LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 314, 15 June 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

LEGENDS OP MUSKOKA,

THE SETTLER’S TRAGEDY. {Concluded.) ‘ She went an’ looked out of the door, but the wind blew sharp from the north an she come in with a shiver. I stayed with er more than a hour, ’avin’ nothin’ pertiker to do, an’ left ’er at very near three o,clock. I ’ad to come right down from the door, you see, to that gate an’ then along the road for half a mile to ray own path. I’d got v cry close to the turnin’ into my own land when I see Bytheway strugglin’ up the road through the snow, I waited for ’im. “Alio, Mr Bytheway,’ Isays, ‘so ’ere you are at last. Any luck a shootin’ ?’ ‘ I see in a moment he were hout o’ sorts. ’ls face were swollen an’ red, an’ he scowled at me very angry like. “ Not a d thing,’ says he. ‘Then ’c come on straight at me, an seein’ ’e were not safe to speak to, I got hout of the way an’ went ’ome. ‘ ‘ Poor Lucy !’ says Ito my wife. ‘ She ain’t in for a merry Christmas, I’m afeard.’ ‘ I watched him staggerin’ along and cursin’, and swearin’ as he went, till he reached the door. Then I see ’er run out, as well as she could, poor thing, for ’twas very near, and I see ’im brush ’er hout of ’is way with ’is arm. ’E did’nt knock ’er down. . * Poor Lucy !’ says I, ‘ She ain tin for a merry Christmas, I’m afeard. ’ ‘ Just then we ’card the report of a gun an’ both rushed to the door. There was nothin’ to be seen at first, but presently Bytheway ran out with ’is ’and hover is face. ’E threw himself into the snow an’ lay there for a long time ; then ’e got up an ran down to the road, and so off beyond Stony Janssen the Swede’s there. ‘ ‘ Well,’ says I to my wife, ‘ you and I ’ad best go up an’ see what’s become of Lucy. This don’t seem all right.’ ‘ The door was open when we got there, an’ the first thing we saw was Lucy Bytheway, holdin’ in her bosom, an’ groanin’, an’ a great spot of blood over the white cloth she ’ad laid; an’ there, thrown down on the table, crashin’ and breakin’ the crockery an’ the glass, was Mr Bytheway’s gun with its muzzle within two feet of her breast. I knew then she’d been shot. We laid ’er hon the bed. She soon swooned away. Then we gave ’or brandy, an’ then came a time I needn’t describe to you. I went away an’ got such baby-clothes as we ’ad, an’ my poor wife she stayed there and ’elped that poor young creature to fight with death for the life she ’ad so long hoped for. It were no use. The mother never ’card ’er own child’s voice. It never ’ad none. Do you think, though it had no voice here, it may have one in ’eaven?—When she knew it wasn’t living she said—

‘Well, I’m goin’ too. Mrs Wellbelovecl, remember this. He didn’t shoot me. .... He was vexed and angry that he missed every shot at Bracebndge. I ashed him what made him so angry. He had pushed me coming in, and took away my breath, you know, and I sat down on the chair on the other side of the table. When I asked him that question he looked at me, and you know it was very foolish and unkind of me to ask such a question. He looked all on fire, and then, with a terrible oath, he dashed the gun down on the table—and you know he never meant it, but in went off—and, oh! Mrs Wellbeloved, good-bye, goodbye, dear—say I forgive him! ’ ***** *

‘ That’s the story of that ’ouse, sir. You see why it ain’t a cheerful place for me to look hat. . . . What became of Bythe-

way? He was found, when the spring came, ten miles off in the woods, where he had frozen to death, and hif you go up there to our Orange ’all you’ll see one tomb beside it, the only tomb about ’ere, an’ there the three lies. Dinner’s ready, sir. ’ —Edward Jenkins , M.F., in St James’s Magazine,

MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

A man with a grievance is usually a bore, and as I have a grievance, the nature of which I propose to describe in the following pages, it is, I admit, with some trepidation that I put pen to paper, lest I should weary the reader, whose attention 1 would fain have. I cannot but feel, however, that mine is of a kind so different from that of ordinary grievances, that I have but to make it known, not merely to overcome whatever prejudice there may be against me and my grievance, but even to rouse public sympathy. To be brief, then, I have a number of doubles of myself, whose existence, instead of being profitable to me, as it might if they had but a due regard for the unhappy individual they so accurately resemble, was up to a very recent period a constant source of annoyance and vexation to me. I have been so often accosted by utter strangers, and told I was somebody else other than myself, that I have sometimes begun to doubt who I really am. The existence of these replicas or duplicates of myself was first made known to me at a comparatively early age. I was standing, I remember, a breadless youth, on the steps of the chief hostelry in a small West-of-England country town, trying to look as much like a man as the absence of all virile indications would permit, when another young fellow, who might have been a year or two older than myself, passed, and seeing me, suddenly stopped, and betrayed by his looks some feeling of astonishment. I affected, in pursuance of the lofty role of grown-up man I had undertaken to play, not to see this moonstruck individual, who to my view was still the lad I would fain be deemed no longer. I, however, furtively marked him, and had debated within myself whether he might be in the commercial or in the agricultural interest. There had been something in the easy swagger with which he had lounged up the main street, prior to reaching the spot whereon I stood, w'hich announced the self-satisfied air of the being who travelled for somebody or in something. On the other huud, his open-mouthed and somewhat stupid gaze of wonder when he detected me, together wifh certain peculiarities of attire, led me to conclude that he was connected with the soil and the produce of it. Presently he recovered himself, and making as though he would cuter the inn, opened the conversation with a casual remark, which I have forgotten—possibly it had reference to the weather. The ice being thus broken, he plied me with a question or two, asked me if I knew the neighbourhood, and then, with a curious aside glance, inquired whether I had ever been to Tewkesbury. I replied that I had once visited that historic and somnolent town, with the object of seeing its ancient abbey. My

