stillness succeeded; the sea grew darker and darker; and scarcely had I made a dozen steps to return, when the whole sky below the cloud was lighted up, thick large drops fell pattering on the rocks, and a peal of thunder, truly deafening, hurtled over where I stood. Other three minutes and I had been drenched. Looking hurriedly round, my eye caught a small aperture in the rocks beyond the chasm already mentioned. To leap this last was the work of a moment: the next I had crept into shelter. I am minute in noting down these trivial circumstances, in order that there may be not a shadow of doubt as to the veracity of my narrative. The impertinent sneers and incredulous smiles of my acquaintance are unwarranted by the slightest confusion in the events of that terrible day. My memory loses no point of it, from the moment when I alighted at the "Jolly Trawlers to that on which. But let me proceed regularly. The hole into which I had crept was somewhat in the similitude of a cavern, for it inereased in size as it penetrated the rock. For half-an-hour, however, I let this pass unobserved, being entirely engrossed with the grandeur of the storm. I never saw such lightning or heard such thunder before or since. The solid adamant under me shook tremblingly; the entire sea appeared covered with blue flame, and I can give no better idea of the rain than by saying that it literally roared on the rocks and the sea-weed. As near as I can calculate, at the expiration of the above time a blinding flash drove me backwards, and some minutes elapsed ere I recovered my sight. When I did, I sat down on a boulder, and with a feeling of awe mingled with deep vexation looked round the place which (there was every reason to think) might be my habitation for the night. As my eye began to penetrate its gloom, a new sensation rose in my breast-one of interest, which rapidly gave place to curiosity. As I have stated, the place grew larger as it penetrated the rock, so that at about eight feet from the entrance I could stand upright. As far as I could see anything the height appeared to have reached about twenty feet. There, however, the darkness became impenetrable, and how far the cave extended was left to conjecture. Certain fissures in the walls, too methodical to be natural, next attracted my attention; and I fairly started to my feet on seeing what appeared to be a ring-bolt, yellow with rust, imbedded in the roof above me. That the place had once been used for some purpose or another I felt sure, and this conviction was strengthened by discovering, from evident tool marks, that the orifice through which I had entered was the work of man. My whole nature was now excited. Where was I? In some old hole known to every clown in Shingletown? or had I made a discovery? What if I had found a hidden cave?-perhaps a smuggler's haunt of old times?-a storehouse for treasure?-a magazine of costly stuffs-real Cognac, vintage of '15, chests of dollars and Spanish doubloons, rolls of the Virginian leaf! Peugh! I fairly sank down, my pulse beating ninety to the minute, and wiped the perspiration from my brow. I was in a terrible state. With unabated fierceness the storm roared outside. My watch told me it was nearly nine, and my conscience that Mrs. T. would be looking anxiously from the door of the Jolly Trawlers. What was that to me now? O for a light! Bitterly did I regret not being a smoker. Eagerly did I search the floor for a flint, a piece of rotten wood-anything from which a flame might be drawn. In vain. I would have to wait till to-morrow. To-morrow? How many people might find it out by to-morrow? With a heavy heart I was thinking of casting myself down for the night, when it struck me that the light in the cave had increased; and fixing my eye steadily on the black distance, I was conscious of a faint glow in its centre. To this I immediately advanced, groping through, for all around was blank darkness. The light was no Will-o'-the-wisp at all events, for the nearer I got the larger and brighter it became. At last I saw what it was. It was no daylight: it was the glare of a flame shed on the ground through an aperture in the wall. I stood still. Perhaps few who glance over this page would not have done the same. I will not describe here the conflict of my mind during the half-hour that ensued. Several times I was on the point of silently_retracing my steps as often I went forward. During all this time the light burned steadily and brightly; but the stillness of the grave was there. My ear-intent even to pain-caught nothing but the beating of my own heart. At length I made a convulsive step forwards. Would to Heaven I had not! for no sooner did the dreadful scene open upon me than I felt powerless to speak, move hand or