CHAPTER XXXI
THE VOYAGE CONTINUED
Ugh, what a miserable thing is a voyage! Here we are now eight days at sea, the eternal sameness of all around growing every hour less supportable. Sea and sky are beautiful things when seen from the dark woods and waving meadows on shore; but their picturesque effect is sadly marred from want of contrast. Besides that, the “toujours pork,” with crystals of salt as long as your wife’s fingers; the potatoes that seemed varnished in French polish; the tea seasoned with geological specimens from the basin of London, ycleped maple sugar; and the butter – ye gods, the butter! But why enumerate these smaller features of discomfort and omit the more glaring ones? – the utter selfishness which blue water suggests, as inevitably as the cold fit follows the ague. The good fellow that shares his knapsack or his last guinea on land, here forages out the best corner to hang his hammock; jockeys you into a comfortless crib, where the uncalked deck-butt filters every rain from heaven on your head; votes you the corner at dinner, not only that he may place you with your back to the thorough-draught of the gangway ladder, but that he may eat, drink, and lie down before you have even begun to feel the qualmishness that the dinner of a troop-ship is well calculated to suggest; cuts his pencil with your best razor; wears your shirts, as washing is scarce; and winds up all by having a good story of you every evening for the edification of the other “sharp gentlemen,” who, being too wide awake to be humbugged themselves, enjoy his success prodigiously. This, gentle reader, is neither confession nor avowal of mine. The passage I have here presented to you I have taken from the journal of my brother officer, Mr. Sparks, who, when not otherwise occupied, usually employed his time in committing to paper his thoughts upon men, manners, and things at sea in general; though, sooth to say, his was not an idle life. Being voted by unanimous consent “a junior,” he was condemned to offices that the veriest fag in Eton or Harrow had rebelled against. In the morning, under the pseudonym of Mrs. Sparks, he presided at breakfast, having previously made tea, coffee, and chocolate for the whole cabin, besides boiling about twenty eggs at various degrees of hardness; he was under heavy recognizances to provide a plate of buttered toast of very alarming magnitude, fried ham, kidneys, etc., to no end. Later on, when others sauntered about the deck, vainly endeavoring to fix their attention upon a novel or a review, the poor cornet might be seen with a white apron tucked gracefully round his spare proportions, whipping eggs for pancakes, or, with upturned shirt-sleeves, fashioning dough for a pudding. As the day waned, the cook’s galley became his haunt, where, exposed to a roasting fire, he inspected the details of a cuisine; for which, whatever his demerits, he was sure of an ample remuneration in abuse at dinner. Then came the dinner itself, that dread ordeal, where nothing was praised and everything censured. This was followed by the punch-making, where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were to be exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the supper at night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening grown quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and most unmeasured reprobation.
“I say, Sparks, it’s getting late. The spatch-cock, old boy. Don’t be slumbering.”
“By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup to-day! By Jove, I never felt so ill in my life!”
“Na, na; it was na the soup. It was something he pit in the punch, that’s burning me ever since I tuk it. Ou, man, but ye’re an awfu’ creture wi’ vittals!”
“He’ll improve, Doctor; he’ll improve. Don’t discourage him; the boy’s young. Be alive now, there. Where’s the toast? – confound you, where’s the toast?”
“There, Sparks, you like a drumstick, I know. Mustn’t muzzle the ox, eh? Scripture for you, old boy. Eat away; hang the expense. Hand him over the jug. Empty – eh, Charley? Come, Sparkie, bear a hand; the liquor’s out.”
“But won’t you let me eat?”
“Eat! Heavens, what a fellow for eating! By George, such an appetite is clean against the articles of war! Come, man, it’s drink we’re thinking of. There’s the rum, sugar, limes; see to the hot water. Well, Skipper, how are we getting on?”
“Lying our course; eight knots off the log. Pass the rum. Why, Mister Sparks!”
“Eh, Sparks, what’s this?”
“Sparks, my man, confound it!”
And then, omnes chorussing “Sparks!” in every key of the gamut, the luckless fellow would be obliged to jump up from his meagre fare and set to work at a fresh brewage of punch for the others. The bowl and the glasses filled, by some little management on Power’s part our friend the cornet would be drawn out, as the phrase is, into some confession of his early years, which seemed to have been exclusively spent in love-making, – devotion to the fair being as integral a portion of his character as tippling was of the worthy major’s.
