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Babes in the Wood, My, - - Itfl 
Baby Junior, - - - - 234 
Being and Professing, - - 321 
Big-looking People, Conftdence in, 280 
G4»«i. . - - - - 122 
Calling, a New, . - - 15 
Centnry, a Persecuted, - 273 

Cliild*s Holiday, a, - - 325 

Chnstmas Ceremonies at Rome, 401 
Clouds, a Summer in the, - - 260 
Coachmen, Latter-day, - 97 

Cock-and-bull Club, the, • - 215 
Contrary to the Customs, 38 

Day at a Publie School, o, - - 345 
* Day, Sending-in«* • - 209 
Dinner, a Souvcnb of a, - • 805 

-party, a Distinguiihed, 241 

Experiences, a Medical Man*s, 129 
Farthing, That, ... 6 

Fast Friend, My, - - - 198 
Feathered Minnesingers, 81 

Figbtinff-man, Half-an-hour tirith a, 85 
Fii8tian\ Bill, RonningGomment- 

ary on the Doings of the 

Respectable Classes, - 859 

Gentleman's Family, In a, 158 

Oreat St Cadj^ Sweepstakes, the, 385 
Hebrides, a week among the. 

By W. Chambezs, - 49,87 

Honse of Commons, an Afternoon 

Glance at the, - - • 154 
In Re, Mind and Matter, - • 406 
Latter-day Coachmen, - 97 

Letters, 65 

literary Ghouls, • • 113 

Man of Men, the, according to Our 

Great-grandmother^ - 193 

Masqne of Society, the, - • 289 
Medieal Man*s Experiences, a, 129 
Minnesingeis, Feathered, • 81 

Mothers-in-law, ... 17 
My First Play, - - - - 109 
— Opposite Neighbours, 309 

Mystenoos Face, the, - 387 

NewCalUnflLa, ... 15 
Night and JHorning on the Kuhu, a, 235 
Old ViUaffe and iU Inmates, the, 172 
Opera,a working, - - - 189 
FbDets, Rolang the, • • • 869 



Plucked, ... - 145 
Professing and Beinu, - - 321 
Protest from the otlier World, a 

—Literary Ghouls, - - - 113 
Railway Nurse, the, - • 191 
Rome, Christmas Ceremonies at, 401 
Sardinia, a Festival in the Island 

of, 189 

School-boy, When I was a, - 1C5 
'Sending-in Day,' - - - 909 
SI10WS and Sliowmen, • - 1 

Society, the Masqne of, - • 289 
Souvenir of a Dinner, a, - 305 

Theatrical Management, - - 298 

Worl^thc, . - 52 

Waste, 177 

Wood, My Babes in the, - 161 



Ballad of Damick Tower, - 
Bees, a Legend of Saint, 

Child-philosophy, - - it>u 

Christmas-time? Can this be, 852 

Com, the Path through the, 16 

Cuckoo, 80 

Holly Berries, .... 416 

Instinct, .... 82 

June, the First Day of, - • 96 

Loving Eyes, .... 288 
Midsummer Morning in a Country 

Town, a, - - - - 240 

Moss, 408 

Mountain Maid, the, - 256 
My Possessions, - - 144 
Night before the Mowing, the, 64 
Oasis, - - - - -112 
Path, On the, - - - 48 
Sky-hffk*s Nest, the, a Sonnet, 368 
Snow-child, the, • - - 224 
Soother, the, .... 384 
Summer Gone, - - . :i20 
Traveller's Vision, the. - 192 
Wssherwoman,theOld, :iS6 
Wherefore Weep P - - - 208 
Words: From the German Stu- 
dents* Fnneral-tone, - 128 


Anatomist, DiiKcnlties of the, - 2^ 
Blood, Circulation of the— Tlie 

Story of a Great Discovery, - 56 
Boat-flies of Mexico, the, • 367 
Bone-caves of Gower, the, • 314 
Botanists of Manchester, - 255 
Diamonds, Artificial, -16 

Eyes, a Chapter on, - • 378 
Fanssett Colleotiou, the, - 148, 169 
Ice-making, Artificial, • * 4 

Limestone, the Great Scar, • 293 

Miasma, 289 

Mole from an Agricultural Point 

of View, the, - - - 398 
Month, the : Science and Art*— 

Natoneetida^The Boat-flies of 

Mexico, - - - - 867 
Occasional Notes, - - - 60 

Pepsbi, 87 

•Phaatasmata,*DrMadden's, - 34 
Poisons, Lurkinff, - • - . 28 
Storms, On the Nature and Con- 
sequences of British, • 248,269 

Tar, 39 

Visitants of Ships at Sea, 408 

Waste, 177 

Worm-world, the, - - - 381 


Adventures in the Indian Rebel- 
lion, 163 

Advertisement, a Wife by: aStory 

ofl758, 88 

Barracks, Living in, - 124 

Bear, Encounter with a, - - 365 
Bobbie the Bookseller—In Re, 

Mind and Matter, ... 406 
Bog-wood Fire, the, - 283 

Buried Alive, - - 184 

Clouds, Love in the, 221 

Cock-and-bull Chib, the - 315 

CommlsMvy of Pollee, the, • 276 

Digitized by 



Cap and Lip, a Slip between, - 2(>5 
Cymbid-player, Laboudie, the, S91 
Daviet, Myfes— McBcenas, - - 175 
Dead Man*B Revenge, a, 355, 374 

Door, Music next, - - - 290 
Double Widowhood, the, 31 6, 329 
Down at the Grange, - 37, 58 
Dream, the False, - - - 73 
Edwards, Thomas— Story of a 

Rural Naturalist, - - 79 
Face, the Mysterious, - - 387 
False Dream, the, - - - 73 
Farthing, Tliat, - - * " $ 
Fire and Water, Through, - 46 
Friend, My Fast, - - -198 
Gbudy, Francis von, - - 812 
Grange, Down at the, - 37, 58 
House, a Skeleton in every, - 227 
Indian Rebellion, Adventures in 

the. 163 

Indian Seas, a Night on the, - 287 
Ingemann— A Danish Novelist, 250 
KiUing Princess, the, - - - 178 
Kunchun-Churloo, - " * tSf 
Laboudie, the Cymbal-player, - 391 
Liberty, a Tree of, - ■ - 20 
Living in Barracks, - • ' Ui 
Love in the Clouds, - - ffl 
Man of Two Shadows, the, - 117 
Marshall, John, of Fonchurch 

Street, . - - - 227 
Mezzofanti, Cardinal, - - fl2 
Mind and Matter, In Re, - 406 
Mountebank, the, - - 1A166 
Music Next Door, - - - 290 
Mysterious Face, the, * " Vi!Z 
Old Village and its Inmates, the. j72 
Organist, Our New, • - - 101 
Police, the Commissary of, - 27o 
Princess, the Killing, - - }78 
RiUlway Nurse, the, - - 191 
Revenge, a Dead Man s, - 3oa, 374 

•Sending-inDay,' " " ' ?V2 

Shadows, the Man of Two, - 117 

Singer's, John, Story, - - 245 

Sisters, the, - " - " 5S 

Skeleton in every House, a, - 227 

Slip between Cup and Lip, a, - 265 

Stop Thief! . - - - 42 

That Farthing, - - • ' J 

XreeofLiberty, a. • - 20 

Water and Fire, Through, - 46 

Widowhood, the Double, 31 6, 329 

Wife by Advertisement, a: a 

Story of 1758, - - - 88 


Ballytubbcr, or a Scotch Settler 
in Ireland!, - - - - 95 

Brown's Locke and Svdenham, &c., 371 

Chambers's Domestic Ann^s of 
Scotiand, - - - - 307 

Chappeirs Popular Music of the 
olden XUne, . - - 263 

EdwardsiB Personal Adventures 
during the Indian Rebellion, 1 63 

Longfellow's Last Hexameters, - 296 

McLaren's Rise and Progress of 
Whisky Drinking in Scotland, - 32 

Madden's ' Phantasmata,' 34 

MuUaly's Laying of the Tele- 
graphic Cable, ... 394 

Pontes' Poets and Poetry of Ger- 
many, ----- 91 

Bedding's Fifty Years' Recollec- 
tions, Literary and Personal, 
&C., 25 

Richardson's Sir Cbarics Grandi- 
Bon, 193 



Star Literature — Ruling the 
Planets, 369 

Talpa, or the Chronicles of a Clay- 
farm, 398 

Watt's Clare, the Gold-scckcr 
and other Poems, - - - 144 

White's Month in Yorkshire, 1 1 1 


Aden, the Ancient Reservoirs of, 126 
Adventures in the Indian Rebel- 
lion, 163 

Afternoon Glanco at the House 

of Commons, an, - - 154 
Anioultural Point of View, the 

Mole from an, ... 398 
America, Camel-expeditions in, 30 
Anarchy of Distrust, the, - 223 
Anatomist, Diffionlties of the, - 218 
Artificial Ice-making, • • 4 

Arts and Science— 

76, 142, 205, 285, 340, 411 
Associate-in-Arts Examination, 

Oxford, - - - - 187 
Augustan Age, an A^^Iogy for 

Our, ----- 388 
Babes in the Wood, My, - 161 
Baby Junior, - - - - 234 
Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon 

in a New Aspect, the, - 353 
Barracks, Living in, - - - 124 
Basa Bock and its Tenants, the, 107 
Bear, Bncounter with a, - 365 
Being and Professing, - - 321 
Bell, the Six o^dock, or Dos 

Sechse L&uten, ... 62 
Big-looking People, Confidence in, 280 
Bill Fustian's Running Comment- 
ary on the Doings of the Re- 
spectable Classes, - - 359 
Blood, GrcuUtion of the—The 

Story of a Great Discovery, - 56 
Boat-flies of Mexico, the, - 367 
Bobbie the Bookseller— In Re, 

Mind and Matter, • - - 406 
Bog-wood Fire, the, • - 283 
Bone-oaves of Gower, the, - - 314 
Botanists of Maoohester, - 255 
British Enterprise, an Opening 

for, 327 

British Storms, On the Nature 

and Consequences of, - 213, 269 
Bro^-n's, Dr John, * Locke and 

Sydenham,' &c,- • - 371 
Cagliari, - - - - - 122 
Calling, a New, ... 15 

Camet-expedltions in America, - 30 
Carbonan, the, ... 363 
Cardinal Mezzofanti, - - - 212 
Centuries, Precedence in the 15th 

and 16th, ... - 78 
Centuries, the Battle of the, - 307 
Century, a Persecuted, - - 273 
Chapter on Dogs, a, - - - 11 

