”

_VIII.–The Story of Le Fevre (continued)_

It was not till my Uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account.

“I despaired at first,” said the Corporal, “of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honour about the Lieutenant and his son; for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to be asked,”–(“that’s a right distinction, Trim,” said my Uncle Toby)–“I was answered, an’ please your honour, that he had no servant with him; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to join, I suppose the regiment) he had dismissed the morning after he came. ‘If I get better, my dear,’ said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man, ‘we can hire horses from hence’–‘but, alas! the poor gentleman will never get from hence,’ said the landlady to me, ‘for I heard the deathwatch all night long; and when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him, for he’s broken-hearted already.’ I was hearing this account, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of. ‘But I will do it for my father myself,’ said the youth.–‘Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman,’ said I, taking up a fork for that purpose.–‘I believe, sir,’ said he, very modestly, ‘I can please him best myself.’–‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘his honour will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier,’ The youth took hold of my hand and instantly burst into tears.” (“Poor youth,” said my Uncle Toby, “he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend. I wish I had him here.”)

“When I gave him the toast,” continued the Corporal, “I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy’s servant, and that your honour (though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father, and that if there was anything in your house or cellar,”–(“And thou mightest have added my purse, too,” said my Uncle Toby)–he was heartily welcome to it. He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour) but no answer, for his heart was full; so he went upstairs with the toast. When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that he should be glad if I would step upstairs. He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up close to his bedside. ‘If you are Captain Shandy’s servant,’ said he, ‘you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy’s thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me: if he was of Leven’s,’ said the Lieutenant,–I told him your honour was. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him; but ’tis most likely that he remembers nothing of me. You will tell him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations to him is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus’–‘but he knows me not,’ said he a second time, musing. ‘Possibly he may know my story,’ added he. ‘Pray tell the Captain I was the ensign at Breda whose wife was most unfortunately killed with musket-shot as she lay in my arms in my tent'”

“I remember,” said my Uncle Toby, sighing, “the story of the ensign and his wife. But finish the story thou art upon.”–“‘Tis finished already,” said the Corporal, “for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour good night; young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs, and, as we went down, he told me they had come from Ireland and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But, alas!” said the Corporal, “the lieutenant’s last day’s march is over.”

_IX.–The Story of Le Fevre (concluded)_

“Thou hast left this matter short,” said my Uncle Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting him to bed, “and I will tell thee in what, Trim. When thou offeredst Le Fevre whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house, too. A sick brother officer should have the best quarter’s, Trim, and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, and what with thy care of him, and the old woman’s, and his boy’s, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once and set him upon his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks he might march.”

“He will never march, an’ please your honour, in this world,” said the Corporal.–“He will march,” said my Uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe off. “An’ please your honour,” said the Corporal, “he will never march but to his grave.”–“He shall march,” cried my Uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, “he shall march to his regiment.” “He cannot stand it,” said the Corporal.–“He shall be supported,” said my Uncle Toby. “He’ll drop at last,” said the Corporal.–“He shall not drop,” said my Uncle Toby, firmly.–“Ah, well-a-day, do what we can for him,” said Trim, “the poor soul will die.”–“He shall not die, by G—-,” cried my Uncle Toby.

The Accusing Spirit which flew up to Heaven’s chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.

* * * * *

The sun looked bright the morning after to every eye in the village but Le Fevre’s and his afflicted son’s. My Uncle Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant’s room, and sat himself down upon the chair by the bedside, and opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it.

There was a frankness in my Uncle Toby–not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it–which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to the last citadel, the heart, rallied back. The film forsook his eyes for a moment. He looked up wistfully in my Uncle Toby’s face, then cast a look upon his boy. Nature instantly ebbed again. The film returned to its place: the pulse fluttered, stopped, went on–throbbed, stopped again–moved, stopped—-.

My Uncle Toby, with young Le Fevre in his hand, attended the poor lieutenant as chief mourners to his grave.

* * * * *

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Uncle Tom’s Cabin

When the authoress of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Harriet Elizabeth Beecher Stowe, visited the White House in 1863, President Lincoln took her hand, and, looking down from his great height, said, “Is this the little woman who brought on so great a war?” But, strangely enough, the attitude of the writer was thoroughly misunderstood. A terrible indictment against the principle of slavery the story certainly is. “Scenes, incidents, conversation, rushed upon her,” says one of her biographers, “with a vividness that would not be denied. The book insisted upon getting itself into print.” Yet there is no trace of bitterness against those who inherited slaves throughout the story. The most attractive personages are Southerners, the most repulsive Northerners. No more delightful a picture of conditions under slavery has ever been drawn as that with which the book opens–on the Shelby estate in Kentucky. Mrs. Stowe was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, on June 14, 1812. Her father was the Rev. Lyman Beecher, her brother Henry Ward Beecher. She died on July 1, 1896. “Uncle Tom,” published in book form in 1852, is one of the most successful novels of modern times. In less than a week of its appearance, 10,000 copies were sold, and before the end of the year 300,000 copies had been supplied to the public. It was almost at once translated into all European languages. Mrs. Stowe wrote about forty other stories, but posterity will know her as the authoress of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” only.

_I.–Humane Dealing_

Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February two gentlemen were sitting over their wine, in a well-furnished parlour in the town of P—- in Kentucky in the midst of an earnest conversation.

“That is the way I should arrange the matter,” said Mr. Shelby, the owner of the place. “The fact is, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is certainly worth that sum anywhere; steady, honest, capable, manages my farm like a clock. You ought to let him cover the whole of the debt; and you would, Haley, if you’d got any conscience.”

“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in business can afford to keep,” said Haley, “and I’m willing to do anything to ‘blige friends; but this yer, ye see, is too hard on a feller, it really is. Haven’t you a boy or gal you could thrown in with Tom?”

“Hum!–none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it’s only hard necessity makes me sell at all.” Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, remarkably beautiful and engaging, entered with a comic air of assurance which showed he was used to being petted and noticed by his master. “Hulloa, Jim Crow,” said Mr. Shelby, snapping a bunch of raisins towards him, “pick that up, now!” The child scampered, with all his little strength after the prize, while his master laughed. “Tell you what,” said Haley, “fling in that chap, and I’ll settle the business, I will.”

At this moment a young woman, obviously the child’s mother, came in search of him, and Haley, as soon as she had carried him away, turned to Mr. Shelby in admiration.

“By Jupiter!” said the trader, “there’s an article now! You might make your fortune on that one gal in Orleans, any way. What shall I say for her? What’ll you take?”

“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold. I say no, and I mean no,” said Mr. Shelby, decidedly.

“Well, you’ll let me have the boy, though.”

“I would rather not sell him,” said Mr. Shelby; “the fact is, I’m a humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his mother, sir.”

“Oh, you do? La, yes, I understand perfectly. It is mighty unpleasant getting on with women sometimes. I al’ays hates these yer screechin’ times. As I manages business, I generally avoids ’em, sir. Now, what if you get the gal off for a day or so? then the thing’s done quietly. It’s always best to do the humane thing, sir; that’s been my experience.” “I’d like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps,” said Mr. Shelby to himself, when the trader had bowed himself out. “And Eliza’s child, too! I know I shall have some fuss with the wife about that, and for that matter, about Tom, too! So much for being in debt, heigho!”