foot, almost to breathe. The light came from a large quaint horn lantern, suspended from the roof of a cavern to which the one I had just traversed was a mere passage. In the momentary glance I cast around, I perceived that this cave was literally loaded with spoil. Immense boxes, bales, and barrels were piled high on the walls round and round it. Within these again were countless casks of a smaller size; while, stacked carefully in stands between them, shone a complete armoury of flint firelocks, and here and there my eye caught the gleam of cutlasses and pistols, all of the same old fashion. I have said that to see this was the work of a moment; for instantly my gaze was riveted on an object in the centre of the cavern. Half leaning on a mass of rock on which he rested a night-glass, with the rays of the lantern full on him, stood a man. Such a man! Even in his bent posture he measured full six feet, and his dress would only have passed unheeded in a Surrey melodrama. Ponderous boots, reaching to mid-thigh, were topped by a sort of kilt of coarse canvass; and over his rough jacket was slung a broad belt, from which hung a short heavy cutlasss. Other weapons he had none; but a pair of enormous flint pistols lay on the rock beside him. Apparently keenly intent on making out some object to seaward, he moved the glass slowly along from right to left. His face was thus hidden from me; and all I could see of his head was a mass of thick grizzled locks curling over his jacket collar. At length, after an unusually prolonged peal, came a flash that lighted up the entire place as with a million jets. Suddenly, with a suppressed exclamation, the man shut the glass, drew him up to his full height, and stepped forward. Another flash and I saw him standing at the mouth of the cave, gazing at the lurid waters. A faint whistle came in, to which he instantly responded; and then, splash-splash-I could hear with increasing distinctness the regular dip of oars. A boat, seemingly full of men, passed between me and the shining tops of the waves; and the next moment her crew had leapt from her, and lifted her bodily into the cavern. I cannot express myself better than by saying that they all seemed to turn towards me at once; and, by the strong rays of the lantern, I saw their faces-of a bluish white; the lips parted horribly; the eyes staring open, but without a particle of expression or life: they were the faces of corpses! I think I am not sure, but I think-among my emotions at that instant was a fear of their coming upon me; for they strode without a word to within ten paces of the aperture. There, however, they paused. The man whom I had first seen sat down on the rock beside his pistols, and the rest stood round him in attitudes of respectful attention. They were all dressed alike, and armed to the teeth; yet not a footstep, not the click of a weapon was audible, as they took up their positions. Not a word was uttered, not a sound could I hear, but, as before, the pulsation of my heart like the piston of an engine. The man on the rock lifted up his head! "You know our rules," he said, in a voice there is no describing: "Before liquor passes our lips-is it right or not?" A smallish man, with shoulders of monstrous breadth and a beard that covered his chest, stepped forward, and replied: "Right, Cap'en." "Beef and biscuit stowed, and topsails bent?" 66 Yes, Cap'en." "Cutter off the Devil's Edge?" "Yes, Cap'en." "Good! And that sucking Admiral?" "We took him, gagged, under the thwarts, with a sail over him. Off the Edge I took off the sail. I told him. He made signal he wanted to speak." "You took out the gag?" "Yes, Cap'en." "You were a fool!-Go on." "He said he was but twenty-four, and the only son of an old widow. He said he was to be spliced in a week. He swore on his soul to be secret, and offered us a hundred pound each to let him go. We sank him with a couple of round shot." "Good! We'll weigh with the ebb at five, men. That will do, Goliah!" A general breaking-up of the council ensued, the men sitting or throwing themselves down on the rocks. From the background advanced a small mis-shapen boy, who proceeded to a niche in the wall, and returned immediately with a huge leather cup in each hand, which he set before the man on the rock and the man with the beard. This was repeated till each had been provided, when, standing up together and joining in a simultaneous shout, they drained the vessels to the dregs, and again delivered them to Goliah. Then quaint pipes of every conceivable size and shape were stuck in their grinning mouths; the lantern shone dimly through a haze of smoke; and song, jest, and laughter rang free and unrestrained. How long the ghastly revel continued-how often the pipes were re-lighted and