The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-02 00:00:00

♦ WINDING SHEET IN 711 E CANDLE.

" Let me tell you, Mr. Gear," turning to me, "why
came here such an awful night. I was in the house-
keeper's room counting the plate—l like to count the plate
myself, with a candle close at my elbow, 'cause my eyes
are bad—and Letty was practisin' her peanner in the
drawin'-room—she practises hard enough, now there's a
chance of marryin' that Vaughan."
"Marrying Vaughan!" exclaimed my mother.
"Don't you interrupt people," snapped Mrs. Ray;
"that's the tother story, which I haven't given myself the
'fluenz} to come and tell you."

" Oh 1" said my mother, completely silenced by this un.
complimentary remark.
"And I was a-counting and a-counting," Mrs. Ray
continued, "and making one silver table short, which was
a hard loss, and was trying to recollect who was the big-
gest thief I'd got in the house, when I noticed—good for
—I noticed the awfullest winding-sheet I ever seed in my
life. I was friz then, and forgot the silver table, and
skreeked out, ' Mary Gear's a-goin' to die, and I haven't
told her on my sins yet.' And, oh, sir 1 is she wus I"
" Better."

The old woman's explanation of her visit had frozen my
own blood a little ; "Mary Gear's a-going to die," had been
uttered with an awful earnestness. My mother, a shade
more pale, too, sat and glared at Mrs. Ray.
" She'll be wus—she'll have a relapse—l must see her
to-night I"
" Impossible."

" I've come a long way on a night that few people would
ventur out—l've left a winding-sheet at home—l find
another here I"

" But winding sheets, Mrs. Ray," explained my mother,
who seemed well versed in those articles, "only foretell
death in the house wherin they are seen first."
" Get out 1" said Mrs. Ray, " they tell the death of the
one you are thinkin' the most on, and the most troubled
about. That's Mary Gear to me—and she's ill and agoing
to die. I'm as sure o' that, as I'm a living woman sitting
here 1"

" It's very wrong to sit there, saying such awful things,"
reproved my mother, "putting such awful things in my
boy's head."

" So I couldn't rest," continued Mrs. Ray, deaf to the
reproof; "I felt if death was about here, and I must not
let an hour go by and not ask your wife to forgive me all
my trespasses against her. I tried to think, at fust, that
to-morrow would do, that it was an awful night, that I was
old, and excitement was bad for me, but the wind said No'
to it, and tne rain said No' to it, and God Almighty said
' No' to it, I'm sure I"
She held her hand up to prevent all interruption, strug-
gled with her breath, and then went on again :
"So I dressed and came out. I ordered the horses to be
put to the carridge, and Miss Ray not to be disturbed at her
peanner—and the noise she made herself, drownded any
other I—and I came away to see your wife, sir."
" I am very sorry, Mrs. Ray, that you have put your-
self to this unnecessary trouble, but---"
"But you'll let me see her ?"
" I dare not, for her health's sake."
to-night, sir I" she entreated.l
do she
not were
been mercifully spared to me, and I entertain great hopes
" we
think t o die
there
isany fear," I
replied ; she has
of seeing her well and strong again."
"Mr. Gear," sho affirmed, with a persistency that was
terribly depressing, " it's the snuff of the candle only
brightening up a bit. She'll die, she'll die, I tell you!"
" I will pray not."

" And I must see her. I must whisper to her that did
her harm once, that I planned harm against her, and
built upon her death and money. Oh I I must tell her
that."

" I pledge you my 'word that she will forgive you, Mrs
Ray."
" It's a weight upon an old woman's soul, and ony she
can lift it off me. You're a man who won't be hard upon
me, in this late hour, when I've better thoughts F"
" In a few days you may see her."

- -
" Too late!" she affirmed; "I've dreamed all that's
coming—I've seen her dead face in my sleep—it's not only
the winding-sheet that's brought me here."
She continued to plead her cause—l to remain deaf to
it. This old woman's excitement was deep and intense,
and must arouse Mary's. There was danger to my wife,
and I was her guardian to protect her from it.

