Taken by Storm

Author Unknown

Translated by Edmund

Content Warning: #4 (explanation)

A Rogue of the Period

by John Baker Hopkins

The lines of Mr. Albert Fitz-Talbot Copsey are cast at Bayswater, where he occupies Candy Villa, a residence a quarter of a mile remote from the main road, situated in an unpretentious stucco street, which is a favorite resort of open-air musicians by day, and of mouse-catchers by night.

Candy Villa is a breakfast parlor and two-storey house, with twenty-feet grounds in the rear, and a six-feet garden in the front. The abode of Mr. Copsey, though small, is imposing. On the little veranda that juts from the little drawing-window, are four little evergreens in four little tubs. There is a capacious portico, which is approached by a flight of three stone steps, guarded by two stone lions, the magnificent animals having prodigiously luxuriant manes and very long tails.

Let us be introduced to Mr. Copsey in his study. The writing table is covered with letters and papers. There are books on suspended shelves. In a corner are two hat-boxes, a case of mineral waters, and a case of wine. On a small round table are two tumblers, a glass jug of water, an open box of cigars, and a bundle of cigarettes. Over the mantelpiece hangs a weapon that was presented to Mr. Copsey by an African king. The walls are decorated with photographs of Mr. Copsey. One of the photographs has St. Peter's for a back ground, in another Mr. Copsey dwarfs the Niagara Falls, and in others St. Mark's, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Alps have the honor of playing second fiddle to Mr. Copsey's likeness. The back grounds serve to remind Mr. Copsey of his travels.

The nose of the visitor encounters' a smell of assorted scents, emanating from the pomade with which Mr. Copsey renovates his hair, the cosmetique with which he disciplines his beard and moustache, and the Imperial Perfume with which he saturates his handkerchief. In the crown of Mr. Copsey's hat, on his signet ring, on the case of his watch, on his note-paper, on his linen, on his cigar-case, on his purse, on the knob of his umbrella, and on all that is his there is printed, or embossed, or embroidered, or engraved his initials in monogram and his crest, which is a long-eared tiger, tottering in its hind legs.

Mr. Copsey was always carefully prepared for the gaze of mankind, and though he never left his bed until the vulgar world had done half a day's work, he devoted over two hours to dressing. He is now arrayed for dinner. The extremities of his superfine black trousers gracefully repose on patent-leather shoes. From the button-hole of his rich silk waistcoat is suspended a gold chain and a bunch of ornaments, including a miniature tea-urn, the gift of his Celestial Majesty the late Emperor of China, and a miniature warming-pan, given to him by the late Duke of Wellington. The white necktie is fringed with lace, and gold studs and a ruby pin enrich his shirt front. On his fingers are three rings, which he is constantly feeling—perhaps to make sure that they have not been given into the custody of an accommodating relation; for he has at intervals banked with the descendants of the ancient Lombards. A gold-rimmed eyeglass is suspended round his neck, and the links of his shirt sleeves are conspicuous.

A low and slightly overhanging forehead, an elongated nose, with a snubby termination; eyes of ferret shape and expression, of feline color, and with a fishy film; a capacious and thin-lipped mouth. Neither photography nor art could fail to do him justice.

According to rumor, Mr. Copsey had been in various callings, and, at the time we make his acquaintance, he was supposed to be living on his means, devoting his time to philanthropy.

Mr. Copsey rang the bell, and ordered the servant to ask Mrs. Copsey to come into the study. The lady, who was very much dressed, particularly about the head and skirt, and who appeared to be awkwardly conscious of the grandeur of her attire, speedily complied with the request.

"Where are the children?"

"They are dressing."

"You mean that they are engaged on their toilet."

"Yes; and, poor dears, they are quite upset by the heat."

"Ah!" said Mr. Copsey, "what is this to crossing the line, when to respire is intensest agony, and causes an aqueous discharge from every pore of the skin. But I have been trained to endurance, and the cold of Lapland and the heat of the torrid zone did not evoke a murmur."

"Nonsense, Copsey. No one can be froze or boiled without feeling it."

"My dear, froze or boiled is an expression that, applied to the temperature of humanity, does not befit the lips of a lady."

"We are alone."

Mr. Copsey rectified some mineral water with brandy, and drank the mixture.

"How often am I to repeat that, in order to avoid embarrassments, we should, in the privacy of the domestic circle, seem to one another what we wish to appear in the vision of society."

Mr. Copsey spoke slowly, and mouthed his words as if they were so precious and so nice that he was loath to part with them.

"We have a beautiful bowl of ice, Copsey."

"An indispensable gastronomical obbligato at this season. By the way, we have no ice tongs."

"We can use the sugar tongs."

"That will not do," said Mr. Copsey, as he prepared another tumbler of mineral water, rectified with brandy. "It is better to take our liquids warm, to say that our purveyor of ice has disappointed us, than adopt a vulgar substitute for the proper implement."

"But, Copsey, can't we say that the proper tongs has gone to be mended, or been stolen?"

"My dear, you forestall the utterance of my thought. In a duly regulated establishment, mending is so arranged that no inconvenience accrues from the operation. Our ice tongs, given to me by an Indian prince, were stolen by an applicant for alms, who was left solus in our dining room."

At that moment the two children—the only children of Mr. Copsey—entered the study. They are girls, and their papa often expresses regret that he has not a son to inherit his ancient name.

"My dears, your ma and I have arranged that our ice tongs have been purloined by an impostor soliciting benevolence."

"Yes, papa; and couldn't our silver fish-knives have been stolen at the same time. For, as Vespasia was just saying, it is so vulgar not to have them."

"Certainly, my dear. We only discovered the cruel theft this afternoon. I will state the circumstance to our guests."

The elder of the children is Miss Innocence Estella Viola Copsey, and, according to the family reckoning, she is about twenty-one years old, though she was baptised with less poetical names, nearly forty years ago. The younger child, Miss Vespasia Rosina Lily Copsey, favored the light of the sun all thirty-five years ago, but, according to the Copsey calculation, she is not quite of her teens. Papa has lately bought a big family Bible, and entered the births of Innocence and Vespasia, at dates which support the theory of their juvenility.

What with the squeezing in and the padding out, the complexion put on, the hair of foreign growth, and the teeth of art, they might be taken, at a distance, for girls. Their manners are quite infantile. They are addicted to giggling, but, as their mamma observes, children will be tickled by straws. In their movements they strive to imitate the friskiness of lambs, and, as their papa remarks, the graceful agility of youth must necessarily herald the dignity of mature life. There is no doubt that the Copseys were perfectly unconscious that their grotesque pretensions were laughed at, yet, as we shall see, they were clever and successful dupers—that they had the ability and tact to live by fraud without being overhauled by justice and dry-docked. The phenomenon can be explained. Personal vanity, the unmingled worship of self, blinds the sharpest sight to defects of self. Also the habitual liar becomes the dupe of his own lying.