* * * * *

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom’s Cabin had been protracted to a very late hour, and Tom and his worthy helpmeet were not yet asleep, when between twelve and one there was a light tap on the window pane.

“Good Lord! what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting up. “My sakes alive, if it aint Lizzy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick. I’m gwine to open the door.” And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of the candle which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the face of Eliza. “I’m running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe–carrying off my child. Master sold him.”

“Sold him?” echoed both, holding up their hands in dismay.

“Yes, sold him!” said Eliza firmly. “I crept into the closet by mistress’s door to-night, and I heard master tell missus that he had sold my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both to a trader, and that the man was to take possession to-day.”

Slowly, as the meaning of this speech came over Tom, he collapsed on his old chair, and sunk his head on his knees.

“The good Lord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe. “What has he done that mas’r should sell him?”

“He hasn’t done anything–it isn’t for that. I heard Master say there was no choice between selling these two, and selling all, the man was driving him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but, oh! missis! you should have heard her talk! If she ain’t a Christian and an angel, there never was one. I’m a wicked girl to leave her so–but then I can’t help it, the Lord forgive me, for I can’t help doing it.”

“Well, old man,” said Aunt Chloe, “why don’t you go too? Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work and starving? There’s time for ye; be off with Lizzy, you’ve got a pass to come and go any time.”

Tom slowly raised his head, and sorrowfully said, “No, no: I aint going. Let Eliza go–it’s her right. ‘Tan’t in _natur_ for her to stay, but you heard what she said. If I must be sold, or all the people on the place and everything to go to rack, why let me be sold. Mas’r aint to blame, Chloe; and he’ll take care of you and the poor–.” Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly heads and fairly broke down.

“And now,” said Eliza, “do try, if you can, to get a word to my husband. He told me this afternoon he was going to run away. Tell him why I went, and tell him, I’m going to try and find Canada. Give my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him again–tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven.”

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and she glided noiselessly away.

_II.–Eliza’s Escape_

It is impossible to conceive of a human being more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza as she left the only home she had ever known. Her husband’s sufferings and danger, and the danger of her child, all blended in her mind, she trembled at every sound, and every quaking leaf quickened her steps. She felt the weight of her boy as if it had been a feather, he was old enough to have walked by her side, but now she strained him to her bosom as she went rapidly forward; and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the supernatural strength that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, “Lord help me.”

Still she went, leaving one familiar object after another, till reddening daylight found her many a long mile, upon the open highway, on the way to the village of T—- upon the Ohio river, when she constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly, quickening the speed of her child, by rolling an apple before him, when the boy would run with all his might after it; this ruse often repeated carried them over many a half-mile.

An hour before sunset she came in sight of the river, which lay between her and liberty. Great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. Eliza turned into a small public house to ask if there was no ferry boat.

“No, indeed,” said the hostess, stopping her cooking as Eliza’s sweet, plaintive voice fell on her ear; “the boats has stopped running.” Eliza’s look of dismay struck her and she said, “Maybe you’re wanting to get over? anybody sick? Ye seem mighty anxious.”

“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza, “I never heard of it till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry.”

“Well, now, that’s unlucky” said the woman, her motherly sympathies aroused; “I’m rilly concerned for ye. Solomon!” she called from the window. “I say Sol, is that ar man going to tote them bar’ls over to-night?”

“He said he should try, if ’twas any ways prudent,” replied a man’s voice.

“There’s a man going over to-night, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in to supper, so you’d better sit down and wait. That’s a sweet little fellow” added the woman, offering him a cake.

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.

“Take him into this room,” said the woman opening into a small bedroom, and Eliza laid the weary boy on the comfortable bed, and held his hands till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest, the thought of her pursuers urged her on, and she gazed with longing eyes on the swaying waters between her and liberty.

She was standing by the window as Haley and two of Mr. Shelby’s servants came riding by. Sam, the foremost, catching sight of her, contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation. She drew back and the whole train swept by to the front door. A thousand lives were concentrated in that moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child and sprang down the steps. The trader caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared down the bank, and calling loudly to Sam and Andy, was after her like a hound after a deer. Her feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, a moment brought her to the water’s edge. Right on behind they came, and nerved with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the current by the shore, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap–impossible to anything but madmen and despair. The huge green fragment of ice pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake; stumbling, leaping, slipping, springing upwards again. Her shoes were gone–her stockings cut from her feet–while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.

“Yer a brave girl, now, whoever ye are!” said he. Eliza recognised a farmer from near her old home. “Oh, Mr. Symmes! save me! do save me! do hide me!” said Eliza.

“Why, what’s this?” said the man, “why, if ‘taint Shelby’s gal!”

“My child!–this boy–he’d sold him! There is his mas’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “Oh, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.”

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly but kindly helped her up the bank. “Besides, you’re a right brave gal. I’d be glad to do something for you. The best thing I can do is to tell you to go _there_,” pointing to a large white house, standing by itself, “they’re kind folks. There’s no kind o’ danger but they’ll help you–they’re up to all that sort of thing.”

“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza earnestly, and folding her child to her bosom, walked firmly away.

* * * * *

Late that night the fugitives were driven to the house of a man who had once been a considerable shareholder in Kentucky; but, being possessed of a great, honest, just heart, he had witnessed for years with uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad for oppressors and oppressed, and one day bought some land in Ohio, made out free passes for all his people, and settled down to enjoy his conscience. He conveyed Eliza to a Quaker settlement, where by the help of these good friends she was joined by her husband and soon landed in Canada. Free!

_III.–The Property Is Carried Off_

An unceremonious kick pushed open the door of Uncle Tom’s cabin, and Mr. Haley stood there in very ill humour after his hard riding and ill success.

“Come, ye nigger, ye’r ready. Servant, ma’am!” said he, taking off his hat as he saw Mrs. Shelby, who detained him a few moments. Speaking in an earnest manner, she made him promise to let her know to whom he sold Tom; while Tom rose up meekly, and his wife took the baby in her arms, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire, to go with him to the wagon: “Get in,” said Haley, and Tom got in, when Haley made fast a heavy pair of shackles round each ankle; a groan of indignation ran round the crowd of servants gathered to bid Tom farewell. Mr. Shelby had gone away on business, hoping all would be over before he returned.

“Give my love to Mas’r George,” said Tom earnestly, as he was whirled away, fixing a steady, mournful look to the last on the old place. Tom insensibly won his way far into the confidence of such a man as Mr. Haley, and on the steamboat was permitted to come and go freely where he pleased. Among the passengers was a young gentleman of New Orleans whose little daughter often and often walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s gang of men and women were chained. To Tom she appeared almost divine; he half believed he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New Testament, and they soon got on confidential terms. As the steamer drew near New Orleans Mr. St. Clare, carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom’s chin, said good-humouredly, “Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master.”

