CHAPTER XII You must forget to be a woman, change command into obedience, fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly woman its pretty self, into a waggish courage, ready in jibes, quick-answered, saucy, and as quarrelsome as the weasel, nay, you must forget that rarest treasure of your cheek exposing it. But, oh, the harder heart, a lack no remedy, to the greedy touch of common-kissing titan, and forget your laborsome and dainty trims. Symboline, Act III, Scene IV That a woman, under any circumstances, should dismiss her proper apparel, it has been remarked, may well appear to us as something like a phenomenon. Yet instances are far from uncommon, the motive being originated in a variety of circumstances. A young lady it may be falls in love, and, to gain her end, assumes male attire so that she may escape detection, as in the case of a girl who, giving her affections to a sailor, and not being able to follow him in her natural and recognized character, put on jacket and trousers, and became, to all appearance, a brother of his mess. In other cases, a pure masculinity of character seems to lead women to take on the guise of men, apparently feeling themselves misplaced in and misrepresented by the female dress. They take up with that of men, simply that they may be allowed to employ themselves in those manly avocations, for which their taste and nature are fitted. In Caulfield's portraits of remarkable persons, we find a portrait of Anne Mills, styled the female sailor, who is represented as standing on what appears to be the end of a pier, and holding in one hand a human head, while the other bears a sword, the instrument doubtless with which the decapitation was affected. In the year 1740 she was serving on board the Maidstone, a frigate, and in an action between that vessel and the enemy she exhibited such desperate and daring valor as to be particularly noticed by the whole crew. But her motives for assuming the male habit do not seem to have transpired. A far more exciting career was sat of Marianne Talbot, the youngest of sixteen illegitimate children, whom her mother bore to one of the heads of the noble house of Talbot. She was born on February 2, 1778, and educated under the eye of a married sister, at whose death she was committed to the care of a gentleman named Sucker, who treated her with great severity, and who appeared to have taken advantage of her friendless situation in order to transfer her for the vilest of purposes to the hands of Captain Bowen, whom he directed her to look upon as a future guardian. Although barely fourteen years old, Captain Bowen made host Mistress, and on being ordered to join the regiment at St. Domingo, he compelled the girl to go with him in the disguise of a foot-boy, and under the name of John Taylor. But Captain Bowen had scarcely reached St. Domingo when he was remanded with this regiment to Europe to join the Duke of York's Flanders expedition. At this time she was made to unroll herself as a drummer in the corps. She was in several skirmishes, being wounded once by a ball which struck one of her ribs, and another time by a sabre stroke on the side. At Valenciennes, however, Captain Bowen was killed, and finding among his effects several letters relating to herself, which proved that she had been cruelly defrauded of money left to her, she resolved to leave the regiment, and to return, if possible, to England. Accordingly she set out, attired as a sailor-boy, and eventually hired herself to the commander of a French lager, which turned out to be a privateer. But when the vessel fell in with some of Lord House vessels in the Channel, she refused to fight against her countryman, what was standing all the blows and menaces the French captain could use. The privateer was taken, and our heroine was carried before Lord Howe, to whom she told candidly all that had happened to her, keeping her sex a secret. Marianne Talbot, or John Taylor, was next place on board the Brunswick, where she witnessed Lord Howe's great victory of the first June, and was actively engaged in it. But she was seriously wounded, her left leg being struck a little above the knee by a musket-ball, and broken, and severely smashed lower down by a grape-shot. On reaching England she was conveyed to Haslar Hospital, where she remained four months, no suspicion having ever been entertained of her being a woman. But she was no sooner out of the hospital than retaining her disguise, she entered a small man of war, the Vesuvius, which was captured by two French ships, when she was sent to the prisons of Dunkirk. Here she was incarcerated for eighteen months, but having been discovered planning an escape with a young midshipman, was confined in a pitch-dark dungeon for eleven weeks on a diet of bread and water. An exchange of prisoners set her at liberty, and hearing accidentally an American merchant captain inquiring in the streets of Dunkirk for a lad to go to New York, as ships steered, she offered her services and was accepted. Accordingly in August 1796 she sailed with Captain Field, and on arriving at Rhode Island she resided with the captain's family. But here another kind of adventure was to befall her, for a niece of Captain Field's fell deeply in love with her, even going so far as to propose marriage. On leaving Rhode Island the young lady had such alarming fits that after sailing two miles Marianne Talbot was called back by a boat, and compelled to promise a speedy return to the enamoured young lady. On reaching England she was one day on shore with some of her comrades when she was seized by a press-gang, and finding there was no other way of getting off than by revealing her sex, she did so, her story creating a great sensation. From this time she never went to sea again, and soon afterwards lived in service with a bookseller, Mr. Kirby, who wrote her memoir. And the late Colonel Fred Burnaby has recorded the history of a singular case, the facts of which came under his notice when he was with Don Carlos during the carlist rising of the year 1874. A discovery was made a few days ago that a woman was serving in the royalist shranks, dressed in a soldier's uniform. She was found out in the following manner. The priest of the village, to where she belonged, happening to pass through a town where the regiment was quartered, and chancing to see her, was struck by the likeness she bore to one of his parishioners. You must be Andalicia Bravo, he remarked. No, I am her brother. Was the reply. The curee's suspicions were aroused, and at his suggestion an inquiry was made, when it was discovered that the youthful soldier had no right to the masculine investment she wore. Don Carlos, who was told of the affair, desired that she should be sent as a nurse to the hospital of Durango, and when he visited the establishment, presented the fair Amazon with a military cross of merit. The poor girl was delighted with the decoration, and besought the king, to allow her to return to the regiment, as she said she was more accustomed to inflicting wounds than to healing them. In fact, she is so implored to be permitted to serve once more as a soldier, that at last Don Carlos to extricate himself from the difficulty said, No, I cannot allow you to join a regiment of men, but when I form a battalion of women, I promise upon my honour that you shall be named the Colonel. It will never happen, said the girl, and she burst into tears as the king left the hospital. At Haddon Hall may still be seen Dorothy Vernon's door. Whence the heiress of Haddon stole out one moonlight night to join her lover. The story generally told is that while her elder sister, the affianced bride of Sir Thomas Stanley, second son of the Earl of Derby, was made much of in her recognised attachment, Dorothy, on the other hand, was not only kept in the background, but every obstacle was thrown in her way against a connection she had formed with John Manners, son of the Earl of Rutland. But something of the wild bird, it is said, was noticed in Dorothy, and she was closely watched, kept almost a prisoner, and could only beat her wings against the bars that confined her. This kind of surveillance went on for some time, but did not check the young lady's infatuation for her lover, and it was not long before the young couple contrived to see one another. Disguised as a woodman, John Manners lurked of a day in the woods round Haddon for several weeks, obtaining now and then a stolen glance, a hurried word, or a pressure of the hand from the fair Dorothy. At length, however, an opportunity arrived which enabled Dorothy to carry out the plan which had been suggested to her by John Manners. It so happened that a grand ball was given at Haddon Hall to celebrate the approaching marriage of the elder daughter, and whilst the throng of guests filled the ballroom, where the stringed minstrels played old dances in the minstrel's gallery and the horns blew low, everyone being too busy with his own interests and pleasures to attend to those of another, the young Miss Dorothy stole away unobserved from the ballroom, passed out of the door, which is now one of the most interesting parts of this historic pile of buildings, and crossed the terrace to wear at the ladies' steps she could dimly discern figures hiding in the shadow of the trees. Another moment, and she was in her lover's arms, horses were waiting, and Dorothy was soon riding away with her lover through the moonlight, and was married on the following morning. This story which has been gracefully told by Eliza Meteyard under the title of the Love Steps of Dorothy Vernon has always been regarded as one of the most romantic and pleasant episodes in the history of Haddon Hall. Through Dorothy's marriage the estate of Haddon passed from the family of Vernon to that of Manners, and a branch of the House of Rutland was transferred to the county of Derby. But Love has always been an inducement in one form or another for disguise, and a romantic story is told of Sir John Boll of Thorpe Hall in Lincolnshire, who distinguished himself at Cadiz in the year 1596. Among the prisoners taken at this memorable siege was a fair captive of great beauty, high rank and immense wealth, and who was the peculiar charge of Sir John Boll. She soon became deeply enamoured of her gallant captor, and in his courteous company was all her joy, her infatuation being so great that she entreated him to allow her to accompany him to England, disguised as his page. But Sir John had a wife at home, and replied, to quote the version of the story given in Dr. Percy's relics of ancient English poetry, "'Curtious lady, leave this fancy. Here comes all that breeds the strife. I in England have already a sweet woman to my wife. I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.' Thereupon the fair lady determined to retire to a convent, admiring the gallant soldier all the more for his faithful devotion to his wife. "'El happy is that woman that enjoys so true a friend. Many happy days got sent her, of my suit I make an end, on my knees I pardon crave for my offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. I will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws defy. In a nunnery will I shroud me, far from any company. But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this. To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.'" But before forsaking the world she transmitted to her unconscious rival in England her jewels and valuable knickknacks, including her own portrait drawn in green, a circumstance which obtained for the original the designation of the green lady, and thought Paul has long been said to be haunted by the lady in green, who has been in the habit of appearing beneath a particular tree close to the mansion. A story which has been gracefully told in one of Moore's Irish melodies relates to Henry Cecil, Earl of Exeter, who early in life fell in love with the rich heiress of the Vernons of Hanbury. A marriage was eventually arranged, but this union proved a complete failure and terminated in a divorce. Thereupon young Cecil, distrustful of the conventionalities of society, and to prevent any one of the fair sex marrying him on account of his position, resolved on laying aside the artificial attractions of his rank and seeking some country maiden who would wed him from disinterested motives of affection. Accordingly he took up his abode at a small inn in a retired Shropshire village, but even here his movements created suspicion, some maintaining that he was connected with smugglers or gangsters, while all agreed that dishonesty or fraud was the cause of the mystery of the London gentleman's proceedings. Annoyed at the rude molestations to which he was daily, more or less exposed, he quitted the inn and removed to a farmhouse in the neighbourhood, where he remained for two years, in the course of which time he purchased some land and commenced building himself a house. But the landlord of the cottage where he lived had a beautiful daughter of about seventeen years, to whom young Cecil became so deeply attached that, in spite of her humble birth and simple education, he