in a fit of desperation he took his ticket for the nearest seaport town. Fifteen years had passed. Welworth had taken the expected honours, won laurels at the bar, and was now, while yet a young man, Judge in a County Court. The day of the Duncombe Assizes had come, and the public excitement was great when the Court was opened and the people admitted. A case of great interest was to be brought on. A gang of smugglers had been captured after a fierce struggle, and were to be tried for a long career of successful misdoings. The court was crammed, and as the prisoners were placed in dock their faces were eagerly scanned by those who had for so long in wonder and almost admiration heard accounts of their daring and success. A more unromantic-looking band, however, could not be imagined; low-browed and sullen, they were most unlike the ideal smuggler of the weekly "Sensations." One, however, was a marked exception; tall and stalwart as he was, his features were delicate, and his whole bearing, though reckless and careless, was that of a gentleman. The trial was short, the evidence most complete, and, after delivering various moral remarks on the sins of the prisoners, Judge Welworth passed sentence, consigning them to "social death," in the form of transportation for life. As the prisoners filed out of the Court the eyes of the above-mentioned rested for a moment on the Judge who had condemned Welworth shuddered. The face recalled scenes long past, and offences he had hoped were long since buried. Could it be his victim? But he dismissed the thought in a moment, or at least tried to do so, but it was long before those eyes had ceased to haunt him. him. At an outlying Station in Australia a band of local Constabulary were assembled, under the orders of the new Judge of the district. A formidable body of bush-rangers had been committing great ravages, and Judge Welworth, a man of great energy, was to command in person the police who were to capture them. Great was the satisfaction in the neighbourhood at this proof of zeal on the part of one who had only recently arrived from England. The police, after a long ride, were entering a gully, terminated by an almost abrupt precipice, when they saw before them about a dozen men, armed and mounted, coming towards them. They saw at a glance that these were the objects of their search, and that they were in a trap. After a fierce refusal to surrender, the bushrangers charged them, but numbers prevailed, and, after losing three of their number, the rest cried for quarter, which was given. One, however, charged furiously, and, cutting down one of the Constabulary, effected his escape by breaking through the line. He was fired at and missed, and, deeming himself out of range, raised himself on his stirrups with a shout of defiance, when Welworth, who was armed with a rifle, fired, and the brushranger leaped into the air and fell dead. Welworth, prompted by curiosity, went up to the body, and in a moment knew the whole truth. It was the smuggler whom he had transported -it was Hawkshawe, with his bullet through the heart. The life was wasted for him, and he had taken it away. On Hawkshawe's blighted career, and now on his dead body, had Welworth's success been built. None knew why Judge Welworth abandoned the splendid career which lay before him to live a life of quiet and obscurity. The secret lay between him only and the dead. No. 20, RUE DE L'ECOLE DE MEDECIN. It is pleasant sometimes, during the heat of a sultry Summer afternoon, to leave the glare of the noisy, crowded Boulevards, cross the Seine, and wander among the quiet, shady, old-fasioned streets, which lie between the river and the Luxembourg. Not the least interesting of these, though dwindling into nothingness by the side of its gigantic neighbour, the "Boulevard de Sebastopol," is the "Rue de L'Ecole de Medecin," or, as it was formerly called, the "Rue des Cordeliers." As we walk down it we seem to penetrate into the very temple of peace and quiet; no noisy "fiacres clatter along, and only two or three people are in it besides ourselves. Let us pass down it and stop opposite No. 20. The house is old-fashioned, being built round a square court-yard, and seems almost deserted. Yet in this silent house was wrought the noblest crime which history records. It witnessed the crime of Charlotte Corday, the Angel of Assassination." It was the house of Marat. Here, on the very spot where we are standing, Charlotte Corday left the "fiacre" on the evening of that memorable 14th of July, to return to it a murderess and a prisoner. Let us follow her steps as she crosses the street and enters the square court-yard. We look up and see, over the doorways by which we have entered, three windows, lighting as many rooms, or rather cells, for these rooms are scarcely more than eight feet square each. In the last of these rooms, the one farthest to the right, lies Marat in his bath. Charlotte Corday passes up the exterior stair-case, to the front door of the first storey, for this floor alone was occupied by Marat. She knocks, but is refused admittance; but we hear Marat call out from his bath room, bidding them let her enter. She passes through the first of these three little rooms, in which sits "Albertine Marat," as she is called, and on into the second floor, which is empty. The door into the third room is open, but the partition will hide Marat. He lies in his bath, round his head is wrapped a filthy cloth, another across his shoulders. Across the bath is placed a board, and on it lies an unfinished address to the Convention. By the side of the bath, on a rough block of oak, stands the leaden inkstand, from which have poured forth the streams of blood