It was not in nature to look into that gay, handsome young face without pleasure, and Tom said heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r.”

Eva’s fancy for him had led her to petition her father that Tom might be her special attendant in her walks and rides. He was called coachman, but his stable duties were a sinecure; struck with his good business capacity, his master confided in him more and more, till gradually all the providing for the family was entrusted to him. Tom regarded his airy young master with an odd mixture of fealty, reverence and fatherly solicitude, and his friendship with Eva grew with the child’s growth; but his home yearnings grew so strong that he tried to write a letter–so unsuccessfully that St. Clare offered to write for him, and. Tom had the joy of receiving an answer from Master George, stating that Aunt Chloe had been hired out, at her own request, to a confectioner, and was gaining vast sums of money, all of which was to be laid by for Tom’s redemption.

About two years after his coming, Eva began to fail rapidly, and even her father could no longer deceive himself. Eva was about to leave him. It was Tom’s greatest joy to carry the frail little form in his arms, up and down, into the veranda, and to him she talked, what she would not distress her father with, of these mysterious intimations which the soul feels ere it leaves its clay for ever. He lay, at last, all night in the veranda ready to rouse at the least call, and at midnight came the message. Earth was passed and earthly pain; so solemn was the triumphant brightness of that face it checked even the sobs of sorrow. A glorious smile, and she said, brokenly, “Oh–love–joy–peace” and passed from death unto life.

Week after week glided by in the St. Clare mansion and the waves of life settled back to their usual flow where that little bark had gone down. St. Clare was in many respects another man; he read his little Eva’s Bible seriously and honestly; he thought soberly of his relations to his servants, and he commenced the legal steps necessary to Tom’s emancipation as he had promised Eva he would do. But, one evening while Tom was sitting thinking of his home, feeling the muscles of his brawny arms with joy as he thought how he would work to buy his wife and boys; his master was brought home dying. He had interfered in an affray in a cafe and been stabbed.

He reached out and took Tom’s hand; he closed his eyes, but still retained his hold; for in the gates of eternity the black hand and the white hold each other with an equal grasp, and softly murmured some words he had been singing that evening–words of entreaty to Infinite Pity.

_IV.–Freedom_

Mrs. St. Clare decided at once to sell the place and all the servants, except her own personal property, and although she was told of her husband’s intention of freeing Tom, he was sold by auction with the rest. His new master, Mr. Simon Legree, came round to review his purchases as they sat in chains on the lower deck of a small mean boat, on their way to his cotton plantation, on the Red River. “I say, all on ye,” he said, “look at me–look me right in the eye–straight, now!” stamping his foot. “Now,” said he, doubling his great heavy fist, “d’ye see this fist? Heft it,” he said, bringing it down on Tom’s hand. “Look at these yer bones! Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got as hard as iron knocking down niggers. I don’t keep none of yer cussed overseers; I does my own overseeing and I tell ye things _is_ seen to. You won’t find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind yourselves; for I don’t show no mercy!” The women drew in their breath; and the whole gang sat with downcast, dejected faces. Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a ruder road, Tom and his associates came to their new home. The whole place looked desolate, everything told of coarse neglect and discomfort. Three or four ferocious looking dogs rushed out and were with difficulty restrained from laying hold of Tom and his companions.

“Ye see what ye’d get!” said Legree. “Ye see what ye’d get if you tried to run off. They’d just as soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper. So mind yourself. How now, Sambo!” to a ragged fellow, who was officious in his attentions, “How have things been goin’ on?”

“Fust rate, mas’r.”

“Quimbo,” said Legree to another, “ye minded what I tell’d ye?”

“Guess I did, didn’t I?”

Legree had trained these two men in savagery as systematically as he had his bulldogs, and they were in admirable keeping with the vile character of the whole place.

Tom’s heart sank as he followed Sambo to the quarters. They had a forlorn, brutal air. He had been comforting himself with the thought of a cottage, rude indeed but one which he might keep neat and quiet and read his Bible in out of his labouring hours. They were mere rude sheds with no furniture but a heap of straw, foul with dirt. “Spec there’s room for another thar’,” said Sambo, “thar’s a pretty smart heap o’ niggers to each on ’em, now. Sure, I dunno what I’s to do with more.”

* * * * *

Tom looked in vain, as the weary occupants of the shanties came flocking home, for a companionable face; he saw only sullen, embruted men and feeble, discouraged women; or, those who, treated in every way like brutes, had sunk to their level.

“Thar you!” said Quimbo throwing down a coarse bag containing a peck of corn, “thar, nigger, grab, you won’t get no more _dis_ yer week.”

Tom was faint for want of food, but moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to grind their corn, he ground for them; and then set about getting his own supper. An expression of kindness came over their hard faces–they mixed his cake for him, and tended the baking, and Tom drew out his Bible by the light of the fire–for he had need of comfort.

Tom saw enough of abuse and misery in his new life to make him sick and weary; but he toiled on with religious patience, committing himself to Him that judgeth righteously. Legree took silent note, and rating him as a first-class hand, made up his mind that Tom must be hardened; he had bought him with a view to making him a sort of overseer, so one night he told him to flog one of the women. Tom begged him not to set him at that. He could not do it, “no way possible.” Legree struck him repeatedly with a cowhide. “There,” said he stopping to rest, “now will ye tell me ye can’t do it?”

“Yes, mas’r,” said Tom, wiping the blood from his face. “I’m willin’ to work, night and day; but this yer thing I can’t feel it right to do; and mas’r, I never shall do it, never!”

Legree looked stupefied–Tom was so respectful–but at last burst forth:

“What, ye blasted black beast! tell _me_ ye don’t think it right to do what I tell ye. So ye pretend it’s wrong to flog the girl?”

“I think so, mas’r,” said Tom. “‘Twould be downright cruel, the poor critter’s sick and feeble. Mas’r, if you mean to kill me, kill me; but as to my raising my hand against anyone here, I never will–I’ll die first.” Legree shook with anger. “Here, Sambo!–Quimbo!” he shouted, “give this dog such a breakin’ in as he won’t get over this month.”

The two seized Tom with fiendish exultation, and dragged him unresistingly from the place.

* * * * *

For weeks and months Tom wrestled, in darkness and sorrow–crushing back to his soul the bitter thought that God had forgotten him. One night he sat like one stunned when everything around him seemed to fade, and a vision rose of One crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding; and a voice said, “He that overcometh shall sit down with Me on My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father upon His throne.”

From this time an inviolable peace filled the lowly heart of the oppressed one; life’s uttermost woes fell from him unharming.

* * * * *

Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear.

Tom lay dying at last; not suffering, for every nerve was blunted and destroyed; when George Shelby found him, and his voice reached his dying ear.

“Oh, Mas’r George, he ain’t done me any real harm: only opened the gate of Heaven for me. Who–who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” and with a smile he fell asleep.

* * * * *

As George knelt by the grave of his poor friend, “Witness, eternal God,” said he, “Oh, witness that, from this hour, I will do what one man can to drive out the curse of slavery from my land!”