resolved to make her his wife, taking an early opportunity of informing her parents of his resolve. The matter came as a surprise to the farmer and his wife, and all the more so because they had always regarded Mr. Cecil as far too grand a person to entertain such an idea. Marry our daughter? exclaimed the good wife in amazement. What? To a fine gentleman? No, indeed. Yes, marry her, added the husband. He shall marry her, for she likes him. Has he not house and land, too, and plenty of money to keep her? So the rustic beauty was married, and it was not long afterwards that her husband found it necessary to repair to town on account of the Earl of Exeter's death. Setting out, as the young bride thought, on a pleasure trip, they stopped in the course of their journey at several nobleman's seats, where, to her astonishment, Cecil was welcomed to the most friendly manor. At last they reached Burleigh in Northamptonshire, the home of the Cecils, and, on driving up to the house, Cecil unconcernedly asked his wife whether she would like to be at home there. Oh, yes, she excitedly exclaimed, it is indeed a lovely spot, exceeding all I have seen, and making me almost envy its possessor. Then, said the young Earl, it is yours. The whole affair seemed like a fairytale to the bewildered girl, and who, but herself, could describe the feelings she experienced at the acclamations of joy and welcome, which awaited her in her magnificent home. But it was no dream, and as soon as the young Earl had arranged his affairs, he returned to Shropshire, through of his disguise, and revealed his rank to his wife's parents, assigning to them the house he had built, with a settlement of seven hundred pounds per annum. But, writes Sir Bernard Burke, if reports speak truly, the narrative must have a melancholy end. Her ladyship, unaccustomed to the exalted sphere in which she moved, chilled by its formalities, and depressed in her own esteem, survived only a few years her extraordinary elevation, and sank into an early grave, although Moore has given a brighter picture of this sad close to a pretty romance. You remember Ellen, our Hamlet's pride, how meekly she blessed her humble lot, when the stranger William had made her his bride, and love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled through wind and rain, till William at length in sadness said, We must seek our fortunes on other planes. Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roamed along and weary way, nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, when now, at close of one stormy day, they see a proud castle among the trees. Tonight, said the youth, we'll shelter there, the wind blows cold, the hour is late. So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, and the porter bowed as they passed the gate. Now welcome, lady, exclaimed the youth, this castle is thine, and these dark woods all. She believed him wild, but his words were truth, for Ellen is lady of Rosner Hall, and dearly the lord of Rosner loves what William the stranger would and wed, and the light of bliss in those lordly groves is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. Then one of the most extraordinary instances of disguise was that of the Chevalier Deion, who was born in the year 1728, and was an excellent scholar, soldier, and political intrigue. In the service of Louis XV he went to Russia in female attire, obtained employment as the female reader to the Serena Elizabeth, under which disguise he carried on political and semi-political negotiations with wonderful success. In the year 1762 he appeared in England as secretary of the Embassy to the Duke of Nivernoy, and when Louis XVI granted him a pension, and he went over to Versailles to return thanks for the favour, Marie Antoinette is said to have insisted on his assuming women's attire. Accordingly, to gratify this foolish whim, Deion is reported to have one day swept into the royal presence attired like a Duchess, which character he supported to the great delight of the royal spectators. In the year 1794 he returned to this country, and being here after the revolution was accomplished, his name was placed in the fatal list of emigres, and he was deprived of his pension. The English government, however, gave him an allowance of £200 a year, and in his old days he turned his fencing capabilities to account, for he occasionally appeared in matches with the Chevalier de Saint George, a permanently reassumed female attire. This eccentric character was a subject of much speculation in his lifetime, and curious to say in the year 1771 it was proved to the satisfaction of a jury on a trial before Lord Chief Justice Mansfield that the Chevalier was of the female sex. The case in question arose from a wager between Hayes, a surgeon, and Jack, an underwriter, the latter having bound himself on receiving a premium to pay the former a certain sum, whenever the fact was established that Deon was a woman. One of the witnesses was more owned, an infamous Frenchman, who gave such testimony that no human being could doubt the fact of Deon being of the female sex, and the two French medical men gave equally conclusive evidence. The result of this absurd trial was that the jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff with £702 damages. But all that was cleared away when Deon died in the year 1810, for an examination of the body being made, it was publicly declared that the Chevalier was an old man. Walpole collected some facts about this remarkable man and writes, the dude of Choisseau believed it was a woman. After the death of Louis XV, Deon had to leave to go to France, on which the young Comte de Gauchy went to Monsieur de Vigène, Secretary of State, and gave him notice that the moment Deon landed at Calais, he, where she would cut his throat, or Deon should his, on which Vigène told the count that Deon was certainly a woman. Louis XV corresponded with Deon, and when the duke de Choisseau had sent a vessel which lay six months in the Thames to trep and bring off Deon, the king wrote a letter with his own hand to give him warning of the vessel. Like the Chevalier Deon, a certain individual named Russell, a native of Stratum, adopted the guys and habits of the opposite sex, and so skillfully did he keep up the deception that it was not known till after his death. It appears from Stratum register that he was buried on April 14, 1772, the subjoint memorandum being affixed to the entry, this person was always known under the guise or habit of a woman, and answered to the name of Elizabeth as registered in this parish November the 21st, 1669, but on death proved to be a man. It also appears from the registers of Stratum parish that his father, John Russell, had three daughters and two sons, William, born in 1668 and Thomas in 1672, and there is very little doubt that the above person, who was also commonly known as Betsy the Doctoress, was one of these sons. It is said that when he assumed the garb of the softer sex, he also took the name of his sister Elizabeth, who very likely either died in infancy or settled at a distance. But under this name he applied about two years before his death for a certificate of his baptism. Early in life he associated with the Gypsies, and became the companion of the famous Bamfield Moor Karoo. Later on in life he resided at Chipstead in Kent, and there catered for the miscellaneous wants of the villagers. He also visited most parts of the continent as a stroller and a vagabond, and sometimes in the company of a man who passed for his husband, he moved about from one place to another, changing his maiden name to that of his companion, at whose death he passed as his widow, being generally known by the familiar name of Bet Page. According to Lysons, in the course of his wanderings he attached himself to itinerant quacks, learned their remedies, practiced their calling, his knowledge coupled with his great experience gaining for him the reputation of being a most infallible Doctoress. He also went in for astrology, and made a considerable sum of money, but was so extravagant that when he died his worldly goods were not valued at half a sovereign. About a year before his death he returned to his native parish, his great age bringing him into much notoriety. But his death was very sudden, and great was the surprise on all sides when it became known that he was a man. In life this strange character was a general favourite, and Mr. Thrale was wont to have him in his kitchen at Stratum Park, while Dr. Johnson, who considered him a shrewd person, held long conversations with him. To prevent the discovery of his sex he used to wear a cloth tied under his chin, and a large pair of nippers found in his pocket after death are supposed to have been the instruments with which he was in the habit of removing the telltale hairs from his face. In some instances, as in times of political intrigue and commotion, disguise has been resorted to as a means of escape and concealment of personal identity, one of the most romantic and remarkable cases on record being that of Lord Clifford, popularly known as the Shepard Lad. It appears that Lady Clifford, apprehensive lest the life of her son, seven years of age, might be sacrificed in vengeance for the blood of the youthful Earl of Rutland, whom Lord Clifford had murdered in cold blood at the termination of the Battle of Sandal, placed him in the keeping of a shepherd, who had married one of her inferior servants, an attendant on the boy's nurse. His name and parentage laid aside, the young boy was brought up among the moors and hills, as one of the shepherd's own children. On reaching the age of fourteen, a rumour somehow spread to the court that the son of the black-faced Clifford, as his father had been called, was living in concealment in Yorkshire. His mother, naturally alarmed, had the boy immediately removed to the vicinity of the village of Threlkeld amidst the Cumberland Hills, where she had sometimes the opportunity of seeing him. But, strange to say, it is doubtful whether Lady Clifford made known her relationship to him, or whether, indeed, the shepherd-lord had any distinct idea of his lofty lineage. It is generally supposed, however, that there was a complete separation between mother and child. A tradition which was accepted by Wordsworth, with whom the story of the shepherd boy was a special favourite. In his song at the Feast of Brown Castle, the poet thus prettily describes the shepherd boy's curious career.  No thought hath he but thoughts that pass light as the wind along the grass. Can this be he who hither came, in secret, like a smothered flame? Or whom such thankful tears were shed, for shelter, and a poor man's bread?  The Lady's words, when forced away, the last she to her babe did say, My own, my own, thy fellow-guest, I may not be. But rest thee, rest, for lowly shepherd's life is best. Many items of traditionary law still linger about the cumberland hills, respecting the young Lord, who grew up as hardy as the heath on which he vegetated, and as ignorant as the rude herds which bounded over it. But at the following description of young Clifford in his disguise, and of his employment, as given by Wordsworth, probably gives the most reliable traditionary account respecting him that prevailed in a district where he spent his lonely youth. His garb is humble, near was seen such garb with such a noble mean. Among the shepherd grooms, no mate hath he, a child of strength and state. Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee and a cheerful company, that learned of him submissive ways, and comforted his private days. To his side the fallow deer came, and rested without fear. The eagle, Lord of land and sea, stooped down to pay him fealty. And both the undying fish that swim through bow-scale town did wait on him. The pair were servants to his eye in their immortality. They moved about in open sight to and fro for his delight. He knew the rocks which angels haunt on the mountains visitant. He hath kend them taking wing, and the caves where fairies sing. He hath entered, and been told by voices how men lived of old. But one of the first acts of Henry VII, on his ascension to the throne, was to restore young Clifford to his birthright, and all the possessions that his distinguished sire had won. There are few authentic facts, however, recorded concerning him. For it seems that as soon as he had emerged from the hiding-place where he had been brought up in ignorance of his rank, finding himself more illiterate than was usual, even in an illiterate age, he retired to a tower, which he built up in a beautiful and sequestered forest, where, under the direction of the monks of Bolton Abbey, he gave himself up to the forbidden studies of alchemy and astrology. His descendant, Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, describes him as, a plain man who lived for the most part a country life, and came seldom either to court or London, accepting when called to Parliament, on which occasion he behaved himself like a wise and good English nobleman. He was twice married, and was succeeded by his son, called Wild Henry Clifford, from the irregularities of his youth. And we may cite the case of Matthew Hale, who on one occasion was instrumental to justice being done through himself appearing in disguise and supporting the wronged party. It is related that the younger of two brothers had endeavoured to deprive the elder of an estate of five hundred pounds a year, by suborning witnesses to declare that he died in a foreign land. But appearing in court in the disguise of a miller, so Matthew Hale was chosen the twelfth juryman to sit on this cause. As soon as the clerk of the juryman had sworn in the juryman, a short dexterous fellow came into their apartment, and slipped ten gold pieces into the hands of eleven of the jury, giving the miller only five, while the judge was generally supposed to be bribed with a large sum. At the conclusion of the case the judge summed up the evidence in favour of the younger brother, and the jury were about to give their verdict, when the supposed miller stood up and addressed the court. To the surprise of all present he spoke with energetic and manly eloquence, unravelled the sophistry to the very bottom, proved the fact of bribery, showed the elder brother's title to the estate from the contradictory evidence of the witnesses, and in short he gained a complete victory in favour of truth and justice. CHAPTER XIII Extraordinary Disappearances O Annie, it is beyond all hope against all chance that he who left you ten long years ago should still be living. Well, then, let me speak. I grieve to see you poor and wanting help. I cannot help you as I wish to do, unless they say that women are so quick. Unless you know what I would have you know wish you form my wife, Enoch Arden by Alfred Lord Tennyson. A glance at the agony columns of our daily newspapers or the noticed boards of police stations it has been remarked, shows how many individuals disappear from home, from their business haunts, and from the circle of their acquaintances, and leave not the slightest trace of their whereabouts. In only too many instances no satisfactory explanation has ever been forthcoming to account for a disappearance of this nature, and in the vast majority of cases no evidence has been discovered to prove the death of such persons. It is well known that In France, before the Revolution, the vanishing of men almost before the eyes of their friends was so common that it scarcely excited any surprise at all. The only inquiry was had he a beautiful wife or daughter, for in that case the explanation was easy. Someone who had influence with the government had designs upon the lady, and made interest to have her natural guardian put out of the way while those designs were being fulfilled. But accountable as the disappearance of an individual was at such an unquiet time in French history, such a solution of the difficulty cannot be made to apply to our own country. Like other social problems, which no amount of intellectual ingenuity has been able to unravel, the reason why at intervals persons are missed and never found must always be regarded as an open question. Thus a marriage is recorded which took place in Lincolnshire about the year of 1750. In this instance the wedding party adjourned after the marriage ceremony to the bridegroom's residence, and dispersed some to ramble in the garden and others to rest in the house till the dinner-hour. But the bridegroom was suddenly summoned away by a domestic, who said that a stranger wished to speak to him, and henceforward he was never seen again. All kinds of inquiries were made but to no purpose, and terrible as the dismay was of the poor bride at this inexplicable disappearance of the bridegroom, no trace could be found of him. A similar tradition hangs about an old deserted Welsh hall, standing in a wood near Festiniog. In a similar manner the bridegroom was asked to give audience to a stranger on his wedding-day, and disappeared from the face of the earth from that moment. The bride, however, seems to have survived the shock, exceeding her three score years and ten, although it is said, during all those years, while there was light of sun or moon to lighten the earth, she sat watching, watching at one particular window which commanded a view of the approach to the house. In short, her whole faculties, her whole mental powers, became completely absorbed in that weary process of watching, and long before she died she was childish and only conscious of one wish, to sit in that long, high window, and watch the road, along which he might come. Family romance records, from time to time, many such stories, and it was not so long ago that a bridal party was thrown into much consternation by the non-arrival of the bridegroom. Everything was in readiness, the clergy and the choir, already vested, in the robing-room. Crimson carpets were laid down from the door to the carriages. Some of the guests were at the church and others at the bride's house. When an alarm was raised by the best man, that the bridegroom could nowhere be found. The bride-expectant burst into a flood of tears at this cruel disappointment, especially when the ominous news reached the church, that the bridegroom's wedding-suit had been found in the room, laid out ready to wear, but that there was not the slightest clue as to his whereabouts. It only remained for the bridal party to return home, and for the dejected and disconsolate bride to lay aside her veil and orange blossoms. Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the bride who disappears at this crisis. Not many years back, an ex-left tenant in the Royal Navy applied to a London magistrate, as he wanted to find his newly married wife. The applicant affirmed that the lady he had wedded was an actress, and that they were married at the Registry Office at Croyton. The magistrate asked if there had been any wedding breakfast. The applicant said no. They had partaken of a little luncheon, and that was all. Mysterious and inexplicable, as was this disappearance of a wife so shortly after marriage, it was suggested by the magistrate whether there were any rivals. But the applicant promptly replied, no, certainly not, and that made the matter all the more incomprehensible. Of course, the magistrate could not recover the missing bride, but remarking that the application was a very singular one, he recommended the applicant to consult the police on the matter, who replied that he would do so as he was really afraid that some mischief had happened to her, utterly disregarding the proposition of the magistrate as to whether the lady could not possibly have changed her mind, remarking that such a thing had occasionally happened. In the life of Dr. Raffles, an amusing story is quoted, which is somewhat to the point. On our way from Wem to Hawkstone, we passed a house of which the following occurrence was told. A young lady, the daughter of the owner of the house, was addressed by a man who, though agreeable to her, was disliked by her father. Of course, he would not consent to their union, and she determined to disappear and elope. The night was fixed, the hour came. He placed the ladder to the window, and in a few minutes she was in his arms. They mounted a double-horse and were soon at some distance from the house. After a while the lady broke silence by saying, Well, you see what proof I have given you of my affection. I hope you will make me a good husband. He was a surly fellow, and gruffly answered, Perhaps I may, and perhaps not. She made him no reply, but after a few minutes of silence she suddenly exclaimed, Oh, what shall we do? I have to have my money behind me in my room. Then said he, We must go and fetch it. They were soon again at the house. The ladder was again placed, the lady remounted, while the ill-natured lover waited below. But she delayed to come, and so he gently called. Are you coming? When she looked out of the window and said, Perhaps I may, and perhaps not. And then shut down the window and left him to return upon the double-horse alone. But if traditionary law is to be believed, the sudden disappearance of the bride on her wedding-day has had, in more than one instance, a very romantic and tragic origin. There is the well-known story of which tells how Lord Lovell married a young lady, a baron's daughter, who on the wedding night proposed that the guest should play at hide-and-seek. Accordingly the bride hid herself in an old oak chest, but the lid falling down shut her in, for it went with a spring lock. Lord Lovell and the rest of the company sought her that night, and many days in succession, but nowhere could she be found. Her strange disappearance, for many years, remained an unsolved mystery. But sometime afterwards the fatal chest was sold, which, on being opened, was found to contain the skeleton of the long-lost brunned. This popular story was made the subject of a song entitled The Misalto Bow by Thomas Haynes Bailey, who died in 1839, and Marwell Old Hall near Winchester, once the residence of the Seymours, and afterwards of the Dacre family, has a similar tradition attached to it. Indeed, the very chest has been preserved in the Hall of Uppam Rectory, having been removed from Marwell some forty years ago. The great house at Moussanger, near Basingstoke, has a story of a like-nature connected with it, reminding us of that of Tony Forster in Kenilworth and Rogers' Geneva. There, then, she had found a grave. Within that chest had she concealed herself, fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, when a spring-lock that lay in ambush there fastened her down for ever. This story is found in many places, and the chest in which the poor bride was found is shown at Bramshill in Hampshire, the residence of Sir John Cope, but only too frequently the young lady disappears from some pre-concerted arrangement, a striking instance being that of Agnes, daughter of James Ferguson, the while walking down the strand with her father, she slipped her hand out of his whilst he was absorbed in thought, and he never saw her from that day nor was anything known of the girl's fate till many years after Ferguson's death. At the time the story of her extraordinary disappearance was matter of public comment, and all kinds of extravagant theories were started to account for it. The young lady, however, was gone, and despite the most patient search and the most persistent inquiries, no tidings could be gained as to her whereabouts. In course of years the mystery was cleared up, and revealed a pitiable case of sin and shame. It appears that a nobleman to whom she had become known at her father's lectures took her in the first instance to Italy, and afterwards deserted her. In her distress, being ashamed to return home, she resolved to try the stage as a means of livelihood, and applied to Garrick, who gave her a trial on the boards, but the attempt proved a failure. She then turned her hand to authorship, but with no better success. Although reduced to the most abject poverty, she would not make herself known to her relatives, and in complete despair, and overwhelmed with a sense of her disgrace, in her last extremity she threw herself on the streets, and died in miserable beggary and wretchedness in round court off the strand. It was on her deathbed that she disclosed to the surgeon who attended her the melancholy and tragic story of her wasted life, but from the localities in which she had habitually moved, she must have many a time passed her relatives in the streets, though withheld by shame from making herself known, when they imagined her to be in some distant country, or in the grave. The strange disappearance of Lady Cathcart, on the other hand, whose fourth husband was Hugh McGuire, an officer in the Hungarian service, is an extraordinary instance of a wife being for a long term of years imprisoned by her own husband, but any chance of escape. It seems that soon after her last marriage she discovered that her husband had only made her his wife with the object of possessing himself of her property, and alarmed at the idea of losing everything, she plaited some of her jewels in her hair and others in her petticoat, but she little anticipated what was in store for her, although she had already become suspicious of her husband's intentions towards her. His plans, however, were soon executed for one morning, under the pretense of taking her for a drive, he carried her away altogether, and when she suggested, after they had been driving some time, that they would be late for dinner, he coolly replied, We do not dine today at Tewing, but at Chester, with her we are journeying. Some alarm was naturally caused, writes Sir Bernard Burke, by her sudden disappearance, and an attorney was sent in pursuit with a writ of habeas corpus, or Neaxi et Regno, who found the travellers at Chester on their way to Ireland, and demanded a sight of Lady Cathcart. Colonel Maguire at once consented, but knowing that the attorney had never seen his wife, he persuaded a woman to personate her. The attorney, in due time, was introduced to the supposed Lady Cathcart, and was asked if she accompanied Colonel Maguire to Ireland of her own