CLXXXII. MR. GREENWOOD'S JOURNEY…

CLXXXII. MR. GREENWOOD'S JOURNEY

It was six o'clock on the evening following the incidents related in the two preceding chapters.

Mr. Greenwood had just concluded an early dinner (early for him) after having devoted the greater part of the day to business in the City, and a small portion of it to his fair Georgian, for whom he had taken elegantly furnished apartments in Suffolk Street, Pall Mall.

Having disposed of his last glass of champagne, the honourable member for Rottenborough rang the bell.

Lafleur made his appearance.

"Is the chaise ordered for seven precisely?" inquired Mr. Greenwood.

"Yes, sir—seven precisely, sir," answered the valet.

"Did you write to my agent at Rottenborough to tell him that I should pass through that town at half-past eight, and that although I wished to preserve a strict incognito, yet I should not mind being recognised while the horses are changing at the inn?"

"I mentioned all that, sir," replied Lafleur; "and I suggested that he had better get together a hundred or so of persons in the tap-room, to be ready to rush out and cheer you."

"That was well thought of, Lafleur. I have already sent a paragraph to the morning newspaper in which I am a shareholder, stating that I was enthusiastically cheered as I passed through Rottenborough. It will appear to-morrow morning. Have you renewed my positive orders to the policeman on this beat to take all beggars into custody who are found loitering near my door?"

"I have, sir. One woman, with three whimpering children, was dragged off to the station-house half an hour ago, for looking too earnestly down the area windows," said Lafleur. "Her husband has just been to beg you to intercede with the Inspector for her release. He said he was a hard-working man, and that it must be a mistake, as his wife was no beggar."

"And what did you say, Lafleur?" demanded Mr. Greenwood, sternly.

"I said nothing, sir: I merely banged the door in his face."

"That was right and proper. I am determined to put down vagrancy. Nothing is more offensive to the eye than those crawling wretches who are perpetually dinning in one's ears a long tale about their being half-starved."

"Yes, sir—it is very disagreeable, sir," observed Lafleur.

"The free and independent electors of Rottenborough have not sent me to Parliament for nothing, I can assure you," continued Mr. Greenwood.

"No, sir," responded Lafleur.

"And I, from my place in the House, will denounce this odious system of mendicancy," added Mr. Greenwood.

"Yes, sir," observed Lafleur.

"By-the-by, did you send the letter I gave you just now to the post?"

The valet answered in the affirmative.

"I am glad of that. It was to the Reverend Dr. Beganuph—the rector of some place in some county—I am sure I forget where. However—the reverend gentleman is having the parish church enlarged—or made smaller—I really forget which,—but I know it's something of the kind;—and as he has sent a circular to all persons whose names are in the Court Guide, soliciting subscriptions, I cannot, of course, refuse to contribute my mite of five pounds to the pious work—especially as the list of subscribers is to be advertised in the principal London and provincial papers. We must support the Church, Lafleur."

"Yes, sir—decidedly, sir," observed the valet.

"What would become of us without the Church?" continued Mr. Greenwood. "It is the source from which flow all the blessings of Christian love, hope, benevolence, and charity. Hark! Lafleur, I do really believe there is a woman singing a ballad in the street! Run out and give her into custody this minute."

"Beg your pardon, sir," said the valet: "it's only the muffin-boy."

"Oh! that's different," observed Mr. Greenwood, rising from his seat. "The chaise will be here at seven, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"You and Filippo will accompany me. Tell Filippo to see that his fire-arms are in good order; and do you attend to mine as well as your own. Not that I apprehend any danger on such a road as that on which we are about to travel; still it is better to be prepared."

"Decidedly, sir," answered Lafleur, not a muscle of his countenance betraying any extraordinary emotion.

"Take a lamp to my study," said Greenwood; "and then go and see about the fire-arms. Let my case of pistols be put inside the chaise."

"Yes, sir;"—and Lafleur was about to leave the room, when he suddenly recollected himself, and said, "If you please, sir, your boot-maker sent your new slippers this morning, wrapped up in a piece of the Weekly Dispatch. I thought I had better mention it, sir."

"By God, you have done well to acquaint me with this infamy, Lafleur!" cried Mr. Greenwood, desperately excited. "The scoundrel! he reads the Dispatch, does he?—the journal that possesses more influence over the masses than even pulpits, governments, sovereigns, or religious tracts! The villain! I always thought that man was a democrat at heart; because one day when I told him if he didn't vote for the Tory Churchwarden he would lose my custom, he smiled—yes, smiled! And so he reads the Dispatch—the people's journal—the vehicle of all argument against our blessed constitution—the champion to which all who fancy themselves oppressed, fly as naturally as bees to flowers! Lafleur," added Mr. Greenwood, solemnly, "you will send to that boot-maker, and tell him to show his face no more at the house of the Member for Rottenborough."

"Yes, sir."

And Lafleur left the room.

A few minutes afterwards Mr. Greenwood repaired to his study, where the lamp had already been placed upon the table.

He then opened his iron safe, and drew forth a large canvass bag full of sovereigns. This he consigned to a tin box, resembling those in which lawyers keep their clients' papers. Three more bags, of the same size as the first, were taken from the safe and stowed away in this japanned case.

"Four thousand pounds!" murmured Greenwood to himself. "How many a family would be made happy with only the hundredth part of that sum! But those who want the glittering metal should toil for it as I have done."

Mr. Greenwood, having thus complimented himself upon those "toils" whereby he had gained his wealth, proceeded to take a large portfolio from the iron safe.

Partially opening its various compartments, so as to obtain a glance at the contents, he smiled still more complacently than when his eyes lingered on the canvass bags.

"Sixteen thousand pounds in Bank of England notes," he exclaimed aloud, as he consigned the portfolio to the tin case. "And these twenty thousand pounds, judiciously applied in Paris, will produce me twenty-five thousand clear gain—twenty-five thousand at the least!"

His really handsome countenance wore an expression of triumph, as he carefully locked the tin case, and placed the key in his pocket.

"My combinations are admirable! Thirty thousand pounds, already embarked in these Parisian speculations, have prepared the way for enormous gains: and now," continued Greenwood,—"now this sum,"—and he glanced towards the tin box—"will strike the decisive blow! It is a glorious science—that of the financier! And who is more subtle than I? True—I have experienced some losses during the past week—a few thousands: but they are nothing! I was wrong to job as I did in the English funds. The fluctuations in the French securities are the means by which brilliant fortunes can be made! The timid talk of the great risks—Pshaw! Let them combine their projects as I have done!"

He ceased, and surveyed himself complacently in the mirror above the mantel.

He then rang the bell.

Lafleur appeared in about a minute; but so calm, composed, and unruffled was his countenance, that no living soul would have suspected that he had been attentively listening at the door of the study all the while his master was transferring the treasure from the iron safe to the tin box.

"Bring me my upper coat and travelling cap, Lafleur," said Mr. Greenwood, not choosing to lose sight of his tin box.

Lafleur once more disappeared, and speedily returned with his master's travelling attire.

He announced at the same time that the chaise was at the door.

In a few minutes, Mr. Greenwood was ensconced in the vehicle. The tin box was stowed away under the seat: and his case of pistols lay by his side, within convenient reach.

Filippo and Lafleur mounted the dickey: the postillions cracked their whips; and the equipage rolled rapidly away from Spring Gardens.

At half-past eight o'clock precisely the vehicle drove up to the door of the principal inn of which the town of Rottenborough could boast.

The ostlers seemed to bungle in a very unusual manner, as they changed the horses; and full five minutes elapsed ere they could loosen the traces. In a word, they punctually obeyed the directions of Mr. Greenwood's agent in that famous town.

Suddenly the door of the tap-room burst open and vomited forth about eighty of such queer and suspicious-looking fellows, that no prudent man would have walked down a dark lane where he knew any one of them to be lurking.

Out they came—in most admirable disorder—pell-mell—jostling, hustling, pushing, larking with each other.

"Hooray, Greenwood! brayvo, Greenwood!" they shouted, at the tops of voices somewhat disguised in liquor. "Greenwood for ever! Down with the Tories!"

"No—no!" shouted a little man, dressed in deep black, and who suddenly appeared at the head of the mob: "down with the Liberals, you mean!"

"Oh—ah! so it is!" cried the mob; and then they shouted louder than ever, "Hooray for Greenwood! Down with the Liberals! The Tories for ever!"

Then the little man in black, who was none other than the honourable member's agent, rushed up to the carriage window, exclaiming, "Ah! Mr. Greenwood!—you are discovered, you see! Very pretty, indeed, to think of passing through Rottenborough incog.,—you who are the hope and the glory of the town! Luckily a party of gentlemen—all independent electors," added the lawyer, glancing round at the ragged and half-drunken mob, "were partaking of some little wholesome refreshment together—quite accidentally—in the tavern; and thus they are blessed with an opportunity of paying their respects to their representative in our glorious Parliament!"

"Brayvo, Greenwood!" ejaculated the crowd of "gentlemen," when the little lawyer had concluded his speech.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Greenwood, thrusting his head out of the chaise-window, "you cannot conceive the delight which I experience at this most unexpected—most unlooked-for, and entirely spontaneous expression of your good feeling towards me. Gentlemen, when I behold an enlightened—an independent—a respectable—and an intelligent assembly thus coming forward to signify an approval of my parliamentary career, I meet with an ample recompense for all my exertions and toils to maintain the interests of the great constituency of Rottenborough. Gentlemen, the eyes of the world are upon you at this moment——"

"Then the world can see in the dark without spectacles," cried one of the free and independent inhabitants of Rottenborough.

"Yes, gentlemen," continued Greenwood, unabashed by this interruption, which raised a general titter; "the eyes of the world are upon you; for when Rottenborough thus emphatically expresses itself in favour of its member, it is avowing its stanch adherence to the true principles of Conservatism. This is a great fact, gentlemen; and so long as Rottenborough remains faithful to those principles, the democratic disturbers of the public peace must look on and tremble!"

With this splendid finale, Mr. Greenwood sank back in the chaise, which immediately drove rapidly away, amidst the uproarious shouts of the ragamuffins and tatterdemalions whom the lawyer had convoked, according to Lafleur's written instructions, for the occasion.

The ragamuffins and tatterdemalions were, however, well recompensed for their trouble; for they were copiously regaled with beer and tobacco before the arrival of the honourable member; and as soon as the member had departed, a supper of boiled tripe and onion-sauce was served up to them. The entertainment concluded with a quarrel and battle amongst the convivialists, several of whom took home with them broken heads and black eyes as trophies of their prowess.

Meantime the travelling-chaise rolled along the road.

The night was beautiful, clear, and frosty; and the moon rode high in the heavens.

Newington was passed; and Mr. Greenwood was just falling into a delicious sleep, when four men, wearing masks, and enveloped in thick pilot-coats, rushed from a hedge.

The horses were stopped suddenly; and two of the ruffians presented pistols at the heads of the postillions, menacing them with instant death if they offered any resistance.

Greenwood lowered the windows of the chaise, and holding a pistol in each hand, exclaimed, "I'll shoot the first who dares approach me!"

Filippo leapt to the ground on one side, and Lafleur followed him so closely, that he fell over the Italian, one of whose pistols went off by the shock, but without doing any mischief. Before he could make an effort to rise, Lafleur struck him on the head with the butt-end of one of his weapons, and laid him senseless on his back.

Meantime, while the Lully Prig and Long Bob took charge of the postillions, as above stated, the Resurrection Man and the Buffer rushed up to the door of the chaise.

Greenwood fired point-blank at Tidkins's head but without the slightest effect.

The door was opened; and the Resurrection Man sprang into the vehicle.

Greenwood fired his second pistol; but it merely singed his assailant's hair.

Then the Member of Parliament was dragged into the road, and bound hand and foot almost in the twinkling of an eye.

This being done, the Resurrection Man hastened to search the chaise, and speedily secured the tin box.

He gave a long shrill whistle: this was a signal to announce his success; for it had been previously agreed amongst the ruffians that they should not utter a word more than might be absolutely necessary, so that their voices might not be afterwards recognised, in case suspicion fell upon them. Moreover, the Resurrection Man's voice was well known to Greenwood; and thus this precaution was not an useless one.

The four robbers and Lafleur now beat a rapid retreat towards an adjacent chalk-pit, the Buffer leading the way, and the Resurrection Man carrying the box.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXIII. KIND FRIENDS

We left Richard Markham at the moment when, awaking in a strange bed, he perceived that Thomas Armstrong's letter was gone!

It would be impossible to describe his grief at this discovery.

The mysterious document, which he had treasured with so much care, and concerning which such particular instructions had been left by his departed friend,—a document which seemed so intimately to regard his future welfare,—had been wrested from him!

For a few moments he remained a prey to the deepest dejection; and tears stole into his eyes.

But he was not allowed to remain long in that unpleasant reverie.

The door opened slowly; and a light step approached his couch.

He drew aside the curtain, and beheld a middle-aged lady, elegantly dressed, and with a countenance on which the Almighty had written the word "Benevolence" in characters so legible, that a savage might have read and learnt to revere them.

Advancing close up to the bed, the lady said, in a soft tone, and in the Italian language:—"Be not alarmed, Signor Markham; you are with those who will treat you as your dauntless valour and noble mind deserve."

"Where am I, madam?" asked our hero, reassured by the lady's words and manner.

"In the house of my brother, Signor Viviani, the most eminent banker in Pinalla," answered the lady.

"And how did you discover my name, Signora?" inquired Richard.

"By means of a letter which was secured in a morocco-case about your person, and is now safe in my brother's possession," returned Signora Viviani.

"A thousand thanks, lady, for that assurance—a thousand sincere and grateful thanks!" exclaimed Markham, new life as it were animating his soul.

"Hush!" cried the banker's sister, placing her finger upon her lip: "you must not give way to excitement of feelings. You have been ill—very ill."

"How long, Signora, has this illness lasted?"

"Ten days," was the reply. "You have been delirious."

"Ten days!" ejaculated Richard. "Alas! poor Morcar—what will he think? where can he be?"

"Morcar is safe and knows that you are here, Signor," said the lady. "But do not excite yourself. Providence has allowed you to suffer, for its own wise and inscrutable purposes; but it never deserts the good and great."

"Ah! lady, how can I ever thank you sufficiently for the goodness of yourself and your brother towards one who is a perfect stranger to you?" said Markham, pressing the lady's hand respectfully to his lips.

"You are not altogether so much a stranger to us as you imagine," observed the banker's sister, with a mysterious but good-natured smile. "But I will not tantalize, nor excite you by keeping you in suspense. Your deceased countryman Thomas Armstrong was my brother's intimate friend."

"Is this possible?" cried Markham, overjoyed at such welcome intelligence. "Then Providence has not indeed deserted me!"

"I will now hasten and fetch my brother to see you," said the lady. "He is burning with impatience for the moment when he can converse with you."

Signora Viviani left the room, and shortly returned, accompanied by a gentleman of about sixty, and whose countenance was as expressive of excellent qualities as her own.

"Here is our patient, brother," said the lady, with a smile: "a patient, however, only in one sense, for he has been very impatient in his queries; and now you must satisfy his curiosity in all respects."

"I am delighted to find that you are able to devote a thought to such matters, my dear young friend," exclaimed the banker, pressing both Markham's hands cordially in his own; "for as a friend do I indeed regard you," added the excellent man.

"How can I possibly have deserved such kind sympathy at your hands?" asked Richard, overpowered by so much goodness.

"Your deceased and much lamented friend Thomas Armstrong was as a brother to me, during his residence at different times in Castelcicala," answered the banker; "and he constantly corresponded with me when he was in his native country. In the letters which he wrote during the last two years of his life, he mentioned you in terms which, did I know nothing else meritorious on your part, would have induced me to welcome you as a friend—as a son. But your noble conduct in the late attempt to release Castelcicala from the sway of a tyrant, and place that excellent Prince Alberto on the ducal throne, has confirmed my good opinion of you—if any such confirmation were necessary. I learnt from Armstrong that you were generous, intelligent, and virtuous: recent events have shown that you are brave and liberal-minded."

"How rejoiced I am that my conduct in that unhappy affair merits your approval," said Richard. "I have often trembled, since the fatal day when so many brave spirits came to these coasts to meet death or imprisonment, lest the more sensible portion of the Castelcicalan community should look upon the expedition as one concocted only by selfish or insane adventurers."

"Selfish or insane!" ejaculated Viviani. "Was Grachia selfish or insane? was Morosino a mere adventurer? Oh! no—Castelcicala weeps over the bloody graves of her patriots; and thousands of tongues are familiar with the name of Richard Markham."

The countenance of our hero became animated with a glow of generous enthusiasm as these words met his ears.

"How handsome he is!" exclaimed the banker's sister. "An old woman like me may say so without impropriety," she added smiling; "and even the Princess Isabella would not be offended, did she overhear me."

"The Princess!" ejaculated Richard, surprised at this allusion to that beautiful lady.

"You must not be angry with your faithful Morcar," said the banker's sister, smiling, "if he betrayed your secret. But it was with a good motive. When he found that you were with those who were anxious to be considered in the light of your friends, he communicated to us your secret respecting the Princess, in order that we might write to her and relieve her mind of all anxiety by assuring her that you were safe and well. So I took upon myself the duty of addressing a letter to her Highness the Princess Isabella, and I thought that a little falsehood relative to your real condition would be pardonable. I assured her that you were in security and in good health, save a sprain of the right hand which had compelled you to employ a secretary; and in order that the letter might be sure to reach her, my brother enclosed it in one to his agent in London, with special directions that it might be delivered as speedily as possible. Morcar also wrote a note to his father and his wife, and addressed it to the care of some person in a part of the English capital called Saint Giles's. In a word, you need be under no anxiety relative to your friends in England."

"Excellent lady!" cried Markham; "you accumulate kindnesses so rapidly upon me, that I know not how to testify my gratitude. And, Morcar, too—how thoughtful of him! Oh! I have indeed found good friends."

