Marie's sad story no

ble alternative was all that now remained; and, in the extremity of mortal terror, with the shadow of the executioner on her prison, and with the agony of approaching torment and death at her heart, the forlorn creature accepted it. If the law of strict morality must judge her in this matter without consideration, and condemn her wit

the winds, she was still in her prison, a living, breathing woman. Her limbs were spared from the torture, her body was released from the stake, until the

eport of it spread by way of Rouen, from mouth to mouth, till it reached Paris; and from Paris it penetrated into the palace of the King at Versailles. That unhappy man, whose dreadful destiny it was to pay the penalty which the long and noble endurance of the French

nstantly despatched his Royal order to suspend the execution of the sentence. The report of Marie's fearful situation had reached him so short a

taken its course. The authorities at Rouen, feeling that the King's interference implied a rebuke of their inconsiderate confirmation of the Caen sentence, did their best to set themselves right

he day and night the order lay in the office unopened. Sunday was a holiday, and Procurator

the executioner was ready. All the preliminary horror of the torturing and burning was suffered to darken round the miser

as it stood in all its details, from the beginning at Madame Duparc's to the end in the prison of Caen. The production of such a document as this was beset with obstacles; the chief of them being the difficulty of gaining access to the voluminous reports of the evidence given at the trial, whic

he charitably-disposed inhabitants of the town. It is to be said to his credit that he honestly faced the difficulties of his task, and industriously completed the document which he had engaged to furnish. On the other hand, it must be recorded to his shame, that his motives were interested throughout, and that with almost incredible meanness he pa

ished themselves with the reports of the evidence as drawn up at Caen; and after examining the whole case, unanimously decided that there was good and sufficient reason for the revision of the trial. The order to that effect was not issued to the parliament of Rou

hority of the King himself, recognised at last, readily enough, that the interests of its own reputation and the interests of rigid justi

self to such an atrocious proceeding as was here plainly indicated. After gaining as much time as possible by prolonging their deliberations to the utmost, the authorities resolved on adopting a middle course, which on the one hand should not actually establish the prisoner's innocence, and, on the other, should not publicly expose the disgraceful conduct of the prosecution at Caen. Their decree, not issued until the twelfth of March, seventeen hundred and eighty-five, annulled the sentence of Procurator Revel on technical grounds; suppressed the further publication of the statement of Marie's case, which had been drawn out by the advocate Lecauchois, as libellous towards Monsieur Revel and Madame Dupa

the attention of the higher tribunals of the capital to the cruelly cunning decree of the parliament of Rouen. Accordingly, she once more petitioned the throne.

e judgment-seat of that highest law-court in the country, which had the final power of ending her long sufferings and of doing her signal justice on her adversaries of all degrees. The parliament of Paris was n

obtaining the fullest compensation that the law allows for the merciless injuries which the original prosecution had inflicted on his client. In pursuance of this design, he then proceeds to examine the evidence of the alleged poisoning and the alleged robbery, step by step, pointing out in the fullest detail the monstrous contradictions and improbabilities which have been already briefly indicated in this narrativ

raordinary termination of the proceedings, to examine this

t remains is, whether that poisoning was accidental or premeditated. In either case, the evidence points directly at Madame Duparc, and leads to t

suming that the dinner next day really contained some small portion of poison, just enough to swear by-prepared that dinner? Madame Duparc and her daughter, while the servant was asleep. Having caused the death of her father, and having produced symp

with it, directed at the servant by Madame Duparc's lips. In the second place, if any trust at all is to be put in the evidence touching the finding of arsenic on or about Marie's person, that trust must be reposed in the testimony of Surgeon Hébert, who first searched the girl. Where does he find the arsenic and the bread crumbs? In Marie's pockets. Who takes the most inexplicably officious notice of such a trifle as Marie's dress, at the most shockingly inappropr

ulders of the servant. Do the facts bear out that theory, or do they lead to the suspicion that the woman

ich the town afforded? The facts show that she summoned just help enough, barely to save appearances, and no more. The facts show that she betrayed a singular anxiety to have the body laid out as soon as possible after life was extinct. The facts show that she maintained an unnatural composure on the day of the death. These are significant circumstances. They speak for themselves independently of the evidence given afterwards, in which she and her child contradicted each other as to the time that elapsed when the old man had eaten his fatal meal, before he was taken ill. Add to these serious facts the mysterious disappearance from the house of the eldest son, which was never accounted for; and the rumour of purchased poison, which was never investigated. Consider, besides, wheth

onstrated Marie's innocence of poisoning and theft, and her fair claim to the fullest legal compensation for the wrong inflicted on her. On the twenty-third of May, seventeen hundred and eighty-six, the parliament of Paris issued its decree, discharging her from the remotest su

rc? What happened to Procurator Revel and his fellow-conspirato

th

venture to estimate. If Marie claimed the privilege which a sense of justice, or rather a sense of decency, had forced the parliament of Paris to concede to her,-and, through her counsel, she did claim it,-the consequences of the legal inquiry into her case which her demand for damages necessarily involved, would probabl

d they might be, for the sake of giving a mere servant-girl compensation for the undeserved obloquy and misery of many years, was too preposterous and too suicidal an act of justice to be thought of for a moment. Accordingly, when Marie was prepared to bring her action for damages, the lawyers laid their heads together, in the interests of society. It was found possible to put her out of court at once and for ever, by taking a technical objection to the proceedings in whi

atifying to be able to conclude the story of Marie's unmerited sufferings with

ime at least, secured her a comfortable independence. Friends rose up in all directions to show her such attention as might be in their power; and the simple country girl, when she was taken to see the sights of Paris, actually beheld her own name placarded in the showmen's bills, and her presence advertised as the greatest attraction that could be offered to the public. When, in due co

to look a little farther back-to remember that the hard case of oppression here related had been, for something like one hundred years, the case (with minor changes of circumstance) of the forlorn many against the powerful few, all over France-and then to consider whether there was not a reason and a necessity, a dreadful last necessity, for the French Revolution. That Revolution has expiated, and is still expiating, its

OF CHAR

PINS

by an Innoce

untry town, possessing a comfortable property, a devoted housekeeper, and some charming domestic animals. I have no wife, no children, no poor relation

lement in life. In my own youth I missed the chance of getting a wife, as I have always firmly believed, for want of meeting with a tender-hearted old gentleman like myself to help me to the necessary spinster. It is possibly this reflection which originally led to the formation of the benevolent mania that now possesses me. Perhaps sheer idleness, a gallant turn of mind, and living in a