Like most men who pass their lives in over-studious efforts to please, – however ungallant the confession be, – the amiable Sparks had had little success. His love, if not, as it generally happened, totally unrequited, was invariably the source of some awkward catastrophe, there being no imaginable error he had not at some time or other fallen into, nor any conceivable mischance to which he had not been exposed. Inconsolable widows, attached wives, fond mothers, newly-married brides, engaged young ladies were by some contretemps continually the subject of his attachments; and the least mishap which followed the avowal of his passion was to be heartily laughed at and obliged to leave the neighborhood. Duels, apologies, actions at law, compensations, etc., were of every-day occurrence, and to such an extent, too, that any man blessed with a smaller bump upon the occiput would eventually have long since abandoned the pursuit, and taken to some less expensive pleasure. But poor Sparks, in the true spirit of a martyr, only gloried the more, the more he suffered; and like the worthy man who continued to purchase tickets in the lottery for thirty years, with nothing but a succession of blanks, he ever imagined that Fortune was only trying his patience, and had some cool forty thousand pounds of happiness waiting his perseverance in the end. Whether this prize ever did turn up in the course of years, I am unable to say; but certainly, up to the period of his history I now speak of, all had been as gloomy and unrequiting as need be. Power, who knew something of every man’s adventures, was aware of so much of poor Sparks’s career, and usually contrived to lay a trap for a confession that generally served to amuse us during an evening, – as much, I acknowledge, from the manner of the recital as anything contained in the story. There was a species of serious matter-of-fact simplicity in his detail of the most ridiculous scenes that left you convinced that his bearing upon the affair in question must have greatly heightened the absurdity, – nothing, however comic or droll in itself, ever exciting in him the least approach to a smile. He sat with his large light-blue eyes, light hair, long upper lip, and retreating chin, lisping out an account of an adventure, with a look of Listen about him that was inconceivably amusing.
“Come, Sparks,” said Power, “I claim a promise you made me the other night, on condition we let you off making the oyster-patties at ten o’clock; you can’t forget what I mean.” Here the captain knowingly touched the tip of his ear, at which signal the cornet colored slightly, and drank off his wine in a hurried, confused way. “He promised to tell us, Major, how he lost the tip of his left ear. I have myself heard hints of the circumstance, but would much rather hear Sparks’s own version of it.”
“Another love story,” said the doctor, with a grin, “I’ll be bound.”
“Shot off in a duel?” said I, inquiringly. “Close work, too.”
“No such thing,” replied Power; “but Sparks will enlighten you. It is, without exception, the most touching and beautiful thing I ever heard. As a simple story, it beats the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ to sticks.”
“You don’t say so?” said poor Sparks, blushing.
“Ay, that I do; and maintain it, too. I’d rather be the hero of that little adventure, and be able to recount it as you do, – for, mark me, that’s no small part of the effect, – than I’d be full colonel of the regiment. Well, I am sure I always thought it affecting. But, somehow, my dear friend, you don’t know your powers; you have that within you would make the fortune of half the periodicals going. Ask Monsoon or O’Malley there if I did not say so at breakfast, when you were grilling the old hen, – which, by-the-bye, let me remark, was not one of your chefs-d’oeuvre.”
“A tougher beastie I never put a tooth in.”
“But the story, the story,” said I.
“Yes,” said Power, with a tone of command, “the story, Sparks.”
“Well, if you really think it worth telling, as I have always felt it a very remarkable incident, here goes.”
CHAPTER XXXII
MR. SPARKS’S STORY
“I sat at breakfast one beautiful morning at the Goat Inn at Barmouth, looking out of a window upon the lovely vale of Barmouth, with its tall trees and brown trout-stream struggling through the woods, then turning to take a view of the calm sea, that, speckled over with white-sailed fishing-boats, stretched away in the distance. The eggs were fresh; the trout newly caught; the cream delicious. Before me lay the ‘Plwdwddlwn Advertiser,’ which, among the fashionable arrivals at the seaside, set forth Mr. Sparks, nephew of Sir Toby Sparks, of Manchester, – a paragraph, by the way, I always inserted. The English are naturally an aristocratic people, and set a due value upon a title.”
“A very just observation,” remarked Power, seriously, while Sparks continued.