"I think, my dear, that on this occasion you might, if the opportunity occurs, ask Mr. Pooner and Mr. Drumhead to assist us in a work of benevolence. Pooner has a very fair income, and Drumhead is rich."

"Yes, papa," said Vespasia; ''but I am sure Pooner is awfully mean. The gloves he gave me were not worth two shillings a pair."

"Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Pooner is a lemon that requires extra squeezing; but in the cause of charity we must not be discouraged."

"Shall we plead for the poor family in the country which wants to emigrate?"

"No, dear Innocence; I am afraid that the poor family in the country is not effective. Why should we not ask for help in the case of Margaret and Martha Manvers, whose bad conduct I have again and again forgiven, who are now in dire distress, and are willing to emigrate and lead a proper life, if the funds can be procured. Your ma might, without my consent, take our friends to see the unhappy women."

"But, pa, they would want us to go with them, so perhaps it would be better to plead for only one woman."

"My dear Vespasia, you and Innocence are too sensitive to look upon such misery; and that is a reason for declining."

"I don't like or trust that Pooner," said Mrs. Copsey. "Old fools have eyes."'

"Let him use his eyes," rejoined Mr. Copsey. "We are not ashamed of what we do in the cause of charity."

"And it is about time we did something," said Innocence, "for nothing is coming in. We wrote to Old Chubb, telling him that the poor widow Ward has just lost her youngest child, and has not a penny for a bit of crape or to buy a coffin, and the brute replies that he will not give her another sixpence, and that we are to tell Mrs. Ward that if she calls at his house again he will not see her and will take some steps to get rid of the nuisance."

"I should like to see the wretch horse-whipped," exclaimed Vespasia.

Mr. Copsey played with his toy tea urn and his toy warming pan, and smiled.

"The brutality of Mr. Chubb will be defeated. I happen to have found out an excessively unpleasant circumstance about his son. I shall call on him in the morning and condole with him on that painful affair, and after that he will be civil to you and to any person whose cause you advocate. He who know's another man's unpleasant secret is master of that man."

Mr. Copsey had devoted much of his time to discovering other people's secrets, and he found the occupation profitable. There were half a dozen men and women who dared not refuse to help his poor family in the country, his distressed widow in town, his ruined professional friend, his clergyman who had disgraced the cloth and was in most pitiable penury, or his orphan girl whose life depended upon a visit to Madeira. Mr. Copsey had a very long list of pensioners on his bounty. There was an author engaged on an immortal work who yearned for a pat, only one pat, of butter to lubricate his dry crust; there was a governess who was always going into a first-rate situation, provided she could obtain a few clothes; there was a mother praying for a few pounds to save her son from shame; there was always on hand a woman earning bread for her helpless family, who was in peril of having her sewing machine seized for rent.

The guests arrived in due course. Mr. Pooner is middle aged and attentive to Vespasia. Mr. Drumhead is young and devoted to Innocence. The dear children were so playful. Vespasia made little bread pills and threw them at Mr. Pooner. Innocence put her plated napkin ring on Mr. Drumhead's thumb, and said, "With this ring O thee wed." Mrs. Copsey did not notice it.

"Try that condiment, Mr. Pooner. It is not unlike the palate stimulant that I enjoyed in Pekin, where I resided for three months. Khan Bang Foo, the Imperial Chamberlain, prepared sumptuous banquets for my stomachic delectation. Khan Bang Foo loved me, and tears streamed down his venerable cheeks when I refused to entertain His Celestial Majesty's offer of £10,000 a year, and a palace to remain in his Empire. Imperial grandeur could not tempt me to forsake my native land. The Emperor was offended at first, but became reconciled and presented me with his miniature tea-urn as a parting gift."

"Pa, dear, wasn't the Emperor's daughter very fond of you?" asked Vespasia.

"My dear child, you awaken a delicate memory. The illustrious Princess honored me by a profound attachment, which, if I had forsaken my native land, would doubtless have eventuated in an alliance. Her feet were so exquisitely small that I could barely get my thumb into the jewelled shoe, that she gave me as a memento of our friendship."

Mr. Copsey enlivened the dinner with many such anecdotes of his travels.

"Put some ice into your claret, Mr. Drumhead. When I was in Africa, the honored guest of King Tumtum, I had a refrigerating apparatus in my baggage, and made artificial ice. The delight of the king and his wives was ecstatic. His majesty offered to abdicate in my favor. Often when I had been panting in the hot air of the torrid zone, far away from the haunts of civilisation, I have thought that the manufacturing of artificial ice was the most beneficial invention of any age."

Mrs. Copsy again and again apologised for the plainness of the dinner.

"My dear," said Mr. Copsey, "our friends did not expect a princely banquet. When my fortune was shattered by the failure of Overend, Gurney and Co., I had only enough salvage from the wreck for that simplicity of style, that is happily not incompatible with the aspirations of a noble soul. We might have a somewhat larger establishment, but I can't spend all I have over ourselves. To bestow on the needy is as indispensable to my life as food. Alas! I deplore the loss of fortune because I have now so little wherewith to alleviate distress. Even in the society of my friends, even at this moment I am oppressed by a case that I cannot adequately relieve."

Mr. Copsey wiped his gold-rimmed eyeglass, emptied his glass, and sighed.

"If my purse was as large and full as my heart, the sun would not shine on suffering that riches could assuage. My child, fetch some cigars from my study. Some of the Cabanas that were sent me by His Grace. I find a cigar soothing to painful emotion."

When the guests left about midnight, they had to walk some distance for a cab, and began to talk, as departed guests are apt to do, about their entertainers and entertainment.

"These cigars are A1, Pooner. Copsey is a queer fish, but he is good-natured, and does his best to make a fellow comfortable."

"Very queer, indeed. If he is not an artful cadger, I am."

"Well, of course, the Emperor of China, Bang Foo, and King Tumtum, and all that talk is cram; but I don't think the girls are a bad sort."

"Precious old girls, but not old enough to fool me. Vespasia looked spiteful, though she pretended to be very grateful when I gave a sovereign to help the two unfortunate women named Manvers. She expected a fiver."

"I gave Innocence two fivers for the Manvers women."

"Bravo, Drumhead! Then our dinner, wine and cigars are handsomely paid for."

"Come, my boy, they are not quite so fishy as to cheat the poor."

"I no more believe in the Manvers' women, than I do in Bang Foo and his Celestial Majesty's daughter."

"Nonsense, Pooner. Innocence proposed that I should go and see the women."

"The sweet Vespasia made the same suggestion to me."