"You are doubtless anxious to learn how you came into this house," said the banker. "I will tell you—for you will not allow your mind to compose itself until you know every thing. I had been to pass the day with a friend whose country seat is at a few miles' distance from Pinalla; and I was returning home in an open chaise, attended by my groom, when, in the middle of a lane which I had taken as a short cut, I was accosted by a man who seemed frantic with grief, and implored me to render assistance to his master. He spoke in English; and fortunately I understand that language tolerably well. In a word, the person who accosted me, was your dependant Morcar. He has since explained to me how you had separated at Friuli, in order to gain the Neapolitan frontier by different routes; and it seems that he was journeying along that lane, when he stumbled over a body in the path. The light of the moon speedily enabled him to recognise his master. At that moment my chaise fortunately came up to the spot. Not knowing who you were, but actuated by that feeling which would prompt me to assist any human being under such circumstances, I immediately proposed to convey you to my own house. Your dependant was overjoyed at the offer; and I desired him to accompany you. He would not tell me your real name, but when I questioned him on that point, gave a fictitious one. The poor fellow did not then know how I might be disposed towards the Constitutionalists who had survived the slaughter near Ossore. You may therefore conceive my astonishment when on my arrival at my house, I discovered a letter in a case fastened to a riband beneath your garments, as I helped to undress you. These words, 'To my dear friend, Richard Markham,' in a handwriting well known to me, immediately excited a suspicion in my mind; and when I had procured the attendance of my physician and ascertained that there was a hope of your eventual recovery—although your wound was a serious one—I questioned Morcar more closely than before. But he would not confess that you were Richard Markham. I then showed him the letter which I had found about your person. Still he obstinately denied the fact. At length, in order to convince him that I was really sincere in my good feeling towards you, I showed him several letters from the deceased Mr. Armstrong to me, and in which you were favourably mentioned. Then he became all confidence; and I can assure you that he is a most faithful and devoted creature towards you."

While the banker was yet speaking, he drew from his pocket the morocco case containing Armstrong's letter, and laid it upon the bed.

Richard warmly pressed his hand with grateful fervour.

He then in a few words narrated the particulars of the attack made upon him by the banditti in the narrow lane, and concluded by saying, "I consider the fact of the ruffians overlooking that document when they rifled me, as another proof of heaven's especial goodness towards me; for I value this relic of my departed friend as dearly as my life."

"And you are still ignorant of its contents?" said the banker, with a smile.

Richard was about to explain the nature of the mysterious instructions which Armstrong had written on the envelope, when Viviani stopped him, saying, "I know all. Some months before his death Armstrong wrote to me his intentions concerning you; and therefore, I presume that 'when you are destitute of all resources—when adversity or a too generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of subsistence—and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants, you will open the enclosed letter. But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little property which you now possess—and should you not be plunged into a state of need from which your own talents and exertions cannot relieve you,—then will you open that letter on the morning of the 10th of July, 1843, on which day you are to meet your brother.'"

So astonished was Markham, while the banker recapitulated the very words of Armstrong's mysterious instructions, that he could not utter a syllable until the excellent man had finished speaking; and then he cried, in a tone of the most unfeigned surprise, "My dear sir, you know all, then?"

Signora Viviani laughed so heartily at Markham's astonishment, that her good-natured countenance became quite purple.

"Indeed, I do know all," exclaimed the banker, laughing also; "and that is not surprising, either, seeing that every farthing Armstrong has left you is in my hands. But I must not say any more on that head: indeed, I am afraid I have violated my departed friend's instructions to me by saying so much already. However, my dear Richard—for so you must allow me to call you, as I am a sort of guardian or trustee towards you—you will not want to open that letter until the 10th of July, 1843; for if you require money, you have only to draw a cheque upon me, and I will honour it—aye, even for ten or fifteen thousand pounds."

"Is it possible that I am awake? am I not dreaming? is this fairy-land, or Castelcicala?" said Richard. "I am overwhelmed with happy tidings and kindnesses."

Again did the good banker and his merry sister—who, though bachelor and spinster, possessed hearts overflowing with the milk of human kindness, and who felt towards Richard almost as a father and mother would feel towards their own child,—again did they laugh heartily; until the lady remembered that their patient might be too much excited.

"And now I dare say you are anxious about your faithful Morcar," said the banker. "In truth, he is a mystery whom I cannot fathom. All I know of him is that he is most devotedly attached to you. He comes to the house every evening, and sits by your bed-side a couple of hours, or perhaps more; and then he takes his departure again. In vain have I pressed him to remain here—to live here so long as you are my guest: no—he declares that he has business on his hands; and he keeps that business a profound secret. He is always absent save during those two or three hours which he spends near you."

"And when he is here," added the banker's sister, laughing, "he will not allow a soul save himself to do any thing for you. No—he must smooth your pillow—he must raise your head, and give you your cooling drink—he must hold your hands when the delirium is on you (but, thank heaven! that has passed now);—in a word, no one is permitted to be your nurse save himself."

"The good, faithful creature!" cried Markham, tears standing on his long, dark, and slightly curled lashes. "Heaven grant that he be not involving himself in any difficulty."

"He seems prudent and steady," said the banker; "and those are grand qualities. Moreover, these men of Egyptian origin have strange fancies and whims. In any case, he will be more communicative to you than he is to us."

"You have now gratified my curiosity in many—many ways," said Richard; "but there is one more point——"

"You are interminable with your questions," exclaimed Signora Viviani, laughing. "Now, remember—this is the last we will answer on the present occasion, or we shall really fatigue you."

"Oh! no," returned our hero. "When the mind labours under no suspense, how soon the physical energies revive."

"Speak, then," said the banker.

"What is the present condition of Castelcicala? has it been ameliorated, or rendered more deplorable?"

The banker's countenance fell.

"My dear Richard," he replied, "strange and striking events have occurred during the last few days,—events which it pains me to recount, as it will grieve you to hear them. The Grand Duchess fled from the capital—no one knows wherefore. It is certain that she reached Montecuculi in safety; and her farther progress is a complete mystery. All traces of her cease there. But that is not all. An army of thirty thousand Austrians, Richard,—an army of foreigners has been called into the State by Angelo III. Ten days ago it crossed the Roman frontiers, and encamped beneath the walls of Montoni."

"Merciful heaven!" ejaculated Richard: "an army of occupation in the country!"

"Alas! that I should tell the truth when I say so," continued the banker, in a melancholy tone. "The Grand Duke intends to enforce his despotism by means of foreign bayonets. Four thousand Austrians moved on as far as Abrantani, where they are placed under the command of Captain-General Santa Croce, that province being considered the most unsettled, and the one exhibiting the greatest inclination to raise the standard of liberty. But Montoni, Richard,—Montoni, our capital, has set a glorious example. The same day that the Austrians appeared beneath its walls, its inhabitants rose against the Grand Duke and his infamous Ministers. The Municipal Council, with the Mayor at its head, declared its sittings permanent, and proclaimed itself a Committee of Government. The garrison, consisting of ten thousand brave men, pronounced in favour of the Committee. The Grand Duke and his Ministers fled to the Austrian camp, and took refuge with Marshal Herbertstein, the generalissimo of the foreign army of occupation. And now, Richard—now the Grand Duke and his Austrian allies are besieging the capital of Castelcicala!"

"Alas! these are terrible tidings," said Richard, astounded at all he had just heard, and at the rapidity with which so many important events had occurred.

"Terrible tidings they must be to one who, like you, has fought for Castelcicalan liberty," continued the banker. "Oh! that I should have lived to see my country thus oppressed—thus subject to a foreign yoke! But I have not yet told you all. The Lord High Admiral of Castelcicala has declared in favour of the Grand Duke, and has instituted a blockade, with all his fleet, at the mouth of the Ferretti, so that no provisions may be conveyed into the besieged capital. The garrison of Montoni is, however, behaving nobly; and as yet the Austrians have made no impression upon the city. But a famine must ensue in Montoni;—and then, all hope will be lost!"

"And the other great cities of Castelcicala?" asked Richard: "do they make no demonstration in this terrible crisis?"

"Alas—no! Martial law everywhere prevails; and had we not a humane and merciful Captain-General at the head of the province of Pinalla, our condition here would be desperate indeed. You are doubtless aware that all the Constitutionalists who were taken prisoners at the battle of Ossore, are now prisoners in Estella——"

Signor Viviani was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came to announce that Morcar requested admittance to the sick-room.

The kind-hearted banker and his no less excellent sister withdrew, in order to allow the gipsy an opportunity of free and unrestrained intercourse with his master.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXIV. ESTELLA

Nothing could exceed the joy which the faithful Morcar experienced on finding his master restored to consciousness, and evidently in a fair way towards convalescence.

The reader may imagine with what enthusiasm the gipsy dwelt upon the kindness of Signor Viviani and his sister; and when the grateful fellow had exhausted all his powers of speech in depicting the excellent qualities of these good people, he begged Markham to acquaint him with his adventures since they separated at Friuli.

Richard related those particulars which are already known to the reader; and he did not forget to reproach Morcar for having refused to accept his share of the purse at the tavern in the suburbs of the above-mentioned town.

"I knew that I should not require the gold, sir," answered Morcar; "for an individual of my race finds friends and brethren all over the world. Nor was I an exception to that rule. At a short distance from Friuli I fell in with an encampment of Cingani—for so the gipsies are called in Italy; and I was immediately welcomed in a way becoming my position as the heir to the sovereign of the Zingarees of Great Britain."

"But how did you render yourself intelligible to your Italian brethren?" asked Richard, with a good-natured smile at the solemn manner in which his follower had uttered the concluding portion of his observations.

"We have a language peculiar to ourselves, sir," replied Morcar; "and although it is not very rich in words, it nevertheless contains sufficient to enable us to converse freely with each other. I travelled with the Cingani belonging to the encampment; and when we arrived in the neighbourhood of Pinalla, I took leave of them with the intention of hastening over the frontier to Naples. God ordained that I should strike into the same path which you were pursuing; and I could not have been many yards behind you, when you were attacked by the banditti in the manner you have just explained to me. You may conceive my grief when I found you lying senseless in that gloomy lane, and when the moonlight, falling on your countenance, showed me who you were. Had it not been for the accidental arrival of Signor Viviani on the spot, and at that particular moment, I cannot say what would have become of us. You know the rest."

"Not entirely, my dear Morcar," said Richard. "I do not wish to penetrate into your secrets; but I am anxious to learn wherefore you refused the hospitality of Signor Viviani's mansion?"

"When I found that you were amongst friends, sir," answered Morcar, "and that there was no longer any necessity for me to proceed to Naples, I returned to my brethren, the Cingani. I have dwelt with them ever since; but have occasionally called to inquire after you."

"Nay, my faithful friend," exclaimed Richard, taking the gipsy's hand, "do not depreciate your own goodness of heart. I have learnt how regularly you came to pass the evening by my side, and how kindly you ministered to me. Heaven grant that the day may arrive when I shall be enabled to reward you adequately."

"You must not talk any more at present, sir," said the gipsy. "If you will only remain quiet for a few days, you will be quite well; and then—"

"And then, what?" asked Richard, seeing that the gipsy checked himself.

"And then we can deliberate on the best course to adopt," replied Morcar.

Our hero saw that his dependant had some plan in his head; but he did not choose to press him on the subject.

* * * * *

A fortnight had elapsed since Richard Markham awoke to consciousness in the house of the generous Castelcicalan banker.

This interval had produced a marvellous change in his physical condition.

A powerful constitution, aided by excellent medical advice, and the unremitting attention of his kind friends, enabled him to triumph over the severity of the treatment which he had experienced at the hands of the banditti.

He was now completely restored to health—with the exception of a partial weakness and pallor which naturally followed a long confinement to his couch.

But by means of gentle exercise in the garden belonging to the banker's house, he was rapidly recovering his strength, and the hues of youth again began to bloom upon his cheeks.

It was on the 26th of December, 1840, that he had a long conversation with the banker and Morcar. A certain project was the topic of this debate,—a project for which Morcar had arranged all the preliminaries during Richard's illness, and which our hero now burned to carry into execution. Signor Viviani raised but one objection; and that was only for the purpose of delaying, not renouncing, the scheme in view. He feared lest Markham's health might not be sufficiently restored to enable him to embark so soon in the enterprise. But this doubt was completely over-ruled by his young friend, whose enthusiastic soul could not brook delay in a matter that was so near and dear to his heart.

The deliberations of the three individuals who formed this solemn council lasted for four hours, and concluded at sunset. Richard then wrote several letters, which he sealed and placed in the hands of Signor Viviani, saying, "You will forward these only in case of my death."

The banker wrung our hero's hand cordially, exclaiming, "No, my generous—my gallant-hearted young friend; something within me seems to say that there will be no need to dispatch those letters to your friends in England; for proud success shall be yours!"

Signora Viviani entered the room at this moment, and in a tone of deep anxiety, inquired the result of the deliberation.

"The expedition is to take place," replied the banker, solemnly.

"Ah! Signor Markham," exclaimed the lady; "have you well weighed the contingencies? Do not imagine that I would attempt to dissuade you from so generous,—so noble an undertaking!—Oh! no,—I should be the last to do so. And yet—"

"My dear madam," interrupted Richard, with a smile, "I appreciate all your kind anxiety in my behalf; but I must fulfil my duty towards those unfortunate creatures who embarked in an enterprise of which I was one of the chiefs."

"It would be improper in me to urge a single argument against so noble a purpose," said the banker's sister. "May God prosper you, Richard."

The old lady wiped the tears from her eyes as she spoke.

It was now quite dusk; and our hero signified his intention of taking his departure. He confided the morocco case containing Armstrong's letter, to his excellent friend, the banker, and at the same time expressed his deep gratitude for all the kindness he had experienced at the hands of that gentleman and his sister.

"Do not talk thus, my noble boy," ejaculated the old man; "it makes me melancholy—as if I were never to see you more; whereas, I feel convinced that there are many, many happy days in store for us all! Here, Richard—take this pocket-book: it contains bank-notes to some amount. But if you require more, hesitate not to draw upon me for any sum that you need. And now, farewell—and may all good angels watch over you!"

Signora Viviani, on her side, felt as acutely in parting with our hero as if she were separating from a near relative—so much had his amiable qualities, generous disposition, and noble character endeared him alike to the banker and his kind-hearted sister.

And now the door of that hospitable mansion closed behind Richard Markham, who was accompanied by his faithful Morcar.

They pursued their way, the gipsy acting as the guide, through the streets of Pinalla, and passing out of the town by the north-eastern gate, followed the course of the river Usiglio for upwards of two miles and a-half.

The night was clear with the pure lustre of the chaste moon; and the air was mild, though fresh enough to be invigorating.

At length they reached the confines of a forest, into which Morcar plunged, closely followed by his master.

They now continued their way amidst an almost total darkness, so thick was the foliage of the evergreens through the mazes of which they pursued their course.

Presently lights glimmered among the trees; and in a few minutes more, Morcar conducted our hero into a wide open area, where a spacious gipsy-encampment was established.

Markham caught his companion by the arm, and held him back for a few moments while he contemplated that scene so strange—so wild—and yet so picturesque.

A space, probably an acre in extent, had been cleared in the midst of the forest; and the tall trees all around constituted a natural barrier, defining the limits of the arena formed for the encampment.

A hundred tents, of the rude gipsy fashion, swarmed with life. Dark countenances bent over the cheerful fires, above which mighty caldrons were simmering; and the lurid light was reflected from dark eyes. The tall athletic forms of men and the graceful figures of women, were thrown out into strong relief by the lambent flames; and the sounds of many voices fell in confused murmurs upon the ears.

"There are four hundred brave men, who will welcome you as their leader, sir!" exclaimed Morcar, stretching forth his arm towards the encampment.

"Oh! my dear friend," cried Markham, all the enthusiasm of his soul aroused by the hopes which those words conveyed: "by what magic were you enabled to collect this band in so short a time?"

"My influence as the son of Zingary was sufficient to induce them to make our cause their own, sir," replied Morcar; "and the extensive organization of the fraternity was already well calculated to gather them thus together. I have moreover informed you that they are all well armed; for their funds have been devoted to the purchase of the weapons and ammunition necessary for the undertaking."

"Which outlay it will be my care immediately to reimburse," said Richard. "But you speak of me as the chief of this band, Morcar? No—that honour is reserved for you, whose energies and influence alone could have brought those four hundred men together."

"That may not be, sir," returned Morcar, seriously. "These men have assembled with the hope that you will be their chief: it is your name which is enthusiastically spoken of in Castelcicala; and it is your presence which will animate this gipsy-band with courage. Come—let me introduce you to the chiefs of the tribe."

"Is the King amongst them?" asked Richard.

"No, sir: the King of the Cingani, or Italian gipsies, is at present in Tuscany; but the chiefs, to whom I will now conduct you, are his relations."

Morcar led our hero through the mazes of the encampment to a tent more conveniently contrived and spacious than the rest; and as they passed along, the groups of Cingani surveyed Richard with curiosity and respect.

They evidently divined who he was.

In the tent to which Morcar conducted his master, three elderly men were seated upon mats, smoking their pipes, and discoursing gravely upon political affairs.

They welcomed Richard with respectful warmth, and instantly assigned to him the place of honour at the upper end of the tent.

A council was then held; but as the results will explain the decision to which the members came, it is not necessary to detail the deliberations on this occasion.

We must, however, observe that Markham accepted the responsible and difficult post of commandant of the entire force; and he immediately handed over to the gipsies an amount in bank-notes equivalent to a thousand pounds, for the purpose of reimbursing the outlay already effected by the Cingani chiefs, and of supplying an advance of pay to all the members of the band.

At about eleven o'clock the fires were all extinguished throughout the encampment; and, sentinels having been posted at short intervals round the open space, those who were not on duty laid down to rest.

At day-break the scene was once more all bustle and life: the morning meal was hastily disposed of; and Richard then issued the necessary orders for breaking up the encampment.

It was arranged that the men who bore arms should proceed by forced marches towards Estella; while the women and children might follow at their own pace.

The farewells between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, fathers and children, sons and mothers, took place in silence, but in profound sincerity; and the corps, consisting of four hundred men, all well armed with muskets and cutlasses, and some few with axes also, was soon in motion amidst the dense mazes of the forest.

Markham, with a sword by his side and a pair of pistols in the breast of his coat, advanced in front of the column, attended by the three chiefs and Morcar.

* * * * *

It was at day-break on the 29th of December, that the sentinels posted on the southern bastion of the citadel of Estella, observed a small but compact body of men suddenly emerge from the forest which stretches along the Usiglio, from the neighbourhood of Pinalla almost up to the very walls of Estella.