friend looked at me with an incredulous air, and said, ‘ Are you sure you have only been there once? ’ ‘ Quite,’ I answered. Again an expression of incredulity passed over his countenance, and, unable to contain himself any longer, he exclaimed, ‘Why, don’t you remember me at old Skinner’s establishment for young gentlemen, where a sound English education, and rudiments of Latin, and the comforts of home were imparted for ten guineas a quarter, not including extras and dancing ?’ I disclaimed all knowledge of old Skinner, and of his establishment and its educational advantages. ‘ What, ’ he cried, in seeming amazement, ‘are you not Poppleton minor, and don’t you recollect the devil of a licking you got from old Skinner for picking gooseberries one Sunday afternoon out of the old boy’s garden ?’ I told him, with the calm air of a man who makes a statement of whose truth he is assured, that I was not Poppleton minor, and that therefore the punishment inflicted upon that outrageous young thief was not felt, and accordingly not remembered, by me. ‘ Well, it’s most extraordinary! I never saw such a likeness in my life,’ said the stranger. ‘ Ton my word I can’t believe it. You must be, you are, Poppleton minor !’

Again I asserted my own identity in more forcible terms, and even hinted that it was, to say the least of it, unusual to doubt a gentleman’s word, especially on a subject on which he ought to be well informed. My friend, or rather Poppleton’s friend, felt that he had slightly passed the bounds of politeness, apologised, still with the remains of incredulity hanging about him, and handed me his card, from a perusal of which I perceived that neither of my suspicions as to his calling or profession was wholly unfounded. I gathered from the document he placed in my hand that Mr (I forget his name) was a commercial gentleman, who dealt in British and foreign corn (which accounted to some extent for his semi-agri-cultural appearance), and occasionally roamed into the kindred region of ‘ seeds. ’

This meeting was the first intimation I received that I possessed a double ; for I then thought there could be but one Poppleton. However, I was soon undeceived; for not many months after the occurrence I have just related, I was walking down Regent street on a summer’s afternoon, when I met two young ladies, strangers to me, fashionably attired, and of engaging address. The taller of the two, and also the more prepossing, no sooner caught sight of me than she rushed upon me, and, overcome as it would seem by emotion, laid her hand on my arm, and would not be persuaded that I was not her cousin Tom; a favoured individual with whom, to judge from her behaviour to the person she mistook for him, she must have been on terms of the warmest affection. I protested that my name was not Tom, and that I knew her not; whereupon she called her companion to witness also that I was no other than Tom—-evidence which the latter hastened to give, testifying in the clearest possible manner that I was their cousin, and that they were ashamed of my want of breeding thus to affect not to recognise my relatives. I began to have doubts as to their sanity or my own, when suddenly remembering my adventure with the corndealer, I said, ‘Perhaps you mistake me for a gentleman of the name of Pop pleton ?’ ‘ Good gracious, no! ’ exclaimed the younger of the two with vivacity. ‘ Who ever heard of such a ridiculous name ? Yon are Tom, that’s who yon are, and we insist upon your coming with us.’ From certain indications, incapable of exact description, but still even apparent to my then inexperienced eye, I began to suspect that the conduct of the young ladies might be prompted by motives other than those of affection for a much-loved cousin; upon which I hurriedly left them, covered with reproaches for my unfeeling desertion of relatives so warmly attached to me. I omit all mention of many subsequent occasions on which I was mistaken for a double, and come to more recent times. Hot many months since, while ‘on circuit ’ (a solemn farce I, in company with a number of other young barristers, go through with edifying gravity and at much useless expense twice a year), I called at one of the towns on the circuit upon some people, strangers to me, but friends of connections, who had given me an introduction to them. Several members of the family were in the room when I was announced, and the moment I entered I observed that each inmate seemed to shudder as if he or she had seen a ghost, while a star of wonder illu mined a number of commonplace countenances that would otherwise have been, singularly wanting in expression. I was, however, very kindly received, and asked to dine with them on that very evening. During the meal the host, glancing at his wife, turned the conversation to the Universities, and asked me which 1 belonged to. I said Cambridge. Whereupon he inquired whether I knew Mr So-and-so there. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his wife exclaimed, ‘ Good heavens, John, how can you ask Mr (naming me) such a question ! Why, he is the very image of Mr So-and-so’ (not Poppleton). I disclaimed all knowledge of this other double ; upon which I was told that Nature, pleased, it may be presumed, with her model, had made an exact imitation of me in the person of their friend. Some merriment followed at the coincidence, and anxiety was expressed to see what Sophia would do when she saw me, Sophia, it appeared, was a grown-up daughter, who was spending the evening at a neighbour’s house, and was expected to return about ten p.m. I was pressed to stay until that hour, and, so far as I could, play the part of my duplicate. In an evil moment I consented, but as the time drew near sad misgivings seized ipe. What interest could Sophia have in this young copy of me, unless—But no, the thought Avas too terrible ; I dro\ T e it from me, and awaited the result in much discomfort, Punctually as the clock struck, the exemplary Sophia returned to the parental nest. A feAV minutes later a tall and elegant girl entered the room. ‘ Don’t you see Adolphus, Sophia ?’ asked her father, pointing to me with a reproachful air. I rose to meet Avhat I felt Avas my inevitable and well-deserved fate. A rustle as of a silk dress rapidly whirled through the air folloAved. In an instant I Avas clasped to the palpitating bosom of a lovely creature full six inches taller than myself, avlio murmured in my left ear, as she pressed me in a close embrace, * Dolly ! my oavh darling Dolly !’ {To he continued,')