"It's not pleasant to be bled, Pooner. Only a fortnight ago, Copsey got a twenty from me for a parson who has gone to the dogs, and was quite savage when I said I could not afford more than a fiver. It is this way, Pooner. About two years ago I did my first and last turf plunge, and to pay my losses discounted bills secured by a post obit. Somehow or other Copsey knows about that job, which is all squared, but if it came to the ears of my Governor, I should be cut off with a bronze token, and serve me right, and old Copsey has a way of letting you know he knows your secret. So you see I don't want to offend him."

Before he again spoke, Mr. Pooner whistled a popular air with elaborate variations.

"Look here, Drumhead, I'll lay you long odds, it shall be twenty sovs. to one, that the Manvers' women are a sham."

"It would he plundering you to take the bet."

"No, it would not. Let it be a bet, to oblige me, Drumhead."

"Done. But how can we decide it?"

"I feel a sudden interest in their case, and you and I will be willing to come down handsomely to get them abroad. We will go and see them as proposed by the sweet Vespasia and the charming Innocence. Come to my chambers for a brandied soda, and we will fix up the details.

Perhaps if Mr. Copsey had heard the conversation of his departed guests, he would not that night have slept the sound sleep of infancy before it is troubled with teething.

The next day he called on Mr. Chubb, and when he returned to Candy Villa, said:

"After an interesting and confidential conversation with Mr. Chubb, about an unpleasant affair, I told him that I knew my children had ventured to trouble him about the distress of a poor widow, and that he must excuse you for so doing, because I had trained you to regard charity as the business of your life. He was very polite, and spoke most kindly of your benevolence. I think that Mrs. Ward should call on him."

"Yes, pa," said Innocence, "perhaps I had better go with Mrs. Ward. I can see Chubb whilst she sits in the cab."

"I suppose the widdy has buried the kid by this time," said Vespasia, laughing.

"Do not jest about these matters, my dear, or you will be caught laughing when you ought to be serious."

"Of course not, Vespy; did we not write the evening before last to say that the child had just died, and poor Mrs. Ward could not provide for the funeral!"

"I think," said Mr. Copsey, "that besides temporary relief, something substantial should be done for the bereaved widow. If Mr. Chubb will find £30, I will put £30 to it, and we can furnish two rooms for her; and as she is an accomplished woman, we can put her in the way of getting a living for herself and surviving child, by teaching."

Then Mr. Copsey dined. A little soup. A taste of fish. A delicate preparation of sweetbread. Vegetables cooked in French fashion. Claret and two or three glasses of burgundy. Mr. Copsey often spoke of the refined and aesthetical tendencies of his nature. He abhorred common food, the vulgar chop, steak or joint, plain boiled potatoes, and brutal beer.. Even his nose was aesthetical, and was tortured by contact with even the finest cambric, unless the cambric had been aesthetically perfumed.

"Now, my dear children, whilst you are charitably engaged in connection with the appalling distress of the poor widow Ward, I shall recline on the couch, for I am suffering from a sense of fatigue. With my postprandial cigar, I will take some mineral water with a slight precautionary infusion of alcohol in the form of brandy. Oh, my dear Innocence, not that thick tumbler. Please give me a thin and elongated mineral water glass. I cannot help the asthetical sensitiveness of my nature. My lips shrink from contact with thick glass. I remember when I was in Africa, and tormented by the raging thirst which is incidental to jungle fever, I could not moisten my parched lips until my faithful attendant brought my liquid in a suitable vessel, that is to say, in the burnished silver goblet always carried in my valise."

Mr. Copsey smoked his cigar and then dosed placidly, the aesthetically perfumed cambric being put over his head as a defence against the flies which have no respect even for a Copsey. But the fatigued philanthropist did not enjoy the contemplated evening of seclusion and repose.

Clifford, the general domestic—her real name was Ann Mugg, but Mr. Copsey preferred a more aristocratic appellation—aroused her master from his sweet sleep to announce that Mr. Proven wanted to see him about a case of charity.

"Conduct him to me, Clifford, for even a stranger, if he comes on an errand of mercy, has a claim to disturb your master's rest."

He put the brandy out of sight, took up a book, and began to read.

"Good evening, Mr. Copsey, I hope I don't interrupt. Mr. Neal has referred to us a letter you wrote to him about the case of a merchant who is sick and starving. If you will oblige me with the details the case shall be looked into, and if it turns out genuine, shall be duly and promptly relieved."

Mr. Copsey coloured and looked hard at his visitor through his gold-rimmed eyeglass.

"And who are you, sir?"

"My name is Proven, sir. I am a local superintendent of the Charity Organisation Society."

Mr. Copsey rose from his chair, and spoke in a tone of indignation that ought to have made Mr. Proven quake in his stockings.

"This is a most unwarrantable and unprovoked intrusion, sir. If Mr. Neal will not lay up treasure in heaven that is his affair: but it is a breach of etiquette, a violation of the law of honor, almost a violation of the law of the land, to send you my letter. As for your society, sir, I hate it, I abhor it, I detest it; and before men and angels I anathematise it. Is the dew of heaven, sir, to be sold by measure? So far as I can I will oppose the cruel desecration of charity. You have my answer to your request. Good night to you."

The indignant philanthropist had not recovered from the shock of Mr. Proven's wicked request, when Clifford announced Mr. Burrell.

"How are you? I am delighted to see you. Mrs. Copsey and the children will be in shortly."

"Thanks; but I cannot remain to-night. I have called about the distressed clergyman. Ever since I have had your letter it has worried me. Such trouble and misery is awful."

"Ah, my dear Mr. Burrell, the eyes of my heart are suffused with tears—pitying tears of blood—when I think of the suffering of a man whom I knew when he basked in the sunshine of prosperity. True, my unfortunate friend has erred, and deeply. In a moment of weakness he sullied his cloth; he forgot the reverence due to his sacred office. But when I behold my fallen fellow creature writhing in the dust, spurned by the world, and mangled by remorse, I forget his iniquity, and hold out to him my ungloved hand."

"You are right, Mr. Copsey. I'll call on the poor fellow, and when I see what he can do, we must and will find him a means of living. I was struck by his noble remark you quote in your letter, that the bread of charity chokes him, and that it is only honestly earned bread that can restore his health and sustain his life. He must be a manly fellow. Where shall I find him?"

Mr. Copsey shook his head.

"Alas! my dear Mr. Burrell, the sensitiveness of his nature is intensified by suffering, and he would rather decease than be seen in his misery and degradation. Even the visit of my gentle child Vespasia caused a nervous shock that was nearly fatal."

"But, Mr. Copsey, how can a man be helped who will not be seen?"

"My dear friend, let him receive the aid he needs as the flowers of the field receive the refreshing dew."

"I promise you I will not wound his feelings. Give me his address."

"No, Mr. Burrell. My soul so deeply sympathise with the sensitiveness of woe, that I cannot comply with your kindly meant request."