An alarm was given throughout the citadel; for the beams of the rising sun glistened on the weapons of the small force that was approaching; and although no uniform attire characterised the corps, it was easy to perceive that it advanced with a hostile intention.

But ere the garrison could be got under arms, Richard's followers had already cut an opening in the palisades which protected the glacis, and were advancing up the inclined plane towards the rampart. On they went, their youthful leader at their head: the glacis was passed—the covered way was gained—and then the sentinels on the bastion discharged their muskets at the besiegers.

Two of the Cingani fell dead, and one was very slightly wounded.

"Follow me!" cried our hero; and rushing along the covered way, he reached the wooden bridge which communicated with the interior of the citadel.

And now commenced an interval of fearful peril, but for which Markham was not unprepared.

The soldiers of the garrison had by this time flocked to the rampart of the bastion, and commenced a terrific fire upon the besiegers. The latter, however, replied to it with rapidity and effect, while half a dozen of the foremost cut down with their axes a huge beam from the wooden bridge, and, under the superintendence of Markham, used it as a battering-ram at the postern-gate.

The Cingani, however, lost eight or nine of their men while this task was in progress; and their position, exposed as they were to a murderous fire, would soon have become untenable, had not the postern-gate shortly yielded to the engine employed against it.

Then, with his drawn sword in his hand, Markham precipitated himself into the citadel, closely followed, and well supported by the brave and faithful Cingani.

The tunnel beneath the rampart, into which the postern opened, was disputed for some minutes with desperate valour on both sides; but our hero was so ably backed by Morcar, the three chiefs, and the foremost of his corps, that he eventually drove the soldiers before him.

"Constitutional freedom and Prince Alberto!" shouted Richard, as he rushed onward, and entered the court of the citadel.

The cry was taken up by the Cingani; and although the conflict continued in the court for nearly half an hour longer, it was evident that the note of liberty had touched a chord in the hearts of the Castelcicalan soldiers, for they resisted but feebly and, though superior in numbers to the besiegers, rapidly gave way.

On the farther side of the court stood a large but low and straggling building, the windows of which were defended with iron bars.

"Friends," exclaimed Markham, pointing with his blood-stained sword towards that structure, "there is the prison of the patriots!"

These words operated like an electric shock upon our hero's followers; and they rushed onward, driving the soldiers like chaff before them.

The gate of the prison was reached, and speedily forced: Richard entered the gloomy stronghold, and the work of liberation commenced.

Five hundred Castelcicalan patriots were restored to freedom in a short half-hour; and when they recognised in their deliverer him who had been one of the chiefs of the first expedition, and whose valour was so signalised in the battle near Ossore, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.

The name of "MARKHAM" was shouted to the sky: the patriots flocked around him, with heart-felt thanks and the most fervent outpourings of their gratitude; and they hailed him as a deliverer and a chief.

There was not, however, much time for congratulation or explanation. Though the garrison of the citadel was weak, that of the town itself was strong; for the Captain-General had concentrated the greater part of his force in the heart of Estella in order to over-awe the inhabitants. This fact had been previously gleaned by the spies whom Morcar had sent out while Richard was yet an inmate of the banker's house; and hence the attack upon the most exposed part of the citadel in preference to an attempt upon the town.

Richard was now master of the citadel. A portion of the garrison had fled into Estella; but by far the larger part, about three hundred in number, declared its readiness to join the cause of liberty. This offer was joyfully accepted. The armoury was then visited, and arms were distributed to the patriots who had been delivered from their dungeons.

Thus Richard Markham found himself at the head of an effective force of nearly twelve hundred men—a triumphant position, which had fortunately cost no more than about twenty lives on the side of the Cingani.

It was now mid-day; and while his forces were obtaining refreshment, and putting the citadel in a proper state of defence, in case of an attack on the part of the Captain-General of Estella, Richard called a council of the three Cingani chiefs, Morcar, the leading patriots whom he had released, and the officers of the garrison-troops that had declared in favour of "Constitutional liberty and Prince Alberto."

At this council it was resolved that Richard should issue a proclamation to the inhabitants of Estella, declaring the real objects for which the standard of civil liberty had been raised—namely, to release the imprisoned patriots, to expel the Austrians from the land, and to place Prince Alberto upon the ducal throne.

This resolution was carried into effect; and the document was forwarded to the Mayor of Estella. The corporation was immediately assembled; and while the Captain-General prepared to attack the citadel, the municipal body remained in close deliberation.

Three hours elapsed; when a rumour prevailed throughout the town that the troops had refused to leave their barracks at the command of the Captain-General. This proof of sympathy with the successful Constitutionalists decided the opinions of the members of the corporation; and the Mayor, attended by several of the municipal authorities, waited upon Richard Markham and presented him with the keys of the city.

No sooner were these tidings bruited throughout Estella, than the Captain-General, the Political Prefect, and one regiment which remained faithful to the Grand Duke's cause, left the town with extraordinary precipitation: the remainder of the garrison sent a deputation to Markham's head quarters in the citadel to announce their readiness to join his cause; and at seven o'clock in the evening of that eventful day the roar of the artillery on the walls of Estella saluted the tri-coloured flag of liberty which was hoisted on the Town-Hall.

By this grand and decisive blow, Richard possessed himself of one of the principal towns of Castelcicala, and found himself backed by a force of three thousand men.

His first care, when order and tranquillity were restored that evening, was to forward a courier with a letter to Signor Viviani at Pinalla. That letter not only detailed the events of the day, but contained a request that the banker would lose no time in writing an account of the proceedings direct to Prince Alberto (under the name of Count Alteroni) in England. Richard also enclosed a letter to be forwarded to Mr. Monroe, and one from Morcar to Eva.

The corporation had assembled in the Town Hall, immediately after the tri-coloured flag was hoisted, and remained in deliberation until past ten o'clock. The Mayor then published a proclamation in which there were three clauses. The first declared the sittings of the municipal body permanent, under the title of "Committee of Administration for the Province of Estella." The second nominated Richard Markham General-in-chief of the army of that province. The third called upon all good and faithful Castelcicalan patriots to take up arms in the cause of Constitutional liberty and Prince Alberto, and against the Austrian army of occupation.

A copy of this proclamation was forwarded to Richard Markham, who highly approved of the first and last clauses, and accepted the rank conferred upon him by the second.

Early on the following morning uniforms, taken from the store-rooms in the arsenal, were distributed amongst the Cingani and the patriots who had been liberated; and Richard then made his entry into Estella, in compliance with the request of the corporation.

Wearing the uniform of a General-officer, and mounted upon a handsome charger, our hero never appeared to greater advantage.

The garrison of the town lined the streets, and presented arms to the youthful commander whose extraordinary skill and prowess had so materially contributed to the victory of the preceding day, and who was hailed as a champion raised up by Providence to deliver Castelcicala from the tyranny under which it groaned.

He was attended by two officers whom he had appointed his aides-de-camp, and by the faithful Morcar, whom nothing could induce to accept any definite rank, but who, in the uniform of a private, was proud to follow his valiant master.

The windows were crowded with faces, anxious to obtain a glimpse of the youthful hero; and while bright eyes shone upon his way, fair hands waved handkerchiefs or threw nosegays of exotics and artificial flowers from the casements.

The bells rang merrily; the artillery saluted the entrance of the General into the town; the crowds in the streets welcomed him with enthusiastic shouts; and the civic authorities, in their official robes, received him as he alighted at the Town-Hall.

There he was complimented on his gallant deeds, and invited to partake of a sumptuous banquet in the evening.

But Richard's answer was firm though respectful.

"Gentlemen," he said, "pardon me if I decline your great kindness. There remains so much to be done, to restore happiness to Castelcicala, that I should deem myself unworthy of your confidence, did I waste valuable time in festivity. A detachment of the Austrian army occupies and overawes the province of Abrantani: in two hours, with your permission, I propose to set out in that direction with all the forces that you will spare me. Should Providence prosper my arms in this new expedition, my course is simple. I shall proceed to Montoni, and either deliver the capital from the besieging force, or perish beneath its walls."

This short but pithy speech was received with enthusiastic cheers by the municipal body.

"Go, sir," said the Mayor, when silence was obtained once more, "and fulfil your grand mission. Take with you the force that you deem necessary for your purposes; and it shall be our duty to supply you with a treasury-chest that will not be indifferently furnished. Go, sir: God has sent you to us in the time of our bitter need; and you are destined to deliver Castelcicala from its tyrant."

Markham bowed, and withdrew.

His return to the citadel was a signal for the renewal of that enthusiasm which had greeted his entrance into the town.

But he was not proud! No—he had no room in his heart for pride: hope—delicious, burning, joyous hope,—the hope of accomplishing his mighty aims and earning the hand of Isabella as his reward,—this was the only sentiment which filled his soul!

On his arrival at the citadel once more, he issued immediate orders to prepare for a march. He proposed to leave a garrison of one thousand men in Estella, and take two thousand with him; for he calculated that this number would be considerably increased, by volunteers, on his way to Abrantani.

The evident rapidity with which he intended his movements to be characterised, created a most favourable impression not only amongst the inhabitants of Estella, but also with the troops under his command; and though they all deemed him eminently worthy of the post to which he had been raised, yet few foresaw the future greatness of that hero who was destined to take his place amongst the most brilliant warriors of the age.

It was at two o'clock in the afternoon that the Constitutional army, consisting of two thousand men, defiled through the western gate of the citadel, towards the bridge over the Usiglio. A squadron of four hundred cavalry led the way: next came the corps of Cingani; then the horse-artillery, with twelve field-pieces; next the liberated patriots; and the rear-guard consisted of the regular infantry of the garrison.

As soon as the river was crossed, Richard formed his little army into three columns, and then commenced a rapid march towards Villabella, which he knew to be well affected in favour of the Constitutional cause.

But while he was leading a gallant band over the fertile plains of Castelcicala, incidents deserving notice occurred in his native land far away.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXV. ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S DAY

It was the 1st of January, 1841.

If there be any hour in the life of man when he ought to commune with his own heart, that proper interval of serious reflection is to be found on New Year's Day.

Then, to the rightly constituted mind, the regrets for the past will serve as finger-posts and guides to the hopes of the future.

The heathen mythology depicted Janus with two faces, looking different ways:—so let the human heart, when on the first day of January, it stands between two years, retrospect carefully over the one that has gone, and combine all its solemn warnings for use and example in the new one which has just commenced.

This also is the day that recalls, with additional impressiveness, the memory of those dear relatives and friends whose mortal forms have been swept away by the viewless and voiceless stream of Time.

Nor less do fond parents think, amidst tears and prayers, of their sons who are absent in the far-off places of the earth,—fighting the battles of their country on the burning plains of India, or steering their way across the pathless solitudes of the ocean.

But, alas! little reck the wealthy and great for those whose arms defend them, or whose enterprise procures them all the bounties of the earth.

An oligarchy has cramped the privileges and monopolised the rights of a mighty nation.

Behold the effects of its infamous Poor-Laws;—contemplate the results of the more atrocious Game-Laws;—mark the consequences of the Corn-Laws.

THE POOR-LAWS! Not even did the ingenuity of the Spanish or Italian Inquisitions conceive a more effectual method of deliberate torture and slow death, than the fearful system of mental-abasement and gradient starvation invented by England's legislators. When the labourer can toil for the rich no longer, away with him to the workhouse! When the old man, who has contributed for half a century to the revenue of the country, is overtaken by sudden adversity at an age which paralyses his energies, away with him to the workhouse! When the poor widow, whose sons have fallen in the ranks of battle or in defence of the wooden walls of England, is deprived of her natural supporters, away with her to the workhouse! The workhouse is a social dung-heap on which the wealthy and great fling those members of the community whose services they can no longer render available to their selfish purposes.

THE GAME-LAWS! Never was a more atrocious monopoly than that which reserves the use of certain birds of the air or animals of the earth to a small and exclusive class. The Almighty gave man "dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth;" and those who dare to monopolise any of these, to the prejudice of their fellow-creatures, fly in the face of the Lord of all! The Game-Laws have fabricated an offence which fills our prisons—as if there were not already crimes enough to separate men from their families and plunge them into loathsome dungeons. That offence is one of human construction, and exists only in certain countries: it is not a crime against God—nor is it deemed such in many enlightened states. The selfish pleasures of a miserably small minority demand the protection of a statute which is a fertilising source of oppression, wretchedness, ruin, and demoralization. The Game-Laws are a rack whereon the aristocracy loves to behold its victims writhing in tortures, and where the sufferers are compelled to acknowledge as a heinous crime a deed which has in reality no moral turpitude associated with it.

THE CORN-LAWS! Were the Russian to boast of his freedom, Common Sense would point to Siberia and to the knout, and laugh in his face. When the Englishman vaunts the glory of his country's institutions, that same Common Sense comes forward and throws the Corn-Laws in his teeth. What! liberty in connexion with the vilest monopoly that ever mortal policy conceived? Impossible! England manufactures articles which all the civilised world requires; and other states yield corn in an abundance that defies the possibility of home consumption. And yet an inhuman selfishness has declared that England shall not exchange her manufactures for that superfluous produce. No—the manufactures may decay in the warehouses here, and the grain abroad may be thrown to the swine, sooner than a miserable oligarchy will consent to abandon one single principle of its shameless monopoly. The Corn-Laws are a broom which sweeps all the grain on the threshing-floor into one corner for the use of the rich, but which leaves the chaff scattered every where about for the millions of poor to use as best they may.

The aristocracy of England regards the patience of the masses as a bow whose powers of tension are unlimited: but the day must come, sooner or later, when those who thus dare to trifle with this generous elasticity will be struck down by the violence of the recoil.

Although our legislators—trembling at what they affect to sneer at under the denomination of "the march of intellect"—obstinately refuse to imitate enlightened France by instituting a system of national education,—nevertheless, the millions of this country are now instructing themselves!

Honour to the English mechanic—honour to the English operative: each alike seeks to taste of the tree of learning, "whose root is bitter, but whose fruits are sweet!"

Thank God, no despotism—no tyranny can arrest the progress of that mighty intellectual movement which is now perceptible amongst the industrious millions of these realms.

And how excellent are the principles of that self-instruction which now tends to elevate the moral condition of the country. It is not confined within the narrow limits which churchmen would impose: it embraces the sciences—the arts—all subjects of practical utility,—its aim being to model the mind on the solid basis of Common Sense.

To the millions thus enlightened, Religion will appear in all its purity, and the objects of Government in all their simplicity. The holy Christian worship will cease to be regarded as an apology for endowing a Church with enormous revenues; and political administration must no longer be considered as a means of rendering a small portion of the community happy and prosperous to the utter prejudice of the vast remainder.

There breathes not a finer specimen of the human race than a really enlightened and liberal-minded Englishman. But if he be deserving of admiration and applause, who has received his knowledge from the lips of a paid preceptor—how much more worthy of praise and respect is the self-instructed mechanic!

But to resume our narrative.

It was the 1st of January, 1841.

The time-piece on the mantel in Mr. Greenwood's study had just struck two in the afternoon.

That gentleman himself was pacing the apartment in an agitated manner.

His handsome dressing-gown of oriental pattern was not arranged, with the usual contrived air of negligence, to display the beautiful shirt-front, over which hung the gold chain of his Breguet-watch:—on the contrary, it had evidently been hurried on without the least regard to effect.

The writing-table was heaped with a confused pile of letters and accounts—not thrown together for show, but lying in the actual disorder in which they had been tossed aside after a minute investigation.

Though not absolutely slovenly in his present appearance, Mr. Greenwood had certainly neglected his toilet on that day; and the state of his room moreover proved that he was too much absorbed in serious affairs to devote time to the minor considerations of neatness and the strict propriety of order.

There was a cloud upon his brow; and his manner was restless and unsettled.

"Curses—eternal curses upon that Lafleur!" he exclaimed aloud, as he walked up and down with uneven steps. "To think that I should have lost so much at one blow! Oh! it nearly drives me mad—mad! If it had only been the twenty thousand pounds of which the black-hearted French villain and his confederates plundered me, I might have snapped my fingers at Fortune who thus vented her temporary spite upon me! But the enormous amount I lost in addition, by failing to pour that sum of English notes and gold into circulation in the French capital,—the almost immediate fall in the rates of exchange, and the fluctuation of the French funds,—Oh! there it was that I was so seriously injured. Fifty thousand pounds snatched from me as it were in a moment,—fifty thousand pounds of hard money—my own money! And the thirty thousand pounds that I had first sent over to Paris were so judiciously laid out! My combinations were admirable: I should have been a clear gainer of five-and-twenty thousand, had not that accursed robbery taken place! May the villain Lafleur die in a charnel-house—may he perish the most miserable of deaths!"

Mr. Greenwood ground his teeth with rage as he uttered these horrible maledictions.

He did not, however, recall to mind that Lafleur was an honest man when he entered his service;—he did not pause to reflect upon all the intrigues, machinations, plots, duplicities, and villanies, in which he had employed his late valet,—thus gradually initiating him in those paths which could scarcely have led to any other result than the point in which they had actually terminated—the robbery of the master by the servant whom he had thus tutored.

"The villain!" continued Greenwood. "And I was so kind to him—constantly increasing his wages and making him presents! Such confidence as I put in him, too! Filippo, whom I did not trust to half the same extent—save in my intrigues with women—is stanch and faithful to me!"

He paused and glanced towards the time-piece.

"Half-past two; and Tomlinson does not come! What can detain him? Surely that affair cannot have gone wrong also? If so——"

And Greenwood's countenance became as dark and lowering as the sky ere the explosion of the storm.

In a few moments a double-knock at the door echoed through the house.

"Here's Tomlinson!" ejaculated Greenwood; and with sovereign command over himself, he composed his features and assumed his wonted ease of manner.

The stock-broker now entered the room.

"You are an hour behind your time, Tomlinson," said Greenwood, shaking him by the hand.

"I could not come before," was the answer: "I was detained on your business."

"What news?" asked Greenwood, scarcely able to conceal his profound anxiety.

