Kitabı oku: «John Leech, His Life and Work. Vol. 1 [of 2]», sayfa 4

“The dewy wail of infancy, the piercing zest of female innocence, and the tremulous pleading of piping feebleness, all mocked at the radiance of the crimson steel, have poured their bootless incense o’er my breast… Ha, ha! The nun, her dove-like innocence devastated, has broiled like a chestnut amid the ashes of her convent,” etc.

More “copy” in the style of the above is imparted to the artist. But an interruption takes place. A brigand enters, and so irritates the monster by the abruptness of his appearance that, had not the pistol with which his impatient master received him missed fire, his brains would have been scattered to the winds of heaven.

“‘Ha! dost thou dare to break in upon my mood?’ roared Grabalotti.

“‘Come to tell you,’ said the robber (speaking in the greatest possible haste), ‘that the nun who escaped the sacking of the convent has been taken.’

“‘Do as you list with her, and chop her head off! Stay, I would fain see it when it is done; and here, take this purse for the risk thou hast encountered.’”

Yet another interruption – this time in the person of a brigand spy disguised as a peasant. The chief anticipates startling and perhaps unpleasant news, and saying: “‘Excuse me, signor, for a few moments,’ he retires with his emissary.”

Grabalotti was absent some little time, during which the artist “added another sketch to his small collection,” when the monster returned, and informed his guest “in a lively tone” that they were about to have “some fun.”

“‘Of what description?’ inquired the artist.

“‘In an hour’s time we shall be attacked by the military,’” to whom he promises a warm reception; and in the event of the robbers being overpowered by numbers, “a train communicates with the magazine below.”

“Here the head of the unfortunate nun made its appearance on a silver dish. Its loveliness, even in death, was intensely overpowering. With a grin of fiendish malice, Grabalotti seized it by the hair, but no sooner did the features meet his eye, than he relinquished his hold and fell, senseless, backwards, faintly gasping, like a dying echo, ‘’Tis she! ’Tis Giulia!!’”

Unless the artist guest was possessed of courage uncommon among our fraternity, he could not have contemplated being blown into the air with the robbers, or being shot by the soldiers, with equanimity; and he must have been much relieved in any case by Grabalotti, who, when “the violence of frantic ferocity” had given way to “the calm profundity of despair,” muttered in a low and suppressed tone: “Nay, thou shalt live to tell the world my story!” and to enable his guest to do this eventually, “in a tone of sweetest melancholy” he said:

“Stranger, hence! thy further stay is perilous. Yon by-path will conduct thee to the valleys.”

Rising from “the valleys” was a crag, to the summit of which half an hour’s walk would take the artist, and from thence he was assured that “if he turned his gaze backwards he should see something worth seeing.”

The narrator tells us that he reached the crag in twenty-nine minutes exactly.

“For one minute I gazed in the direction of the Brigands’ Haunt, from which, precisely at the expiration of that time, a vivid flash of flame, shooting into the air, accompanied by a dense column of smoke, and followed by a terrific explosion, proclaimed too plainly the last achievement of the Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell.”

Mr. Percival Leigh contributes a second story to the “Fiddle-Faddle Fashion-book,” in which the novel of fashionable life, not uncommon fifty years ago, is satirized under the title of “Belleville: a Tale of Fashionable Life,” not less happily than the sanguinary and terribly romantic writers are treated in the burlesque of Grabalotti. The “Clara Matilda poets” of the Keepsake time are also amusingly parodied in some short poems, which, with comic advertisements, occasionally very humorous, fill up the literary portion of the “Fiddle-Faddle Fashion-book.”

This book is not the only one in which Leech’s powers have been enlisted – I was nearly saying prostituted – in publications devoted to eccentricities in dress and the caprices of fashion. In illustrations by him of the tale of fashionable life, or of Grabalotti, the genius of that great artist would have had full play; but as the draughtsman of fashion-plates it was, in my opinion, degraded. In vindication of my judgment I present my readers with two plates from the “Fiddle-Faddle” book, in which Leech portrays – no doubt under direction – caprices of fashion which could only have existed in his own imagination, and produced with a feeling of caricature that is so conspicuous by its absence in his usual work.

I now return to the paper which Mr. Leigh wrote with a view to this memoir.

That Leigh and Leech first met as students at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, I have noted elsewhere; and the details of his apprenticeship to the eccentric surgeon, which Mr. Leigh heard from Leech himself, I have also given, with the exception of one incident of which I was ignorant.