"Then I can't help him."

"So be it, my dear friend. However, when I see him to-morrow I will mention your proposal."

Mr. Burrell handed two sovereigns to Mr. Copsey.

"Give him that. I'll do more for him if he'll let me."

Mr. Copsey put two sovereigns to Mr. Burrell's gift, and wrapped the four in an envelope.

"Ah, my dear Mr. Burrell, what a blessed investment is charity!" There is no fraudulent trustee or dishonest director to steal our money. There is no winding up and calls to pay. The land shall be desolate and consols shall be no more; but these sovereigns, that we have invested in mercy, will yield us a dividend of bliss for ever."

When Mr. Burrell had left Candy Villa, Mr. Copsey, transferred the sovereigns from the envelope to his purse.

"There is no nobility of soul left in the world! Burrell must be worth three or four thousand a year, yet he gives a paltry two pounds for a case of awful distress. I wish I had tried him for the Manvers women or for the widow Ward, for then he might have seen the case.

Miss Innocence did not bring cheering news to the eminent philanthropist.

"Yes, pa, we have seen old Chubb, and he only gave three pounds, and said he could do no more."

"But I think he will do more, my dear Innocence. It is a very unpleasant affair indeed I have discovered about his son. I think he will do more for the widow."

"I hope he will be made to do it, for he quite upset us. He came up to the cab to see the widow, and said, 'I will call on you, what is your address?' Of course she began to sob, and I sobbed too. Then the wretch said: 'I'll go with you now, and see what is to be done!' But I was equal to him, for I said, 'Oh, how good and brave you are, dear Mr. Chubb, for no one will come near the poor thing, because her child died of putrid fever.' He made such a bolt into his house that we couldn't help laughing; but he was too frightened to hear our laughter. The mean wretch."

Vespasia tripped in, wearing a white cotton wrapper trimmed with red ribbon.

"My dear child, what a style for this hour. A lady puts on evening attire for dinner, and continues in evening attire until she disrobes for her couch. The observation of the etiquette of the elite is a moral tonic that no one can dispense with without deterioration."

Mr. Copsey's speech, always slow, was slower than usual, and clammy. The children looked at the brandy bottle. Pa had taken a great deal of precaution in the rectification of the mineral water.

"Well, pa, I am so hot after black, and I am tired of dressing. But, Inny, who do you think has written to me? Pooner. And what do you suppose he says? Guess what the letter is about."

"My dear child, I object to anything that has the remotest affinity to a riddle. It is the amusement of the inferior classes, and therefore a vulgar practice."

The children never regarded the admonitions of the pa when he was in the clammy stage of alcoholic precaution. Innocence took the letter and read it.

"Oh, isn't it jolly! Pa, old Pooner writes to Vespy, that he talked to Drumhead about the Manvers case, and they will give a hundred pounds between them to help the unfortunate women, and put them in a decent position. Pooner and Drumhead will call here to-morrow afternoon for us to take them to see the women."

"There is some nobility of soul in the world, my children, though it is hard to get at it; for the ear of those who have is so encrusted and hardened with gold, with the dross of commerce, that it is deaf as the auricular of the adder to the moan of distress. We will debate the affair in the morning; for I am too exhausted to-night. l am afraid that mineral water, though it pleasantly gratifies and allays the liquid craving of the palate, relaxes the nervous tone. Ask your ma, my dear, to prepare a thin sandwich of tongue, with a little condiment in the form of mustard. And though I abhor malt liquor I will swallow a glass of bitter beer, which is the least objectionable form of malt infusion."

Mr. Copsey continued to talk very slowly and with increasing clamminess until he was in bed and asleep. Mr. Copsey was never intoxicated, but a stranger might have mistaken his nightly mineral water clamminess for a stage of the complaint; that is to say, a stranger who did not know and hold the Copsey doctrine, that Albert Fitz-Talbot Copsey never said, or did, or thought amiss, and that a person who obeyed the behest of the said Copsey only did his duty; and any person who denied the said Copsey was vulgar, ignoble, and wicked. There is no doubt whatever that Mr. Copsey was persuaded that blackest black was brightest white, that he a most despicable scoundrel was a truly noble and meritorious man. Perhaps it is not uncommon for scoundrels to be blind to their faults and imagine themselves to be very superior to the rest of their fellow creatures, and not a whit lower than the angels.

Mr. Copsey slept soundly, as the innocent sheep sleeps unconscious that to-morrow it will be butchered into mutton.

When Mr. Podner and Mr. Drumhead arrived at Candy Villa, the children were out purchasing flannel to be made into petticoats for the Poor Female Winter Clothing Club.

"Since infancy my dear children have daily toiled in the sweet and noble field of charity. Ah, Mr. Drumhead, our National Debt, though immense, would not, though it were multiplied by a thousand, produce the income my girls have laid up in another world. No wonder that some little ragged children came to them the other day and said—'Oh, please, please, Miss Innocence, and Miss Vespasia, we know you are angels, for mother says so, and you are so good. Oh, please do show us your wings!' I am not ashamed to confess that when I heard that touching anecdote my eyes were not tearless."

"It was proposed that we should see the unfortunate women, the Manvers," said Mr. Pooner.

"I am aware of your benevolent design, and that is one reason why I insisted upon the children going out. It prostrates them, it is almost fatal to them to look upon such misery as afflicts Martha and Margaret Manvers. Five years ago, Martha was as well-shapen as my own girls, but now she is bent, and deformed by curvature of the spine caused by the weakness engendered by want.

For three months, the poor creature had no other food than an occasional dry crust and the fumes of boiled beef and carrots that she daily inhaled by standing over the grating of a cookshop. Once the poor creature tore some cat's meat from the mouth of a cat and eat it. That was not honest, but let us forgive the dishonesty. Margaret is so lamed with rheumatism, caught by exposure to the weather in soleless shoes, that she cannot move without the help of a stick. Yet those women are educated daughters of a refined gentleman, whose face was not unknown to the gold stick in waiting at the court of our sovereign."

"We will go alone to see the unfortunates."

"No, my dear Mr. Pooner. Mrs. Copsey will conduct you to the abode of misery."

Whilst Mrs. Copsey and the gentlemen were engaged on what Mr. Copsey described as the heart-rending mission of angelic mercy, the eminent philanthropist, drove to the Park in a hansom, walked half-an-hour, and then dined at his club. It was twilight when he returned to his residence.

Mrs. Copsey and the children were in the reception room. Mrs. Copsey was lying on the couch, groaning. Vespasia was swallowing some brandy and water, the glass being held to her lips by Innocence.

"What does this mean? What I ask, is the meaning of this excitement and confusion?"

"Oh, that horrid Pooner!" said Innocence.