"Bad," replied Tomlinson. "You have sent sixteen thousand pounds to look after the fifty you have already lost. Fortunately you are a rich man, and can stand reverses of this kind. Besides, one who speculates so enormously as you have done of late, must meet with occasional losses. For my part, I should advise you to leave Spanish alone. It seems that you are doomed to fail in your ventures in the foreign securities:—first, your French scheme was totally ruined by the villany of your servant; and now your Spanish one, so far from enabling you to retrieve your losses, has increased them."

This long speech enabled Greenwood to recover from the shock which the announcement of a new reverse had produced.

"My dear Tomlinson," he said, "I am resolved to follow up my speculations in Spanish. The private information I received from an intimate friend of the Spanish Ambassador is correct—I am convinced it is; and I am sure that Queen Christina, by the advice of Espartero, will appropriate a sum to pay the interest on the passives. The announcement must be made in a few days. Of this I am certain. But all my resources are locked up for the present:—in fact, I do not hesitate to tell you, Tomlinson, that I have over-speculated of late. Still—remember—I have plenty of means remaining; but they are not instantly available."

"What, then, do you propose to do?" inquired the stock-broker.

"You have raised yourself during the past year to a confidential position in the City, Tomlinson," continued Greenwood: "and people no longer remember your bankruptcy."

"But I do," observed the stock-broker bitterly.

"Oh! that is nothing," exclaimed Greenwood. "I was about to say that you could probably borrow me fifteen or twenty thousand on my bond—say for three months."

"I doubt it," returned Tomlinson. "You have no mercantile establishment—you are known as a great speculator——"

"And as a great capitalist, I flatter myself," added Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain in the easy complacent manner which had so characterised him until lately.

"That you were a capitalist, there can be no doubt," said Tomlinson, in his usual quiet way; "but ill news fly fast—and your losses——"

"Are already known in the City, you mean?" exclaimed Greenwood, with difficulty concealing his vexation. "I care not a fig for that, Tomlinson. I have ample resources left; but, as I ere now observed, they are not immediately available."

"I understand you. It is well known that you accommodate the members of the aristocracy and heirs-expectant with loans; I presume that you have a mass of their bills, bonds, and acknowledgments? Now if you were to deposit them as collateral security, I know where I could obtain you an equivalent loan in twelve hours."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood: then, after a moment's pause, he said, "And you think there can be no difficulty in managing the business in that way?"

"None," answered the stock-broker.

Again Greenwood appeared to reflect.

"And yet," he observed, "all these pecuniary accommodations of which you spoke, are strictly confidential; and I dare not violate——"

"You know best, Greenwood," said Tomlinson, coolly. "At the same time, I can assure you that my friend will not betray you. The whole thing lies in a nut-shell: you deposit, say twenty thousand pounds' worth of securities, for a loan of that amount, to be repaid in three months; you redeem the documents by the day appointed, and none of your aristocratic debtors will be one whit the wiser. The transaction could only become known to them if you failed to refund the money, in which case the holder of the documents would send them into the market."

"I comprehend," said Greenwood. "Well—I have no objection to the arrangement. When will you ascertain whether your friend will advance the money?"

"This afternoon," returned Tomlinson; "and should the reply be in the affirmative—of which I have no doubt—I will make an appointment for four to-morrow."

"Be it so," cried Greenwood. "You will, perhaps, send me word between five and six this evening."

"I will not fail," said the stock-broker.

"Any thing new in the City?"

"Nothing particular."

"And your late cashier—what has become of him?" inquired Greenwood.

"He is still living in an obscure street in Bethnal-Green," was the answer. "The poor old man never stirs abroad; and his health is failing fast."

"Ah! it will be a good thing when he is gone altogether," said Greenwood. "If he had had to do with me, I should have shipped him to New Zealand or Van Diemen's Land long ago."

Tomlinson turned away in disgust, and took his leave.

Greenwood never moved from his seat until he heard the front door close behind the stock-broker.

Then he started from his chair, and all his apparent composure vanished.

"Sixteen thousand pounds more gone!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse, hollow tone, while he clenched his fists with rage. "Loss upon loss! All this is enough to ruin any man! And I—who have been even far more unfortunate of late than I chose to admit to Tomlinson! Nothing short of one bold and successful hit can now retrieve my tottering fortunes. Securities for twenty thousand pounds, indeed! Ha! ha! I have not bills nor bonds in my possession to the amount of three thousand!"—and he laughed wildly. "But I will have them, though—aye, and such ones as shall fully serve my purposes."

Then he paced the room in a singularly agitated manner.

"Yes—one more bold stroke, and I shall retrieve myself," he continued. "My good star cannot have altogether deserted me. No—no! These vicissitudes are only temporary. Accursed Lafleur! To think that he should have served me thus! Instead of proceeding to Paris—with the means of following up those schemes which I had combined so well, and in which I had already risked so much—but with such absolute certainties of immense gain,—instead of pursuing my career of success,—to be plundered—robbed at the last moment—and compelled to return to London to raise fresh funds! Then, when in four days I was prepared with the necessary sum once more—with another twenty thousand pounds—to receive letters which convinced me that the delay was fatal, and that all was lost! Yes—Fortune did indeed persecute me then! But I will be even with her yet. My information concerning the Spanish debt is accurate; and on that ground I can build a fortune far more colossal than the one I have lost. Shall I hesitate, then, in obtaining this money through Tomlinson's agency? No—no!"

Having thus buoyed himself up with those hopes which invariably urge on the gambler—whether at the actual gaming-table or in the public funds (for there is little difference in a moral light between the two modes of speculation),—to put down fresh stakes on the chance aimed at, Greenwood recovered his wonted calmness.

He busied himself in arranging his papers, and restoring neatness to his writing-table.

Thus passed the time until six o'clock, when Filippo entered the room with a letter.

It was from Tomlinson.

Greenwood tore it open: the contents were favourable. The stock-broker's friend had agreed to advance any sum up to twenty-five thousand pounds on the terms proposed, and had promised to observe the strictest secrecy in the transaction.

"The rest now depends upon myself!" ejaculated Greenwood. "Fortune has not altogether deserted me."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXVI. THE NEW CUT

At nine o'clock on the same evening, Mr. Greenwood, muffled in a cloak, alighted from a hackney-cab in the Waterloo Road at the corner of the New Cut.

That wide thoroughfare which connects the Waterloo and Blackfriars' Roads, is one of the most busy and bustling, after its own fashion, in all London.

Nowhere are the shops of a more miscellaneous nature: nowhere are the pathways so thronged with the stalls and baskets of itinerant venders.

The ingenuity of those petty provision-dealers adapts the spoilt articles of the regular fishmongers and butchers to serviceable purposes in the free market of the New Cut. The fish is cut in slices and fried in an oil or butter whose rancid taste obviates the putrid flavour and smell of the comestible; and the refuse scraps from the butchers shops are chopped up to form a species of sausage-balls called "faggots." Then the grease, in which the racy slices of fish and savoury compounds of lights and liver have been alike cooked, serves to fry large rounds of bread, which, when thus prepared, are denominated "sop in the pan." Of course these culinary refinements are prepared by the venders in their own cellars or garrets hard by; but when conveyed to the miscellaneous market in the New Cut, the luxuries impart a greasy and sickening odour to the air.

It is perfectly wonderful to behold the various methods in which the poor creatures in that thoroughfare endeavour to obtain an honest livelihood; and although their proceedings elicit a smile—still, God pity them! they had better ply their strange trades thus than rob or beg!

There may be seen, for instance, a ragged urchin holding a bundle of onions in his hand, and shouting at the top of his shrill voice, "Here's a ha'porth!"—and, no matter how finely dressed the passer-by, he is sure to thrust the onions under his or her very nose, still vociferating, "Here's a ha'porth!" Poor boy! he thinks every one must want onions!

The immediate vicinity of the Victoria Theatre is infested with women who offer play-bills for sale, and who seem to fancy it impossible that the passers-by can be going elsewhere than to the play.

Here an orange-girl accosts a gentleman with two or three of the fruit in her hand, but with a significant look which gives the assurance that her real trade is of a less innocent nature:—there a poor woman with an array of children before her, offers lucifer matches, but silently appeals for alms.

A little farther on is a long barrow covered with toys; and a tall man without a nose, shouts at intervals, "Only a penny each! only a penny each!" Some of these gimcracks excite astonishment by their extreme cheapness; but they are chiefly made by the convicts in Holland, and are exported in large quantities to England.

In the middle of the road a man with stentorian voice offers "A hundred songs for a penny;" and, enumerating the list, he is sure to announce the "Return of the _H_admiral" amongst the rest.

Nearly opposite the Victoria Theatre there is an extensive cook's-shop; and around the window stands a hungry crowd feasting their eyes on the massive joints which are intended to feast the stomach.

In front of the butchers' shops the serving-men keep up a perpetual vociferation of "Buy! buy!"—a sort of running fire that denotes the earnestness with which competition is carried on amongst rivals in that delectable trade.

Perhaps a new baker's shop is opened in the New Cut; and then a large placard at the window announces that "a glass of gin will be given to every purchaser of a quartern loaf." The buyers do not pause to reflect that the price of the cordial is deducted from the weight of the bread.

The pawnbrokers' shops seem to drive a most bustling trade in the New Cut; and the fronts of their establishments present a more extensive and miscellaneous assortment of second-hand garments, blankets, handkerchiefs, and sheets, than is to be seen elsewhere.

The influx and efflux of people at the public-houses and gin-shops constitute not the least remarkable feature of that neighbourhood, where every thing is dirty and squalid, yet where every one appears able to purchase intoxicating liquor!

On the southern side of the New Cut there are a great many second-hand furniture shops, the sheds wherein the articles are principally exposed being built against the houses in a fashion which gives the whole, when viewed by the glaring of the gas-lights, the appearance of a bazaar or fair.

The New Cut is always crowded; but the multitude is not entirely in motion. Knots of men congregate here, and groups of women there—the posts at the corners of the alleys and courts, or the doors of the gin-shops, being the most favourite points of such assembly.

The edges of the pathways are not completely devoted to provision dealers. Penny peep-shows, emblazoned with a coloured drawing representing the last horrible murder,—itinerant quacks with "certain remedies for the toothache,"—stalls covered with odd numbers of cheap periodical publications,—old women seated on stools, behind little trays containing combs, papers of needles, reels of cotton, pack-thread, stay-laces, bobbin, and such-like articles,—men with cutlery to sell, and who flourish in their hands small knives with innumerable blades sticking out like the quills on a porcupine,—these are also prominent features in that strange market.

In some conspicuous place most likely stands a caravan, surmounted by a picture representing a colossal giant and a giantess to match, with an assurance in large letters that the originals may be seen inside:—then, as the eye wanders from the enormous canvass to the caravan itself, and compares their sizes, the mind is left in a pleasing state of surprise how even one of the Brobdingnag marvels—let alone two—could possibly stow itself away in that diminutive box.

Branching off from the New Cut, on either side, are numerous narrow streets,—or rather lanes, of a very equivocal reputation; their chief characteristics being houses of ill-fame, gin-shops, beer-shops, marine-store dealers, pawnbrokers, and barbers' establishments.

There are two facts connected with low neighbourhoods which cannot fail to attract the attention of even the most superficial observers in their wanderings amidst the mazes of the modern Babylon. The first is that the corner shops of nearly all the narrow and dirty streets are occupied by general dealers or people in the chandlery-line; and the second is that all the barbers' establishments are ornamented with a blind or placard conveying an assurance that each is "the original shaving shop." Here, again, the mind enjoys the excitement of uncertainty, as in the matter of the caravan and the giants; for it is impossible to arrive at any satisfactory decision whether the aforesaid placard means you to infer that the shop to which it belongs was the first ever opened in the world for tonsorial purposes, or only the first that shed the light of its civilisation upon that especial neighbourhood. We may also observe that some of the proprietors of those establishments are not altogether unacquainted with the mysteries of puffing; inasmuch as we frequently read upon their shop-fronts the truly exhilarating and inspiring words, "Hair-dresser to the Queen."

Such are the New Cut and its tributary lanes.

And it was now along the New Cut that Mr. Greenwood, enveloped in his cloak, was pursuing his way.

He scarcely noticed the turmoil, bustle, and business of that strange thoroughfare; for he was too much absorbed in his own meditations.

The truth was, that his affairs—once so gloriously prosperous—were now rendered desperate by various reverses; and he was about to seek a desperate means of retrieving them.

The reader cannot have failed to observe that the characters of George Montague Greenwood and Richard Markham stand out from our picture of London Life in strong contrast with each other; and it is not the less remarkable that while the former was rising rapidly to wealth, rank, and eminence, the latter was undergoing persecutions and sinking into comparative poverty. Now—at the epoch which we are describing—the tables seem to have turned; for while George Montague Greenwood is about to seek a desperate remedy for his desperate affairs, Richard Markham is leading a gallant army over the fertile plains of Castelcicala.

The former, then, may be deemed the personification of vice, the latter the representative of virtue.

They had chosen separate paths:—the sequel will fully demonstrate which of the two characters had selected the right one.

In the meantime we will continue our narrative.

Mr. Greenwood pursued his way, and, having crossed over to the southern side of the New Cut, repaired to a small row of private houses of which this famous thoroughfare can boast at the extremity joining the Blackfriars' Road.

There he stopped for a moment beneath a lamp to consult a memorandum in his pocket-book; and, having thereby refreshed his memory in respect to the address of which he was in search, he proceeded to knock at the door of a house close by.

A dirty servant-girl opened it just as far as a chain inside would permit; and protruding her smutty face, said, with strange abruptness, "Well, what is it?"

"Does Mr. Pennywhiffe live here?" demanded Greenwood.

"No—he don't; and, if he did, you wouldn't come in—'cos I know it's all your gammon," returned that most uninteresting specimen of the female-domestic race.

"Why not?" exclaimed Greenwood, indignantly. "Whom do you take me for?"

"For what you are," replied the girl.

"And what am I, then?"

"Why—a execution, to be sure."

And, with these words, the girl banged the door in Mr. Greenwood's face.

"I must have taken down the wrong number in my memorandum," thought the Member of Parliament, as he turned away from the house, which was evidently in a state of siege. "This is very provoking!"

He then knocked at the door of the next house.

A woman with a child in her arms answered the summons; and, without waiting for any question, said abruptly, "You had better walk in."

Greenwood entered accordingly, supposing that the woman had overheard his inquiry next door, and that he had now found the abode of the person whom he sought.

The woman led the way into a back room, almost completely denuded of furniture, smelling awfully of tobacco-smoke, and very feebly lighted with a single candle that wanted snuffing.

In the midst of a dense cloud of that vapour, a man without a coat was sitting on a trunk; but the moment Greenwood entered, this individual threw down his clay-pipe, and advancing towards the visitor, exclaimed in a ferocious voice, "So you're going your rounds at this hour, are you? Well—I'm as far off from having the tin as I have been all along; and as I am going away to-morrow, I don't mind if I give you a good drubbing to teach you how to pester a gentleman with shabby bits of paper in future."

Thus speaking, the ferocious individual advanced towards Greenwood, squaring away like clock-work.

"Really, sir—you must labour under some mistake," exclaimed the Member of Parliament. "I have never called here before in my life."

"Then who the devil are you?" demanded the pugilistic phenomenon.

"That is quite another question," said Greenwood. "I——"

"Do you mean to tell me, then," exclaimed the man, "that you ain't the Water Rates?"

"No—I am not," answered Greenwood, unable to suppress a smile. "I thought that a Mr. Pennywhiffe lived here."

"Then he don't—that's all," was the rejoinder. "Blowed if I don't believe it's a plant, after all. Come—ain't you a bum? no lies, now!"

Greenwood turned indignantly away from the room, and left the house, muttering to himself, "This is most extraordinary! Every one appears to be in difficulties in this street."

He was not, however, disheartened: it was highly necessary for him to see the person of whom he was in search; and he accordingly knocked at another door.

"Tell him I'll send round the money to-morrow," shouted a masculine voice inside. "I know it's the collector, because he's rapping at every house."

Greenwood did not wait for the door to be opened; he knew very well that Mr. Pennywhiffe could not live there.

The fourth house at which he knocked was the right one.

A decent-looking servant girl replied in the affirmative to his inquiry; and he was forthwith conducted to a well-furnished room on the first floor, where he found Mr. Pennywhiffe seated at a table covered with papers.

This individual was about fifty years of age. In person he was short, thin, and by no means prepossessing in countenance. His eyes were deeply set, grey, and restless; and his forehead was contracted into a thousand wrinkles. He was dressed in a suit of black, and wore a white neckcloth—no doubt to enhance the respectability of his appearance. This was, however, a difficult task; for had he figured in the dock of a criminal tribunal, the jury would have had no trouble in coming to a verdict, a more hang-dog countenance being seldom seen, even in a city where the face is so often the mirror of the mind.

"Ah! Mr. Greenwood," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe, rising to welcome his visitor; "this is an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? Pray be seated; and speak plainly. There's no listeners here."

"I require your aid in a most important business," answered Greenwood, taking a chair, and throwing back his cloak. "To-morrow I must raise twenty or twenty-five thousand pounds, for three or four months—upon bills—good bills, Mr. Pennywhiffe."

"To be deposited?" asked that individual.

"To be deposited," replied Greenwood.

"Shall you withdraw them in time?"

"Decidedly. I will convert the money I shall thereby raise into a hundred thousand," exclaimed Greenwood.

"My commission will be heavy for such a business," observed Pennywhiffe; "and that, you know is ready money."

"I am aware of it, and am come provided. Name the amount you require."

"Will two hundred hurt you?" said Pennywhiffe. "Remember—the affair is a serious one."

"You shall have two hundred pounds," exclaimed the Member of Parliament, laying his pocket-book upon the table.

"That is what I call coming to the point."

Mr. Pennywhiffe rose from his seat, and opening an iron safe, took thence a memorandum-book and a small tin box.

Returning to his seat, he handed the memorandum-book to Greenwood, saying, "There is my list of noblemen, wealthy gentlemen, and great mercantile firms, whose names are familiar to me. Choose which you will have; and make notes of the various sums the bills are to be drawn for. Let them be for the most part uneven ones, with fractions: it looks so much better."