“However, as far as any result from the announcement, I might as well have spared myself the trouble, for not a single person called. Not one solitary invitation to dinner, not a picnic, not a breakfast, no, nor even a tea-party, was heard of. Barmouth, at the time I speak of, was just in that transition state at which the caterpillar may be imagined, when, having abandoned his reptile habits, he still has not succeeded in becoming a butterfly. In fact, it had ceased to be a fishing village, but had not arrived at the dignity of a watering-place. Now, I know nothing as bad as this. You have not, on one hand, the quiet retirement of a little peaceful hamlet, with its humble dwellings and cheap pleasures, nor have you the gay and animated tableau of fashion in miniature, on the other; but you have noise, din, bustle, confusion, beautiful scenery and lovely points of view marred and ruined by vulgar associations. Every bold rock and jutting promontory has its citizen occupants; every sandy cove or tide-washed bay has its myriads of squalling babes and red baize-clad bathing women, – those veritable descendants of the nymphs of old. Pink parasols, donkey-carts, baskets of bread-and-butter, reticules, guides to Barmouth, specimens of ore, fragments of gypsum meet you at every step, and destroy every illusion of the picturesque.”
“‘I shall leave this,’ thought I. ‘My dreams, my long-cherished dreams of romantic walks upon the sea-shore, of evening strolls by moonlight, through dell and dingle, are reduced to a short promenade through an alley of bathing-boxes, amidst a screaming population of nursery-maids and sick children, with a thorough-bass of “Fresh shrimps!” discordant enough to frighten the very fish from the shores. There is no peace, no quiet, no romance, no poetry, no love.’ Alas, that most of all was wanting! For, after all, what is it which lights up the heart, save the flame of a mutual attachment? What gilds the fair stream of life, save the bright ray of warm affection? What – ”
“In a word,” said Power, “it is the sugar in the punch-bowl of our existence. Perge, Sparks; push on.”
“I was not long in making up my mind. I called for my bill; I packed my clothes; I ordered post-horses; I was ready to start; one item in the bill alone detained me. The frequent occurrence of the enigmatical word ‘crw,’ following my servant’s name, demanded an explanation, which I was in the act of receiving, when a chaise-and-four drove rapidly up to the house. In a moment the blinds were drawn up, and such a head appeared at the window! Let me pause for one moment to drink in the remembrance of that lovely being, – eyes where heaven’s own blue seemed concentrated were shaded by long, deep lashes of the darkest brown; a brow fair, noble, and expansive, at each side of which masses of dark-brown hair waved half in ringlets, half in loose falling bands, shadowing her pale and downy cheek, where one faint rosebud tinge seemed lingering; lips slightly parted, as though to speak, gave to the features all the play of animation which completed this intellectual character, and made up – ”
“What I should say was a devilish pretty girl,” interrupted Power.
“Back the widow against her at long odds, any day,” murmured the adjutant.
“She was an angel! an angel!” cried Sparks with enthusiasm.
“So was the widow, if you go to that,” said the adjutant, hastily.
“And so is Matilda Dalrymple,” said Power, with a sly look at me. “We are all honorable men; eh, Charley?”
“Go ahead with the story,” said the skipper; “I’m beginning to feel an interest in it.”
“‘Isabella,’ said a man’s voice, as a large, well-dressed personage assisted her to alight, – ‘Isabella, love, you must take a little rest here before we proceed farther.’
“‘I think she had better, sir,’ said a matronly-looking woman, with a plaid cloak and a black bonnet.
“They disappeared within the house, and I was left alone. The bright dream was past: she was there no longer; but in my heart her image lived, and I almost felt she was before me. I thought I heard her voice, I saw her move; my limbs trembled; my hands tingled; I rang the bell, ordered my trunks back again to No. 5, and as I sank upon the sofa, murmured to myself, ‘This is indeed love at first sight.’”
“How devilish sudden it was,” said the skipper.
“Exactly like camp fever,” responded the doctor. “One moment ye are vara well; the next ye are seized wi’ a kind of shivering; then comes a kind of mandering, dandering, travelling a’overness.”
“D – the camp fever,” interrupted Power.
“Well, as I observed, I fell in love; and here let me take the opportunity of observing that all that we are in the habit of hearing about single or only attachments is mere nonsense. No man is so capable of feeling deeply as he who is in the daily practice of it. Love, like everything else in this world, demands a species of cultivation. The mere tyro in an affair of the heart thinks he has exhausted all its pleasures and pains; but only he who has made it his daily study for years, familiarizing his mind with every phase of the passion, can properly or adequately appreciate it. Thus, the more you love, the better you love; the more frequently has your heart yielded – ”
“It’s vara like the mucous membrane,” said the doctor.
