Clippings.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 243, 15 July 1876, Page 18

Clippings.

A NEW VERSION OF NELSON'S DEATH. The Revue de France publishes an episode, very little known, of the battle of Trafalgar, which we reproduce with every reservation, as the French papers say. The author of the article attributes the death of Nelson to a sailor called Gersale', and he gives an account of the event as related to him by this Breton sailor:—"A loud explosion resounded above the din of battle. A wild triumphant cry rose from our ship. " We had disabled two of the rascals which threatened us, and the English admiral's ship,, swinging round, fell to leeward with her stern towards us. Had we then done her any serious harm ? Yes, indeed ! From the mizzentop, where I was stationed, I saw that the tiller-ropes had been cut away. Some blue-jacksts pushed to reeve new ones, amidst the confusion caused by the hurrying to and fro of the men who were picking up and carrying below the dead f>nd wounded. A group of officers were standing at the top of the poop-ladder, amongst them a little slim man, wearing three stars on his breast, who was giving some orders. I heard him speak. I cast my eyes downwards, and on the taffrail of his ship, which a wave just then lifted up, I read ' The Victory.' I again looked earnestly at the officer. His thin face was haughtyand calm, and one could have said that he smiled. I understood then that I saw Nelson. My heart gave one throb. I felt myself grow pale with anger. I raised my musket to my shoulder and took aim. But a storm of impressions passed through my brain. He was so quiet ! So proud ! He suspected his danger so little ! He, the chief, the conqueror of Aboukir, a sort of Napoleon of the sea. I again raised my arm. No ! As sure as there is a living God, I could not have fired. I did not wish to fire. Why, at that moment did the English fire a broadside at us ? Was that a brave act —ten against one? It seemed done on purpose. Volley folloAved volley. We were slaughtered—cut down. The mizzentop alone stood erect amidst its drooping rigging. Our guns were dismounted, and no longer returned the enemy's fire. For the third time the voice of our commander reached us in the top. "Courage, my children," it cried, and "Fire for France." France ! . . . . A vision swam before my eyes ; and the admiral for ever appearing through the smoke—always smiling—l aimed and fired. The admiral reeled on the deck as though ©ne had pushed him violently from behind. Eagerly I looked over the top to look. What cries ! what lamentations on board the English ship ! The officers threw themselves on their knees, wringing their hands. One of them with swollen countenance, turned towards, us and raising his clenched first, hurled at us these words, which I have often repeated, and which I got explained to me later on. ' Dam your eyes ! Dam your hands ! You French scoundrels.' He mixed up his language and ours, which he didn't know well. I was quite giddy ; it seemed to me that I was dreaming ; when a violent blow on the head turned me over insensible. I awoke to find myself a prisoner in England." THE STORY OF A "POTBOILER." AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. "Pet !" The above syllable, uttered in a _ musical bass, roused me once more to consciousness. Where was I? What was I? Not _ many hours ago I was safely ensconsed, a virgin, unblemished piece of white canvas, in a snug corner of Mr. Rowney's shop in Rathboneplace, W. Now I find myself tightly fastened by cruel tin tacks across four strips of wood, and perched perilously on the cross bar of a tall easel, in a lofty, empty, uncarpeted, scantily furnished "studio," which obtained its sole light from a large window or "skylight," in the roof. From my insecure promotion, I take in the position of affairs. " Yes, Pet, a brand new canvas. And what does Pet think I'm going to paint on it ? . You can't guess ' one little bit,' eh ? Well, then, I'm going in for a new line altogether. Fact is, you see, the ' Historical' does not pay. Strange, but too true. Dealers tell me their customers tell them they haven't room—think of that !—haven't room for any work of art, however grand, whenever it runs into more than half a dozen feet or so. Now I can't get even a small subject, such as, say ' Boadicea,' or ' Nero blazing up the Pumuns,' into anything under • fourteen ' by nine ' Saw old Vamp yesterday .... wants me to paint a ' potboiler,' and if he likes it, will commission me for more Eh? What's a 'potboiler?' Bless and save us ! You, a modern artist's wife, and don't know the meaning of a \ potboiler.' I'll tell you. Imagine a sweetly ' pretty-pretty' little picture, 'popular' in subject, 'fetching' in 'treatment.' Here's one sort —' Kiss Mamma.' Sweetly clean child, in a sweetly smart frock, held up by a sweetly smart nurse, with a sweetly clean apron, to kiss sweetly smart Mamma, in a sweet satin dress. Here's another —'The Old, Old Story.' Sweetly pretty young lady in boat up the river, with sweetly pretty young man—eloquent eyes — golden hair—lots of it—strawberries and cream —spoonings—green trees — pdte de foie gras—love champagne sunshine —nicey-nicey— about eighteen by twelve, in inches, not feet. Those are ' potboilers,' Pet, from ' Pot,' noun, you know, and ' Boil,' verb ; keeps the domestic pot a-boiling, you twig, because the intelligent B.P. can understand that, and—buys it. It never understands High Art, bless you ! No. Why, look at my * Belisarius' over there been on my hands for years ; and, as you know, Pet, they'll only lend five bob on him round the corner And now, Pet, I want you to give me a 'sitting,' and look quite pretty. Will you do the first, and can you do the second 9" The idea ! But would she not ! And could she not 2 And the second little oscillatory