While Greenwood was employed in examining the memorandum-book, which contained upwards of five hundred names of peers, and great landowners, in addition to those of the chief commercial firms of London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Glasgow, and other places,—besides several belonging to Paris, Lyons, Bordeaux, Havre, and Lille; Brussels, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Hamburgh; New York, the West Indian Islands, and Montreal; Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras;—while Mr. Greenwood, we say, was examining this strange register, and copying several of the best names of noblemen, gentlemen, and merchants, upon a slip of paper, Mr Pennywhiffe opened his tin-case.

The contents thereof were numerous paid checks, and bills of exchange, respectively bearing the signatures of the persons or firms whose names were entered in the memorandum-book.

How Mr. Pennywhiffe became possessed of such important documents,—which, seeing that they had all been duly honoured at maturity, ought to have remained in the hands of those who took them up,—was a mystery which he kept to himself. Whether he had collected them by degrees, or had obtained them in a heap by robbery, or any other means, he never condescended to acquaint his clients.

"I have chosen eleven names," said Greenwood; "and have appended to them the various sums for which I require the bills to be drawn. The aggregate is twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny."

"A good total, that," observed Mr. Pennywhiffe,—"an excellent total—sounds uncommon well. Nothing could be better. Am I to provide the stamps?"

"If you please. I will pay you extra for them."

Mr. Pennywhiffe once more had recourse to his iron safe, and returned to his seat with a small paste-board box, long and narrow, and containing a vast number of bill-stamps adapted to sums of all amounts. As the usual formula of such documents was printed (though in various ways, they having been procured at different stationers' shops) the process of filling them up was by no means a tedious one.

But now the ingenuity of Mr. Pennywhiffe mainly exhibited itself. Each bill was filled up with a different ink and a different pen; and so skilful a caligrapher was he, that the most astute judge of writing could not possibly have perceived that they were all written by the same hand. Then, by the aid of red ink, a few flourishes, and little circles containing initial letters or figures as if each document corresponded with some particular entry in some particular leger or bill-book, the papers speedily assumed a very business-like appearance.

And now the most difficult and delicate part of the entire process was to commence—the signatures. But Mr. Pennywhiffe went to work with the air of one who fully understood what he was about; and with the originals before him as a copy, he perfected acceptance after acceptance in so masterly a manner, that Greenwood, when he compared the fictitious signatures with the genuine, was astounded at the caligraphic proficiency of that man whose dangerous agency he was now rendering available to his purposes.

"So far, all goes well," said Mr. Pennywhiffe.

"The bills are excellent in every point save one," observed Greenwood.

"Which is that?" demanded the caligrapher.

"They look too new—the paper is too clean."

"I know it," returned Mr. Pennywhiffe; "but the process is not entirely complete."

He rose and threw a quantity of small coal upon the fire, so as to smother the flame, and create a dense smoke. He then passed each bill several times through the smoke, until the documents acquired a slightly dingy hue. Lastly, he placed them between the leaves of a portfolio scented with musk, so as to take off the odour of the smoke; and the entire process was terminated.

Mr. Greenwood now counted upon the table bank-notes to the aggregate amount of the two hundred pounds promised, and the price of the stamps; and in exchange he received the bills for twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny.

"This seems to be a most extraordinary neighbourhood, Mr. Pennywhiffe," said Greenwood, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. "I knocked by mistake at three houses before I came to yours, and the inmates of each seemed to be in difficulties."

"No doubt of it, my dear sir. This part of London swarms with members of the Swell Mob, broken-down tradesmen, fraudulent bankrupts, insolvents playing at hide-and-seek with the sheriff's-officers, railway projectors, and swindlers of all kinds. I have got a very queer kind of a lodger in my attic: he has no visible means of living, but is out nearly all day long; and he dresses uncommonly well—gold chain—polished boots—figured silk waistcoat—and so forth. He only pays me—or ought to pay me—five shillings a week for his furnished bed-room; and he is six months in arrears. But what is more remarkable still, I don't even know his name; and he never receives any letters, nor has any friends to call. He is about thirty-six or thirty-eight years old, a good-looking fellow enough, and an Irishman."

"Perhaps he also is some railway projector," said Mr. Greenwood, rising to take his departure.

At this moment a double knock at the front-door was heard.

"That must be my lodger," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe.

Urged by curiosity to catch a glimpse of the mysterious gentleman alluded to, Greenwood hurried on his cloak, took leave of the caligrapher, and left the room.

On the stairs he met the lodger, who was ascending to his attic, with a brass candlestick, containing an inch of the commonest candle, in his hand.

The moment he and Greenwood thus encountered each other, an ejaculation of surprise issued from the lips of each.

"Hush! not a word!" said the gentleman, placing his fore-finger upon his lip. "And, of course, Greenwood," he continued, in a whisper, "you will never mention this to a soul."

"Never—on my honour!" answered Greenwood.

They then shook hands, and parted—the gentleman continuing his way to the attic, and Greenwood hastening to leave the house.

"Wonders will never cease!" thought the latter, as he proceeded towards the cab-stand near Rowland Hill's chapel in the Blackfriars Road: "who would have thought of one of the Irish Members of Parliament living in an attic in the New Cut?"

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXVII. THE FORGED BILLS

At half-past four o'clock on the following afternoon, Ellen Monroe was in the immediate vicinity of the Bank of England.

She had been to receive a small sum of money which an old debtor of her father's, residing in Birchin Lane, had written to state that he was in a condition to pay; and she was now on her return to Markham Place.

The evenings of January are obscure, if not quite dark, at that hour; and the lamps were lighted.

As she was proceeding along Lothbury, Greenwood suddenly passed her. He was walking rapidly, in a pre-occupied manner, and did not perceive her.

But she beheld him; and she turned to speak to him; for in spite of all the injuries which her parent, her benefactor Richard, and herself had sustained at his hands, he was still the father of her child!

Scarcely had she thus turned, when he drew his handkerchief from his pocket—still hurrying on towards Tokenhouse Yard.

Ellen quickened her pace; but in a few moments her foot encountered an object on the pavement.

She stooped, and picked it up.

It was a pocket-book.

Conceiving that Greenwood might have dropped it, as she had found it on the very spot where she had seen him take his handkerchief from his pocket, she ran in the direction which she supposed him to have pursued; but as, in the mean time, he had turned into the narrow alley called Tokenhouse Yard, and as she continued her way along Lothbury towards Throgmorton Street, she did not of course overtake him.

Finding that her search after him was unavailing, she determined to examine the contents of the pocket-book, and ascertain if it really did belong to him; in which case, she resolved to proceed straight to Spring Gardens, and restore it to him.

Retracing her steps along Lothbury, she entered Cateaton Street; and turning into the Old Jewry, which was almost deserted, she stopped beneath the light of a lamp to open the pocket-book.

It contained several letters, addressed to "G. M. GREENWOOD, ESQ., M.P.;" and thus her doubts were cleared up at once. But as she was thus investigating the interior of the pocket-book, her eye fell upon a number of bills of exchange, all drawn and endorsed by Mr. Greenwood, and accepted for large sums by noblemen, well-known landowners, and eminent merchants. A rapid glance over these documents convinced Ellen that the aggregate amount which they represented could not fall far short of twenty-five thousand pounds; for, in addition to the fictitious bills obtained from Pennywhiffe, Greenwood had placed in his pocket-book several genuine ones which he legitimately possessed.

Miss Monroe's scrutiny did not altogether occupy a minute; and, carefully securing the pocket-book about her person, she hurried towards Cheapside, where she entered a cab, directing the driver to take her to Spring Gardens.

She did not forget Greenwood's former conduct in having her carried away to his house in the country; but she did not apprehend any ill-usage at his hands in a part of London where succour would be so readily obtained as in Spring Gardens. It was therefore without hesitation that she resolved to proceed direct to his own dwelling in that quarter.

In due time the vehicle stopped at Greenwood's house in Spring Gardens.

With a beating heart Ellen knocked at the door, which was almost immediately opened by Filippo.

"Ah! Miss Monroe!" he exclaimed, as the light of the hall-lamp fell upon her beautiful countenance.

"Yes—it is I at Mr. Greenwood's house," she answered, with a smile: "is he at home?"

"No, Miss—he has gone into the City; but he will be back at six o'clock at the latest."

"Then I will wait for him," said Ellen.

Filippo conducted her up stairs.

In the window of the staircase still stood the beautiful model of the Diana, holding a lamp in its hand,—that model which was the image of her own faultless form.

On the landing-place, communicating with the drawing-room, was also the marble statue, the bust of which was sculptured in precise imitation of her own.

And, when she entered the drawing-room, the first object which met her eyes was the picture of Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and nymphs,—that Venus which was a faithful likeness of herself!

Oh! how many phases of her existence did these permanent representations of her matchless beauty bring back to her memory!

When Filippo left her, and she found herself alone, she fell upon a sofa, and gave way to a violent flood of tears.

Then she felt relieved; and she began to ask herself wherefore she had come thither? Was it because she was glad to have found an excuse for calling upon him who was the father of her child? was it because she was anxious to receive his thanks—from his own lips—for restoring to him his pocket-book? She scarcely knew.

Half an hour passed in reflections of this nature—reflections which branched off in so many different ways, and converged to no satisfactory point—when a cab suddenly drove up to the house.

In another minute hasty steps ascended the stairs—they approached the drawing-room—and Greenwood rushed in, banging the door furiously behind him.

"My God! what have I done?" he exclaimed, frantically—for he did not immediately perceive Ellen, whom a screen concealed from his view. "The pocket-book is lost—gone! I am ruined—should those forged bills——"

He said no more, but threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands.

Ellen instantly comprehended it all:—the bills which she had seen in the pocket-book were forgeries!

Rapid as lightning a train of new reflections passed through her brain:—a project suggested itself;—she hesitated for a moment—but only for a moment:—she thought of her child—and she was resolved.

Assuming all her calmness, and calculating in an instant all the chances of her scheme, she rose from the sofa, and slowly approached the chair on which Greenwood was seated.

He heard a step in the room, and raised his eyes.

"Ellen!" he exclaimed, starting back in surprise.

She murmured a Christian name—but it was not George.

"Call me not that, Ellen!" cried Greenwood, fiercely: "the time is not come! But tell me," he added, speaking thickly, and at the same instant casting upon her a glance which seemed to pierce her inmost soul,—"tell me—were you here—in this room—when I came in?"

"I was," answered Ellen, gazing, in her turn, fixedly upon him.

"And you heard——"

"I heard every word you uttered," continued Miss Monroe, keeping her eyes still bent upon him.

"Ah! then you know——"

"That you have committed forgery," added Ellen, in an emphatic tone; "and that you are ruined!"

"Damnation!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What did you come for? why are you here? To gloat over my falling fortunes—to make yourself merry at my ruin—to taunt me with the past—to laugh at me in my adversity—to——"

"Then it is true," thought Ellen, within herself: "these bills are forgeries—and he is in my power.—No," she exclaimed aloud; "such was not my object."

"Then, go—leave me—depart!" cried Greenwood, frantically. "I am in no humour to listen to you now! But, Ellen," he added, suddenly becoming cool—desperately cool:—"tell me—speak—you will not betray me?"

"No—that is, on one condition," answered Ellen.

"One condition!" repeated Greenwood: "name it!"

"That you make me your wife," was the steady reply.

"My wife!" exclaimed Greenwood, laughing hysterically. "Do you know whose wife you would become?—the wife of a forger! Have you not learnt that dread secret? But, perhaps, it is to mock me that you offer to become my wife! Oh! I understand you full well, Ellen! When I was rich and beyond the reach of the law, I would not marry you;—and now you mean me to comprehend that since I am ruined, and every moment in danger of being dragged to a station-house, you would scorn the alliance! The jest is good:—no—the revenge is just! But it is not the less bitter to me, Ellen!"

"By heavens, you wrong me!" cried Ellen. "Listen with calmness—with composure—if you can!"

"I cannot, Ellen—I cannot! I am mad! A few months—nay, even a few weeks ago, I was happy—wealthy—prosperous:—now I am ruined—miserable—lost! Oh! the grand prospects that were so lately open before me!"

"Again I say, listen. All is not so bad as you imagine," said the young lady, in a hasty tone.

"What do you mean, Ellen? what can you mean?" he exclaimed, bewildered. "Do you not understand the nature of a forgery—the consequences which it entails? True—I did not perpetrate the forgery with my own hands;—but the bills are all drawn—all endorsed by me! Oh! it is dreadful—it is terrible!"

"I will not keep you any longer in suspense," said Ellen. "Your pocket-book is found——"

"Found!" repeated Greenwood, electrified by that word, and not knowing whether it imported good or evil to him: "found! Did you say——"

"Yes—found," answered Miss Monroe;—"and by me!"

"By you, Ellen?" cried Greenwood. "No—it is impossible!"

"How, then, should I know that you had lost a pocket-book?" asked the young lady.

"True! And you have found it? Oh! then I am saved—I am saved! Give it to me, Ellen—give it to me!"

And he advanced towards her, with out-stretched hands.

"No—not yet," exclaimed the young lady, in a firm tone. "In this room—yes, in this very room—I went down upon my knees, and implored you to save me from disgrace—to give a father's name to the child who was then as yet unborn. And you refused my supplication—you turned a deaf ear to my agonising entreaties. Oh! I remember that scene but too well. You would not do me justice—and I told you that you might live to repent your cruelty towards me!"

"What! you will now avenge your alleged wrongs!" cried Greenwood, his countenance becoming livid with mingled fear and rage: "you will deliver me up to justice? No—I will tear the pocket-book from you—I will destroy the proofs of my folly—my crime; and then——but why should I waste time in idle words like these; I must act! Give me the book!"

And he rushed towards her, as a tiger springs upon its victim.

But Ellen, light as the fawn, glided away from him, and took such a position that a table was between them, and a bell-pull within her reach.

"Dare to attempt violence towards me," she exclaimed, "and I summon your servants. Then—in their presence—I will proclaim their master a forger! Provoke me not—my spirit is roused—and your fate hangs upon a thread!"

"Damnation!" cried Greenwood, grinding his teeth with rage. "Can nothing move you, Ellen?"

"Yes—the one condition that I ere now named," she answered, drawing herself up to her full height, and assuming all the influence of her really queenly beauty.

"Agreed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "Give me the pocket-book—I take God to witness that I will make you my wife within a week from this day."

"You regard an oath no more than a mere promise," replied Ellen, calmly, and with a slightly satirical curl of the lip.

"I will give you the promise in writing, Ellen," persisted Greenwood, urged to desperation.

"Neither will that satisfy me," said the young lady. "When our hands are joined at the altar, I will restore you the proofs of your crime; and God grant," she added solemnly, "that this peril which you have incurred may serve as a warning to you against future risks of the same fearful kind."

"You have no faith in my word—you have no confidence in my written promise, Ellen," cried Greenwood: "how, then, can you be anxious to have me as a husband?"

"That my child may not grow up with the stain of illegitimacy upon him—that he may not learn to despise his mother," answered Ellen, emphatically; "for he need never know the precise date of our union."

"But you know, Ellen," again remonstrated Greenwood, "that there are circumstances which act as an insuperable barrier to this marriage. Could you tell your father that you have espoused the man who ruined him—ruined Richard,—and also admit, at the same time, that this man was the father of your child! Consider, Ellen—reflect——"

"There is no need of consideration—no need of reflection," interrupted Miss Monroe. "I care not about revealing the fact of my marriage for the present. In a few years—when our child can comprehend his true position,—then it would be necessary to declare myself a wife."

"But there is another difficulty, Ellen," persisted Greenwood: "my name——"

"Let us be wedded privately—in some suburban church, where you stand no chance of being recognised as George Montague Greenwood, and where your right name may be fearlessly inscribed upon the register."

"A woman who is determined to gain her point, annihilates all difficulties," muttered Greenwood to himself.

"How do you decide?" asked Ellen. "Remember that I am firm. I have these alternatives before me—either to obtain a father's name for my child, or to avenge the wrongs of my own parent and myself. Consent to make me your wife, and the proofs of your crime shall be returned to you at the altar: refuse, and to-morrow morning I will prepare the way for vengeance."

"Ellen, I consent to your proposal," said Greenwood, in a tone of deep humiliation; "but upon condition that our marriage shall never be proclaimed until that day, when——"

"I understand you; and I cheerfully agree to the proposal," interrupted Miss Monroe. "You can believe my word:—besides, you must know that I also should have reasons to conceal our union, until you chose to declare your real name."

"Then be it as you propose, Ellen. To-morrow morning, early, I will procure a special license, and we will be united at Hackney. You can meet me at the church precisely at ten o'clock in the morning: I will have every thing in readiness. But whom will you ask to accompany you?"

"Marian—the faithful servant who has been so devoted to my interests," answered Miss Monroe.

"I think that I should prefer the wife of that surgeon—Mrs. Wentworth, I mean—as the witness to our union," said Greenwood. "I dislike the idea of domestics being entrusted with important secrets. Besides, Mrs. Wentworth has never seen me—knows not that I am passing by the name of Greenwood—and, in a word, is a lady."

"Be it as you will in this instance," returned Ellen. "Mrs. Wentworth shall accompany me—I can rely upon her."

She then rang the bell.

"What do you require, Ellen?" asked Greenwood, alarmed by this movement on her part.

"Merely to ensure the presence of one of your servants, as I pass from this spot to the door of the room," replied Ellen. "You can give him some order to avert suspicion."

Filippo made his appearance; and Ellen then took leave of Mr. Greenwood, as if nothing peculiar had occurred between them.

Oh! with what joy—with what fervid, intoxicating joy—did she return to Markham Place! She had subdued him whose cold, calculating, selfish heart was hitherto unacquainted with honourable concessions;—she had conquered him—reduced him to submit to her terms—imposed her own conditions!

Never—never before had she embraced her child with such pride—such undiluted happiness as on that evening. And never had she herself appeared more beautiful—more enchantingly lovely! Her lips were wreathed in smiles—her eyes beamed with the transports of hope, triumph, and maternal affection—a glow of ineffable bliss animated her countenance—her swelling bosom heaved with rapture.

"You are very late, my dear child," said Mr. Monroe, when she took her seat at the tea-table: "I began to grow uneasy."

"I was detained a long time at the office of your debtor," answered Ellen. "To-morrow morning I intend to pay a visit to Mrs. Wentworth, and shall invite myself to breakfast with her. So you need not be surprised, dear father," she added, with a sweet smile, "if I do not make my appearance at your table."