I am anxious to avoid mistakes at the outset, and I think softness and sentiment are perhaps the saf

s then a very young man, in delicate health, with a tendency to melancholy and a turn for metaphysics. I profited by his invitation as soon

very politely assured me that my presence acted as an inestimable relief to his mind, which had been stretched-to use his own strong language-on the metaphysical rack all the morning. He gave his forehead a violent ru

ity. Here am I, and there are you-let us say two Personalities. Are we a permanent, or are we a transient thing? There is the problem, my dear sir, which I have been vainly trying to solve since brea

l young lady glided serenely into the room. I rose and bowed. The tall

ant you that; but do you get me out of the difficulty? Not the l

g lady glided in, and sank into a chair b

sciousness, which constitutes Personality. Now what is

ung ladies glided in, and sank into two chairs by t

ot be the same in any two moments, nor consequently th

l young lady glided in, and assisted in lengthening the charming row formed by her sisters. Mr. Bettifer murmure

," I remarked, to ch

nswered five m

r opene

ed!" said a sixt

Bettifer, finishing his note

omfortable in my coloured trowsers-more uncomfortable still, when Mr. Bettife

taphysical subjects,"

rather exhausting for dea

Misses Emily, Maria, and K

ven him to the conclusion, that our present self was not our yesterday's self, but another self mistaken for it, which, in its turn, had no connection with the self of to-morrow. As this certainly sounded rather unsatisfactory, I agreed with Mr. Bettifer that we had exhausted that particular view of the subject,

ure, dear?" said Miss El

r?" said Miss Harri

Misses Jane and Emi

Misses Maria and Ki

did. The fair Elizabeth was followed to the end of the room where the piano was, by Jane and Emily. The lo

mistress. A line at the top of the picture, and a strip of blue above it, represented the surface of the ocean, and the sky; the monotony of this part of the composition being artfully broken by a receding golden galley with a purple sail, containing the fickle fisher youth who had forsaken the mermaid. I had hardly had time to say what a beautiful picture it was, before Miss Maria put her handkerchief to her eyes, and, overcome by the pathetic natu

one my best to harden them and make them worldly; but it

ith the attendant sylphs, Jane and Emily, o

l symphony on the piano, in the minor key. Ballad resumed:-The lady wakes with a scream. The tyrant loads his arquebus. The faithful page, hearing the scream among the moonlit flowers, advances to the castle. The dog gives a warning bark. The tyrant fires a chance shot in the darkness. The page welters in his blood. The lady dies

n to tender investigation, while favourable circumstances yet give you a chance. My boys, my eager boys, do you want pale cheeks, limpid eyes, swan-like necks, low waist

ng a sample of a new kind. It shall be something neither soft, yi

ay want an

surface and t

short, sharp, and, on occasion, shrill. You must have a talent for arguing, and a knack at instantaneous definition, or you will find the Miss Cruttwells too much for you, and had better wait for my next sample. And yet for a certain peculiar class of customer, these are really very choice spinsters. For in

filling a cabinet with ticketed bits of stone. Miss Charlotte Cruttwell has a manly taste for dogs, and is nursing two fat puppies on her lap. All three have florid complexions; all three have a habit of winking both eyes incessantly, and a way of wearing their hair very tight, and very far off their face

er sister. "Fine!" with a stare of perplexity at my young l

g how cold it was,"

with a look at the white clouds outside, which

, now, by a fine day?

his mettle by this time, and ans

fine day, is a day on which you do not feel the want

ast, that does not appear to me to be at all a

all a day-when the sun is not shin

of rain; and, when there is a chance of rain, we think it is very

ld make. If he could only be present in the spirit, after leaving the abode of the Miss Cruttwells in the body, his admiration of my three disputatious spinsters would, I think, be greatly increased. He would find that, though they could all agree to a miracle in differing with him whi

e after all, Charlotte, that you were right in saying that it

sun happens to be peeping out, just now, for a minute or two. If it rai

ith either of you, and I also dispute the opinion of the gentlema

t be one or

. It may be an

mean by an in

rly constituted bachelors in this world; and I like to be able to show that my assortment of spinsters is various enough to warrant me in addressing even the most alarming eccentricities of taste. Will nobody offer for this dispu

mental sample, gentlemen, and a disputatious sample. In now offering a domestic sample, I have but one regret, which is, that my spinsters on the prese

eak. I have seen-to say nothing, for the present, of papa and mamma-I have seen brother George come in from business, and sit down by the fireside, and be welcomed by Miss Violet and Miss Rose, as if he had just returned, after having been reported dead, from the other end of the world. I have seen those two devoted sisters race across the room, in fond contention which should sit first on brother George's knee. I have even seen both sit upon him together, each taking a knee, when he has been half-an-hour later than usual at the office. I have never beheld their lovely arms tired of clasping brother George's neck, never heard their rosy lips cease kissing brother G

selves, my bachelor friends. Go, if you l

finds her attention wandering. She has not heard a word that he has been saying, and she interrupts him in the middle of a

met my sister

e not had

er end, in a blue dress. Now, do t

on to another subject. Miss Violet's attention wa

f mamma, when you wer

ut appearing to be at all impressed by it, looks into the distance in

lady with the diamonds. Is she not beautiful? Do you know, when we were dressing to-night, Rose and I begged and prayed her not to wear a cap. We said, 'Don't, mamma; please don't. Put it off for another year.' An

necessary

taken for our youngest sister if you go in your hair,-and it is on papa's

asks for the honour of dancing with her. She inquires if it is for the

y brother George. My sister and I alway

ceeds. He hears a soft voice behind h

ray look at George and Rose. No, thank you: I never dance when George and Rose are w

her with the same touching and demonstrative affection over the dishes on the dinner-table, as amid the mazes of the dance. He will hear from the venerable Mr. Ducksey that George never gave him a moment's uneasiness from the hour of his birth. He will hear from Mrs. Ducksey that her one regret in this life is, that she can never be thankful enough for her daughters. And

with great sprightliness and effect; has paused for a moment to collect his ideas before telling one of the good stories for which he is famous; and is

et, d

, de

he brilliant guest sits back in his chair, dogged and speechless. The host and hostess look at each other n

y mind what I shall give mamm

dress? That'

dear, of a locket

we

The guests look at each other. The second course persists in not coming in. The brilliant gue

t Ellen Dav

heard fro

cle and aunt won

n to Brompton? Did you see Jan

dious cousin of hers are sure to come. Uncl

endation, I confidently submit the Miss Duckseys to brisk public competition. I can promise the two fortunate youths who may woo and win them, plenty of difficulties in weaning their affections from the family hearth, with showers of tears and poignant bursts of anguish on the wedding day. All properly-constituted bridegrooms feel, as I have been given to und