"I'll murder the wretch," exclaimed Vespasia.

"I told your pa what Pooner was," groaned Mrs Copsey.

Presently, whilst Mrs. Copsey continued to groan, and Vespasia to scream, Innocence informed the eminent philanthropist of what had happened.

Mrs. Copsey conducted Mr. Pooner and Mr. Drumhead to the miserable unfurnished cottage in which a benevolent landlord allowed the unfortunate Manvers women to shelter until it was left. Margaret Manvers was on the straw mattress covered with a ragged quilt and moaning with agony. Her rheumatism was so bad she could not sit up or even speak to the benevolent visitors. Martha Manvers, dreadfully deformed with a huge lump on her back, was so weak that she could only speak in a whisper. Mrs. Copsey called Pooner to a corner of the room and said she was sure the woman on the mattress was attacked with fever, and it would not be prudent to remain long in the place. Pooner opened the door and whistled, and old Chubb came in. In a moment Pooner seized Martha, violently tore off her wig and hump, whilst Chubb and Drumhead took the rags and wig off the moaning Margaret.

I can't tell you what was said, for we were stunned. As soon as the wretches left we came home. I am sure they will go to the police."

"What trouble you have brought upon me," said Mr. Copsey. "I shall leave, and you had better follow."

"How dare you talk of forsaking me and the poor children? You are as bad as Pooner,"

"Don't be such fools as to row when every moment is valuable," said Innocence.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mr. Copsey, "there is some one at the door. It is only the postman. Yes, Innocence, we have not a moment to waste."

The following afternoon the milkman was surprised to find that the milk he had left in the morning in a can, under the guardianship of the stone lions, had not been taken in. After knocking and ringing, he enquired of the neighbors. The opinions were various.

At the end of the week the landlord of Candy Villa, received a post packet bearing a French post mark. It contained a key and the following letter:

"France, Thursday Night. 

"My dear Sir,—

"I am compelled for a while to sojourn in a foreign land. After a life devoted to the work of charity and mercy, I am the victim of a cruel and fiendish plot. An innocent masquerading frolic of my children has been wickedly misconstrued. But I am blessed with a noble soul and a tender heart, and I forgive my enemies, who have for a time deprived the afflicted of their friend in need, their brother in adversity. Sell the furniture and effects at Candy Villa, and out of the proceeds take the rent due to you, and be good enough to disburse the balance in charity. Even in my own trouble I cannot forget the troubles of others. I am a child in business, and indeed the only business I understand is helping others. Hoping you will cheerfully undertake to act as my almoner, and that the sale may yield a goodly balance for the relief of distress,

"I am, Your faithful friend, 

"ALBERT FITZ-TALBOT COPSEY." 

Seeing that Mr. Copsey owed debts, and that the furniture of Candy Villa had been obtained on the hire system and was not paid for, his bequest of the balance of the proceeds of the sale to the poor was a remarkable proof of his benevolence.

In the children's room was found a large trunk, which was fastened by a patent lock.

The trunk contained tattered dresses, widow's caps and bonnets, an assortment of false hair of various colors, several sets of artificial teeth, crutches, and a back hump similar to that which had been worn by Martha Manvers.

Whether Mr. Copsey has returned to his native land is uncertain; but he may have done so, and under another name and in another locality, be engaged in philanthropic enterprise, aided by the charming Innocence and the sweet Vespasia.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 28 July 1881, supplement page 2.

A Lunatic's Ball

by Simon Simple

It was at Forrester's in the evening—as usual.

Forrester is a wag.

"Do you mind taking a trip over to the Yarra Bend Asylum," said he, "there is a concert and ball on, and my two youngest daughters are guests, you might bring them back with you, if you will."

"All right," said I, "have you anything in the shape of a pass or ticket that it will be necessary for me to produce?"

"Not at all," he replied with a wink," "just tell them who you are."

I might incidentally remark that I had always wished to go to a lunatic's ball, and now that the opportunity presented itself, I was only too willing to avail myself of it. Suffice it to say that I started out and, after a walk across country of about a mile, reached a medieval kind of punt, by means of which I was ferried across to the asylum grounds. Upon landing I accosted a Minos-like individual who directed me to the hall where the festivities were being carried on; and eventually arrived.

The concert was over, and as I entered I caught the strains of a well-known waltz, and after depositing my hat and cane, found myself amongst a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, intent upon enjoying all the pleasures afforded by a social reunion where dancing occupies the place of the piece de resistance at a well served dinner.

I noticed that some fifteen or twenty of the women present (the majority of them over fifty years of age) were dressed in a sort of uniform, but all the others were habited in costumes such as one would expect to see at an ordinary evening dance.

Well, thought I, this may be a lunatics' ball, but it strikes me that the lunatics are vastly in the minority, and that the visitors have taken possession of the floor. Just then I caught the eye of one of Forrester's daughters, and making my way to her side, said "I don't quite understand the etiquette of an affair like this, is it allowable to ask anybody to dance with you?" "Oh, yes!" she replied, as she walked off with a particularly fine-looking young fellow, to take her place in a quadrille that was just forming, "oh thanks!" said I, and I approached a very pretty little blonde, upon whom I had had my eye for some time, and asked her to dance. She gracefully accepted my invitation, and we took our places. In the interval I opened up a conversation with her, commiserating the unfortunate inmates of the asylum, to which she intelligently and sympathetically responded; our talk finally drifted into matters theatrical, and I asked her if she had seen Toole. Imagine my horror when she replied "Well the fact is, we are not allowed out at night, and I have not been to the theatre for over five years."

I did not enjoy the rest of the dance, and I must say that my usual easy flow of conversation was checked, for I was in constant fear that I might at any time, inadvertently stumble upon her mania and create a scene.

The next party that I danced with I secured an introduction to, and I was explaining to her my previous mistake when she suddenly burst into a peal of silvery laughter, and said, "Why that must be my room-mate Miss K—," Lord forgive me I've struck another one, thought I, and the cold perspiration bedewed my manly brow. Still I got through the dance, and was leaning against the wall endeavouring to recover myself, when a bright looking young party of the female persuasion, with a bit of red ribbon on her arm approached me and said, "You are looking rather sad won't you dance with me?" I looked hopelessly about for a chance to escape, there was none, so I smiled a sickly sort of smile, and assented, we had hardly gone three paces, before this young lady commenced to talk, about woman's rights. I've struck a bad one this time thought I, I shall have to humor her, and I religiously agreed to every theory she propounded, even to the extent of pledging myself to stand for parliament at the next election as a "Woman's Rights" candidate; We finally parted, and pluming myself upon my address, I sought Mr. F.'s daughter again, and said, "Who is that rather nice looking maniac over there in the blue dress with the red ribbon on her arm?" "That!" she replied. "Why, that is one of the new nurses, she took you for an inmate, and was just telling me that your's was a hopeless case." I subsided, and having finally concluded that I couldn't tell a lunatic from a sane person unless they were labelled, I left the hall, and went across the way to call upon one of the attendants, whose cottage was but a few steps distant. I poured my troubles into her supposedly sympathetic ear, but received no further consolation than a hearty laugh—and a glass of delightfully cool iced beer. After a pleasant chat, I made my adieus, and started after my charges, whom I had pledged myself to escort safely home. Naturally they were engaged for one more dance, and told me to walk slowly on and they would overtake me before I reached the punt.