Eyes, a, - - 378 

Child's Holiday, a, - - - 325 
China, the Great Dragon of; • 271 
Choctaws, a Visit to the, - - 322 
Christmas Ceremonies at Rome, 401 
Clouds, a Summer in the, - 260 
Coachmen, Latter-day, - - 97 
Cock-and-buU Club, the, - 215 
CoUeotion, the Faussott, - 148, 169 
Commons, an Afternoon Glance 

at the House ol^ - - - 154 
Couain Jonathan upon his Tele- 
graphic Cable, - • - 394 

Crystal Palace of Nan-ktng, - 350 
Cumberland Statesman, the, - 137 
Customs, Contrary to the, - 33 

, Two Hours with the, - 333 

Cymbal player, Laboudie, the, 391 

D&k, By, 236 

DalmeUington Ironworks — Tlie 
Banks and Braes of Bonnie 
Doon in a New Aspect, • - 35S 
Danish Novelist, a, - - 250 
Damiok Tower, a BaUad of, - 16 
Das Sechse Lftuten, or the Six 

o'clock BeU, ... 62 
Day at a Public School, a, - 345 
* Day, Sending-in,' - - - 209 
Debts, New Way to Pay Old, a, 400 
Dialects of England, the Provin- 
cial, 339 

Difficulties of the Anatomist, 218 
Dinner, a Souvenir of a, - 305 

^party, a Distinguished, - 241 

Discovery, the Story of a Great, 56 
Distrust, the Anarchy of, - 223 
Dogs, a Chapter on, - - - 11 
DragonofChina, the Great, - 271 
Drink, Trade in, - - - 31 
Education— Shall We make Tliem 

'come in?' ... 45 
Edwards, Thomas— Story of a 

Rural Naturalist, - - - 79 
Encounter with a Bear, - - 365 
Encumbered Estates Court, a 

Peep into the, - - - 249 
English Melodies, Old, - - 263 
Enterprise, an Opening for British, 327 
Expenences, a Medical Man's, - 129 
Eyes, a Chapter on, - - 378 
Facetiffi, Legal, - - - - 380 
Faussett Collection, the, 148, 169 
Feathered Minnesingers, - - 81 
Festival in the Island of Sardinia, a,189 
F6te of Madonna dell 'Arco» the, 346 
Fighting-man, Half-an-hour with a, 85 
Fire and Water, Tlirough, - 46 
Friday Payments and the Satur- 
day Half-holiday, - - - 94 
Friend, My Fast, - - - 198 
Gaudy, Francis von, - - - 312 
Gentleman's Family, In a, • 158 
Germany, Literary Life in, - 91 
Ghouls, Literary, - - - 113 
Gold-diggings, the New, 182, 197 

Golf-tournament, the, • - 156 
Gower, the Bone-caves of, - 314 
Great Britain, Socialism in, - 99 

St Cadger Sweepstakes, tlic, 385 

Hair-harvest, the, - - - 119 
Half-an-hour with a Fighting-man, 85 
Hebrides, a Week among tlie. By 

W.Chambers, • - 49,67 
Hexameters, Mr Longfellow's, - 296 
Hint to Wealthy Old Persons, a, l4l 
Holiday, a Cliild's, • - 325 
Home Travel, - - - - HI 
Housekeeping Three Hundred 

Years ago, - - - - 8, 22 
House of Commons, an Afternoon 

Glance at the, • • - 154 
Ice-making, Artificial, • - 4 
India, Schooling in, - 131 

Indian Rebeltion, Adventures in 

the, 163 

Indian Seas, a Night on the, • 287 
Ingemann— A Danish Novelist, 250 
In Re, Mind and Matter, - - 406 
Irehmd, the Scotchman in, - 95 
Ironworks, DalmeUington — Tlie 
Banks and Braes of Bonnie 

Doon, 353 

Jauson, Forbin— Tlic Great Dra- 
gon of China, - - - - 272 
Kulm, a Night and Morning on 

the, 225 

Kunohun-Churloo, ... 202 

Digitized by 


Laboadie, the Cymbalplayer, - 391 
* Laneashiie Rebels, the,* - 200 
Latter-dfty CoacIuneD, • - 97 
Lawauit, and How the Lawyera 

were Paid, Story of a, • 300 

Legal Facetiffi, .... 380 

Letters, 65 

Levant, Two Letters from the, 360, 382 

Limestone, the Great Scar, 
Literary Qhools, - 

Life of Germany, - 

Recollections, - 






laving in Barracks, 

* Locke and Sydenham,* &c., l)r 

JohnBrown^B, - - - 371 
Longfellow^s Last Hexameters, Mr, 296 
Lurking Poisons, • . - 28 
Madden's, Dr, • Phantasmata,* 34 
Madonna dell *Arco, the F£tc of, ?AG 
Mfficenas^ .... 17.5 
Management«Tlieatrical, - • 298 
Manchester, Botanists of, - 255 
Man of Men, the: according to 

Onr Great-grandmothers, - 193 
Masqne of Society, the, - - 'J89 
Medical Blanks Experiences, a, - 129 

Women, - - - GO 

Melodies, Old EnglUh, - - 263 
Mexico, the Boat-flies of, 367 

Mezzofonti, Cardinal, - - 212 
Miasma, - - - - 239 

Blind and Matter, lu Re, - - 406 
Minnesingers, Featliered, - 81 
Mole from an Agricultural Pohit 

of View, the, - - - 398 
Month, the : Science and Arts — 

Mothers-in-law, - - 17 

My Fast Friend, - - - 198 
— First Play, - - - - 109 
Mysterious Pace, the, - - 337 
Nan-kiiu^, Crystal Palace of, - 350 
Nationid Debt— Tiie Story of a 

Lawsuit, and How the Lawyers 

werePJd, .... 300 
Naturalist, Story of a Rural, 79 

Nature and ConscqucnccM of 

British Storms, the, - 243,269 
Neighbours, My Opposite, 309 

New Calling, a, - - - - 15 

Gold-diggings, the, 182, 197 

Newspaper, a Glance at an Old, 232 

Worid,the, - - 274 

New Way to Pay Old Debts, a, 400 
Night and Morning on the Kulm, a, 225 

on the Indian Seas, a, - 287 

Nomenclature, Street, - - 207 
Northumberland Household Book, 

the, H,22 

Novelist, a Danish, - - - 250 
Nurse, the Railway, - - 191 


Occasional Notes — 
Medical Women, ... 60 
Rxorcism of the Smoke Fiend, 61 
Old EngUsh Melodies, - - 263 
— Persons, a Hint to Wealthy, 141 
Opera, a Working, - - - 139 
Opposite Neighbours, My, • 309 
Odbrd Assooiate-in-arts Exami- 
nation, ----- 187 
Pantomime, Al>ont the, - - 413 
Pern into the Encumbered 

Estates Court, a, - - -249 
People, Confidence in Btg^looking, 280 

Pepsin, 87 

Persecuted Century, a, - - 273 
•Phantasmata^^DrMadden's, 34 

Plan^ Ruling the, - - 369 
PUy, My First, - - - - 109 
Plucked, .... 145 
Poisons, Lurkinpr, - - • 28 
Portland in September 1858, - 281 
Pnoedenoe in the 15th and 16th 

Centuries, - - - - 78 
Professing and Beinsr, - - 321 
Protest firom the other World, a — 

Uterarv Ghouls, - - - 1 13 
Provincial Dialects of England, 

the, 339 

Railway Nurse, the, - - - 191 
Rarey Anticipated, - 80 

* Rebels, the Lancashire,* - - 200 
Recolieotions, Literary, - 25 

Reservoirs of Aden, the Ancient. 126 
Respectable Classes, Bill Fnstum's 
Running Commentary on the 
Doings of the, - - - 359 
Rome, Christmas Ceremonies at, 401 
Rural Naturalist, Story of a, - 79 
Sardhua, a Festival in the Island 

Qt, 189 

Saturday Half-holiday and Friday 

Payments, the, - - - 94 
Scar Limestone, the Great, - 293 
School, a Day at a Public, - .'i45 

^boy. When I was a, - KI5 

Schooling in India, - - - 131 
Science and Arts — 

..... ^ 







Scotchman in Ireland, the, 
*Sending-inDay,* - 
Shall We taake Them ' oome in?* 
Ships at Sea, Visitants of, - 
Shot and Shells, - 
Shows and Showmen, - 
Six o'Qock Bell, Das Seclisc 
Liiuten, or the, ... 

Smoke Fiend, Exorcinn of the. 
Socialism in Great Britain, 
Society, the Masque of, - 
Souvenir of a Dinner, a, - 



Statesman, the Cumberland, - 137 
Stop Thief! - - - - 42 
Storms, the Nature and Conse- 
quences of BritislH - 243,269 
Story of a (3reat Discovenr, the, 56 

Lawsuit, and How the 

Lawyers were Paid, - 300 

Street Nomenclature, - - 207 
Summer in the Clouds, a, - - 260 
Sweepstakes, the Great St Cadger, 385 
Tar. . - - - - 39 
Telegraphic Cable, Cousua Jonathan 

on his, 394 

Tenants, the Bass Rock and its, 107 
Tlieatrical Management, - 298 

Worid,the, . - 52 

Tobacco, a Screw, of, - - 71 
Tournament, the Golf, - • 156 
Trade in Drink, - - - 31 
Travel, Home, - - - 111 

Two Hours with the Ctutuuia, 333 

Letters from the Levant, 360, 382 

Village and its Inmates, the Old, 172 
Visitants of Shipa at Sea, 408 

Visit to the Choctaws, a, - - 322 
Von Gaudy, Francis, - 312 

Waste, 177 

Water and Fke, Through, 46 

Week among the Hebrides, a. By 

W.Chambers, - - 49,67 
Westminster Journal— A Ghmee 

at an Old Newspaper, - 232 
Women, Medical, ... 60 
Wood, My Babes in the, 161 

Woolwich Arsenal— Shot and 

Shells, 267 

Working Opera, a, - 139 

Worid, the Newspaper, - - 274 

, the Theatrical, - 52 

Worm-worid, the, - - - 331 

Antipodes, Progress at the, • 240 
Bride-wains and Birth-cakes, - 160 
Diamonds, Artifichil, - 16 

Dinner, Eccentric, • - - 288 
Farmers and Burds, Question be- 
tween the, - - - - 64 
Fruit, How to Identify Stolen, 336 
Life-boat Statistics, - - - 192 
Maine Law Three Hundred Years 

ago, a, . - - - 96 
PaUi a Blessuig, - - - 320 
PMventive or Remedial Measures, 

superiority oi; - - 352 

Rarey Anticipated, ... 80 

Wine, Colour of, ... 80 

•Women's Rights,* to tlie Advo- 

caletoi; 128 

Digitized by 


Digitized by 



No. 235. 

