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FRASER'S MAGAZINE FOR MAY

CONTAINS

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE CONDUCT OF BUSINESS IN PARLIA

MENT.

GOOD FOR NOTHING; OR, ALL DOWN HILL. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'DIGBY GRAND,' 'THE INTERPRETER,' ETC. ETC.

CHAPTER XVII.-'AY DE MI!'

CHAPTER XVIII.-BON VOYAGE.'

CHAPTER XIX.-'WHY DO YOU GO TO THE OPERA?'

CHAPTER XX.-THE FALSE GOD.

THE TURKISH DIFFICULTY.

CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT. BY A. K. H. B.

THE MAY EAST WINDS.

THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE CROWD.

POLAND: ITS STATE AND PROSPECTS.

BACK AGAIN.

IDA CONWAY.-A TALE. BY J. M. C. CHAPTERS XVII, AND XVIII.
SOLDIERS AND THEIR SCIENCE. BY J. E. ADDISON.

CHRONICLE OF CURRENT HISTORY.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Correspondents are desired to observe that all Communications must be addressed direct to the Editor.

Rejected Contributions cannot be returned.

4

FRASER'S MAGAZINE.

JANUARY, 1861.

GOOD FOR NOTHING;
Or, All Bown Hill.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'DIGBY GRAND, 'THE INTERPRETER ETC. ETC.

PART I.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly gliding, o'er the azure realm

In gilded trim the gallant vessel goes,

Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

CHAPTER I.
'GILDED WIRES.'

THAT 'fine feathers make fine

birds' is so self-evident an adage as to admit of no dispute by the most argumentative of cavillers; but that fine feathers make happy birds is a different story altogether, and one which will bear a considerable amount of discussion pro and con.

Up two pair of stairs in yonder large London house, poised over a box of fragrant mignionette, and commanding the comparatively extensive view of the square gardens, hangs a shining gilt bird-cage, with bath and sanded floor complete; perches for exercise, trays for hempseed and other delicacies, a graceful festooning of groundsel, and a lump of white sugar between the bars. Prison, forsooth! it's a palace; and would its inmate, that bright yellow canary-bird, sing so loudly, think you, if she wasn't happy? Don't we know that the bravest voice and the noisiest laugh are unerring indicators of heartsease and content? At least the world is well satisfied to take them as such; and surely plenty of birdseed, and sand, and groundsel, and

VOL. LXIII. NO. CCCLXXIII.

white sugar, are an equivalent for that imaginary blessing which men term liberty. 'Tis a sad heart that sighs for the 'wings of a dove;' the canary don't want any wings, she has no use even for her own glossy yellow pair; and for liberty, why she wouldn't know what to do with it if she had it. "Tis only on a day like this, when the May sunshine bursts forth into somewhat of summer warmth, when the tender green leaves, as yet unsmirched by London smoke, quiver in the breath of spring, and the fleecy clouds dance against the blue sky even over Belgrave-square, that the cage looks a little narrow and confined, that the vagrant life of yonder dirty sparrow appears somewhat enviable. It must be joyful to be free to perch on the area-railings, or to sip from the muddy kennel, and twitter away at will over chimney and house-top, into the fragrant hedgerows and sunny fields of the pleasant country. But then he is but a common sparrow, after all, and she is a delicate canarynoblesse oblige indeed in many more ways than one.

A

What thinks her high-born mistress, the Lady Gertrude, an earl's sister and a sovereign's god-child? With the wholesome fear of Burke and Debrett before my eyes, I suppress the proper name of the noble maiden. Shall I involve myself in an action for libel at the suit of a distinguished family? Shall I pander, to the morbid taste of that numerous and respectable class who make it their especial study to identify the persons of the aristocracy and chronicle their deeds? Vade retro-be it far from me! The titled daughters of England are classed and ticketed in certain catalogues published by authority, with mercantile fidelity. With the same accuracy that is at once his pride and his profession, in measuring her off a thousand yards of tulle for the trimming of her ball-dress, can John Ellworthy, the mercer, calculate to a day the age of Lady Hildegonda Vavasour. Her Ladyship is debarred by the remnants of feudalism from the very birthright of lowlier women, never to exceed seven-and-twenty. Like those high-bred Arab steeds which the children of the desert offer for purchase to the Feringhee, there can be no concealment of her age or her performances; and she is sold, so to speak, with her pedigree about her neck. Be gentle with her in her new capacity; like all thorough-bred animals she is stanch and resolute for good and for evil.