The old lady, however ultimately obtained her
object—

" I have come, Mary Zitmun," murmured Mrs. Ran:still
in the same posture, and bestowing on my wife the old and
more familiar title, " I've come before death parts yon
and me—sooner than either on us thinks, perhaps—to ask
your forgiveness for past sin. I wished you dead once—
and I—l tried to kill you 1"
" No—no," answered Mary.

" You had my brother's money: and I had a miser's love
for it. It seemed my right, and I Was poor and wretched.
I—l prayed every night that you might die, and leave me
rich, when I thought you would not marry agin. It was
the one prayer that I taught myself."
" Forgiven!" said my wife.

Mrs. Ray's excitement was on the increase, and I could
see my wife was anxious to abridge the interview, although
fearful of an abrupt termination thereto. Janet, with folded
arms, stood by my side, intensely watchful.
" James Baines—your brother's man—and I had a long
talk together at last—in the very room downstairs I've
run away from. God forgive me I but—but I promised him
a thousand pounds when you were dead, knowing he was a
villain who never studied life much. I tempted him, and
he watched you—plotted against your life—opened your
winder, when you were sleeping, tlat God's air might turn
murderer against you, too —he was my tool, and he
worked on in the dark."

Mary closed her eyes—l could sw the red blood mantling
her face and neck.

" Janet," I whispered, "this must cease now."
" It's a' doon—the warst be oot," muttered Janet.
" You dont say, ' Forgiven' unto that I'' Mrs. Ray
screamed, with a vehemence that alarmed us all. "You're
going to die, and leave me aceursel. Oh, Mary Zitman I

that' I/ be on earth and in heaven, too—and I'm sorry
for the past—l'd die—to—wipe it—all—away 1"
" Forgiven," whispered my wife, opening her eyes again.
"The past is over—Canute and I have outlived it, and are
hippy in forgetting it. My poor misguided woman, I pray
that God will forgive you, as I do."
" As you do !" she cried, seizing Mary's hand, and then
dropping it, and falling forward suddenly. 'BAs—you—
do 1"

There was a long silence, broken by Janet making two
strides towards Mrs. Ray, leaning over, and then lifting
her up in her arms.
" Lie doon, Mazy moire, and dinna think ony mair o'
this," said she. " She hae fainted, as I kenned she wud
lang since. I'll carry her doon, and gio her some coold
water. Mrs. (3ear, wull ye stay and sooth the lassie—
Mister Canute, I'm thinking yo'd better coom doon a
rninit and help me."

She bore Mrs. Ray into her own room, in lieu of de-
scending the stairs. She had placed her on the bed, and
was standing on the landing waiting for me, ere my lin-
gering steps had brought me from the room.
" Close that door," she said to me.
I closed the room door, and Janet lay her head upon
my arm.

"Ye can bear a shock—but it's awfu' suddenlike. We
maun keep it frae the lassie, for a weel."
" Keep what ?" I exclaimed.
" She came just in time—Lord be gudo to her I" said
Janet, not answering my question, " She's dead."

The principal portions of the tale are laid in the
most desolate regions of Cumberland, some glimpses
of which are very effectively described :

A PLEASANT JOURNEY,
I had walked ten miles at least, without experiencing the
least fatigue ; I was good for the other seven or eight, as
though I had just began my morning's walk. The even-
ings were light till half-past eight o'clock ; I should be in
Needlewood long before the daylight flitted away behind
the range of mountains. I scaled the first hill, and found
another beyond it, shut in, as it were, behind two taller hills
or mountains—this was the White Gap, evidently. The
path became rather less distinct; once or twice ended abruptly
in grass, and began again fifty yards in advance. It was a
long, uphill progress to the top, but I was rewarded by
looking back at the valley beyond, and the fair expanse of
landscape stretching out before me. The cottage at which
I had inquired was a speck in the vale below ; there was a
stiff breeze on the high land whereon I stood and looked
about me—there were some flying clouds coming up over
the third hill, which had appeared before me when the second
was surmounted.