free will. Perfectly so, said the woman, whereupon the attorney set out again for London, and the Colonel resumed his journey with Lady Cathcart to Ireland, where on his arrival at his own house at Tempo in Fermanagh, his wife was imprisoned for many years. During this period the Colonel was visited by the neighbouring gentry, and it was his regular customer's dinner to send his compliments to Lady Cathcart, informing her that the company had the honour to drink her ladyship's health, and begging to know whether there was anything at table that she would like to eat, but the answer was always the same. Lady Cathcart's compliments, and she has everything she wants. Fortunately for Lady Cathcart, Colonel Maguire died in the year 1764, when her ladyship was released, after having been locked up for twenty years, possessing at the time of her deliverance scarcely clothed to her back. She lost no time in hastening back to England, and found her house at Tewing in possession of a Mr. Joseph Steele, against whom she brought an act of ejectment, and, attending the assays in person, gained her case. Although she had been so cruelly treated by Colonel Maguire, his conduct does not seem to have injured her health, for she did not die till the year 1789, when she was in her ninety-eighth year, and when eighty years of age it is recorded that she took part in the gayities of the Welling Assembly, and danced with the spirit of a girl. It may be added that, although she survived Colonel Maguire of twenty years, she was not tempted, after his treatment, to carry out the resolution which she had inscribed as a poetry on her wedding-ring. If I survive, I will have five. Another disappearance, and supposed imprisonment which created considerable sensation in the last century, was that of Elizabeth Canning. On New Year's Day, 1753, she visited an aunt and uncle, who lived at Salt Peter Bank, near Wellclost Square, who saw her part of the way home as far as Hound's ditch. But as no tidings were afterwards heard of her, she was advertised for, rumors having gone abroad that she had been heard to shriek out of a hackney carriage in Bishopgate Street. Prayers, too, were offered up for her in churches and meeting-houses, but all inquiries were in vain, and it was not until the twenty-ninth of the month that the missing girl returned in a wretched condition, ill, half-starved, and half-clad. Her story was that after leaving her uncle and aunt on the first of January, she had been attacked by two men in great-coats, who robbed, partially stripped her, and dragged her away to a house in the Hartfordshire Road, where an old woman cut off her stays and shut her up in a room in which she had been imprisoned ever since, subsisting on bread and water, and a mince-pie that her assailants had overlooked in her pocket, and ultimately, she said, she had escaped through the window, tearing her ear in doing so. Her story created much sympathy for her, and steps were immediately taken to punish those who had abducted her in this outrageous manner. The girl, who was in a very weak condition, was taken to the house she had specified, one Mother Wells, who kept an establishment of doubtful reputation at Enfield Wash, and on being asked to identify the woman who had cut off her stays, and locked her up in the room referred to, pointed out one Mary Squires, an old gypsy of surpassing ugliness. Accordingly, Squires and Wells were committed for trial for assault and felony, the result of the trial being that Squires was condemned to death, and Wells to be burned in the hand, a sentence which was executed forthwith, much to the delight of the excited crowd in the old Bailey Sessions' house. But the Lord Mayor, Sir Crisp Gascoigne, who had presided at the trial ex officio, was not satisfied with the verdict, and caused further and searching inquiries to be made. The verdict on the weight of fresh evidence obtained was upset, and Squires was granted a free pardon. On 29 April 1754, Elizabeth Canning was summoned again to the old Bailey, but this time to take her trial for willful and corrupt perjury. The trial lasted eight days, and, being found guilty, she was transported in August at the request of her friends to New England. According to the annual register, she returned to this country at the expiration of her sentence to receive a legacy of five hundred pounds left to her three years before by an old lady of New England Green, whereas later accounts affirmed that she never came back, but died on the 22nd of July 1773 at Weathersfield in Connecticut. It being further stated that she married abroad a Quaker of the name of Treet, and for some time followed the occupation of a school mistress. The mystery of her life, her disappearance from January 1st to the 29th of that month, and what transpired in that interval, is a secret that has never been to this day divulged. Indeed, as it has been observed, notwithstanding the many strange circumstances of her story, none is so strange as that it should not be discovered in so many years where she had concealed herself during the time she had invariably declared she was at the house of Mother Wells. Another curious disappearance is recorded by Sir John Coleridge forming a strange story of romance. It seems they lived in Cornwall a highly respectable family named Robinson, consisting of two sons, William and Nicholas, and two daughters. The property was settled on the two sons and their male issue, and in case of death on the two daughters, Nicholas was placed with an eminent attorney of St. Austal as his clerk, with a prospect of being one day admitted into partnership. But his legal studies were somewhat interrupted by his falling in love with a milliner's apprentice, the result being that he was sent to London to qualify himself as an attorney, but he had no sooner been admitted an attorney of the Queen's bench and common pleas than he disappeared, and thenceforth he was never seen by any member of his family or former friends, all searched for him, proving fruitless. In course of time the father died, and William, the elder son, succeeded to the property, dying unmarried in May 1802. As nothing was heard of Nicholas, the two sisters became entitled to the property, of which they held possession for twenty years, no claim being made to disturb their possession of it. But in the year 1783 a young man whose looks and manner were above his means and situation had made his appearance as a stranger at Liverpool, going by the name of Nathaniel Richardson, the same initials as Nicholas Robinson. He bought a cab and horse, and plied for hire in the streets of Liverpool, and being a civil, sober, and prudent man, he soon became prosperous, and drove a coach between London and Liverpool. He married, had children, and gradually acquired considerable wealth. Having gone to Wales, however, in the year 1802 to purchase some horses, he was accidentally drowned in the Mersey. Many years after his death it was rumoured in 1821 that this Nathaniel Richardson was no other than Nicholas Robinson, and his eldest son claimed the property, which was then inherited by the two daughters. An action was accordingly tried in Cornwall to recover the property. The strange part of the proceedings was that nearly forty years had elapsed since anyone had seen Nicholas Robinson, but, says Sir John Colleridge, it was made out conclusively in a most remarkable way, and by a variety of small circumstances, all pointing to one conclusion that Nathaniel Richardson was the identical Nicholas Robinson. The Cornish and Liverpool witnesses agreed in the description of his person, his height, the colour of his hair, his general appearance, and more particularly, it was mentioned that he had a peculiar habit of biting his nails, and that he had a great fondness for horses. In addition to other circumstances, there was this remarkable one, that Nathaniel's widow married again, and that the furniture and effects were taken to the second husband's house. Among the articles was an old trunk, which she had never seen opened, but on its contents being examined one day, among other letters and papers, were found the two certificates of Nicholas Robinson's admission as attorney to the Courts of Queen's Bench and Common Please, and on the trial the old master of Nicholas Robinson, alias Nathaniel Richardson, swore to his handwriting, and so the property was discovered. It has been often remarked that London is about the only place in all Europe where a man if so desirous can disappear and live for years unknown in some secure retreat. About the year 1706 a certain Mr. Howe, after he had been married some seven or eight years, rose early one morning and informed his wife that he was obliged to go to the tower on special business, and at about noon the same day he sent a note to his wife informing her that business summoned him to Holland, where he would probably have to remain three weeks or a month. But from that day he was absent from his home for 17 years, during which time his wife neither heard from him nor of him. His strange and unaccountable disappearance at the time naturally created comment, but no trace could be found of his whereabouts or as to whether he had met with foul treatment. And yet the most curious part of the story remains to be told. On leaving his house in German street Piccadilly, Mr. Howe went no further than to a small street in Westminster, where he took a room for which he paid five or six shillings a week, and changing his name and disguising himself by wearing a black wig, for he was a fair man, he remained in this locality during the whole time of his absence. At the time he disappeared from his home Mr. Howe had two children by his wife, but these both died a few years afterwards. But being left without the necessary means of subsistence, Mrs. Howe, after waiting two or three years in the hope of her husband's return, was forced to apply for an act of Parliament to procure an adequate settlement of his estate, and a provision for herself out of it during his absence, as it was uncertain whether he was alive or dead. This act Mr. Howe suffered to be passed, and read the progress of it in a little coffee house which he frequented. After the death of her children, Mrs. Howe removed from her house in German street to a smaller one in Brewer Street near Golden Square. Just over against her lived one salt, a corn chandler, with whom Mr. Howe became acquainted, usually dining with him once or twice a week. The room where they sat overlooked Mrs. Howe's dining room, and salt, believing how to be a bachelor, oftentimes recommended her to him as a suitable wife. And, curious to add, during the last seven years of his mysterious absence, Mr. Howe attended every Sunday service at St. James's Church Piccadilly and sat in Mr. Salt's seat, where he had a good view of his wife, although he could not be easily seen by her. At last, however, Mr. Howe made up his mind to return home, and the evening before he took this step, sent her an anonymous note, requesting her to meet him the following day in Bird Cage Walk, St. James's Square. At the time this BA arrived, Mrs. Howe was entertaining some friends and relatives at supper, one of her guests being a Dr. Rose, who had married her sister. After reading the note, Mrs. Howe tossed it to Dr. Rose, laughingly remarking, You see, brother, old as I am, I have got a gallant. But Dr. Rose recognized the handwriting as that of Mr. Howe, which so upset Mrs. Howe that she fainted away. It was eventually arranged that Dr. Rose and his wife, with the other guests who were then at supper, should accompany Mrs. Howe the following evening to the appointed spot. They had not long to wait before Mr. Howe appeared, who, after embracing his wife, walked home with her in the most matter-of-fact manner, the two living together in the most happy and harmonious manner till death divided them. The reason of this mysterious disappearance Mr. Howe would never explain, but Dr. Rose often maintained that he believed his brother would never have returned to his wife, had not the money which he took with him, supposed to have been from one to two thousand pounds, been all spent. Anyhow, he used to add, Mr. Howe must have been a good economist and frugal in his manner of living, otherwise the money would scarce have held out. A remence associated with Hague Hall in Lancashire tells how Sir William Bradsage, stimulated by his love of travel and military ardour, set out for the Holyland. Ten years elapsed, and as no tidings reached his wife of his whereabouts, it was generally supposed that he had perished in some religious crusade, taking it for granted, therefore, that he was dead. His wife Mabel did not abandon herself to a life of solitary widowhood, but accepted an offer of marriage from a Welsh knight. But, not very long afterwards, Sir William Bradsage returned from his prolonged surgeon in the Holyland, and disguised as a Palmer he visited his own castle, where he took his place amongst the recipients of Lady Mabel's bounty. As soon, however, as Lady Mabel caught sight of the Palmer, she was struck by the