* * * * *

EUGENE SUE

Mysteries of Paris

Joseph Marie Sue, known as Eugene Sue, is the most notable French exponent of the melodramatic style in fiction. Sue was born in Paris on December 10, 1804 He was the son of a physician in the household of Napoleon, and followed his father’s profession for a number of years. The death of his father brought him a handsome fortune, upon the receipt of which he devoted himself exclusively to literature. His first novel, “Kernock, the Pirate,” which appeared in 1830, was only in a small measure successful. It was followed in quick succession by four others, but with like results. His next attempt was the quasi-historical “Jean Cavalier.” About this time Sue became imbued with the socialistic ideas that were then spreading through France, and his attempt to express these in fiction produced his most famous work, “The Mysteries of Paris,” which was published in 1842. The story first appeared as a feuilleton in the “Journal des Debats.” Its success was remarkable, exceeded only by its tremendous popularity in book form. “The Mysteries of Paris” is partly melodrama; it has faults both in construction and in art; its characters are mere puppets, dancing hither and thither at the end of their creator’s string. Yet withal the novel brought about many legislative changes in Paris through the light which it cast on existing legal abuses. Sue died on August 3, 1859.

_I_

One cold, rainy evening towards the end of October-1838, a man of athletic build wearing an old straw hat and ragged serge shirt and trousers dived into the City ward of Paris, a maze of dark, crooked streets which spreads from the Palace of Justice Notre Dame. This district is the Mint, or haunt of a great number of low malefactors who swarm in the low drinking-dens.

The man we noticed slackened his pace, feeling that he was “on his own ground.” It was very dark and gusts of rain lashed the walls.

“Good arternoon, La Goualeuse (Sweet-Throat)” said he to one of a group of girls sheltering under a projecting window. “You’re the very girl to stand some brandy.”

“I’m out of money, Slasher,” said the girl trembling; for the man was the terror of the neighbourhood.

He grasped her arm, but she wrenched herself loose and fled down a dark alley, pursued by the ruffian.

“I’ll have you,” he exclaimed after a few seconds as he seized in his powerful hand one altogether as soft and slight.

“You shall dance for it,” a masculine voice broke in, and under the soft delicate skin of the hand the Slasher felt himself grasped by muscles of iron. For some seconds nothing was heard save the sounds of a deadly strife.

The struggle was short, for the ruffian, although of athletic make and of first rate ability in rough and tumble fights, found he had met his master; he measured his length on the ground.

Burning with rage the Slasher returned to the charge, whereupon the defender of La Goualeuse showered upon the cut-throat’s head a succession of blows so weighty and crushing and so completely out of the French mode of fighting that the Slasher was mentally as well as bodily stunned by them and gave up, muttering, “I’m floored. Except the Skeleton with his iron bones and the Schoolmaster, no one till now could brag of having set his foot on my neck.”

“Well, come and drink a glass and you shall know who I am,” said the Unknown. “Come, don’t nurse a grudge against me.”

“Bear malice? Not a bit of it! You’re best man, make no mistake!”

The three, now upon the best terms, directed their steps towards a tavern. As the Unknown followed his companions a charcoal-seller approached him and whispered in German, “Be on your guard, _Your Highness_!” The Unknown waved his hand carelessly and entered the tavern.

Over their drinks the three related to each other their histories.

The Slasher was a man of tall stature, with light hair and enormous red whiskers. Notwithstanding his terrible surname his features expressed rather brutal hardihood and unconquerable boldness, than ferocity. In his childhood he had strolled about with an old rag and bone picker, who almost knocked the life out of him. He had never known his parents. His first employment was to help knockers cut horses’ throats at Montfaucon till cutting and slashing became a rage with him and he was turned out of the slaughter-house for spoiling the hides. Later he enlisted and served three years. Then one day the bullying of the sergeant roused the old rage and he turned on him and cut and slashed as if he had been in the slaughter-house. That got him fifteen years in the hulks. Now he was a lighterman on the Seine rafts.

Sweet-Throat was not over sixteen and a half. A forehead of the whitest surmounted a face perfectly oval and of angelic expression, such as we see in Raphael’s beauties. She was also called “Fleur-de-Marie,” doubtless on account of the maiden purity of her countenance. She, too, had never known her parents. When she was about seven years of age she lived with an old and one-eyed woman, called Screech-Owl because her hooked nose and round green eye made her resemble an owl that had lost its eye. She taunted the child with being picked up from the streets and sent her out begging, rewarding her with beatings if she did not bring her at least six pence at night, until at last she ran away from Screech-Owl and hid in a wood-yard for the night. Next day she was found, taken before a magistrate and sent to a reformatory as a vagrant until she was sixteen. It was a perfect paradise compared to Screech-Owl’s miserable roost. But when she came out she fell into the hands of the Ogress who kept the inn they were now in. The clothes she stood in belonged to the Ogress, she owed her for board and lodgings and could not stir from her or she must be taken up as a thief.

Rudolph (for so we shall call the defender of La Goualeuse) listened with deep interest to her recital, made with touching frankness. Misery, destitution, ignorance of the world, had destroyed this wretched girl, cast alone and unprotected on the immensity of Paris. He involuntarily thought of a beloved child whom he had lost, who had died at six, and would have been, had she lived, like Fleur-de-Marie, sixteen and a half years old.

Rudolph appeared to be about thirty-six, tall, graceful, of a contemplative air, yet with a haughty and imperious, carriage of the head. In other respects he sported with ease the language and manners which gave him a perfect resemblance to the Ogress’s other guests. He represented himself as a painter of fans.

Presently the Schoolmaster entered the inn, with a woman. He was a powerful, fleshy fellow with a face mutilated and scarred in a most horribly repugnant fashion. The woman was old and her green eye, hooked nose, and countenance, at once reminded Rudolph of the horrible woman of whom Goualeuse had been the victim. Suddenly seizing his arm, Goualeuse whispered “Oh! The Owl! The one-eyed woman!”

At this moment the Schoolmaster approached the table and said to Rudolph “If you don’t hand the wench over to me, I’ll smash you.”

“For the love of heaven, defend me,” cried Goualeuse to Rudolph.

He rose and was about to attack the Schoolmaster when the charcoal-dealer rushed into the inn, and coming up to him whispered in German, “Your Highness, the countess and her brother are at the end of the street.”

At these words, Rudolph threw a louis on the counter and hurried towards the door. The Schoolmaster attempted to stop him but fell heavily under two or three blows straight from the shoulder.

Soon after he had gone two strangers entered, one in a military frock-coat, the other easily detected as a woman in male attire. She was the Countess Sarah Macgregor. They ordered drinks and proceeded to make inquiries after Rudolph. When they left, the Schoolmaster and the Screech-Owl followed them and robbed them in a dark street. But they suffered the robbery quietly and even offered the ruffian and his woman more to lay a trap for M. Rudolph. They parted, but an invisible witness–the Slasher–had been present. Alarmed at the perils which threatened his new friend, he resolved to warn him.

