Victorian Short Fiction

Robert Dundas Murray, “The Lonja of Seville” (1841)

emgarn — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 22:04:47 +0000

Introduction

Works Cited

Publication History

Full Text

Notes

Introduction [top]

Emily Garner

“In full view was a nose, not of the pygmy kind that we mortals generally wear, but one whose gigantic style of architecture would have added dignity, if not grace, to the front of a Cyclops.”

Published in the popular periodical, Bentley’s Miscellany, “The Lonja of Seville” features a long history and description of the Lonja, an ancient merchant market that, over time, has changed to a document repository containing the history of the Spanish Empire in the Americas. After the history, Murray tells the story of Spanish man in the midst of the Carnival celebrations who encounters a lovely Spanish woman. The story is a comedy as well as a satire concerning outward appearance. The Honorable Robert Dundas Murray was the youngest son of the Lord Elibank. He died at the young age of 38 in September of 1856. His only short story, “The Lonja of Seville” was included in the ninth edition of the periodical, which was published in 1841. Murray and his brother, J. Erskire Murray, a writer as well, both worked with Charles Dickens, editor of Bentley’s Miscellany in some capacity (Greaves 269).

Murray also wrote The Cities and Wilds of Andalusia, which was published by Richard Bentley himself in 1849. This two-volume book includes a section dedicated to Seville, specifically the Lonja itself. The description is written almost exactly as it is in the beginning of the short story found in Bentley’s Miscellany. Both credit the Lonja to Juan de Herrera, describing its proximity to the famous cathedral, and Italian design to name a few examples. Along with Cities, he wrote another travel book, A Summer at Port Philip, which was published in 1843. This book was set on the other side of the equator, Australia, specifically Port Philip which is modern day Melbourne.

Murray was considered the expert of Andalusia during this time. He is mentioned as the ‘consult’ for the Andalusia entry in the New International Encyclopedia, Volume I, published in London in 1853. In a book titled, The Spanish Gypsy: the history of a European Obsession, he is mentioned: “Among the British, American, and Irish who visited and wrote about Southern Spain from 1809 to 1884…Robert Dundas Murray (1846-47?)” (Charnon-Deutch 94). However, since “The Lonja of Seville” was published in 1841, I believe that he was there much earlier. Because of the rising popularity in monthly periodicals, Murray may have realized the potential market for publication in the fiction genre. An easy way to do this would have been to use his travel writing as a base for a story, which is evident in his use of the history of Sevilla as an introduction to the story.

Created by Richard Bentley, originally titled “Wit’s Miscellany,” the periodical’s intent was to publish new works by established names. By doing so, Bentley set the standard for his magazine to be current with times as well as created real competition for Henry Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine. By recruiting Charles Dickens, well known in the literary world as “Boz” of the Pickwick Papers, he added a level of legitimacy to his periodical before it was even reputable on its own. As editor, Dickens published Oliver Twist serially in the editions of the periodical. The periodical grew to be widely-read, circulating to 8,500 per month, rising above the popular Blackwood’s periodical. Each edition was typically 108 pages, full of works of fiction as well as illustrations by George Cruikshank (Drew).

Bentley’s changed editors during the publication’s reign. After Dickens, W. Harrison Ainsworth took over the editorial chair, the circulation rose from 6,000 per month to 7,500 per month. During his time, Ainsworth serialized his thrilling story, Jack Sheppard, before moving on and creating his own periodical. Finally in 1841, due to the decline in sales, Bentley took over the job as editor, however he was soon forced to sell it Ainsworth in November of 1854. The change in ownership as well as editorial power caused a spike in popularity when the content slanted toward politics concerning India and Russia. In the end, Bentley repurchased his original dream, thought it was slowly dying (Drew).

Concerning content, the periodical included literary genres such as essays, fiction, political pieces, and serialized novels by famous writers. In volume IX, printed in 1841, many pieces focused on travel as a theme. “My Grand Tour,” tells the story of a first time trip to Paris, “Hours in Hindostan” is set in India, and “An Adventure in Fifteen Acres” takes place in Ireland and. During these times, travel and the exotic were a common theme, especially due to the rising popularity of The Grand Tour, a multi-year journey through Europe embarked on by young Englishmen in the 18th and 19th centuries (Oxford University Press, 2000).

According to The Routledge Concise History of Nineteenth-Century Literature, “Nineteenth-century readers were avid consumers of ‘foreignness’ of all kinds, whether ‘primitive’… or modern” (Guy 49). Murray clearly had a desire for travel as well as a passion for writing about it. Because of his extensive observations, he was able to provide a large amount of information about southern Spain, enough to write a two-volume book. Travel writing was a rising art. David Livingston sold more than 70,000 copies of his travel book about South Africa, Charles Darwin’ s Journal was extremely popular, Ricahrd Burton had written over forty volumes of travel writing, and much later Rudyard Kipling received enormous amounts of praise for his Plain Tales from the Hills (Guy 49). However, “As with depictions of the medieval or classical past, nineteenth-century travel literature was never neutral: other cultures were typically held up as a mirror reflecting British superiority…or an index of British cultural and artistic inferiority” (Guy 50). In “The Lonja of Seville,” Murray writes, “few Spaniards interest themselves in their country’s history.” The tone is derogatory and even condescending, evidence of the British superiority complex. He goes on to speak with such passion about Columbus, Pizarro, and Cortez—all Spanish conquistadors that contributed to the discovery of the Americas, appreciated by Britain, but forgotten by their own people.

Specific to Spain, the setting of the story, “Britain had its origins in patronage and collecting [forms of art] by diplomats posted to Madrid and Seville during the 17th and 18th centuries, but essentially it was a 19th-century phenomenon, inspired in part by… the pioneering efforts of travel writers and historians” (Verdi Webster).

For Murray, writing about Seville would have been an interesting topic considering its history. This port city was where Christopher Columbus left from and returned to after discovering the famous West Indies, eventually titled the Spanish Americas. In 1503, Seville’s port was chosen as the sole port where ships leaving the New World had to dock into in order to bring goods into Europe (Pérez-Mallaína).

Another point of interest in respect to the story and its events, is Carnival. Known in Spanish as carnaval or in French as mardi gras, this worldwide celebration takes place in the two weeks before Lent. Parades, public street parties and masquerades, true events of history and tradition, fill the weeks. The story specifically mentions Cadiz, which is known as the best Carnival in Europe (Riggio). In Murray’s story, the protagonist, Don Manuel Breton, has grown tired of the festivities, at least until he sees the Serranita. She is wearing a mask, dressed in a typical Flamenco outfit, yet she is wearing it very tight and showing off her ankle. The mask acts as the catapult for the story because he wants to see her face, contrary to much opposition on her part. Carnaval was a time full of happiness and laughter. This story would be an appropriate depiction because of the joke played on Don Manuel. However, the author touches upon the idea of appearance and the way human beings judge one another at first glance.

I think Murray’s story would interest students of British Literature because of its take on travel writing. He combines historical context and details, necessary of a true travel piece, yet he adds a fictitious story grounded in Spanish tradition and etiquette. The story itself is comical and plays on other British themes and satire, yet it is set in Spain, a fascinating factor. Students would be able to analyze the use of language and compare it to other text written in this time period or in the years before. The author’s tone and view on Spain in reference to its appreciation of history would also be an aspect worth reading and investigating. Since the British were heavily invested in colonizing other lands at this point, specifically India and Northern Africa, the point of view would have affected the writer as well as the way in which he wrote the story.

Works Cited [top]

Drew, John. “Bentley’s Miscellany.” Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. Web. 22 February 2011.

Drew, John. “Bentley, Richard.” Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. Web. 22 February 2011.

“Grand Tour.” A Dictionary of World History. Oxford University Press, 2000. Oxford Reference Online. Web. 22 March 2011.

Guy, Josephine. Small, Ian. The Routledge Concise History of Nineteenth-Century Literaure. First Edition. New York: Routledge, 2011. Print.

Riggio, Milla. ”carnival.” The Oxford Encyclopedia of Theatre and Performance. Ed. Dennis Kennedy. Oxford University Press, 2003. Web. 22 March 2011.

Murray, Hon. Robert Dundas. The Cities and Wilds of Andalusia. Richard Bentley, 1849. Print.

Murray, Hon. Robert Dundas. “The Lonja of Seville.” Bentley’s Miscellany. 1841: 583-592. Print.

Pérez-Mallaína, Pablo. ”Seville.” The Oxford Encyclopedia of Maritime History. Ed. John B. Hattendorf. Oxford University Press, 2007. Web. 16 March 2011.

Webster, Susan Verdi. “Spanish Art as Objects of Patronage and Collecting.” The Oxford Companion to Western Art. Ed. Hugh Brigstocke. Oxford University Press, 2001. Oxford Reference Online. Web. 16 March 2011.

Publication History [top]

Murray, Robert Dundas. “The Lonja of Seville.” Bentley’s Miscellany, Vol. IX. Ed. Richard Bentley. London: Samuel Bentley. 1841. Print.

Murray, Robert Dundas. “The Lonja of Seville.” Bentley’s Miscellany, Vol. VII. American Ed. Richard Bentley. New York: Jemima M. Mason. 1841. Print.

Full Text [top]

(See Original PDF)

The Lonja, or Exchange of Seville, though boasting of no high antiquity, ranks not the least among the many relics of art to be met with in every quarter of that time-honoured city. Its site is but a few paces distant from the cathedral; so close, indeed, that the lofty outlines of the latter overshadow its own severer proportions, and render them less striking than they really are. Still, in spite of this disadvantage, it tells, with an air of noble simplicity, of the far-reaching hopes of its founders. It was here that the discoveries of Columbus were to be turned to account; here the wealth of the ”Indies” was to be stored up, and to be parted among the merchants from strange lands who were to resort hither, and be witnesses to the fame and greatness of the Spanish Empire. Happily for such views, it was the fortune of Spain to possess an architect every way capable of doing justice to them. The Lonja is the work of Juan de Herrera, one of the most accomplished men of his times, and no mean proficient in his art, as the Escurial, and many other edifices, may testify. His favourite style, the Italian, which indeed he was the first to introduce into his native country, is that in which he has chosen to rear this building, unquestionably one of the best specimens of his genius. Its shape is that of a massive square, the design of which approaches almost to plainness, there being neither columns, nor other architectural details, to clothe or otherwise ornament the exterior. On each of its four sides a lower and upper tier of windows stretch away in long lines; and, as if the light they admitted was alone worthy of the distinction, around these its channels are some ornaments gathered, though with a sparing hand. Scanty as they are, however, they serve to relieve the general air which everywhere else is that of quiet and solid strength.