SATURDAY, JULY 3, 1858. 

PmcB 1^. 

Thb lemnrkable history giren by Mr Bamuni, in his 
renowned aatobtography, of the rarioua enterpriaea 
he had Baccessfally conducted aa a showman, and 
his exposure of the numerous intrigues, mancBUvrea, 
and hidden machinery by which he had worked ' the 
oracle,' would, it was thought by many, be a complete 
death-blow to the exhibition interest Such, however, 
haa not proved to be the case. Public curiosity is as 
rampant as ever; and great and little shows continue 
to pass and repass the same as if the great show- 
man had never laid bare the secrets of the prison- 
house; indeed, we should say they have rather 
increased since that time; and even Tom Thumb, 
one of Mr Bamum*s greatest cards in the way of 
showmanship, is again on the road, notwithstanding 
all that has been exposed in the autobiography. 

The exhibition-world, and what it containa, and the 
singular people who are in most instances connected 
with it, have ever been a pleasant source of wonder, 
especially to the gullible portion of the public ; and a 
really good show is one of those things which is 
certain to yield any number of fortunes. It is no 
matter what it is ; it may consist of but one thing, 
or it may be a museum, containing a thousand 
articles ; it may be either Tom Thumb, or Womb- 
weirs united collections of wild animals, the original 
learned pig, or Richardson's dramatic booth— only let 
it get properly afloat, under the charge of an enter- 
prising manager, and it becomes straightway a magnet 
drawing to itself the superfluous cash of the country 
for miles around. Has any person ever calculated 
the enormous amount of money annually expended 
on shows? Were the receipts of all our exhibitiona, 
stationary as well as itinerant, added together, and 
the amount shewn, it would appear fabulous. Without 
including an occasional show like the World*s Fair of 
1851, but taking into account all established pltices 
of amusement, from such high-class shows as Her 
Majesty's Theatre, down to the humblest exhibition 
at a country-fair, we could easily shew, startling as it 
may seem, that the annual amount expended on our 
various shows and exhibitions is greater than that 
expended on books and periodicals. Mr Richardson, 
the proprietor of the well-known dramatic booth, or 
'Richardson's Show,* as it was called, died, we are 
assured, worth X50,000 ; and the late Mr Wombwell, 
the proprietor of the extensive menagerie, was equally 
wealthy. Many other showmen have likewise ac- 
cumulated fortunes, and left sums of money at their 
death greater tlian those accumulated in the publishing 

VOL. X. 

The gullibility of the public, and the love of the 
marvellous, calls into action the inventive genius of 
a class of people who are ever ready to turn the 
public craving into a means of making money ; and, 
in addition to what we can make up at home, every 
portion of the globe is ransacked in turn to And 
novelties for the showman: the hippopotamus is 
caught, and hurried away from his African haunts 
to the Regent's Park ; the united twins are taken 
from one of the distant slave-states of America, and 
conveyed to Europe for the same purpose ; and we 
have good reason to suppose that an enthusiastic 
showman has started off to St Helena, in order to 
secure, if possible, the great sea-serpent that has been 
seen so frequently of late disporting itself off that 
island. When a ahowman has secured something 
with a look of novelty, the next great point is to 
dress up a good story, by which to recommend it to 
public notice, or, as the showmen say, get out 'a 
stunning gag.' Notliing is so attractive as a marvel- 
loos legend of some kind or other ; in fact, everything 
connected with a show should smack of romance. 
Bamum was completely master of this art, and the 
history of how he ' worked' the Feejee mermaid may 
be taken as a type of the quality of good showman- 
ship, aa devoted to this particular branch of the 

The Feejee mermaid was one of Mr Bamum's 
most successsful American speculations. Tins young 
lady was heralded to the public of New York by 
glowing descriptions and flattering criticisms, in the 
leading papers of that city; and the ingenious 
exhibitor contrived numerous plans to increase the 
interest the press had created, and keep up at its 
full height what he designated ' the mermaid fever.' 
Wood-cuts and transparent views were got up, por- 
traying the mermaid at full length ; and a pamphlet 
was issued under Mr Bamum's auspices, detailing her 
history, and proving her authenticity. Editors and 
reporters were favoured with * private inspections,' 
and went away honestly persuaded that what they had 
seen was a veritable mermaid. In fact, it was almost 
impossible to detect the hand of the manufacturer in 
the composition. Tliis was a combination of the upper 
half of a monkey, with the lower part of a flsh ; and 
the monkey and the fish were so ingeniously conjoined, 
tliat nobody could discover the point nt which the 
junction was formed. *The spine of the fish pro* 
ceeded in a straight and apparently unbroken line 
to the base of the skull— the hair of the monkey was 
found growing down several inches on the shoulders 
of the fi8h>-and the application of a microscope 
actually revealed what seemed to be minute fish- 

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flcaleB lying in myriads amongBt the hair. The 
teetliy and formation of the fingers and bands, differed 
materially from those of any monkey or orang- 
outang ever discoyned, while the location of the ilns 
was different from those of any species of the fish- 
tribe known to naturalists. The mermaid was an 
ngly, dried up, black-looking, and diminutive speci- 
men, about three feet long. Its mouth was open, its 
tail turned over, and its arms thrown up, as if it had 
died in the greatest agony.' The person from whom 
Mr Bamum bought it informed him that it had been 
obtained from some Japanese seamen, by a sailor in 
Calcutta; and not doubting that it would prove a 
valuable speculation, Mr Barnum became its proprietor 
and ezhtbiter; with what success may be inferred 
Anom the fact, that 'the receipts of the American 
Museum for the four weeks immediately preceding 
tke ezhibitioQ of the mermaid, amomted to 1272 
dollars; while, during the first four weeks of the 
mermaid's exhibition, they amounted to 8341 dollars 
93 cents.' 

For the success which attended the q)eculation, 
however, Mr Bammn was indebted in a great measure 
to the notices in the New York papers, and the 
rumours regarding the history of the Feejee mermaid, 
which be cassed to be industriously circulated. 
On this point, he uiy in his autobiography: *I 
called respectively on the editors of the ivsw York 
herald, and two of the Sunday papers, and tendered 
to each the free use of a mermaid cut, with a well- 
written description, for their papers of the ensuing 
Sunday. The three mermaids made their appearance 
in the three difilnvnt papers on the morning of Sun- 
day, July 17, 1842. £ach editor supposed he was 
giving his readers an exclusive treat in the mcnnaid 
line; bat when they came to discover that I had 
played the same game with the three different papers, 
they pronounced it a scafy trick.* 

Previous to introducing the mermaid to the 'cute 
people of New York, Mr Bamum contrived to create 
for it a wide reputation as a curiosity, by means of a 
Tery ingenious stratagem. A letter was sent to the 
New York Hertdd, dated and posted in Montgomery, 
Alabama, giving the news of the day, trade, the crops, 
political gossip, Ac.; and also an incidental paragra^ 
about a certain Br Griffin, agent of the Lyceum of 
Natural History in London, who had in his possession 
'a remarkable curiosity, being nothing less than a 
veritable mermaid taken among the Feejee Islands, 
and preserved in China, where the doctor bsd bought 
it at a high figure for the lyceum,' &c. About a week 
afterwards, a ftotUar letter, dated from Charleston, 
South Carolina, was publislied in another New York 
paper. This was followed by a third, from Wash- 
ington, published in another New York paper, and 
expressing a hope that the editors of the New York 
papers would beg to have the mermaid exhibited in 
the ' empire city,' before its removal to London. Two 
or three days after the publication of this thrice- 
repeated puff, Mr Bamum's agent— who had assumed 
the name of Dr Oriflin— was duly registered at one 
of the priadpal hotels of Philadelphia. His gentle- 
manly and dignified manners, and his sociable temper 
and liberality, gained him a 'fine reputation;' and 
when he paid his bill one afternoon, previous to 
setting out for New York, he thanked the landlord for 
his courtesy, and offered to let him see something 
extraordinary: this was the Feejee mermaid. The 
host was so highly gratified, that he asked permission 
to introduce some of his friends, including certain 
editors, to view the wonderful specimen. The result 
was the publication of several elaborate editorial 
notices of the mermaid in the Philadelphia papers, 
which thus aided the press of New York in spreading 
abroad its fame. Of course all this work, with 
printer's ink, as Bamum loved to call hia billing 

and puffing manonvres, was but the prelude to the 
one grand object, the exhibition of the mermaid, 
which was obtained as a great favour, and ' positively 
for one week only,' &c. The sequel may be guessed 
— the mermaid became ultimately a chief attraction 
of the American Museum. 