strong resemblance he bought to her first husband, and this impression was quickly followed by bewilderment when the mysterious stranger handed to her a ring which he affirmed had been given him by Sir William in his dying moments to bear to his wife at Hague Hall. In a moment Lady Mabel's thoughts travelled back into the distant past, and she burst into tears as the ring brought back the dear memories of bygone days. It was in vain she tried to stifle her feelings, and as her second husband, the Welsh knight, looked on and saw how distressed she was, he grew, says the old record, exceedingly wroth, and in a fit of jealous passion struck Lady Mabel. This ungallant act was the climax of the painful scene, for there and then Sir William threw aside his disguise, and hastened to revenge the unshivalrous conduct of the Welsh knight. Completely confounded at this unexpected turn of events, and fearing violence from Sir William, the Welsh knight rode off at full speed, without waiting for any explanation of the matter. But he was overtaken very speedily, and slain by his opponent, an offence for which Sir William was outlawed for a year and a day, while Mabel, his wife, was enjoined by her confessor to do penance, by going once every week, barefoot and bare-legged, to a cross near Wigan, popularly known as Mab's Cross. In Wigan Parish Church, two figures of white-washed stone preserved the memory of Sir William Bradshague and his Lady Mabel. He, in an antique coat of mail, cross-legged, with his sword partly drawn from the scabbard by his left side, and she, in a long robe, veiled, her hands elevated and conjoined in the attitude of fervent prayer. Sir Walter Scott informs us that from this romance he adopted his idea of the betrothed. From the addition preserved in the mansion of Hague Hall of old, the mansion house of the family of Bradshague, now possessed by their descendants on the female side, the earls of Balcarys. Scottish tradition ascribes to the clan of Tweedy a descent of a similar romantic nature. A baron, somewhat elderly, had wedded a buxom young wife, but some months after their union he left her to ply the distaf among the mountains of the county of Peebles near the sources of the Tweed. After being absent seven or eight years, no uncommon space for a pilgrimage to Palestine, he returned, and found, to quote the account given by Sir Walter Scott, his family had not been lonely in his absence, the lady having been cheered by the arrival of a stranger who hung on her skirts and called her Mammy, and was just such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that he could by no means make his age correspond with his own departure for Palestine. He applied therefore to his wife for the solution of the dilemma, who after many floods of tears informed her husband that, walking one day along the banks of the river, a human former rose from a deep eddy, turned Tweed-pool, who deigned to inform her that he was the tutelage genius of the stream, and he became the father of the sturdy fellow whose appearance had so much surprised her husband. After listening to this strange adventure, the husband believed or seemed to believe the tale, and remained contented with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of the incident was that the youth retained the name of Tweed or Tweedie. Having bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, the baron left him in that capacity when he died, and the son of the river-god founded the family of Dramelsia, and others from whom have flowed in the phrase of the Etric Shepherd, many a brave fellow, and many a bald feet. It may be added that in some instances the science of the medical jurist has aided in elucidating the history of disappearances, through identifying the discovered remains with the presumed missing subjects. Some years ago the examination of a skeleton found deeply embedded in the sand of the sea-coast at a certain scotch-watering place, showed that the person, when living, must have walked with a very peculiar and characteristic gate, in consequence of some deposits of a rheumatic kind which affected the lower part of the spine. The mention of this circumstance caused the search to be made through some old records of the town, and resulted in the discovery of a mysterious disappearance which at the time had been duly noted, the subject being a person whose mode of walking had made him an object of attention, and whose fate, but for the observant eye of the anatomist, must have remained wholly unknown. Similarly it has been pointed out how skeletons found in mines, in disused wells, in quarries, in the walls of ruins, and various other localities, imply so many social mysteries, which probably occasioned in their day, a widespread excitement, or at least agitated profoundly some small circle of relatives or friends. According to the annual register of 1845, page 195, while some men were being employed in taking the soil from the bottom of the river in front of some mills, a human skeleton was accidentally found. At a coroner's inquest, it transpired that about nine years before, a Jew whose name was said to be Abrams, visited Taverham in the course of his business, sold some small articles for which he gave credit to the purchasers, and left the neighbourhood on his way to Drayton, the next village, with a sum of ninety pounds in his possession. But at Drayton he disappeared, and never returned to Taverham to claim the amount due to him. Search was made for the missing man, but to no purpose, and after the excitement in the neighbourhood had abated, the matter was soon forgotten. But some time afterwards a man named Page was apprehended for sheep-stealing, tried, and sentenced to be transported for life. During his imprisonment he told diverse stories of robberies and crimes, most of which turned out to be false. But amongst other things he wrote a letter, promising that if he were released from jail and brought to Cossie he would show them that, from under the willow tree, which would make every hair in their heads rise up. The man was not released, but the river was drawn, and some sheep-skins and sheep's heads were found, which were considered to be the objects alluded to by Page. The search, however, was still pursued, and from under the willow tree the skeleton was fished up, evidently having been fastened down. It was generally supposed that these were the bones of the long-lost Jew who, no doubt, had been murdered for the money on his person, a crime of which Page was aware if he was not an accomplice. CHAPTER XIV HONORED HEARTS I will ye charge, after that I depart, to Holy Grave, and there bury my heart, let it remain ever both time and hour to the last day I see my Saviour. Old Ballard quoted in Sir Walter Scott's notes to Marmion. A curious and remarkable custom which prevailed more or less down to the present century was that of heart burial. In connection with this strange practice numerous romantic stories are told, the supreme regard for the heart as the source of the affections, having caused it to be bequeathed by a relative or friend in times past, as the most tender and valuable legacy. In many cases too the heart, being more easy to transport, was removed from some distant land to the home of the deceased, and hence it found a resting place, in a locality endeared by past associations. Westminster Abbey, it may be remembered, contains the hearts of many illustrious personages. The heart of Queen Elizabeth was buried there, and it is related how a prying Westminster boy one day, discovering the depositories of the hearts of Elizabeth and her sister Queen Mary, subsequently boasted how he had grasped in his hand those once haughty hearts. Prince Henry of Wales, son of James I, who died at the early age of 18 was interred in Westminster Abbey, his heart being enclosed in lead, and placed upon his breast, and among further royal personages, whose hearts were buried in a similar manner, may be mentioned Charles II, William and Mary, George Prince of Denmark, and Queen Anne. The heart of Edward, Lord Bruce, was enclosed in a silver case, and deposited in the Abbey Church of Kull Ross near the family seat. In the year 1808 this sad relic was discovered by Sir Robert Preston, the lid of the silver case bearing on the exterior, the name of the unfortunate's dualist, and after drawings had been taken of it the hole was carefully replaced in the vault. An instant Nicholas's chapel, Westminster, was enshrined at the heart of Esme Stewart, Duke of Richmond, where a monument to his memory is still to be seen with this fact inscribed upon it. Many interesting instances of heart burial are to be found in our parish churches. In the church of Horndon on the Hill, Essex, which was once the seat of Sir Thomas Bolin, a nameless black marble monument is pointed out as that of Anne Bolin. According to a popular tradition, long current in the neighbourhood, this is said to have contained the head or heart.  The oldest people in the neighbourhood all declare that they have heard the tradition in their youth from a previous generation of aged persons, who all affirm it to be Anne Bolin's monument. But it would seem there has always been a mysterious uncertainty about Anne Bolin's burial place, and a correspondent of The Gentleman's Magazine in October 1815 speaks of the headless remains of the departed queen, as deposited in the arrow chests and buried in the tower chapel before the High Altar, where that stood the most sagacious antiquary after a lapse of more than three hundred years, cannot now determine. Nor is the circumstance, though related by eminent writers, clearly ascertained. In a cellar, the body of a person of short stature without a head not many years since was found, and supposed to be the reliquaries of poor Anne, but soon after it was reinterred in the same place and covered with earth. By her testament, Eleanor, Duchess of Buckingham, wife of Edward, Duke of Buckingham, who was beheaded on May the 17th, 1521, appointed her heart to be buried in the church of the Grey Friars within the City of London, and in the Sackville Vault in Witham Church, Sussex, is a curiously shaped ledden box in the form of a heart, on a brass plate attached to which is this inscription, The Heart of Isabella, Countess of Northampton, died on October the 14th, 1661. A ledden drum deposited in a vault in the church of Brington, is generally supposed to contain the head of Henry Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, who received his death wound at the Battle of Newbury. And at Wells Cathedral, in a box of copper, a heart was accidentally discovered, supposed to be that of one of the bishops. And in the family vault of the Hungerfords, at Farley Castle, a heart was one day found in a glazed earthenware pot covered with white leather. The widow of John Baliel, father of Bruce's rival, showed her affection for her dead Lord in a strange way, for she embalmed his heart, placed it in an ivory casket, and during her twenty years of widowhood, she never sat down to meals without this silent reminder of happier days. On her death, she left instructions for her husband's heart to be laid on her bosom, and from that day, new Abbey was known as Sweetheart Abbey, and, never, it is said, did Abbey walls shelter a sweeter, truer heart than that of the Lady of Barnard Castle. Among the many instances of heart bequests may be noticed that of Edward I, who on his deathbed expressed a wish to his son that his heart might be sent to Palestine, in as much as after his accession he had promised to return to Jerusalem and aid the crusade which was then in a depressed condition. But, unfortunately, owing to his wars with Scotland, he failed to fulfil his engagement, and at his death he provided two thousand pounds of silver for an expedition to convey his heart dither, trusting that God would accept this fulfilment of his vow and grant his blessing on the undertaking, at the same time imprecating eternal damnation on any who should expend the money for any other purpose, but his injunction was not performed. Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, the avowed foe of Edward I, also gave directions to his trusted friend, Sir James Douglas, that his heart should be buried in the Holy Land, because he had left on fulfil the vow to assist in the crusade, but his wish was frustrated owing to the following tragic occurrence. After the King's death his heart was taken from his body, and, enclosed in a silver case, was worn by Sir James Douglas, suspended to his neck, who set out for the Holy Land. On reaching Spain he found the King of Castile engaged in war with the Moors, and, thinking any contest with Saracens consistent with his vows, he joined the Spaniards against the Moors.  