RUTS ON MORLEY. СНАР. І. BY JAMES B. STEPHENS. READER (if I am not apostrophizing merely a phantom impersonality), allow me to present my card :— Mr. Rutson Morley. Such was, and still is, my season-ticket on the great Railroad of Life; but, unlike railway tickets in general, it gives you no idea of the class in which I first took my seat. If I may turn your attention to an advertisement which appears in the Wellknownburgh Advertiser of theth day of theth month of the -th year of the reign of Victoria, Dei Gratiâ Britanniar. Reg. F.D., it will be seen that whatever may have been my aspirations, I started as a third-class passenger. The advertisement is as follows: "An M.A. of, having had much experience in tuition, is desirous of entering, in the capacity of tutor, a family either about to travel or at present residing abroad. The highest references can be given. Apply to No. 353, office of this paper (353)." That is to say, in railway language nineteenth-century language-"A third-class passenger is desirous of joining a family in the first-class, and in return for a soft-seat, elbowcushions, and a comfortable salary, will be happy to explain to the little children whatever is to be seen on the road, as well as to keep them from falling out of the window." The above will sufficiently account for the fact that, a few weeks after the date indicated, I found myself in a steamer with its head France-ward. What a day that was to me of new experiences! On that day I saw, for the first time, the white cliffs of England to the north of me, and gradually dying away from the "sensible horizon." On that day I became aware-and it felt like a new consciousnessthat I had once upon a time been born; had lived, and was still alive; had had friends, and was then separated from them. I became aware too that I was a patriot; had had a country and had loved it. And gradually as my mind expanded, I became aware that I wasn't quite well, that I was not on my own element, and, moreover, that I was every minute getting worse. Then I can recall a confusion of sea and sky, a generous contribution to the universal chaos, and a sad disgust with my newly-discovered existence. After many vain attempts to fix my mind on one idea, to conjure up à pleasing landscape, and to throw my whole soul into recollections of "still life," all resulting in precisely the one's eyes and trying to see a moving darkness same mental state as that produced by shutting full of tormenting sparks-I at length became conscious of a gradual diminution of the speed of the vessel, and lifting my cap to its proper place, on the top of my head, instead of over my face, I had my first view of a foreign land. Everybody travels now-a-days. Distance is conquered. Space is no more. Boulogne is just over there. Take your hat and let us be off. Portmanteau ! Useless encumbrance. My dear sir, we'll be back to-morrow. I have seen a Nubian sunset, a few miles farther south than Juvenal was, when he considered himself banished to the limits of the great Roman Empire. And shall I condescend to record my impressions of Boulogne ? Certainly. Who can ever forget his first day abroad? Who ever forget his delightful bewilderment in the paradox of "everything so like what we have at home, and yet everything so different from what we ever saw before?" Do future-seen wonders ever rekindle the enthusiasm of the first day? How new everything becomes ! How the mind expands! How the heart opens! How nation sinks before kind! racteristic differences surprise us! How trifling analogies delight us! I confess I was as much charmed to find grass springing from the ground, and to see mud on the gentlemen's B How cha Observation the second :- A lady, evidently English and an invalid, issues from the bath house, and walks through the grounds towards a cab which is waiting outside. It is a short distance, but she is too weak even for that, and rests herself on one of the seats midway. Seeing her need of assistance, a well dressed, gentlemanlike person approaches, and, with a courtly bow, offers his arm. It is accepted. Gentle man conducts lady to cab, assists her into it, shuts the door, receives her thanks and adieus with another courtly bow, and-evidently as much to the lady's surprise as my own-mounts the box. It was cocher himself. Corollary (which I have found reason to modify since): The French are as polite as they are said to be. boots, as with the costumes of the soldiers, and change): The French are a nation of grown up the other multitude of novelties. The small children. accessories of foreign life had never obtained a place among my anticipations. Never had I been so forcibly impressed with the universality of gravitation as when I saw a gentleman's trunk slip from the back of a porter, and assert the omnipresent principle in Boulogne mud twenty feet below. Never had my French grammars and dictionaries-dead skeletons as they seemed to me at home-assumed such real flesh and blood and living tongue, as in the person of the proprietor of the gravitated trunk, and in the astounding variety of French imprecations drawn from his lips by this unwelcome illustration of Newton's great discovery. Nor did I fail to be struck with that which seems to surprise all travellers-the fluency with which little children were speaking the language which it costs us so