Passing into the interior, we find ourselves in a spacious court, the solitary fountain in the centre of which yet murmurs as it used to do in the days of Philip the Second.^[1] Round the court runs an arcade, supported by square pillars, and especially devised as a shelter against inclement weather. Not that inclement weather includes only the severities of winter; on the contrary, the dog-days in Seville are far more inclement, certainly far less tolerable than the heavy winter rains: and it seems, therefore, that to both of these evils the architect addressed himself when he constructed so choice a retreat as this, where hundreds might assemble without incommoding each other, and at the same time be secured from the extremes of either season.

From the basement story a wide staircase leads to a suite of apartments above. As we ascend we find ourselves in the midst of a wealth and luxury seen in no other part of the edifice. The broad steps underfoot, the heavy balustrades — which from the easiness of the ascent seldom feel the weight of a hand, are all of beautiful red marble, brought from the Sierra de Moron. Even the walls, to the height of some feet from the ground, are lined with the same precious material, not simply smooth, so as to form a glossy coating, but wrought into a variety of designs, having all the effect of richly embossed work. Few kingly residences can boast of an approach to the presence of royalty more imposing than this staircase, the services of which at no time aspired to an office more noble than that of conveying merchants and their clerks from one story to another.

To what purposes the upper story had been originally applied it is now difficult to say, for it is long since it has been converted into a repository of national archives. Those, however, who effected such a change appear to have owned the gift so rare in Spain of fashioning their work by the model of the parent design. Two long galleries embrace as many sides of the quadrangle, and with their variegated marble floors, their tall mahogany presses darkening the walls, and their doors and window-shutters of the same rich wood, form a gloomy, though fitting receptacle for the narratives of still gloomier deeds. What these unfold seldom sees the light,—for few Spaniards interest themselves in their country’s history, and to a passing stranger they are inaccessible, except by a special order from Madrid. Still it is something, through the trellis-work which guards them, to look upon these manuscripts, and to know that upon them runs the handwriting of such men as Columbus, Pizarro, and Cortez. All that we have read regarding their trials and successes takes its source from the faded ink that scarcely blackens the paper before us. The hands that shed that ink are the hands of those who first shouted the Castilian war-cry on the shores of an unknown world, and won empires for their masters. Surely, then, as we touch the faint characters in which they are traced—the one his sufferings and glories, and the others their bloody triumphs, — surely there is no one who will not then feel as if he stood in the presence of the departed great. Possibly there may be folly in this feeling, but one is apt to fancy that where their achievements lie recorded, there would the mighty dead love to linger, and set their watch.

Of the high hopes which Seville in these days cherished, and of their transient fulfillment, this building is a faithful memorial. For some time it bore itself proudly, while the wealth of the west was gathered with pain and danger. No sooner, however, were whole nations toiling at the mines, than the carvels and pinnaces of the primitive adventurers rose into stately galleons, for whom the Guadalquivir became too shallow, then commenced the decay of Seville as sudden as its short-lived prosperity. The commerce with the colonies, and everything connected with it, moved down to Sanlucar de Barrameda, at the mouth of the river; whence, by means of small craft, a communication was kept up with the interior. But that port had its perils in the shape of a treacherous bar, then and now the grave of many a vessel. The Spanish government was therefore induced by repeated losses to search for a safer harbour for its navies, and such a one was found under the walls of Cadiz^[2] whose noble bay stood invitingly open to every sail. In spite of much opposition, the treasure-ships were ordered to bear away for that city, — a change that necessarily sealed the fate of Seville as a commercial town. In that fate its Lonja, of course, participated. It is now deserted by all who live by traffic; the steps that lead to its doors are broken and grass grown, and seldom are they touched by the feet of any but a few officials connected with the archives. who slumber peacefully at their labours upstairs. If any other step resounds in its silent halls, it is that of the traveller, who wanders alone where once there were stirring scenes of life and business. Yet there are times when it awakes to a spectacle as foreign to its original and present character as night is to day. In place of stillness, all then is tumult and movement; everything that is strange and fantastic comes and departs unquestioned; and if all tales be true, the incidents that then occur bid fair to rival the most extraordinary chapters in the romance of real life. On one of these occasions not many years ago, a scene took place, so novel, and withal so singular, even amid scenes where every actor “puts on the trick of singularity,”that no apology is necessary for giving it a place here.

It was at that giddy season when the carnival^[3] holds its sway over light hearts. Of such it is needless to say, that in this city of sunny skies there are thousands, the property of as many inhabitants, to whom the King of Terrors would be less formidable than the idea of not adding their week of madness to the follies of the year. As may be expected, they manage pretty well to turn the sober city into a kind of pantomime.^[4] During the hours of light, the streets swarm with gay-looking figures in every costume under the sun, besides many more upon whom that luminary never shone. Their vocation is to shout, laugh, and chatter, to their heart’s content, and persecute in a small way every one who promises to make a good victim. Everywhere is heard their laughing adios: the pedestrians hurl it from the streets up to the windows, whose occupants are generally dark-eyed senoritas. These being of unforgiving tempers, send back the salutation, and thus is commenced a smart skirmish of jests, in which is expended a great quantity of smiles on both sides. As evening draws on, the streets return to their usual state of repose. As for the crowds that gave them life, they are retiring to their homes, not to terminate their sports there, but after the lapse of a few hours to re-appear within the walls of the Lonja.

Let us join, therefore, in the living stream that towards midnight rolls on in the direction of that edifice. Our way lies by the walls and buttresses of its giant neighbour, the cathedral; upon emerging from the holy precincts of which we stand upon the threshold of the once favoured hall of merchants. From its open door a flood of light is thrown upon the gloomy street and the crowds pressing for admittance, but that excepted, nothing prepares the eye for the spectacle that awaits it within; the windows are cold and dark as ever, and the shadows of night hang undisturbed upon them as upon every other part of the building. Not so, however, in the interior. There clusters of lamps shed a broad glare of light from every pillar, prolonging the reign of noontide wherever they are dispersed. Their rays fall upon grotesque figures, and glance from the marble beneath their feet up to the awning which is stretched across the court so as to exclude the heavy dews. Music, too, resounds from every quarter, while hundreds, or rather thousands of dancers are beating time to its measure. To the dancers the arcades are appropriated by public notice; on one side a placard intimates that the ground below is sacred to Escocesas; while on the other, a similar announcement warns away all those whom the schoolmaster hath not chastised into a knowledge of mazurkas. It is in vain, however, to give even a faint idea of the noisy tumult that makes the central court its own. All that Seville can furnish of tinsel finery, of helmets and tin breast-plates, turbans and Turkish garments, is here jumbled together. Of course there is confusion worse confounded, with a vengeance, but that is nothing to the hubbub that accompanies it. The better to escape detection, every masker speaks in a feigned tone, knowing that all disguise is in vain, if his voice remains to betray him. Accordingly, the only sounds to be heard are salutations pitched in a shrill falsetto, and conversations maintained in the same iscordant key. If any one breaks into a laugh, it rises into a shriek so painful to the ear as to make us doubt whether we are not listening to the voice of some spirit of evil omen. Add to this, the motionless lips whence these sounds issue, and the distorted features of the masks themselves, which bear the human face divine printed in every variety of caricature, and the scene thus presented to the spectator is one of the most unnatural and startling that fancy can picture.

So, at least, thought Don^[5] Manuel Breton, as he wandered alone through the crowd. To him, however, the scene was beginning to lose its novelty. For the first half hour he had been sufficiently entertained by watching the masks, and enjoying the unconscious mistakes into which they fell by forgetting their assumed characters. He had detected a couple of Turks in the act of pledging each other in wine without fear of the Prophet, and it wiled away some ten minutes to study the movements of a North American savage, who wore green spectacles, and danced quadrilles to perfection. Nevertheless his interest as a mere spectator was rapidly cooling, and he was preparing to quit the veiled throng, when his steps were arrested by the appearance of a figure which instantly engrossed his undivided attention. It was that of a lady who, like himself, seemed rather a spectator than a partaker in the amusements of the evening. In deference, however, to the universal custom, she wore a mask, and was simply but elegantly attired in the costume of a Serranita or mountaineer. The dress selected was one admirably adapted to show off her fine form to the greatest advantage. Its tightly fitting vest concealed none of the proportions of the bust, while the short skirts disclosed a foot and ankle that a sculptor would have prized for a model.

As she passed close to him, leaning upon the arm of a tall cavalier, it was the thought of Don Manuel, that never among his countrywomen—though grace be the companion of their steps—had he beheld a foot fall so lightly and so freely.

The pair thus introduced to us sauntered carelessly from group to group, addressing themselves to none, but replying with great good humour whenever some inquisitive masker held them at bay. At a little distance followed our hero; who, devoured by an uncontrollable interest in their proceedings, found himself treading in their footsteps as their shadow. They paused at length upon reaching a spot too remote from the laugh and the jest to have many occupants. Here, after conversing for a few moments in low tones, they separated; the cavalier hastily withdrawing, while his companion retired to a seat commanding a view of the dancers. Now was the moment for opening an acquaintance with the fair stranger, for so unexpected an opportunity might never occur again. Availing himself, therefore, of the licence denied to none at such seasons, Don Manuel hesitated not to approach and accost her.

“Thou wilt permit me to sit beside thee, Serranita?”

“With much pleasure,” she replied, “though I am surprised that for me thou leavest the beauties in the saloon. Thou knowest me, perchance?”

“There are few of my acquaintances whom I cannot strip of their closest disguise, and thou art not one of these. Wilt thou be pleased then to remove that envious mask, since neither thou nor I have secrets to penetrate?”

“It is not every one who can defy with impunity the world’s gaze as thou dost,” was the reply of the unknown.

“Thanks, gracious Serranita,” said our hero. “Then thou knowest me?”

“Yes, by sight. They tell me thou art a poet. Wilt thou make me some verses?”

“Give me a theme,” said Don Manuel, rising into the enthusiastic; “or stay, let that theme be the charms thy mask conceals, and I ask but one glance to translate them into words.”