“In his dispensary,” says Mr. Leigh, “the doctor had one drawer amongst his boxes, in which there were pills of gentle efficacy, intended to be served out (they were made, I believe, of bread and soap) to the generality of his customers. This receptacle bore the label of ‘Pil. Hum.,’ – abbreviation of humbug – or, as their concoctor used to call them, ‘Humbugeraneous Pills.’ The Dr. Cockle to whom, Mr. Leigh says, Leech went after he left Mr. Whittle, was the son of the inventor of Cockle’s Pills.

“No sooner had he become of age,” continues Mr. Leigh, “than he was induced, in order to meet difficulties for which he was not responsible, to accept an accommodation bill, which the drawer of, when it fell due, failed to supply the means of meeting. Leech was consequently arrested for debt at the suit of this discounter, and lodged in a sponging-house kept by a sheriff’s officer, a Jew, by name (I think) of Levi, in Newman Street. There he remained about a fortnight, supporting himself in the meanwhile by drawing cartoons and caricatures. He lithographed them on stone for Spooner, in the Strand, at a guinea each, a friend having negotiated their sale.

“At last, an advance of money on a projected publication sufficient to discharge the debt having been obtained, he was liberated. But not long after, a second scrape – a repetition of the first – cost him another temporary sojourn with another Jew in another sponging-house in Cursitor Street. This detention, however, lasted but a few days. From that period to the close of his life he remained subject to repeated demands for pecuniary assistance under continued pressure, which, as at the outset, he could not withstand. The deficits he had to defray were always heavy; the last of them, as I understand, a thousand pounds. It cost him very hard work to make it good. Excess of generosity was his greatest failing.”

I have no means of knowing, nor do I desire to know, who the borrowers were to whom Percival Leigh alludes; but his revelations make the fact of Leech having died a comparatively poor man comprehensible enough. If ever man was killed by overwork, Leech was that man, and this must be a painful reflection for those whose incessant demands upon him made it only possible for him to meet them by the incessant exertions which destroyed him.

Mr. Leigh’s paper concludes with the anecdote that follows:

“Leech and Albert Smith worked together very harmoniously as illustrator and writer in several books – ‘Ledbury,’ ‘Brinvilliers,’ and many others – and one day when they were leaving Smith’s house together, a street-boy stepped up to them, and scoffing at the inscription on Smith’s large brass door-plate, cried:

“‘Oh yes! Mr. Albert Smith, M.R.C.S., Surgeon-Dentist.’

“‘Good boy!’ said Leech, putting a penny into the boy’s hand; ‘now go and insult somebody else.’”

CHAPTER IV
MEETING OF MULREADY AND LEECH

Mr. Mulready, R.A., was commissioned by the authorities to design a postal envelope for general use, a penny stamp affixed insuring free delivery of letters all over England. The design, which should have been of a simple character, was far too ornate and elaborate. At the top Britannia was represented in the act of despatching winged messengers with letters to all parts of the world, and down the sides of the envelope were the recipients of letters which had conveyed heart-breaking news to one side, and good tidings to the other. As a work of art the Mulready envelope has, in my opinion, great merit, but it was ludicrously inappropriate to the purposes for which it was intended. Leech saw and seized the opportunity, with the result appended.

The signature of the bottled leech, so familiar afterwards, is used here as Mulready’s signature, and “thereby hangs a tale,” which, though the burden of it deals with a future time, I venture to introduce in this place.

FORES’S COMIC ENVELOPES No. 1

My friend Augustus Egg, R.A., who lived in a charming house in Queen’s Road, Bayswater, was not only well known as an excellent artist, but also as being the Amphitryon whose hospitality was famous, and whose dinners were still more famous by reason of the guests who were wont to surround his table. Where is the hungry man who would not have been enchanted to meet Dickens and Leech, Mark Lemon and John Forster (Dickens’s biographer), Hawkins, Q.C. (now the judge), Landseer, Mulready, Webster, and other artists less famous? Of these dinners I shall have something to say by-and-by; at present I confine myself to one special occasion.

It was on one day during the year 1847 that Egg said to me:

“You know Mulready better than I do; I wish you would go and get him to fix a day to dine here – any day next week will suit me. Leech wants to meet him; and, somehow or other, though both have dined here frequently, they have never met.”