the leather bowls refilled-how many frightful sallies, garnished with more frightful oaths, obtained an applauding roar-I have no definite recollection. Reason and memory both fail me in trying even to guess. It was a time of horrid sameness-of agony unutterable. There they were, gesticulating, shouting, clinking their cups; and yet, save the sound of their voices, nothing could be heard; not a muscle of their white faces relaxed, not an eye moved-it was terrible, terrible. "Now, men all, a toast! And drink it standing!" The captain was on his feet; his goblet held aloft. "Success to our flag, and death to traitors!" With frantic cheers the toast was drunk, the man with the beard positively leaping with enthusiasm; till on a sudden his leader bent on him a look that seemed to pierce his soul, and produced a stillness as deep as it was lasting. "What think you of the toast, men?" said the giant. "What think you of the toast, Ralph Hennet?" The bearded man made a motion forward, and then stopped as if shot. "Death to traitors!" resumed the chief. "Ralph Hennet, do traitors deserve death, or do they not?" The bearded man flung himself miserably on his knees. "Mercy!-mercy!" 66 Ralph Hennet, rise up!" He got on his feet with a sob. Quick as thought the chief raised one of the ponderous pistols, and the report echoed through the cavern. When the smoke cleared away, I saw the bearded man stretched out on his back, his forehead shattered to atoms! I have a remembrance of giving a scream, and then all consciousness departs. It is a time of utter blankness. Then a sort of indistinct light, and I saw shapes flitting around me. Suddenly I became aware of two things: first, that I was on a sofa, with my collar loosened; and second, that I was in the dining-room of the Jolly Trawlers. "He's all right, now, Jem," said one of the shapes; "bide wi' un a minute, though, while I see what them men wants. Poor gentleman! such a yowl was never heerd in this house afore." And just as the shape was sailing from the room, I recognized in it Mrs. Trawlers. Wondrous! Inexplicable! How had I come there? I rushed upon Jem.-"Jem! what is this? How was it done? Who found me in the cave, with the ghosts, and the pistols, and the man with his brains blown out?" Before I had reached the last word something very like a grin was over the entire vacant countenance of the stolid clown. He walked slowly to the table, subverted a decanter with each hand, so as to let the last drops fall out, put them under his arm, coughed, made a scrape, and withdrew. Such was all the enlightenment I ever received with regard to this impenetrable mystery. How I was taken from the cavern I am to this day utterly ignorant. But when conversation turns on the invisible world, I become quiet and grave; my jibe and jeer are heard no more. And if any coxcomb, vain and conceited as I once was, attempts to scoff at its mysteries, I invariably silence him (often at the earnest request of my friends) by relating my terrible adventure at Shingletown. the THE CHAP. I. VILLAGE PLAYERS. not, however, prevent his taking part in the performances. I remember I used to think his When I used to come home from school at deafness made him act more naturally, because the Midsummer vacation, one of the greatest in conversations he was obliged to watch the sources of pleasure to ine was always the pre-motion of the other actor's lips, and this attensence of the players. These players were a strolling company, who travelled from village to village within a circuit of some thirty or forty miles; and who generally managed to complete their round of visits within the year, so that their appearance at any given place was periodical. To us they came towards the close of June, and stayed till the last week in July; taking up their quarters and giving their performances at Red Lion," which was a larger building than most village inns, and had moreover a long room over its stables, which served admirably for theatrical purposes. They generally arrived before I did, and in my last letters from school I always made particular enquiries about their advent, and my first visit after I reached home was sure to be to them. So at that Midsummer when I left school for good, commencing no sixweeks' vacation but an indefinite period of holiday, passing on to a higher dignity than that of school-boy-at that Midsummer, even though I was turned fifteen, and piqued myself on being a man and a gentleman, it is not to be wondered at that I took an undiminished interest in my old friends. I asked my mother many questions about them on the night of my arrival-whether Mr. Owen's deafness was better; whether Robert made one laugh as much as ever; whether Mrs. Fitzjames sang any new songs; and, above