“What! art thou a poet, and must needs consult thy eyes in order to spur thy fancy. Why, the muse thy tribe adores is, according to them, arrayed in every excellence under the sun, and yet I’ll engage that not one of them has ever seen her across the street, far less face to face. Canst thou not, then, do the same for me, though thou seest me not. But, believe me, my interest and thine are opposed to the gratification of thy wishes. As long as I remain thus shrouded, I am sure of hearing flattering phrases and smooth speeches, to which I am not always accustomed; but take away this friendly shade,” she said, pointing to her mask, “and then farewell to thy illusion and mine.”

“Serranita, this will not persuade me that anything but modesty prevents thee from unmasking. Thou ugly! I would stake my life to the contrary. Yet there is one reason why I should be sorry to see thee unmasked.”

“What is it?”

“I should be compelled to renounce the affectionate tuteo^[6]that now passes between us. How delightful to address thee in the style of the most intimate friends, as a brother, or a lover!”

“And were I so indiscreet,” said the Serranita, ” as to reveal myself, thou wouldst scarce have time to falter out a freezing a los pies de usted.^[7] Wilt thou be more indulgent than the rest of mankind, to whom ugliness is the greatest crime of a woman?”

“Oh! I am quite of another disposition,” was his reply. “I am not one of those who fly from an ugly woman as from a raging lion; and believe me, wert thou as odious or frightful as I believe thee to be the reverse, I should not worship thee the less. Could I forget the melody of thy voice, or the sweetness of thy manner, or the grace that reigns in thy movements — could I forget these? Impossible. But where is the ugliness with which thou wouldst terrify me? I do not see it in the elegance of thy shape, or in the beauty of thy hand. Surely it does not reside in that fairy-like foot, or those flashing eyes, still less in the dark hair that clusters round thy snowy throat, or in the smile that hangs on thy lips; for these also have I seen, in spite of thy mask.”

“Nevertheless, be assured that thou wilt be horror-struck if I discover myself.”

“That is impossible, Serranita, for I have seen every feature — no,” he said, checking himself, “the nose is the only one I have not seen; but with those eyes, that mouth, and that figure, I care not how shapeless it be—yes, I repeat, were it a monstrous blot upon thy charms, I should be as devoted to it as to them. Wilt thou not unmask then ? — or must I be a suppliant at thy feet for the favour I beg?”

“Thou wilt repent thy indiscretion,” urged the stranger.

Had Don Manuel read Shakspeare, he would have exclaimed, like Claudio,

“I’ll hold my mind, wert thou an Ethiop.”

It was in a similar vein, however, that he said, “I will abide the consequences, whatever they be.”

“Enough, enough,” replied the unknown; “thou shalt see me without my mask, but thy hands alone must remove it; by thyself shall thy ungoverned impatience be chastised.”

“Thanks, thanks, fair Serranita,” he said. “Envy me, ye less favoured mortals. Give me the lyre, O muses! At this moment I am inspired!”

“At this moment thou art a madman, and the next moment thou wilt be a fool,” was the flattering reply, which in his eagerness to behold the speaker he heeded not.

“Vexation! I cannot untie this knot: let me cut it. Ah! how beauti—”

The concluding syllable died away on his lips. In full view was a nose, not of the pigmy kind that we mortals generally wear, but one whose gigantic style of architecture would have added dignity, if not grace, to the front of a Cyclops. There it stood in the center of that radiant countenance, the monarch of all it surveyed, displaying such a luxuriance of growth as bespoke extraordinary carelessness on the part of the cultivator, who had thus suffered it to run to seed. The fine of Quevedo,

“Erase un hombre á una nariz pegado”^[8] gives but a poor notion of the relations between it and its possessor. For some moments following his rash discovery, the eyes of our hero performed the office of his tongue. At length, finding it absolutely necessary to say something, he made a desperate attempt at a few phrases of gallantry, but all in vain. Confusedly they came forth; in fact he knew not what he was saying, and spoke as incoherently as if the human steeple he was gazing at was in reality one nodding over his head, and about to crush him to the earth. Fortunately for his embarrassment, the Serranita, who doubtless was hardened by sad experience to such scenes, laughed loud and long, in evident enjoyment of his perplexity. Far from resenting the look of horror and blank disappointment with which he regarded her, it seemed to gratify her rather than otherwise. The longer she laughed, the higher rose our hero’s courtage, his ideas at the same time returning to a convalescent state, the first symptom of which was to descry an imaginary friend in an unknown passer-by. Under pretence, therefore, of having something important to communicate, he hastily arose, and, without casting another look at the portentous unmasked, muttered between his teeth an icy” a los pies de usted,” and ingloriously betook himself to flight.

Shame and mortification added wings to his feet. Turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, lest a chance side-glance should reveal the hateful nose, he shot swiftly forwards, haunted by an indefinable dread of something terrible to be encountered by looking back, and only to be shunned by speed of foot. A few steps brought him to the thickest of the throng,—another sent him into the center of a quadrille party. An earthquake could not have wrought direr mishaps than he did as he worked his way through it. Those who were tripping it on the fantastic toe found themselves on a sudden unceremoniously tripped up, and rolling fantastically on the hard marble pavement. As for the author of their overthrow, he was unconsciously pursuing his way with the air of a conqueror; breastplates and helmets, ruined past a tinsmith’s skill, clashing at his feet; while his path was strewed with roses (artificial) from the hair of affrighted maidens. Regardless of these, and a thousand other impediments, he made no pause until he reached the outer door. There Don Manual stopped, too breathless and faint to dive into the darkness beyond, where for ever would he gladly have entombed himself and his agitated spirits. His purpose changed, however, as the cool midnight air flowing into the heated rooms awakened calmer thoughts in his bewildered brain. The result of these deliberations was to suggest that he felt hungry—exceedingly hungry. He was in no mood to contest the point, and therefore turned away from the door, and with a slow and sober pace bent his steps towards the refreshment room. Throwing himself into a chair beside one of the nearest tables, he took up the bill of fare, and began to study it with great zeal. Nevertheless the past still engrossed his thoughts; for the waiter, whom he had summoned upon entering, had to report himself twice before the purport of his words was clearly understood.

“Ah! what do I wish to take? Hum—bring me—a nose.”

“Sorry we have no noses,” said the attendant; “but there are some excellent tongues at your service.”

“Nonsense,” replied Don Manuel. “Vamos á ver,” he added; “bring me some jamón de Asturias”^[9] which was accordingly set before him.

While the pangs of hunger were being appeased, those of memory grew less sharp; each mouthful of savoury ham that disappeared from view falling like balm upon his vexed thoughts, and helping to banish some compunctious visitings regarding broken vows and a deserted phenomenon.

“Wonderful are the works of Nature !” was his inward remark, as he replenished his plate for the third time; “but never was she so wonderful or so false as in this case, never. As for the usual specimens of her fancy which deform our streets, she seems to have been merely trying her hand at something new, and to have sent them into the world in disgust at her failure. But this is quite another thing. To chisel out a form of exquisite grace, and when nothing but a single stroke was wanting to make it faultless—to stay her hand, and pronounce her work perfect, is very inexcusable in Nature—I’m not sure whether it isn’t a decided case of malice prepense against the feelings of her children — and then to make us fancy it all loveliness, and to entrap us into loving it, and bestowing on it honed sentences! Fool that I was, to be so taken in!”

As remembrance thus touched upon the part he had so recently played, Don Manuel groaned aloud, and gnashed his teeth in a most violent manner, whereby a choice morsel of ham came to an untimely end; but, this outbreak over, his reflections by degrees rolled back to their former channel.

“Well, the fault is not mine, but Nature’s; and, to speak the truth, I am afraid that now-a-days she has turned a swindler—yes, a low swindler. But if she has done me once, it shall only be once; for if she makes another attempt to impose on me, I’ll immediately get up a society for putting her down. So let her beware.”

With this consoling reflection, and the aid of sundry vasos of Manzanilla, ^[10]our hero’s past adventure faded from his thoughts at the moment that some one proceeded to occupy a chair on the opposite side of the table. This of itself was not enough to attract his attention; but when a long black shadow crossed the board, and fell upon his plate, he lifted up his eyes with a mingled feeling of awe and amazement. Powers of grace! it was the nose. Confronting him with all its artillery of charms, and apparently in the happiest humour with itself and every one, its bright eyes sparkling with smiles appeared to invite a renewal of the conversation so abruptly terminated in the ball-room. By its side stood the tall cavalier we have alluded to before, now rather thrown into the background, and immovable and grave as a statue.

To start up, with the intention of again escaping, was the first impulse of Don Manuel, after recovering from his astonishment; but his strength failed him as the nose, wreathed in a most fascinating smile, inquired if he was going away without inviting it to sup.

“Can the force of audacity go further!” thought he, as he sank back in his chair in a state of petrifaction. “To invite itself to sup with me !—me, whom it has tricked beyond endurance—whom it has seen escaping from its presence as from an accursed thing—to claim me as a friend! And then the cool familiarity of its manner: decidedly nothing human would have acted so. Have I committed some crime, and is this “goblin damn’d” sent to follow me wherever I go, as a punishment for my sins? Nothing more likely. I have heard of the evil eye that haunts people to their graves, and this must be a variety of the same tribe, — an evil nose, whose duty is to meet me unexpectedly at the corners of streets and in lone places, and to lean over my shoulder amid crowds, and make my life a chain of miseries. Pero venga loque venga,^[11]I defy its powers! and if it be of flesh,” he muttered, grasping his knife, and waving it aloft, *’ bitterly shall it repent this presumption.”

Probably the nose descried the sanguinary complexion of his musings; for as his uplifted knife carved the air in dangerous vicinity, it drew back with some precipitation, doubtless unwilling to be cut down in the flower of its youth.

“I shall not cause you much expense,” were its next words: “a glass of ponche d la romana, ^[12]and nothing more.”

“Thank heaven! it is flesh and blood after all,” thought Don Manuel; “for I never heard of ghosts being addicted to liquor. Little mercy, however, shall I show it, for none it deserves for this impertinent freedom.”

“Senorita,” he replied, “I shall be delighted to offer you anything you choose to take; but, pardon me,” he added, in tones most cuttingly bland, “will that nose permit a glass to reach your lips?”

Strange to say, the kindly interest exhibited in the question served only to augment the cheerfulness of his opposite, who laughingly requested him to be under no uneasiness on that account.