much labour to acquire. Nay, even the "dogs i' the street," when addressed by their masters, seemed perfectly to comprehend the most idiomatic expressions of their masters, making a strong nasal twang in their barks and howls. How I used to prize an hour's conversation with my French master at home, and hail the chance that threw a Frenchman in my way, that I might catch the precious idioms and accents that fell from his lips! But now it was raining French lessons on all sides-voice after voice casting forth treasures of language upon the unhoarding air, and I felt as some thrifty Gentile, resident in Jerusalem, may be supposed to have felt in the days when "the king made silver in Jerusalem as stones, and cedar-trees as the sycamores that are in the low plains in abundance." I will not ask you, reader, to look at my passport, or into my portmanteau, or to help me to fight my way through hosts of "touters," or indeed to share with me in any of those minor disagreeables of travelling which have just sufficient melodramatic interest to make one thankful to get through them, without caring to store them in memory. I put up at the Hotel de la, which had been previously recommended to me by the gentleman who had replied to my advertisement. I was delighted to get to a balcony to survey for a time, apart from crowds and interested offers of service, the first foreign town I had ever seen. However, as it was still early in the day, and as the table d'hôte was not to be served till five, I soon tired of in-door observations, and resolved upon a sentimental stroll. Observation the first:-Half-a-dozen Frenchmen, varying in age from twenty-five to forty, playing at marbles. There they are, some on their knees, some bending down with their faces almost to the ground, watching the vicissitudes of the game with an interest and eagerness never exceeded by schoolboys. A shout, a laugh, a short dispute, settled by the interpositions of an aged spectator, and the winner shovels his spoils under his blouse into his gaping pocket, mounts a cart which has been standing by, and drives away with the air of a conquering hero. Corollary (which I never found reason to Pleased with my observations and chuckling over my corollaries, I strolled on to the sands. Bathed, bathing, and about to bathe. Boulogne is certainly amphibious. "Pay one sou, if you please;" so chirped a little creature, delicate as Ariel, as I walked over a short pathway of planks forming a slight bridge over a tract of water left by the receding tide. I dropped her two; and as I looked at the pale genius and architect of the bridge, I felt my heart open mankind. And I confess I walked oftener than wider than ever to France and all was necessary over the little bridge that day, for the mere sake of dropping the sou. Corollary (which I have since promoted to the rank of axiom): mies of nations." "Channels interposed don't make ene nature, collected during that day's walk, of which I have other observations of a more general the following are a few specimens : That every man, who has two hands, has them both in his trouser's pockets: that the older men, engaged in discourse, occasionally pull them both out, display their palms, back their elbows, and elevate their shoulders to their ears; which seems to be considered an elegant way of winding up a period: that the officer lights his cigar from the private soldier's and the private soldier his from the officer's, sans cérémonie: that all the fishwomen are afflicted with incipient elephantiasis. And many other inductive principles of a similar nature. The table d'hôte, duly served at five, seemed to my untravelled eye the floweriest banquet ever beheld. I have since come to the conclusion that it must have been a very poor affair. A certain portly Englishman seemed to have attained to that idea from the very first, and saluted each disembodied potage and unrecognizable delicacy with a dissatisfied grunt, which the instinctive waiters knew for a negative, and so passed him by; At length, when the winecard was handed to him, and he was requested to take his choice from a list which he could make nothing of, he seemed to consider that the imposition had reached its climax, and the grunt became transformed into English grammar, as he furiously demanded if they couldn't give him a rump-steak instead of their [elliptical] messes, which might be frogs for aught he knew. But it is not for this specimen's sake that I have noticed my first table d'hôte. It is memorable to me as being the first occasion on which I beheld an individual, in whom originated much that I am about to relate, and whom I will now take the liberty of introducing as M. Biot. I first became aware of this gentleman's existence by the uncomfortable sensation that some one's eye was fixed upon me with a scrutiny so persevering as plainly to indicate some object in view. If I raised mine to meet the gaze, his was slowly withdrawn; not as if abashed, but in a manner which seemed to say: "You are merely an item in my all-embracing observation." His was an eye that seemed to look from profundity into infinity. Even when not directly fixed upon me, I felt that I was comprehended within its circle, and could not escape it. Yet there was nothing repulsive in the expression of the countenance. It was such, on the contrary, as compelled