GRUB ST

IN TWO

. From Mr. Reade

red by literary courtesy with the title of the Intelligent Public. In the interests of the order to which I belong, I have a little complaint to make agai

es, biographies, novels, essays, travels, criticisms, all of modern production. But, in regard to going to the theatre, I write with something like a sense of injury-for nobody supplies me with a good play. Th

, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and Soulié again. The men who have been interesting me in my arm-chair, interesting me once more in my stall. The men who can really invent and observe for the reader, inventing and observing for the spectator also. What is the necessary consequence? The literary standard of th

England? By no manner of means. For th

in a foreign dress, which does not become it like its native costume. But, perhaps, our dramatic entertainment is not a play adapted from the French Drama. Perhaps, it is something English-a Burlesque. Delightful, I have no doubt, to a fast young farmer from the country, or to a convivial lawyer's clerk, who has never

on, or the Burlesque. The publisher can understand that there are people among his customers who possess cultivated tastes, and can cater for them accordingly, when they ask for something new. The manager, in the same case, recognises no difference between me and my servant. My footman goes to see the play-actors, and cares very l

stage, as well as for the library table. In England, the most eminent imaginative writers work for the library table alone. What is the reason of t

than two or three times in a year. You know this; and you know also that the systematic neglect of the theatre in these people, has been forced on them, in the first instance, by the shock inflicted on their good sense by nine-tenths of the so-called new entertainments which are offered to them. I am not speaking now of gorgeous scenic revivals of old plays-for which I have a great respect, because they offer to sensible people the only decent substitute for genuine dramatic novelty to be met with at the present time. I am referring to the "new entertainments" which are, in the vast majority of cases, second-hand entertainments to every man in the th

teem, yours,

Rea

d. From Mr. Auth

tle astonish you-for I mean to speak the plain truth boldly. The public ought to know the real state of the case, as rega

s ever trod the stage. And we should have more if dramatic literature called for more. It is literature that makes the actor-not the actor who makes literature. I could name men to you, now on the stage, whose advance in their profession they owe entirely to the rare opportunities, which the occasional appearance of

the literary comparison with our neighbours is as applicable to

rely on the public. Any one of those theatres will give me as much, I repeat, for the toil of my brains, on their behalf, as the publisher will give for the toil of my brains on his. Now, so far is this from being the case in England, that it is a fact perfectly well known to every literary man in the country, that, while the remuneration for every other species of literature has enormously increased in the last hundred years, the remuneration for dramatic writing has steadily decreased, to such a minimum of pecuniary recognition as to make it impossible for a man who lives by

e, which proved a total failure on representation, and which tottered, rather than "ran," for just nine nights, to wretched houses. Excluding his literary copyright of a hundred pounds, the Doctor's dramatic profit on a play that was a failure-remember that!-amou

. Without going back again so long as a century-without going back farther than the time of George Colman, the younger-I may remind you that the Comedy of John Bull brought the author twelve hundred pounds. Since then, six or seven hundred pounds have been paid for a new play; and, later yet, five hundred pounds. We have now dropped to three hundred pounds, as the exception, and to one hundred and fifty, as the rule. I am speaking, remember, of plays in not less than three acts, which are, or are supposed to be, original-of plays which run from sixty to a hundred nights, and which put their bread (buttered thickly on both side

literary art, does, let him be who he may, for a time, exhaust his brain by the process, and leave it sorely in need of an after-period of absolute repose.

aw what salaries their successors are getting now. If stage remuneration has decreased sordidly in our time for authorship, it has increased splendidly for actorship. When a manager tells me now that his theatre cannot afford to pay me as much for my idea in the form of a play, as the publisher can afford to pay me for it in the form of a novel-he really means that he and his actors take a great deal mo

phies of dead players will answer the first question. And the managers' books, for the past ten or fifteen years, will answer the second. I must not give offence by comparisons between living and dead men-I must not enter into details, because they would lead me too ne

erature, any idea of its importance, any artist-like sympathy with its great difficulties, and its great achievements, would be ashamed to make. I prove that fact by reference to the proceedings of a better past time, and by a plain appeal to the market-value of all kinds of literature, off the stage, at the present time; and I leave the means of effecting a reform to those who are bound in common honour and common justice to make the

himself. There are men still in existence, who occasionally write for the stage, for the love and honour of their Art. Once, perhaps, in two or three years, one of these devoted men will try single-handed to dissipate the dense dramatic fog that hangs over the theatre and the audience. For the brief allotted space of time, the one toiling hand lets

sort of authorship, as you have already implied, virtually drive the intelligent classes out of the theatre. Half a century since, the prosperity of the manager's treasury would have suffered in consequence. But the increase of wealth and population, and the railway connection between London and the country, more than supply in quantity what audiences have lost in quality. Not only does the manager lose nothing in the way of profit-he absolutely gains by getting a vast nightly majority into his theatre, whose ignorant insensibility nothing can shock. Let him cast what garbage he pleases before them, the unquestioning mouths of his audience open, and snap at it. I am sorry and ashamed to write in this way of any assemblage of my own countrymen; but a large experience of theatres forces me to confess that I am writing the truth. If you want to find out who the people are who know nothing whatever, even by hearsay, of the progress of the literature of their own time-who have caught no chance

hing can remedy it but a change

ce among the audiences. If I am right; if this sprinkling increases; if the few people who have brains in their heads will express themselves boldly; if those who are fit to lead the opinion of their neighbours will resolutely make the attempt to lead it, instead of indolently wrapping themselves up in their own contempt-then there may be a creditable dramatic future yet in store for th

is of serial publications and successful novels which address the educated classes; I think I may safely predict the consequences that would follow, as soon as our ideal manager had received his information and recovered from his astonishment. London would be startled, one fine morning, by finding a new theatre opened. Names that are now well known on title-pages only, would then appear on play-bills also; and tens of thousands of rea