“Good,” said I; “I will do your bidding.”

And on the following Sunday I called upon Mulready.

“Egg will be pleased if you will dine with him any day next week, sir, that you may be disengaged. He expects the usual set – Dickens, Landseer, Leech, and the rest. You have never met Leech, I think; he is very desirous to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah, is he? Well, I don’t care about knowing Leech.”

“Really, sir” (it was always the Johnsonian sir to the old gentleman), said I, when I had recovered from my surprise, “may I ask why you won’t meet Leech?”

“Yes, you may,” said the old painter, “and I will tell you. Of course you remember that unfortunate postal envelope that I designed? Well, Leech caricatured it. You needn’t look so surprised – you don’t think I am such a fool as to mind being caricatured; but I do mind being represented as a blood-sucker! What else can he mean by using that infernal little leech in a bottle in the front of his caricature as my signature? You know well enough, Frith, that I have never asked monstrous prices for my pictures. You fellows get better paid for your work than I ever did, and you wouldn’t like to be called blood-suckers, I expect.”

Mr. Mulready was an Irishman, and rather a peppery one; and I am happy to say that I overcame my disposition to laugh in his face mainly through a feeling of astonishment that my old friend could be ignorant of the ordinary way in which Leech signed his drawings.

“Do you happen to have a number of Punch by you, Mr. Mulready?” said I.

“No; as a languid swell said when he was asked that same question, ‘I am no bookworm; I never see Punch.’”

As I could not give my angry friend ocular proof of his mistake by producing the usual signature to Punch drawings, I set to work to explain how the little leech came into the bottle, and, without much difficulty, convinced my old friend that an insult to him was not intended.

The two artists met; and it was delightful to watch Leech’s handsome face as Mulready himself told of his misconception. First there was a serious, almost pained, expression, which, no doubt, arose in that tender heart from being the innocent cause of pain to another; the serious look passed off, to give place to a smile, which broadened into a roar of laughter. From that moment Leech and Mulready were fast friends.

With an apology for the interruption, I return to my narrative.

Alas! I can well remember the appearance of the “Sketches by Boz,” to be so quickly followed by the “Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.” None but those who witnessed it can conceive the enthusiasm with which that immortal work was received by an eager public, who welcomed each number as it appeared, month after month, with hearty appreciation. Of course, there were carping critics, one of whom is reported to have said the author would “go up like a rocket and come down like a stick.” That prophet, a man of much literary ability, drank himself into a debtors’ prison, where, I was told, he died of delirium tremens.

There is, I think, a vein of melancholy unusually developed in the nature of almost all humorists. As an instance, I may give the actor Liston, whose humour on the stage was to me unparalleled; off it, he was gloom personified. Gillray, the caricaturist, died melancholy mad; and poor Seymour, the first illustrator of “Pickwick,” committed suicide. I may remark in this place the surprise with which I heard Leech say that he could see no fun in any of Seymour’s sketches.

In a walk that we took together, I tried to convert him by naming several examples of what appeared to me humorous work.

“No,” said Leech; “the only drawing I ever saw by Seymour that appeared funny to me was one in which two cockneys were represented out shooting. They are about to load their guns, when one says to the other:

“‘I say, which do you put in first – powder or shot?’

“‘Why, powder, to be sure,’ said his friend.

“‘Do you?’ was the reply. ‘Then I don’t!’”

I can vividly recall the shock occasioned by Seymour’s death. He was fairly prosperous, I believe. His engagement to illustrate “Pickwick” was a lucrative one, and he was much employed in other work. In spite of all these advantages, the humorist’s melancholy was fatal to him.

I was present at the banquet at the Royal Academy when Thackeray, in returning thanks for literature – Dickens being present – told us how, on finding there was a vacancy for an illustrator of “Pickwick,” he took a parcel of drawings to the author and applied for the place. From my own knowledge of Thackeray’s limited powers as an artist, I should have been sure of the failure of his application. Very different would have been the fate of Leech, who was also anxious to supply Seymour’s place; but he was too late, for Dickens had already chosen Hablot K. Browne, who, under the sobriquet of “Phiz,” worked in harmony with his author for very many years. There was no doubt a disposition on the part of “Phiz” to exaggeration in his illustration of Dickens’ characters (already fully charged, so to speak, by their author), sometimes to the verge of caricature, and even beyond it; this fault Leech would have avoided, as his exquisite etchings in Dickens’ Christmas books fully prove.