“But, talking of glasses,” she continued, “had you stood before one ere enacting the runaway, you might have furnished yourself with a capital picture of horror. Being a poet, your fancy might have gleaned something new for dying scenes and speechless emotions. You do not object to copying from yourself, do you?”

Quite unpardonable was its assurance in daring even to address him; but this style of being facetious upon the awkward display he had made was doubly aggravating, and accordingly it stirred up within our hero the lowest deeps of his virtuous indignation.

“What! to be treated with levity by a monstrosity like this!—a thing disowned by humanity !—it, that day after day should be sad and silent, conscious of being an outcast from kind feelings,—it, that should laugh at the shadow of a jest upon its own deformity, and be thankful for the honour done it,—that should stand afar off from the haunts of men, whose image it libels,—it to forget its place, and intrude among the well-proportioned and unblemished as an equal,— nay, to launch its jest at one of them! That is a crime against society too deep to be forgiven, and therefore,” said our hero to himself, “I owe it as a duty to myself and society to humble its insolence. I shall see if I cannot bring it to a proper sense of its misconduct.—I believe, Senorita,” he said aloud, “you have a taste for poetry?”

“You are not mistaken,” said the Serranita. “Will you not favour us with a specimen of your muse? Pray translate into words the charms my mask concealed.”

“Hum—that is beyond my powers; but allow me, instead, to repeat a charming epigram of Alcazar. Far be it from me to insinuate anything; but it warns us to be on our guard against every face whose nose is—rather strongly developed.”

Having received the requisite permission, he then repeated the following lines:—

“Lady fair, no whisper goes

That from thy snowy brow descends!

But tell, ob! tell us where it aids.

What! Wondrous more! thou canst not tell?  Then be it mine office to conjecture

That so interminable a feature,

Where’er it sprung, cannot end well.”

With the last line of the preceding effusion parting from his lips, Don Manuel directed a look at the delinquent organ, in expectation of seeing it convulsed by all the agonies of remorse, or at least blushing a repentant crimson. But nothing of the kind followed. Far from being downcast, the object of his wrath, though nearly breathless from laughter, was loud in praises of his taste.

“Very good, indeed,” it said. “* Where it ends’—capital! Really you are so amusing to-night, Don Manuel, that I must reward you y showing ‘ where it ends.’”

So saying, the unknown raised her hand to her head, and quick as thought the nose fell from its place, and lay on the table before our hero. How shall we paint his confusion and desperation of mind as he gazed on the astounding sight, and recalled the rudeness and unfeeling discourtesy of his previous conduct?

“Pecador de mi !”^[13]he exclaimed, “it is of pasteboard—it is false, and the real one is not less perfect than the other features of her face. Oh, Senorita !” burst from his lips in the most penitent accents, and rushing forward, he was proceeding to throw himself at her feet to sue for pardon, to bewail his indiscretion in the most abject terms within the reach of language ; but a gesture of impatience on the part of the unknown, blasted all his hopes. Rising from her seat, and taking the arm of her companion, she quitted the room with a slow and dignified step, very unlike the former precipitate retreat of Don Manuel, of whom she took no farther notice than by coldly bestowing on him a repelling “beso á usted la mano.”^[14]

If for the rest of the night our hero wandered he knew not where, with no clear perception of anything; and if, on courting repose, he dreamt of being stabbed to the heart by a sabre-like nose, which, as he gasped his last, changed into a lovely ballet-dancer, who made his dying frame its stage, and indulged in pirouettes on the extreme tip of his own nasal feature; though his medical adviser might ascribe such unwholesome visions to indigestion, yet it is more probable that the origin of his malady might be traced to the Lonja of Seville.

Notes [top]

↑ 1. King of Spain from 1556–1598, married Mary I of England in 1554.
↑ 2. Port in southwestern Spain, on the Gulf of Cádiz; it became an important port for shipping routes to the Americas.
↑ 3. A season of celebration with the pre-Lenten period, known as carnaval in Spanish and mardi gras in French.
↑ 4. In extended use, an absurd or confused situation; a mess; (also) an absurd or outrageous piece of behaviour.
↑ 5. A Spanish title, prefixed to a man’s Christian name, formerly confined to men of high rank, but now applied in courtesy to all of the better classes.
↑ 6. The use of “tú” form of address, as opposed to formal “usted” form.
↑ 7. At the feet of you.
↑ 8. Once there was a man stuck to a nose.
↑ 9. Ham from the region in northwestern Spain, bordering the Bay of Biscay and traversed by the Cantabrian Mountains.
↑ 10. A pale, very dry Spanish sherry .
↑ 11. Come what may.
↑ 12. Roman Punch, an alcoholic beverage including champagne, rum, lemon or pineapple juice among other ingredients.
↑ 13. Sinner of me.
↑ 14. Kiss to the hand.

Hannah Clay, “The Broken Promise” (1853)

MaryCGarcia7706 — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 07:22:46 +0000

Introduction [top]

Mary Garcia

Despite the anonymity of authoress, Hannah Clay, writer of “The Broken Promise,” her stories tell volumes about what kind of a message she wanted to invoke into her tales, which were all written for children. The story, “The Broken Promise” tells the story of a little girl named Mary Worthing, who shares a close relationship with her mother. When the girl’s mother leaves town, Mary makes a promise to her mother that she will not play with a neighborhood girl who often drags Mary into mischief. Ultimately, Mary breaks the promise to her mother and plays with the little girl—which leads her to be nearly killed by a bull. The almost-tragic end to Mary Worthing delivers a severe message to the child audience via the words of Mary Worthing: “’Ah! Dearest mamma, had not my will seconded the temptations those rude boys would never have mastered me. But I longed to disobey you, mamma; and have been rightly punished!’” (Clay 88). Many of Clay’s stories mirror this same type of theme almost identically.

In Hannah Clay-Leigh’s story, “Mary Vining’s New-Years Day; or The Hundred Pound Bank Note” the same type of dynamic occurs between the characters: strong relationship between the main characters, a mother and a daughter, and the absence of a father figure. And then the deliverance of a stern moral at the end of the tale, which was geared towards wayward children:
“Butter, this poor mother and daughter had none; they could not afford to buy it. Think of this dear young readers—you who as a little bird told me one day, sometimes grumble and sit with sulky little faces because your bread is not buttered quite to the edges. Think of the numbers of poor children who consider themselves well off if they get a sufficiency of dry bread, with perhaps a little coarse treacle upon it—or, oftener, nothing at all!” (Clay 99)

Another of Clay’s tales, “Annie’s Thoughts” illustrates the daily thoughts of a young girl named Annie. On one particular day, Annie describes how she gets in trouble at school and remarks:
“Oh dear! How I wish I could ever behave properly. And yet Mary was more naughty than I was yesterday; for she told me a story, and I only tore my frock, and spoiled my bonnet. But mamma was more angry with me than with her. I am a wretched little girl! I never can please anybody” (Clay 34)

These are two additional tales that showcase the close relationship between a mother and her daughter, that Hannah Clay depicts in the majority of her tales—and the almost always absent father figure. The absence of a father in these stories was not a message of empowerment for women, but it was to show how hands-on a mother should be in the home and with her children in order to raise upstanding, proper children—otherwise, the mother was not doing her job. Which is why we see in “The Broken Promise,” Mary’s almost fatal injury can be seen as a direct correlation with the fact that her mother was absent and not at home, where she should have been, preventing Mary from getting into mischief.

Clay also emphasizes the idea of guilt acting as an important tool of child rearing. Each child exudes a high level remorse at her (I rarely saw little boys being disciplined in these tales) mistakes, so much so it almost appears oppressive. I believe these extremes of obedience go hand in hand with the whole purpose of the Ladies’ Companion, which was to inform ladies of this time how to become or lead the lives of proper 19th century women. If you were already behaving in that manner, than these tales for children were meant to show little girls how they should be responding to their actions, and what they should learn from their mistakes.

Hannah Clay’s stories are indicative of the emergence of the variety of periodicals that were geared toward families and the home in the 19th century. This genre of media was made possible by the cheapening of the paper^[1] that the periodicals were printed on—no longer were journals made to only be shared and passed from group to group due to the expensive quality of the magazine’s materials (Reed 44). The initial audiences of British periodicals were serials “aimed at the working class,” which usually cost around a penny (Reed 82). The lower cost of the paper brought forth a new wave of periodicals that were geared toward a specific place for reading the periodical, such as the home, rather than an intended audience. This new concept brought about magazines that were meant for a woman whose constant domain was her house (Beetham). The “domestic” periodical^[2] can date back to mid-century, around the 1850’s, with one of the earliest magazines being the Ladies’ Companion (Usden). The publishing house “Bradbury and Evans” created the Ladies’ Companion on December 29, 1849 (Shattock). It was a “double-column weekly” that sold for three pence (which is around six cents in American money) from 1849-1850, and then it became a monthly in 1851 until 1852 (Shattock).

Jane Loudon was the first, main editor of the Ladies’ Companion. She was an interesting woman of the 19th century, best known for her work as a novelist, magazine editor, and botanical enthusiast. She received informal education, acquiring much of her knowledge from trips to Europe with her father. She began writing at the age of 17, and developed a passion for writing poetry and fictional stories. The first novel she wrote was a science fiction piece called, The Mummy! A Tale of the Twenty-Second Century; it was anonymously published in 1827. She went on to become an editor for two different magazines the Literary Gazette and Tabby’s Magazine. After her marriage to John Claudius Loudon^[3] , she began to dabble in horticulture writings. She edited a short lived magazine called, The Ladies’ Magazine of Gardening, which was published by Bradbury and Evans; the publishing house that would soon be calling upon her to be editor of their new magazine the Ladies’ Companion (Birkbeck).

Bradbury and Evans^[4] wrote directly to Loudon, explaining the magazine as “a journal for thinking women” which would “act as a medium principally for dealing with contemporary problems written from an enlightened female angle.” (Howe 109) The periodical’s early contributors were “Mary Howitt, Mary Russell Mitford and Geraldine Jewsbury” (Usden). Many of the works were serialized fictional stories and poems, novel and theater reviews, how-to guides on needlework accompanied by illustrations, and occasionally letters submitted by readers. Later, the magazine would include household hints and advice to readers, which would pave the way for future women’s periodicals. After six months, Loudon was fired and replaced by Henry F. Chorley^[5] of the Athenaeum (Zon).