The flying clouds trooped over the hill with remarkable
celerity; when I set my face towards the old route, they
seemed coming down the hill to meet me, and hiding its
summit in a vale of mist. Then, presto I there was a full
charge at me; the mist and clout's were driven on me by
the wind, the rain came pattering down in heavy drops, the
path became dim and indistinct, then vanished altogether
—I was shut in on the mountain-path, and getting wet
through rapidly.
I imagined that the mist would soon clear off if the wind
continued, so I plodded along carelessly, and was rewarded
for my perseverance by a break of sunshine—finally, by the
hill-top becoming once again perceptible. I set forth, then,
at a brisker pace ; the advantage of society began to suggest
themselves ; I had not so much confidence in my own
powers of perspicacity. If I could overtake the stranger
journeying in the same direction as myself so much the
better. The path was very faintly traced now—presently
I felt convinced it would soon cease altogether.
The third hill, a sudden dip in the land almost to a valley,
and then a fourth hill looking unpleasantly grim and stony.
Save the soughing of the wind between the hills—a curious
murmur, as of some one in pain, it seemed—all still and
solemn and depressing, and no one ahead of me yet. Toil-
ing up the fourth hill, whereupon, to my satisfaction, the
path appeared more strongly marked, and then met again
by miet and rain and heavy banks of clouds—suddenly
blinded for a while by the flash of lightning which darted
past me and lit up the mountains. When the thunder
followed this, and seemed leaping from one hill to another,
and rolling itself down thew, I sat down, under cover of a
huge friendly boulder, and began to shiver. Kennington •
road appeared very lovely in the distance then, and Cum-
berland scenery tell to a discount. Nothing like the bustling
London streets, where there was ever life, and comfortable
faces, and one could ask the way, and find it too I
The rain continued, and I was getting wet through
wondrously fast ; I was inclined to collapse with cold and
inaction--I had heard of such cases—might be death. On
to Nettlewood with a dash, irrespective of the storm—on
over the hill, fighting my way to a friendly shelter. The
rain kept on, but the storm abated somewhat ; the sky be-
came less dense, and I could still keep the path in sight.
The path had transformed itself into a rivulet by;this time,
and it was not difficult to follow if I kept ankle•deep in
water.

The fourth bill was ascended and descended ; half-way
down I caught sight of a green valley beneath, with a river
meandering through ire midst. Three quarters of the
descent, I became aware of some one toiling up the path to
meet me. It was a pleasant sight to encounter a human
being then, and I hastened downwards in better spirits.
Five minutes afterwards I recognised Mr, Wenford.

The hero of the story, Canute Gear, who is also its
narrator, is a mere nobody. The principal interest
is concentrated upon Herbert Vaughan, who cer-
tainly is not worthy of the honour. The secondary
heroines, Letty Ray and Ellen Gear, are somewhat
extravagant creations, and Joseph Gear, the brother
of Canute, is miserly and covetous to an inprobable
degree. In the creation of this story the author
of " Grandmother's Money" has exercised a great
deal of ingenuity with very insufficient results.

The story which Mr. Thackeray has left un-
finished naturally excites much curiosity, which
the editor of the Cornhill Magazine will gratify, it is to
be hoped. Every page that this great writer penned has
some touoh of genias, of grace, of humour in it; and,
finished or unfinished, his last day's work has another
interest beyond its own excellence. A late Lounger
in these columns announced that this novel
was cast in the age of " the Danes and Saxons."
Unluckily, the journalist stumbles on false information
sometimes, and it must be confessed that our own Lounger
was wrong. The scenes of the story lie near our own time ;
and, if it be true that Mr. Thackeray finished four parts be-
fore his death, a considerable portion of the tale must be writ-
ten, for he did not propose to go to three-volume length on
this occasion, but to write a story of brisk incident which
should be completed in seven or eight numbers of the Corn-
hill. We may, therefore, expect to see, not a mere frag-
ment (though that would be precious), but a handsome
torso from the delicate and mighty hand which ended its
work on it.—lllustrated Times, Jan. 2, 1864.