At home, we are nearly quite as clever. The 
romantic history of two children, who were carried 
through the country for exhibition a few years ago, 
will be fresh in the recollection of our readers. We 
may call them the 'Bird-children,' and a first-rate 
story was got up about their having been stolen 
from one of the mysterious cities of Central America, 
where they had been worshipped as idols. The public 
were treated to a series of wood-cuts, shewing the 
dangers encountered in carrying away the children 
from the temple. We need not enter, however, into 
tlie details of this romantic story, being 1u possession 
of truthful details of their real history, which is as 
follows: The children in question were found in a 
show in America exhibiting along with a great pig. 
They were purchased, or, in showman phrase, ' com- 
mitted to the guardianship' of a person who ex- 
hibited them in a penny-show throughout the States, 
in company with a large picture^ roughly painted on 
canvaa, entitled 'Death on the Pale Horse.' While 
they were thus being exhibited, they were seen by 
' an eminent professor of legerdemain,' who, being 
struck with ^e idea of bringing them to Europe, 
entered into a partnersliip with the person who was 
exhibiting them. They were at once brought to 
London. A good story about them being necessary, 
this was written in the parlour of the White Hart 
Tavern, Catherine Street; and the hcak of the 
poeition of the city in which the children were said 
to have been found, 'fixed up ' by study ii^ the Um 
incogmta of Central America on Mr Wyld's model 
of the globe in Leicester Square. The cliildren being 
dumb, it was determined to account for this by 
stating that they were the degenerate descendants 
of the 'Birdmen' of olden days, preserved in the 
temples of Iximay, and worshipped as idols; tiiat 
silence indicating their sanctity, they were never 
permitted to hear a human voice, in order that 
they might never speak; whereas, in reality, their 
dumbness resulted from their abnormal character 
— ^the want of brain, and consequent want of ideas. 
These children were bom at San Salvador, in Mexico^ 
and were originally kidnapped ftom their parents, 
who were natives of that place, by a sliowman who 
travelled with wild beasts. The real curiosity of the 
Bird-children consists in their being aceplialous 
cliildren ; whereas most infants bora without brains, 
or rather with cerebellum and without cerebrum, die 
at their birth, and get pickled in show-bottles, uid 
exhibited in museums. 

Another show of a similar kind, so far as f ts 
getting up was concerned, although fh>m circum- 
stances not so successful as a pecuniary speculation, 
was very recently before the public It was an 
exhibition of two female negro children indissolnbly 
united by nature, and therefore considered by the 
sliowman to be, like the Siamese twins, 'a certain 
fortune.' The real history of these children differed 
considerably from the romantic version of their his- 
tory palm^ off on the public. The advertisement 
heralding their appearance was headed A Bomanee of 
Nature, and announced that the twins would hold 
' drawing-room levees,' and that tlie prices of admis- 
sion were fixed at two sliillings during the d^, and 
one shilling in tlie evening. Then came a little bit of 
tlie story, which was as follows : 

' These interesting children, indissolubly united by 
a mysterious freak of nature, are of African descent, 
and were born in Columbus, County North Carolina, 
United States of America. Their parents are persons 

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of more ilian ntaal intelligence and piety, being both 
memben of the church. These children are now five 
and a half years old, and are named respectively 
Oirittina and Milley Makoi; and their brief history, 
like the wonderful actkm of nature whicli has for ever 
joined them together, is yet another illustration of 
the old adflge, that ** truth is stranger than fiction/* 
In the winter of 1853, a surgeon, of North Carolina, 
while on a Tisit to an old college chum, heard of 
these children, and upon seeing them, and learning 
their history, lie expressed a desire to purchase and 
take tliem to the free states, a desire which was 
greatly strengtiiened when he thought of the wonder 
audi a curiosity of nature must excite among men of 
learning and acienoe. Tlie purchase having been 
negotiated, the children were carried by the doctor to 
Philadelphia. Unfortunately, however, shortly after 
he had carried his beneroloit intention into efiect, 
the doctor died, and the poor diildren were thus 
thrown destitute on the charity of the world. 

'The attention of the exhibiter having been drawn 
to their condition, he undertook the diarge of them, 
made arrangements to proceed with them to Europe, 
ibr the purpose of exhibiting them to tlie learned and 
curious, intending, if the exhibition should realise a 
sufficient sum of money, to make these helpless 
infants the means of ultimately freeing their parents 
from slavery. Upon the arrival of tlie childien in 
this country, and after all the preparations for their 
exhibition iiad been made, th^ were stolen from the 
exhibiter by a body <tf priae-flgbters, hired in London 
for the purpose. 

'But in the iaterira, the showmau had opened up 
communications with his agents in America, which 
have resulted, after putting him to great trouble and 
expense, in his freeing the mother df the twins from 
slavery, trusting to be reimbursed for bis outlay by 
the conaideration of the public The mother arrived 
at Liverpool on the 1st of January 1857, in tlie 
steam-ship ^fjsnriic. Captain EUdridge, and the meeting 
between the children and their parent, from whom 
they had been so long separated, was very affecting. 

'The abieat physidans and naturalists, both of this 
country and the United States, have pronounced 
these children the gneatest living curioeity ; and tlidr 
manners and appearance are strikingly calculated to 
make a favourable impression upon the visitor. In 
fact, their lively conversation, cheerful and enliven- 
ing songs, Ac, evince them to be two of the most 
interesting and intelligent specimens of the negro race. 

'Tlie proceeds of the exhibition, after paying 
expenses, will be applied to aasist in rescuing from 
slavery the father, and the brothers and sisters of the 
United African twins.' 

The latter portion of the history was 'the great 
dodge' with the showman of the black twins. A 
pamphlet, containing a mose daborate history of the 
children than could be contained in 'a card,' was 
written, and was about to be published when the 
exhibition left Edinburgh. We have seen a copy of 
it, and tliink it equal to anything of the kind. Tiie 
honors of slavery wene delineated at great lengtli, 
and with considerable power; and the children, having 
been nearly shipwrecked on Uieir passage to this 
country, something striking was also introduced about 
that. The brockurt conduded with a strong appeal 
to the benevolent to assist the showman in raising 
fnnda for the rescue of the family. Of course, not 
a word of all this was true, and tlie children were 
actually exhibited in this/re€ eotfar»3f by their 'owner,* 
an American slaveholder, who, finding tliat the money 
did not come in so quidcly as he antidpated, has long 
since retreated to his stronghdd in the new world, 
carrying his ' property ' with him. 

Tlieae of course belonged, like Tom Thumb, to the 
high-class shows, the bills and otlier puffery being 

got up quite regardless of expense, and the prices 
charged for exhibition being proportionate to the 
lavish outlay. We will now say a few words about 
the penny-show, which is undoubtedly the commonest 
feature of the exhibition-world of the present day. 
Poor Bamum was sadly diop-fallen, upon his 
arrival at Liverpool, on bdng told that a pewiy was 
the usual sum charged for the exhibition of dwarfs, 
spotted boys, &c.; and when an enterprising exhi- 
biter, m tlie wax-work line, called and offered to 
engage botli Bamum and the General, in order to 
exhibit them at three-halfpenoe, the great American 
showman*a heart literally sunk within him. He had 
in his mind's eye a grander aoene imaged out for 
Tom Thumb than the bootli at a fair, and that he 
realised his ideas on the subject, we all know from 
his book. The country-fair is the gnat fidd on 
which the penny-showman fights his battle of life, 
industriously wandering from one lair to the other, 
in most instances with the show on his back, and 
accompanied perhaps by his better-half, carrying the 
child. At tiiese places are usually congv^ated a 
multifarious crowd of exliibttions, swings, merry-go- 
rounds, Punch and Judies, and living skeletons—the 
general price of admission being limited to the ooui 
we have indicated. What a powerful cause of 
exdtement to the whole country round is that almost 
indescribable scene, 'the fUr,* where, as we used at 
one time to think, all the wonders of the world 
were concentrated, where, under canvas roofs, there 
was a heaven upon eartli, since the very angels could 
not be more beautiful than the beautifiU being who 
danced on the tight-rope in the travelling drcns. 
A whole street of shows, with the caravan of wild 
beasts, containing the great lion-king in the centre 
of one side^ the grand original Cirque Olympic bdng 
Its vts-A-DU ; and next door to these we had a theatre, 
with Blue Beard, the Ctutk i^)€etrf, Fortune** DroHe, 
and a pantomime every twenty minutea. On eitiier 
side ranged booths of various sises. One hdd the 
astonishing black brothers, Muley Sahib, and Hassan, 
celebrated for jumping down each other's throats, with 
lighted candlea in their hands ; another contained 
the only real yellow dwarf now travelling. In the 
immediate neighbourhood of these odebrities were 
located tlie great Hibernian conjuror, the pig-faced 
lady, the spotted boy, the Norfolk giant, the wonder- 
ful black giantess, the far-fiuned ventiiloquid cde- 
brity, the original theatre of arts, containing the best 
storm at sea ever yet invented, the five-legged sheep, 
and the sea-unioom— these two in the same booth*- 
the learned p|g, and a host of similar exhibitions. 
All around was the busy hum of the show, the 
eternal iteration of 'walk up, wdk i^, ladies snd 
gentlemen ; ' the grinning of downs from the 'psrade' 
of the booths, the tumbling of posturers, the ceaseless 
wliirlof the merry-go-round, the popping of tlie pop- 
guns at the nut-stdls ; the shrill squeak of Punch ; 
tlie everlasting crack of the ring-master's whip in 
the Cirque Olympic; the terrific growl of 'the cele- 
brated spotted hyasna,' or the cry of 'the jackal, the 
lion's provider,' in the neighbouring menagerie; the 
clash of cymbds, and the sound of the drum, as wdl 
as the terrific dangour of the gong, used by the 
actors in one of the tlieatrieal booths to announce 
tlie awful doom of The ELoody Uaurper^ or the 
Caledonian Bloodh&imd and the Rag of Cape Wrath, 
sounding every half-liour, or at the exact period ' the 
doomed baron' was tossed into the 'bloody foam,' 
amid a magnificent display of fireworka— two squibs 
and a blue-light— all these sights and sounds were 
mingled with tlie sharp 'move on there' of the 
watchful policeman. And the myriad crowds of 
gaping rustics circulated up and down, wondering^ no 
doubt, whether the giantess inside would really be as 
big as the one painted on the canvas outside; or 

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whether the great Hibernian conjaror could, in solemn 
earnest, eat fire, and bring out yiirds of ribbon from 
the innermost recesses of his intestinal canal, as he 
promised in his speech; or what kind of a show 
*Hajax,a defyin' of the liteninV might be, and whether 
there was really any diflference between the lion and 
the dog, in the renowned combat, except — the skin ; or 
whether the whole scene was not a mockery, a delusion, 
and a snare ; and whether it would not be better to 
spend their money at the ginger-bread stalls, than risk 
it upon the great sea-serpent— seeing that there were 
three of that genus in the fair—- or the cobra capelln, 
or tlie albino lady, or any of the hundred other 
exhibitions that dotted the show-ground ? 