"You please me in pleasing yourself, dear Ellen. Moreover, I am delighted that you should cultivate Mrs. Wentworth's acquaintance. Most sincerely do I hope," continued Mr. Monroe, "that we shall have letters from Richard to-morrow. The communications which we have already received are not satisfactory to my mind. God grant that he may be by this time safe in Naples—if not on his way to England."

"Alas! the enterprise has been a most unfortunate one for him!" returned Ellen, a cloud passing over her countenance. "I understand his noble disposition so well, that I am convinced he deeply feels the defeat of Ossore."

We must observe that the news of our hero's success at Estella had not yet reached England.

"It will be a happy day for us all," said Mr. Monroe, after a pause, "when Richard once more sets foot in his own home—for I love him as if he were my son."

"And I as if he were my brother," added Ellen;—"yes—my brother," she repeated, with strange emphasis upon these words.

* * * * *

On the following morning, a few minutes before ten o'clock, a post-chaise stopped at the gate of the parish church of Hackney; and Mr. Greenwood alighted.

He was pale; and the quivering of his lip denoted the agitation of his mind.

The clock was striking ten, when a hackney-coach reached the same point.

Greenwood hastened to the door, and assisted Mrs. Wentworth and Ellen Monroe to descend the steps.

As he handed out the latter, he said, in a hurried whisper, "You have the pocket-book with you?"

"I have," answered Ellen.

The party then proceeded to the church, the drivers of the vehicles being directed to await their return at a little distance, so as not to attract the notice of the inhabitants.

The clergyman and the clerk awaited the arrival of the nuptial party.

The ceremony commenced—proceeded—and terminated.

Ellen was now a wife!

Her husband imprinted a kiss upon her pale forehead; and at the same moment she handed him the pocket-book.

In a few minutes the marriage-certificate was in her possession.

Drawing her husband aside, she said, "Let me now implore you—for your own sake—for the sake of your child—if not for mine—to abstain from those courses——"

"Ellen," interrupted Greenwood, "do not alarm yourself on that head. My friend the Marquis of Holmesford lent me ten thousand pounds last evening; and with that sum I will retrieve my falling fortunes. Yes—you shall yet bear a great name. Ellen," he added, his countenance lighting up with animation; "a name that shall go down to posterity! But, tell me—has your father received any tidings from Richard?"

"None since those of which I wrote to you. We are not yet aware whether he be in safety, or not."

"You will write to me the moment you receive any fresh communication?"

"Rest assured that I shall not forget that duty."

"And now, Ellen, we must pass the day together. We will spend our honeymoon of twenty-four hours at Richmond. Mrs. Wentworth can return home, and send word to your father that she means to keep you with her until to-morrow morning."

"If you command me, it is my duty to obey," replied Ellen.

"I do—I do," answered Greenwood, earnestly. "You are now mine—the circumstances which led to our union shall be forgotten—and I shall think of you only as my beautiful wife."

"Oh! if this be really true!" murmured Ellen, pressing his hand fervently, and regarding him with affection—for he was the father of her child!

"It is true," answered Greenwood;—but his bride perceived not how much of sensual passion prompted him on the present occasion. "I know that you have been faithful to me—that the hope of one day becoming my wife has swayed your conduct. Of that I have had proofs."

"Proofs!" repeated Ellen, with mingled surprise and joy.

"Yes—proofs. Do you not remember the Greek Brigand at the masquerade, where you met and so justly upbraided that canting hypocrite, Reginald Tracy?"

"I do. But that Greek Brigand——"

"Was myself!" replied Greenwood.

"You!" exclaimed Ellen, with a smile of satisfaction.

"Yes: and I overheard every sentence you uttered. But we may not tarry here longer: speak to Mrs. Wentworth, that she send a proper excuse to your father; and let us depart."

Ellen hastened to the vestry where the surgeon's wife was seated near a cheerful fire; and the arrangement desired by Greenwood was soon made.

The party then proceeded to the vehicles.

Mrs. Wentworth bade the newly-married couple adieu, having faithfully promised to retain their secret inviolate; and Greenwood handed her into the hackney-coach.

He and Ellen entered the post-chaise; and while the surgeon's wife retraced her way to her own abode, the bride and bridegroom hastened to Richmond.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXVIII. THE BATTLES OF PIACERE AND ABRANTANI

We must now request our readers to accompany us once more to Castelcicala.

In an incredibly short time, and by dint of a forced march which put the mettle of his troops to a severe test,—at which, however, they did not repine, for they were animated by the dauntless courage and perseverance of their commander.—Richard Markham arrived beneath the walls of Villabella.

During his progress towards the town, he had been joined by upwards of four hundred volunteers, all belonging to the national militia, and armed and equipped ready for active service.

The daring exploit which had made him master of Estella, had created an enthusiasm in his favour which he himself and all his followers considered to be an augury of the final success of the Constitutional Cause; and in every village—in every hamlet through which his army had passed, was he welcomed with the most lively demonstration of joy.

When, early on the morning of the 1st of January, his advanced guard emerged from the woods which skirted the southern suburb of Villabella, the arrival of the Constitutional Army was saluted by the roar of artillery from the ramparts; and almost at the same moment the tri-coloured flag was hoisted on every pinnacle and every tower of the great manufacturing town.

"We have none but friends there!" exclaimed Richard, as he pointed towards Villabella. "God grant that we may have no blood to shed elsewhere."

The army halted beneath the walls of Villabella, for Richard did not deem it proper to enter those precincts until formally invited to do so by the corporation.

He, however, immediately despatched a messenger to the mayor, with certain credentials which had been supplied him by the Committee of Administration at Estella; and in the course of an hour the municipal authorities of Villabella came forth in procession to welcome him.

The mayor was a venerable man of eighty years of age, but with unimpaired intellects, and a mind still young and vigorous.

Alighting from his horse, Richard hastened forward to meet him.

"Let me embrace you, noble young man!" exclaimed the mayor. "Your fame has preceded you—and within those walls," he added, turning and pointing towards Villabella, "there breathes not a soul opposed to the sacred cause which heaven has sent you to direct."

Then the mayor embraced Richard in presence of the corporation—in presence of the Constitutional Army; and the welkin rang with shouts of enthusiastic joy.

The formal invitation to enter Villabella was now given; and Markham issued the necessary orders.

The corporation led the way: next came the General, attended by his staff; and after him proceeded the long lines of troops, their martial weapons gleaming in the morning sun.

The moment our hero passed the inner drawbridge, the roar of cannon was renewed upon the ramparts; and the bells in all the towers commenced a merry peal.

As at Estella, the windows were thronged with faces—the streets were crowded with spectators—and every testimonial of an enthusiastic welcome awaited the champion of Constitutional Liberty.

Then resounded, too, myriads of voices, exclaiming, "Long live Alberto"—"Long live the General!"—"Down with the Tyrant!"—"Death to the Austrians!"

In this manner the corporation, Markham, and his staff, proceeded to the Town-Hall, while the troops defiled off to the barracks, where the garrison—a thousand in number—welcomed them as brethren-in-arms.

All the officers of the troops in Villabella, moreover—with the exception of the colonel-commandant,—declared in favour of the Constitutionalists; and even that superior functionary manifested no particular hostility to the movement, but simply declared that "although he could never again bear arms in favour of the Grand Duke, he would not fight against him."

When he had transacted business at the Town-Hall, and countersigned a proclamation which the municipality drew up, recognising the Committee of Administration of Estella, and constituting itself a permanent body invested with similar functions,—Markham repaired to the barracks.

Thence he immediately despatched couriers to the excellent banker at Pinalla, to the mayor of Estella, and to the Committee of Government at Montoni.

He then issued an address to his army, complimenting it upon the spirit and resolution with which the forced march to Villabella had been accomplished; reminding it that every thing depended upon the celerity of its movements, so as to prevent a concentration of any great number of adverse troops, before the Constitutional force could be augmented sufficiently to cope with them; and finally ordering it to prepare to resume the march that afternoon at three o'clock.

By means of new volunteers and a portion of the garrison of Villabella, Richard found his army increased to nearly four thousand men.

At the head of this imposing force he set out once more, at the time indicated, and commenced another rapid march in the direction of Piacere.

On the ensuing evening—the 2d of January—the towers of that important city broke upon the view of the van-guard of the Constitutionalists.

The commandant of the garrison of Piacere was an old and famous officer—General Giustiniani,—devoted to the cause of the Grand Duke, and holding in abhorrence every thing savouring of liberal opinions.

Markham was aware of this fact; and he felt convinced that Piacere would not fall into his hands without bloodshed. At the same time, he determined not to pass it by, because it would serve as a point of centralisation for the troops of Veronezzi and Terano (both being seats of the military administration of Captains-General), and moreover afford the enemy a means of cutting off all communication between himself on the one hand, and Villabella and Estella on the other.

Certain of being attacked, Markham lost no time in making the necessary arrangements. He ordered the van-guard to halt, until the troops in the rear could come up, and take their proper places; and he planted his artillery upon a hill which commanded almost the entire interval between his army and the city.

Nor were his precautions vainly taken; for in a short time a large force was seen moving towards him from Piacere, the rays of the setting sun irradiating their glittering bayonets and the steel helmets of a corps of cuirassiers.

In another quarter of an hour the enemy was so near as to induce Richard to order his artillery to open a fire upon them: but General Giustiniani, who commanded in person, led his forces on with such rapidity, that the engagement speedily commenced.

Giustiniani had about three thousand five hundred men under his orders; but although this force was numerically inferior to the Constitutionalists, it was superior in other respects—for it comprised a large body of cuirassiers, a regiment of grenadiers, a corps of rifles, and twenty field-pieces: it was, moreover fresh and unwearied, whereas the Constitutionalists were fatigued with a long march.

For a few minutes a murderous fire was kept up on both sides; but Richard led his troops to close quarters, and charged the cuirassiers at the head of his cavalry.

At the same time the Cingani, in obedience to an order which he had sent their chiefs, turned the right flank of the rifles by a rapid and skilful manœuvre, and so isolated them from their main body as to expose them to the artillery upon the hill.

Excited, as it were to desperation, by the conduct of our hero, the Constitutional cavalry performed prodigies of valour; and after an hour's hard fighting in the grey twilight, succeeded in breaking the hitherto compact body of cuirassiers.

Leaving his cavalry to accomplish the rout of the enemy's horse-guards, Richard flew to the aid of his right wing, which was sorely pressed by the grenadiers, and was breaking into disorder.

"Constitutionalists!" he cried: "your brethren are victorious elsewhere: abandon not the field! Follow me—to conquest or to death!"

These words operated with electrical effect; and the Constitutional infantry immediately rallied under the guidance of their youthful leader.

Then the battle was renewed: darkness fell upon the scene; but still the murderous conflict was prolonged. At length Richard engaged hand to hand with the colonel of the grenadiers, who was well mounted on a steed of enormous size. But this combat was short; the officer's sword was dashed from his hand; and he became our hero's prisoner.

These tidings spread like wild-fire; and the enemy fell into confusion. Their retreat became general: Richard followed up his advantage; and Giustiniani's army was completely routed.

The Constitutionalists pressed close upon them; and Richard, once more putting himself at the head of his cavalry, pursued the fugitives up to the very walls of Piacere—not with the murderous intention of exterminating them, but with a view to secure as many prisoners as possible, and prevent the enemy from taking refuge in the city.

At the very gates of Piacere he overtook General Giustiniani, and, after a short conflict, made him captive.

He then retraced his steps to the scene of his victory, and took the necessary steps for concentrating his forces once more.

That night, the Constitutionalists bivouacked in the plains about a mile from Piacere.

Early in the morning of the 3d of January, the results of the brilliant triumph of the preceding evening were known. Eight hundred of the enemy lay dead upon the field; and fifteen hundred had been taken prisoners. The Constitutionalists had lost three hundred men, and had nearly as many wounded.

Scarcely had the sun risen on the scene of carnage, when messengers arrived from Piacere, stating that the corporation had declared in favour of the Constitutionalists, and bearing letters from the municipal authorities to Markham. Those documents assured our hero that the sympathies of the great majority of the inhabitants were in favour of his cause; and that deep regret was experienced at the waste of life which had been occasioned by the obstinacy and self-will of General Giustiniani. Those letters also contained an invitation for him to enter the city, where the tri-coloured flag was already hoisted.

These welcome tidings were soon made known to the whole army, and were received with shouts of joy and triumph.

Richard returned a suitable answer to the delegates, and then sought General Giustiniani. To this commander he offered immediate liberty, on condition that he would not again bear arms against the Constitutionalists. The offer was spurned with contempt. Markham accordingly despatched him, under a strong escort, to Villabella.

At nine o'clock Markham entered Piacere, amidst the ringing of bells, the thunder of cannon, and the welcome of the inhabitants. The corporation presented him with the keys, which he immediately returned to the mayor, saying, "I am the servant, sir, and not the master of the Castelcicalans."

This reply was speedily circulated through Piacere, and increased the enthusiasm of the inhabitants in his favour.

Richard determined to remain until the following morning in this city. Having seen his troops comfortably lodged in the barracks, he adopted his usual course of despatching couriers, with accounts of his proceedings, to Villabella, Estella, Pinalla, and Montoni. Need we say that every letter which he addressed to the worthy banker contained brief notes—necessarily brief—to be sent by way of Naples, to Mr. Monroe and Isabella?

Having performed these duties, Richard repaired to the Town-Hall, where he countersigned a decree appointing the municipal body a Committee of Administration; and a proclamation to that effect was speedily published.

He next, with the most unwearied diligence, adopted measures to increase his army, for he resolved to march with as little delay as possible towards Abrantani; where a strong Austrian and Castelcicalan force was lying, under the command of the Captain-General of that province. At that point Richard well knew an important struggle must take place—a struggle in comparison with which all that he had hitherto done was as nothing.

But his endeavours in obtaining recruits were attended with great success. Volunteers flocked to the barracks; and the city-arsenal was well provided with all the uniforms, arms, ammunition, and stores that were required.

On the west of Piacere was a vast plain, on which Richard determined to review his troops at day-break, and thence march direct upon Abrantani.

The order was accordingly issued; and half an hour before the sun rose, the army defiled through the western gates. Nearly all the inhabitants repaired to the plain, to witness the martial spectacle; and many were the bright eyes that glanced with admiration—and even a softer feeling—at the handsome countenance of that young man whose name now belonged to history.

Colonel Cossario, the second in command, directed the evolutions. The army was drawn up in divisions four deep, and mustered five thousand strong.

And now, on the 4th of January, a morning golden with sun-beams, the review began. Each regiment had its brass band and its gay colours; and the joyous beams of the orb of day sported on the points of bayonets, flashed on naked swords, and played on the steel helmets of four hundred cuirassiers whom Richard had organised on the preceding evening.

Stationed on an eminence, attended by his staff, and by his faithful Morcar, who had comported himself gallantly in the battle of the 2d, Markham surveyed, with feelings of indescribable enthusiasm, that armament which owned him as its chief.

Cossario gave the word—it was passed on from division to division; and now all these sections are wheeling into line.

The line is formed—the bands are stationed in front of their respective corps: and all is as still as death.

Again the Colonel gives the word of command—"General salute! Present arms!"—and a long din of hands clapping against the muskets echoes around.

The bands strike up the glorious French air of the Parisienne; and Markham gracefully raises his plumed hat from his brow, in acknowledgment of the salute of his army.

The music ceases—the word, "Shoulder arms!" is passed from division to division, along that line of half a mile from flank to flank.

Then Markham gallops towards the troops, followed by his staff; the ranks take open order; he passes along, inspecting the different corps,—addressing them—encouraging them.

Again he returns to the eminence: the line is once more broken into divisions; close columns are formed; and the whole army is put in motion, to march past its General, the bands playing a lively air.

From the plain the troops defiled towards the road leading to Abrantani.

But scarcely had Markham taken leave of the mayor and the municipal authorities, in order to rejoin his army, when a courier, covered with dust, galloped up to him. He was the bearer of letters from Signor Viviani. Those documents afforded our hero the welcome intelligence that Pinalla had hoisted the tri-colour, declared in favour of the cause of liberty, recognised Markham as the General-in-Chief of the Constitutional Armies of Castelcicala, and had despatched a reinforcement of two thousand men to fight under his banner.

Richard hastily communicated these tidings to the corporation of Piacere, and then joined his army, throughout the ranks of which the news of the adhesion of so important a city as Pinalla to the great cause diffused the utmost joy.

"Every thing favours me!" thought Richard, his heart leaping within him. "Oh! for success at Abrantani; and such will be its moral effect upon my troops that I shall fear nothing for the result of the grand and final struggle that must take place beneath the walls of Montoni! And, then, Isabella, even your father will acknowledge that I have some claim to your hand as a reward for placing him upon the ducal throne!"

The road that the army now pursued was most favourable for the rapid march which Richard urged. It was wide and even, and afforded an easy passage to the artillery.

Shortly after mid-day the van-guard entered the beautiful province of Abrantani; and there the troops were received by the inhabitants with an enthusiasm of the most grateful description. For it was in this district that the tyranny of the Grand Duke's régime, under the auspices of Count Santa-Croce, had been most severely felt.

No wonder, then, that the Constitutional Army was greeted with rapture and delight;—no wonder that blessings were invoked upon the head of its General! The old men went down upon their knees by the road-sides, to implore heaven to accord success to his mission;—mothers held up their children to catch a glimpse of the youthful hero;—and young maidens threw garlands of flowers in his path.

Volunteers poured in from all sides; and the army increased in its progress, like the snowball rolling along the ground.

At sunset the entire force halted in the precincts of a large town, the inhabitants of which hastened to supply the soldiers with provisions and wine.

During that pause, couriers arrived from Veronezzi, with the joyful tidings that it had declared in favour of the Constitutional cause, and was sending reinforcements. Thus the whole of the south of Castelcicala was now devoted to the movement of which Markham was the head and chief.

For two hours was the army permitted to rest: it then continued its march until midnight, when it bivouacked in a wide plain, a wood protecting its right wing, and a hill, whereon the artillery was planted, defending its left.

Richard adopted every precaution to avoid a surprise; for he was well aware that the Count of Santa-Croce was not a man to slumber at such a crisis. But it afterwards appeared that the Captain-General did not dare to quit the neighbourhood of the city of Abrantani, for fear that it should pronounce in favour of the Constitutionalists.