_II_

On the morrow Rudolph again made his way to the tavern and met the Ogress, with whom he had a short conversation which resulted in his paying La Goualeuse’s debts to the old hag and taking the girl for a drive in the country. They spent the day roaming about the fields. Towards evening the carriage stopped at a farm near a pretty village and to her amazed delight Rudolph told Fleur-de-Marie that she might stay there with Mrs. George, the mistress of the farm. He explained his sympathy for her in the loss of the child who would have been her age.

Fleur-de-Marie could not reply. She seized his hand, and before he could prevent her, raised it to her lips with an air of modest submission; then she followed Mrs. George, who was to play the character of her aunt.

Before he left, Rudolph said to Mrs. George, “Marie will at least find a corner in your heart?”

“Yes, I shall devote my time to her as I should be giving it to _him_,” she said with emotion.

“Come, do not be again discouraged. If our search has been unsuccessful hitherto, perhaps–“

“May the good God help you, M. Rudolph. My son would now be twenty. His father would never reveal whether he lives. Since he was condemned to the galleys, entreaties, prayers and letters have all been unanswered.”

The next day Rudolph heard from the Slasher of the plot against him and arranged to meet the Schoolmaster on the pretext of having a profitable business on hand. The prospect of gain overcame the Schoolmaster’s suspicions and he and Screech-Owl met Rudolph in an inn. Rudolph unfolded his scheme of entering a house in the Allee des Veuves, the residence of a doctor gone into the country. The Schoolmaster agreed, but insisted on their remaining together till the evening. On leaving the inn Rudolph dropped a note, which he saw picked up by the pseudo-charcoal-dealer, now attired as a gentleman.

The three retired to an inn of evil appearance, while Screech-Owl went out to reconnoitre the house and grounds. She returned to the inn with a favourable report. Suddenly the Schoolmaster threw himself on Rudolph and hurled him into the cellar, locking the door behind him.

Rudolph’s efforts to free himself were in vain. For hours he lay there, gasping for breath. Suddenly, when he was about to suffocate, the door was broken open, and he found himself fainting in the arms of the Slasher.

When Rudolph recovered consciousness he was in his house, attended by his doctor, a negro and the Slasher.

The Schoolmaster and the Screech-Owl had come to enter the house. The Screech-Owl had remained at the gate to watch, but the Slasher, who had observed all, had silenced her with a blow. Following the Schoolmaster in, he came upon him as he was overcoming one of Rudolph’s men and downed him with another blow. Then the two robbers, being bound, were carried in.

“Order them to bring him here,” said Rudolph calmly, and the Schoolmaster was carried in, bound with ropes. Rudolph addressed him.

“Escaped from the hulks, to which you were sentenced for life, you are the husband of Mrs. George. What have you done with her son?”

Believing his hour was come he trembled and whimpered “mercy.” He confessed all, even his crimes, his murders, speaking now in the grammatical French of his guiltless days.

“He lived in the Rue du Temple, where he passed as Francois Germain. He left there; now I do not know where he is.”

“Good; your life shall be spared. But I will paralyse the strength you have criminally abused. Doctor David, do as I have told you.”

The Schoolmaster was seized by two servants and carried into another room. A few minutes later he was brought back.

“You are free,” said Rudolph. “Go and repent. Here are five thousand francs. You are harmless.”

The two men loosened the cords which bound him, then took a bandage from his eyes. He sprang up in rage and terror; then falling back, cried in agony and fury, “I am blind!”

_III_

Rudolph was the reigning Duke of the German State of Gerolstein. While he was a boy a Scotch adventuress, Lady Sarah MacGregor, and her brother, Sir Thomas Seyton, had appeared in the little German court and begun an intrigue that resulted in a secret marriage between Sarah and Rudolph. The old duke, then alive, on hearing of this annulled the marriage. To his son he gave a letter from Sarah to her brother, betraying her cold-blooded ambitions. The young prince’s love had frozen. Sarah gave birth to a child in England, whither she had fled. To all Rudolph’s appeals for this child she gave no answer. She had turned it over to Jacques Ferrand, a notary in Paris. Six years later he reported the child’s death, and both parents believed their unhappy daughter to be dead, though she was, in fact, the unfortunate Fleur-de-Marie.

It was Sarah who now, having learned of Rudolph’s presence in Paris, had hurried hither to seek an interview with him, hoping to effect a reconciliation, now that the old Grand Duke was dead and Rudolph sovereign Prince of Gerolstein. Rudolph was known for his fondness for strange adventures, and Lady Sarah had hoped to catch him during one of his visits to the lower quarters of the city, seeking any aid, however low.

Rudolph, grateful to the Slasher for saving his life, presented him with an estate in Algiers; and the following day he set out for Algeria.

Rudolph was determined to find the son of Mrs. George, the unfortunate wife of the Schoolmaster. He had saved her from starvation and he meant to satisfy the great longing that still possessed her, but for some while he had no real success.

Meanwhile, unknown to Rudolph, a misfortune had come to Fleur-de-Marie. While on a visit to a neighbouring farm one evening she was suddenly seized by Screech-Owl and the blind Schoolmaster and carried off to Paris. They forced an oath of secrecy from her and liberated her near a police station. Screech-Owl then informed the police that a vagrant had passed down the street, and Fleur-de-Marie was arrested and sent to St Lazare. A forged note was sent to Mrs. George, appearing to be signed by Rudolph. Fleur-de-Marie’s abduction had been caused by Sarah, who, believing Rudolph too much interested in her, decided to rid herself of a possible rival. Screech-Owl was her tool.

Rudolph learned of Germain’s address through a second-hand dealer who had bought his furniture. He was employed as cashier in the office of a notary, Jacques Ferrand. Rudolph had heard evil reports of this man, though he was highly respected and known as a pious man. When Rudolph finally attempted to communicate with Germain he learned that the young man had been accused of theft from notary Ferrand and imprisoned.

Screech-Owl conceived of a scheme to blackmail the notary Ferrand. His housekeeper, ten years before, had turned over to her a child which she was to care for in consideration of one thousand francs. She obtained an interview with Ferrand, but he denied all knowledge of the child.

Ferrand was, in fact, thoroughly frightened. He learned that Fleur-de-Marie was in St. Lazare, and determined to paralyse Screech-Owl’s threats by removing Fleur-de-Marie.

On an island in the Seine lived a criminal family, the Martials, who throve by thieving and murder. With Nicholas Martial, Ferrand arranged that Marie was to be conducted across the river and upset. His housekeeper met the girl at the prison door after the notary had procured her release and, pretending she had come from Mrs. George, brought her down to the river.

Once on the shore, the old woman signalled, and two boats came from the island. Fleur-de-Marie felt an instinctive uneasiness on beholding the foul face of Nicholas Martial. But she seated herself in the boat with the old woman, and they shot out into the stream.

Half an hour later two gentlemen strolling along the opposite river-bank saw the body of a young girl floating by and rescued it. One was a doctor. Discovering signs of life, he set to work and presently a faint glow of vitality revived. Then she was carried to his home.