All this lasts, however, only for a day. The morrow 
comes, and the magic of the scene is over, the dregs 
of the excitement alone remain, and all who hare 
taken part in the orgy are fatigued and blati. Tlie 
tents are speedily struck, and the show-folk are 
again on the move to the next place of rendezvous. 
The roads are covered with caravans ; the great wagons 
containing the unequalled menagerie of wild beasts 
hirple slowly along the dusty highway, closely 
followed by tlie cireus and its * stud of 'ighly trained 
hanimalt,' and the theatrical booth with its blood- 
thinty dramatic paraphernalia. Following in the 
wake of these we have the clean little pigmy wagon, 
witli its brass rails and polished knocker, which the 
•bowman calls his living wagon, and which is looked 
upon by the fraternity as an index of social condition 
—as we have been informed that ' it has always been 
considered a proof of the showman's improving cir- 
cumstances when he adds the living wagon to his 
establishment.* Tlie road firom the fair is but the road 
of life. We have the aristocrat of the * perfession,' 
travelling comfortably in his gig, his wife and family 
settled, may be, in a pleasant farm in the country, 
flrom whence the food for the animals is obtained ; 
the middle-class showman rides again in the wagon ; 
the next class move on in their donkey-carts; 
while the lowest grade of all leave the fair as they 
came to it— on foot— the man with show on back, 
and wife and child trudging patiently by his side, 
happy in having collected two or three pounds* wortli 
of penny-pieces by the preceding day's exertions. 

This part of our subject naturallv leads us to a 
consideration of what has been called the showman's 
'mission;' touching which a grave political journal 
condescended, once upon a time, to leave off politics 
and discuss the social position of the * brutal show- 
man,* and his victim, * the show.' The line of 
argument adopted was, that the pig-faced lady, 
the spotted boy, the yellow dwarf, and all similar 
exhibitions, were in the position of slaves, held captive 
against their will, in order that the sliowman might 
grind them into cash. Now, seeing that it is within 
our own knowledge that a pig-faced lady hns been 
manufactured out of a shaved bear, we cannot help 
thinking that, in her ladyship's case, the best thing 
that could have happened, both for herself and 
the public, was her being strictly retnined in slavery 
by the showman. Giants and giantesses, again, may 
be presumed to be so well able to take care of 
themselves as to bo beyond the pale of our sympathies ; 
while the spotted boy, seeing that his spots are amen- 
able to the well-known action of soap and water, may 
be considered one of the knowing ones himself. And 
at to the * victims' of the showman in general, we beg 
to inform all who may feel interested in the question, 
that tliey are great adepts in the art of what is vul- 
garly called taking care of * No. 1.' In fact, to speak 
the truth, the ' show ' is often more than a match for the 
showman; and we once knew *a wild Ingian' who 
made little ceremony about hiring a new master when- 
ever he thought the present one alow in his duty. 

To condode^ we might greatly enlarge oar goMip 

about shows and showmen, and so evince our exten- 
sive knowledge of the various dodges peculiar to the 
exhibition world, and to the 'mission 'of the pig-faced 
lady— but we pause for the present, although it may 
be that we may find another opportunity of stiU 
further illustrating the Aob of Shows. 


'This our planet' is for the greater part a sunburnt 
one. How things may be, as to heat and cold, with 
our neighboun further afield, it is not our present 
purpose to inquire; but considering our position, in 
point of nearness, to the central luminary, it cannot 
excite surprise that the inhabitants of our globe 
should for the most part experience, in an incon- 
venient degree relatively to their physical constitu- 
tion, the power of his rays. 

Even during the short summers of the north, the 
heat is oppressive ; it is still more so in the long ones 
of the temperate regions ; while the wide tropical belt, 
embracing the greater portion of the earth's peopled 
surface and the vast majority of its inhabitants, 
suffen an almost continual oppression and distress 
from its exposure to the unmitigated glare. 

Under such cirenmstances, the supply of ice, where 
it can be obtained, becomes next in importance to that 
of the absolute necessaries of life. It so happens, how- 
ever, that within the tropics, where it is most needed, 
it can scarcely be procured. In vast regions it is wholly 
unknown ; while in Southern Europe, and other places 
in more temperate latitudes, ice can be had in abund- 
ance, and at a moderate rate, in many favoured 

In these special, fortunate instances, the source of 
supply is accessible as well as inexhaustible, and the 
cost representing only that of the manual labour 
required for transport. Thus, the ' snow-harvest ' of 
Naplea has long been an interesting subject of obser- 
vation for the statistician, employing, as it does, a 
considerable number of hands, and a numerous navy 
of small-crail, by whose means the treasured snow 
of Etna is conveyed to the burning streets of the 
capital; and the sweltering Neapolitans are served 
with their indispensable wrbetto in the highest state 
of perfection. 

In that country, where labour is at a price almost 
nominal, and a man will be content, as Forayth says, 
*to wind up the rattling machine for a day with a 
few fingerings of macaroni,' it is doubtful whether 
any method of obtaining tlie same result artificially 
would be worth inquiring after; but, as very few 
places can boast of the same advantages, the question 
of ice-making by chemical means has long been a 
deeply interesting one, and engaged the attention of 
naturalists and pliilosophera. 

The judicious and habitual use of ice as a cooler of 
ordinary beverages, and as a sort of eatable, in the 
way we all undentand so well, is the one available 
resource against the debilitating and enervating 
effects of heat, whether encountered within tlie 
tropics, or during the summers of more temperate 
regions. Hitherto, the great expense attending its 
use, whether natural or artificial, has been for the 
most part an insurmountable obstacle. 

We ourselves know a lady whose husband was 
forced to resign a valuable govemonhip in a tropical 
climate owing to her health giving way; it being, 
at the same time, the opinion of her medical advisen 
that nothing more than a suflicient supply of ice was 
needed to enable her to remain. The invaluable tonic 
property of iced beverages rendera them effectual In 
cases such as this, when the materia medica can supply 
nothing as a substitute, and gives to this substance 
a balm altogether distinct from any it may have 
as a deliciotts momentary refreshment We, for our 

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own part, do not pretend to detpise it in tliis latter 
capacity; bat it is rather in relation to the high 
importance of ice in a medical and sanitary point 
of view, tliat we have bronght the lubject before the 
public at tliis moment. 

Artificial ice- making hat long been practised on 
the burning plains of India. It is made by exposing 
water daring the night in unglazed earthen pans, and 
a Very thin coat of ice is thus procured each morning. 
This resource is, however, partial in every sense, and 
can in no way meet the necessity of the case. Tlie 
great pains required and taken for so small a supply 
only shew the great value attached to the commodity. 
Other modes of obtaining the same substance have 
been introduced from time to time, but, as before 
observed, at an almost prohibitive expense. 

In many cases where great heat is felt in the lower 
levels, a tantalising scene is presented ; for snow lying 
on lofty hills is in sight of tlie panting dwellers on 
the plains below, but quite inaccessible for all useful 
purposes. We ourselves spent a hot summer, a few 
years ago» in an Alpine region, where a glacier, con- 
taining thousands of tons of ice, was within an hour's 
walk of our house ; and yet, such was the difficulty 
of procuring a regular supply, that we were forced to 
abandon the attempt, after getting the apparatus 
necessary for domestic use into readiness. 

It has long been known Uiat artificial ice may be 
obtained by chemical means. By availing ourselves 
of the property of quick evaporation possessed by 
ether and other volatile liquids, this effect can be 
produced at pleasure; tlie only difficulty being the 
expense, which, on the grand scale, is prohibitory. A 
man wrapped in a flannel dress, and kept moistened 
with ether, may be frozen to death in a very short 
time under ' the line.' In fact, the warmer and drier 
the atmosphere, tlie more speedily will the effect be 
produced. A bottle of wine or other liquid so treated 
will freeze, or become ice, most effectually. Even the 
evaporation of water under a strong sun produces 
an excellent effect in cooling down liquors in warm 
climates ; and ' coolers ' of unglazed earthenware 
saturated with water, and then placed in tlie sun 
with the bottles of liquor within, will * render up 
their trust' in a very desirable state of refrigeration 
after an hour or so. 

But the most wonderful fact connected with ice- 
making is the glorious experiment by which water 
was frozen in a capsule of platinum at a white heoL 
This wonderful achievement proceeds upon the theory, 
that water w3l not touch a body of metal heated 
beyond a certain degree. A most important fact it 
is for all connected with steam-producing, that it will 
assume in such a case a spheroidal shape, and that 
a clear space will be preserved between it and the 
glowing metal, owing, doubtless, to the repulsive 
effect of great heat in all cases whatever. 

Ftefessor Faraday has carried this marvel even a 
step further, and actually frozen a ball of mercury in the 
midst of a glowing furnace, by tlie judicious admixture 
of carbonic add and ether, so as to give greater vigour 
to the evaporating process. 

We meraly allude in passing to these more recon- 
dite matters connected with refrigeration, as they will 
prepare the reader for the process of ice-making on 
tlie grand scale, which it is our o\iiect to explain, 
resting, as it does, on the essential principle of rapid 
evaporation ; and, to express it technically, the con- 
sequent abstraction of the cahric contained in the 
■ubstance to be acted upon. 

All we see, all we are, and all the changes that 
have taken place in our world, seem to be referrible 
to the fact of heat. Bocks are hard and * solid' 
because they contain now only a certain amount 
of caloric. With more of it, they may be fused, 
and, with still more, evaporated like water. 

Keeping this principle in mind, we shall see tliat 
water, in the liquid form, depends for that form on 
its actual calorific state; with more heat, it would 
evaporate ; with less, it would congeal Into ice. The 
object, then, of artificial congelation is to extract the 
caloric from it, and this may be done by evaporatiooi 
as we liave mentioned. 

Tlie highly interesting process for which all this 
preparatory matter is intended to prepare us, is this : 
An ingenious inventor has now produced a machine, 
by which the invaluable properties of ether as an 
evaporator are fairly called into play, and thus large 
quantities of ice can be speedily produced ; but he 
has done mucli more; for he contrives matters so 
that the precious liquid is recovered after it has done 
its work, and employed over again, for any number of 
times, without the slightest loss! 