gard, yours,

. Au

OR BE TH

lecturers, and compilers of guide-books can tell them; to trust entirely to their own common sense when they are looking at pictures; and to express their opinions b

ey can make up their minds about an old picture? Why do they ask connoisseurs and professional friends for a marked catalogue, before they venture inside the walls of the exhibition-rooms in Trafalgar Square? Why, when they are, for the most part, always ready to tell each other unreservedly what books they like, or

e shape of so many visible feet of canvass, actual human facts, and distinct aspects of Nature, which poetry can only describe, and which music can but obscurely hint at. The Art which can do this-and which has done it over and over again both in past and present times-is surely of all arts that one which least requires a course of critical training, before it can be approached on familiar terms. Whenever

on generally. For my own part, I have long thought, and shall always continue to believe, that this same obstacle is nothing more or less than the Conceit of Criticism, which has got obstructivel

cism does not speak in too arbitrary a language, and when the laws it makes are ratified by the consent and approbation of intelligent people in general, I have as much respect for it as any one. But, when Criticism sits altogether apart, speaks opinions that find no answering echo in the general heart, and measures the greatness of intellectual work by anything rather than by its power of ap

lly considered to be the masterpiece of dramatic poetry; and the tragedy of Hamlet is also, according to the testimony of every sort of manager, the play, of all others, which can be invariably depended on to fill a theatre with the greatest certainty, act it when and how you will. Again, in music, the Don Giovanni of Mozart, which is the admiration even of the direst p

here shall we find a similar instance of genuine concurrence between the

ognised masterpieces of the highest High Art are the Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel, and the Transfiguration, in the Vatican picture gallery. It is not only Lanzi and Vasari, and hosts of later sages running smoothly along the same critical grooves, who give me this information. Even the greatest of English portrait-painters, Sir Joshua Reynolds, sings steadily with the critical chorus, note for note. When experience has made me wiser, I am

excelled in beauty, the other in energy. Michael Angelo had more of the poetical inspiration; his ideas are vast and sublime; his people are a superior order of beings; there is

eems equivalent to saying that the representation of a man made in the image of Michael Angelo is a grander sight than the representation of a man made in the image of God. I am a little staggered by these principles of criticism; but as all the learned au

r the gentleman who has compiled Murray's Handbook for Central Italy, or any other competent authorities, what this grotesquely startling piece of painter's work can possibly be, I am answered that it is actually intended to represent the unimaginably awful spectacle of the Last Judgment! And I am further informed that, estimate

y-what evidences of religious feeling has it to show me? I look at the lower part of the composition first, and see-a combination of the orthodox nursery notion of the devil, with the

yed man, presenting his own skin, as a sort of credential, to the hideous figure with the threatening hand-which I will not, even in writing, identify with the name of Our Saviour. Elsewhere, I see nothing but unnatural distortion and hopeless confusion; fighting figures, tearing figures, t

l detail," and therefore we uncritical spectators must hold our tongues. It may strike us forcibly that, if people are to be painted at all, as in this picture, rising out of their graves in their own bodies as they lived, it is surely important (to say nothing of giving them the benefit of the shrouds in which they were buried) to represent them as having the usual general proportions of human beings. But Sir Joshua Reynolds interposes critically, and tells us the figures on the wall and ceiling of the Sistine Chapel are sublime, because they don't remind us of our own species. Why should they not remind us of our own species? Because they are prophets, sibyls, and such like, cries the chorus of critics indignantly. And what then? If I had been on intima

piece (the Transfiguration, by Raphael) can vindicate its magnificent reputation among critics and connoisseurs. This picture I approach under the advantage of knowing, beforehand, that I must make a

ed with black. This mischief is said to have been worked by the tricks of French cleaners and restorers, who have so fatally tampered with the whole surface, that Raphael's original

Transfiguration, in order to please Cardinal de' Medici, for whom the picture was painted. This is Raphael's fault. This sets him forth in the rather anomalous character of a

lace, within view of each other, when we know very well that they were only connected by happening at the same time. Also, when I see some of the disciples painted in the act of pointing up to the Transfiguration, the mountain itself being the background against which they stand, I am to remember (though the whole of the rest of the picture is most absolutely and

icture, without feeling their gravity in the smallest degree endangered by seeing that the ugly knob of ground on which the disciples are lying prostrate, is barely big enough to hold them, and most certainly would not hold them if they all moved briskly on it together. These things are matters of taste, on which I have the misfortune to differ with the connoisseurs. Not feeling bold enough to venture on defe

ven affecting to express artificially, compassion for the suffering boy, humility at their own incapability to relieve him, or any other human emotion likely to be suggested by the situation in which they are placed. I find it still more dismaying to look next at the figure of a brawny woman, with her back to the spectator, entreating the help of the apostles theatrically on one knee, with her insensible classical profile turned in one direction, and both her muscular arms stretched out in the other; it is still more dismaying to look at such a figure as this, and then to be gravely told by Lanzi that I am contemplating "the affliction of a beautiful and interesting female." I observe, on entering the room in which the Transfiguration is placed, as I have previously observed on entering the Sistine Chapel, groups of spectators before the picture consulting their guide-b

ed, to this day, as the two masterworks of the highest school of painting. Having ascertained that, let him next, if possible, procure a sight of some print or small copy from any part of either picture (there is a copy of the whole of the Transfiguration in the Gallery at the Crystal Palace), and practically test the truth of what I have said. Or, in the event of his not choosi

ewhere. My valet-de-place has not pointed them out to me; my guide-book, which criticises according to authority, has not recommended me to look at them, except in very rare cases indeed. I discovered them for myself, and others may discover them as readily as I did, if they will only take their minds out of leading-strings when they enter a gallery, and challenge a picture boldly to do its duty by explaining its own merits to them without the assistance of an interpreter. Having given that simple receipt for the finding out and enjoying of good pictures, I need give no more. It is no part of my object to attempt to impose my own tastes and preferences on others. I want-if I may be allowed to repeat my mo

er and after dinner, in the presence of authorities just as coolly as out of the presence of authorities, say plainly once for all, that the sort of High Art which is professedly bought for us, and which does actually address itself to nobody but painters, critics, and connoisseurs, is not High Art at all, but the lowest of the Low: because it is the narrowest as to its sphere of action, and the most scantily furnished as to its means of doing good. We shall shock the connoisseurs (especially the elderly ones) by taking this course; we shall get indignantly reprimanded by the critics, and flatly contradicted by the lecturers; but we sh

