CHAPTER XXVI.

LORIMER'S FIRST APPEARANCE ON ANY STAGE.

THE railway conveyed Professor Dabskin and his new secretary to Stumpington on the afternoon of the day following that which we have described.

Stumpington is not, perhaps, one of the most important places in the kingdom, though so considered by its own inhabitants. It is not very extensive, nor is it much distinguished for anything in particular. It is, indeed, one of those country towns that puzzle busy men of the world to know what they were built for, who inhabit them, and what they do to pass away the time. If you walked down its High Street you would be still more puzzled about the last point, for you seldom met more than one or two people in it, except a lazy ostler outside the inn that nobody ever went to, or a waggondriver plodding heavily along beside his sleepy team. Yet there must have been something to do, because there was a fair number of shops, and there was a bank, with its name in great gold letters on its wireblinds, and there was a market-place and a theatre. Yes, positively there was a theatre; but then it was seldom open. Occasionally a few third-rate actors "on circuit" called there, and gave a couple of nights, when the house smelt very fusty, and the scenes (everybody knew them as well as the furniture of their own rooms) would not shift well, and the gas bobbed up and down unpleasantly as if the pipes were damp, as they no doubt were, and the curtain had holes in it badly darned up. Still, with all these drawbacks, Stumpington was always considered by the Thespians on circuit a fair paying place for a couple of nights.

At this moment the walls of the markethouse and every other available blank wall in and about the place, together with the shop-windows, had tremendous "posters" announcing the fact that the great wizard and necromancer, mesmerist and enchanter, Professor Dabskin, was going to give his unrivalled entertainment, which he had had the honour of presenting before all the crowned, and most of the uncrowned, heads of Europe and the world, that night, and that night only, in the Theatre Royal aforesaid.

The "posters" were not thrown away; never before were so many boxes and seats taken beforehand as on this occasion in

Stumpington. It was hinted that the lordlieutenant and lady-lieutenant of the county, and all the little lieutenants (that is to say, their fair and interesting family) would be present. It was proclaimed that Colonel Bumpus and the officers of the 19th Heavy Dragoons, quartered at the nearest garrison town, would all come over; and the announcement made every young lady in the town most earnestly anxious to see-the professor. The mayor's name appeared in the bills as special patron of the entertainment, and, in short, everything was done to make the event come off well, and Stumpington resolved to have a night of it.

When the professor and Lorimer drove into the town from the railway stationwhich, like all country railway stations was, of course, a long way from any human habitation, except that of the station-masterwhen they drove into the town in an open post-chaise they were vociferously cheered by a multitude of people, who wondered which was the professor and who the other could be, and admired the bright blue livery and eruption of buttons on the professor's page seated in the dickey; and wondered still more who the grave-looking gentleman seated by the side of the page could be, and had not the slightest notion that it could be the professor's French cook.

As soon as they were safe in their hotel, the proprietor of the theatre called.

"Well, Mr. Brown, how go matters ?" asked Dabskin.

"Capitally, professor; capitally. Never knew so many places taken beforehand in my life."

"You've never had me here before," said the professor.

"Ha ha! Very good; just so." "My secretary, Mr. Littlegood; Mr. Brown, Mr. Littlegood,” continued the professor, introducing them.

"Sir, to you; you do me proud," said Mr. Brown.

"What time do we begin ?" asked

Mr. Brown departed, promising to see to everything connected with his department, namely, the theatre itself, and left the professor and Lorimer alone.

As the hour of seven approached, the latter began to feel a little nervous. He did not like the idea of assisting at such a juggling affair at all. However, it was too late to draw back now; and so Lorimer determined to have some fun to himself and after his own fashion.

"Now, understand, I expect you to do exactly what I tell you," said the professor, who seemed to Lorimer to have adopted rather a more important and commanding tone since they left London. "If you don't we shall quarrel, and I'm not a man to be trifled with."

Lorimer started in surprise; but the professor was sipping his soup, and seemed quite unaware that he was adopting an offensive tone.

"I'll serve you out," thought Lorimer, "for your impertinence ;" and he kept his word.