I obediently gathered up my hat and cane and started; as I found out afterwards, I took the road to the left instead of to the right, as I should have done, and after walking contemplatively along, smoking my cigarette, for some distance, I became suddenly aware of the fact that I had mistaken my way. As the surroundings were thoroughly unfamiliar, I stopped two ladies (evidently visitors) who were approaching me, and asked to be directed; they eyed me for a moment, and then one of them replied, "Go right ahead, and you will meet a warder a little further on." I followed the directions, and finally came across a gentleman in blue, to whom I said "Will you kindly direct me to the punt? I want to get to town."

"I don't doubt it," he replied, "Who are you? and what do you do?"

"Well," said I, "I write verses for the comic papers sometimes, and—"

"All right" said he, interrupting me, "Go right straight ahead, there's some friends of yours below, waiting for you."

I walked on, and presently found myself amongst a crowd of men, who were converging towards a gateway. On my arrival there I was confronted by another blue-coated official with a lantern in his hand.

"Is this the way to the punt?" I said.

"Go inside and don't stand palavering," said he.

"But I want to get to town," I replied.

"If you don't go in quietly, I shall have to go with you, and its the straight jacket you'll have a taste of then," said he.

This is pleasant I thought and in I went, but took up my position immediately behind him.

"I beg your pardon," said I, after a few minutes, "but will you tell me where I am?"

"Where are you?" he replied. "Why in the refractory ward of course, and you'll be in a padded cell shortly, if you don't behave yourself."

Here was a lovely predicament, the man evidently took me for a patient, and intended to treat me as such, I knew that matters would be explained in the morning, but I didn't look forward to spending the night there, with any frantic degree of delight? however, just as they were about to lock up, and all hope of release seemed gone, I heard a faint cooee in the distance, I answered involuntarily, and as the warder paused wondering who it could be, up came Jo. Forrester's assistant, with a lantern in his hand, and explained matters. It seems that the two young ladies had gone on home, and finding that I had not arrived had told their father of my having started before them, he appreciating the fact that I might be detained had organised a search party of one, to go out and rescue me, and Jo his emissary, knowing me to be a newspaper man, exhibited his acumen by immediately making for the refractory ward.

Forrester condoled with me on my arrival at his tavern, but I could see by the smile on his face that he enjoyed the joke.

I have not been to a lunatic's ball since, my morbid curiosity is satisfied, and if I do go again it will be with a keeper.

Queenscliff Sentinel, Saturday 28 June 1890, page 2

A Broken Heart

Author Unknown

Content Warning: #3 (explanation)

"Fire!"

Author Unknown

I don't know who built Merriton-street, Lambeth; but, whoever it was, must have been a sharp fellow, and meant to make money. By the look of the houses, I should say that they were built about the days of William IV., and they were well built, too—even to this day looking better and more substantial than plenty of your suburban rows of villas that have not been up ten years. But then, as I said, the man who built them meant to make money, and the way to do that, in the long run, was to put in good work.

His cunning consisted in the number of houses that he contrived to run up on the narrow strips of land on each side of the road. For there they stood—two rows of very tall, very narrow houses, with deep areas and high pitched, sharply-sloping slate roofs.

There was something wrong with one of these houses—a great crack in the front through the giving way of a large drain—so the owner had it pulled down and rebuilt; but when it was down we all laughed to see what a tiny bit of passage the space seemed to be upon which it had stood.

To make up for the narrowness of these houses they were run up high, and the rooms were lofty. Then, though they were getting old, the owner took great pride in them. They were painted and papered regularly, roofs kept in order, and no sooner was anything out of repair than down came the jobbing-hand our landlord kept, and put it right, for he was one of those handy men who could do anything, from plastering a roof to potting in a pane of glass.

We all had to pay for it, of course, for the rents were pretty stiff. I don't mean for single houses, mind you, but for single or double rooms; for there were several families in each house, and when one night I set to with a pencil and totted up what our landlord must have made a week of that bit of property, I was astonished.

For, mind you, it was good property. He kept it in such nice order, and was so particular about the class of people he let the apartments to—he never called them rooms or lodgings, they were always apartments, and you were a tenant, with your name entered in a red collecting-book with a clasp—I say he was so particular about whom he had there, and so careful in weeding out bad tenants, that the place got quite a name, and the landlord used to have a string of people down in his books, of applicants for apartments waiting for a vacancy.

Of course, that gave him the opportunity of picking and choosing. Every one had to find references and tell their occupation, number of children, and the like; and then, when there was a vacancy, a couple without children would be selected. The consequence was that what would have been a rookery swarming with children under some managements, was a quiet, clean, genteel street, and the lodgers were better class mechanics and clerks, and men employed in the city and borough warehouses, compositors, and the like.

After no end of knocking about in wretched lodgings, where the doorsteps, pavements, and staircases were swarming with children—poor little things!—for they must have somewhere to play, it was quite a happy relief to find ourselves settled snugly down at 49 Merriton street, on the second floor; to find nice, respectable people above and below us—quite genteel, some of them; and that it was the rule for the landlord to find every house a big doormat, and for the tenants to put down carpets to the stairs belonging to each floor. But we had hardly placed everything in order, and were sitting down comfortably one night at supper, before the wife suddenly knocked the whole affair over by exclaiming:

"William, dear, I shall never he happy in this place."

"Well, that's cool!" I exclaimed, "after having one's name down in the book for eighteen months, and then getting the place as a favor because we have no children."

"I can't help it, dear," she said, in her quiet, decisive way, for she is a regular little tyrant, and keeps me in order. "I shall never be happy here."

"Well," I said, rubbing one of my ears and speaking drily, "Buckingham Palace is empty now, and the Queen seldom uses it. Shall I ask for a suite of apartments there? Don't say you'd prefer Hampton Court, my dear, because it is so inconvenient for me."

"Now, it's no use for you to talk nonsense, William," she said. "I know what I am saying; and I tell you I shall never be happy here."

"Why not?"

"Because I shall never go to bed of a night without thinking about fire."

"Stuff and nonsense!" I said, testily. "Why, there's fire-engines in plenty, and—yes, to be sure, there's a fire-escape not a quarter of a mile away. Jolly things, my dear; you can go into 'em head first, and ride down just as if you were in a long stocking."