That same night Screech-Owl appeared at the home of Countess Sarah, keeping an appointment. Lady Sarah took the creature into her private room and locked the door, leaving open only the passage from the garden whence they had entered.

“Listen,” said the Countess, “I want you to find me a girl of about seventeen, one who has lost her parents very early, of agreeable face, and a sweet temper.”

Screech-Owl showed her astonishment.

“My little lady, have you forgotten La Goualeuse?”

“I have nothing to do with her,” said Lady Sarah impatiently.

“But listen a moment. Take La Goualeuse; she was only six years old when Jacques Ferrand gave her to me, with a thousand francs, to get rid of her.”

“Jacques Ferrand!” cried Sarah, “the notary?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Ten years ago? Fair? With blue eyes?

“Yes.”

“Ah, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” cried Sarah, falling on her knees. Suddenly she rose. Hastily opening a secretary, she took from it an ebony casket, which she opened. She took from it diamond necklaces and bracelets, throwing them on the table in her hurry to reach the bottom.

“Is this she?” she cried, producing a small miniature.

“Yes.”

Sarah took out paper and pen and began writing.

“Come,” she said, “as you dictate, so I write. A written declaration–“

She did not finish. Screech-Owl brought down her arm and her dagger entered Sarah’s back between the shoulder-blades. She threw out her hands and fell forward on the table.

Hastily gathering the jewels, the murderess slipped through the door into the garden and escaped into the dark streets.

That night the police made one of the most notable hauls of the year; they captured a group of notorious criminals in the act of murdering a diamond-agent in a low-class resort on the banks of the Seine, among them all the Martial family. In the cellar they found the blind Schoolmaster chained to a pillar. He had been confined there by his former comrades, who feared that in his helpless state he might fall under the care of honest people and reveal to them the habits of his associates. He was mad; in his arms he gripped, almost crushed, the dead and mangled body of Screech-Owl, who, seeking to escape down the cellar, had stumbled within the captive’s reach.

_IV_

For some days Jacques Ferrand’s clerks noticed in the notary a curious change. He denied admission to his clients, though they knew his interests suffered heavily thereby. His face thinned, his temples hollowed, his complexion became ghastly yellow. In constant company with him was a red-bearded man, known as Brodamonte.

Then came the announcement that Germain had been freed from prison, the charges against him being dropped. Also that Monsieur Ferrand gave a million francs to found a workingmen’s bank where the poor could borrow without paying interest. Germain was to be cashier.

Ferrand’s sufferings were intense. Brodamonte, discovered in a criminal act by Rudolph, was now his slave, and acted as his agent. Both were watched by a well-concealed circle of spies. Brodamonte forced Ferrand’s system of restitution, under Rudolph’s directions, who had succeeded in obtaining from the notary by a trick papers which proved his crimes and guilt. This was his punishment. A miser, he must give; and, always a pious fraud, he was now compelled to place all his money in trust with the good, simple old abbe he had long deceived.

By chance Rudolph now learned of the absence of the girl and the deception that had caused Madame George to make no inquiries. He suspected truly that La Goualeuse’s abduction had been instigated by Sarah.

Suddenly an idea burst upon him. Looking over the papers taken from Ferrand, he saw that the notary had reason to fear the existence of a certain child he had turned over to Screech-Owl ten years previously. These suspicions changed to conviction when e learned that on the day of Marie’s release a woman had been drowned in the Seine. So great was his rage that he now determined to revenge himself doubly on the criminal notary.

The Countess Sarah was recovering slowly. Rudolph, believing her to be dying, consented to visit her. He found her dressed and decked in her jewels, but pale and weak.

“Rudolph, I am dying,” she said; “I have something of great importance to tell you.” Her agitation was intense.

“Our child is not dead!” burst from her suddenly.

“Our child!”

“I tell you, she lives!”

“Enough, madame, you cannot deceive me. I know your schemes.”

“But listen, I have proof!” she cried eagerly. “I have told you the truth. You remember I had left the child with my notary to superintend her education. He was false to me. She had not died, but was disposed of to a woman known as the Screech-Owl, and—-“

“No! No! I do not believe you–I do not wish to believe you!”

“See,” she continued, “here is her portrait.”

He seized the miniature. Yes, in the child’s face were recognizable the blue eyes, the oval face, the fair hair, so familiar to him in Fleur-de-Marie.

“God!” he cried, “you wretched woman! La Goualeuse our daughter! Found, only to lose her again. Dead!”

“No, she lives, Rudolph. Pity! I die!”

“Your child is dead, murdered. May the knowledge curse your last moments!” And he rushed from the house, leaving Sarah in a fainting condition.

Meanwhile, the Marquise d’Harville, a friend of Rudolph’s, learned by chance of the presence of La Goualeuse in the house of the doctor who had rescued her from the Seine. Knowing Rudolph’s keen interest in La Goualeuse, Madame d’Harville determined to take her with her in her carriage to convey the good news to Rudolph in person.

Some days later she appeared at Rudolph’s magnificent apartments and announced to him that Fleur-de-Marie was below in the carriage. Rudolph rose, pale, supporting himself by the table. Madame d’Harville’s surprise restrained him.

“Ah, Clemence,” he murmured, “you do not know what you have done for me. Fleur-de-Marie is–my daughter!”

“Your daughter, your Highness?”

Then suddenly she understood. Fleur-de-Marie was brought up, and it required Clemence to restrain Rudolph so that he broke the news gently. Fleur-de-Marie was even then overcome, for she had loved Rudolph as she would have loved her god.

Sarah died soon afterward. Rudolph asked Clemence d’Harville to become mother to Marie, now the Princess Amelia, and they returned to Germany. On setting out they passed in their carriage through a crowd attending an execution. Several criminals in the crowd, recognising Rudolph, attempted to attack him. Suddenly a man sprang forward in his defence, but was stabbed by one of the crowd and fell dying. It was the Slasher. “I could not go to Algiers,” he murmured. “I wished to be near you, Monsieur Rudolph.”

A noble prince sought the hand of the Princess Amelia, but she, feeling her past degradation, retired to a convent, where she died, beloved by all, mourned deeply by Rudolph and Clemence.

Ferrand, the notary, died in convulsions, killing Brodamonte with a poisoned dagger. Germain, restored to his mother, married happily, his wife’s dowry coming from the prince.