interest. It was that of a man unsuccessful in some great object, and bravely hopeful even in defeat. It was that of a man who did not believe in a permanent obstacle to the object of his life, and who could wade deliberately to the goal of his purpose through the blood (it might be) even of the unoffending. And still, as you looked, you could discover that this was a second character -that, though not assumed, it was a character acquired; and that, as might be seen in the expression of his countenance when casually addressed, his original nature, and that which would reign triumphant were his life-purpose once securely attained, was one of singular kindliness and peculiar charm. It is strange what we may read, not in individual features, but in their conjuncture and expression. Individual features tell little of what life has made a man. They may betoken natural capacities and susceptibilities. They may indicate what nature intended him to be. But who is what nature intended him to be? Who is there whose life may be traced back to the prophecy of his physical organization ? that he dressed invariably in black, his frockcoat buttoned to the throat, and that his whole air combined with the already noticed expression of his eye in conveying the impression of power and hidden purpose. To me, awed by his scrutiny, he seemed some historical personage, rather than a casually-met traveller-a man whose portrait might be the frontispiece to the history of a revolution-a man to be made a statue of, and placed on a pedestal of granite-a man whose image Mount Athos might be hewn intoa great man. Therefore did I feel him to be an annihilator of small pretensions-a crusher of little souls; and it was under some such feeling as this that I left the table, as soon as a few hurrying little Frenchmen had set the example. But I dreamed that night of M. Biot. I was his slave, a machine in his hands; and a thousand times a night was he winding me up and winding me round. Many times I woke up, and asked myself what on earth he had to do with me, or I with him. He had never spoken to me, merely looked at me, thought I; and so fell asleep again. Only to be wound up anew, round, and round, and round, till the bright sunlight came streaming into the little chamber, gleaming on the polished floor, and rousing me up, to look out on the sparkling sea, beyond which lay the country that held all my soul loved. Shall I see them again? Not till these dreams have proved prophecies. Not till I shall have been a slave in his hands. Not till the poor machine has been wound round, and round, and round. Then shall the sunlight, again streaming into that same little chamber, gleaming on that polished floor, rouse me up to look out on that sparkling sea beyond which are still all that my soul loves-all alive and well and waiting. Thank God! Thank God! CHAP. II. The train was on the point of starting for Paris, and I was felicitating myself on having obtained a seat in an empty carriage, glad of the seclusion for the sake of the uninterrupted cogitation on my future prospects which it would permit. There is no more utter solitude than an empty carriage in a railway train. The very motion and noise are the most effectual of all barriers against the intrusion of persons and Still, as a man's appearance is not all eye and expression, and as imagination will persist in supplying a nose and a mouth-nay, more, will not be satisfied until it has dressed him from his shirt-collar to his boots, we may as well take a closer look at M. Biot; the purpose thereof being, on our part, rather corrective than suggestive. Imagine, then, the usual inducements to hero-worship-a forehead massive and white, defined by waving brown hair; the nasal outline delicately curved; a mouth large, but well-voices. formed; eyes full and blue; throw over the face "the pale cast of thought," and you will have some idea of what nature and life had done for M. Biot. Add to this, that the eyes were 80 deeply ringed underneath as to make them the prevailing feature; that he was not above the middle size, though his upper figure was that of a man of commanding stature, so that when seated he appeared as one of august presence; If the immaterial world is but the ghostly translation of this, surely long ere now has the soul of Zimmerman found a congenial heaven in the imagery of a special train. The last warning was whistled, and the huge machine breathed like a monster beholding the arena and panting to be let loose. I was just resigning myself to the comfort of excommunication, when the door of the carriage opened, and, without the slightest trace of haste, and with his stately equilibrium perfectly undisturbed by the simultaneous motion of the train, M. Biot took his seat opposite me. As we were hurried along, I tried to look forward to the future which my calculations had spread out before me, to form plans for the effective performance of the duties I was about to undertake, and for the disposal of such time as might be my own in the intervals of duty. But somehow I felt that a new and destructive element had entered into my prospects, that the straight-forward course I had anticipated was a dream and a delusion, and that the intervening power was this same stranger, betwixt whom and myself not a word had as yet passed. I felt puzzled and