The wave of domestic periodicals brought about much competition for the Ladies’ Companion, so after two years of publication it merged with two other literary magazines—Ladies Cabinet and the New Monthly Belle Assemblee (Usden).

This volume of the Ladies’ features an extensive index that categorically organizes every single work within the magazine into two main genres: “Novels, Romances, Tales, &c.” and “Poetry,” within these you can find sub-genres of texts such as “music”, “the child’s corner”, or “the work table.” There were many sub-genres such as “the work table” that were added later on in the magazine’s run that were meant to include more material for their growing audience of women.

The growing number of women that were snatching up this female-run periodical draws a parallel with historical background surrounding the Ladies’ Companion. During this time, impassioned arguments began that questioned female and male dynamics. “The 1860’s was a decade where both journalistic anonymity and the ‘Woman Question’ were the “subjects of heated debate in the press” (Fraser, Green, Johnston 27). The “woman question” revolved around the argument that woman in the periodical press could be writers in the public forum and not shirk their wifely/motherly/womanly duties needed to maintain a proper level of Victorian womanhood. The construction of women’s rights brought about the idea of varying levels of Victorian womanhood. Virginia Woolf was a famous woman writer of this time who felt the need to “do battle” with the “The Angel of the House” before she could attempt a writing career; needing to furnish “a room of one’s own”^[6] (Shattock 234). Woolf pointed out that “writing was the one profession which could be carried out within the domestic sphere; although when it came time to manage such issues as copyright and payment and authorial identity, women packed their bags and went to Town,” (Shattock 235). Writing was perceived as skill that should come naturally to a woman because it could be accomplished in the home (Shattock 235).

In 1851, an article from Eliza Cook’s Journal^[7] titled “What Will You Write for the Magazine” expresses this argument easily, when the character of the husband in the article exclaims, “it does not do for wives to turn authoresses! Here have you, my dear, spent the whole evening with no profit—while little Johnny contrived to set his pinafore on fire, and burned” (Fraser, Green, Johnston 38). The mid-19th century was still heavily influenced by the role of the mother and wife, and the fact that a woman taking up a pen and expressing herself should not abandon such roles.

Despite this oppressive ideology in which men dominated both the domestic and public worlds, women were seen as a threat to men and to themselves once they started to use their intellect (Purchase 75). But thankfully, women overcame such domination and were able to rise above to make their voices heard. Returning to Hannah Clay’s story, “The Broken Promise,” you can see that there were still many women authors, such as Ms. Clay, that were still trying to maintain the idea of female inferiority, whilst many women were trying to elevate the status of woman to an equal plain with men. The struggle between these two types of women made the magazine such an important form of press because it was being used “both as a space for the contestation and elaboration of gendered discourses and as a vehicle for social change,” (Fraser, Green, and Johnston 145).

The plethora of comparisons between the varying types of women’s magazines was easily identifiable. The first periodical in England that was dedicated solely to important “women’s affairs” was The English Woman’s Journal. But these types of women’s affairs were not the same affairs as the Ladies’ Companion felt the need to print—for instance Ladies’ deemed women’s affairs in regards to fluff pieces like recipes, doily patterns and children’s stories, and The English Woman’s Journal encouraged women to become interested in “employment” and the promotion of reform for “laws that affected the property and condition of the sexes” (Mitchell 268).

The English Woman’s Journal was established in 1858 by the women of Langham Place Circle, and was headed by Bessie Raynor Place. Sadly, this radical periodical could not achieve financial stability and had to merge with another periodical in 1864, which then also failed. In 1866, Jessie Boucherett was able to revive The English Woman’s Journal under the name Englishwoman’s Review of Social and Industrial Question, a quarterly (and at one point monthly) review that would last until 1901 (Mitchell 268). The editors of this periodical attributed its major success as being that it ability to “record women’s progress in social and industrial questions in all parts of the world” (Mitchell 268). The Englishwoman’s Review of Social and Industrial Question would achieve such a high status that it would become a reference for any questions regarding the law, women’s right in terms of medicine, education and employment.

Proof that The English Woman’s Journal had an impact on women of 19th century and the fact that it encouraged women to act, and not sit idly by tending to their husbands, could lie with Emily Faithfull. Faithfull, who was a member of the Langham Place Circle, found the Victoria Press in 1860. She did so for the sole reason that she wanted to give women the opportunity to work in the printing trade. Victoria Press became the printer of the English Woman’s Journal, and the Transactions of the National Association of the Promotion of Social Science (NAPSS), and also other works from other organizations (Mitchell 285). Faithfull’s press garnered such attention, that it drew even Queen Victoria’s notice, and eventually her approval to the extent that Faithfull was dubbed “Printer and Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty” (Mitchell 285). Faithfull would go on to establish Victoria Magazine, a periodical that combined both serious articles involving women’s issues and also lighter works that could appeal to a broader spectrum of readers. Regardless of her work in improving the rights of women, Faithfull’s is “important chiefly for her work in improving women’s employment opportunities” (Mitchell 285).

All of this dialogue about women’s suffrages in the variety of women’s periodicals would jump start the women’s suffrage movement in 1866, which would lead to campaign for women’s right to vote in the eighties and nineties (Purchase 214). The intensity of social anxieties that was felt all over the country was discussed at length in the stories of women writers. The tale of a child being bored by a bull was not merely for enjoyment, but it was meant to convey a message of how a woman needed to be at home with her child instead of gallivanting off. Each woman had a significant message that they intended to explore by exuding their feelings through the themes of their works.

In Hannah Clay’s, “The Broken Promise” we can see the major theme of this text was the important of the relationship between mothers and daughters, and the emphasis on the role of women in the domestic sphere and their imprisonment within it.
Sally Shuttleworth’s essay, “Ideologies of bourgeois mother in the mid-Victorian era” examines the construction of motherhood in Victorian literature. She claims that:
“Motherhood was set at the ideological centre of the Victorian bourgeois ideal. Virtually any reference to motherhood in the social texts of the era seemed to call forth, as if by necessity, yet one more recitation of the maternal creed. We hear endlessly of the mother’s sacred mission to rear children, and of her spiritual grace which, filling the domestic sphere, uplift her weary husband” (Shires: Shuttleworth 31)

These ideals that a mother was supposed to uphold during the mid-19th century could have been slowly eradicated by the emergence of the “women’s movement in the 1860’s, but female reformers were reluctant to voice a challenge to the sacred ideals of motherhood” (Shires: Shuttleworth 31).
Regardless of the radicals of this time, women who entered the public forum would often enter into writing “anonymously rather than over the signatures of individual contributors…anonymity enabled women to enter the profession” (Fraser, Green, and Johnston 27). The true feelings regarding women writers who emphasize their “belief systems” would emerge which explained for the call for anonymity from female writers. An article from 1864 called “Literary Women’ in the London Review” which explains in so many words that “to be a great writer require a classical education; this is unavailable to women; ergo, women can’t be great writers; or if they do somehow acquire the necessary education, they must pay the price of their womanhood” (Fraser, Green, and Johnston 33). The anonymity of a woman writer meant that she could hide from the criticism that she would surely receive as a result of merely being a woman writer (Fraser, Green, and Johnston 27). Despite the rampant anonymity of many women writers, studies have unearthed the fact that twenty percent of published, Victorian writers were women—and amongst these writers, the majority of works were either novels or children’s literature, and the minority were literary criticisms (Purchase 75). Regardless of the topic, the main goal of these women was to get published in the oppressive male-dominated society of the 19th century (Purchase 213).

The relevance of the story “The Broken Promise” to British literature students of today could be attributed to the fact that there is such an obvious message of the role of the mother within its lines. This theme seems to be a reoccurring societal construction within British literature so much so that it could be considered a trope amongst literary analyses.

The absent mother, throughout the story, leads to the wayward actions of her daughter and her almost-fatal injury. This is a clear expression of the fact that the place of the mother should be in the home and not off traveling. It’s an intriguing analysis for women of our time because the majority of us have grown up in an age and country where women have the freedom to do as they please—whether it be work, not work, stay at home, raise kids, marry, not marry…the choices are endless.

Works Cited [top]

Beetham, Margaret Rachel. “Domestic/Home.” The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. ProQuest, 2009. Web. 24 Feb. 2011.

Birkbeck, Sarah Dewis. “Jane Loudon: 1807-1858.” The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. C19: The Nineteenth Century Index, 2009. Web. 14 Apr. 2011.

Buckland, Adelene. “Bradbury and Evans: 1830-1865.” The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. C19: The Nineteenth Century Index, 2009. Web. 14 Apr. 2011.

Fraser, Hilary, Stephen Green, and Judith Johnston. Gender and the Victorian Periodical. United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Print.

Howe, B. The Lady with Green Fingers. London: Country Life, 1961. Print.

Linda Shires. “Demonic Mothers: Ideologies of Bourgeois Motherhood in the Mid-Victorian Era”. Ed. Sally Shuttleworth. Rewriting the Victorians: Theory, History and the Politics of Gender. New York: Routledge, 1992. Print.

Clay, Hannah. “The Broken Promise.” Ladies’ Companion. Vol. 3. Ed. Jane Loudon. London: Bradbury and Evans, 1853. Ser. 2. Print.

Clay, Hannah. “Annie’s Thoughts.” Ladies’ Companion. Vol. 1. Ed. Jane Loudon. London: Bradbury and Evans, 1852. Ser. 2. Print.

Clay-Leigh, Hannah. “Mary Vining’s New-Years Day; or The Hundred Pound Bank Note.” Ladies’ Companion. Vol. 23. Ed. Jane Loudon. London: Bradbury and Evans, 1863. Ser. 2. Print.

Mitchell, Sally. Victorian Britain: An Encyclopedia. New York: Garland, 1988. Print.

Purchase, Sean. Key Concepts in Victorian Literature. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006. Print.

Shattock, Joanne . The Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature, Volume 4, 1800-1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Print.

Shute, Sarah. “A Room of One’s Own.” Cambridge: Proquest Information and Learning Company, 2002. Web. 14 Apr. 2011.

Usden, Arline. “Ladies’ Companion (1849-1870).” The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. C19: The Nineteenth Century Index, 2009. Web. 24 Feb. 2011.

Zon, Bennett. “Henry Fothergill Chorley (1808-1872)”. The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century Journalism. C19: The Nineteenth Century Index, 2009. Web. 22 Mar. 2011

Publication History [top]

Clay, Hannah. “The Broken Promise.” Ladies’ Companion. Vol. 3. Ed. Jane Loudon. London: Bradbury and Evans, 1853. Ser. 2. Print.