which have so long deluged Paris. Charlotte Corday stands in the doorway, behind Marat, answering his questions; her right hand hid in her bosom, grasps the dagger. Suddenly we hear a cry of "Help my dear, help! and it is all over. The deed is done, Marat is dead. Let us stand for a moment in the door-way, where, a minute ago, Charlotte Corday stood, and gazed upon the scene within the little bath-room. The whole of the wall opposite us is covered with a map of France. To our right, by the window, and almost hidden by the window curtain and half-open door, stands Charlotte Corday. She stands erect and firm, and her hand yet grasps the reeking dagger, but her face is pale as death, and her eyes are dilated with horror at the terrible scene before her, and the thought of the deed she has committed. In the centre of the room lies the inkstand, upset, and by it the block of oak. On our left lies Marat, his right arm hangs over the side of the bath, and from the relaxing fingers drops the pen still wet with ink. His head drops on his right shoulder, the cloth has fallen from the matted hair and lies on the ground, the cruel eyes are fixed in death. The receding forehead, the sunken cheek, the vast wolfish mouth, all livid with the agony of the death pang, form a picture too horrible to contemplate. The last rays of the soft summer twilight passing through the window, fall first on the erect noble form, and beautiful features of the murderess, then on the cruel corpse of the murdered monster, and by their tender light render yet more horrible the ghastly scene they disclose. But soon the scene fades away from before our eyes, and we find ourselves once more surrounded by quiet and repose. All traces of that awful tragedy are gone, and the rooms which once witnessed the life and death of Marat, the demon of the reign of terror, are now the chambers of a peaceful French physician. Enough. Let us leave these gloomy streets, and return once more to the gaiety and noise of the crowded "Rue de Rivoli." ALONE. Silently sitting alone one night, Mornfully echoed the darken'd street, Fitfully flickered the candle's light, Wearily tramped the passing feet, Work and toil were over at last, Finish'd the day, still into the past, One long lingering look I cast, Silently sitting alone! Thinking alone as the midnight chimès Dreaming alone of hands I'd press'd, A.D. And glistening eyes which dreams restore, Hearing sweet sounds of a voice which bless'd And whisper'd love from a golden shore. Hopes long past as of old exist, At the sound of lips so often kiss'd, WHAT the Saturnalia was to the slave of old, what the tournament was to the Knight, that the coutry fair is to the rustic-a day to be marked with white chalk indeed. There he may get drunk at his ease, because everybody else gets drunk too, or he may be enticed by the lovely siren voices of the "cheap-jacks," and get caught in the webs of those wondrous spinners. Or he may rise to nobler aspir. ations, and surrender himself to some friendly and cheerful recruiting sergeant, who has evidently taken an immense liking to him. The delight of losing money is something incredible. Anything of greater value than "coppers" the Wiltshire rustic seldom possesses. Silver is too hot for him-it burns his pockets. He comes to the fair to be cheated, and cheated he is beyond doubt. To see twenty or thirty of these curious specimens of humanity before one of the cheap-jewellery sellers and general swindlers, is an amusing sight. The cast of face is much the same in all, the prominent features being the nose and mouth. The mouth is always wide open, and the eyes have a bewildered stare. Presently Bill turns slowly round and makes a joke to 'Arry. 'Arry also turns round, grins insanely, and makes a joke to Bill. All this time a man in greasy garments, with an attempt at swellishness, has been bawling at the top of his cracked voice, which, by the way, once cracked, never gets any worse but continues in the same state of huskiness all day, and all night too, and would for ever, if it was wanted to. Then the "Bobbies" walk up and down and warn people against exposing their watch-chains, for although the Wiltshire rustic certainly is not up to picking pockets, yet there are undoubtedly some sharpers down from London who will not let a good chance go by. And the lover of pugilism may turn into the boxing-booth, where often some patriot of the neighbourhood is matched against "The Whitechapel nose-breaker," or "The Southampton Settler," or some other artist with a like euphonious title, and after maintaining his ground, like a stout west-countryman as he is, for some time, eventually subsides before the superior skill of the artist. So far there is nothing actually morally detrimental in a country fair. But when we see such crowds of the uneducated pressing in to hear or see the "Tragedy of the Road-murder," "The Plymouth Horror," "Original likenesses of all the Murderers," "The Man-eater," and such instructive and amusing sights, not to speak of the men with all sorts of horrible deformities, sheep with five legs, and other curiosities, we begin to find out that the merry old wakes have sadly degenerated. It may be that they were the same then as now; but if so, it only serves to show that English rustics are just in the same deplorable state as they were three hundred years ago. Surely the days of Universal Suffrage are not yet arrived. The Wiltshire ploughman has hardly yet found out that he has a mind of his own, or a will of his own (or rather that he might have one if he chose); a vote is at present far beyond his comprehension. An institution may have its day out, and do its good, and last its time; but "Look