Lady Gertrude is alone in the privacy of her own chamber. Bedroom, dressing-room, boudoir, sanctuary, it combines something of all of these. Her midnight slumbers and her morning dreams take place in a deep and distant recess, containing a charming little French bed, like a toy, draped with a rosy fabric of muslin, corresponding in colour and texture with the toilet-cover and the pincushion. Her prayer-book of purple velvet, crossed and clasped, and bound and bedizened with gold, lies within easy reach of

the lace-edged pillows, and where male imbecility would look instinctively for a bootjack, a pair of sweet little slippers,

fawn-coloured, with bronze tips and beaded embroidery, turn their toes to each other in confiding simplicity. A pianoforte occupies the corresponding recess at the other side of the doorway. A piece of music lies open on its stand; it is an oratorio of Handel's, a deep, solemn, and suggestive strain, such as to sit and hear with half-shut eyes from which the tears are not far distant, calls up a vision of the shadowy Future and the mournful Past, of the bruised reed and the aching heart, of hopes and fears, and bitter sorrow, and humble resignation, and the white-robed angels leading the poor penitent home.

She is not all frivolous, you see, my Lady Gertrude, though the canterbury by the side of the instrument contains the Ratcatcher's Waltz and the 'Pray don't' Polka, and other refined and popular music of the modern school.

Her book-shelves, too, bear a strange mixture of literature, light and heavy, ancient and modern. No Byron, no Tommy Moore. A quarto Milton, we dare not say thumbed, but worn and frayed by the taper white fingers, and holding even now between the pages of Satan's rebellious peroration a single thread of hair, denoting that while Justine dresses the silken locks, Lady Gertrude is no less busy than her handmaid with the inner culture of that haughty little head. A voluminous Shakspeare with notes, a translation of Herodotus, Swedenborg's Transcendental Lucubrations; Euclid, which she cannot understand, but perseveres at from sheer obstinacy, even to the hopeless and utterly futile task of learning him by heart; Schiller in the original, whom she don't much care about; Tennyson's Maude, that she would never confess she cries over like a child; sundry excellent works of reference on Chemistry, Optics, Geology, and other sciences two or three odd volumes of Sermons, new and stiff in the binding, as if but rarely consulted; and a French novel, doubtless contraband, and having no business

1861.]

Lady Gertrude's Sanctuary.

there. By the way, what is the intrinsic merit of this species of literature? Why is it gradually becoming so popular in England? Is it that the less scrupulous Frenchman hesitates not to paint phases of life which British conventionality affects to ignore, the while they move the mainsprings of every-day society? or is it that he has a happy knack of describing gracefully the mere trifles we all know so well, and imparting an additional charm to the interest every reader feels in matters with which he is himself familiar, as we

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see a farce run night after night,
wherein a man eats a real mutton-
chop on the stage, or goes to bed
bodily then and there in full sight
of the audience? Whatever may
be the attraction, there is no doubt
that these works are day by day
more generally read, notwithstand-
ing their questionable taste, their
doubtful morality, and unblushing
disquisitions on sentiments which
at least we don't write about on
this side the Channel. Perhaps
there may be something in the
language, after all, and we may
opine with Biddy Fudge that,

Though the words on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

One or two exquisite casts of
children are placed too here and
there on brackets in the corners of
the room; and a sufficiently faith-
ful copy of Franceschini's 'Sleeping
St. John' overhangs the chimney-
piece. Lady G. is not above the
mania for little naked boys, so
prevalent during the present era
that they may be purchased in any
of the bazaars at a shilling a dozen,
and indeed the Holy Infant in his
slumbers is a gem that I have seen
but rarely equalled in real life. So
she prizes it accordingly, and
suffers no other painting to lodge
permanently in her chamber save
one, and that is a mere coloured
photograph, set in a costly frame-
work of velvet and gold, placed in
a favourable light on her own
especial writing-table (littered as a
lady's writing-table invariably is
with every sort of knick-knack,
and destitute of that freedom and
elbow-room so indispensable to the
efforts of masculine penmanship);
this additional ornament is but a
pleasing representation of a well-
looking and well-dressed young
gentleman, very like the other
ninety-and-nine out of any hundred
of well-dressed young gentlemen
who pass their time in going to and
fro in St. James'-street as Satan
does upon earth, and walking up
and down in it. He is good to
look at, too, with his dark silken
hair, his soft eyes with their long
lashes, and rich brown whiskers
curling round a pair of smiling

lips, and a little dimpled chin such as ought to have belonged to a woman; this countenance surmounting nevertheless a large, well-developed frame, indubitably characteristic of a man's organization and a man's physical courage and vigour.