CHAPTER V
“THE PHYSIOLOGY OF EVENING PARTIES,” BY ALBERT SMITH

I have already spoken of the extreme difficulty of collecting material for this book, and to difficulty must be added the expense which is incurred by my publisher. I bear the latter affliction with the equanimity common to those who escape it; indeed, there is a kind of satisfaction in finding that books which are perfectly worthless as literary productions are so highly valued on account of the prints which illustrate them. I venture to give an instance in a very little book called “The Physiology of Evening Parties,” written by Albert Smith. My reader will be able to judge by the extracts given in explanation of the drawings, of the merits of Mr. Smith’s part in the “Physiology.” This work, published at 2s. 6d. when clean and new, costs 18s. 6d. when well “worn on the edge of time,” yellow, dirty, and unbound. The “Physiology” first saw the light in 1840. I plead again for forgiveness for chronological shortcomings, which my difficulties make unavoidable.

My first illustration represents a mamma and her two daughters in the serious business of selecting guests for an evening party.

“It is evening,” says Mr. Albert Smith; “mamma and her two daughters are seated at a table arranging the names of the visitors upon the back of an old letter, having turned out the dusty record of the card-basket before them in order that no one of importance may be forgotten.

“Ellen (loc.): ‘I am sure I don’t see why we should invite the Harveys, mamma. They have been here twice, and never asked us back again.’

“Fanny: ‘And we shall see those dreadful silver poplins again; they must be intimately acquainted with the cane-work of all the rout-seats in London.’

“Ellen: ‘And William Harvey is so exceedingly disagreeable; he always looks at the ciphers on the plate to see if it is borrowed or not.’

“Fanny: ‘And last year he declared the pine-apple ice was full of little square pieces of raw potato; and when Mr. Edwards broke a tumbler at supper he told him “not to mind, for they were only tenpence apiece in Tottenham Court Road.” The low wretch! he thought he had made a capital joke.’

“Mamma: ‘Well, my dears, I think your papa will be annoyed if they are left out; but never mind him – we won’t ask them.’”

The discussion respecting the guests goes on, opinion as to eligibility widely differing. Mamma proposes Mr. and Mrs. Howard and the four girls, to which Miss Ellen says:

“All dressed alike, and standing up in every quadrille. I declare I will get George Conway to put an ice in Harriet’s chair for her to sit down upon, in revenge for her waltzing last year, when she brushed down the Joan of Arc, and knocked its head off.”

This refined conversation continues till Miss Ellen speaks of her brother’s disposition to interfere with the invitation-list; she says:

“‘We must tell Tom not to overdo us so much with his own friends. I declare last year I did not know half the young men in the room; and it was so very awkward when you had to introduce them.’

“Fanny: ‘And they were not nice persons. Two of them were in the pit of the Lyceum the next night, and, seeing us in Mr. Arnold’s box, would stare us out of countenance. With a single glass, too!’”

“And in this style,” says our author, “the list is arranged, the hostess gradually becoming a prey to isinglass and acute mental inquietude, which gradually increases as the day draws nearer, until upon the morning of its arrival her very brain is almost turned to blancmange from the intensity of her anxiety!”

The whole house is, of course, turned topsy-turvy; and Leech gives us a picture of the master of the mansion surrounded by some of the consequences of giving an evening party.

“This state of things,” says the chronicler, “much delights the olive-branches of the family, who, left entirely alone, and quite overlooked in the general mêlée, divert themselves by poking their little puddy fingers into the creams, and scooping out the insides of divers patties with a doll’s leg,” etc., etc.

The ball begins under sundry difficulties. A most desirable person, “one for whom the party was almost given, sends a melancholy statement of the very acute attack of influenza under which they are labouring,” which they extremely regret will prevent their accepting, etc. Then one of the intended belles of the evening is obliged to go suddenly into the country, to see a sick aunt, but “she sends her two brothers – tall, gangling, awkward young men who wear pumps and long black stocks, and throw their legs about when they are dancing everywhere but over their shoulders,” etc., etc., says the author. Here is what Leech thinks of the two brothers.

I have never met with the word “gangling” before; is it an invention of Mr. Albert Smith’s? I can speak to the truth of the dress of these long brothers, for I who write have worn the long black stock and the peculiarly cut coat and waistcoats at many an evening party.