At seven o'clock the Stumpington theatre was "crowded with an overflowing audience," as newspapers always phrase it. The lordlieutenant had really come and brought his lady and his little ones. The officers of the heavy dragoon regiment had also actually come, and the Stumpington young ladies were in raptures and ringlets, each striving to outdo the other in smiles, good humour, and good looks. The Stumpington young men were there also-less pleased, because they did not at all admire the heavies aforesaid, and thought their moustachios quite absurd. It is true that one or two individuals had tried to get up a moustache movement in Stumpington, but it broke down, and the directors of the bank especially forbade their clerks to cultivate such an ornament under pain of instant dismissal-being, in fact, particular to a hair, and connecting forgery and embezzlement with hirsute countenances,

There was a band, and the band played an overture to something nobody knew what, though whether this arose from the limited musical knowledge of Stumpington, or from the limited powers of execution of the band, we cannot decide. And then the curtain drew up, and Buttons was discovered standing beside a velvet-covered table.

Then the professor entered and made his bow, and then all Stumpington clapped its hands and hurrahed, and then the professor

put his hand on his heart and bowed again and again; and then, by degrees, the noise subsided, and the professor said:

“Ladies and gentlemen —”

But we are not going to give the professor's speech-it was completely to the point; which was that he, the professor, was the greatest man in the world. Nobody attempted to dispute this fact, and the professor talked with such eloquence about his foreign orders (for which he had been cramming poor Lorimer on his way from town) that all Stumpington believed him to have more decorations than the late Duke of Wellington.

After the preliminary speech the professor performed a great number of the tricks which every mountebank does perform, and which one may see as well done in the street as in the professor's entertainment. No matter; everybody applauded everything, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

"Now then, I want you," said the professor to Lorimer, in an under tone. "Now mind what you're about, and don't make any confounded mistake."

Here the professor made another little speech to the audience touching the wonders of mesmerism. He deprecated the unbelief of some people in this most wonderful discovery of modern times, and protested that he would afford them the most convincing proofs of its extraordinary effects.

He then made Lorimer sit on a chair in the middle of the stage, facing the audience.

"Now observe, ladies and gentlemen," he said, and he began making passes at Lorimer. "He is gradually becoming comatose."

Lorimer laughed an audible laugh; the audience laughed too.

"Confound you!" whispered the professor. "Be still, or I'll serve you out. You see, ladies and gentlemen, that being far from a weak or nervous young man, this gentleman takes some time to be completely affected. Observe that he is gradually becoming perfectly still."

And so he did. By degrees, Lorimer's hands dropped down, his eyes became fixed and remained perfectly listless and apparently in a waking sleep.

"At this moment, ladies and gentlemen, the patient is entirely under my control. He cannot move, or speak, or think but as I please. I will give you proofs of this. Do you hear me?" addressing the patient. "Yes."

"You can't lift your arm-try."

The arm did not move.

"Try to move your right leg." The leg did not move.

"Now observe, ladies and gentlemen," and the professor took Lorimer's arm and lifted it straight up. "Where I put it, it will remain ;" and it did remain bolt upright.

The audience applauded vociferously.

"Now observe me put it down again," and he took hold of the arm, but it did not come down. "Let it down you fool, will you?" whispered the professor in a rage.

Lorimer sprung up from his seat, caught the astounded professor by the collar, and led him before the no less astounded audience.

"Now confess to these ladies and gentlemen," cried Lorimer, scarcely able to repress his own laughter. "Confess what a miserable trickster you are. Confess you don't know anything at all about mesmerism, and that you only want to impose on them before

their faces, get their money, and laugh at them behind their backs. Confess, sir!"

Shouts of laughter greeted the professor, who cowered under the grasp, the glance, and the voice of his secretary. Shaking him well, Lorimer gave him a thrust and sent him spinning off the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Lorimer, "if I have spoilt your amusement I sincerely beg your forgiveness. So long as the man performed his own tricks I did not interfere, but when he wished to make me a party to a gross deceit I judged it right to expose him."

There were a few cheers, but a very few; and then followed loud groans. At first Lorimer thought these were for the professor, but shouts of "Off! off!" convinced him that he was the object of their anger.

He was surprised! How little he knew the world! Was any man ever grateful to another for showing him that he had been made a fool of?

(To be continued.)

CHAPTER I.

I was

DURING a visit to fair Caledonia, in 1854, after wandering through and admiring many spots celebrated by historic deeds, and rendered familiar by Sir Walter Scott, I went with my sister and a friend to Glenardross, a beautifully situated property, some miles from Craigonie. We started early, as we proposed hearing a rather celebrated preacher in the vicinity of our destination. quite carried back to the old days of the Covenanters on seeing, as we drove past, the hill-side dotted with the figures of men, women, and children, attentive, reverent listeners to the teachings of a bald and aged man, who stood a little above them, expounding the sacred volume clasped in his outstretched hand. I felt thankful that the days were past, when a band of troopers could rush in amongst and disturb the beautiful tranquillity and devotion of those humble worshippers in that exquisite temple not made with hands. But to proceed—we clambered at length to the top of the high ascent-the horses seemed moving along only on their hind legs-then tearing down the steep hill on the other side, at an uncom

fortably rapid rate, we found ourselves at Glenardross.