“I’ll break your neck with the decanter if you interrupt him again!” exclaimed Power.
“For days I scarcely ever left the house,” resumed Sparks, “watching to catch one glance of the lovely Isabella. My farthest excursion was to the little garden of the inn, where I used to set every imaginable species of snare, in the event of her venturing to walk there. One day I would leave a volume of poetry; another, a copy of Paul and Virginia with a marked page; sometimes my guitar, with a broad, blue ribbon, would hang pensively from a tree, – but, alas! all in vain; she never appeared. At length I took courage to ask the waiter about her. For some minutes he could not comprehend what I meant; but, at last, discovering my object, he cried out, ‘Oh, No. 8, sir; it is No. 8 you mean?’
“‘It may be,’ said I. ‘What of her, then?’
“‘Oh, sir, she’s gone these three days.’
“‘Gone!’ said I, with a groan.
“‘Yes, sir; she left this early on Tuesday with the same old gentleman and the old woman in a chaise-and-four. They ordered horses at Dolgelly to meet them; but I don’t know which road they took afterwards.’
“I fell back on my chair unable to speak. Here was I enacting Romeo for three mortal days to a mere company of Welsh waiters and chamber-maids, sighing, serenading, reciting, attitudinizing, rose-plucking, soliloquizing, half-suiciding, and all for the edification of a set of savages, with about as much civilization as their own goats.
“‘The bill,’ cried I, in a voice of thunder; ‘my bill this instant.’
“I had been imposed upon shamefully, grossly imposed upon, and would not remain another hour in the house. Such were my feelings at least, and so thinking, I sent for my servant, abused him for not having my clothes ready packed. He replied; I reiterated, and as my temper mounted, vented every imaginable epithet upon his head, and concluded by paying him his wages and sending him about his business. In one hour more I was upon the road.
“‘What road, sir,’ said the postilion, as he mounted into the saddle.
“‘To the devil, if you please,’ said I, throwing myself back in the carriage.
“‘Very well, sir,’ replied the boy, putting spurs to his horse.
“That evening I arrived in Bedgellert.
“The little humble inn of Bedgellert, with its thatched roof and earthen floor, was a most welcome sight to me, after eleven hours’ travelling on a broiling July day. Behind the very house itself rose the mighty Snowdon, towering high above the other mountains, whose lofty peaks were lost amidst the clouds; before me was the narrow valley – ”
“Wake me up when he’s under way again,” said the skipper, yawning fearfully.
“Go on, Sparks,” said Power, encouragingly; “I was never more interested in my life; eh, O’Malley?”
“Quite thrilling,” responded I, and Sparks resumed.
“Three weeks did I loiter about that sweet spot, my mind filled with images of the past and dreams of the future, my fishing-rod my only companion. Not, indeed, that I ever caught anything; for, somehow, my tackle was always getting foul of some willow-tree or water-lily, and at last, I gave up even the pretence of whipping the streams. Well, one day – I remember it as well as though it were but yesterday, it was the 4th of August – I had set off upon an excursion to Llanberris. I had crossed Snowdon early, and reached the little lake on the opposite side by breakfast time. There I sat down near the ruined tower of Dolbadern, and opening my knapsack, made a hearty meal. I have ever been a day-dreamer; and there are few things I like better than to lie, upon some hot and sunny day, in the tall grass beneath the shade of some deep boughs, with running water murmuring near, hearing the summer bee buzzing monotonously, and in the distance, the clear, sharp tinkle of the sheep-bell. In such a place, at such a time, one’s fancy strays playfully, like some happy child, and none but pleasant thoughts present themselves. Fatigued by my long walk, and overcome by heat, I fell asleep. How long I lay there I cannot tell, but the deep shadows were half way down the tall mountain when I awoke. A sound had startled me; I thought I heard a voice speaking close to me. I looked up, and for some seconds I could not believe that I was not dreaming. Beside me, within a few paces, stood Isabella, the beautiful vision that I had seen at Barmouth, but far, a thousand times, more beautiful. She was dressed in something like a peasant’s dress, and wore the round hat which, in Wales at least, seems to suit the character of the female face so well; her long and waving ringlets fell carelessly upon her shoulders, and her cheek flushed from walking. Before I had a moment’s notice to recover my roving thought, she spoke; her voice was full and round, but soft and thrilling, as she said, —
“‘I beg pardon, sir, for having disturbed you unconsciously; but, having done so, may I request you will assist me to fill this pitcher with water?’