all, how was little Lucy? Little Lucy, my mother told me, had grown into quite a woman. These actors took precedence in my inquiries of the Wilsons at the Vicarage-even of Clara Wilson, who was about twice my age, and with whom, towards the end of every vacation, I became secretly in love. In like manner, the morning after, before I thought of going to see the Wilsons, I set off for the "Red Lion," leaving our plantation surreptitiously by the little iron gate, for my mother thought it scarcely proper for me to go to the inn so often as I had been accustomed, and had told me as much at breakfast. While I am on my road, I may as well tell you what sort of people these players were. The company consisted of one family. They were, what every body called, very respectable people. In every village where they came the clergyman and the gentry of the place patronized them, and made much of them. They bore an irreproachable character: the plays which they played, and the songs which they sang, were always scrupulously weeded: the men were honest and upright, the daughters modest and good. The family consisted of seven members. Mr. Owen, the father, was deaf. This did tion gave him the appearance of really listening and conversing, while the rest directed their words obviously enough to the audience. When the performance was over, he would always be at the door, with his horn in his ear, thanking his patrons for their attendance, and hoping they had been amused. Mr. Owen had three sons and two daughters. The daughters were the eldest and the youngest of the five. Mary, the eldest, was married." Her husband was named Fitzjames (I think his real name was James, but Fitzjames was the theatrical rendering of it), and he was looked upon in some measure as the star of the company, because he had long ago acted for a few weeks in London at one of the small theatres on the Surrey side of the Thames. His manner of acting was indeed remarkable; he had a prodigious stage stride, and a prodigious stage voice. As the villain of a piece he was terrible: I have been to many theatres since I sat amongst his audience, many theatres in England and out of England, but I never heard anything to equal his gasps and his stampings and his prolongations of the letter R. As the gay young nobleman of a piece, also, he was very seductive; the way in which he swung his cane, drew off his gloves, and chucked Lucy, as pretty village-girl, under the chin, exceeded nature by many degrees. Personally he was a short man, almost deformed, having a very broad, strongly-made body on little legs. Mary, his wife, believed in him intensely, and was convinced in her own mind that he was the best of actors and the best of husbands. In the latter respect, at all events, she was right; the villain and the gay Lothario of the stage was in private life tender and true. Mary was tall and statuesque (a little too thin, however), and had a sweet, plaintive voice, which stood her in good stead in melancholy parts. Her favourite character was Mary Queen of Scots, which she enacted regally in thread-bare black velvet and a crumpled ruff. The three brothers were all tall fine young men, of whom I need only specify Robert. Robert did the comic business, and comic he was irresistibly. He alone of the company had real dramatic talent, which, in the end, made its way-but with that I have nothing to do. Lastly, there was Lucy. When I had seen Lucy the previous year she was still quite a girl; but her youth did not at all prevent her from taking her place upon the stage among the rest. Even when she was a mere child she had regularly had her rôle assigned her in each play; and the very fact of a child performing women's parts, leaving out of the question the pretty manner in which she performed them, always called forth special interest and special applause. Lucy was pretty and saucy and gay, and could sing like any little bird. This family, then, were well received throughout their small circuit; and the vicars and rectors of the villages where they periodically stayed patronized them and their performances. In return they were to be seen every Sunday at church, all seven decently dressed and decently behaved, listening devoutly to the clergyman, who had listened good-humouredly to them during the week. Just as I had turned out of the gate I met Tom Wilson, the vicar's son. We both asked the same question: "When did you come home?" and both received the same answer: "Yesterday." Tom Wilson was much older than I was. He had been my schoolfellow, but had left school years ago, and was now studying at the Royal Academy in London. I may mention, by the way, that the Wilsons hardly liked his choice of painting as a profession. They were of good family, and would have