* * * * *

JONATHAN SWIFT

Gulliver’s Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the World

Jonathan Swift, the greatest and most original satirist of his own, or perhaps of any age, was born in Dublin, Ireland, of English parents, November 30, 1667. His poverty and abject dependence upon his relatives in his early youth may have given the first impetus to that bitter resentment and haughty spirit of pride which characterized him through life. After a somewhat troubled career in Trinity College, Dublin, he removed to England, where he entered the household of the retired English statesman, Sir William Temple, whose literary executor he became ten years later. The advertisement which this connection, and the performance of its final office, gave him, led to his appointment to a small living and certain other church emoluments in Ireland. In the following years he paid several protracted visits to London, where by the power of his pen and his unrivalled genius as a satirist of the politics of his time, he rapidly rose to a most formidable position in the State,–the intimate of poets and of statesmen. And yet, owing to the opposition which his claims met with at court, he derived no higher preferment for himself than the deanery of St. Patrick’s, Dublin, in 1713. In time Swift reconciled himself to this change by vehemently espousing the cause of the Irish against their English rulers, and by his writings made himself as famous in that country as he had formerly done in England. Gradually the gloom of cerebral decay descended upon his magnificent intellect, and he died October 19, 1745. “To think of his ruin,” said Thackeray, “is like thinking of the ruin of an empire.” No more original work of genius than Swift’s “Gulliver’s Travels” exists in the English language. For sheer intellectual power it may not be equal to the “Tale of a Tub,” but as it has more variety, so it has more art. “Gulliver” was published in 1726, at a period when life’s disappointments had ceased to worry Swift. It is probable, however, that the book was planned some years previously, the keenness of the satire on courts and statesmen suggesting that his frustrated aims still rankled in his mind. Curious is it that so perfect an artist should nevertheless have missed the main purpose which he set himself in this book, namely, “to vex the world rather than divert it.” The world refused to be vexed, and was hugely diverted. The real greatness of “Gulliver” lies in its teeming imagination and implacable logic. Swift succeeded in endowing the wildest improbabilities with an air of veracity rivalling Defoe himself. (See also Vol. X, p. 282.)

_I.–A Voyage to Lilliput_

My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire, but the charge of maintaining me at Cambridge being too great, after three years there I was bound apprentice to an eminent surgeon in London; in my spare time I studied navigation, and mathematics, useful to those who travel, as I always believed, at some time, it would be my fortune to do.

After studying physics in Leyden for two years, I became surgeon to the Swallow, and made a voyage or two in the Levant. I then settled in London, married, but after some years, my business beginning to fail, having consulted with my wife, I determined to go again to sea and made several voyages to the East and West Indies, by which I got some addition to my fortune.

In 1699, being on a voyage in the South Seas, we were driven on a rock, and the ship immediately split. I conclude my companions were all lost; for my part, I swam as fortune directed me, and being pushed forward by wind and tide, found myself at last within my depth, and had to wade near a mile before I got to shore. I was extremely tired, and lay down on the grass and slept soundly until daylight. I attempted to rise, but found myself strongly fastened to the ground, not able to turn even my head. I felt something moving gently up my leg, and over my breast, when bending my eyes downward, I perceived a human creature, not six inches high, with a bow and arrows in his hand; and felt a number more following him. I roared so loud, they all fell off in a fright, but soon returned. I struggled, and broke the strings that fastened my left hand, but the creatures ran off before I could seize them, and I felt about a hundred arrows discharged into my left hand, which pricked like so many needles. I lay still, groaning with grief and pain, till some of the inhabitants came and cut the strings that fastened my head, when turning it a little I saw one, who seemed to be a person of quality, who made me a long speech, of which I understood not one word; but in which I could observe many periods of threatening, and others of pity and kindness.

I answered in the most submissive manner, and being famished with hunger (perhaps against the strict rules of decency), put my finger in my mouth, to signify I wanted food. He understood me very well. Several ladders were applied to my sides, and a hundred of the inhabitants mounted, laden with food and drink, and supplied me as fast as they could, with marks of wonder at my bulk and appetite.

It seems that at the first moment I was discovered, the Emperor had notice by an express, and it was determined in council that I should be secured and fed, and at once conveyed to the capital city.

A sleepy potion having been mingled with my wine, I again slept. These people have arrived to a great perfection in mechanics, and by means of cords and pulleys, in less than three hours, I was raised and slung on to the largest of their machines, used for the carriage of trees and other great weights. Fifteen hundred of the largest horses, each about four and a half inches high, were employed to draw me towards the metropolis. The Emperor and all his Court came out to meet us. In the largest temple in the kingdom, disused because polluted by a murder some years before, I was to be lodged, secured by fourscore and eleven chains locked to my left leg. They were about two yards long and being fixed within four inches of the gate of the temple, allowed me to creep in and lie on the ground at my full length.

The Emperor is taller, by almost the breadth of my nail, than any of his court, his features strong and masculine, and his deportment majestic. He had reigned for seven years in great felicity, and generally victorious. I lay on my side, for the better convenience of beholding him, but I have had him many times since in my hand, and therefore cannot be deceived in this description. He held his sword drawn in his hand to defend himself, if I should happen to break loose, and spoke to me many times, and I answered, but neither of us could understand a syllable.

The Emperor had frequent councils to debate what course should be taken with me; they apprehended I might break loose; or might cause a famine; but my behaviour had made a favourable impression, and his Majesty made provision for me out of his own Treasury, and coming frequently to see me, I soon learnt to express my desire for liberty, which was after a time granted on certain conditions.

I soon learnt, in spite of its flourishing appearance, this country laboured under two evils; a violent faction at home, and the danger of invasion, by a most potent enemy, from abroad. The two parties in the kingdom were distinguished by the high or low heels of their shoes. The high heels were most agreeable to their ancient constitution, but the present Emperor was determined only to make use of low heels in the administration of the government–but the heir apparent seemed to have some tendency to high heels.

They were threatened with an invasion from the Island of Blefusco, which had been engaged in an obstinate war with Lilliput for a long time, on a question of a schism in religion. They had now prepared a numerous fleet, and were about to descend upon us, and his Majesty, in his confidence in my strength and valour, laid this account of his affairs before me.

_II. I Depart from Blefusco_

Having ascertained the depth of the channel between the two countries, and viewed the enemy’s fleet through my perspective glass, I obtained a great quantity of cable and bars of iron. I twisted the bars into hooks which I fixed to fifty cables, and walked into the sea, wading with what haste I could, swam about thirty yards in the middle, and arrived at the fleet in about half an hour.

The enemy were so frightened when they saw me that they fled, and swam to shore. I then took my tackling, fixed a hook to each vessel, and tied all my cords together at the end; but not a ship would stir, they were held too fast by their anchors. The enemy’s arrows disturbed me much, but I resolutely cut all the cables, and with the greatest ease drew fifty of the largest men of war with me. The tide had now fallen, and I waded safe to the royal port of Lilliput, where the Emperor received me with the highest honour. So immeasurable is the ambition of princes, that he thought now of nothing less than the complete submission of Blefusco; but I plainly protested “that I would never be an instrument of bringing a free and brave people into slavery”; and the wisest part of the Council were of my opinion.

His Majesty never forgave me, and an intrigue began which had like to have been my utter ruin; but a considerable person at Court informed me of the schemes against me, and I resolved at once to pay a visit to Blefusco, whose Emperor had sent a solemn embassy to Lilliput with humble offers of peace, and who received me with the generosity suitable to so great a Prince.

