In my next cruise, which was only a short
one, we had a fight with the French off the
coast of Spain, and I got the wound that
disabled me for service aboard ship. But I was
not disabled altogether for a life of adventure;
and when I was out of hospital, I made an engagement
with a party of scientific gentlemen to go
on an exploring expedition to Australia. Peace
had been made, the old king was dead, and
Bonaparte was dead and buried in his sea-
island prison before I came back. Ay, sir,
what a story that of Bonaparte's will be in the
ages to come! Rufus Helstone was a
Bonaparte in a small way—a strong man without
scruples. When I was at Southampton again
in the year 1824, he was still alive, a hale and
hearty man, with an easy satisfied air; the
world had gone so very well with him, that he
may have come to think his prosperity the best
proof of his deserts. Well, sir, well, we know
whether that is so or not; man looks on the
outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.

I was away in America for another six years,
and when I came home again Helstone's place
knew him no more. He had dropt and died
one day, without a word, at his own gate, while
he was driving a bargain with a cattle-dealer
from Portsmouth. His sons buried him with
much pomp and vanity; but no sooner had the
grave closed over his head, than the luck that
had followed him all his life turned against
them. They were fine young men, good
natured, better hearts than their father; fair
scholars too, and gentlemen in their looks and
ways. You could not say—nobody could say—
where the troubles came from that came on
them, but troubles dogged them like a fate, or a
providence, as you choose to consider it.

The first thing was, the brothers quarrelled
over the division of the property; they lived in
the same parish, and they never spoke. The
elder, John, who had the Lodge Farm, married
a lady from London, and kept her a carriage.
She was a handsome and lively madam, but her
pride could not brook the shock it sustained
when her first child was born deformed, and not
deformed only, but, as it soon appeared, a half-
wit. She never had another to live, and she
fell into low melancholy ways. I suppose she
had not much comfort of her life. Her husband
was wasteful; he took to drinking, and his
temper was soured with the constant vexations
and failures he met in his business. If it was
a bad year for the crops for other people, it was
worst of all for him; every ear of corn he cut
sprouted in the stack, or rotted on the ground.
If there was disease amongst sheep, amongst
cattle, it was of his flocks, his herds, that not a
hoof escaped. Then came the firing of the Lodge,
the farm-buildings, the stack-yard—no
uncommon crime in those troublous times when
reform in parliament did not bring immediate
plenty into the cupboard of the half-starving
labourers. It was the act of an incendiary, no
doubt; but for ever so long, though rewards
were offered by the county and the government,
the constables could get no inkling of
who did it. John Helstone was ruined, and
his wife died of the fright, and, during the
misery of it, the brothers were made friends.
James Helstone gave John and his poor lad a
home, and they had lived together reconciled
for nearly six months, when, on the information
of John's former house-servant, James was
charged with the arson. He was tried at the
Winchester assizes, found guilty, and condemned
to death. And he was hanged for it, sir; and
they brought his body home in a cart from the
jail, and buried it on the north side of
the church, where unbaptized children are
buried. The Lord had mercy on his soul, and
he died a penitent man; but would you not
say, sir, that the sins of the father were being
visited on the children, when I tell you that the
general belief, and my belief, is that James
Helstone's life was falsely sworn away by the
very man who committed the crime? He is
walking the earth yet, and, to judge by his
countenance, God is not leaving him alone.
John Helstone lived a few years longer, a
broken, miserable man, but, from what I have
heard, he had peace at his death. As for the
poor half-wit, his son, he is glad to do a hand's
turn wherever he can to earn a mouthful of
meat; but he can read Latin and Greek, sir,
enough to give you the name of a book. He
was sent to a good master to be made the best
of, while his father could pay it.

These are facts, sir, that all the world of
hereabouts knows; but over the facts I need
not tell you that people have woven now a
tissue of romantic stories. One is, that old
Rufus Helstone sold himself to the devil to
have good luck in this world, and that the
devil supplied him with strange money to make
him rich. Now, I see a vein of truth in this,
sir. I have been shown several ancient coins
in and round the parish, coins both gold and
silver, that Helstone paid away for rent, and
stock, and wages, and which folks have kept for
curiosity. One of the finest is a rose noble of
Henry the Eighth, which the parson has—he
took it in tithe. Now this devil's money, you
may be sure, sir, was the shepherd's treasure.
That is, my reading of the legend. What is
yours, sir, if it is not the same?

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MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.

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