"Then, in virtue of Custom-house regulations unknown to our travelling musician, they offered him 15 per cent. more than the valuation, and declared they would keep the instruments. Our artist was in despair; he complained, he prayed, he threatened, but all in vain; there was only one resource,—that of going to London to claim the interference of the French Ambassador; but, to do this, he must part from his dear fiddles, the instruments of his glory, and his fortune. He wished, at least, to bid them a last adieu, and, taking up one of them, he brought from it such melodious, but doleful sounds, as corresponded with his feelings. The Custom-house officers, attracted by the notes, formed a group round him, which gradually increased, so that the office could no longer contain the collected auditors. They begged the musician to pass into a large lobby, to which he, unwillingly, assented. There, on the top of the staircase, he performed several pieces which charmed even fiscal ears. Animated by his success, the artist surpassed even himself, and the enthusiasm of his audience was at its height, when they heard God save the King executed, with the most brilliant variations. How repay so much talent and complaisance? Everything was forgotten; even the regulations of the Custom-House. 'Sir,' said the Chief of the Customs to the French Virtuoso, 'take back your fiddles; you may boast of a finer, because a more difficult triumph than that of Orpheus. He melted only the infernal deities, but you have made the douaniers of Dover relent.'"
Here is a curious superstition which comes from a Bath paper: "A young woman, who had been married only three months, and lived at Widcomb, being summoned to answer a charge of a breach of the peace, at the instance of her mother-in-law, threw herself into the river, at Widcomb, and was drowned. Every means to discover the body have, hitherto, been ineffectual, on account of the great height of the river, through the late rains. It is curious, however, to observe some of the methods which fancy, or superstition, has suggested in order to find the body:—among others, a large drum, carried in a boat, has been beaten down the river, under the idea that its sound would alter when approaching the drowned person; and a small loaf, laden with quicksilver, has been set afloat, which, it is presumed, would be stopped in its progress, by attraction, when approaching the immersed object."
In this month of February an event occurred, which stirred Europe to its very foundation. The lion, so fondly believed to be caged at Elba, got unchained, and, leaving his petty island kingdom, on the 26th of Feb., he landed at Cannes on the 1st of March. There was consternation, to use the mildest term, all over Europe. The French king believed that he would soon be driven back; but in his advance, his army increased like a vast snowball, and poor Louis had once more to retire. The Congress at Vienna was broken up, unregretted by any one, and the Allies entered into a compact, engaging themselves not to quit the field until Napoleon was subdued. The news was not received here until the 10th of March, and the Times of next day, fairly foams over it. "Early yesterday morning, we received by express from Dover, the important, but lamentable intelligence, of a civil war having been again kindled in France, by that wretch Buonaparte, whose life was so impolitically spared by the Allied Sovereigns. It now appears that the hypocritical villain, who, at the time of his cowardly abdication, affected an aversion to the shedding of blood in a civil warfare, has been employed during the whole time of his residence at Elba, in carrying out secret and treasonable intrigues with the tools of his former crimes in France," &c.
The Newsboys in London must have reaped a rare harvest.
"Twang went the horn! 'Confound that noise!'
I cried, in pet—'these plaguy boys
Are at some tricks to sell their papers,
Their blasts have given me the vapours!'
But all my senses soon were stranded,
At hearing, 'Buonaparte's landed!'
'Landed in France!' so ran the strain,
And 'with eleven hundred men.'
'Ho, post!' 'Who calls?' 'This way.' 'I'm coming!'
'The public, surely, he is humming,'
Said I. 'A paper—what's the price?'
'A shilling.' 'Why, that's payment twice!'
'As cheap as dirt, your honour, quite;
They've sold for half-a-crown to-night.'
'But is the news authentic, friend?'
'Ofishul, sir, you may depend.—
The Currier third edition.' 'So!
Well, take your money, boy, and go.'
Now, for the news—by what blunder
Has he escaped his bounds, I wonder."
Rothschilds had the first news, one of their clerks coming express from Paris to tell them. Doubtless they took advantage of their information.
END OF VOL. I.
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