GRIEVAN

FROM MY

each side of the way, in a neat speech spoken from the middle of the road, was almost as constant and regular in his appearances as the postman himself. Of late, however, this well-known figure-this cadger Cicero of modern d

eet passengers on both sides of the pavement. He was a tall, sturdy, self-satisfied, healthy-looking vagabond, with a face which would have been almost handsome if it had not been disfigured by the expression which Nature set

ends. My wife and seven babes are, I am shocked to tell you, without food. Yes, without food. Oh, yes, without food. Because we have no friends: I assure you I am right in saying because we have no friends. Why am I and my wife and my seven babes starving in a land of plenty? Why have I no share in the wholesome necessaries of life, which I see, with my hungry eyes, in butchers' and bakers' shops on each side of me? Can anybo

used; collected the pecuniary tokens of public approval; and walked forward, with a funereal

hat I was the honester man of the two; also that I was better educated and a little better clad. But here my superiority ceased. The beggar was far in advance of me in all the outward and visible signs of inward mental comfort which combine to form the appearance of a healthily-constituted man. After perplexing myself, for some time, in the attempt to discover the reason for the enviably

'Remember our old friendship, and lend me a trifle'? I have money waiting for me at my publisher's, and I dare not go and fetch it, except under cover of the night. Is that spoilt child of fortune, from whom I have just separated myself, really and truly never asked to parties and obliged to go to them? He has a button on his coat-I am positively certain I saw it-and is there no human finger and thumb to lay hold of it, and no human tongue to worry him, the while? He does not live in the times of the pillory, and he has his ears-the lucky wretch. Have th

pardoned, in consideration of its involving a certain accidental originality of expression in relation to social subjects. It is a dreadful thing to say; but it is the sad truth t

minute, Susan-just for a minute." The voice stops, and heavily-shod feet (all boisterous men wear thick boots) ascend the stairs, two at a time. My door is burst open, as if with a battering-ram (no boisterous man ever knocks), and my friend rushes in like a mad bull. "Ha, ha, ha! I've caught you," says the associate of my childhood. "Don't stop for me, dear old boy; I'm not going to interrupt you (bless my soul, what a lot of writing!)-and you're all right, eh? That's all I wanted to know. By George, it's quite refreshing to see you here forming the public mind! No! I won't sit down; I won't stop another instant. So glad to have seen you, dear fellow-good-bye." B

are concerned, by telling me how his time has been taken up by illness at home. If I attempt to protect myself by asking him to meet a large party, where the conversation must surely be on general topics, he brings his wife with him (though he told me, when I invited her, that she was unable to stir from her bed), and publicly asks her how she feels, at certain intervals; wafting that affectionate question across the table, as easily as if he was handing the salt-cellar, or passing the bottle. I have given up defending myself against him of late, in sheer despair. I am resigned to my fate. Though not a family man, I know (through the vast array of facts in connection with the subject, with which my friend has favoured me) as much abo

hospitable hostess, Lady Jinkinson, who is in certain respect

don interruptions. I go to the country-house with my work in my portmanteau-work which must be done by a certain time. I find a charming little room made ready for me, opening into my bed-room, and looking out on the lovely garden-terrace, and the noble trees in the park beyond. I come down to breakfast in the morning; and after the second cup of tea. I get up to return to my writing-room. A chorus of family remonstrances rises instantly. Oh, surely I am not going to begin writing on the very first day. Look at the sun, listen to the birds, feel the sweet air. A drive in the c

one," says Lady Ji

wait for me

sists Lady Jinkinson, as if s

liard-room," adds one

s one of the charming girls, "where you

last words I hear are from Lady J

, and take the following i

loured note-paper with the Jinkinson crest stamped in silver at the top of each leaf. Pen-wiper, of glossy new cloth, all ablaze with beads; tortoise-shell paper-knife; also paper-weight, exhibiting a view of the Colosseum in rare Mosaic; also, light green taper

take that, accordingly, and make a cloth of it,-pull out my battered old writing-case, with my provision of cheap paper, and my inky steel pen in my two-penny holder. With these materials before me on my palet?t (price one guinea),

ows also. Has that one particular cow who bellows so very regularly, a bereavement to mourn? I think we shall have veal for dinner to-day; I do think we shall have nice veal and stuffing. B

self, a musical critic). Let me lean back in my chair on this balmy morning-writing being now clearly out of the question-and float away placidly on the stream of melody. Brava! Brava! Bravissima! She is going through the whole opera, now in one part of it, and now in ano

e began? At the following passage apparen

lace as that. I had surely a good long metaphor, and a fine round close to the sentence. "The more light"--shines? beams? bursts? dawns? floods? bathes? quivers? Oh, me! what was the

the more prodigally we find scattered before us the g

odious voice of one of the charming girls on the garden-terrace under my window. What do I hear, in a man's voice? "Regret being so long an absentee, but my school

get out of hearing I am rude. If I go to the window, and announce my presence by a cough, I confuse the charming girl. No help for it, but to lay the pen down again, and wait. This is a change for the worse, with a vengeance. The Trovatore was something pleasant to listen to; but the reverend gentleman's opinions on the terrace flowers which he has come to admire; on the last volume of modern poetry which he has borrowed from the charming girl; on the merits of the churc

Do I hear him taking his leave? Yes, at l

subject, the more prodigally do we find sc

and the charming girl began their sentimental interview on the terrace

his interesting subject, the

k at t

es

me to say, sir, tha

y we

re clearly its vast capabilities display themselves to our

k at t

es

e to remind you, sir,

Jinkinson not t

pronounced competent to survey th

k at t

es

ette has just come up, which she very much wishes you to taste. And she is afra

ill come

nded field of observation, which"-which?-which?-Gone again! What else co

ore than my recollection enables me to say. Everybody feeds me, under the impression that I am exhausted with writing. All the splendid fellows will drink wine with me, "to set me going again." Nobody believes my rueful assertion that I have done nothing, which they ascribe to excessive modesty.

herry to the head. Under these circumstances, returning to work immediately is not to be thought of. Returning to bed is