business that followed was so tantalisingly charming that I nearly fell off my perch from very envy. In another ten minutes the process of my metempsychosis commenced. By the same time next day, happening to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror opposite, I could scarcely recognise my former clean person. It got worse and worse. I was scratched all over with hard chalk, dabbed fiercely at with big brushes, poked at with small ones, and scraped viciously with a sharp palette knife. This sort of thing lasted several weeks, the only alleviation I derived during the process being the frequent "sittings" of my dear mistress. " For one of your sweet smiles, 1 murmured painfully, " will I gladly endure even this confounded palette knife." In due course I was "finished," and all my master's friends came to " pass their opinion' on me. The verdict was quite unanimous. I was "a stunning portrait, and at the same time I was a first-rate popular 'potboiler. It was delightful to witness the pretty blushes of my young mistress as she received compliments and congratulations as the charming original. One day came Mr. Vamp, the celebrated "dealer." He peered at me through his gold double eye-glass long and carefully. Then he took snuff. Then he slapped my master loudly on the shoulder. "The very thing, s'help mei" said the great man. "Tell yer what, dear boy ; I'll make it a 'fifty,' if yer calls it by a good fancy name, and lets me 'ave the next three yer does of the same sort." " You are most kind," said my master; "but, you see, it's really a Portrait, and the only one I have of my dear wife, and—and —it's not for sale, Mr. Vamp." From that day we got poorer and poorer, going from bad to worse. My master painted several more of the "same sort," but Mr. Vamp was so angry he would not even look at them. We lived a struggling, povertystricken existence for some eighteen months. At last, one sad day, my poor mistress fell sick. In one short week she was dead. Her last words were : _• ' "Don't—don't part with my portrait, Fred! Promise. . . • Now kiss —kiss the— the original." And with that kiss warm on her pallid lips she fell back—dead. Things became worse and worse. To kill his grief he took to drinking heavily. Picture after picture, even articles of clothing, were pawned to satisfy this new want. . . . One terrible hour at last came. Everythmg that he could raise a few shillings upon had gone. I was the sole survivor. I saw him look at me strangely. He had taken a great deal, but wanted more. .... He seized me in his hands, and rose, as though to go I felt myself wrestling, as it were, in his grasp Anew instinct seemed to possess me. I became animate with the spirit of my dead mistress. Speech came to me. "Do you forget," I cried, mournfully, gazing into his face with her great, sad eyes—- " do you forget my last request so soon—your last promise—that last kiss on these lips, now cold in death ?"

He started, trembling violently. " The voice of conscience," he said hoarsely. " Nay, 'tis hers—my Pet—poor, dead Pet !"

He has not parted with me. He changed from that hour—worked hard. Mr. Vamp, hearing his story, He painted many more of the " same sort," and sells everything. ... I now hang over bis bed. The very first object on waking, the very last on sleeping, his eyes fall on me, and linger—lovingly. COBLEIGH ON THE MOVE. Mr. Cobleigh moved on the first of May. We were going through North-street when we met him with the insignia of the act upon him, viz.:—a looking-glass, clock, and lamp. If we had suddenly discovered our own family moving, we could not have been more astonished. He had lived in the house whence he was moving for at least eight years. He set the lamp on a fence, and propped the clock and looking-glass against the same. " You are surprised to see me at this ?" he said with an anxious look. We admitted as much. " I little expected it at one time myself," and he sighed drearily. " Any trouble with the landlord ?" "No, no." " With the house, then." " Oh, no ; good landlord and good house." "You see," he went on, "about six months ao-o, one of those chaps who believe in a series of sudden and unexpected judgment days— Second Advent they call 'em—moved in next door (where Parker used to live). He was a strong Second Adventist and so was his wife." . .... "But why should their peculiar religious belief make you dissatisfied with your home ?" we ventured to inquire. " Why," he ejaculated, staring hard at us. " But, then, you don't know anything about it. You never lived next door to a Second Adventist, perhaps?" " Not that we can remember. "You'd remember it if you had," he replied with significant emphasis, "I'll never forget my experience. That family got acquainted with us, and then it had its revelations. First, they borrowed a little sugar, and then a little tea, and then a little saleratus, and then this and then all that. They said the world was going to be burned up in two weeks, and they did'nt feel like going to the expense of getting a barrel of sugar, when eternity was so close, and wouldn't we let them have a small teacupful ? Then two days after that they came in and said that owing to the immediate approach of the end of all things they didn't think it advisable to lay in a ton of saleratus, and wouldn't we just loan them a cupful? . " He'd got that notion bored right into his skull, and all he cculd see was clouds of glory*