He was almost immediately struck down, and under his body was found the heart of Bruce, which was entrusted to the charge of Sir Simon Lockard of Lee, who conveyed it back to Scotland, and interred it beneath the High Altar in Melrose Abbey, in connection with which Mrs. Hemmons wrote some spirited lines. Heart, thou didst press forward still when the trumpet's note rang shrill, where the nightly swords were crossing, and the plumes like sea foam tossing, leader of the charging spear, fiery heart, and lyce thou here? May this narrow spot in earn aughts that so could heat and burn. The heart of Richard the Lion-hearted has had a somewhat eventful history. It seems that this monarch bequeathed his heart to Rouen, as a lasting recognition of the constancy of his Norman subjects. The honour was gratefully acknowledged, and in course of time a beautiful shrine was erected to his memory in the cathedral, but this costly structure did not escape being destroyed in the year 1738 with other Plantagenet memorials. A hundred years afterwards the mutilated effigy of Richard was discovered under the cathedral pavement, and near it the leaden casket that had enclosed his heart which was replaced. Before long it was taken up again, and removed to the Museum of Antiquaries, where it remained until the year 1869, when it found a more fitting resting-place in the choir of the cathedral. James II bequeathed his heart to be buried in the Church of the Convent d'Aims de Saint-Marie at Cheilio, whence it was afterwards removed to the chapel of the English Benedictines in the faux-borg Saint-Jacques. And the heart of Mary Beatrix, his wife, was also bequeathed to the monastery of Cheilio in perpetuity, to be placed in a tribune beside those of her late husband King James, and the Princess, their daughter. Dr. Richard Rawlinson, the well-known antiquary, bequeathed his heart to St. John's College Oxford, and Edward, Lord Windsor of Bradenham, Bucks, who died at Spa in the year 1754, directed that his body should be buried in a cathedral church of the noble city of Leige, with a convenient tomb to his memory, but his heart to be enclosed in lead, and sent to England, there to be buried in a chapel of Bradenham, under his father's tomb, in token of a true Englishman. Paul Whitehead, who died in year 1774, left his heart to his friend Lord Dispencer, to be deposited in his mausoleum at West Wickham. Lord Dispencer accepted the bequest, and on the 16th of May 1775, the heart, after being wrapped in lead, and placed in a marble urn, was carried with much ceremony to its resting place. Proceeding the beer bearing the urn, a grenadier marched in full uniform. Nine grenadiers too deep, the odd one last, two German flute players, two surplus choristers with notes pinned to their backs, two more flute players, eleven singing men in surpluses, two French horn players, two bassoon players, six pifers, and four drummers with muffled drums. Lord Dispencer, as chief mourner, followed the beer in his uniform as Colonel of the Bucks militia, and was succeeded by nine officers of the same corps, two pifers, two drummers, and twenty soldiers, with their firelocks reversed. The dead march in Saul was played, the church bell tolled, and cannons were discharged every three and a half minutes. On arriving at the mausoleum, another hour was spent by the procession in going round and round it, singing funeral dirges, after which the urn containing the heart was carried inside, and placed upon a pedestal, bearing the name of Paul Whitehead. And these lines, unhallowed hands this urn forebear, no gems, no orients spoil, lie here concealed, but what's more rare, a heart that knew no guile. But in the year 1829 some unhallowed hand stole the urn, and the whereabouts of Whitehead's heart remains a mystery to the present day. In recent times an interesting case of heart burial was that of Lord Byron, whose heart was enclosed in a silver urn, and placed at Newstead Abbey in the family vault, and another was that of the poet Shelley, whose body, according to Italian custom after drowning, was burnt to ashes, but the heart would not consume, and so was deposited in the English burying-ground at Rome. It is worthy, too, of note, that heart burial prevailed to a very large extent on the continent. To mention a few cases, the heart of Philip, King of Levar, was buried in the Jacobins Church, Paris, and that of Philip, King of France, at the convent of the Carthusians at Bourgue-Fontaines in Valois. The heart of Henry II, King of France, was enshrined in an urn of gilt bronze in the Celestines, Paris. That of Henry III, according to Camden, was enclosed in a small tomb, and Henry IV's heart was buried in the college of the Jesuits at Le Flèche. Heart burial again was practised at the deaths of Louis IX, XII, XIII and XIV, and in the last instance was the occasion of an imposing ceremony. The heart of this great monarch, writes Miss Hartshorn, was carried to the covenant of the Jesuits. A procession was arranged by the cardinal de Rohan, and surrounded by flaming torches, and escorted by a company of the royal guards. The heart arrived at the convent, where it was received by the rector, who pronounced over it an eloquent and striking discourse. The heart of Mary de Medici, who built the magnificent palace of the Luxembourg, was interred at the church of the Jesuits in Paris, and that of Maria Theresa, wife of Louis XIV, was deposited in a silver case in the monastery of Val de Grasse. The body of Gustavus Adolphus, the illustrious monarch who fell in the field of Luxem, was embalmed, and his heart received sepulcher at Stockholm, and it is well known the heart of cardinal Mazaran was, by his own desire, sent to the church of the Thetans. And Anne of Austria, the mother of Louis XIV, directed in her will that her body should be buried at St. Denis, near to her husband, of glorious memory. But her heart she bequeathed to Val de Grasse, and she also decreed that it should be drawn out through her side, without making any further opening than was absolutely necessary. Instances such as these show the prevalence of the custom of heart burial in bygone times, a further proof of which may be gathered from the innumerable effigies or brasses in which a heart holds a prominent place. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Romance of Wealth The Unsund Heaps of Meiser's Treasure Milton Stories of lost or unclaimed property have always possessed a fascinating charm, but unfortunately the links for providing the rightful ownership break off generally at the point where its history seems on the verge of being unraveled. At the same time, however romantic and improbable some of the announcements relating to such treasure hordes may seem, there is no doubt that many a poor family at present day would be possessed of great wealth if it could only gain a clue to the whereabouts of money rightfully its own. The legal identification too of such property when discovered has frequently precluded its successfully being claimed by those really entitled to enjoy it, and few persons are aware of the enormous amount of unclaimed money amounting to some millions which lies dormant although continually made public in the agony columns of the Times and other daily newspapers. It should also be remembered that wealth of this kind is carefully preserved in all kinds of places. Bankers' sellers, for instance, containing some of the most curious unclaimed deposits, many of them being of rare intrinsic value whilst others are of great romantic interest. Thus not many years ago there was accidentally discovered in the vaults of the Bank of England a large chest of some considerable age which on being removed from its resting place almost fell to pieces. On the contents of this old chest being examined some massive plate of the time of Charles II was brought to light a very beautiful and chaste workmanship. Nor was this all, for much to the surprise of the explorers a bundle of love letters written during the period of the restoration was found carefully packed away with the plate. On search being made by the directors of the bank in their books their surviving air of the original depositor was ascertained to whom the plate and packet of love letters were handed over. Many similar cases might be quoted, for in most of our bank sellers are hoarded away family treasures which for some inexplicable reason have never been claimed. Some again of our old jeweller's shops have had strange deposits in their sellers, the history and whereabouts of their owners having baffled the most searching and minute inquiries. As an illustration may be given an instance which occurred some years back in connection with a jeweller's shop near Soho. It seems that an old lady lodged for a few weeks over the said shop, and on leaving for the continent left behind her for safety's sake several boxes of plate to be taken care of until further notice. But years passed by and no tidings of the lady reached the jeweller, although from time to time the most careful inquiries were instituted. At last however it transpired that she had died somewhat suddenly, but as no record was found amongst her papers relating to the boxes of plate a lengthened litigation arose as to the rightful claimant of the property. Occasionally through domestic differences homes are broken up and the members dispersed, some perhaps going abroad. In many cases such persons it may be are not only lost sight of for years, but are never heard of again, and hence, when they become entitled to money, large sums are frequently spent in advertising for their whereabouts, and often times with no satisfactory results. Indeed advertisements for missing relatives are, it is said, yearly on the increase, and considerable sums of money cannot be touched owing to the uncertainty as to whether persons of this description are alive or dead. An interesting instance occurred in the year 1882, when Sir James Hannon had the following case brought before him. Council applied on behalf of Augustus Alexander Denisville for letters of administration to the property of his father, supposed to be dead, as he had not been heard of since the year 1831, and who, if alive, would be 105 years old. In early life he held a commission in the French army, but in the year 1826 he came to this country and settled in Devonshire. On the breaking out of the French Revolution he returned with his wife to France, but his wife came back to England and corresponded with her husband till the year 1831, when she ceased to hear from him. In spite of every means employed for tracing his whereabouts, nothing was ever heard of him, his wife dying in the year 1875. Affidavits, in support of these facts having been read, the application was granted. Then there are the well-known unclaimed funds in Chancery, concerning which so much interest attaches. It may not be generally known what a mine of wealth these dormant funds constitute, amounting to many millions. Indeed the royal courts of justice have been mainly built with the surplus interest of this money, and occasionally large sums from this fund have been borrowed to enable the Chancellor of the Exchequer to carry through his financial operations. By an act passed in the year 1865 facilities are afforded to apply one million pounds from funds standing in the books of the Bank of England to an account thus designated. Account of securities purchased with surplus interest arising from securities carried to the account of monies placed out for the benefit and better security of the suitors of the Court of Chancery. Not so very long ago the subject was discussed in Parliament, when it was urged that, as the Government were trustees of these funds, something should be done, as far as possible, by publicity, to adopt measures whereby the true owners might become claimants if they had but the knowledge of their rights. Another reason for money remaining unclaimed for a number of years is through missing wills. Hence many a family forfeits its claim to certain property on account of the test data's last wishes not being forthcoming. Thackeray makes one of his plots hang in a most ingenious way upon the missing will, which is discovered eventually in the sort box of a family coach, and various curious instances are on record of wills having been discovered years after the test data's death, in the most out of the way and unlikely hiding places. In some cases also, through a particular clause in a will being peculiarly or doubtfully worded, heirs have been deprived of what was rarely due to them, a goodly part of the property having been squandered and wasted in prolonged legal expenses. Then again it is universally acknowledged that there is an immense quantity of money and other valuables concealed in the earth. In olden days the householder was the guardian of his own money, and so had to conceal it as his ingenuity could devise. Accordingly large sums of money were frequently buried underground, and in excavating old houses treasures of various kinds are often times found but underneath the floors. The custom of making the earth a stronghold, and confiding to its safekeeping deposits of money, prevailed until a comparatively recent period, and was only natural when it is remembered how, in consequence of civil commotions, many a home was likely to be robbed of its most valuable belongings. Hence every precaution was taken, a circumstance which accounts for the cunning secretal of