preferred his going to college, and being bred a clergyman, as had been his father and his grandfather before him; but nature was too strong for them. I can remember that at school Tom used to illustrate his Latin grammars, and had drawn a picture of the Furies (from Eschylus), which no one could look at without shuddering. Well, Tom had come from London the night before, and I was glad to see him; but I halfwished that he had not met me on my road to the inn, as I should have preferred making my visit to the Owens alone. Still I felt some little pride in strolling arm-in-arm with him. He was a fine dashing fellow; he had grown a neat little brown moustache since I saw him last, which suited his short lip admirably; and, altogether, he looked well in his artistic get-up, to wit, a loose black-velvet lounging coat, a highpeaked felt hat, and loose neckerchief and collar. Tom was of a temperament very different to mine: he was quick and jovial and passionate, while I was shy and quiet. He had taken my part, and done me a thousand good turns when I was a small timid boy at school, and he still continued to patronize me, though my new sense of manhood a little rebelled against it. He asked about the old masters, and I told him of the changes that had taken place, and all the latest scandal of the school. Then I inquired after Clara and the rest; and by this time we were drawing near to the "Red Lion." "Where are you bound for?" he said. "I was going to see the actors, Tom. Do you know the actors are here?" "No; by Jove, that will be some fun," he answered; and went on to talk about them. He mimicked the manner in which Fitzjames dropped his h's, alluded to the "scragginess" of his wife and her everlasting crumpled ruff, and began to imitate the slow grand enunciation of the old man, who had a pompous humility in his way of address to gentry, which could well enough be ludicrously turned. "Your servant, gentlemen," " he mimicked; 'your servant, gentlemen.' Why, the old man says 'your servant' with the air of a princeof-the-blood, and, whenever he bows you out of his shabby little room, condescends to it like a king dismissing you from his presence-chamber." We entered the inn door laughing, received the welcomings of the landlord, and looked at the local paper while he went to announce us to the actors, who, he said, were "rursing" he believed, which we concluded to mean rehearsing. He returned in a moment, and said that Mr. Owen would be very glad to see us in the theatre. Thither we went, and were met at the door by the old gentleman, horn in ear. "Your servant, gentlemen," was his salutation; whereat we smiled. "I am proud and happy to see you again. Here we are, you see, at our work-not work to you, play to you. Only a little farce, but we get it up in character." All the actors were in character, as he said; and as they crowded round us their dresses looked tawdry in the daylight. Mrs. Fitzjames was in a tinselled riding-habit much too large for her spare form. Almost her first observation was that she wished Mr. Fitzjames was at home: he was going round distributing bills, but would soon be back. She always thought no one could get on without her husband—that all the rest put together could not sufficiently represent the dignity of the company without him. Robert was dressed as a facetious ostler. We shook hands with him very heartily, and were glad to see his funny face again. The other two brothers represented travelling gentlemen; one being booted and spurred and drab-coated, the other in a military fancy dress of red and blue. They looked foolish and awkward. Lucy hung behind-Lucy suddenly transformed from a child into as buxom, blushing, smiling a little woman as you could wish to see. 66 Why, is that Lucy - my old friend, little Lucy?" cried Wilson in surprise. The newness of her womanhood made Lucy shy. She half came forward, and then stopping took refuge from her woman-nature in her actress-art. "Your servant, sir," she said, dropping the most impertinent of curtsies. She was dressed as some theatrical waiting-maid: a tiny cap on her smooth-braided hair, a tiny apron round her waist. In the pockets of this apron she put her hands, and tossed her head till the cap fluttered, as she said, "Your servant, sir." Wilson The effect was comical and pretty. laughed, strode forward, took her right hand from the pocket, and held it, saying: "I can remember the time when I used to kiss you, Lucy; but I suppose I must not do so now?" "No, no," broke in her father gravely (he was listening through his horn), and Robert shook his head. I shook hands with Lucy too, and in a moment her shyness was over, and she was chatShe told tering away to us in her old manner. me I had grown very much; was changed much |