NOBLE-HEARTED DR. THACKERAY !—Latterly,
fortune and fame enabled the author of " Vanity
Fair" to visit Imperial Paris in imperial style, and W. M.
Thackeray put up generally at the Hotel Bristol, in the
Place Vendome. Never was increase of fortune more
gracefully worn or more generously employed. The strug-
gling artist and small man of letters, whom he was sure to
find at home or abroad, was pretty safe to be assisted if he
learnt their wants. I know of many a kind act. One morn-
ing, on entering Mr. Thackeray's bedroom, I found him
placing some Napoleons in a pill-box, on which was writ-
ten, " Ono to be taken occasionally." " What are you
doing ?" " Well," he replied, " there is an old person
here who says she is very ill and in distress, and 1 strongly
suspect that this is the sort' of medicine she wants. Dr.
Thackeray intends to leave it on her himself. Let us walk
out together." Thackeray used to say that he came to
Paris for a holiday awn° revive his rceollections of French
cooking, But he generally worked, especially when edit-
ing the Cornhiti Inge:sine. And so the grand head and
the big heart are lost and gone I No, only dead.—. Paris
Correspondent of the Morning Post.

COLONIAL PHOTOGRAPHY.—Kyneton, during the
last few weeks, has been favoured with a visit from
a party of Ballarat blacks. The party numbered seven—
three men, with their lubras, and a boy. One of the men,
Jamie, spoke English very well, and seemed an intelligent
man for an aboriginal. He is a fine specimen of the Aus-
tralian savage, evidently proud of his personal appearance,
as he called it at the photographic studio of Mr. Gleny, and
reversed the order of things by asking him, "How much
you give mo to take my likeness ?" The photographer took
the gentleman's carte de visite, who, on seeing the nega-
tive, fairly rolled off his chair, convulsed with laughter at
the whiteness of the appearance, the action of the sun bang
just the reverse of what it would have been with a white
man, A group of four were afterwards taken in the open
air.—Kyneton Guardian.

WHISKERS.—It has been asked, Who does not
recollect the pathetic scene described in Punch,
where the smooth-checked young gentleman tremulously
asks the barber what hopes there are of whiskers ? where
the barber, with a candour unusual in his race (so hope-
ful are they generally of the propagation of hair), gives
absolutely none; where the whiekerlesa rejoins with a whine
of despair, " but my pa has lots of whiskers ;" and when the
sympathising barber, with a flash of inspiration adds, ",but
perhaps, sir, you take arter your ma ?"

LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEETINGS FOR THE
ENSUING WEEK.—Monday.—Entomological, at 7 ;
Architects, at 8. Tuesday.—Anthropological, at 4 (anni-
versary); Photographic, at 8 ; Royal Institution, at 5,
" Electricity in Rest and in Motion," Professor Tyndall
(juvenile lectures). lVednesday.—Geological, at 8, " Re-
cent Geological Changes, Somersetshiro," Mr. Poole;
" Beds superior to the Eocene in Suffolk and Essex," Mr.
Wool, jun.; Society of Literature, at Bi. Thursday.—
Royal Academy, at 8, " Architecture," Professor Smirke;
Royal, at 81, letter from Dr. Otto Torell to General
Sabine, " Hourly Observations of Magnetic Declination at
Port Kennedy, Arctic Sea, 1858.59," General Sabine ;
Royal Institution, at 3, " Electricity at Rest and in
Motion," Professor Tyndall (juvenile lectures). Friday.—
Archwological Institute, at 4 ; Astronomical, at S.—
Atheneeum.

STEAM ENGINES EXPORTED.—In eleven months
ended November last, the value of steam engines exported
was £1,426,628, being an increase on tormer yoare.