It would be diflkult, if not impossible, to convey to 
the general reader a clear idea of the macliine itself 
without the aid of engravings ; and even these do not 
convey — at least to us— any notion of how the result 
aimed at is obtained. We shall tlierefore confine 
ourselves to a description of the principle of the 
machine, and an enumeration of what may be called 
its achievements. 

' The evaporating vessel is merely a tubular boiler. 
In this, the ether will boil at a temperature much 
below freezing-point. The ether is contained in air- 
tight vessels relieved from the pressure of the 
atmosphere. The cylinder, in tlie centre of the 
apparatus, is fitted with air-tight valves, so that each 
stroke of the piston withdraws a quantity of ether- 
vapour from the left-hand vessels, and forces it into 
a condensing vessel on the right hand. When the 
vapour is raised, an intense cold is produced ; when it 
is condensed, a corresponding degree of heat is evolved. 
The ether, after resuming the liquid state, returns by 
a self-regulating valve to the evaporating vessel, and 
the process thus continues uninterruptedly, and 
without the slightest waste of material. Indeed, as 
the pressure inside the vessel is less than the out- 
side atmospheric pressure, it is impossible that any 
ether can escape.' 

It will be seen that the evaporation of ether goes on 
in this machine in a cold medium, and tliat, viee 
versa, it is re-liquefied for further use in a warm 
one, being a reversal of the ordinary processes— as 
with water, for example. Intense cold being produced 
in the machine, this cold is utilised and conveyed 
to the freezing portion of the apparatus by the 
Ingenious employment of a stream of ealt water, which 
does not freeze at the same degree as fresh water does. 
It thus carries with it, in a fluid state, cold enough to 
freeze rapidly the fresh water witli whicli it comes in 
contact. This salt water circulates in a continued 
stream also, being returned to the ' boiler' again after 
having parted with its cooling power. Thus, it will 
be seen, no waste of material is incurred, except of 
the fresh water, whidi it is the object of the operation 
to convert into ice, and of the fuel and water necessary 
for working the engine. 

'The ice,' we are informed, *can be made of any 
required shape or thickness. It is at present turned 
out in slabs of eighteen inches square on the sides, and 
an inch and a half tliick. These slabs can be placed 
together so as to form blocks of any thickness. The 
ice formed rapidly at tlie coldest end of the trough is 
white and opaque, while that formed more slowly 
at the lower end is more transparent. By increasing 
the dimensions of tliis trough, and thus insuring more 
uniformity of action, the ice will be transparent 
throughout. The white ice is colder, and more 
effective for immediate use, but it does not bear 
carriage so well as the other. Experienoe must 
decide which is preferable for general purposes. 

* The expense of the process— an important point— 

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if simplj thai of tbe motive power. An ordinary 
steam-en^ne of ten horae-powcr conenmet a ton of 
coal per day, and the product in ice will be four 
to Hyo tons. Tbe removal of the ice when formed, 
and refllling the moulds with water, are the only parts 
of the operation requiring the services of an attendant 
The whole expense of malcing ice in London, including 
interest on capital, Ae^ will be considerably less than 
ten shillings per ton. 

'It is in hot diroates, however, that the full value 
of the invention will be felt Ice, within the tnqiics, 
will soon be looked upon as a necessary of life; as 
much so at least as fuel is a necessary in the winter 
of temperate regions. The preparation of cooling 
drinks Is one of the least important of its uses. The 
preservation of animal food, and the cooling of apart- 
ments, will be the most important.' 

Ihe process is applicable to many other purposes, 
however, sudi as the cooling of worts— a matter, 
sometimes, of great difficulty and expense even in 
London. Hie inventor estimates the expense of 
cooling a barrel of worts from 76 to 66 degrees at 
l^d. The salting of provisions in warm weather is 
also a great difficulty— sometimes almost an impos- 
sibility. By this machine, the brine of the meat 
itself can be brought to the temperature best suited 
for success. But perhaps the most beneficial appli- 
cation of the process will be to the cooling of rooms 
in hospitals and in tropical regions. The fearful 
mortality arising from the prevalence of fevers, in 
an atmosphere varying from 80 to 100 degrees, can 
only be checked by keeping the patients in cool 
apartments. It is evident that buildings can be 
cooled, as they are now warmed, by the circulation 
of water in pipes. The oooling of the water for this 
purpose is estimated at a few pence per barrel. 

* Mr Harrisson's first machine was made in Qeelong 
in 1866, but, fh>m the inferiority of colonial work- 
manship, the trial was a failure. Discomfited, but 
not disheartened, he came to England, and achieved 
success. He has wisely abstained from bringing his 
invention prominently into notice, until he has had 
it fairly tested both on a small and a large scale.' 

For these latter particulars we are indebted to the 
lUuttraad London News of May 29, 1868, in which 
an engraving of Mr Harrisson's machine is given, but 
which, as before observed, can convey but very little 
idea of the process. 


I DO not believe in trifles. What we are in the habit 
of calling by that name have changed the prospects of 
a lifetime, or even brought life itself to a close ; and I 
doubt much whether the same thing would appear 
equally trivial to any two persons. 

Some time since— -I will not say how long— I 
received a letter, and endoeed with it a post-office 
order for two guineas. In the missive that sum was 
alluded to as * the trifle due to you for so and so.' 
'Trifle indeed!' thought L *I wish I was able to 
speak so disrespectfully of a couple of guineas.' The 
fact is, I was penniless when that opportune supply 
came to hand; but I cannot say I was without a 
single coin. I had in my possession one farthing, 
and on it— a trifling matter, you will say— hangs my 
present story. That farthing had come among some 
other change; and as one does not often happen to 
want that particular coin, it remained long after its 
kindred hrowns were scattered. Besides, I confess I 
should not have liked to tender a farthing in pay- 
ment Even if that would have exactly sufficed, I 
should have preferred off^ering any other coin. My 
consciousness of extreme poverty made me suppose 
that any looker-on would be able to read my penuiy, 
if I were seen to draw a fertliing from my waistcoat 

pocket A rich man can ailbrd to asem poor, but a 
really poor one never. 

Thus that farthing remained with me for months. 
It dung to me^ as a poor IHend often does, long after 
his wealthier brethren have departed; and it certainly 
looked a trifle in comparison with the two sovereigns 
and two shillings, for which I lost no time in exchang- 
ing my bit of offieial-lookiag papesr; but the future 
vindicated its importance, and taught me its rral 
value. When I roae from my bed that morning, I 
had every prospect of dining with a certain titled 
personage whose table is proverbially accessible to all, 
though only the very poor avail themselvei of it 
With a good appetite to appease, and a couple of 
guineas in my pocket, this waa not to be thought of. 
I dined, comfortably and substantially, and tliat done, 
leaned back in my chair with a feeling of ineffable 

Searching in my waiatcoat-poeket for my tooth- 
pick, my flnger and thumb came in contact with 
that farthing. I drew it firom iU hidhig-place, laid 
it oo my extended palm, surveyed it, now on this 
side^ now on that; but with what a difl^rent look 
from the rueful one with which, two hours soono*, I 
had gated on the thing, did I now r^^ it ! Well, 
thought I, I was never before reduced quite so low, 
but before absolute want came a supply to meet my 
approaching need. I will keep this farthing wbdle I 
live, as a memento to whisper, ' Never despair,' when 
I am inclined to murmur at the decrees of fortune. 

I adhered to my resolve. Regularly as I changed 
my waistcoat, the little coin accompanied my pencil- 
case, penknife, and toothpick, to the corresponding 
pocket of the new garment 

Singularly enough, from the time of my being 
reduced to a farthing, fbrtune ceased to fiwwn. I 
had not finished the first of the two guineas befoie 
others came, and still more followed. It seemed 
that my penniless hour was the one before the 
dawning, and the labours which preceded it were to 
meet their reward. I found popularity when I least 
expected it, and soon I, too, b^n to consider two 
guineas a trifle. Instead of a single garret near the 
sky, I occupied apartments at tlie Albany ; and when 
I went to visit my native place, good gracious, how I 
was f&ted ! The tide had indeed changed. As a boy, 
what scrubbing had I not endured, and all arising 
firom my ambition to become femous as a writer — 
that scribbling mania which impelled me to cap 
verses instead of doing my Latin exercise, and which 
brought down on me the wrath, and, worse stiU, the 
cane, of the Bev. Dr Snaffles, head-master of the 
grammar-school, and vicar of the parish. Awful, 
most awfhl, were both his lectures and his whacks ; 
I got the lion's share of both. My father lectured 
me also, and gave me a long list of the names of 
those who, preferring the shadow, authorships to the 
substance, trade, had died in poverty after a lifelong 
endeavour to ascend the steps of Fame's temple- 
steps to them only a mental treadmill, where, com- 
pelled to incessant efforts, they yet rose no higher. 
'Do not fancy yourself a gei^us, my dear boy,' he 
would say: 'talent you possess— that is, you appre- 
ciate and take home to your heart the good and the 
beautiful in the works of others ; but do not mistake 
this for genius. Genius creates for talent to appre- 
ciate. The latter I give you credit for possessing; 
the former yon have not Stick to the counting- 
house; make your fortune; and then, if the wish 
remain, write verses and tales by the mile.' 

My sisters contemned my rhymes, perhaps because 
I addressed none to them ; but, worse than all, Flora 
Snaffles, the object of my idolatry, did the same. 
Flora was the doctor's youngest and loveliest daughter, 
and just my own age. But what giri of sixteen 
ever deigned to look at a boy of her own years? 

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NeYerth»leM» /looktd at iUr fair fiMse, loft brown ejr«t, 
and flowinflr chMtnut corit, and woithipped Flora, 
^qnito ibrgottiiig the diftrenoe betwon a iojr and a 
young lady. 

