THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. YORICK'S DEATH. 167 [LAURENCE STERNE. See Page 15.] Yorick's last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips, ready to depart, as he uttered this; yet still it was uttered with something of a Cervantic tone, and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes-faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespeare said of his ancestor) "were wont to set the table in a roar!" Eugenius was convinced from this that the heart of his friend was broken. He squeezed his hand, and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door; he then closed them, and never opened them more. A FEW hours before Yorick breathed his last, | handsomely given me in the dark, that I might Eugenius stepped in, with an intent to take his last say with Sancho Panza, that should I recover, sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing and mitres thereupon be suffered to rain down Yorick's curtain, and asking how he felt himself, from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would Yorick, looking up in his face, took hold of his fit it."" hand, and after thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, he would thank him again and again, he told him he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever. "I hope not," answered Eugenius, with tears | trickling down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke,—“I hope not, Yorick," said he. Yorick replied with a look up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius's hand-and that was all-but it cut Eugenius to his heart. "Come, come, Yorick!" quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and summoning up the man within him; "my dear lad, be comforted; let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at this crisis, when thou most wantest them. Who knows what resources are in store, and what the power of God may yet do for thee?" Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head. "For my part," continued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he uttered the words, "I declare, I know not, Yorick, how to part with thee; and would gladly flatter my hopes," added Eugenius, cheering up his voice, "that there is still enough of thee left to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it." "I beseech thee, Eugenius," quoth Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand-his right being still grasped close in that of Eugenius-"I beseech thee to take a view of my head." "I see nothing that ails it," replied Eugenius. "Then, alas! my friend," said Yorick, "let me tell you that it is so bruised and misshaped with the blows which have been so un He lies buried in a corner of the churchyard, under a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of inscription, serving both for his epitaph and elegy Alas! poor YORICK! Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over, with such a variety of plaintive tones as denote a general pity and esteem for him. A footway crossing the churchyard close by his grave, not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it, and sighing, as he walks on, ALAS! POOR YORICK! THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. [Translated from Uhland by Professor Longfellow. See Page 14.] OF Edenhall, the youthful lord And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, The butler hears the words with pain; Then said the lord, "This glass to praise, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, ""Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Like to the song of a nightingale; Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last, like the thunder's fall, "For its keeper takes a race of might, Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! In storms the foe, with fire and sword: He in the night had scaled the wall; Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alore, "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside; Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight-the brands Still rested in their bony hands; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by Saying, "We are twins in death, proud sun; THOMAS CAMPBELL. Se Page 110.7 years Hast seen the tide of human tears, "What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, "Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall (Drawn by E. WIEGAND.) Its piteous pageants bring not back, Like grass beneath the scythe. "Even I am weary in yon skies Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death- Receive my parting ghost!" This spirit shall return to Him Go, sun, while mercy holds me up Of grief that man shall taste-- MY LOST HOME.* [Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD first attracted public notice by his contributions to Household Words. It is much to be regretted that of late years he has not written so frequently.] N the still hours of the night; in the evening rest from labour-when the twilight shadows darken my solitary room, and oftentimes in the broad glare of day, amongst the eager, busy merchants upon 'Change-it comes before me: the picture of my lost shadowy home. So dim and indistinct at times seems the line that separates my past from my present self-so dream-like seem the events that have made me the hunted outcast which I amthat, painful as my history is, it is a mental relief to me to go over it step by step, and dwell upon the faces of those who are now lost to me for evermore. It seems but yesterday-although many years have passed away-that I was in a position of trust in the counting-house of Askew, Dobell, and Picard. I entered the service of these merchants about the age of sixteen, fresh from the BlueCoat School; a raw, ungainly lad, with no knowledge or experience of the world, and with a strong letter of recommendation from the head master, which procured me a junior clerkship. Our business was conducted with a steady tranquillity-an almost holy calm-in harmony with the place, which had the air of a sacred temple dedicated to commerce. I rose step by step; till at last, about the age of thirty, I attained the position of firstclass clerk. My advance was not due to any remarkable ability that I had displayed; nor because I had excited the interest of any member of the firm, for I seldom saw the faces of my employers. It was purely the result of a system which ordained a general rise throughout the house when any old clerk died or was pensioned off. The third partner in the firm, Mr. Picard, was a man of a very different stamp from the other two. At one period he had been our managing clerk, and he obtained his share in the business in the same year that I entered the house. He was of French extraction; thin, sallow, with small grey eyes, and light sandy hair. His age at the time I am writing of must have been near fifty. Although his origin was very obscure-some of our old clerks remembering him walking