There is no way of escape, however. Hours must give way to me, when I am at home; I must give way to hours, when I am at Lady Jinkinson's. My papers are soon shuffled together in my case; and I am once more united with the hospitable party down-stairs. "More bright ideas?" cry t

s with the splendid fellows in the billiard-room. I look over my day's work, with the calmness of despair, when I get to

don. This is very ungrateful behaviour to people who have treated me with extreme kindness. But here, again, I must confess the hard

successes in life; there is my inattentive friend, who is perpetually asking me irrelevant questions, and who has no power of listening to my answers; there is my accidental friend, whom I always meet when I go out; there is my hospitable friend, who is continually telling me that he wants so much to ask me to dinner, and who

ther, now that I have b

name. The servant appears at my door, and I make up my mind to send these leaves to the printer, unfinished as they are. No necessity, Susan, to mention the name; I have recognised the voice. This is my friend who does not at all like the state of my health. He comes, I know beforehand, with the address of a new doctor, or the recipe of a new

TH LOOKIN

ULDRON

e eighteenth hussars, which united two separated columns of the British army, on the day before the Duke of Wellington fought the battle of Toulouse. In the criminal history of France, th

rsons of

an of no extraordinary energy or capacity, simple in his habits, and sociable in his disposition. His character was irreproachable;

roix-Daurade as an oil-manufacturer. At the period of the events now to be narrated, he had attained the age of sixty, and was a widower. His family cons

till a comely attractive woman-and more than one substantial citizen of Toulouse had shown himself anxious to persuade her into marrying for the second time. But the widow Mirailhe lived on terms of great intimacy and affection with her brother Siadoux and his family; she was sincerely attached to them, and sincerely unwilling, at her age, to deprive

r these circumstances, Saturnin Siadoux began to be alarmed, and to think it time to bestir himself. He had no personal acquaintance with Cantegrel, who never visited the village; and Monsieur Chaubard (to whom he might otherwise have applied for advice) was not in a position to give an opinion: the priest and the master-butcher did not even know each other by sight. In this difficulty, Siadoux bethought himself of inquiring privately at Toulouse, in the hope of discovering some scandalous passages in Cantegrel's early life, which might fatally degrade him in the estimation of the widow Mirailhe. The inves

According to this plan, his return to Croix-Daurade would be deferred until Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of April, when his family might expect to see him about sunset, in good time for supper. He further desired that a little party of friends might be invited to the meal, to celebrate the twenty-sixth of April (which was a feast-day in the village), as well as to celebrate his return. The guests whom he wished to be invited were, first, his si

cts, on the morning of the twenty-sixth of April-a memorable

Events o

Stephen at Toulouse. Early in the forenoon of the twenty-sixth, certain matters connected with this preferment took him from his village c

elf in the sacristy (or vestry) of the church. Before he had quitted the room, in his turn, the beadle en

out," replied Monsieur C

adle. "I thought he seemed to be in some

n his business

mself as anxious to make h

bé's absence-for I have authority to act here as confessor. Let us go int

ed manner. His looks were so strikingly suggestive of some serious mental perturbation, that Monsieur Cha

the Abbé de Mariotte is not he

n, looking about him vacantly, as if the pr

ch, and I possess the necessary authority to receive confessions in it. Perhaps, however, y

. "I would as soon, or soon

Monsieur Chaubard, "be s

s, he saw the curtains, which were sometimes used to conceal the face of the officiating priest, suddenly drawn. The penitent knelt

urtain was withdrawn, and priest

mark by which door the stranger left the church-his eyes were fixed on Monsieur Chaubard. The priest's naturally ruddy face was as white as if he had just risen from a long sickness-he looked straight before him, with a stare

said the beadle, wandering back to the empty confessional, wi

in Siadoux. The widow Mirailhe, and the two neighbours, arrived a little before sunset. Monsieur Chaubard, who was usually punctual, did not make his appea

aited in vain. Before long, a message was sent up from the kitchen, representing that the supper must be eaten for

brother is not coming home to-night. When Monsieur

ed to my father?" asked one o

id!" said

o neighbours, looking expecta

day for travelling," sai

all yesterday," added

im averse to travelling in wet weathe

wo neighbours, shaking his head pite

kitchen, and peremptorily forba

idow. "Has he been taking a journey too? Why

man's name was Jean; he was little given to talking, but he had proved himself, on v

u see him?" a

morning, on his w

hope? Did he look out of

and spirits," said Jean. "I

of the neighbours, striking into the conversatio

ing?" cried Jean

ere. He was as white as our plates will be-when they come up. And what is al

gathered while the company had been talking; and, at the first pause in the co

not raining so hard, we might send somebod

Have up the supper; I'll take a cloak with me; and if our excellent Monsie

ble forthwith. The hungry neighbour disputed with nobody from t

alone in his study. He started to his feet, with every appearan

" said Thomas; "I am afr

sieur Chaubard, in a singular

t of our supper?" remonstrated Thomas. "My fath

this extraordinary reception of his remonstrance, Thomas Siadoux remembered, at the same time, that he had engaged

the road. But that is no reason, sir, why the supper should be wasted, or why

m in bad spirits; I'm not fit to go out." He

your turn, will enliven us. They are all waiting for you at home. Don't refuse, sir," pleaded the young ma

rst. His eyes moistened as if the tears were rising in them; he took the hand of Thomas Siadoux, and pressed it long and

ly, "don't doubt my friendship to-day. Ill as I am,

's sake?" added Th

the supper," s

the cloak round him,

take his part in the conversation-except in the case when it happened to turn on the absent master of the house. Whenever the name of Saturnin Siadoux was mentioned-either by the neighbours, who politely regretted that he was not present; or by the family, who naturally talked about the resting-place which he might have chosen for the night-Monsieur Chaubard either r

st of the evening. The young man's absolute silence at table did not surprise his brothers, for they were accustomed to his taciturn habits. But the sullen distrust betrayed in his close observation of the honoured guest and friend of the family, surprised and angered them. The priest himself see

ad enjoyed the supper, and even the two neighbours, having eaten their fill, were as glad to get home as the rest. In the little confusion of parting, Monsi

ew to their bed-rooms, and left the thre

You stared at our good Monsieur Chaubard in a very offensiv

" said Jean; "and per

hat his hand trembled, and that his manner-never very winning-

Younger

deration, the family interpreted this circumstance in a favourable light. If the master of the house had no

gistrate of Toulouse, in his official dress. He was accompanied by his Assessor (also in official dress), by an escort of archers, and by certain subordinates attached to the town-hall. These last appeared to be carrying some burden, which was hidden from view by

knife or dagger wounds. None of the valuables about the dead man's person had been touched; his watch and