But what boy-poet was ever without a diTinity? 
So to her, after expending an amount of toil and 
thought which no after-work of mine ever coat me, 
I addressed sundry Terses, entitled IJmt to Flora. 
And what was my reward? I met her, with her 
confidante, Lucy Jones, the lawyer's daughter, and as 
they passed, she said, at me, but to Lucy: *Poor, 
foolish boy, I shall not tell papa, for I should not like 
him to be whipped.' And she tossed her head, 
shaking the glossy curis I had been striTing to 

There was only one, my gentle mother, who gave 
my luckless compositions a word of praise. She, 
bless her! used to soothe my ruffled ranity, call my 
Terses pretty, and kiss my fbrebead with right loving 
touch; but she bade me obey my father. Hie end 
of it all was that, after distinguishing myself for 
deficiency in Latin at the school-examination, and 
filling my father's ledgers with poetical in place of 
arithmetical figures, I forsook the counting-house, 
and went to seek my fortune, with a resolution not to 
return if unsuooessfuL How diifo^ent was my coming 
home I 

Before leaving my badielor's nest in town, I deter- 
mined to sink the literary man, and give myself up, 
heart and soul, to that home-life on which I haid 
often cast longing backward glances. Authors soon 
grow old: if tiiey intend to succeed they must be 
eharp-sighted, and a man who battles his way upward 
a hairbreadth at a time, comes in contact with a 
sufficient number of rough edges to brush away early 
any superfluous juvenility of feeling. In place, Imw- 
«ver, of renewing my lost youth, and resuming my 
old home habits, I was doomed to be exhibited as a 
'lion' of the first- water. My father publicly owned 
he had made a great mistake in his estimate of my 
mental powers. My writings having been, in a great 
measure^ published anonymously, everybody gave me 
credit for more than I deserved, and, do as I might» 
theMudborough folk persisted in thinking it necessary 
to talk only of literature ui my presence. 

My former preceptor was amongst the first to call 
upon me, and a few days after my arrival, I spent an 
evening at his house. Again and again did the 
reverend doctor shake my hand, his firm grasp remind- 
ing me very much of days when I trembled under his 
toach. He introduced me to his guests with great 
pride as a pupil of whom he was justly proud ; ' though 
once/ he added, 'I fear I scarcely appreciated the 
peculiar talents you possessed. In that I was not, I 
believe, singular. A prophet, my dear Dick— pMdon 
the familiarity — ^is never without honour, &c.' 

Ajnd there was Flora— Flora Snaffles still— more 
beautiful than cvct. She did not say, 'Poor, foolish 
boy ' now, but placed her hand in mine ; and with a 
gentle, half-hesitating voice, bade^me welcome to the 
vicarage^ dropping those briglit eyes the while, and 
letting her luxuriant chestnut curls almost shade her 

She and I got on amazingly. A little later, she 
brought her album, begging for some contribution in 
addition to what she ahready possessed. This last 
remark required solution, and the bright eyes were 
archly raised as she pointed out the maiden efibrt of 
my muse in a state of perfect preservation. Need I 
tell what such a beginning led to. Coming home> as 
I did, vrith a predisposition to renew all my old loves, 
and finding there not only the charms of memory, 
bat of novelty also— for of late my life had been so 
different— is it wonderful thai the divinity of my 
school-days became the goddess of my riper age. 

There is a oertahi homely proverb, much in vogue 

where I was bom, which says: 'Old broth ta sooner 
warmed than new broth made,' and it is commonly 
applied to lovers who make up matters after a sepa- 
ration. I verified its wisdom. Flora was very 
beautifbl; she had preserved those verses, which 
proved that her former iadiflbrence was only assumed, 
and she plainly regarded me as the greatest genius in 
the world. We got a long way in a little time. My 
sisters began to giggle and look slily at me when 
Flora's name was mentioned. Other young ladies, 
shaking off the awe my literary reputation at first 
inspired, and finding me in society quite as common- 
place as any other man, demurely sought information 
respecting the mythology of the ancients. They never 
forgot to ask some question about the floral godden, 
whether poets still worsliipped her as they felt 
tempted to believe, &c. Doubtless all this seems 
silly enough to tell about, but I deemed it very 
pleasant foUy then. Yet smoothly as my love-affkir 
seemed to progress, I was very jealous. Not of any 
other male individual; I fiatter myself there was little 
risk of successful rivalship to annoy me. The cause 
of my vexation was a certain Dorcas Society, an 
admirable institution, yet I hated its t^ry name, 
because Flora bestowed so much of her time upon it 
A species of amiable rivalry existed amongst the 
young ladies as to the amount of work contributed, 
and Flora made herself a perfect slave in the cause. 
If I asked her to sing or play for me, she would cast a 
gbmoe at a nameless garment on her lap, and beg me 
to excuse her; until I remonstrated, saying, she really 
overdid the thing, and made those who wished to 
claim a little of her time quite jealous of this all- 
engrossing labour. 

It lists not to tell how the point was argued between 
us ; Fi<»ra insisting that she did not take one stitdi 
more than it was her duty to do as the vicar's 
daughter. She seemed almost inclined to pout at my 
persisting in a contrary opinion, and was mollified 
only when I promised to make one at the anniversary 
tea-party in connection with the Society, which was 
to take place on the following Wednesday. On the 
Tuesday, I made myself generally useful, and assisted 
to decorate the national school-room for the festival, 
receiving the boughs of evergreen and paper-roses 
from the fair hands of my lady-love. I was rewarded 
with many a gracioua sinile, and mora tlum once had 
the delightful task of disentangling a spray of holly 
from those lovely chestnut curls. 

'Ton must come to my table,' whispered Flora as 
we parted ; ' and, remember, I shall expect a contribu- 
tion ftom you, to make amends for your unkind 
speeches about the Society.' 

' As though I could ever have breathed an unkind 
word in your ear,' said I, pressing the s<^ palm which 
lay in mine. 

Tlie day came. I duly teoitd in public, and, I 
flattered myself, entered into the spuit of the thing, 
by zealously promoting the locomotion of the cups. 
After tea came the platform-work— addresses, reports, 
and vote of thanks to the fair labourers. Lastly came 
the collection, and Fl<»ra stood beforo me^ holding a 
delicate china plate, on which her eyes wero bashfiUly 
bent, to receive my contribution. I had placed a 
sovereign ready to hand, and as I deposited the coin 
in the plate^ looked keenly at Flora to see how she 
relished the gift. Fancy my surprise on seeing the 
delicate head thrown back, while a look of inefikble 
scorn was darted at me bv the faur plate-bearer, whose 
face now wore the hue of the deepest-coloured paper* 
rose. She swept past, and that night I saw her no 
more ; so, in place of escorting her home and popping 
the question on the road, I had to give an arm to 
each of my sisters. I could not understand it, especi- 
ally as the two girls would deign nothing but mono- 
syllabio replies to my questions, and made themselves 

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as disagreeable as young ladies can be supposed to be. 
As my sisters and Flora always • sailed in the same 
boat,* I humbly craved to be enlightened by them as 
to the cause of this change in her manner. 

*Tou ought to know/ said my sister Jane, with a 
toss of the head very similar to the one with which I 
had been favoured earlier in the evening. 

* I. Why, what have I done ? ' 

*To pretend not to knowT shrieked both girls at 

« I do not know,' siud I. • I put a sovereign on her 
plate^ and she gave me just such a haughty, disagree- 
able look as she did long years ago, when I foolishly 
sent her some verses.' 

* A pretty sovereign ! ' again in chorus. * But per- 
haps,' added Jane, *you use a poet's licence to call 
all coins sovereigns. We ignorant country-people 
cannot be supposed to see these things in the same 
light as jfou great literary men' 

I was out of all patience. *What do you mean?' 
said L * You are enough to drive one crazy with 
your absurd sneers and allusions. Do / want to be 
made a fuss about as a literary man ? or what has 
that to do with Flora Snaffles?' 

But I might as well have talked to tlie doorpost. 
They indignantly retired, leaving me to my anything 
but agreeable reflections. I slept little that night, 
and on the following morning rose early. On trans- 
ferring the contents of my waistcoat pocket from the 
last worn garment to one more suitable for morning 
costume, the mystery of Flora's conduct was solved : 
the sovereign — my intended contribution— was still 
in my possession. That farthing was gone. I had 
carried it in my pocket until I had become almost 
unconscious of its existence ; and, all unaware of the 
mistake, had transferred it to the coUection-plate in 
lieu of its golden neighbour. Of course Flora had 
set it down as a studied insult— following, as it did, 
on the heels of our little dispute about the Society. 
I remember hearing the amount of the collection 
announced as thirty-two pounds, six shillings, and 
sixpence farthing, with some surprise, little deeming 
tlie unlucky fraction was my own contribution. I 
would not tell my sisters a word, but determined to 
have a delightful reconciliation scene with Flora. I 
pictured tears in her soft eyes when I told of my past 
trials, delight in her countenance at the romance of 
tlie thing, and charming confusion when the whole 
ended with a declaration of love. I almost felt her 
head on my shoulder, and its glossy curls in my 
caressing hand. With these feelings, I went to the 

* Not at home,' was the only reply to my inquiries 
for the family. 

Never mind, thought I; a little suspense will 
enhance the bliss of the meeting. 

I went again. I saw Dr Snaffles, who was stern, 
and monosyllabic He was evidently in the secret ; 
so I proceeded to explain. 

He remarked in his most pompous manner, *that 
my practical joke was decidedly out of place.' 

I was indignant at the insinuation, but asked after 
the ladies. 

'They were quite well; somewhere in the town, 
making calls, with the exception of Miss Flora, who 
had departed that morning by an early train to pay 
a long-promised visit to an aunt resident somewhere 
near the Land's End.' 

And my holiday was just expiring; I could not 
await her return. I would not say anything to my 
sisters, being too indignant to take them into my 
confidence after their distant behaviour. 

So I went bade to town, resolving to take a run 
home again in a couple of months, never doubting 
that all would yet end well. Alas! that I should 
have it to telL In six weeks from that date, I 

received, vid my sister Jane, the wedding-cards of 
Captain and Mrs Vernon, nie Flora Snaffles. 

She is in India now, poor Flora ! and I am still a 
bachelor of the Albany. Trifles indeed! That 




All who have read Miss Strickland's lives of the 
Scottish queens, will remember the lively description 
she gives of a certain Earl of Northumberland, who 
rode forth from tlie gates of York, at the head of the 
northern chivalry, to welcome the daughter of his 
sovereign, the fair Margaret Tudor, then on her way 
to join her future husband, James IV. of Scotland. 

The youthfal princess was surrounded by some of 
England's choicest knights and nobles, all richly 
arrayed and gallantly mounted ; but if contemporary 
chroniclers are to be relied on, the Percy far outshone 
them all ; for, to borrow the quaint language of one of 
these, ' what for the richness of his cote, being of 
goldsmith's work, garnished with pearls and stones, 
and the costly apparell of his henxmen, and gallant 
trappers of their horses, besides four hundr^ tall 
men, well armed, and apparelled in his collers, he was 
esteemed both of the Scots and Englishmen more like 
a prince than a subject.' 