about the docks in an almost shoeless state-his pride was very great, and his harshness, sternness, and uneasy, fretful, and ever-conscious attempts at dignity, were a painful contrast to the quiet, off-hand manner of Mr. Dobell, or the venerable and dreamy calmness of old Mr. Askew. He was a bad-hearted, cold, calculating man-a man with a strong, reckless will, who allowed nothing to stand between him and his self-interest. When he came into authority, and had his name put up as one of the firm, his humble relations were removed to a distance; and a poor old Irishwoman who had kept a fruit-stall upon sufferance under our gateway for many years, was swept away, because he felt that she remembered him in the days of his poverty. My position and duties required me to live in the house, and to take charge of the place. When I married, I took my wife, Esther, to our old City home, and our one child, little Margaret, was born there. The child was a little blue-eyed, fairhaired thing; and it was a pleasing sight to see her, between two and three years of age, trotting along the dark passages, and going carefully up the broad oaken stairs. On one occasion she was checked, by the order of Mr. Picard, for making a noise during business hours; and, from ten to five. she had to confine herself to her little dingy room at the top of the house. She was a great favourite with many of the old childless clerks, who used to bring her presents of fruit in the summer By kind permission of the Author. MY LOST HOME. mornings. Scarcely a day passed but what I stole an hour-my dinner-hour-to play with her; and, in the long summer evenings, I carried her down to the river to watch the boats. Sometimes, on Sundays, I took her out of the City into the fields about Canonbury, and carried her back again loaded with buttercups. She was a companion to me-oftentimes my only companion, with her innocent prattle, and gentle, winning ways-for my wife, Esther, was cold and reserved in her manners, with settled habits, formed before our marriage. She was an earnest Baptist, and attended regularly, three times a-week, a chapel for that persuasion in Finsbury. My home often looked cheerless enough when little Margaret had retired to bed and my wife's empty chair stood before me; but I did not complain-it would not have been just for me to do so--for I knew Esther's opinions and habits before I married her; yet I thought I discerned, beneath the hard sectarian crust, signs of a true, womanly, loving heart; signs, amongst the strict faith and stern principles, of an affection equal to my own. I may have been mistaken in her, as she was mistaken-oh, how bitterly mistaken-in me! Her will was stronger than mine, and it fretted itself silently, but incessantly, in vain endeavours to lead me along the path she had chosen for herself. She may have misunderstood my resistance, as I may have misapprehended her motives for desiring to alter my habits and tone of thinking. There were probably faults and errors on both sides. Thus we went on from day to day; Esther going in her direction and I going in mine, while the child acted as a gentle link that bound us together. About this time Mr. Askew finally retired from business, and there was a general step upward throughout the house-Mr. Picard getting one degree nearer absolute authority. The first use that he made of his new power was to introduce an only son into the counting-house who had not been regularly brought up to the ranks of trade; but who had received, since his father's entrance as a member of the firm, a loose, hurried, crammed, half-professional education, and who had hovered for some time between the choice of a lawyer's office and a doctor's consulting-room. He was a high-spirited young man, whose training had been of that incomplete character which had only served to unsteady him. He had his father's fault of a strong, reckless will, unchecked by anything like his father's cold, calculating head; though tempered by a virtue that his father never possessed -an open-hearted generosity. As he had everything to learn, and was a troublesome pupil, he was assigned to my care. His writing-table was brought into my office, and I had plenty of oppor 171 tunity of judging of his character. With all his errors and shortcomings-not to say vices-it was impossible not to like him. There is always a charm about a free, impulsive nature that carries the heart where the judgment cannot follow. Although more than ten years his senior, I held and claimed no authority over him; his more powerful will and bolder spirit holding me in subjection. I screened the fact of his late arrivals and his frequent absences, by doing his work for him; and, for anything that Mr. Dobell or his father knew, he was the most promising clerk in the house. Little Margaret soon found him out, and took a childish liking to him. He was never tired of playing with her; and seldom a week passed that he did not bring her something new in the shape of toys or sweetmeats. My evenings at home, which used to be solitary, were now solitary no longer; either he came and kept me company, unknown to his father-who would have been indignant at his associating with one of the ordinary clerks-or (which was most frequently the case) I accompanied him in his evening rambles about town. The gulf between me and Esther was greatly widened. Thus our lives went on in the old City mansion, with little variety, until our child completed her third year. Young Mr. Picard had been absent from the office for more than a week, and illness, as usual, was pleaded as the cause. In about four days more he returned, looking certainly much thinner and paler than usual. I did not question him then as to the real cause of his absence; for there were arrears to work up, and he did not seem in a communicative humour. This was on a Saturday. On the following Monday, at about two o'clock in the afternoon, he brought in a cheque for five hundred pounds, drawn by the firm upon our bankers, Messrs. Burney, Holt, and Burney, of Lombard Street. This, he told me, was an amount he had got his father and Mr. Dobell to advance him for a short period, to enter upon a little speculation on his own account, and he gave it to me to get changed when I went down to the bankers to pay in money on the same afternoon. In the meantime, he induced me to give him two hundred pounds on account, out of the cash that I, as cashier, had received during the day. Shortly afterwards he went away, saying he would receive the other portion in the morning. I went to the bankers that afternoon, cashed the cheque for five hundred pounds, returned the two hundred to my cash charge, paid it into the credit of the firm, and returned to the office with the three hundred pounds in my possession, in bank-notes, for young Mr. Picard when he came in the morning. I never saw him again, and never shall, in this world. |