ength achieved, and when the necessary inquiries had been made, no information of any kind was obtained which pointed to the murderer, in the eye of the law. After expressing

of their grief. The three brothers were left once more alone in the parlour, to speak together of the awful calamity which had befal

son was now the fir

at Monsieur Chaubard all the evening; and I answered that I might tell you why I

owered his voice to a whi

ight," he said, "I had it in my mind that something ha

s looked at him in sp

" Jean went on, still in a whisper. "I tell you, Louis-

m their younger brother, as

tradict me at the supper-table, and declare that he had seen the priest, some hours later, go into our church here with the face of a panic-stricken man. You saw, Thomas, how he behaved when you went to fetch him to our house. You saw, Louis, what his looks were like when he came in. The change was noticed by everybody-what was the cause of it? I saw the cause in the priest's own face, when our father's name turned up in the talk round the supper-table. Did Monsieur Chaubard join in

ened vindictively, as the conviction of

now it?" they i

l us himself

tes-if he refuses

en them by

after that last answer, and cons

on the forehead-then took hands together, and looked, meaningly, in each other's faces-then separated. Louis and Thomas put on their hats, and went at onc

the place. He was watching an imme

is no hope of a night's rest for me, after the affliction that has befallen

isfied himself that the workman had really left the house

quired what they wanted of him. They replied immediately that the shock of their father's horrible death had so seriously affected their aunt and their eldest sister, that it was feared the minds of both might give way, unless spiritual consolation and assistance were afforded to them that night. The unhappy priest-

d fallen a victim, he was taken into the room where Jean sat wa

k, Thomas Siadoux op

er. If you answer our questions truly, you have nothing to fear. If yo

ffering which he had undergone in secret-the unfortunate priest trembled from head to foot, as the three brothers closed round him. Louis

home a murdered man," he said

he two elder brothers moved

. "Say, with your hand on the blessed crucifi

know

ou make the

terd

he

Toul

the mu

d his hand fast on the crucifix,

d in the confessional. The secrets of the confessional are sa

re the murderer's accomplice. We have sworn over our father's dead body to avenge him-if you

he priest reiterated,

n. "Die in that caul

Louis and Thomas, earne

onder, against the wall. We will count five minutes by it. In those five

ul interval, the priest dropped on his knees an

!" said Thomas Siadoux, as the minute hand reac

ps-the mortal agony broke out on his face in great

ing the priest on one side.

thers advanced a

ur oath over our

horror of the death that threatened him, burst from the lips of the miserable man in a scream of ter

sign with his head-a sign in the affirmative. They placed hi

ossession, he kissed it, and said faintly, "I ask pardon of God for the sin that I am about to commit." He paused; and then

ch he had put, when the priest

e murderer o

now

ce w

sion to me yesterday, in

me

e is Can

wanted to mar

e s

him to the c

wn rem

he motives f

he discovered that your father had gone private

r make sure of

di

ted our aunt from Cantegrel if our f

ed already; that he had deserted his wife at Narbonne; that she was living there with anothe

the murder

ranche. As far as that place, he travelled in company with others, both going and returning. Beyond Villefranche, he was left alo

he murder

by the bank of the stream. Cantegrel stole on him from beh

e truth, on

h, it is t

ay lea

of a man on whose mind all human interests had lost their hold. He now left the room, strangely absorbed in himself; moving with the mechanical regularity of a sleep-walker; lost to all perception of things and persons about

uietly and solemnly. "Pray

ast words, h

The

to set forth instantly for Toulouse, and to place their info

punishment had been known in their neighbourhood-for, at that time, as at this, the rarest of all priestly offences was a violation of the sacred trust confided to the confessor by the Roman Church. Conscious that they had forced the priest into the commission of a clerical offence, the brothers

mitted, was revealed to them when they made their deposition before the officer of justice. Th

d your father's death, as you three have avenged it. Your ow

The end came quickly, as the priest had f

he tribunal appealed to; and the decision of that assembly immediately ordered the priest and the three brothers to be placed in confinement, as well as the murderer Cantegrel. Evidence was then immediately sought for, which might convict this last criminal, without any reference to the revelation that had been forced

cret of a confession from a man in holy orders, and were sentenced to death by hanging. A far more terrible expiation of his offence awaited the unfortu

surprised by receiving petitions for mercy from Toulouse, and from all the surrounding neighbourhood. But the priest's doom had been sealed. All that could be obtained, by the intercession of persons of the highest distinction, w

lace, as the cause of all fathers and all sons; their filial piety was exalted to the skies; their youth was pleaded in their behalf; their ignorance of the terrible responsibility which they had confronted in forcing the secret from the priest, was loudly alleged in their favour. More than

e interest and won the affection of the head-gaoler's daughter. Her father was prevailed on at her intercession to relax a little in his customary vigilance; and the rest was accomplished by the girl herself. One morning, the population of Toulouse heard, with every testimony of

ition that they never again appeared in their native place, or in any other part of the province of Languedoc. With this reservation they were left

us to follow their career. All that is now known has

DS BY A

know appear to be conspiring to meet us at every turn in one afternoon's walk-so there seem to be times and seasons when all our friends are inexplicably bent on getting married together. Capricious in everything, the law of chances is especially whimsical, according to my experience, in its influence over the solemnisation of matrimony. Six months ag

to my mind certain reflections in connection with that important change in life, which I first

so, in order to avoid the slightest chance of misconstruction-that I am here speaking only of the worthiest, the truest, the longest-tried friends of a man's bachelor days. Towards these every sensible married woman feels, as I believe, that she owes a duty for her husband's sake. But, unfortunately, there are such female phenomena in the world as fond wives and devoted mothers, who are anything rather than sensible women the moment they are required to step out of the sphere of their conjugal and maternal instincts. Women of this sort have an unreasonable jealousy of their husbands in small things; and on the misuse of their influence to serve the interests of that jealousy, lies but too often the responsibility of severing such friendships as no man can hope to form for the second tim

g and unexpected kind, but I must nevertheless be excused for saying, that some of the best wives and mothers in the land have given the heart-ache to some of the best friends. While they have been behaving like patterns of conjugal propriety, they have been estranging men who would once have gone to the world's end to serve each other. I, as a single man, can say nothing of the dreadful wrench-not the less dreadful because it is inevitable-when a father and mother lose a daughter, in order that a lover may gain a wife. But I can speak feelingly of t

men I ever saw, took my dearest friend away from me, and destroyed, in one short day, the w