The first impression is, that Glenardross lies low, but it is only the force of comparison for when I reached the drawingroom, and looked out on the lovely undulating prospect, sloping from a considerable eminence gently to the sea, I thought I had never beheld anything more perfect. Mr. Campbell, our host, a handsome, middle-aged man, with a shade of melancholy in his countenance, which added to an appearance already very interesting, did the honours of his house with a simple grace which pleased me much. Lunch over, we proceeded to explore the house, which, for the residence of a bachelor, was extremely comfortable. told Mr. Campbell, laughing, I hoped he would have no objection, after the manner of "Blue Beard," to our popping into all the rooms, for I was endowed with all the curiosity of Fatima, and would not be content unless I saw everything. He smiled in reply, and said he had none; so off we set to poke into all the nooks and crannies of the queer old place. His study was the last apartment we visited, and here my attention was immediately attracted by a picture which

I

hung above the fire-place. It was of a lady apparently about the age of eighteen, exceedingly beautiful. She was dressed in a scarlet riding habit, and wore a Spanish hat and plume of feathers; her face half turned away, and her fingers raised, as though the exclamation "hark!" was on her lips; her eyes spoke the expression of eager listening, you could almost fancy you heard the beating of her heart.

"Who is she expecting?" was the natural and mal-apropos inquiry I at once made.

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"The horse, of course," replied my sister, quickly, pulling my sleeve; don't you see it in the distance?"

"Yes! oh, yes! but who is this?"

Here a vision of my friend, winking horribly over Mr. Campbell's shoulder, attracted me, and then it dawned upon my dull senses that I was asking something very wrong, and without further remark, I made a hasty, and I dare say, very awkward retreat. On our return home, I received a lecture from my sister for not sooner taking the hint, but succeeded in eliciting from her the following narrative, which I give verbatim :

The father of the present Glenardross was not always the possessor of the beautiful place we have just left; he was, originally, what we call in Scotland, Bonnet Laird ;' that is, one to whom a very few acres have descended through a long line of ancestors, something between a yeoman and a gentleman in England A man of selfish, sordid disposition was Archibald Campbell. In early life, his time had passed in the most dissipated ways, at the house of the kindest of parents-who mourned over his conduct, the more that they saw their own injudicious indulgence had fostered those vices in him which care might have entirely rooted up. To their remonstrances and advice, he was perfectly indifferent; one voice alone had power to arrest him in his evil course-his cousin Grace's-and but for her guidance, he might have been entirely lost.

Grace Campbell, was a year or two his senior; she could boast of no beauty, she was not even good-looking; but there was that in her wide low forehead, and clear grey eye, which at once inspired confidence and respect. Good she was, and amiable, and dearly in the depth of her own true heart had she loved her wild cousin Archie for many a long year. She only called him wild; selfish she would not allow him to be. She had never expected in return more than the

affection of a near relative, and when at the age of thirty, he asked her to become his wife, the joy was almost more than she could bear. It was true he had since boyhood, on every occasion of difficulty, applied to her for counsel, and trusted her alone; but now she was by right to be his friend and helpmeet for evermore; and Grace knelt and thanked God for the blessing of Archie's love.

Archibald Campbell's parents had been but a few months dead at the time he married Grace, and at their demise, he had come into possession of the acres of land which constituted him a laird. It is wrong to impute motives to any one, and there was really so much to love in Grace, that even the coldest must have warmed into affection for her; still it was the opinion of many that Archie chose her for his partner, not because he loved her so much as, that knowing her cleverness, activity, and above all, devotion to himself, he calculated much of the anxiety and drudgery of the farm would be removed from his shoulders by making her his wife. And he was not deceived. Grace entered upon her duties with the determination that by her exertions and care, Archie's land and stedding should rival the best in the country side, and in the hope that the day might come, when he her idol-should "Arise up and call her blessed."