Three days after my arrival I observed a boat overturned on the coast, which with great difficulty I managed to get to the royal port of Blefusco; I told the Emperor that my good fortune had thrown this boat in my way, to carry me towards my native country, and begged his orders for materials to fit it up, together with his license to depart, which, after some kind expostulation, he was pleased to grant.

His Majesty of Lilliput had sent an envoy, to ask his brother of Blefusco to have me sent back to be punished as a traitor with the loss of my eyes; so that I resolved to “venture myself on the ocean rather than be an occasion of difference between two such mighty monarchs.”

I stored the boat with the carcasses of sheep and oxen, and with bread and drink proportionable, and as much ready-dressed meat as four-hundred cooks could provide. I took with me cows and bulls, and rams and ewes, intending to propagate the breed in my own country; and would gladly have taken a dozen or two of the natives, but this his Majesty would not permit. Besides making a diligent search in my pockets, his Majesty engaged my honour “not to carry away any of his subjects, although by their own desire.”

I set sail, and on the third day descried a sail steering to the south-east. I made all the sail I could, and in half an hour she espied me and flung out her flag and fired a gun.

My heart leaped within me to see her English colours, and putting my cows and sheep into my pockets, I soon got on board with all my provisions.

The Captain, a very civil man, and an excellent sailor, treated me with kindness, and we arrived in England with only one misfortune: the rats carried off one of my sheep. The rest I got safely ashore, and made a considerable profit in showing them to persons of quality, and before I began my second voyage I sold them for six hundred pounds.

I stayed but two months with my wife and family, for my insatiable desire of seeing foreign countries would suffer me to stay no longer. I left fifteen hundred pounds with my wife; my uncle had left me a small estate near Epping of about thirty pounds a year, and I had a long lease of the Black Bull in Fetter Lane; so that I was in no danger of leaving my wife and family upon the parish. My son Johnny was at the grammar school, and a towardly child. My daughter Betty (who is now well married) was then at her needlework.

I took leave of them with tears on both sides, and went on board the Adventure, a merchant ship of 300 tons, bound for Surat.

_III.–A Voyage to Brobdingnag_

We made a good voyage, until we had passed the Straits of Madagascar, when the southern monsoon set in, and we were driven many leagues out of our course. Being in distress for water, and coming in sight of land, some of us went on shore in search of it. I walked alone about a mile, when, seeing nothing to satisfy my curiosity, I was returning when I saw our men already in the boat, and rowing for life to the ship, with a huge creature walking after them, the sea up his knees.

I ran off as fast as I could, up a hill, and along what I took for a highroad, but could see little, on either side the corn rising at least forty feet, until I came to a stone stile, which it was impossible for me to climb. I was looking for a gap in the hedge, when I saw one of the inhabitants in the next field. He seemed as high as an ordinary spire steeple, and took about ten yards at each step. I ran to hide myself in the corn, whence I saw him at the stile calling out in a voice which at first I certainly took for thunder. Seven monsters like himself then came, and began to reap the field where I lay. I made a shift to get away, squeezing myself between the stalks, till I came to a part laid by the rain and wind. It was impossible to advance a step, and I heard the reapers not a hundred yards behind me. Being quite dispirited with toil, I lay down and began to bemoan my widow and fatherless children, when one of the reapers came quite near me, and I screamed as loud as I could, fearing I should be squashed to death by his foot. He looked about, and at last espying me, took me carefully behind, between his finger and thumb, as I myself had done with a weasel in England.

I resolved not to struggle, but ventured to put my hands together in a supplicating manner, and say some words in a humble, melancholy tone, and letting him know by my gestures how grievously he pinched my sides. He seemed to apprehend my meaning, and put me gently in the lapel of his coat, and ran along to show me to his master, the substantial farmer I had first seen in the field.

He placed me gently on all fours on the ground, but I immediately got up, and walked slowly backwards and forwards to let those people see I had no intent to run away. They all sat down in a circle round me, and the farmer was soon convinced I was a rational creature, but we were quite unintelligible to one another. He put me gently in his handkerchief and took me to show to his wife. She at first screamed, as women do at a toad, but seeing how well I observed the signs her husband made, she, by degrees, grew extremely fond of me.

A servant brought in dinner, and the farmer put me on the table. The wife minced some bread and meat and placed it before me. I made her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, and fell to eating, which gave them great delight. The farmer’s youngest son, an arch boy of ten, took me up by the legs and held me so high in the air, that I trembled in every limb; but the farmer snatched me from him and gave him such a box on the ear, as would have felled a European troop of horse to the earth.

I fell on my knees, and pointing to the boy made my master understand I desired his son to be pardoned. The lad took his seat again and I went and kissed his hand, which my master took and made him stroke me gently with it.

When dinner was almost done, the nurse came in with a child of a year old in her arms, who at once began to squall to get me for a plaything.

The mother, out of pure indulgence, held me up to the child, who seized me by the middle and got my head into his mouth, where I roared so loud, the urchin was frightened, and let me drop, and I should have infallibly broke my neck, if the mother had not held her apron underneath.

My mistress, perceiving I was very tired, put me on her own bed after dinner, and covered me with a clean white handkerchief; I slept, and dreamed I was at home with my wife and children, which aggravated my sorrows when I awoke, to find myself alone in a bed twenty feet wide. Two rats had crept up the curtains, and had the boldness to attack me, but I had the good fortune to rip one up with my hanger, before he could do me any mischief, and the other ran away; though not without one good wound. These creatures were the size of a large mastiff, and infinitely more nimble and fierce. My mistress was extremely rejoiced to find I was not hurt, and with her little daughter fitted me up the baby’s cradle against night, which was then placed on a shelf for fear of rats.

The daughter, nine years old, and not above forty feet high, was very good natured, became my schoolmistress, and called me Grildrig, which imports in English, mannikin. To her I chiefly owe my preservation: I called her Glumdalclitch, or Little Nurse, and I heartily wish it was in my power to requite her care and affection as she deserves, instead of being, as I have reason to fear, the innocent unhappy instrument of her disgrace.

My master, being advised to show me as a sight in the next town, I was carried there in a box by Glumdalclitch on a pillion behind her father, who, after consulting the inn-keeper, hired the crier to give notice to the town of a strange creature to be seen not six feet long, resembling in every part a human creature, could speak several words, and perform a hundred diverting tricks.

I was shown that day till I was half dead with weariness and vexation, for those who had seen me made such wonderful reports that the people were ready to break down the doors to come in.

My master, finding how profitable I was likely to be, showed me in all the considerable towns in the kingdom, till observing that I was almost reduced to a skeleton, concluded I must soon die, and sold me to the Queen for a thousand pieces of gold. Her Majesty asked me “whether I should be content to live at Court?” I bowed down to the table, and humbly answered, “I should be proud to devote my life to her Majesty’s service,” and begged the favour that Glumdalclitch might be admitted into her service and continue to be my nurse and instructor.

_IV.–At the Court of Brobdingnag_

Her Majesty agreed, and easily got the farmer’s consent, and the poor girl herself was not able to hide her joy.

The Queen was surprised at so much wit and good sense in so small an animal, and took me in her own hand to the King, who, though as learned