It was, therefore, under the walls of Abrantani itself that the contest was to take place.

There was a flat eminence to the east of the city; and on this had Santa-Croce taken up his position at the head of seven thousand men—three thousand Castelcicalans, and four thousand Austrians.

Against this force was Richard to contend, at the head of six thousand soldiers, the volunteers who had joined him since he left Piacere amounting to a thousand.

But to return to our narrative in the consecutive order of events.

At five o'clock in the morning of the 5th, the Constitutionalists quitted their position where they had bivouacked, and pursued their way towards the city of Abrantani.

The day passed—night came once more—and the troops bivouacked in the immediate vicinity of a large hamlet.

The morning of the 6th saw them again in motion; but Richard allowed them to proceed with diminished celerity, as he had already enough chances against him to warn him not to increase them by over-fatiguing his army.

It was not, therefore, until the evening that he came in sight of the tall spire on the Cathedral of Abrantani.

"By this time to-morrow," exclaimed Richard, pointing in the direction of the city, "the tower on which yon spire stands shall echo with the sounds of its bells to celebrate our triumph!"

"Amen!" ejaculated Morcar, who was close behind him.

The Constitutionalists took up a strong position, with a village on their right and a range of extensive farm-buildings on their left. They were all animated by an enthusiasm worthy of the great cause in which they were embarked; and their ardour was manifested by singing martial songs as they crowded round the fires of the bivouac.

Richard never closed his eyes during the night. Confident that his want of experience in military tactics must be compensated for by unceasing exercise of that intelligence and keenness of perception which had enabled him to direct the movements of his troops so as to achieve the victory of Piacere, he reconnoitred all the positions adjacent to his own—marked those where troops would be advantageously placed, and observed others where they would be endangered—visited the outposts—studied the maps of that part of the country—and held consultations with his most skilful officers. These subordinates were astonished at the soundness of his views, the excellence of his arrangements, and the admirable nature of his combinations.

Markham was resolved to effect two objects, which, he felt convinced, would lessen the chances that were now against him. The first was to throw up a small redoubt, where he might place a portion of his artillery, so as to command the flat eminence on which the Austro-Castelcicalan army was stationed. The second was to send off a small detachment before day-break, to gain a wood about two miles distant, whence it might debouch at the proper time, and fall upon the left flank of the enemy.

The redoubt was commenced, and proceeded rapidly; and an hour before sunrise the corps of Cingani departed on the important service which the General-in-Chief confided to it, with strict orders not to move from the wood until the enemy should have left the eminence and descended to the plain.

Thus, by the time the sun rose on the morning of the 7th, the Cingani were safely concealed in the wood; a redoubt, bristling with artillery, commanded the enemy's position; and the Constitutionalists were formed in order of battle.

Richard commanded the right wing; and Colonel Cossario the left.

The engagement began on the part of the Constitutionalists, with a cannonade from the redoubt; and so well did this battery perform its part, that—as Richard had foreseen—the Captain-General was compelled to descend into the plain, and endeavour to surround the right wing of the Constitutionalists, in order to terminate the carnage occasioned by that dreadful cannonade.

Meantime, Cossario, with his division, advanced to meet three battalions which the Captain-General had detached to attack the range of farm-buildings; and for an hour the combat raged in that point with inconceivable fury. The Austrians precipitated themselves with a desperate ardour upon Cossario's troops, who were at length compelled to retreat and occupy the farm.

On the right, Markham sustained a fearful contest with the force opposed to him. The fire of the musketry was at point-blank distance; and the firmness with which the action was maintained on both sides, rendered the result highly dubious.

But now the Cingani debouched from the wood, and fell upon the left wing of the enemy. The impetuosity of their attack was irresistible: the wing was turned by them; and the Austro-Castelcicalans were thrown into disorder. Then Richard, at the head of his cuirassiers, charged upon the centre of the enemy, and decided the fortune of the day.

In the meantime Cossario had completely rallied his division and had succeeded in repulsing the battalions that were opposed to him.

The Captain-General endeavoured to effect a retreat in an orderly manner towards the eminence which he had originally occupied; but Richard, perceiving his intention, was enabled to out-flank him, and to gain possession of the height. For an hour this important position was disputed with all the vigour and ardour of military combat; but, though the Austro-Castelcicalans manifested a vehemence bordering on rage, and a perseverance approaching to desperation, all their attempts to recover their lost ground were ineffectual.

And equally vain were the endeavours of Santa-Croce to secure an orderly retreat; his columns were shattered—his battalions broken; the flight of his troops became general; but they were closely pursued by their conquerors.

The Cathedral of Abrantani proclaimed the hour of three in the afternoon, when Richard, on the eminence commanding the city, sate down to pen hasty dispatches, announcing this great victory to the Committees of Montoni, Piacere, Villabella, Veronezzi, Pinalla, and Estella. Nor did he forget to enclose, in his letters to Signor Viviani, brief notes addressed to his friend Monroe and the Princess Isabella.

The results of the battle of Abrantani were most glorious to the Constitutional arms. While Richard's loss was small, that of the enemy had been enormous. Two thousand men—chiefly Austrians—lay dead upon the plain; and nearly as many were taken prisoners. Two of the Castelcicalan regiments rallied at a short distance from the scene of the conflict, and placing themselves at the disposal of Colonel Cossario, who had pursued them, joined the Constitutional cause.

The Captain-General, Count Santa-Croce, succeeded in effecting his escape, with several of his superior officers; and, hastening to join the Grand Duke, who was still besieging Montoni, the vanquished chief was the first to communicate to that Prince the fatal result of the battle.

That same evening Richard Markham entered the city of Abrantani, which joyfully opened its gates to receive him; and, as in the other towns which he had occupied, the thunders of artillery, the ringing of bells, and the plaudits of admiring crowds testified the enthusiasm which was inspired by the presence of the youthful General.

Richard determined to remain some days in the city of Abrantani. Montoni was besieged by a force nearly twenty-five thousand strong; and our hero felt the necessity of waiting for the reinforcements promised him, and of raising as many volunteers as possible, ere he could venture to cope with so formidable a force. But in every despatch which he had sent to the Committee of Government at Montoni, he had given the most solemn assurances of his resolution to march to the relief of the capital with as little delay as possible; and it was now, at Abrantani, that he anxiously expected official tidings from the besieged city.

Nor was he kept long in suspense. On the morning of the 10th a courier arrived with despatches from the Committee of Government. These documents are so important, that we do not hesitate to lay them before our readers.

The first was conceived thus:—

"Montoni, January 9th, 1841.

"The Committee of Government of the State of Castelcicala have received the various despatches which the General-in-Chief of the Constitutional Army has addressed to them respectively from Villabella, Piacere, and Abrantani. The Committee must reserve for a future occasion the pleasing duty of expressing how deeply they rejoice at the General-in-Chief's various successes, and how anxiously they watch the progress of that cause of which he has become the guide and champion.

"The Committee cannot, however, omit one duty which they now perform by virtue of the full powers of administration and government that have been vested in them by the inhabitants of the capital, and which powers are recognised by all faithful Castelcicalans who have declared in favour of the Constitutional cause.

"This duty is rendered imperious on the Committee by the eminent and unequalled services of the General-in-Chief.

"The Committee of Government have therefore ordained, and do ordain, that the style and title of Marquis of Estella be conferred upon the General-in-Chief, the most Excellent Signor Richard Markham.

"And a copy of this decree shall be forwarded to every city or town which has pronounced in favour of the Constitutional cause.

"By order of the Committee of Government—

"GAETANO, President. TERLIZZI, Vice-President."

The second despatch ran thus:—

"TO THE MARQUIS OF ESTELLA, GENERAL-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONSTITUTIONAL ARMIES OF CASTELCICALA.

"MY LORD,

"We, the members of the Committee of Government of Castelcicala, have the honour to lay before your lordship a few particulars relative to the condition of the capital city of that State. Closely besieged by the foreign force whom the traitor Angelo has invited into the country, and blockaded at sea by the fleet of the Lord High Admiral, Montoni already enters upon the dread phase of famine. The garrison performs its duty nobly in defending the capital from the attacks daily directed against it by the insolent Austrian invaders; but it is impossible that we can hold out for any length of time. We are, however, happy to be enabled to assure your lordship that the inhabitants endure their lamentable condition with exemplary fortitude and patience, the brilliant achievements of your lordship and the Constitutional Army having inspired them with the most lively hopes of a speedy deliverance. So sorely are we pressed, that it has been only with the greatest difficulty that your lordship's couriers have been able to pass the lines of the besiegers, and gain entrance into the city.

"We feel convinced that these brief statements will be sufficient to induce your lordship to lose no time in marching to the deliverance of the capital.

"We have the honour to remain, My Lord, "Your lordship's obedient servants,

"For the Members of } GAETANO, President. the Committee } TERLIZZI, Vice-President.

"Montoni, January 9th, 1841 (Six o'clock in the morning.)"

Most welcome, in one sense, to our hero were these documents. Although he deeply deplored the condition to which Montoni was reduced, he could not do otherwise than experience the most thrilling and rapturous delight at the impression which his conduct had produced upon the Provisional Government of the State, and of the inhabitants of the capital.

Nor shall we depreciate the merits of Richard Markham, if we admit that he received, with the most heart-felt joy, that title of nobility which, he felt convinced, must lead him nearer to the grand aim of all his exertions—the hand of Isabella!

And as he looked back upon the events of the last fortnight,—when he reflected that at the commencement of that short interval he had issued from Pinalla on a desperate undertaking, and that these fourteen days had shed glory on his name, and placed the coronet of a Marquis upon his brow,—he was lost in admiration of the inscrutable ways of that Providence to whom he had never ceased to pray, morning and evening—as well when crowned with success as in the hour of danger!

But as we do not wish to dwell too much upon this grand and remarkable episode in our hero's history, we shall continue our narrative of these events in their proper order.

The Marquis of Estella each day saw his army increasing. The promised reinforcements arrived from Pinalla and Veronezzi: Lipari and Ossore declared for his cause, and furnished their contingents to the Constitutional forces; and each hour brought to Richard's head-quarters at Abrantani tidings of fresh movements in his favour. Troops poured in; and he was compelled to muster his forces in an encampment on the northern side of the town.

Indeed, the battles of Piacere and Abrantani had electrified Castelcicala; and the tri-coloured banner already floated on the walls of the principal cities and towns of the state. Addresses of confidence and congratulation were sent to our hero from all parts; and large sums of money were raised and forwarded to him, to enable him to reward his troops and equip his volunteers.

It was on the 20th of January that Markham put his army in motion. He was now at the head of sixteen thousand men, with a formidable train of artillery. Although the numerical odds were fearfully against him, he reposed the most perfect confidence in the valour of his troops—elated as they were by previous successes, and glorying in a cause which they deemed holy and sacred. Moreover, he knew that the moral strength of his army was incomparably superior to that of the mere drilled Austrian troops, who were trained under a soul-crushing system of discipline, and who regarded their chiefs rather as tyrants and oppressors than as generous superiors exercising a species of paternal influence over them.

On the morning of the 22d, the Constitutional Army reached Ossore, all the inhabitants of which town came out to behold the glorious procession, and testify their admiration of the young General.

It was during a brief halt near this place, that a courier, travel-soiled and sinking with fatigue, arrived from Montoni, with a letter addressed to the Marquis of Estella and containing only this laconic but urgent prayer:—

"Hasten, my lord—delay not! In forty-eight hours it will be too late!

"GAETANO."

Richard instantly despatched a messenger, on whose prudence and daring he could rely, with an answer equally brief and impressive:—

"Fear not, signor! By to-morrow night Montoni shall be delivered, or the army which I am leading to your rescue will be annihilated.

"ESTELLA."

The city was indeed sore pressed. The inhabitants were reduced to the utmost extremities in respect to provision; and the Austrians, headed by the Grand Duke in person and Marshal Herbertstein, were pushing the siege with a vigour that was almost irresistible.

But on the 22d of January those commanders were compelled to concentrate nearly all their troops on the southern side of Montoni: for they were well aware that the Constitutional Army was now approaching.

In the afternoon of the same day, the light cavalry of Richard's force entered upon the broad plain through which the Ferretti rolls its silver way; and at a distance of three miles the tower of Saint Theodosia reared its summit far above the white buildings of Montoni.

By nine o'clock on that night the entire Constitutional Army had taken up a strong position, its left being protected by high sand-banks which overlooked the sea, and its right defended by a large village.

Oh! it was a great cause which was so soon to be justified—and that was a glorious army which was now preparing for the final struggle!

A discharge of cannon from the walls of Montoni announced that the capital awaited its deliverance; and the Committee of Government issued orders that the bells of every church should ring for mass at day-break, in order that the inhabitants might offer up prayers for the success of the Constitutional Army.

As on the eve of the glorious fight of Abrantani, the Marquis of Estella was actively employed during the whole night in making the various dispositions for the great battle which, on the following day, must decide the fate of Castelcicala.

And most solemnly and sublimely interesting was that night! So close were the two armies to each other—only half a cannon shot distant—that every sound on either side could be mutually heard. The very outposts and sentinels were almost within speaking range; and the lights of the two positions were plainly visible. Watchfulness and keen observation characterised both sides.

An hour before sunrise—and by the lurid gleam of the bivouac fire in the grove of Legino—Richard addressed a letter, full of tenderness and hope, to the Princess Isabella; and this he despatched in another epistle to his excellent friend, the banker at Pinalla.

Then, when the first gleam of twilight heralded the advent of the sun, and while the bells were ringing in every tower of Montoni, the hero mounted his horse and prepared for the conflict that was now at hand.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CLXXXIX. THE BATTLE OF MONTONI

The morning of the memorable 23d of January dawned, and the bells were ringing in every tower, when three cannon gave the signal for the fight, and the battle of Montoni began.

The light troops of the Constitutionalists opened a smart fire upon the Austrians, and dislodged a strong corps from a position which it occupied on the bank of a small stream. In consequence of this first success, Richard was enabled to stretch out his right wing without restraint; and, remembering the operation effected by the Cingani at Abrantani, he instantly despatched that faithful corps, with a battalion of rifles, to make the circuit of the village, and endeavour to turn the Austrians' left flank.

The left wing of the Constitutionalists soon came to close quarters with the right wing of the enemy; and a desperate struggle ensued to decide the occupancy of the sand-banks, which were quite hard and a desirable position for artillery-pieces. Colonel Cossario, who commanded in that point, succeeded, after a desperate conflict, in repulsing the Austrians; and twenty field-pieces were dragged on the sand-banks. These speedily vomited forth the messengers of destruction; and the dread ordnance scattered death with appalling rapidity.

The Grand Duke, seeing that his cause was hopeless if that dreadful cannonade was not stopped, ordered four battalions of grenadiers to attack the position. Markham, who was riding about the field,—now issuing orders—now taking a part in the conflict,—observed the manœuvre, and instantly placed himself at the head of two regiments of cuirassiers with a view to render it abortive.

Then commenced one of the most deadly spectacles ever performed on the theatre of the world. The Grand Duke sent a strong detachment of Austrian Life-Guards to support the grenadiers; and the two squadrons of cavalry came into fearful collision. The Constitutionalists were giving way, when Markham precipitated himself into the thickest of the fight, cleared every thing before him, and seized the Austrian colours. Morcar was immediately by his side: the sword of a Life-Guard already gleamed above our hero's head—another moment, and he would have been no more. But the faithful gipsy warded off the blow, and with another stroke of his heavy brand nearly severed the sword-arm of the Life-Guard. Richard thanked him with a rapid but profoundly expressive glance, and, retaining his hold on the Austrian banner, struck the ensign-bearer to the ground.

This splendid achievement re-animated the Constitutional cuirassiers; and the Austrian Life-Guards were shattered beyond redemption.

Almost at the same time, the Cingani and rifles effected their movement on the left wing of the enemy, and threw it into confusion. This disorder was however retrieved for about the space of two hours; when the Marquis of Estella, with his cuirassiers, was enabled to take a part in the conflict in that direction. This attack bore down the Austrians. They formed themselves into a square; but vain were their attempts to oppose the impetuosity with which the cuirassiers charged them. By three o'clock in the afternoon, the left wing of the enemy was overwhelmed so completely that all the endeavours of Marshal Herbertstein to rally his troops were fruitless.

Then, resolved to perish rather than surrender, the Austrian commander met an honourable death in the ranks of battle.

In the center the conflict raged with a fury which seemed to leave room for doubt relative to the fortune of the day, notwithstanding the important successes already obtained by the Constitutionalists.

The Grand Duke had flown with a choice body of cavalry to support the compact masses that were now fighting for the victory: he himself rode along the ranks—encouraging them—urging them on—promising rewards.

For nearly four hours more did the battle last in this point; but at length our hero came up with his cuirassiers, all flushed with conquest elsewhere; and his presence gave a decided turn to the struggle.

Rushing precipitately on—bearing down all before them—thundering along with an irresistible impetuosity, the cuirassiers scattered confusion and dismay in the ranks of their enemies. And ever foremost in that last struggle, as in the first, the waving heron's plume which marked his rank, and the death-dealing brand which he wielded with such fatal effect, denoted the presence of Richard Markham.

He saw that the day was his own;—the Austrians were flying in all directions;—confusion, disorder, and dismay prevailed throughout their broken corps and shattered bands;—Marshal Herbertstein was numbered with the slain;—the Grand Duke fled;—and at eight o'clock in the evening Montoni was delivered.

Darkness had now fallen on the scene of carnage; but still the Constitutionalists pursued the Austrian fugitives; and numbers were taken ere they could reach the river. A comparatively small portion of the vanquished succeeded in throwing themselves into the boats that were moored on the southern bank, or in gaining the adjacent bridges; and those only escaped.

Montoni saluted its deliverance with salvoes of artillery and the ringing of bells; and the joyous sounds fell upon the ears of the Grand Duke, as, heart-broken and distracted, he pursued his way, attended only by a few faithful followers, towards the frontiers of that State from which his rashness and despotism had driven him for ever.

Meantime, Richard Markham issued the necessary orders for the safeguard of the prisoners and the care of the wounded; and, having attended to those duties, he repaired to the village before mentioned, where he established his temporary head-quarters at the château of a nobleman devoted to the Constitutional cause.