The numerous illustrations of “The Physiology” are such perfect examples of Leech’s earlier work, and in themselves so good, that I am induced to produce several more of them. I don’t know whether the fascinating person under the hands of the hair-dresser is Miss Ellen or Miss Fanny. I confess I can scarcely believe she would talk like either of them; happy barber! perfect you are as you ply your vocation; and in that vocation – insomuch as you have that sweet creature to contemplate – to be envied indeed!

Then we have the greengrocer, “who is to assist in waiting… He wears white cotton gloves with very long fingers, and was never known to announce a name correctly, so the astonished visitor is ushered into the room under any other appellation than his own.”

The band must not be forgotten. “The music arrives,” says the writer, “sometimes in the shape of a single pianist of untiring fingers and unclosing eyes; sometimes as a harp, piano, and cornopean, who are immediately installed in a corner of the room with two chairs, a music-stool, and a bottle of marsala.”

I ask my reader to note the individuality in the four faces in this drawing – and in the figures no less than in the heads – each a strongly-marked personality precisely appropriate to the instrument upon which he performs. How admirable is the cornet-a-piston gentleman contrasted with the pianoforte player!

The mistress of the house is described as making “uphill attempts at conversation” pending the arrival of a sufficient number of guests to make up a quadrille. Two old ladies, however, have already put in an appearance, and have taken possession of the best seats to “see the dancing,” from which all attempts to move them to the card-room are successfully resisted. There they sit, poor old wallflowers! with all the advantage that “false hair and turbans” can give them. Though the execution of this drawing lacks the perfection of workmanship of Leech’s later manner, he never surpassed it in expression and character.

The music “strikes up,” the lady of the house throws a comprehensive coup d’œil over her assembled visitors, and at last pitches upon a tall young man —whom some of you may have met before– with short hair, spectacles, and turned-up wristbands, as if he was about to wash his hands with his coat on. His fate is sealed, and she advances towards him, blandly exclaiming:

“Mr. Ledbury, allow me to introduce you to a partner.”

My own readers have heard of Mr. Ledbury; but as I think they are unacquainted with his personal appearance, I propose to introduce him to them, and here he is —

Mr. Ledbury is “presented to a bouquet with a young lady attached to it” – a Miss Hamilton – who freezes him completely. A quadrille is formed. Mr. Ledbury cudgels his brains for five minutes. The young partner seems to be “searching after some imaginary object amongst the petals of her bouquet.” The mountainous Ledbury brain is in labour. Behold the production!

“Mr. L. ‘Have you been to many parties this season?’

“Miss H. ‘Not a great many.’

Miss Hamilton continues the bouquet investigation. The gentleman invents another sentence.

“Mr. L. ‘What do you think of Alfred Tennyson?’

“Miss H. ‘I am sorry to say I have not heard his poetry. Have you?’

“Mr. L. ‘Oh yes! several times.”

Mr. Ledbury waits to be asked about “Mariana” and “Locksley Hall.” No inquiry, so he “rubs up an idea upon another tack”:

“Mr. L. ‘What do you think of our vis-à-vis?’

“Miss H. ‘Which one?’

“Mr. L. ‘The lady with that strange head-dress. Do you know her?’

“Miss H. ‘It is Miss Brown – my cousin.’”

Mr. Ledbury wishes he could fall through a trap in the floor.

The quadrille continues, with occasional attempts on the part of the brilliant couple to make conversation. The acme of imbecility seems to be reached when the lady asks if Mr. L. plays any instrument? He replies that he plays the flute a little. Does she admire it?

“Oh, so very much!” she says.

A waltz is proposed, but that form of dancing is, says our author, “never established without a prolonged desire on the part of everybody to relinquish the honour of commencing it. At last the example is set by one daring pair, timidly followed by another couple, and then by another, who get out of step at the end of the first round, and after treading severely upon the advanced toes of the old lady in a very flowery cap and plum-coloured satin (one of our faded wallflowers), who is sitting out at the top of the room, and who from that instant deprecates waltzing as an amusement not at all consistent with her ideas of feminine decorum.”

The young lady in this drawing has much of Leech’s charm; but I should scarcely have selected it were it not for the figure of the gentleman, which exactly resembles that of Leech himself as I first knew him. If conservatories, or even staircases, could speak, what flirtations they could chronicle, what love-tales they could tell! Mr. Smith says “you will have to confess your inability to imagine what on earth the gentleman with the long hair, who is carefully balancing himself on one leg against the flowerpot-stand, and the pretty girl with the bouquet, can find to talk about so long, so earnestly.”

