“Well, he went on in that same strange way nigh on three weeks, and we did not know so much as the name of the sick man. Just as Ned was going about again all well, we thought the sight of him might bring the stranger to his recollections. So Ned went and sat by the bed-side till he woke. It was getting near Christmas, and we wanted the poor man to be well enough to enjoy the time with us. When he opened his eyes Ned held out his hand, and, says he—
“‘Give you joy, comrade. Ay, I see you’ll be more than a match for me the next turn we have, particular when ’tis grass we stand on.’
“With that the tears came into his poor dim eyes, and catching Ned’s hand he said:
“‘I remember now. Were none saved but me?’
“Ned was fearful to tell him the truth, in case it might make him worse, so he just laughed and said:
“‘You’ve been so long sleeping off the effects of your wetting, that they’re all gone and left you. But ’tis time we know’d your name, stranger, if it please you to tell.’
“‘Gascoigne,’ he said—‘Richard Gascoigne. Has no one written to my mother?’
“‘How should we,’ says Ned, ‘when we did not know where she lived.’
“With that he got up to come away, for he was afraid if he stayed he’d tell himself out about his shipmates, only three of whose bodies we ever found.
“He’d just got to the door when the poor man wanted him to come back, but before he could turn about the parson came into the room, and Ned got away.
“We never knew the particulars for certain, but always believe to this day that that young man was no common sailor.
“The parson used to come and sit with him for hours together, and a fine lot of letters they wrote between them. But we were never the wiser for any of their scholarship-doings but in one thing, and that won’t be forgot round here for many’s the long day.
“The Christmas day we were all standing about the church door, shaking hands and wishing each other a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, when the little gate that led from the Parsonage lawn into the churchyard was opened, and a lady came among us, so beautiful dressed and so beautiful herself, that we all stopped talking to look at her.
“I’m before my story, though, for I should have told you that the stranger had gone to the Parsonage as soon as he could be moved.
“Well, the lady came right forward into the midst of the crowd, and she said:
“‘Which of all you brave, kind men, is Edward Smeeth?’
“Ned was just behind me, and seemed ready to slink away, but I pushed him ’fore, and says I:
“‘If it please your ladyship, that’s him.’
“Well, Ned know’d manners too well to run away then, so there he stood, blushing like a girl.
“The lady took his hand, and seemed going to make a speech; but she had only just begun her thanks when her heart rose in her throat, and the tears stood in her eyes, and she only said ‘God bless you,’ and put a little box and a purse into Ned’s hand, and then kissed his great rough hand as if ’t had been a baby’s face. Ned seemed struck all of a heap. He looked at the things she had given him, and turned his hand as if he expected to see a mark where her beautiful lips had touched.
“Well, as the lady could not speak for herself, the Parson up and told us all the sense of it. How that there was a grand place up to London, with a many grand people that subscribed among them, to reward them that saved life.
“‘And proud,’ says the parson, ‘proud I am that such a token has come into my parish.’
“He said a many kind and good words, and then told Ned to open the little box and show what was in it. There, sure enough, was a beautiful medal, with Ned’s name, and the name of the man he saved, and some Latin words, which the Parson said was that we should never give up trying to save life, for perhaps a little spark of hope might remain, though all seemed gone. “Ah! here comes Ned, he’ll be proud to show your honours the medal.”
So we walked to Ned’s cottage hard by, and were delighted to find that, though seven long years had past—years that had robbed him of his fair young wife, and laid her with her new-born babe in an early tomb—his dark eyes would brighten and his fine form look taller as he exhibited that well-earned medal from the Royal Humane Society.
CHEVALIER D’EON.
Considerable sensation is now being aroused across the water among the friends of the Alliance—whose number, I need hardly say, is legion—by the republication of the pseudo memoirs of the Chevalier d’Eon, under the taking title of “Un Hermaphrodite.” As the hero puts on female clothing to delude King George III., because he had indulged in a criminal intrigue with good Queen Charlotte while yet a princess, it is almost superfluous to hint that such a book ought to find no hearing in this country. I see, however, that the “Saturday Review” speaks of it in terms of commendation, and apparently regards it as authentic; and therefore, in order to prevent any of my readers flying to it for highly-spiced and unwholesome information about this enigmatical character, I purpose to tell the story of the Chevalier in my own fashion, and rub off the gilt of romance that may still adhere to it.
The subject of this sketch was born on Oct. 5, 1728, at Tonnerre, in Burgundy, and received at the baptismal font the names of Charlotte Genéviève-Louise-Auguste- Andrée-Timothée d’Eon de Beaumont. His father, who belonged to the magistracy, had him brought up as a boy, and intended him to study jurisprudence. He was sent to Paris, where he studied at the College Mazarin, and was eventually admitted to the degrees of Doctor in civil and canon law. After