ands with him when he was a married man. I had no suspicion then that I was to lose him from that moment. I only discovered the truth when I went to pay my first visit to the bride and bridegroom at their abode in the country. I found a beautiful house, exquisitely kept from top to bottom; I found a hearty welcome; I found a good dinner and an airy bed-room; I found a pattern husband and a pattern wife: the one thing I did not find was my old friend. Something stood up in his clothes, shook hands with me, pressed wine on me, called me by my Chr

t how they affect my convenience and my pleasure. Your place in his heart now, is where I choose it to be. I have stormed the citadel, and I will bring children by-and-by to keep the ramparts; and you, the faithful old soldier of former years-you have got your discharge, and may sit and sun yourself as well as you can at the outer gates. You have been his truest f

me godfather to one of his children; but the brother of my love, who died to me on the day when I paid him the marriage visit, has never come back to life since that time. On the altar at which we two once sacrificed, the ashes lie cold. A model husband and father has risen from t

right of marriage; and that my sense of injury springs from the touchy selfishness of an old bachelor. Without attempting to defend myself, I may at least be allowed to i

e rooms which they cannot enter, which are reserved all through the lease of life for inevitable guests of some sort from the world outside. It is better to let in the old friend than some of the substituted visitors, who are sure, sooner or later, to enter where there are rooms ready for them, by means of pass-keys obtained without the permission of the permanent tenants. Am I wrong in making such assertions as these? I should be willing enough to think it probable-being only a bachelor-if my views were based on mere theory. But my opinions, such as they are, have been formed with the help of proofs and facts. I have met with bright example

selves and their children. A man loves his wife-which is, in other words, loving himself-and loves his offspring, which is equivalent to saying that he has the natural instincts of humanity; and, when he has gone thus far, he has asserted himself as a model of all the virtues of life, in the estimation of some people. In my estimation, he has only begun with the best virtues, and has others yet to practise before he can approach to the standard of a socially complete man. Can there be a lower idea of Marriage than the idea which makes it, in fact, an institution for the development of selfishness on a large and respectable scale? I

he solitary, because it has warmth enough and to spare, and because it may make them, even in their way, happy too. I began these few lines by asking sympathy and attention for the interest which a man's true friends have, when he marries, in his choosing a wife who will let them be friends still, who will even help them to mingling in closer brotherhood, if help they need. I lay down

GRIEVAN

BULLW

minutes' sympathy and attention. I

rns the daily Supplement of the Times newspaper. At each of these trying periods (I speak entirely of myself when I use the word "trying") she was attended by the same Monthly Nurse. On this last, and sixth, occasion, we were not so fortunate as to secure the services of our regular functionary. She was already engaged; an

is quiet and neat; her age cannot be more than five-and-thirty; her style of conversation, when she talks, is flowing and grammatical-upon the whole, she appears to be a woman who is much too ladylike for her station in life. When I first met Mrs. Bullwinkle on the stairs, I felt

be an intelligent and attentive person. I have been giving her some little hints on the subject of my me

y bills. I then became sensible of an alarming increase in our household expenditure. If I had given two dinner-parties in the course of the week, the bills could not have been more exorbitant: the butcher,

me compassionately, sh

Bullwi

old off a terrible supplement to the usual family consumption of bread, flour, tea, sugar, and alcoholi

ternly in the face. I went up into my wife's room. The new nurse was not there. The unhappy partner of my pecuniary embarrassments was reading a novel. My innoce

, and feeds them all out of our provisions. A search shall be instituted, and slumbering Justice shall be

had shaken hers; and answered, precisely a

she hide it al

her eyes, a

y consulted the doctor; and the do

s," I retorted savagely, "he would n

to me, what I never knew before, that

se fillets, these kidneys, these gravy beefs-these loaves, these muffins, these mixed biscuits-these teas, these

ife, sinking back on t

e willingly accepted the responsibility, I directed her to take down, from her own personal investigation, a statement of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, and of the time at which she partook of each of them, for twenty-four hours, beginning with one morning and ending with another. After making this arrangement, I descended to the parlour, and took the necessary business measures for using the cook as a check upon her mistress. Having carefully i

r, to be hereafter adverted to, both statements agreed exactly. Here is the List, accompanied by a correct time-table, of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, beginning with the morning of Monday and ending with th

.

st, Half-quartern Loaf

A glass of pale Sherry, and

Basin of Beef Tea, and a t

.

d Potatoes. With Dinner, Ale, spiced and warmed

.

ass of pale Sherry, and

ea and

Cheese, Toast, and a tu

lasses of Beer. Second Course.-Stewed

ook, at intervals, of Caudle. At 4.30 A.M., on the morning of Tuesday, my wife was awakened by hearing the nur

.-Are y

winkle.-N

r out of order. I have watched, in the case of this perfectly unparalleled human cormorant, for symptoms of apoplexy, or at least of visible repletion, with a dreadful and absorbing interest; and have, on no occasion, been rewarded by making the smallest discovery. Mrs. Bullwinkle was never, while in my service, even so much as partially intoxicated. Her face was never flushed; her articulation was never thickened; her brain was never confused; her movements were never uncertain. After the breakfast, the two morning snacks, and the dinner,-all occurring within the space of six hours,-she could move about the room with unimpeded

is friendly caution, my wife is weeping over the tradesmen's bills; my children are on half-allowance of food; my cook is worked off her legs; my purse is empty. Young husbands, and persons about to marry, commit to memory the description here given of my

E

OWES AND SONS, STAMFORD

TNO

se other papers in the present collection which deal with foreign incidents and characters, while the facts of each narrative exist in print, the form in which the narrative is cast is of my own devising. If these facts had been readily accessible t

sed on Jerrold's works, and for the estimate attempted of his personal character-I am responsible. This is the only instance of a reprinted article in the present collection, any part of which is founded on a moder

sense of Mr. Elliston's treatment of Jerrold-a sense which I have no wish needlessly to gratify at the expense of a son's regard for his father's memory. But the facts of the case as they were originally related, and as I heard them from Jerrold himself, remain untouched-exactly as my own opinion of Mr. Elliston's cond

keeping it to myself, as other people did) on the subject of the Old Masters. Finding, however, that my positions remained practically unrefuted, and that my views were largely shared by readers with no professional interest in theatres, and no vested critical rights in old pictures-and knowing, besides, that I had not written without some previous i

is accurately copied from an "original documen