"You can laugh as much as you please," she said, quietly; "but I've been thinking all about it, and I want to know what we are to do if there's a fire anywhere downstairs."

"Make one upstairs," I said, "and cook your husband's dinner."

"Now, it's of no use for you to try to be funny, William," she said, sharply; "because, whenever you do try, you only make yourself a dear old stupid. You know well enough what I mean. If there happened to be a clothes-horse fall against the fire, or somebody downstairs upset a paraffin lamp, we should be burned to death."

"If we stopped in," I said, quietly now, since my jokes didn't tell; "but we'd get out."

"Where?" she said, sharply. "We couldn't go down that narrow staircase with the flames roaring up like as if it was a chimney."

"Jump out o' window."

"On to those horrible spikes atop of the area railings."

"Go upstairs, and get out on the roof."

"Now you know, William," she cried, "that there's no way out. Nothing but a fly or a spider could walk up that slope of slates."

She pointed out to the houses opposite, where the glimmer of the gas-lamp below shone on the slates, for the third floors of these houses were not like attics, the windows standing out of a slate slope that was very little out of the perpendicular, and there was no parapet in front.

"Well, my dear," I said, "let's make ourselves as happy as we can, and I'll go downstairs every night twice an hour, and smell all over the place right through the night."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," she said, huffily. "And it's no use to talk to you, William, when you are in one of your teasing fits. I suppose you want your poor wife to be roasted to death."

"My dear Kitty," I said, "'pon my word I don't; but, if you were, you really are such a nice little woman that I believe I should eat you."

"Go along with your nonsense," she said, laughing; and no more was said about it, though, on thinking the matter over to myself, it did seem that if the house happened to catch fire, we should have a very poor chance. But I put it aside then, and next time she brought up the subject I got into trouble by saying:

"Well, my dear, I think you might make yourself happy, for we are nearly as well off as Miss Trotwood."

"Miss Trotwood? Who was she?"

"The lady who liked lodgings in the Adelphi."

"In the Adelphi? Why?"

"Because it was near the river, in case of fire."

"I declare, William," she exclaimed, pettishly, "the whole street may be burned down, and I won't say another word."

"Thankye, my dear," I said; and there the matter ended.

The next thing that took my wife's attention was the two pretty little children at the third floor opposite, a couple of as sweet little things as you'd wish to see. The eldest was about six or seven—a regular little golden-haired, old-fashioned angel, who used to often stand at the window taking care of the other, a handsome little boy. There were a lot or plants always at that window, and we used to call the little things the blossoms; and their happy little silvery voices used to come down to our window sometimes like music.

We did not often see their mother, but when we did.we used to notice that she was rather a superior-looking body, very quiet and reserved, and evidently very proud of her little ones.

"I haven't patience with men," said my wife one day, when I was at home to dinner.

"Haven't you, dear," I said, smiling up at the severe-looking little woman, of whom I always pretended to be very much afraid. "Why, what's the matter now?"

"Matter?" she said sharply. "I only wish he was my husband."

"Well?" I exclaimed and I put down my knife and fork, and stared.

"No, no, Will; I don't mean that," she cried, bursting out laughing.

"Then what do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, if he was my husband he shouldn't behave so long."

"Perhaps you'll give me another potato, and tell me what you mean," I said.

"Mean? Why that wicked wretch over the way, neglecting his poor wife and those two dear children as he does. I'd teach him to come creeping home at three o'clock in the morning, as he often does, and that poor dear leaving a light burning and a fire for him. Oh! I haven't patience with such ways."

"A wretch!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, isn't it too bad, Will? and she's as nice and quiet-looking a little body as a man could have."

"And such an example to set to his children," I said.

"Yes, dear. I can't think how a man can behave so."

"Ah, he belongs to a bad lot," I said, seriously. "They meet of a night at a place close by the Strand, and get playing a game with little square bits of metal hour after hour."

"For money, of course, dear?"

"Yes; they get so much a thousand."

"Thousand? You don't mean to say that wretched man gambles for thousands?"

"Oh, dear no, my dear," I said seriously; "he's paid so much a thousand for setting the type. He's a compositor on a daily paper."

"Now, William, how can you go on teasing like that? Why couldn't you say at once that the poor man was engaged upon night work?"

"Now, Kitty," I said, quietly, "why can't you go on revolving on your own pleasant little axis, minding your own business, and letting other people's alone."

"How stupid of me!" she exclaimed.

"Very, my dear," I replied. " Good-bye. Give 's a kiss; time's up."

I was at home in good time that night, but very tired, and after a snug supper we went to bed, and I was in one of those sound, dreamless sleeps, when I woke up with a start, as I heard my wife spring up in bed.

"What's that, Will?" she exclaimed.

"Fire!" I cried, excitedly, as I sprang out of bed, feeling for a moment that horrible kind of panic that will seize the strongest of us sometimes.

For down below in the street there was a knocker going, and a man's voice shouting "Fire!"

"Will!" shrieked my wife, "I knew it, I knew it. God have mercy on us; we shall be burnt to death!"

"Hush! Be quiet, little woman," I cried, hoarsely, as I slipped on my things. "Be calm, and I'll save you—or we'll be burnt together," I thought to myself.

The next moment I was through into the front room, and had thrown up the window.

"It's all right, Kitty," I shouted back; "it's not here."

All right for us; but, even as I uttered the selfish words, there were windows opening right, left, and opposite, and the street was being filled with screams.

All right for us—but for the poor creatures in the house directly opposite!

There, my heart seems to stand still now, as it comes back—the noise and confusion, the trampling of feet, the dull, red glow that shone upon our faces, the rolling clouds of smoke, the breaking of glass, and the horrible feeling of knowing that that house opposite was full of people, and that the kitchens were in a blaze, and roaring like a furnace.

"Oh, Will!" cried my wife, excitedly, "those poor bairns upstairs, and their father away!"

These words roused me, and, darting from the window, I dragged on a jacket, but only to have Kitty's arms round me directly.

"No! no! You shan't go," cried she. "You'll be hurt."

"Let go, Kitty," I said, struggling with her, as the top window opposite was dashed open. and there came out on the night air, thrilling us where we stood, such a cry as I pray Heaven I may never hear again."

"Help! My children! Oh help! Help!"

"And their father not at home!" I cried, hoarsely, as I pointed to where there was a ghostly-looking figure clutching a couple of children in her arms.

Kitty dropped from me on to her knees, and I dashed downstairs, not knowing what I was going to do, to form one of a crowd—not a large one—gathering in the street, for it was about one in the morning.