Full Text [top]

(See Original PDF)

“May I, then, depend upon your promise, my love, not to visit Eliza Smith during my absence?”

“Yes, Mamma, indeed you may. I am sure I do not wish to go, she was so very rude the last time I was there.”

“But, my dear Mary, she may come and laugh you into disobeying me, as she has done several times before.”

“No, Mamma, not when you are away. Do you think I have no more love for you than that?” said the little girl, reproachfully, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck.

“Well, my darling, I will endeavour to make myself easy about you. I should not be so, did I believe that there was the least chance of your breaking your promise.”

The child’s only reply was by another kiss, and then she went to help her mother to pack for her journey.

Mrs. Worthing’s fears were not unfounded. Little Mary’s father was habitually away the whole of the day; and the only other person left in the house during the absence of its mistress was a raw country-servant, who had no notion of managing children. Mrs. Leigh would have invited some female relation or friend to keep house for her while she was away, but she had lately come to live three or four hundred miles distant from her native place, and so neither relative nor friend was near enough to help her. Besides, she was only going to be absent a fortnight.^[8]

The mother’s greatest fear arose from the vicinity of Eliza Smith. Eliza was a strong, robust girl, the greatest tom-boy in the neighbourhood, full of mischief, and acquainted with tricks to which the little town-girl was not accustomed. Seldom did Mary Worthing visit Thorpe Farm but she returned with a bruised elbow or a cut knee. Once, in playing at ” Follow my Leader” through barn and stables, she had fallen from the roof of an outhouse, and narrowly escaped a serious injury. However, the mother hoped that her little daughter was incapable of forfeiting her word, and so she dismissed her apprehensions for the present. The next morning Mary rose at five o’clock to breakfast with her father and mother, and see the latter off by the early coach that passed the end of the lane. She helped to carry the large reticule^[9] that contained the sandwiches for her mother’s dinner, and the bonnet-box and parasol. Mary was quite cheerful while thus making herself of use; but when the “Good-byes” had been spoken, and her father (after standing a few moments to watch the coach disappear amid a cloud of dust) took her by the hand and led her silently homewards, she could not help crying. Everything looked deserted, and a fortnight appeared a sad long time for her mother to be away.

“La! Miss,” said Martha (the servant), as the little girl sat disconsolately down on a stool in the breakfast-parlour, her father having parted from her at the door. “La! Miss, you mustn’t take on so. Your ma will soon be back again. Keep up your heart—there’s a dear, and we’ll have Miss Smith to see you.”

“No, Martha, you must not,” replied Mary; “Mamma has made me promise not even to go and see Eliza at her own house, lest she should get me into mischief.”

“But it won’t be the same if she comes here,” said Martha. “I’ll go over and ask her, when I have done my work.”

Now Martha was a selfish and deceitful girl, and had private reasons of her own for wishing to get rid of the child during her mistress’s absence. So she managed that very evening to let Eliza Smith know that Mrs. Worthing was away, and that Mary was in want of a companion and playfellow.

The next morning, as the little girl was sitting in the porch, eating her breakfast of bread and jam, with a basin of milk fresh from the cow, and hearkening at the same time to the singing of the birds in the old elm trees, she beheld a figure advancing up the garden-walk that she little desired to see. It was Eliza Smith, who, with the skirt of her frock half torn off and dripping with water, and a large brown mug in hand, came up to Mary with a burst of vociferous^[10] laughter.

“You’re a pretty young lady,” she said, “to be breakfasting at this hour. Why, I have been down to the Low Weir already, and have caught all these fishes.”

Mary looked into the brown mug, and perceived that it was full of water, in which a number of tiny minnows were swimming.

“How did you manage that?” she wonderingly asked.

“Oh! Very easily. Just stood in the water, and put my hand under, and caught them as they came swimming along.”

“But how wet you are!” said Mary. “Oh! that is nothing. You must lend me a clean frock and petticoat and stockings, while these are drying; and then we will go and play. I know of such a beautiful bird’s nest with two young birds in it.”

Mary was very reluctant to lend the articles required, not because she was selfish, but that she was not sure that her mother would have approved of it had she been at home; for Mrs. Worthing, with her limited income, had often hard work to dress her little daughter decently, and Eliza Smith was too careless for it to be supposed that anything she borrowed would be returned in its original condition. However, the little girl was too timid to refuse what indeed appeared a necessary act of kindness; and she went upstairs with Eliza, and helped her to take off her wet clothes, and put on one of her own neat printed frocks and dimity^[11] skirts.

“Come,” said Eliza, when this was done. “They are a little too short; but that does not matter. Get on your bonnet and tippet,^[12] little Mary, and let’s be off to the bird’s nest.”

“But,” said Mary, hesitatingly; for the mention of the bird’s nest, with the little birds in it, tempted her sorely, “but mamma does not wish me to go out to play while she is from home.”

“Nonsense, you don’t mean that; why, you will have neither health nor spirits left, if you sit moping in the house all the time she is away.”

Mary thought there was reason in this; and as Eliza was there, and evidently intended to remain with her, she fancied that if she contented herself with being a spectator of her companion’s exploits, she would not be acting against her beloved mamma’s wishes. So the little girl ran into the hall for her bonnet and garden jacket; and Martha rejoiced, for as she said to herself, “Miss was now safe enough till tea-time.”

But this morning Mary did not forget her obedience. She had a delightful ramble with Eliza, who was in an unusually gentle mood. They roamed through fields and lanes, peeped into the bird’s nest and saw the callow young ones with their hungry beaks wide open, and when at length Mary knew by certain signs that it was full noon, she resolutely turned homewards; though Eliza, thinking to tempt her to Thorpe Farm, assured her that they were going to have ducks and green peas for dinner, and gooseberry pie with plenty of cream. But even this inducement failed to win the little girl from her fealty, and she arrived at home just in time for dinner, to the temporary discomfiture of Martha; who had invited two or three friends to dine with her, and was looking out for them when Mary made her appearance.

For some days Eliza continued to call for her little playmate every morning, and for some days Mary stoutly resisted every inducement to break the letter of her promise to her mamma; though we are sorry to say that its spirit was often violated by her becoming an accomplice in Eliza’s wild tricks and practical jokes. The little girl happened unfortunately to escape the usual casualties of trifling hurts and bruises, and so she became more and more daring each day. Meanwhile the cunning Martha took advantage of her young mistress’ long rambles to keep open house with Mrs. Worthing’s stores.

At length, one morning early in the second Week of her mamma’s absence, having gone with Eliza on a hedge-and-ditch excursion across the country, Mary suddenly found herself, before she was aware, close to the back premises of Thorpe Farm, in which direction her companion had intentionally led her.

“Oh! Eliza, No—I will not go on; you have deceived me,” cried the little girl, alarmed at her near proximity to the forbidden ground.

“We shall see,” said a great rough boy, Eliza’s eldest brother, who just then jumped over the wall. “We have been expecting you a long time, Miss; and now you must not go without paying us a visit. Must she, Charley?”

“No,” shouted the second son, following his brother. And the two rude boys making a chair with their arms, Mary was lifted on to it, in spite of all her struggles and expostulations!^[13] The youths trotted off with their burden, and the little girl soon found herself within the limits of the place her mamma had forbidden her to approach. But she compromised the matter with her conscience, by saying that it was not her fault that she was there at all; and that, as they would certainly hinder every attempt to run away, she might as well make the best use of her time by enjoying herself as much as she could. So dismissing the last lingering scruple, she was soon engaged, heart and soul, in the various games that were proposed; and all went on tolerably well, until one of the boys proposed that they should go and tease the hull.

Now the bull was kept in a stall by himself, being a fierce animal, and dangerous to trifle with. But Eliza’s brothers cared nothing for this. They were resolved upon their cruel sport; and disregarding alike Mary’s entreaties and Eliza’s threats of “telling her father,” they cautiously opened the door of the shed where the bull was confined, and taking long sticks with pins stuck in the end, began to goad his back and sides. Doubtless they thought themselves safe, and so they were for some time, for the animal was secured by a halter to a stall; but at length the annoyance he received put him past all patience, and after snorting and pawing the ground violently, by one mighty effort broke loose, and turning short round, rushed with a fierce bellow among the children. They screamed and fled in all directions; but poor little Mary, naturally not so nimble as the rest, and paralyzed by fright besides, stumbled and fell in the very track of the bull. When the furious beast was at length secured, and the unfortunate little girl was raised from the dunghill where he had tossed her, her clothes were found to be saturated with blood, one of his horns having entered her side.

Our readers may imagine the dismay and confusion that ensued. While some undressed the unfortunate child and stanched the wound, others ran for the doctor. Mrs. Worthing was written for by the next post: she speedily arrived, to find her beloved and only child stretched on a bed of suffering, and scarcely expected to survive the fever occasioned by her severe and dangerous hurts. Mary however at length recovered, thanks to the skill of the good doctor and her native strength of constitution; and when relating the details of her painful adventure to her mother, she would say, “Ah! Dearest mamma, had not my will seconded the temptation, those rude boys would never have mastered me. But I longed to disobey you, mamma; and I have been rightly punished.”