“She pointed at the same time to a small stream which trickled down a fissure in the rock, and formed a little well of clear water beneath. I bowed deeply, and murmuring something, I know not what, took the pitcher from her hand, and scaling the rocky cliff, mounted to the clear source above, where having filled the vessel, I descended. When I reached the ground beneath, I discovered that she was joined by another person whom, in an instant, I recognized to be the old gentleman I had seen with her at Barmouth, and who in the most courteous manner apologized for the trouble I had been caused, and informed me that a party of his friends were enjoying a little picnic quite near, and invited me to make one of them.
“I need not say that I accepted the invitation, nor that with delight I seized the opportunity of forming an acquaintance with Isabella, who, I must confess, upon her part showed no disinclination to the prospect of my joining the party.
“After a few minutes’ walking, we came to a small rocky point which projected for some distance into the lake, and offered a view for several miles of the vale of Llanberris. Upon this lovely spot we found the party assembled; they consisted of about fourteen or fifteen persons, all busily engaged in the arrangement of a very excellent cold dinner, each individual having some peculiar province allotted to him or her, to be performed by their own hands. Thus, one elderly gentlemen was whipping cream under a chestnut-tree, while a very fashionably-dressed young man was washing radishes in the lake; an old lady with spectacles was frying salmon over a wood-fire, opposite to a short, pursy man with a bald head and drab shorts, deep in the mystery of a chicken salad, from which he never lifted his eyes when I came up. It was thus I found how the fair Isabella’s lot had been cast, as a drawer of water; she, with the others, contributing her share of exertion for the common good. The old gentleman who accompanied her seemed the only unoccupied person, and appeared to be regarded as the ruler of the feast; at least, they all called him general, and implicitly followed every suggestion he threw out. He was a man of a certain grave and quiet manner, blended with a degree of mild good-nature and courtesy, that struck me much at first, and gained greatly on me, even in the few minutes I conversed with him as we came along. Just before he presented me to his friends, he gently touched my arm, and drawing me aside, whispered in my ear: —
“‘Don’t be surprised at anything you may hear to-day here; for I must inform you this is a kind of club, as I may call it, where every one assumes a certain character, and is bound to sustain it under a penalty. We have these little meetings every now and then; and as strangers are never present, I feel some explanation necessary, that you may be able to enjoy the thing, – you understand?’
“‘Oh, perfectly,’ said I, overjoyed at the novelty of the scene, and anticipating much pleasure from my chance meeting with such very original characters.
“‘Mr. Sparks, Mrs. Winterbottom. Allow me to present Mr. Sparks.’
“‘Any news from Batavia, young gentleman?’ said the sallow old lady addressed. ‘How is coffee!’
“The general passed on, introducing me rapidly as he went.
“‘Mr. Doolittle, Mr. Sparks.’
“‘Ah, how do you do, old boy?’ said Mr. Doolittle; ‘sit down beside me. We have forty thousand acres of pickled cabbage spoiling for want of a little vinegar.’
“‘Fie, fie, Mr. Doolittle,’ said the general, and passed on to another.
“‘Mr. Sparks, Captain Crosstree.’
“‘Ah, Sparks, Sparks! son of old Blazes! ha, ha, ha!’ and the captain fell back into an immoderate fit of laughter.
“‘Le Rio est serci,’ said the thin meagre figure in nankeens, bowing, cap in hand, before the general; and accordingly, we all assumed our places upon the grass.
“‘Say it again! Say it again, and I’ll plunge this dagger in your heart!’ said a hollow voice, tremulous with agitation and rage, close beside me. I turned my head, and saw an old gentleman with a wart on his nose, sitting opposite a meat-pie, which he was contemplating with a look of fiery indignation. Before I could witness the sequel of the scene, I felt a soft hand pressed upon mine. I turned. It was Isabella herself, who, looking at me with an expression I shall never forget, said: —
“‘Don’t mind poor Faddy; he never hurts any one.’