Then, in the solitude of the chamber to which he had retired, and with a soul full of tenderness and hope, as in the morning in the grove of Legino,—he addressed a letter to the Princess—the only joy of his heart, the charming and well-beloved Isabella:—

Head Quarters, near Montoni, Jan. 23.

Eleven at night.

"Long ere this will reach thee, dearest one, thou wilt have heard, by means of telegraphic dispatch through France, of the great victory which has made me master of Castelcicala. If there be any merit due unto myself, in consummating this great aim, and conducting this glorious cause to its final triumph, it was thine image, beloved Isabella, which nerved my arm and which gave me intelligence to make the combinations that have led to so decided an end. In the thickest of the fight—in the midst of danger,—when balls whistled by me like hail, and the messengers of death were circulating in every direction,—thine eyes seemed to be guiding stars of hope, and promise, and love. And now the first moment that I can snatch from the time which so many circumstances compel me to devote to your native land, is given to thee!

"To-morrow I shall write at great length to your honoured father, whom in the morning it will be my pleasing duty to proclaim ALBERTO I. GRAND DUKE OF CASTELCICALA.

"Although men now call me Marquis of Estella, to thee, dearest, I am simply

"RICHARD."

Our hero despatched this letter in one to Signor Viviani at Pinalla, by especial courier. He next wrote hasty accounts of the great victory which he had gained, to the chief authorities of the various cities and towns which had first declared in his favour, as before mentioned; and these also were instantly sent off by messengers.

Then soon did rumour tell the glorious tale how Montoni was delivered; and how the mighty flood of Austrian power, which had dashed its billows against the walls of the ducal capital, was rolled back over the confines of Castelcicala into the Roman States, never to return!

We shall not dwell upon the particulars of that night which succeeded the battle. Our readers can imagine the duties that devolve upon a commander after so brilliant and yet so sanguinary a day. Suffice it to observe, that Richard visited the houses in the village to which the wounded had been conveyed; while Colonel Cossario took possession of the Austrian camp.

That night Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the most exuberant joy prevailed throughout the capital.

The Committee of Government assembled in close deliberation, immediately after the receipt of the welcome tidings of the victory; and, although they consulted in secret, still the inhabitants could well divine the subject of their debate—the best means of testifying their own and the nation's gratitude towards that champion who had thus diffused joy into so many hearts.

Early in the morning, the entire Committee, dressed in their robes, and attended by the chief officers of the garrison, repaired on horseback to the village where Richard had established his head-quarters.

Our hero came forth to meet them, at the door of the mansion where he was lodged, and received those high functionaries with his plumed hat in hand.

"My lord," exclaimed Signor Gaëtano, the President of the Committee, "it is for us to bare our heads to you. You have saved us from an odious tyranny—from oppression—from siege—from famine! God alone can adequately reward you: Castelcicala cannot. We have, however, further favours to solicit at your lordship's hand. Until that Prince, who is now our rightful sovereign, can come amongst us, and occupy that throne which your hands have prepared for him, you must be our chief—our Regent. My lord, a hundred councillors, forming the Provisional Committee of Government, debated this point last evening; and not a single voice was raised in objection to that request which I, as their organ, have now proffered to your lordship."

"No," answered Richard: "that cannot be. The world would say that I am ambitious—that I am swayed by interested motives of aggrandizement. Continue, gentlemen, to exercise supreme sway, until the arrival of your sovereign."

"My lord," returned the President, "Castelcicala demands this favour at your hands."

"Then, if Castelcicala command, I accept the trust with which you honour me," exclaimed Markham; "but so soon as I shall have succeeded in restoring peace and order, you will permit me, gentlemen, to repair to England, to present the ducal diadem to your rightful liege. And one word more," continued Markham; "your troops have conducted themselves, throughout this short but brilliant campaign, in a manner which exceeds all praise. To you I commend them—you must reward them."

"Your lordship is now the Regent of Castelcicala," answered the President; "and your decrees become our laws. Order—and we obey."

"I shall not abuse the power which you place in my hands," rejoined Markham.

The President then communicated to the Regent the pleasing fact that the Lord High Admiral had that morning hoisted the tri-coloured flag and sent an officer to signify his adhesion to the victorious cause. In answer to a question from Signor Gaëtano, Richard signified his intention of entering Montoni at three o'clock in the afternoon.

The principal authorities then returned to the capital.

Long before the appointed hour, the sovereign city wore an aspect of rejoicing and happiness. Triumphal arches were erected in the streets through which the conqueror would have to pass: the troops of the garrison were mustered in the great square of the palace; and a guard of honour was despatched to the southern gate. The windows were filled with smiling faces: banners waved from the tops of the houses. The ships in the harbour and roadstead were decked in their gayest colours; and boats were constantly arriving from the fleet with provisions of all kinds for the use of the inhabitants.

The great bell in the tower of Saint Theodosia at length proclaims the hour of three.

And, now—hark! the artillery roars—Montoni salutes her Regent: the guard of honour presents arms; the martial music plays a national air; and the conqueror enters the capital. The men-of-war in the roadstead thunder forth echoes to the cannon on the ramparts; and the yards are manned in token of respect for the representative of the sovereign power.

What were Richard's feelings now? But little more than two months had elapsed since he had first entered that city, a prisoner—vanquished—with shattered hopes—and uncertain as to the fate that might be in store for him. How changed were his circumstances! As a conqueror—a noble—and a ruler did he now make his appearance in a capital where his name was upon every tongue, and where his great deeds excited the enthusiasm, the admiration, and the respect of every heart.

Then his ideas were reflected still farther back; and he thought of the time when he was a prisoner, though innocent, in an English gaol. Far more rapidly than we can record his meditations, did memory whirl him through all past adversities—reproduce before his mental eyes his recent wanderings in Castelcicala—and hurry him on to this glorious consummation, when he finds himself entering the capital as the highest peer in the State.

On his right hand was Colonel Cossario; and close behind him—amidst his brilliant staff—was Morcar,—the faithful gipsy whose devotedness to his master had not a little contributed to this grand result.

On went the procession amidst the enthusiastic applause of the myriads collected to welcome the conquerors,—on through streets crowded to the roof-tops with happy faces,—on to the ducal palace, in whose great square ten thousand troops were assembled to receive the Regent.

Richard alighted from his horse at the gate of the princely abode, on the threshold of which the municipal authorities were gathered to receive him.

Oh! at that moment how deeply—how sincerely did he regret the loss of General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and the other patriots who had fallen in the fatal conflict of Ossore!

Nor less did memory recall the prophetic words of that departed girl who had loved him so devotedly, but so unhappily;—those words which Mary-Anne, with sybilline inspiration, had uttered upon her death-bed:—"Brilliant destinies await you, Richard! All your enduring patience, your resignation under the oppression of foul wrong, will meet with a glorious reward. Yes—for I know all:—that angel Isabella has kept no secret from me. She is a Princess, Richard; and by your union with her, you yourself will become one of the greatest Princes in Europe! Her father, too, shall succeed to his just rights; and then, Richard, then—how small will be the distance between yourself and the Castelcicalan throne!"

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXC. TWO OF OUR OLD ACQUAINTANCES

We must again transport our readers to the great metropolis of England.

It was late in the evening of the 24th of January, 1841,—with Byron, we "like to be particular in dates,"—that a man, of herculean form, weather-beaten countenance, and whose age was apparently somewhat past forty, was passing down Drury Lane.

He was dressed like a labourer, with a smock frock and a very broad-brimmed straw hat, which was slouched as much as possible over his face.

Passing into Blackmoor Street, he continued his way towards Clare Market; whence he turned abruptly into Clements' Lane, and entered a public-house on the right hand side of this wretched scene of squalor and poverty.

No one possessing the least feeling of compassion for the suffering portion of the industrious millions—(and how large is that portion!)—can pass along the miserable thoroughfare called Clements' Lane without being shocked at the internal misery which the exterior appearance of many of the dwellings bespeaks. There is ever a vile effluvium in that narrow alley—a miasma as of a crowded churchyard!

Entering the parlour of the public-house, the man with the weather-beaten countenance and slouched hat was immediately recognised by a lad seated apart from the other inmates of the room.

This youth was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, very short in stature, but well made. On a former occasion we have stated that his countenance was effeminate and by no means bad-looking; his eyes were dark and intelligent; his teeth good; and his voice soft and agreeable. His manners were superior to his condition; and his language was singularly correct for one who was almost entirely self-taught, and who had filled menial employments since his boyhood.

He was dressed in a blue jacket and waistcoat, and dark brown trousers; and that attire, together with a boy's cap, contributed towards the extreme youthfulness of his appearance.

A pint of porter stood, untouched, upon a table at which he was sitting.

The man with the weather-beaten countenance proceeded to take his seat next to this lad: he then rang the bell, and having ordered some liquor and a pipe, entered into conversation with his young companion.

"Have you heard any thing more of that villain Tidkins, Harry?" asked the man.

"Nothing more since I saw you yesterday morning, Jem," replied Holford. "I have lost all trace of him."

"But are you sure that it was him you saw the day before yesterday?" demanded Crankey Jem—for he was the individual with the weather-beaten countenance and slouched hat.

"Don't you think I know him well enough, after all I have told you concerning him?" said Henry Holford, smiling. "When you and I accidentally met for the first time, the day before yesterday, in this parlour, and when in the course of the conversation that sprang up between us, I happened to mention the name of Tidkins, I saw how you fired—how you coloured—how agitated you became. What injury has he done you, that you are so bitter against him?"

"I will tell you another time, Harry," answered Crankey Jem. "My history is a strange one—and you shall know it all. But I must find out the lurking-hole of this miscreant Tidkins. You say he was well dressed?"

"As well as a private person can be," answered Holford. "But did the Resurrection Man put on the robes of the greatest monarch in the world, he could not mitigate the atrocious expression of his cadaverous—hang-dog countenance. I confess that I am afraid of that man:—yes—I am afraid of him!"

"He was well-dressed, and was stepping into a cab at the stand under the Charterhouse wall, you said?" observed Crankey Jem.

"Yes—and he said, 'To the Mint—Borough,'" replied Holford: "those were his very words—and away the cab went."

"And you have since been to see if you could recognise the cab, and pump the cab-man?" continued Jem.

"By your request I have done so," answered Holford; "and my researches have been altogether unsuccessful. I could not find the particular cab which he took."

"Why didn't you question the waterman and the drivers?" asked Jem.

"So I did; but I could glean nothing. Now if you really want to find the Resurrection Man, I should advise you to go over to the Mint, and hunt him out amongst the low public-houses in that district. Depend upon it," added Holford, "he has business there; for he is not a man to run about in cabs for nothing."

"The fact is, Harry," returned Jem, "that it doesn't suit my schemes to look after Tidkins myself. He would only get out of my way; and—as I have missed my aim once—I must take care to thrust home the next time I fall in with him."

"You mean to say that you have poniarded him once, and that he escaped death?" whispered Holford.

"Yes: but I will tell you all about it presently, Harry," said Crankey Jem; "and then, perhaps, you will be induced to assist me in hunting out the Resurrection Man."

"I certainly have an old score to settle with him," returned Holford; "for—as I told you—he once laid a plot against my life. To-night you shall tell me how you came to be so bitter against him: to-morrow night I will visit the Mint, and make the inquiries you wish concerning him; and the night afterwards I must devote to particular business of my own."

"And what particular business can such a younker as you have in hand?" asked Crankey Jem, with as much of a smile as his grim countenance could possibly relax itself into.

"I now and then visit a place where I can contemplate, at my ease, a beautiful lady—without even my presence being suspected," answered Holford, in a mysterious tone.

"A beautiful lady! Are you in love with her, then?" demanded Crankey Jem.

"The mere idea is so utterly absurd—so extravagant—so preposterous," replied Holford, "that my lips dare not speak an affirmative. To acknowledge that I love this lady of whom I speak, would be almost a crime—an atrocity—a diabolical insult,—so highly is she placed above me! And yet," he added mournfully, "the human heart has strange susceptibilities—will indulge in the idlest phantasies! My chief happiness is to gaze upon this lady—and my blood boils when I behold him on whom all her affection is bestowed."

"She is married, then?" said Crankey Jem, interrogatively.

"Yes—married to one who is handsome and young, and who perhaps loves her all the more because he owes so much—so very much to her! But I actually shudder—I feel alarmed—I tremble, while I thus permit my tongue to touch upon such topics,—topics as sacred as a religion—as holy as a worship."

"You have either indulged in some very foolish and most hopeless attachment, Harry," said his companion; "or else your wits are going a-wool-gathering."

"May be both your remarks apply to me," muttered Holford, a cloud passing over his countenance. "But—no—no: I am in the perfect possession of my senses—my intellects are altogether unimpaired. It is a fancy—a whim of my mine to introduce myself into the place I before alluded to, and, from my concealment, contemplate the lady of whom I have spoken. It gives me pleasure to look upon her—I know not why. Then—when I am alone—I brood upon her image, recall to mind all I have heard her say or seen her do, and ponder on her features—her figure—her dress—her whole appearance, until I become astonished at myself—alarmed at my own presumption—terrified at my own thoughts. For weeks and weeks—nay, for months—I remain away from the place where she often dwells;—but at length some imperceptible and unknown impulse urges me thither; I rove about the neighbourhood, gazing longingly upon the building;—I endeavour to tear myself away—I cannot;—then I ascend the wall—I traverse the garden—I enter the dwelling—I conceal myself—I behold her again—him also,—and my pleasures and my tortures are experienced all over again!"

"You're a singular lad," said Crankey Jem, eyeing the youth with no small degree of astonishment, and some suspicion that he was not altogether right in his upper storey. "But who is this lady that you speak of? and why are you so frightened even to think of her? A cat may look at a king—aye, and think of him too, for that matter. Human nature is human nature; and one isn't always answerable for one's feelings."

"There I agree with you, Jem," said Holford. "I have often struggled hard against that impulse which urges me towards the place where the lady dwells—but all in vain!"

"Who is she, once more?" demanded Jem.

"That is a secret—never to be revealed," answered Harry.

Crankey Jem had commenced an observation in reply, when one of the persons who were sitting drinking at another table, suddenly struck up a chant in so loud and boisterous a tone that it completely drowned the voice of Holford's companion:—

FLARE UP.

Flare up, I say, my jolly friends, And pass the bingo gaily;— Who cares a rap if all this ends Some morn at the Old Bailey? "A short life and a merry one" Should be our constant maxim; And he's a fool that gives up fun Because remorse attacks him.

Here Ned has forks so precious fly, And Bill can smash the flimsies;[13] No trap to Tom could e'er come nigh, For he so fleet of limbs is. Bob is the best to crack a crib, And Dick to knap a fogle;[14] And I can wag my tongue so glib A beak would wipe his ogle.

Who are so happy then as we— Each with such useful knowledge? For Oxford University Can't beat the Floating College.[15] To parish prigs one gives degrees, To lumber-lags[16] the latter: But I would sooner cross the seas, Than in a humbox[17] patter.[18]

Each state in life has its mishaps:— Kings fear a revolution; The knowing covey dreads the traps— And both an execution. Death will not long pass any by— Each chance is duly raffled; What matters whether we must die In bed or on the scaffold?

Flare up, I say, then, jolly friends, And pass the bingo gaily; Who cares a rap if all this ends Some morn at the Old Bailey? "A short life and a merry one" Should be our constant maxim; And he's a fool that gives up fun Because remorse attacks him.

"Now let us be moving, young sprig," said Crankey Jem, when the song was brought to a conclusion. "You shall come with me to my lodging, where we'll have a bit of supper together; and then I'll tell you my story. It is a strange one, I can assure you."

Holford rose, and followed Crankey Jem from the public-house.

The latter led the way to a court in Drury Lane; and introduced the lad into a small back chamber, which was tolerably neat and comfortable.

On a table near the window, were small models of ships, executed with considerable taste; various tools; blocks of wood, not yet shaped; paint-pots, brushes, twine, little brass cannon and anchors,—in a word, all the articles necessary for the miniature vessels which are seen in the superior toy-shops.

"That is the way I get my living, Harry," said Jem, pointing towards the work-table. "I have been a sad fellow in my time: but if any one who has gone through all I have suffered, doesn't change, I don't know who the devil would. Sit down, Harry—the fire will soon blaze up."

Jem stirred the fire, and then busied himself to spread a small round table standing in the middle of the room, with some cold meat, a substantial piece of cheese, and a quartern loaf. He also produced from his cupboard a bottle of spirits, and when there was a good blaze in the grate, he placed the kettle to boil.

"You have got every thing comfortable enough here, Jem," said Holford, when these preparations were concluded.

"Yes; I can earn a good bit of money when I choose," was the answer. "But I waste a great deal of time in making inquiries after Tidkins—yes, and in brooding on my vengeance, as you, Harry, do upon your love."

"Love!" ejaculated Holford. "My God! if you only knew of whom you were speaking!"

"Well—well," cried Jem, laughing; "I see it is a sore point—I won't touch on it any more. So now fall to, and eat, Harry. You're sincerely welcome. Besides, you can and will serve me, I know, in ferretting out this villain Tidkins. If you behave well, I'll teach you how to make those pretty ships; and you can earn six times as much at that work, as ever you will obtain as pot-boy at a public."

"Oh! if you would really instruct me, Jem, in your business," exclaimed Holford, "how much I should be obliged to you! The very name of a pot-boy is odious to my ears. Yes—I will serve you faithfully and truly, Jem," continued the lad: "I will go over to the Mint to-morrow evening; and if Tidkins is there, you shall know where."

"That's what I call business, Harry," said Jem. "Serve me in this—and you can't guess all I'll do for you."

They ate their supper with a good appetite. Jem—who was somewhat methodical after a fashion—cleared away the things, and placed two clean tumblers and a bowl full of sugar upon the table.

When the grog was duly mixed, and "every thing was comfortable," as the man termed it, he commenced his truly remarkable history, which we have corrected and improved as to language, in the following manner.

-----

Footnote 13:

Pass fictitious Bank-Notes.

Footnote 14:

Handkerchief.

Footnote 15:

The Hulks.

Footnote 16:

Transports.

Footnote 17:

Pulpit.

Footnote 18:

Preach.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us