disturbed, as many a man does, without knowing why. I combated the presentiment by resolving to take no notice of my companion-not even to exchange civilities. But such states of mind do not last long. Manhood turns from them, laughs at them, and then applauds itself for an inward victory; too often has Domitian triumphed when he returned scathless from the foe he had not dared to attack. Woman fears before them and obeys them; and Josephine is wiser than Napoleon. We reached Abbeville, and of course the old Cathedral attracted my particular attention. "That is one of the most ancient cathedrals in France," said the stranger beside me; and so began my acquaintance with M. Biot. This was said without the least intrusiveness, and as if in continuance of a previous conversation. The voice was so subdued and attractive, that I could not choose but reply. I became ashamed of my original prejudice, as well as of my resolution, and felt rather disappointed that my reply elicited no further remark. "The Emperor left Boulogne yesterday, I understand," said I, after some pause. "Yes." "I am sorry I was not in time to see him," I continued. "You are anxious to see him, then," said M. Biot; but from the tone it might have been either a question or an affirmation. "Yes," said I; "now that I find myself in France, I will make a point of seeing all her great men." "You consider him a great man, then," said M. Biot, in the same inexplicable tone. "I cannot but consider him a great man, who has made such an impression on the age." "The seal still covers the wax," replied M. Biot: "the age is concealed. Not till the seal is removed can we know the impression it has made. We may know it ere long." And the last words were uttered in so strange a tone, as if part of a mysterious soliloquy, that I could not help regarding my fellow-traveller with a look of severe scrutiny, which he perceiving soon disarmed. Assuming a familiar and kindly tone, he inquired how far I was going. "To Paris," said I. "You intend remaining there?" him at the same time of the capacity in which I was to be employed. M. Biot then entered with all the warmth of an old friend into the circumstances of my position, depicted the beauty of Paris in such glowing colours as made me regret that the rest of the journey could not be performed by telegraph, and to my great delight presenting his card, expressed the hope that I would be a frequent visitor at No. —, Rue de la Ferme des Maturins, where he resided. Furnished with the card of a gentleman whose appearance and conversation alike betokened a wide range of social experience, I felt as if I possessed a passport of admission to the great kingdom of Parisian life. Visions of crowded salons joyous in smiles, beauty, and wit, occupied me till we reached Amiens. Taking advantage of the short interval allowed for refreshment, I made a rush from the station with the view of getting a glimpse of the Cathedral; but no sooner had I emerged into the street than I became the object of a tumult, which the insignificance of my appearance in no way warranted. My fair English complexion and the absence of moustache, proclaiming me a stranger, were the sole crimes of which I was guilty; yet, notwithstanding the smallness of the offences, I was spitefully entreated by a mob that reminded me of the "beasts of Ephesus." It was some time ere I could make out, amid all their tuggings and the fierce jargon of tongues, that no bodily damage was intended, and that each man was pronouncing an culogy on his own qualifications as guide to the city. Being totally unprepared in mind for such notoriety, I turned and fled in dismay. Just as I re-entered the carriage, a man with the precise look of an official, and with the tone of authority, demanded my passport: Imagining that this was in the regular course of things, I unhesitatingly gave it up. The official-looking gentleman disappeared. I watched his return in vain. The bell gave its last alarm, and still the passport lingered. I felt as if help were at hand, when I saw M. Biot emerge from the refreshment-room; but to my disappointment he stepped into another carriage. The train moved on, and I was hurried towards Paris sans passeport, and therefore in the eye of the French Government, though still only in the third age of man, "sans everything." I To the imagination of a young traveller every incident is an adventure. Youth is universally Quixotic. My position began to assume exaggerated importance, and in the simple circumstance of the loss of my passport I foresaw all possible consequences of trouble and misfortune. mustered all my recollections of modern French history, with the view of finding a similar instance; and failing in this, I became horribly conscious of the revolutionary meaning of the word "suspect." Is it possible to think of the word without conjuring up a French prison and the guillotine? Of course I crushed that idea. Fear generally disappears when carried to its extreme. And "Probably for a year," I replied, informing after all, perhaps my passport might be in the proper keeping on its way to Paris, to be returned to me on arriving there. With this conjecture I soothed myself till we reached, when M. Biot again joined me. I at once mentioned the circumstance to him; but instead of comforting me, he seemed to view the matter in a