Notes [top]

↑ 1. In the mid-nineteenth century, there were not many options for processing for paper for publishers to choose from, regardless of what he was printing. At this time, paper was made from “rags and cotton waste” (Reed 27). As literacy rates grew, the demand for printed materials grew, so much so that that while the supple of rags to make the paper could not keep up with the demand. The price of rags in Britian grew 28% at the start of the 1850’s—because of this the search for a cheaper source of materials to make paper began. See David Reed, The Popular Magazine in Britain and the United States, 1880–1960, (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997) pp. 27-28.
↑ 2. The domestic periodical became a true, literary trend in the mid-nineteenth century that was solidified Charles Dickens called his periodical Household Words. The name signaled the idea of “the father might read to the family, but it was the mother, the ‘woman at home’, who was the enabler and manager of the domestic sphere.” See Joanna Shattock, Women and Literature in Britain 1800-1900. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) pp. 60-61.
↑ 3. John Claudius Loudon was a journalist, editor, publisher, proprietor, horticulturalist and garden designer. His works greatly altered his wife’s career because much of her talents were included into his own endeavors for almost a decade (Birkbeck).
↑ 4. A publishing house formed in 1830 London by William Bradbury and Frederick Mullett Evans. They were responsible for reputable periodicals such as Punch, The Daily News, Household Words, and Once a Week. They garnered great success and were one of the most profitable publishing houses of their time (Buckland).
↑ 5. Henry Chorley was a widely known reviewer of literature and music of the nineteenth century. In 1833, he began work for the Athenaeum, a weekly periodical launched in January 1828 whose target aim was to become “the resort of the distinguished philosophers, historians, orators and poets of our day” (Demoor 2000). While working for the Athenaeum, he reviewed around 2,500 books.
↑ 6. Virginia Woolf wrote an essay in 1929 entitled, “A Room of One’s Own,” which conveyed the message that “a woman must have a room of her own and five hundred pounds a year in order to write.” This essay is considered an important feminist text.
↑ 7. Eliza Cook’s Journal was published in 1849 by a popular woman poet of the nineteenth century, Eliza Cook. This periodical was aimed at the “artisan and lower middle classes, and was polemical with regard to independence for women.” Many of the works within the periodical were anonymous, signed with pennames, author’s full name. Unlike other magazines of this time like Eliza Cook’s Journal, there were no illustrations. The periodical ceased to run in 1854 on account of Cook becoming ill.
↑ 8. The span of fourteen nights and days; two weeks.
↑ 9. A type clothing and fashion from the 18th and 19th centuries that was a woman’s small bag or purse, usually in the form of a pouch with a drawstring and made of net, beading, brocade, etc.
↑ 10. Loud outcry full of vehemence, clamor, or noisiness
↑ 11. A sheer, crisp cotton fabric with raised woven stripes or checks, used mostly for curtains and dresses.
↑ 12. A fur cape for the shoulders, often consisting of the whole fur of a fox, marten, etc.
↑ 13. To reason earnestly with someone in an effort to dissuade or correct.

A Maltese Ghost Story

krdfz9 — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 19:53:56 +0000

A Maltese Ghost Story

A MALTESE GHOST STORY.

BY RICHARD JOHNS.

‘That is a singular looking rock,’ said I to myself, and, a- I thought, by myself, while gazing from the southern coast of Malta towards the little islet of Filfla, which, about four miles distant, uninhabited and seldom visited, rises from the blue waves a solitary, rugged mass of cliff and table-land, rather less than half a mile in circumference.

‘And that is a true saying, signor,’ responded a voice behind me in English, but with a strong Maltese accent.

I turned my head on the instant, and saw that I had been followed to the cliff w here I had just seated myself, by an aged man,—a meagre, ragged Maltese fisherman.

‘You speak English well,’ said I; ‘you have been in England?’

‘I served in a men of-war for four years, and in an English merchantman just as long; but it was years ago. I could speak better once. English is sooner learnt than Maltese.’

I fancied the old man smiled, for I had addressed him, perversely enough, in one of my best attempts at his own language, and, to turn the subject, I suddenly asked him whether I could procure a boat in the neighbourhood.

‘Not nearer than Marsa Scirocco,’ he answered, pointing towards that bay, ‘and there my son has one.’

‘Could he take me to Filfla?’ I demanded; and not a little astonished was I at the effect my question had upon the old man.

Looking towards the islet rather than at me, a tremor seemed to seize his whole frame, and rapidly crossing himself, he exclaimed,—

‘There are other fishermen at Marsa Scirocco. Holy mother of Heaven! ask not old Cristo, or son of his, to go to Filfla!’

‘And why not, Cristo?’ I inquired, my curiosity naturally excited.

‘It is a long story,’ rejoined the fisherman; ‘but if the signor is going back to Valetta, and will give a few grains to a poor old man, who can show him the nearest way, I might tell it as we walked.’

This was truly characteristic of Malta; a fair half of the population are beggars. I of course promised the required gratuity, and in return heard a genuine Maltese ghost-story. I shall often depart from the words of the fisherman; but the reader must take the narrative as I can best tell it, after the lapse of several months since it was told to me.

‘Andrea Casha and Domenico Balzan,’ leisurely commenced old Cristo, ‘were neighbours’ sons, residing at the entrance of the same casal, loving not the less for living near; though you know neighbours sometimes cease to be neighbourly. Their fathers’ cotton, corn, and clover-fields; their gardens, well stocked with orange and fig-trees, and vines, wero close to each other: the terrace-wall that supported the soil of the one proprietor, in continuation often did the like office for the other. Both the old men were thought equally wealthy for their walk in life, until the elder Balzan dying, it appeared that his properly was mortgaged even above its value to his neighbour. He had speculated and met great losses in a mercantile house at Valetta, with which a Maltese farmer should have had nothing to do, and this caused his ruin. “When Domenico Balzan had settled his father’s affairs, he was obliged to accept the old Casha’s offer of a home and employment on the properly which he had looked upon as his inheritance, but which now belonged to another. This degradation he at first felt severely, for he was of a proud and restless spirit. He even quarrelled with Andrea, who tried in vain to console him, and he would ultimately have emigrated to Sicily, had not the elder Casha died, and Domenico’s too partial friend had it in his power to heap favours upon his old playfellow, which not only reconciled their differences, but rendered it likely that they would continue companions for life. Balzan was made by Andrea Casha the complete manager of his property, and he even went so far as to execute a will, by which, should he die without issue, Balzan’s paternal estate would be restored to him. The young proprietor seemed, indeed, anxious to make any sacrifice rather than lose his friend, who, more than two years his senior, had been to him as a staff from his youth up, until he imagined that he could not go alone. Balzan knew well how to foster this idea, and to render himself essential to his patron. Unscrupulous himself, he would have encouraged any vices in Andrea that might distract his attention from business. Vices Andrea Casha had none, for he was a well-principled and amiable young man; but he had a weakness, which answered Balzan’s purpose as fully. He was so devoted to the festas and other pageants of the church, that a great portion of his time, and no small portion of his income, was lost in his attendance on, nnd support of, what Protestants would call religious vanities: not a discharge of fireworks graced the eve of a saint’s day in Malta but went off with some of his money.

‘These dissipations had soon an effect which Balzan never contemplated. Andrea, on several occasions after his return from a Jesta, spoke in most lover-like terms of a certain Signora Margarita Abela, who it would seem was almost as faithful an attendant upon festas as himself. She was invariably accompanied by her uncle, an elderly padri, with whom Andrea had made an acquaintance, and who evidently encouraged the attentions of the young farmer.

‘” Domenico,” said Casha one day to his friend, ” I insist upon your going with me to the fesla of St. Gregory. I am to carry the standard of our casal; Margarita will be at Zeitun, and bravely will 1 wave it in her honour.”

‘Now the feast of St. Gregory at the casal or village of Zeitun is the most remarkable of all the country festas. Then and there the laymen of each of the casals in Malta, who subscribe to the support and watch over the interest of their principal churches, march in procession to the church of St. Gregory at Zeitun, from a village called ” Casal Nuovo,” where all these “fratelli” previously meet. They wear distinctive uniforms, and a standard is borne before each party, the bearing of which is an honour sold to the highest bidder. The rustic lovers of Malta are anxious to secure this prize, as it is considered a most winning compliment to lustily wave the standard on the approach of a chosen fair one, and as their staves are very heavy—many of them plated with silver—it is no small proof of manhood. Balzan seldom went to festas, but he had a particular reason for going to Zeitun now that he heard Andrea speak of Margarita’s intention of being there on the morrow. He wished to see the maiden who had won his patron’s heart, though with no kindly feeling, as he was jealous of one who might be the wife of Casha, and perhaps the mother of children, who would interfere with his heirship to the lost estate.

‘Suffering himself to be persuaded with difficulty, that he might the better please his friend by consenting, he agreed to attend the festa, and, accordingly, at daybreak the two young men joined the procession to the church of St. Gregory. On their way Andrea pointed out the approach of a very pretty brunette, whose dark eyes sparkled at the sight of the standard; up it went to the full length of the exulting lover’s arms, and bravely did he wave it. Great was the crowd in the old church of St. Gregory, and of course there was a goodly gathering of the clergy. Priests and people shouted aloud ‘Misericordia!’ not the less loudly that they knew not why. The origin of the festa, and the rationale of its ceremonies, are involved in the obscurity of ages. Mass was sung and said, and the last strain of the music had died away, and all this was before ten o’clock in the morning. Many were the carts, rude vehicles formed of rough battens on a level with the shafts, which now rattled away with merry parties of country-people, their best mattresses spread beneath them. These were industrious folk, who, having been into the church for edification, and to the stalls outside for sweetmeats, considered the duties of the festa over, and that they might return to their labours with a clear conscience; but the greater portion of the assembly were differently disposed.

‘Every house in Zeitun appeared crowded with visiters, and the whole country around was covered by knots of gaily-dressed persons; the reason of these little gatherings accounted for by the baskets in the midst of each party, and one among the many pic nics belongs unto our story. Here were Domenico and Andrea, with the pretty Margarita seated between them, on the one side of a very white cloth, spread with very eatable viands, while on the opposite side sat the padre-uncle, supported by two staid dames,—the one an ancient widow, with whom Margarita had lived since the death of her parents, and the other no less important a person than the gobetween, who, according to the custom of this country, had been employed by Andrea to negotiate his marriage with the object of his affections. Balzan was not a little mortified to find that matters had gone so far; but he wondered not that Margarita was beloved by his friend, for ere he quitted her presence a passion, fierce and uncontrollable, except that he was able to conceal it, had taken possession of his soul. Yes! he hid the secret in his own dark thoughts, and smiled upon the lovers. What chance of rivalry had a pennyless with a wealthy man, and what interest could he hope to excite in the breast of Margarita Abela, who that day had become the betrothed of Andrea Casha? Soon after the festa of St. Gregory the young farmer began to put his house in order for the reception of his bride, Balzan appearing to share in his patron’s happiness, and fully to enter into all his arrangements; and ere a month had sped, the marriageday was fixed.

‘Margarita would not be a portionless bride; she was, for Malta, a rich heiress, as she would bring her husband a fortune of ten thousand scudi—£834. Altogether the wedding was likely to make a great sensation n the neighbouring casals, and many were the preparations for the feast in honour of the occasion, which was to be spread in the house once belonging to the Balzans. Here Padre Giovanni, and Signora Fenech—the widow who was as a mother to the bride—had; with their mutual charge, taken up a temporary abode.

