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bringing the Muggletonian cricketers upon the scene ("all Muggleton against an eleven of Dingley Dell"), he introduces us to several of the real sort. "'You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir,' said one very stout gentleman whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow cases. 'You'll find it much pleasanter, sir,' urged another stout gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid." And then, when the match actually begins, it is the gentlemen who all unconsciously provide the rollicking humor of the scene. "Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes filled with water and his form writhed in anguish." Here let it be said that the Dickensian gentleman is very often nameless-"a shabby gentleman," "a mottled-faced gentleman," "a placid gentleman," "one very lank gentleman," "a red-faced gentleman,"these are a few of the gentlemen over and over again thrust mockingly upon the reader's notice. Not all are nameless, however, as we have already

seen.

Two of the very richest of them (in the humorous, though assuredly not in the pecuniary sense) are well known to every Dickens lover. These are Mr. Alfred Jingle ("tall gentleman -dress coat-long legs-thin body?"), and Mr. Micawber. The actual term "gentleman" is hardly ever applied to these two, or indeed to any who figure largely in the plot of any of the stories. Rather it is applied when a personage, a kind of supernumerary on the stage is sketched, ever mockingly, in a few master strokes, as "one silent gentleman with glazed and fishy eyes,

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lar, to be sure, in these respects, for every gentleman on board appeared to have had a difference with his laundress, and to have left off washing himself in early youth."

Dickens, indeed, sometimes carries this anonymity of his gentlemen to extraordinary lengths; it almost seems as if he can't bring himself to depart from the joke by condescending on a name. For instance, in Martin Chuzzlewit, we are introduced to a certain set of "gentlemen" residents in a London boarding-house. One of them, "the youngest gentleman," becomes quite prominent, temporarily and feebly, by his hopeless passion for Miss Mercy Pecksniff. But he is always "the youngest gentleman" until the very last of his hopeless love affair, when we are casually informed that his name is Augustus Moddle! Then we have "the single gentleman" in The Old Curiosity Shop. He first comes upon the scene reading a signboard describing a "first floor to let to a single gentleman." He is a single gentleman. He inquires within. And all through the tortuous mazes of the plot of the tale he is spoken of as "the single gentleman"; indeed, one can hardly tell without studying the book afresh whether his name was Trent or what it was. It is a point of no importance. Would the reader have "Mr. Trent" when he can have "the single gentleman"? One could fill a volume with examples of this inexhaustible vein of humor so peculiar to our author, and many instances which cannot be particularized within the limits of a fugitive paper will occur to every one who knows and loves his Dickens.

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But we have said enough to direct attention of Dickens's scholars to this phase of the master's humor. Of course, the word "gentleman" is used in its ordinary sense by Dickens at times as by other writers. When Mr. Pickwick is described as "that immortal gentleman" the term is not applied in the peculiarly Dickensian sense, for Mr. Pickwick is a gentleman always. There are old gentlemen, too, very often clergymen, who are spoken of most respectfully by him. But they are a different class from the "old gen'leman" of Sam Weller's story, who was, Sam rather feared, missing after his (Sam's) parent had (for a consideration) tipped over the coachful of Eatanswill voters into a convenient pond. It was a satisfaction to Mr. Weller, however, to be able to tell Mr. Pickwick that he rather thought

The Dickensian.

that

the old gen'leman's hat was found.

No lover of Dickens will need, one would hope, to have the theme of this paper further elaborated. But two other references may perhaps be allowed. One, with the usual mocking qualification following the application of the term "gentleman" to a low fellow, is a burlesque Dickensian description of a fifth-rate music hall artiste at the piano-"a professional gentleman, with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache." The other is a bitingly sarcastic definition of stupidity. Dickens, speaking of Mr. Pocket's pupil in Great Expectations, says: "Bentley Drummle had come to Mr. Pocket when he was a head taller than that gentleman, and half a dozen heads thicker than most gentlemen."

R. T. Young.

THE PRISONER OF WAR.

That is what she calls herself, rather than is called by her neighbors. But when the kind folk of Behnsleben speak of Mademoiselle Genlis-Ma'amzelle by this name, they do so without the slightest shade of mockery. For they respect their Prisoner of War, and, do or say what she may, they insist on cherishing a great affection for her.

Ma'amzelle is small and slight and stoops a little. Her hair is quite white and has pretty waves and pale silver gleams in it. Her flush, which once, they tell you, was quick to come and go, has decided to remain in permanence on her cheeks. This, with the bright flashes of her eyes and a touch of grimness in the lines of her mouth, gives her a somewhat fierce appearance; but no one is afraid of Ma'amzelle-not even the babies. are not of those who can

And if you go back

from the sear autumn of the tree to its green youth, you must take it on the word of the older Behnslebenites that Ma'amzelle was once very beautiful.