I for one beg Mr. Albert Smith’s pardon. I can easily imagine what they are talking about.

It would be a grave omission if “The Belle of the Evening” were left out of these extracts from the “Physiology of Evening Parties.” Let me present her, then. Now listen to the flourish with which the author introduces her:

“Room for beauty! The belle of the evening claims our next attention, the lovely dark-eyed girl so plainly yet so elegantly dressed, who wears her hair in simple bands over her fair forehead, unencumbered by flower or ornament of any kind, and moves in the light of her own beauty as the presiding goddess of the room, imparting fragrance to the enamoured air that plays around her!”

Rather tall talk, this, but excusable, perhaps, as applied to the lovely creature Leech has drawn for us.

I feel I cannot close these extracts more appropriately than by allowing Mr. Ledbury to appear again at the moment of his departure from a scene in which he has so distinguished himself by his conversational, as well as by his terpsichorean, powers. He was destined to be guilty of one more folly – that of thinking he had but to ask for his hat to get it.

“He walks downstairs,” says Mr. Smith, “under the insane expectation of finding his own hat, or madly deeming that the ticket pinned upon it corresponds with the one in his waistcoat pocket.”

Here I take my leave of “The Physiology of Evening Parties” in presenting my reader with this charming little drawing, in which one scarcely knows which to admire most – the bewildered expression of Mr. Ledbury as he ruefully contemplates the rim of his hat, or the sympathetic, half-laughing face of the perfect little maid. The artistic qualities of this illustration are excellent. I say good-bye to “Evening Parties” only to meet Mr. Albert Smith again in a work by him called “Comic Tales and Pictures of Life,” published, I think, about the time of the “Evening Parties,” or perhaps earlier, for the illustrations are, on the whole, inferior to those in the latter production. The work under notice is composed of a series of short stories, in which love, comedy, and deep tragedy play alternate parts. Leech’s attention is mainly devoted to the comic scenes.

We are told of a Mr. Percival Jenks, whose frequent visits to the theatre have led to the loss of his heart to a beauteous ballet-girl. “The third ballet-girl from the left-hand stage-box, with the golden belt and green wreath, in the Pas des Guirlandes, or lyres, or umbrellas, or something of the kind, had enslaved his susceptible affections.”

No one knew who Mr. Jenks was, or what he was. Even his landlady’s information about him was confined to the idea that he was “something in a house in the City.” That idea proved to be well founded, for Mr. J. was discovered by the head-clerk at the house in the City, spoiling blotting-paper by drawing little opera-dancers all over it; thus neglecting his accounts, which he had to “stay two hours after time to make up. At half price, nevertheless, he was at the play again, his whole existence centred on an airy compound of clear muslin and white satin that was twirling about the stage.” Mr. Jenks burned to know his enslaver’s name with a view to an introduction; and for that purpose he haunted the stage-door, but utterly failed to recognise, amongst the faded cloaks, and drabby bonnets that issued from that portal, the angelic form of his charmer. He then took to haunting the places where minor actors and other employés of the theatre most do congregate for the purpose of social intercourse and refreshment; here at last he is rewarded.

“Do you know the young lady,” he says to a habitué, “who dances in the ballet with a green wreath round her head?”

“And a gilt belt round her waist?” asked the friend in turn. “Oh, it’s Miss – Miss – I shall forget my own name next.”

Percival was about to suggest Rosière, Céleste, Amadée, and other pretty cognomens, when his companion caught the name, and exclaimed:

“Miss Jukes; I thought I should recollect it.”

The name certainly was not what Percival had expected; still, what was in a name? Jenks was not poetical, and Jukes was something like it.

“Could you favour me with an introduction to her?” he asked.

“In a minute, if you wish it,” replied his companion.

“You know her intimately then?”

“Very; I buy all my green-grocery of her.”

The introduction takes place. Gracious powers! how a minute broke the enchantment of many weeks! “The nymph of the Danube was habited in a faded green cloak and straw bonnet, with limp and half-bleached pink ribbons clinging to its form. Her pallid and almost doughy face was deeply pitted with smallpox; her skin was rough from the constant layers of red and white paint it had to endure,” etc., etc. He fell back with a convulsive start.