rich and costly relics in old buildings. According to an entry given by peeps in his diary, a large amount was supposed to be buried in his day, and he gives an amusing account of the hiding of his own money by his wife and father, when the Dutch fleet was supposed to be in the medway. Times of trouble, therefore, will account for many of the treasures which were so carefully secreted in olden times. Many years ago, as the foundations of some old houses in Exeter were being removed, a large collection of silver coins was discovered, the money found dating from the time of Henry VIII to Charles I or the Commonwealth, and it has been suggested that the disturbed state of affairs in the middle of the 17th century led to this mode of securing treasure. This will account in some measure for the traditions of the existence of large sums of hidden money associated with some of our old family mansions. An amusing story is related by Thomas Walsingham, which dates as far back as the 14th century. A certain Saracen physician came to Earl Warren to ask permission to kill a dragon which had its den at Bromfield near Ludlow and committed great ravages in the Earl's lands. The dragon was overcome, but it transpired that a large treasure lay hid in its den. Thereupon some men of Herefordshire went by night to dig for the gold and had just succeeded in reaching it when the retainers of the Earl of Warren, having learned what was going on, captured them and took possession of the hoard for the Earl. A legend of this kind was long connected with Holm Hall, formally a seat of a branch of the Presswich family. It seems that during the Civil Wars its then owner, Sir Thomas Presswich, was very much impoverished by fines and sequestrations so that he was forced to sell the mansion and estate to Sir Oswald Mosley. On more than one occasion his mother had induced him to advance large sums of money to Charles I and his adherents under the assurance that she had hidden treasures which would amply repay him. This hoard was generally supposed to have been hidden either in the hall itself or in the grounds adjoining, and it was said to be protected by spells and incantations known only to the Lady Dowager herself. Time passed on and the old lady became every day more infirm, and at last she was struck down with apoplexy before she could either practice the requisite incantations or inform her son where the treasure was secreted. After her burial, diligent search was made but to no effect, and Sir Thomas Presswich went down to the grave in comparative poverty. Since that period fortune tellers and astrologers have tried their powers to discover the whereabouts of this hidden hoard and although they have been unsuccessful it is still believed that one day their labors will be rewarded and that the demons who guard the money will be forced to give up their charge. Some years ago the hall and estate were sold to the Duke of Bridgewater and the site having been required for other purposes the hall was pulled down, but no money was discovered. In Ireland there are few old ruins in and about which excavations have not been made in the expectation of discovering hidden wealth, and in some instances the consequence of this belief has been the destruction of the building which has been actually undermined. About three miles south of Cork near the village of Douglas is a hill castle called Castle Treasure where a cross of gold was supposed to be concealed and the discovery some years ago of a rudely formed clay urn and two or three brazen implements attracted for some time crowds to the spot. But such stories are not confined to any special locality and there is in most parts of England a popular belief that vast treasures are hidden beneath the old ruins of many houses and that supernatural obstacles always prevent their being discovered. Indeed Scotland has numerous legends of this kind some of which as Mr Chambers has pointed out have been incorporated into its popular rhymes. Thus on a certain farm in the parish of Les Mahagau from time immemorial there existed a tradition that beneath a very large stone was secreted a vast treasure in the shape of a kettle full, a boot full, and a bull hide full of gold all of which have been designated Katie Neve's Horde having given rise to the following adage. Between Diller Hill and Crossford there lays Katie Neve's Horde. And at Far Dell, anciently the seat of Sir Walter Raleigh's family in the courtyard formally stood an inscribed bilingual stone of the Roman British period. The stone is now in the British Museum. The tradition current in the neighborhood makes the inscription refer to a treasure buried by Sir Walter Raleigh and hence the local rhyme. Between this stone and Far Dell Hall lies as much money as the devil can haul. A curious incident happened in Ireland about the commencement of the last century. The Bishop of Derry being at dinner there came in an old Irish harper and sang an ancient song to his harp. The Bishop, not being acquainted with Irish, was at a loss to understand the meaning of the song, but on inquiry he ascertained the substance of it to be this, that in a certain spot a man of gigantic statuary lay buried, and that over his breast and back were plates of pure gold, and on his fingers rings of gold so large that an ordinary man might creep through them. The spot was so exactly described that two persons actually went in quest of the garden treasure. After they had dug for some time they discovered two thin pieces of gold, circular, and more than two inches in diameter. But when they renewed their excavations on the following morning they found nothing more. The song of the harper has been identified as Moiva Bob, and the lines which suggested the remarkable discovery have been translated thus. In earth beside the loud cascade the son of Sora's king was laid, and on each finger placed a ring of gold by mandate of our king. The loud cascade was the well-known waterfall of Ballyshannon known as the Salmon Leap now. It was also a common occurrence for a miser to hide away his hordes underground, and before he had an opportunity of making known their whereabouts he died, without his heirs being put in the necessary possession of the information regarding that part of the earth wherein he had kept secreted his wealth. At different times in old houses have been discovered miser's hordes, and which, but for some accident, would have remained buried in their forgotten resting place. This will frequently account for money being found in the most eccentric nooks, an illustration of which happened a few years ago in Paris, when a miser died leaving behind him, as was supposed, money to the value of sixty pounds. After some months had passed by the claimant to the property made his appearance, and on the miser's apartments being thoroughly searched, no small astonishment was caused by the discovery of the large sum of thirty-two thousand pounds. It may be noted that in former years our forefathers were extremely fond of hiding away their money for safety, making use of the chimney or the wainscot or skirting board. There it frequently remained, and such depositories of the family wealth were occasionally from death and other causes completely forgotten. In one of Hogarth's well-known pictures, the young spin-thrift, who has just come into his inheritance, is being measured by a fashionable tailor, when from behind the panels which the builders are ripping down is seen falling a perfect shower of golden money. There can be no doubt that there is many an old house in this country, which, if thoroughly ransacked, would be found to contain treasures of the most valuable and costly kind. Some years ago, for example, a collection of pictures was discovered at Merton College, Oxford, hidden away between the ceiling and the roof, and missing deeds have, from time to time, been discovered located in all sorts of mysterious nooks. In a set of rooms in Mordlin College, too, which had been originally occupied by one of the fellows, and had subsequently been abandoned and devoted to lumber, was unearthed a strong wooden box, containing, together with some valuable articles of silver plate, a beautiful loving-cup, with a cover of pure gold. When also the vicarage house of Ormsby in Yorkshire required reparation, some stonework had to be removed in order to carry out the necessary alterations, in the cause of which a small box was found, measuring about a foot square, which had been embedded in the wall. The box, when opened, was full of angels, angelets, and nobles. Some of the money was of the reign of Edward IV, some of Henry VI, and some, too, of the reigns of Henry VII and Henry VIII. It has been suggested that when Henry VIII dissolved the lesser monasteries, the monks of Gysborough Priory, which was only about six miles off, fearing the worst, fled with their treasures, and, with the craft and cunning peculiar to their order, buried a portion of them in the walls of the Parsonage House of Ormsby. To quote another case, Dunsford, in his Memories of Tiverton, 1790, page 285, Speaking of the village of Chediscome, says that in the middle of the 16th century, in the north part of the village, was a chapel and tire dedicated to St. Mary. The walls and roof are still whole, and served some years past for a dwelling house, but is now uninhabited. It appears that not only was there some superstition attaching to this building, which accounted for its untenanted condition, but certain money was supposed to be hidden away to discover which every attempt had hitherto been in vain. It was therefore proposed, says the author, that some person should lodge in the chapel for a night to obtain preternatural information respecting it. Two persons at length complied with the request to do so, and, aided by strong beer, approached about nine o'clock the hallowed walls. They trembled exceedingly at the sudden appearance of a white owl that flew from a broken window with the message that considerable wealth lay in certain fields, that if they would diligently dig there, they would undoubtedly find it. They quickly attended to this piece of information, and employed a body of workmen who, before long, succeeded in bringing to light the missing money. A similar tradition was associated with Bransil Castle, a stronghold of great antiquity situated in a romantic position about two miles from the Herefordshire Beacon. The story goes that the ghost of Lord Beauchamp, who died in Italy, could never rest until his bones were delivered to the right air of Bransil Castle. Accordingly they were sent from Italy enclosed in a small box, and were for a considerable time in the possession of Mr. Sheldon of Abboton. The tradition further states that the old castle of Bransil was moated round, and in that moat a black crow, presumed to be an infernal spirit, sat to guard a chest of money, till discovered by the rightful owner. The chest could never be moved, without the mover being in possession of the bones of Lord Beauchamp. Such stories of hidden wealth, being watched over by phantom beings, are not uncommon, and reminders of those anecdotes of treasures concealed at the bottom of wells, guarded over by the white ladies. In Shropshire there is an old buried well of this kind, at the bottom of which a large horde has long been supposed to lie hidden, or, as a local rhyme expresses it, near the brook of Bell there is a well, which is richer than any man can tell. In the south of Scotland it is the popular belief that vast treasures have for many a year past been concealed beneath the ruins of a hermitage castle. But as they are supposed to be in the keeping of the evil one, they are considered beyond redemption. At different times various efforts have been made to dig for them, yet somehow the elements always on such occasions contrived to produce an immense storm of thunder and lightning, and deterred the adventurers from proceeding, otherwise of course the money would long ago have been found. And to give another of these strange family legends may be quoted one told of Stokesay Castle's Shropshire. It seems that many years ago all the country in the neighbourhood of Stokesay belonged to two giants who lived the one upon view edge and the other at Norton camp. The story, commonly current, is that they kept all their money locked up in a big oak chest in the vaults under Stokesay Castle, and when either of them wanted any of it he just took the key and got some. But one day one of them wanted the key and the other had got it, so he shouted to him to throw it over, as they had been in the habit of doing, and he went to throw it, but somehow he made a mistake and threw too short, and dropped the key into the moat down by the castle, where it has remained ever since. And the chest of treasure stands in the vaults still, but no one can approach it, for there is a big raven always sitting on the top of it, and he won't allow anybody to try and break it open, so no one will ever be able to get the giant's treasure until the key is found, and many say it never will be found, let folks try as much as they please. Amongst