The Prisoner of War is somewhat careless of her appearance. She might be said to clothe, rather than dress, herself. The general effect is picturesque, and no more unpleasing than any other autumnal untidiness. It is highly characteristic, too, of one who has a fixed idea. And Mademoiselle Genlis has a fixed idea, to the effect that the air of Prussia is unbreathable by human beings. The Prisoner of War has been breathing the air of Prussia for some thirty-five years and shows no acute symptoms of asphyxiation. But that does not make any difference to the fixed idea. Ma'amzelle is at war with her neighbors, and they are at peace with her. She bristles with hostility to her

surroundings. She accepts no kind offices that are in any way avoidable, and the Behnslebenite is not yet born who would dare to offer the insult of a compliment to the Prisoner of War. But she does not do unto her neighbors as she will have it that they shall do unto her, for she is a very fountain of secret benevolence, and is only rich on dividend days. That she has two sides to her character is not extraordinary, for she has two graves in her heart-a French grave and a Prussian grave.

When Behnsleben society speaks of Mademoiselle Genlis, it more than occasionally assumes a pitiful air, gives a knowing wag of its collective head and whispers not unkindly, “Just a little you understand?" But it has no monopoly in this; for when Ma'amzelle speaks of Behnsleben society she frowns, purses up her lips, raps herself upon the forehead with anything that she has in her hand,-her wooden darning-ball generally, for she looks after the hosiery of a small regiment of motherless children,-and says sharply and firmly, "Mad-all mad!" Such is the gloomy result of that baleful air of Prussia.

In this point Behnsleben society has right upon its side rather than the Prisoner of War. For in the unwholesome shade of that tree of a fixed idea certain small mental oddities, harmless undergrowths, not unpicturesque, have sprung up. Ma'amzelle is undoubtedly "Just a little you understand?" in more ways than one. She owns to fifty-seven, and neither gallantry nor unkindness can take exception to her calculation. But at fifty-seven those undergrowths of oddities are apt to flourish rather vigorously about the main stem of the fixed idea. So Mademoiselle Genlis is in communication with the spirits: she writes poetry that makes you fancy that you yourself must be "Just a little you under

stand?" and she has for several years been on the point of revolutionizing the world with a succession of small inventions.

If you, a stranger to the town, met Ma'amzelle in the Behnsleben drawing-room-for she cannot entirely neglect her social duties-she will most probably flatter you by asking you with which of the monarchs of Europe you are best acquainted personally. This information gained, she will very nicely request you to be good enough to "push" her four-eyed needle-the latest world-upheaver-at your favorite royal or imperial court. It will occur to you, after your ready compliance with this reasonable demand, that you would make yourself highly unpopular by pushing a needle, fourheaded and one-pointed, at court or anywhere else, and you will be more guarded when the next invention is brought under your notice. Such, for instance, as a signpost that is at the same time a weathercock and an appliance for eating bread-and-butter gracefully and greaselessly.

The patriotism of the Prisoner of War is intense, the very sap and vitality of that fixed idea. On Sedan Day, when bunting flaps the poisonous air of Prussia, and the schools with their bands and flags and escorts of flags very solemn-and ribbons and brand new caps traverse the town in deliberate procession, singing "Ich hatt' einen Kameraden," Ma'amzelle shuts herself up in her house, pulls down the blinds, and prays for her beloved France. It is from Paris that her prayers and her thoughts mount up: for she cannot bring herself to think that any of the bases of God's throne are laid in Prussia.

Ma'amzelle's chief work lies in the prisoners' corner of the Friedhof-the cemetery, the Court of Peace where she saves the not ungrateful munici pality a gardener. The passers-by

stop to look at the little bent old lady, weeding and brushing from morning to sunset, and admire the trimness of the walks and the order that reigns in this house of the dead. She clips the ivy about the headstones, plants in their season flowers raised from French seed, and with nests of her own devising cunningly attracts the birds to build in this garden of hers and sing to her sleeping fellow-captives. There is one grave close up to the boundary wall and another just outside it: the same vigorous young acacia shades them both: a French grave and a Prussian grave: and these are the two that she has in her heart. For that grave outside the wall of her garden and inside the wall of her soul she must not entirely hate the Prussian land. So it is, perhaps, that the Behnsleben babies are not afraid of the flushed, grim little Prisoner of War.

She has followed the fashion of Behnsleben and set a garden-seat in her enclosure. It is under the acacia, between the two graves. Here she sits to rest, and darns a little; reads a little; and eats a biscuit or some fruit of the tidier species. But more often she dreams, and, sleeping or waking she is never alone. For sometimes a French gentleman sits by her on the bench, handsome in spite of the great purple wound that zigzags from temple to lip: sometimes a tall, gray-haired man comes, that you would know anywhere for a German, with one empty sleeve. When people condole with Ma'amzelle on her solitude, she replies stiffly that she can always have two friends with her. "She is a littleyou understand?"