Nature through, 'tis revolution all." Everything must fall away after a time, and is not the time for our English fairs come at last ? - Correspondence. To the Editor of the Marlburian. C. SIR, AS N. S. B's. proposal on swimming prizes has been so warmly taken up by the Race Committee, I think I may venture to make a very similar proposal. Why should not we have a Racquet Challenge Cup, to be played for yearly by 2 members selected from each House, thus following the precedent of Harrow. The cost of such a cup would be a severe drain on the funds of the Race Committee. I should propose that it should be defrayed by contributions, and I fancy many fellows would gladly subscribe. Hoping that this suggestion may find an early place in the "Marlburian," so that if it prove popular, steps may be taken to put it into execution before the Quarter. I beg to remain, yours truly, "ONE WHO PLAYS." Marlborough College, Sept. 29th, 1865. To the Editor of the Marlburian. SIR,-It has often occurred to me whether a Drum and Fife Band would not add greatly to the appearance of the Rifle Corps. They should practice in the Music Room on Saturday evening during preparation, and should be dressed in a Uniform slightly differing from the Corps, or as the Captain should think fit. The fifes and drums should be provided, either out of the funds of the Corps, or by public subscriptions. It would be very little or no trouble to raise it, and in a comparatively short time a very efficient band might be got up. W. B. W. To the Editor of the Marlburian. MR. EDITOR,-The first notice concerning the "Marlburian" contained words to this effect, or something like it, that it was "hoped that the School would encourage the Marlburian by contributions of prose and verse." Therefore I think it is hardly fair that correspondents should be so mercilessly cut up as they are at present.-"Hope it will be the last (attempt );" "Puerile nonsense;" "Gross sentiments," and such like, with which the Editorial teems, are hardly expressions to encourage young contributors. The Marlburian has at present been fairly successful, but cannot continue long in its present prosperity if everybody who tries to oblige the Editor does not meet with the courtesy and consideration which is due to a "puerile" contributor. This may be rather early to write this, but I have heard already that a like feeling prevails with not a few. I am, Sir, yours, &c., VOX PUBLICA. P.S.-If this be not thought worthy of insertion, it is hoped that it will convey the feelings of the School, and temper the biting sarcasm of the "Editorial." [We have received other letters, also piping in the same dolorous key, but as we could find no reason we have tried a little rhyme.-ED. M.] THE NEW ADONAIS. Shall we be butts? you're on the road to ruin, We send some of our own for imitation. Weep for the woes that penned this mournful rhyme, GEMINI. To the Editor of the Marlburian. SIR,-As the football season is now beginning it may not be amiss, I think, to call the attention of the Football Committee to a fact that is now only too plain. I allude to the prevalence of "Off Side" play. It is a significant fact that last Old Fellows' Match this was particularly noticed and commented on as a departure from the good old rules of football. It is very hard, certainly, to lay down any definite rule in some cases. But such flagrant breaches of the rules are continually occurring, that some new rule should be made, or the old rules, contained in the little book once published, should be most strictly enforced. The play of the back-players is immensely cramped by the attentions of some fellows who loaf about on the wrong side of the "squash," and charge the backplayer directly he gets the ball; such unfair play as this should be dealt with summarily, and a fellow caught doing this after a warning should be sent down, just as much as if Le appeared in "hobs." If the present state of things goes on, "Off Side" and good back play will become matters of history at Marlborough. NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY. Friday, October 13th.-The exhibitions were more numerous than last time. Some curious specimens of fossilized fish bones were exhibited by F. E. Thompson, Esq., who gave a very interesting account of them. It should be mentioned that the Society is forming a public collection of butterflies and moths to be called "The College Collection," and probably to be placed in the reading room. The last drawer of the butterflies was exhibited by W. W. Dayman, but there are several blanks, which require filling up. After the exhibition the Secretary, A. C. Almack, read a paper on the migration of birds. A financial meeting of the Society was held when the visitors had retired. FIFTH FORM SHAKSPEARE PRIZE. R. Spankie. Cricket. M. C. RIFLE CORPS v. THE TOWN. This match was played on Oct. 3rd, and resulted in an easy victory for the corps. The chief feature of their innings was Sergeant Lomax's fine score of 88, well backed up by Sergeant Brackenbury's 28, and Private Emmet's 18. The town, represented by the Rev. H. Bell and A. H. Beesley, Esq., com. menced merrily, the first wicket falling for 32: but with the exception of Jones and Dixon no one else made a stand, and as they only obtained 90 they had to follow their innings, and six wickets had fallen for 35 when the stumps were drawn. The bowling of E. E. G. Bird was very effective. Score: C. Parr, Esq., b. Bird A. S. Batson, Esq., b. Bourdillon V. Head, b. Bourdillon W. A. Jones, b. Bourdillon C. Dixon, b. Bird ... G. Andrews, b. Bourdillon b. Bird ... W. Dowding, b. Bird A. Hannay, not out... Extras 2 17 c.Emmet,b.Bourdillon O b. Bourdillon ... 2 ... 2 b. Bird ... |