It was her delight to see him daily rely more and more on her opinion; to see that the haunts of his boon companions were forsaken for the cheery "ingle nuik” at home, where the evening hours were spent happily by Grace, in submitting to her lord the improvements she was contemplating, to which he consented after quite a regal fashion, between the whiffs he drew from his long ebony pipe-while her fingers never ceased their busy action down the long seams she was occupied in running: no moment of the day was lost by her.

Grace had now been married two years— everything appeared to thrive beneath her touch-already the land and kine of "Gowanside" were the admiration of the neighbouring gentry; and Archie was a perfectly reformed man, no longer indolent; as things every day improved, his vanity had induced him not to allow all the credit of this change to belong to the weaker vessel; and he at last took the prominent part in his own concerns which Grace had so wished him to do. She would have had him, perhaps, less exact

ing with his labourers-more open to the calls of charity; but she consoled herself with the reflection that after all, charity was more a woman's virtue than a man's-cases of distress were not brought before him as they were before her; and, therefore, did Grace quietly seek out and relieve the poor and needy on every side, that she might practise the virtue fully for her husband and herself. It is not to be wondered at, that while the poor bodies about, recognized the "gripping sense" in Archie, they called down blessings on his wife; and, without doubt, blessings came at last, although it was hard at first to distinguish them.

There was one thing wanting to complete Grace's happiness, for which she sighed in vain-she had no family; but Archie did not seem to regret it; and though her woman's heart often longed for the endearing caresses of a child, it was gratifying to think her affection was all he required to render him happy.

Time passed on, and Grace had been ten years a wife; prosperity had smiled on their path, and Archie was now, in his rank of life, a rich man. For this reason, I suppose it was, that old Glenardross, a cousin of Grace's, who had never been known to speak to his kinsfolk while living, left all his property to her husband: it is true the will stated that Glenardross' admiration had been such for Grace's management of the Gowanside acres, that he thought his property could not fall into better hands. But as he never during his life gave personally any tribute to her worth, I am inclined to believe there is a sort of attraction in riches, and that we should not err in reading literally the lines in Sacred Writ, "For unto him that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance, and to him that hath not, even that he hath shall be taken away."

Riches! how few of us can stand the test-least of all such as are formed in the mould of Archibald Campbell.

One provision of the will remains to be mentioned as it materially altered the even current of Grace's existence-in the event of Archie's dying childless, the estate Glenardross was to pass into the hands of the next of kin.

Now as Archie could carry nothing away with him from this world-to an unambitious mind it would have seemed really of little consequence, but not so with his-he fretted in secret over this clause of the will; his

cousin Sandy, became to him a Banquo; he could not enjoy the present for thinking of the future. His manner grew absent and sullen; and Grace wept silently over the only harsh words he had, as yet, ever spoken.

"You're nae weel, Archie ;" said Grace, gently, one morning some weeks after their accession of wealth. "What ails ye, man?

it's nae your custom now-a-days to be biding this long in the house."

"Hout! I'm thinking, woman; maun a man nae think sometimes, without being questioned this gait ?" was the gruff reply vouchsafed her, as he turned moodily away and left the room.

He did not return to supper that night at the usual hour, and she was growing anxious and uneasy for his appearance, when shouts of laughter broke the stillness of the winter evening, and a few minutes after, Archie entered, supported by two acquaintances, associates of former days whom he had long cast aside. Her first idea was, that her husband was ill, had met with an accident; but it was only transient, for soon the truth became apparent; he was intoxicated for the first time since the early days of their marriage.

"It's a' the fault of the gear," said Grace, mournfully; as having assisted her half unconscious husband to bed, she returned and resumed her seat by the fire, in the little parlour. "It's a' the fault of the gear; why could nae Glenardross hae given it to his other cousin at once, and no left word it was to pass through our hands first; many a time I've thought perhaps we had mair than was gude for us, without what's lately cum-gear's a sair trial to many folk! But may be I'm cushing ower muckle blame on poor Archie; he was nae weel the day, and the drap o' drink his acquaintance, I have nae doubt insisted on his takin', has affected him mair than ordinar'. He'll be a humbled man the morn's morning, it's sic a time sin he was fou before; I'll nae say a word to him about it; I'll just pretend I thought him ill, puir fellow; but the sooner we leave bonnie Gowanside the better, and take up our quarters at Glenardross,; so I'll just ask him to-morrow when we're to flit."

But the morn's morning found not Archie an humbled man by any means; he was as moody as ever, and when he did speak, so irritable and violent, that Grace was alarmed for his reason; she had never seen him in such a frame of mind before.