There were three policemen, and they had dashed in the front door, where they heard some one beating at it, and dragged out several half-suffocated creatures. Then people were bringing out carpets, and trying to hold them for the people at the upper windows to jump into, after a couple of mattresses had been hung over the spikes; and so, in a horrible state of confusion, first one poor creature and then another was got out more dead than alive, several jumping, and getting more or less hurt.

"Where's the engines?" "Where's the escape?" "Where's the water?" "Where's the turn-cock?" Every one was shouting, every one adding to the confusion, but no one hardly, but the policemen, doing any good. Right and left of the burning house, the people had their heads out of the windows, and were shrieking, while others made the confusion worse by throwing their furniture out of the rooms; and all the while the flames kept sending a ruddy glow over the upturned faces, and fluttered and roared, as they poured forth now from window to window.

Twice over the policemen went in at that open door, and we got out somebody who had managed to escape by the stairs. But the last time we were beaten back, and stood panting in the street, just as, in the midst of the screams and cries, there was the distant rattle of wheels, that familiar "Hi-hi-hi!" the trampling of horses at full gallop, the gleam of light on the glistening helmets, and, with a train of sparks pouring out behind, the first engine came tearing up, with the crowd, as they parted left and right, uttering a loud "Hurrah!"

It was like magic to see those men get to work so readily. Horses were out, hose laid, glistening branch ready, and the steam panting, as there was another "Hurrah!" and a second engine, a manual, came tearing in at the end of our flaming street.

Again there was the rapid movement, and the men were ready; but in spite of the impatient cries of the gathering crowd, they did not begin to play, and then there ran a murmur through all like a thrill that the turn-cock could not be found.

At the same moment, though, a policeman came running with a figure in shirt and trousers, with the bright iron key over his shoulder, and a yell of delight burst forth as the man ran straight to a plug-hole close to the burning house. The policemen kept a space for him, and in a very short time he had screwed out a plug ready for the water to pour forth in a gushing fount.

There was cheer after cheer as the man, with the sweat shining on his face in the ruddy glow, tore at the plug, and then there was a wild, despairing groan, for as he drew it out—

There was no water in the main!

And all this time, at the upper window, stood that poor woman, with her children in her arms, silent now, and with the fire gathering fast below her. She had left off shrieking, and only stood clasping her poor little ones, gazing wildly down for the help that did not come.

The police had been up to the top of the houses right and left, and I had seen them at the windows, but they could not reach her; people below and opposite, as great wafts of flame and smoke rose towards the group, shrieked to her to jump, but the police shouted to her to stay, while, mad with horror, she seemed to hear nothing.

I had tried, with the policemen, to get up the stairs; not that I am a brave man, for I never before knew how great a coward I was, but we saw that there were no stairs—no thing but a blazing mass of wood.

Just then there was a buzz of excitement, and a hatless man came running, to force his way through the crowd.

"Leap! Jump down!" someone cried, just in the midst of a horrible pause, during which the roaring and crackling of the flames seemed to thrill one to the very marrow.

"No, no!" cried the man. "Stop, stop! No, no! Ann—stand fast!"

She heard the voice, and uttered another shriek, and then there rang out from amongst a cloud of smoke—

"Jack! Jack! Help!" and then, in the midst of a shuddering moan that burst from the crowd, there was a little silvery voice heard, as plainly as if it had been a peal of thunder—

"Father! Father! We shall be burnt!"

The man made a frantic rush to get into the burning house, but the firemen held him back, and, meanwhile, another engine had dashed up, and a tall, thin man had leaped off, and was stamping about with rage, as he seemed to rave at the turn-cock, who shook his head.

"Hurrah!"

At last. Right and left the people parted, a space had been left clear, and the tall, red fire-escape had come.

"Too late—too late!" groaned the crowd; but brave men don't believe those words.

In less time than it takes to tell it, the tall escape was reared, the fly-ladder dragged up, the firemen closing round to keep back the eager crowd, who would have hindered, and, in the midst of the fire and smoke that hid the top of the ladder, we saw the man in charge run up. A fireman was following, axe in hand; but he was thrust aside, and that furious, hatless man leaped up the ladder more than ran.

A breathless silence followed as we saw them go right into the flames, and then, as a puff of of wind wafted the smoke aside, the crowd cheered, for they were above the blaze; but directly after there was a yell of horror—the poor woman, with the children, had disappeared! There was smoke coming out of the window where they had stood, and the escape-ladder was on fire.

Two more lives lost, I thought, as I clung to the railings opposite, paralysed, for I could not help, and was obliged to gaze on, though my heart seemed to stand still.

But no! Not yet! We saw the escape-man grasp the window and climb in, and the father—for he it was—reach the sill and climb in afterwards. Then the escape-man appeared directly after with the children in his arms, and a hoarse murmur arose, for the people were too much excited to cheer.

He put one leg out to the ladder, sitting crosswise on the sill, and one of the firemen—no, it was the tall, thin man—shouted to him to take care, when there was a rumble, a roar, and an awful rush of sparks and flame from the windows as the second and first floors fell, showing the house now as a burning, fiery furnace, in which none but those we read of in parables could have lived; but then, as the firemen who had been driven back returned, the tall, thin, red fly-ladder fell, burned through, and the top of the escape was seen to be in a blaze.

Just then a little feeble bubbling of water began to be seen at the plug-hole, but too little yet to be of use; and the murmur of horror increased, for the top window was empty now, and we felt that there was another brave fireman gone to his rest.

Water, at last, but the house was ablaze from area to roof. Slates were falling off in flakes, the beams crackled, and it was evidently only a matter of moments before the roof would fall in; and, sick at heart, my mouth dry, my eyes staring and stinging with the smoke and my hands smarting, for they were badly burnt, I was going to try and get in home, when there was a shout to the right of the burning house, and then, drowning the panting and clanking of the engines, the hiss of the water, and roaring of the burning house, there went up to heaven such a cheer as I never expect to hear again.

It was deafening, maddening, and it made a man's hands go up in the air, as if he were throwing his heart to the ruddy sky in his joy. I believe I was mad for the moment, as I yelled and cheered. For, up there, on the ledge of the next house, standing like a group of golden figures, and clinging to a stack of chimneys, was the escape-man, with the two children, and the father, with his arm round his half-fainting wife.

It was a sight to see; and no wonder that dense crowd below sent up cheer after cheer, every one of which was a heart-wrung thanksgiving prayer.

It was only a matter of time, and another fire-escape, to get them down—not even singed; for the brave fireman had mounted a table when the ladder was burnt, and cut his way with his axe through the ceiling, and on to the roof, unseen by us for the smoke; but, I tell you I would rather have been that brave fellow than the greatest general that ever drew the breath of life. And as for the company who supply the water to those mains—

There, the recollection of it all makes me feel sick, and my heart begins to throb, and I may be saying more, perhaps, than would be just.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 14 July 1881, supplement page 2