If you, a stranger, ask Ma'amzelle when she returns to France, she falls into a little flurry and trembling, ruffles and reddens up, smooths down her dress, and says in her eager voice that she will go back to France when Al

sace and Lorraine go back. So it is more than likely that the Prisoner of War will not leave Behnsleben until Death, the deliverer, comes to strike off her chains.

This is the autumn-the late autumn of Ma'amzelle's year. And here are some leaves from the spring of it.

Among the French prisoners quartered in 1870 in the little south Prussian town of Behnsleben was a certain Captain Jules Genlis of the Hussards of the Guard. Monsieur Genlis had taken part in the battle of Mars-leTour on August 16, had received a sabre-cut that laid open one side of his face, and had fallen into the hands of the Germans. They had patched him up passably in a field-hospital, and, when he was well enough to stand the journey, he was sent to Behnsleben. There his sister and only relative had been permitted to join her brother, and to occupy an apartment with him in the town.

You could conceive of many a more gloomy place of exile than Behnsleben. It lies about twenty miles north of the Harz: and standing a little above the town you can see the whole range of mountains from its eastern to its western slope, with the rounded cone of the Brocken for its centre and highest point, set on this plain of green and silver, the green of forests and the silver of mighty sand-rents. It is a land of leisure, where time is of no great account: a land of ox-drawn ploughs, of slow-moving wains, of loitering pine-scented airs. The little town has its store of mild pleasures: its old churches and tortuous streets and wooden houses for those who dream; its theatre and clubs and taverns for play-hours.

Captain Genlis was disposed to make the best of the situation. He accepted his disfigurement philosophieally, and observed that it was less re

markable here than it would have been in Paris. He would not have greatly cared to parade his "Turk's Head," as he gaily called that slashed countenance of his, in the Champs Elysées or on the Grands Boulevards; but here, at Behnsleben, the long purple meander from temple to lip was not very much out of the common: for, said the Hussard, are not the German ladies accustomed to have their brothers and friends returned to them two or three times in the year from the universities with their faces ingeniously carved? The religious question presented no great difficulties; for though Monsieur Genlis was a Catholic and his neighbors almost exclusively Protestants, he allowed nothing in his Catholicism or in their Lutherian and Zwinglian tenets to make them or himself respectively uncomfortable for one single moment: because Monsieur Genlis understood the term "liberty of conscience" in its very widest signification. As for his country's wrongs, he was content to wear his patriotism in his heart rather than on his sleeve, and not to let such dreams as he had of future revenge interfere with the tranquility of the moment. So Behnsleben approved of Captain Jules Genlis, and the French gentleman found his house of exile pleasant enough.

But this was not at all the case with Mademoiselle Genlis, and her brother was accustomed to say that it was Marie Angélique, and not he, that was the real prisoner of war. The French girl-for she was not more than a girl then came into antagonism with her neighbors at every point. First of all, there was that purple scar-a thing beyond all forgiveness. Jules had been handsome, almost as handsome as his adoring sister held him to be. She was ten years younger than he, and her worship and love of him was undetachable from all her memories back and up to her very dawn of conscious

ness.

She would have given all her own young beauty, all the blood that ebbed and flowed so prettily in her cheeks, to have been able to smooth and dye out that terrible zigzag. For her the war had culminated in that wound: Europe had been shaken by the tramp of armies that her brother, her handsome brother, should be so disfigured: and for that wound she hated the German name as much almost as for the desolation of France. Then there was her religion, her fervent faith, the very grain of her being: a poetical and fanciful religion, it may be, but drawing in from all the beauties of music and art the strength that makes the martyrs. So it was that this young French girl, whom for her frail and gentle appearance the kindly German women would have taken to their sentimental hearts and mothered into robuster life, had within her a very volcano of resentment that must smoulder and smoulder and only break into flames occasionally at her eyes.

"I really believe," said her brother to her once, "that if you could make one man of the old Emperos, Bismarck, and Moltke, you would chop off his head with delight, to take your payment for this scratch of mine. But you would turn him into a good Catholic first, wouldn't you now?"

And Marie laughed-but answered not a word.

One day Jules told his sister that a new acquaintance of his, Rittmeister Sponnagel, late of the 7th Kürassiers, Bismarck's, was coming in to coffee. "He was at Mars-le-Tour, too," said Captain Genlis, "and lost an arin there. He was picked up by the French and sent to Metz as a prisoner, but when he came out of hospital he was free again, for in the meantime that Bazaine had surrendered the town. Sponnagel came straight back to Behnsleben, where he has property,

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