“Meanwhile the business of dinner went on rapidly. The servants, of whom enormous numbers were now present, ran hither and thither; and duck, ham, pigeon-pie, cold veal, apple tarts, cheese, pickled salmon, melon, and rice pudding, flourished on every side. As for me, whatever I might have gleaned from the conversation around under other circumstances, I was too much occupied with Isabella to think of any one else. My suit – for such it was – progressed rapidly. There was evidently something favorable in the circumstances we last met under; for her manner had all the warmth and cordiality of old friendship. It is true that, more than once, I caught the general’s eye fixed upon us with anything but an expression of pleasure, and I thought that Isabella blushed and seemed confused also. ‘What care I?’ however, was my reflection; ‘my views are honorable; and the nephew and heir of Sir Toby Sparks – ’ Just in the very act of making this reflection, the old man in the shorts hit me in the eye with a roasted apple, calling out at the moment: —
“‘When did you join, thou child of the pale-faces?’
“‘Mr. Murdocks!’ cried the general, in a voice of thunder; and the little man hung down his head, and spoke not.
“‘A word with you, young gentleman,’ said a fat old lady, pinching my arm above the elbow.
“‘Never mind her,’ said Isabella, smiling; ‘poor dear old Dorking, she thinks she’s an hour-glass. How droll, isn’t it?’
“‘Young man, have you any feelings of humanity?’ inquired the old lady, with tears in her eyes as she spoke; ‘will you, dare you assist a fellow-creature under my sad circumstances?’
“‘What can I do for you, Madam?’ said I, really feeling for her distress.
“‘Just like a good dear soul, just turn me up, for I’m nearly run out.’
“Isabella burst out a laughing at the strange request, – an excess which, I confess, I was unable myself to repress; upon which the old lady, putting on a frown of the most ominous blackness, said: —
“‘You may laugh, Madam; but first before you ridicule the misfortunes of others, ask yourself are you, too, free from infirmity? When did you see the ace of spades, Madam? Answer me that.’
“Isabella became suddenly pale as death; her very lips blanched, and her voice, almost inaudible, muttered: —
“‘Am I, then, deceived? Is not this he?’ So saying, she placed her hand upon my shoulder.
“‘That the ace of spades?’ exclaimed the old lady, with a sneer, – ‘that the ace of spades!’
“‘Are you, or are you not, sir?’ said Isabella, fixing her deep and languid eyes upon me. ‘Answer me, as you are honest; are you the ace of spades?’
“‘He is the King of Tuscarora. Look at his war paint!’ cried an elderly gentleman, putting a streak of mustard across my nose and cheek.
“‘Then am I deceived,’ said Isabella. And flying at me, she plucked a handful of hair out of my whiskers.
“‘Cuckoo, cuckoo!’ shouted one; ‘Bow-wow-wow!’ roared another; ‘Phiz!’ went a third; and in an instant, such a scene of commotion and riot ensued. Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and decanters flew right and left; every one pitched into his neighbor with the most fearful cries, and hell itself seemed broke loose. The hour-glass and the Moulah of Oude had got me down and were pummelling me to death, when a short, thickset man came on all fours slap down upon them shouting out, ‘Way, make way for the royal Bengal tiger!’ at which they both fled like lightning, leaving me to the encounter single-handed. Fortunately, however, this was not of very long duration, for some well-disposed Christians pulled him from off me; not, however, before he had seized me in his grasp, and bitten off a portion of my left ear, leaving me, as you see, thus mutilated for the rest of my days.”
“What an extraordinary club,” broke in the doctor.
“Club, sir, club! it was a lunatic asylum. The general was no other than the famous Dr. Andrew Moorville, that had the great madhouse at Bangor, and who was in the habit of giving his patients every now and then a kind of country party; it being one remarkable feature of their malady that when one takes to his peculiar flight, whatever it be, the others immediately take the hint and go off at score. Hence my agreeable adventure: the Bengal tiger being a Liverpool merchant, and the most vivacious madman in England; while the hour-glass and the Moulah were both on an experimental tour to see whether they should not be pronounced totally incurable for life.”
“And Isabella?” inquired Power.
“Ah, poor Isabella had been driven mad by a card-playing aunt at Bath, and was in fact the most hopeless case there. The last words I heard her speak confirmed my mournful impression of her case, —
“‘Yes,’ said she, as they removed her to her carriage, ‘I must, indeed, have but a weak intellect, when I could have taken the nephew of a Manchester cotton-spinner, with a face like a printed calico, for a trump card, and the best in the pack!’”
Poor Sparks uttered these last words with a faltering accent, and finishing his glass at one draught withdrew without wishing us good-night.