further reasons for the hiding away of money may be noticed eccentricity of character or mental delusion, a singular incident of which occurred some years ago. It appears that whilst some workmen were grobbing up certain trees at Toughnell Park near Highgate, they came upon two jars containing nearly four hundred pounds in gold. This they divided, and shortly afterwards, when the Lord of the Manor claimed the whole as treasure troves, the real owner suddenly made his appearance. In the course of inquiry it transpired that he was a brass founder living at Clarkinwell, and having been about nine months before, under a temporary delusion, he one night secreted the jars in a field at Toughnell Park. On proving the truth of his statement, the money was refunded to him. Chapter 16 Lucky Accidents As the unthought-on accident is guilty of what we wildly do, so we profess ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies of every wind that blows. Winter's Tale Act 4 Scene 3 Pascal one day remarked that if Cleopatra's nose had been shorter, the whole face of the world would probably have been changed. The same idea may be applied to the unforeseen advantages produced by accidents, some of which have occasionally had not a little to do with determining the future position in life of many eminent men. Prevented from pursuing the sphere in this world they had intended, compulsory leisure compelled them to adopt some hobby as a recreation, in which unconsciously their real genius lay. Thus David Allen, popularly known as the Scottish Hogarth, owed his fame and success in life to an accident. When a boy, having burnt his foot, he amused the monotony of his leisure hours by drawing on the floor with a piece of chalk, a mode of passing his time which soon obtained an extraordinary fascination for him. On returning to school he drew a caricature of his schoolmaster punishing a pupil, which caused him to be summarily expelled, but despite this punishment his success as an artist was decided. The caricature being considered so clever that he was sent to Glasgow to study art, where he was apprenticed in 1755 to Robert Foulis, a famous painter, who with his brother Andrew had secretly established an Academy of Arts in that city. Their kindness to him he was afterwards able to return when their fortunes were reversed. If Sir Walter Scott had not sprained his foot in running round the room when a child, the world would probably have had none of those works which have made his name immortal. When his son intimated a desire to enter the army, Sir Walter Scott wrote to Southerly, I have no title to combat a choice which would have been my own had not my lameness prevented. In the same way the effects of a fall when about a year old rendered Telly Rand lame for life, and being on this account unfit for a military career, he was obliged to renounce his birthright in favour of his second brother. But what seemed an obstacle to his future success was the very reverse. For turning his attention to politics and books he eventually became one of the leading diplomatists of his day. Again Josiah Wedgwood was seized in his boyhood with an attack of smallpox, which was followed by a disease in the right knee. Some years after it was necessitated in the amputation of the affected limb. But, as Mr Gladstone, in his address on Wedgwood's life and work delivered at Burslam, October 26th, 1863 remarked, the disease from which he suffered was, no doubt, the cause of his subsequent greatness for. It prevented him from growing up to be the active vigorous English workman, but it put upon him considering whether, as he could not be that, he might not be something else and something greater. It drove him to meditate upon the laws and secrets of his art. Flamsteed was an astronomer by accident. Being removed from school on account of his health, it appears that a cold caught in the summer of 1660 while bathing, which produced a rheumatic affection of the joints, accompanied by other ailments. He became unable to walk to school and finally left in May 1662. His self-training now began, and Sacroborco's desfera was lent to him, with the perusal of which he was so pleased that he forthwith commenced a course of astronomical studies. Accordingly, he constructed a rude quadrant and calculated the table of the son's altitudes, pursuing his studies, as he said himself, under the discouragement of friends, the want of health, and all other instructors, except his better genius. Alluding to accidents as sometimes developing greatness, Mr. Smiles remarks that Pope's satire was in a measure the outcome of his deformity, and Lord Byron's clubfoot, he adds, had probably not a little to do with determining his destiny as a poet. Had not his mind been embittered and made morbid by his deformity, he might never have written a line. But his misshapen foot stimulated his mind, roused his ardour, threw him upon his own resources, and we know with what result. Again, in numerous other ways it has been remarked, accidents have taken a lucky turn, and if not being the road to fortune, have had equally important results. The story is of a young officer in the army of General Wolfe, who was supposed to be dying of an abscess in the lungs. He was absent from his regiment on sick leave, but resolved to join it when a battle was expected, for, said he, since I am given over, I had better be doing my duty, and my life's being shortened a few days matters not. He received a shot which pierced the abscess, and made an opening for the discharge, the result being that he recovered and lived to eighty years of age. Brunel, the celebrated engineer, had a curious accident which might have forfeited his life. While one day playing with his children, and astonishing them by passing a half sovereign through his mouth out at his ear, he unfortunately swallowed the coin which dropped into his windpipe. Brunel regarded the mischief caused by the accident as purely mechanical, a foreign body had got into his breathing apparatus and must be removed, if at all, by some mechanical expedient. But he was equal to the emergency, and had an apparatus constructed which had the effect of relieving him of the coin. In after-days he used to tell how, when his body was inverted, and he heard the gold piece strike against his upper front teeth, was, perhaps, the most exquisite moment in his whole life, the half-sovereign having been in his windpipe for not less than six weeks. In the year 1784 William Pitt almost fell the victim to the folly of a festive meeting, for he was nearly accidentally shot as a highwayman. Returning late at night on horseback from Wimbledon to Addiscombe, together with Lord Thurlow, he found the turnpike gate between tooting and stratum thrown open. Both passed through it, regardless of the threats of the turnpike man, who, taking the two for high women, discharged the contents of his blunderbuss at their backs. But happily no injury was done, and Pitt had the good fortune to escape from what might have been a very serious, if not fatal, accident. Foot, too, met with a bad accident on horseback, which at the time seemed a lasting obstacle to his career as an actor. Whilst riding with the Duke of York and some other nobleman, he was thrown from his horse and his leg broken, so that an amputation became necessary. In consequence of this accident, the Duke of York obtained for him the patent of the Haymarket Theatre for his life, but he continued to perform his former characters with no less agility and spirit than he had done before to the most crowded houses. Similarly, on one occasion, a very important one, Charles James Matthews was nearly prevented making his first appearance on the stage through being thrown from his horse, but, to quote his own words, the excitement of the evening dominated all other feelings, and I walked for the time as well as ever. Some men, again, have owed their success to the accidents of others. A notable instance was that of Baron Ward, the well-known minister of the Duke of Palmer. After working sometimes as stable-boy in Howden, he went to London, where he had the good luck to come to the Duke of Palmer's assistance after a fall from his horse in Rotten Row. The Duke took him back to Luca as his groom, and ere long, Ward made the Ducal stud the envy of Italy. He soon rose to a higher position and became the minister and confidential friend of the Duke of Palmer, with whom he escaped in the year 1848 to Dresden, and for whom he succeeded in recovering Palmer and Plochenza. Indeed, Lord Palmerston once remarked, Baron Ward was one of the most remarkable men I ever met with. It was through witnessing an accident that Sir Ashley Cooper made up his final decision to take up surgery as his profession. A young man, having been run over by a cart, was in danger of dying from loss of blood, when young Cooper lost no time in tying his handkerchief about the wounded limb, so as to stop the hemorrhage. It was this incident which assured him of his taste for surgery. In the same way, the story is quoted of the eminent French surgeon, Ambrose Perret. It is stated that he was acting as stable-boy to an abbey at Laval, when a surgical operation was about to be performed on one of the brethren of the monastery. On being called in to assist, Ambrose Perret not only proved so useful, but was so fascinated with the operation that he made up his mind to devote his life to the study and practice of surgery. Instances of this kind might be enumerated, being a frequent occurrence in biographical literature, and showing to what unforeseen circumstances men have occasionally owed their greatness. A romance which, had it lacked corroborative evidence, would have seemed highly improbable, as told of the two countesses of Kelly. In the latter half of the last century, Mr. Gordon, the proprietor of Ardok Castle, situated upon a high rock overlooking the sea, was one evening roused by the firing of a gun evidently from a vessel in distress near the shore. Hastening down to the beach, with the servants of the castle, it was evident that the distressed vessel had gone down, as the floating spars but too clearly indicated. After looking out in vain for some time in the hope of recovering some of the passengers, either dead or alive, he found a sort of crib, which had been washed ashore containing a live infant. The little creature proved to be a female child, but beyond the fact that its wrappings pointed to its being the offspring of persons in no mean condition, there was no trace as to who these were. The little foundling was brought up with Mr. Gordon's own daughters, and when she had attained to womanhood by an inexplicable coincidence, a storm similar to that just mentioned occurred. An alarm-gun was fired, and this time Mr. Gordon had the satisfaction of receiving a shipwrecked party, whom he had once made his guests at the castle. Amongst them was one gentleman-passenger who, after a comfortable night spent in the castle, was surprised at breakfast by the entrance of a troupe of blooming girls, the daughters of his host, as he understood, but one who especially attracted his attention. Is this young lady your daughter too? He inquired of Mr. Gordon. No, replied his host. But she is as dear to me as if she were. He then related her history to which the stranger listened with eager interest, and at its close he not a little surprised Mr. Gordon by remarking that he had reason to believe that the young lady was his own niece. He then gave a detailed account of his sister's return from India, corresponding to the time of the shipwreck, and at it— She is now an orphan, but if I am not mistaken in my supposition, she is entitled to a handsome provision which her father bequeathed to her in the hope of her yet being found. Before many days had elapsed, sufficient evidence was forthcoming to prove that by this strange but lucky accident of the shipwreck the long-lost niece was found. The young heiress keenly felt leaving the old castle, but to soften the wrench it was arranged that one of the Mrs. Gordon should accompany her to Gothenburg, where her uncle had long been settled as a merchant. The sequel of this romance, as it is pointed out in the Book of Days, is equally astonishing. It seems that among the scotch merchants settled in the Swedish port was Mr. Thomas Erskine, a younger son of a younger brother of Sir William Erskine of Campbell, in Fife, an offshoot of the family of the Earl of Kelly, to whom Miss Anne Gordon was married in the year 1771. A younger brother named Methven, ten years later married Joanna, a sister of Miss Gordon. It was never contemplated that these two brothers would ever come near to the peerage of their family, there being at one time seventeen persons between them and the family titles. But in the year 1797 the baronet of Campbell became Earl of Kelly, and two years later the title came to the husband of Anne Gordon. In short, these two daughters of Mr. Gordon, of Ardock, became in succession countesses of Kelly in consequence of the accident of the shipwrecked foundling whom their father's humanity had rescued from the waves.