” The day after to-morrow, and you will be mine, Margarita!” sighed forth the ardent Casha as he took an early leave of his mistress on the eve of that envious intervening morrow, a day which was to be spent by the bride elect and Signora Fenech at Valetta in making the last wedding purchases.

‘In spite of his having thus comforted himself with the proud expectation of coming happiness, Andrea that evening on his return home felt himself much depressed in spirits—he knew not why. Balzan rallied him upon his unaccountable gloom.

‘”What makes you look so melancholy?” he asked his friend; “surely you ought to be the happiest man in Malta. Then, what a wedding yours will be! I have just been looking over the bill of fare for the feast: the servants say they have, or expect to have, everything that can be desired. No, by the by,”—here he paused a moment,— “they have been asking me to procure them some rabbits:—do you remember when we were boys, the night we spent at Filfla, and the number we shot 1 I met two fishermen laden with shell-fish going to the other house just now, and 1 have half engaged them to let me try my fortune to-night. The moon will be up in less than an hour.”

‘” I do not know that I can better spend the night than by going with you,” answered Andrea.

‘” Agreed, then; so let it be,” rejoined Balzan.

‘Guns were always at hand, for they were both sportsmen; and, after seeking the fishermen, they repaired to the shore, and embarked for Filfla, which is hardly four miles from that part of the coast. The fishermen, after landing the two friends, stood off about a mile from the island, for the purpose of fishing, having received directions to return for the sportsmen at the going down of the moon. When they did return they could not find their employers, and one of the men, consequently, proceeded to the top of the island in search of them. They were still missing. Hoping that he had by some chance passed them on his way up, the man returned to the shore. His comrade had seen nothing of them; and, after waiting an hour longer, it was agreed between the two fishermen that the best way of finding their passengers would be to coast the island all round as near the shore as possible. They had but half fulfilled their task, when, having arrived off the most precipitous part of the cliffs, they imagined that in the shadow of an overhanging crag they saw one, if not two, of the parties they sought; and now, for the first time, it occurred to them that some accident must have happened, as, whatever it might be of the human form which they descried on the shore, it was still as death.

‘Pulling for the nearest point at which they could land, the fishermen soon reached the spot, where the first glance they took the luckless fate of both their passengers appeared revealed to them. The bodies of the young men were cast one on the other, and the blood and brains staining the rock on which this wreck of humanity lay motionless, told too plainly that it was caused by a fall from the precipice above. Motionless, did I say ?—no l The fishermen, as they approached the bodies, saw an arm raised, a hand drawn, as though painfully, across the brow of him whose face was partially upturned to the sky. They lifted him away from his companion, on whom his head, had reposed,—they threw water on his face;—they perceived that their cares were attended with success: he heaved a deep sigh, and opened his eyes. ‘” Where am I?” he exclaimed—” Ah!”

‘ He looked at the terrible sight before him, and, falling back in the arras of the fishermen, appeared to relapse into insensibility. It was Balzan—and Andrea Casha, he who would have been a bridegroom on the morrow, was now but a bleeding, shattered corse! After a while, Balzan, who was perfectly unhurt, relieved by shedding a torrent of tears, seemed to recover his presence of mmd. He assisted the fishermen in removing the body of his friend to the boat, and, answering their questions freely, told them all that was ever known of the catastrophe he yet wept over as he spoke. It would seem that the sportsmen had met with indifferent luck, at which Andrea was very much provoked. Just as the moon was sinking they had, while lying perdue behind two piles of stones, at a little distance from each other, communicated their mutual inclination to be off after the next shot.

‘” Ah ” said Balzan, “that next shot! A large rabbit burst from a burrow before my unhappy friend: he fired, and only wounded it, I brought my gun to my shoulder; fortunately for what remains to me of happiness, I did not fire. Signor Casha had dashed after the wounded creature, and must have received my full charge. The result was, however, equally fatal. The rabbit tumbled over and over, and then bounded on. Casha pursued. At the very verge of the cliff he aimed a blow as it darted into a burrow with the butt-end of his piece, and missing his aim, I saw him topple—disappear over the precipice! My feelings I need not describe. How I got below I know not. It might have been the usual path, and so round to the place where he fell, or most likely I rushed down a quicker, a desperate way that I heeded not—I found him!—Nothing more do I know until you discovered us both.”

‘Such was the story which Balzan told to the fishermen, and, with little variation, to the Padre Giovanni, immediately he reached the shore. Such was the story that met the ear of Margarita, who for a while was inconsolable.

‘Andrea Casha had no near relations: those who inherited the greater part of his property were very poor people, distantly allied to him. No one doubted that Casha had come fairly by his death; no one grudged that Balzan should take possession of his father’s property, which he of course did, by the will of his deceased patron. Nothing could be more edifying than, the grief of Balzan for the loss of his friend; and, as though from sheer affection for the memory of the departed, he was a frequent visiter to the house of Signora Fenech, showed the most respectful attentions to poor Margarita, and made Pudre Giovanni some very acceptable presents. The result may be anticipated—Margarita became the wife of Balzan; and now never did man appear to change so completely in character. From being steady, and attentive to his property, he left it entirely to the care of his labourers. Like Andrea Casha in former days, he might be found at every festa, at every merry-making, religious or otherwise. Margarita generally accompanied him, and report said that they were a happy couple.

‘I must now tell you, Signor, what I did not mention before,— (here let me endeavour to take up the words of the old fisherman,) —I was one of the men in the boat that landed the two friends at Filfla. I just this moment remarked that no one believed but what Andrea Casha came to his death fairly. I should have said no one but myself. Still who was I?—a poor old fisherman!—so, after sounding my comrade, and finding that he, too, thought all was right, I wisely held ray tongue.

‘I had lost sight of Signor Balzan for a long time, and I had given up fishing pretty much; for I had been hired to assist in a boat that carried fish to Valetta from Marsa Scirocco, and such ware as might be wanted, back. Sometimes, too, we took a party of pleasure to Scirocco from Valetta, and this was my employment on the last day I saw Signor Balzan. I always thought that when we had met, which was seldom, he seemed to shun me; and this day another gentleman, who was with his wife and himself, having hired me, he objected to the boat, and, indeed, did all he could to be off the bargain I heard him say that he had been quite tricked into going part of the way home by water; and I believe it was only his wife’s remarking in jest that she thought he was afraid of the sea, which made him consent. Now the next thing was to find my comrade who worked with me in the boat. The gentleman got impatient at his not coming. Signor Balzan swore horribly that, if he must go by water, he would show them that not only was he fearless of a boat, but that he could manage one, and telling me in a passion —just as if I had done him any harml—to get ready for shoving off—he handed his wife in, and with the other gentleman away we went. I took the rudder, without seeming to notice the Signor’s rage; and you may be sure I did not claim his acquaintance, but behaved to him like a stranger.

‘It was a very fine evening when we started, The pretty, gailydressed Signora Balzan laughed and talked, and the gentlemen trimmed the sails, and talked to her,—Signor Balzan appearing to have recovered his temper. I have seen many a gregale (north east wind), but the one that was then coming the Holy Mother of Heaven must have sent on purpose. The breeze freshened and freshened again, till we were well off” Marsa Scirocco point; for we had not hugged the coast: still nothing was thought of it. But then— blessed St. Paolo !—there came such a blast! The sails were old— the mainsail split into ribbons; for Signor Balzan, who should have let go the sheet, was standing up in the boat as though he had changed into stone:—his eyes were fixed on Filfla Island. The other gentleman was useless; he knew nothing at all about a boat. The poor Signora screamed, and well she might; for, leaving Marsa Scirocco on our starboard quarter, we were running before the wind in a gregale with more easting in it than common, for Filfla. Night came on—the moon had risen, but was obscured—I only saw one star, and this looked redly out from the dark sky above the island towards which we were hurrying; for the boat was now quite unmanageable. Perhaps I did not do rny best to manage her: I, too, had my eyes fixed on Filfla; I felt impressed that we must near the isle, I knew not why. If I had a thought beyond, at that moment, it was that by making a long stretch we might afterwards fetch in under the land, and possibly reach a small bay on the western coast; or, when the gregalo had expended its fury, we might beat back to Marsa Scirocco.

‘Poor Signora Balzan, seeing her husband stand appalled, his eyes glaring towards the fearful isle, the sight of which she turned from shudderingly, clung to him, and hid her face in his bosom; but he heeded her not. Just then—oh! night of horror !—we were nearing the very cliff beneath which 1 had found the dead—ay! the murdered man. It seemed to me that I was obliged to run close to it, and that I had no power over the helm. Then came a lull, as though the blast had done its worst. I heard a cry—a yell from Balzan:—he had thrown his wife to the deck—his arms were extended—he pointed to the crags above. I looked—I could not have been mistaken—there was a human form leaning over the precipice —it fell! The gentleman who was with us called out, “It is a fall of the cliff.” A fall of the cliff certainly followed on the instant— down it came with a sullen noise like distant thunder.’

‘Mercy! mercy!’ exclaimed Balzan,—’ I come! I come!’

‘The waters had hardly closed over the fall of rock when the murderer dashed headlong from the boat, and sank amid the waves. That night we succeeded in beating back to Marsa Scirocco. The Signora Balzan never spoke from the moment she beheld her husband’s awful suicide; every sense seemed paralyzed. The gentleman, who had done little as yet but cross himself, was now of some service when he got on shore. He had a friend near at hand who owned a calesse, and in this the poor Signora was conveyed to her solitary home. She is now, I believe, in a Sicilian convent.

‘Can you wonder, Signor,’ concluded the old fisherman, ‘that I like not to visit Filfla? Did I know that a boat-load of fish might be had for the fetching from beneath those unlucky cliffs, I would not go there, though I am very poor; and whatever the Signor gives me will be a charity to one who often wants bread.’

So ended, as it commenced, in an appeal to my compassion, the Maltese Ghost-Story.

Victorian Short Fiction

Robert Dundas Murray, “The Lonja of Seville” (1841)

Introduction [top]

Works Cited [top]

Publication History [top]

Full Text [top]

Notes [top]

Further Reading [top]

Hannah Clay, “The Broken Promise” (1853)

Introduction [top]

Works Cited [top]

Publication History [top]

Full Text [top]

Notes [top]

Further Reading [top]

A Maltese Ghost Story