and angels, and harps, and my sugar, and saleratus, and the like. By George"! it got to be awful, I can tell you ! Day in and day out that fellow, or some of his folks, was repairing their accession duds or going for my groceries, and it did seem as if I'd go mad, and get up a judgment day on raj own hook. "He got my axe one day, with a lot of the same foolishness, and while he was using it the handle broke, and the blade went down the well. He came over right away, to if I had another axe. And when I told him that I hadn't, and I didn't know how I was to get along without that one, I'm blamed if he didn't want me to borrow one from some of the neighbors, so he could finish the little job he was at. He said there was no use me buying a new axe with the crack of doom staring us in the face. I was mad though, about the axe, as mad as I could be, and I told him if he didn't get me a new axe I'd bust him in pieces with the right arm of the law. And what do you suppose he said ?—why, that he'd go home and pray for me ! And now what could Ido with such a chap as that ? There was no use in getting mad, and you couldn't reason him out of the foolishness. And he wouldn't move, and the day of judgment showed no signs of being in earnest. So there I was. The only thing I could do |av»s to get away, and I've hired a house at the other end of the town, and I'm moving there. And now, added our unfortunate friend, steadying th« looking-gla3s and clock under his arms while he grasped the lamp, " I've got where there is a gaol on one side of me and a graveyard on the other, and I don't care a darn how many Second Adventists move in on either side."

A HOLY LAND ROMANCE. (From the New York Sunday Mercury.) About twenty-five years ago a company of young men started out from Damascus, and headed for Jerusalem. They had not gone far before a band of armed horsemen surrounded them, and ordered a halt. The leader said the caravan might move on, unhurt and unharmed, if they would deliver up one of their number, a young man named Randall, who should not suffer if he would come along with them peacefully. The terms, though hard, were acceded to, and the last look his companions had of him was to see him mounted on a fine horse, attended by the gay horsemen of the Bedouin Sheik of the Le Avish tribe.

The young man was taken to the sheik's tent, and to his surprise found a magnificent entertainment awaiting him. What does it all mean ? Arzalia, the sheik's daughter, has seen the young man and fallen passionately, in love with him, and this is the wedding feast. The young man and Arzalia are married. There was no escape for him. His tent was guarded by night, and his person watched by day, lest he should escape, and this guard kept over him for years. He and his Arzalia, however, seemed happy. • Children were born, to them, and their domestic life was marked by kindness, courtesy, and true affection. Randall rapidly acquired the Arabic language, his wife as rapidly mastered the English. Their children were taught in both.

Now, who was this Randall ? In Oneida county, N.Y., lives his father, who has never seen the face of his son. This father is now a man of some seventy years, who was brought up among the Indians, and has travelled again and again with the hunters of his tribe in search of fish and game. At the age of twentyone the chief of his tribe said to him—" You had better return to the white people, for among them you can be more of a man than among the Indians." He returned, secured a Welsh lady for his wife, and while she was on a visit to her relations in Wales this son was born. The mother dying soon after his birth, he remained until manhood with his kindred in Wales, and was taking a trip through Syria, previous to his return to America, when he was Gaptured by the sheik and compelled to marry his daughter. His mother was a Baptist, and he, before he left Wales for the Orient, was baptised. ■ When he was admitted to the sheik's family, they had to receive his religion as well as his person. Through him his wife became a Christian ; his father-in-law became a patron of his son-in-law's faith ; his children were brought up "in the fear of the Lord ;" his son had be- • come a sheik of the tribe—the father-in-law having died. All the surrounding tribes have become favorable to the new religion, and have pledged their swords in its defence. But a dervish, a zealot of the Mohammedan faith, had for a long time been endeavoring to stir up opposition and persecution. He strove to have Randall's sons thrown out of the employ of the Turkish Government, and, failing in this, he turned his assault upon a daughter of the foreigner, and charged her with witchcraft and apostacy from the true faith. She was brought before the meghs, composed of 114 venerable sheiks and effendis, to answer charges which involved her life. ■ She, although but fourteen years of age, and dressed in the neatest manner, with a placid face, and calm, hearty, and unfaltering trust, responded, " Most venerable fathers, I will reply _ in person ;" and then with fervor, and faith, and power, holding her Bible in her hand, and frequently reading passages from it, she made a defence worthy of an apostle, and when she was finished the unanimous verdict was in her favor, and the chiefs of the tribes pledged each other their swords anew to defend all Christians who thought and felt as Rosa did. But the old dervish breathed revenge, and determined to take that young life. The trial was in October, 1872. In June, 1873, while Rosa was teaching a class of fortytwo little girls in a grove, the dervish stealthily approached, and before anyone was aware, he had murdered the maid and fled. In the last letter from Bady Arzalia Le Avish Randall, giving all the particulars of her child s trial and tragic death, occurs this beautiful sentence and earnest request :—" Pray for me, that my piety may be as humble as the violet, as enduring as the olive, and as fragrant as the Orient.