serious light. He had known, he said, more than one instance of the kind. Did you ever know such a circumstance lead to any grave consequences?" I asked, in some alarm. "I have known persons involved in prolonged difficulty from circumstances exactly similar. The country is in so disturbed a state, and plots are so rife, that a man is often required to prove his own identity. This is sometimes a difficult matter. Do you know anyone in Paris?" "No." "Not even the gentleman to whose family you are going?" "No. My acquaintance with him was commenced by a newspaper-advertisement, and has since been carried on wholly by letter." "That is unfortunate," said M. Biot; and thereupon, to my increased alarm, he seemed to fall into profound contemplation; but whether regarding me, or merely things in general, was a question which inwardly harassed me, feeling myself, as I now did, at the mercy of his opinion. At last, after waiting through a most dismal ten minutes without receiving either consolation or advice, I vented my anxiety in the question the most natural of all in these or any other puzzling circumstances: "What shall I do?" "Will you trust yourself implicitly to me?" said M. Biot, as if he had just been waiting to be appealed to. "Most thankfully." identity without a struggle. The kindly interest which he seemed to take in my affairs, his captivating tones, and his commanding yet condescending manner, so completely won upon me, that even had I apprehended danger from his suggestion, I do not think I could have put it aside. Therefore did I cease, pro tem., to be Mr. Rutson Morley, M.A., and assumed the appellation of John Verner. After sundry bad jokes perpetrated by myself regarding the transmigration of souls, the dialogue took a more business-form. , you will "You must not think, however," said M. Biot, "that your secretaryship is a sinecure. Your duties are to begin to-day." "I am quite at your service." "I shall leave you at I do not go on to Paris myself till to-morrow. At —, if you observe a man on the platform carrying a small mahogany case, and apparently in search of some one, attract his attention and sign him to approach. If he whisper the word "Henri," you shall reply "Cinq"; on which he will deliver to you the mahogany case. On opening it you will find that it contains a pair of pistols. As the train stops ten minutes at have time to write a short note, which you will address to M. Calmet, No.-, Rue de la Ferme des Maturins, stating that you have received them. Be careful to mention their numbers, and the name of the maker. Of course I will not ask you to sign this in Verner's name. M. Calmet, who sends the pistols, merely knows that my secretary is to travel this way to-day, but is ignorant of his name. Your own name therefore will suffice. I will receive the pistols from you at Paris. They will be pledges of your appearance at No. -, Rue de la Ferme des Maturins. Now Mr. Secretary, what think you of your first duty?" office?" The question, lightly put, was not so lightly received. A cloud passed over M. Biot's countenance, and his only reply-" A la bonne heure"-was made to the scenery outside the carriage-window; after which he relapsed into his former granitic state, in which he continued till the train reached leave with a frigid "Au revoir," that froze up the parting thanks which were rising to my lips. "I have been in England for some time," said he; "and just before leaving I had en- "I am only sorry it is not more difficult. I gaged the services of a young gentleman about should have liked some scope for merit in the your own age. He was to have accompanied performance. Is there no one against whom I me to Paris, as my secretary. I obtained a pass-might use them, to prove my zeal in my new port for him at London, and he accompanied me as far as Boulogne. When there, however, he found employment of a more lucrative and permanent nature; and though I must suffer considerable inconvenience from his leaving me, I did not withhold my consent to his acceptance of the new situation. By an unaccountable oversight, his passport is still in my hands. No danger can arise from your using it, on arriving at Paris, should you be required to show it. Once there you become a member of a resident family. The police will not trouble themselves about you; and in any future movement you can easily get your name inserted in the family passports. In the mean time this one will suffice. You run no risk, and you avoid the disagreeable alternative of travelling north again to-morrow; or, it may be, after a week's detention." I need not say I grasped at M. Biot's kind offer. With my eyes open to nothing but the contrast between his variegated experience and my own unrelieved verdure, I resigned my when he took his "Who and what are you?" thought I, as I found myself alone. "Whence this sudden change from mystery and silence to free and cordial kindness, and again to ice and granite? Whence this sudden interest in me, followed by so cold a parting? We may know ere long.' An interchange of mysterious words-pistolsA la bonne heure'-what might be the "gross and scope" of all these? Had I not better drop the matter and resume my identity? But, then, my passport! How could I pass without one? Should I confess the want of one and be detained on that account, the false passport being |