Lady Gertrude wipes the miniature half tenderly, half triumphantly, with her delicate handkerchief; then she smiles, such a saucy mischievous smile as dimples a child's face when it has ousted a playmate at puss-in-the-corner.' Lastly she walks up to the fulllength mirror which has reflected her graceful person so often, and in so many becoming costumes-balldress, court-dress, riding-habit, and peignoir-the woman's true friend and constant counsellor; the adroit flatterer in sunshine, the sympathizing consoler in storms, the depositary of how many a secret triumph and buoyant aspiration, and how many a galling disappointment and weary, hopeless sigh.

Carefully, and inch by inch as it were, she scans what she sees there, but the expression in her ladyship's face is scarcely that of self-satisfied female vanity. There is a look of mingled confidence and inquiry, more akin to Lord Martingale's calculating glance as he eyes the favourite for the Derby, bred by himself, and trained in his own stable, stripped and mounted for the race; or Herr Merlin's sweeping review of his magic rings, his

all productive hat, and the other accessories with which he effects his incredible feats of legerdemain.

The reflection is that of a striking girl enough. A tall, graceful form, too slight, it may be, to fulfil the rigorous standard of womanly beauty, but rounded and symmetrical as a nymph's, with the same length of limb and airiness of gesture which painters have combined to confer on those mythological coquettes. The hands and feet are perfect, long, slender, and flexible, they assimilate well with the undulating lines of her patrician figure, and the stately pose of her proud head. Dark masses of hair, that look black against the pure white skin, are gathered into a twisted knot behind the skull, pulled away somewhat too boldly from the temples, and disclosing the faultless outline of the cheek and the perfect little thoroughbred ear. Nor is Lady Gertrude's

face out of character with the rest of her person. The forehead,

though low, has width and capacity; bright hazel eyes sparkle with vivacity and a considerable touch of satirical humour, while the defect of too wide a mouth is redeemed by the whitest of teeth, and when occasion offers, the merriest of smiles. Though a critic might pronounce her features too sharp and bird-like, though in her light primrose morning dress she has a certain resemblance to her own canary, the general effect of her face denotes considerable intellect, no slight leaven of caprice, above all, great persistence and force of will.

The young lady turns at length from the perusal of her own features, and moves towards the window, where hang the cage and the canary. The bird knows her mistress, and chirps and flutters in her prison, and beats her breast against the bars. The sunshine pours in floods into the room, and a fragrant breeze from Surrey scatters a hundred blossoms from the square gardens over a dingy coal dray and "the boy with the beer," and an astonished figure-a

footman-emerging in his magnificence from the area with a note. How sweet the mignionette smells, and how that silly bird is fighting with the cage! For the second time within the last five minutes, her mistress experiences a morbid desire to unhook the door and let the captive go free. But then,' she reflects, poor thing, you are not used to liberty, and you would die. A prisoner you were bred, and a prisoner you must remain.'

A cloud comes over Lady Gertrude's face as she turns with a listless air from the open window and the mellow sunshine, and sits her down in her own arm-chair to think.

Now, in order to follow the thread of Lady Gertrude's ruminations, it is indispensable to put the clock back to the hour of noon; as it is already nearly luncheon time, a meal which everybody knows would interfere with the servants' dinner if it took place before two P.M. At noon, then, Lady Gertrude emerged from the door of No. oo, Belgrave-square, in the primrosecoloured dress already hinted at, and such a bonnet as Paris only can produce, to cross the wellwatered road with decorous speed, and let herself into the gardens with her own pass-key. It being freely admitted by the logical verdict of English society, that in these chaste groves Dian herself might perambulate without a chaperone. The canary, had she been on the watch, might then have observed her mistress pacing the gravel-walk to and fro with something of quarter-deck impatience and energy. In truth, there is nothing provokes a woman so much as to be kept waiting, and this is the more unjustifiable when we consider that it is a penance she takes much pleasure in exacting from the opposite sex.

The sixth turn, however, and such a clench of the slender hand and stamp of the slender foot as constitute what our American friends term a 'caution,' brought her once more to the entrance-gate, where a good-looking face, framed in a pair of brown whiskers, and surmounted by a white hat, being

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