Nor can we wonder that he found such favour in 
their eyes ; for, added to all this outward pomp and 
circumstance, he was in the prime of manhood, of a 
^goodly presence, and the representative of one of the 
noblest families of the realm. 

But pageants, however grand, last but their little 
day ; and those who take even the roost prominent 
part in them, when they have laid aside their velvet 
and ermine, their tinsel and their bells, are, in 
thought, word, and act, marvellously like other men. 
So with this gay and gallant cavalier, who, when a few 
more years have passed, we find very differently occu- 
pied; tlie head that had once been intent only on 
making his steed * gambade' gracefully beside the 
Tudor princess, is now busily speculating on the 
relative value of fat and lean beef, or carefully calcu- 
lating the cost of brewing a hogsliead of beer. In 
other words, he is framing, with the assistance of 
a council composed of the chief officers of his house- 
hold, a system of domestic economy, which, thoagh 
intended only for the government of his own estab- 
lishment, might, for the judgment and foresight it 
displays, claim a place among law-codes of much 
loftier pretensions. 

A copy of this work, printed from the original 
manuscript in 1770, and entitled The Northumberland 
HouteJiold Book, is now before us ; and as only a 
limited number were issued for private circulation, and 
it is probably but little known, a few extracts from it 
may find a not inappropriate place in pages like 
these ; for it not only exhibits a curious picture of 
ancient manners and customs, hut, by the minuteness 
of some of its details, furnishes hints on domestic 
management) such as are calculated to be of use in 
all ages. Few persons, indeed, find themselves called 
upon now-a-days to rule over an establishment so large 
as that to which this northern earl gave laws ; but tlie 
more ponderous the machinery, the greater need is 
there so carefullv to adapt its various parts to each 
other as to make all work easily and pleasantly 
together ; and if, in his anxiety to effect this end, we 
find the noble autlior of the Household Book occa- 
sionally dwelling with almost tiresome precision on 
p(^ts which, to our modern ideas, seem trivial, we 
must make due allowance for the pursuits, or, to speak 
more correctly, perhaps the want of pursuit of ^the age 

Digitized by 




in which he lived ; while we gatlier from his example 
the advantage of seeing, each in his own little sphere, 
that things be done decently and in order. 

Tliis curious manuscript was commenced in 1512, 
as we are by inference continually reminded, for its 
various enactmenta are all drawn up in right regal 
fashion, and if not given from * our court at Wresil,' 
are at least 'ordayned by me and my counsaell on tlie 
30th day of September, in the 3d yere of my sovereign 
lord king Henry the 8(li.' 

It opens witJi an assignment to * Richard Gowge, 
comptroller of my hous, and Thomas Percy, clerke of 
the kechinge,' of various sums of money for * the hole 
cxpensys and keepynge of my sayd hous for one hole 
yere;' and then proceeds to lay down minute directions 
OS to the proportions in which every possible article 
of consumption is to be supplied, with the prices that 
are to be given for tlie same. To some of these we 
shall presently refer ; but we must first try to collect 
a few particulars of the internal arrangements of this 
great establishment. 

The family seems to have consisted, taking one 
month with another, of 166 persons, but 57 more were 
daily reckoned upon as guests, making in all 223. 
Of the regular inmates, some ten or twelve might be 
of the blood and lineage of the Percy ; the rest were 
knighta and retainers, grooms and yeomen, waiting- 
men and waiting-women, brought together to swell 
the all but regal pomp with which those proud nobles, 
the sometime companions of ' bluff King Harry,' saw 
fit to surround tliemselves. 

Many of tliese officers bore titles similar to those 
used in the royal household, and were, as appears from 
the number of horses and servants kept for their 
separate use, as well as from their sitting at what was 
called * the knyghte's boord,' gentlemen of good birth. 
Thus we read of my lord*s chamberlain and treasurer, 
of tlie comptroller of his household, and the clerks of 
his 'kitching,' with a due proportion of gentlemen- 
ushers and grooms-in^ waiting. Then, again, we have 
an almoner, a carver, and a sewer or server, whose 
responsible office it was to see that the dishes were 
*stragtly sett upon tlie boord,' with cup-bearers for 
my lord and my lady, and henxmen(or pages) to wait 
beside them. 

The titles given to others serve to illustrate the 
manners as well as the wants of that semi-barbarous 
age. The * darke of the ewery,* for instance, reminds 
us, especially when coupled with the mention of * two 
wesclung towels for my lord to wesch with, and a 
gentleman-usher to bring them in, and to serve my 
lord with water when his lordship goes to dinner, 
and when he xyseth up,' of the necessity there must 
have been for such frequent ablutions at a time when 
forks were yet uninveuted; and a child of the 
kechinge to turn the brooches (or spite), betrays a 
similar lack of convenience in the cooking apparatus 
then in use. Yeomen and grooms, again, to * serve 
at my lord's boord-end,' marks the distinction which 
placed the heads of the family, with their principal 
guests, at one end of a long table ; while the officers 
of the household, and all persons of inferior rank, sat 
at the other— the line of demarcation being indicated 
by a huge salt-cellar ; whence the phrase often met 
with in old authors, of * above and below the salt.' 
The * dark avenar,' too, whose duty it was te yield 
an account of all the oats and hay consumed in the 
earl's stables, explains the former appropriation of 
the tewer still shewn at Alnwick as the *Avenar*s 
Tower;* and the 'arris-mender,' who was to be * daily 
in tlie wardrobe for working upon my lord's arras 
and tapestry,' conjures up the memory of days 

When round about the walls yclothed were 
With goodly arras of great majesty — 

the said arras being merely hung up on tenter-hooks 

against the naked walls, or, in some cases, suspended 
upon frames, and placed at such a distance from 
them as to leave space for persons to pass behind — a 
convenient arrangement, as it must often have proved, 
in those days of political and domestic intrigue. 
Falstaff, doubtless, but followed the example of 
wiser, if not better men, when, in a sudden accession 
of terror at the untimely approach of lively Mistress 
Page, ho exclaimed : ' I will ensconce me behind the 

These expensive hangings— for the art of weaving 
them was but newly introduced into England— being 
thus rendered easy of removal, were, as we are led to 
infer from subsequent entries, carried about with 
the family, and hung up wherever they happened to 
sojourn for the time being. Beaides this arras-mender, 
tiiere were several ' grooms, yomen, and childrene of 
the wardrobe employed hourly for the robes, sewing 
and amending the stuf, and brushing and dressing 
thereof;' some of the said * stuf' consisting, it is likely, 
of the same gorgeous dresses which had years before 
dazzled the eyes of Miss Strickland's Somerset 
herald ! But the taste for accumulating sumptuous 
apparel was, it must be remembered, by no means 
confined to the house of Northumberland ; it increased 
to such a mischievous extent during this and the 
following reigns, that Queen Elizabeth thought it 
necessary to restrain it by proclamation; yet, with 
the inconsistency which often marred the otherwise 
bright character of this royal lady, she so far departed 
from the spirit of her own edicts, as to have left 
behind her at her death no less than three thousand 
dresses ! 

The occupations assigned to some of my lord of 
Northumberland's officers appear to us rather incon- 
gruous; thus, we read of a 'head clarke of the 
kechinge, to cum up with my lord's shirt ;' and, more 
derogatory still to the dignity of the nobler sex, of * a 
yoman of the beddes (whose name it may interest 
some to know was Gilbert Swinbum), and a groome 
of the chamber for keepynge and dressynge of it 
deane.' The small proportion of females employed 
in those departmenta which modern habita leave 
exclusively to them, constitutes, indeed, a remarkable 
feature in this household summary'. 

The division of the day is another point on which 
the habits of the sixteenth century differ very 
materially from those of the nineteenth ; and we can 
scarcely suppress a smile as we think of the long 
faces which such a regulation as the following would 
produce among modern lords and equerries in waiting : 

* These be the names of the gentlemen-uschers^ 
gentlemen of householde, yomen-uschers, and mar- 
challes of the hall that shall awaite in the great 
chambre dayly thurrowte the weeke, on the forenoons, 
from seven of the clocke in the morning, to ten of the 
clocke, t/iat my lord goes to dinner; whyche persons, for 
their waytinge before noon, hath licence at aftimoon 
to go about their own businesse from the said noon to 
three of the dock that evinsong begins, and they not 
to fail then to cum in agayn, the rather if any 
stranger cums.' 

But the dinner, thus early served, seems to have 
occupied a considerable time in eating, for the services 
of those who took their turn of waiting in the after- 
noon were not required till 'one of the dock that 
dinner is done,' and were to continue 'till they ring to 
evinsong.' The castle-gates were locked at nine, ' to 
the intent that no servant shall come in which is out 
at that hour.' 

Supper was served between four and five; but 
we are not told at what time the family retired, 
though the comptroller— himself, be it remembered, 
one of the head officers— was enjoined ' to call up the 
cooks every morning after four of the docke be 
streikeo.' Such very early rising seems not» however, 

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to have been quite in accordance witli tlie taates oC 
hie lordehip'e dependents: from tome eaoae or other 
-At might be the soporific eflbcts of the ' potteta of 
here' that irere so bonntifully dealt oat-Hriothfnl 
habits gained ground ; and to avert the eril, it was 
ordained by my lord and his conncil, 'to hare a 
morrow-mass, priest daily now to say mass at six of 
the clock in tlie morning throughoat the yere, that 
oflicers of his lordship's household may ryse at a dew 
hour^ and here mass dayly, to the intent that they 
may cum to receive the keys at the time appointed, 
by reason whereof my lord and strangers shall not be 
nnsenred/ Well would it be for the peace and order 
of many a modem mansion if some such stringent 
rule could be enforced therein. 

The mention of this morning mass reminds us tiiat 
the spiritual interests of the Earl of Northumberland's 
household ought to have been well watched over, 
seeing that he had no less than eleven priests con- 
nected with it : the occupations of several of these 
reverend gentlemen were, however, according to our 
notions, somewhat unpriestly; one being the surveyor 
of my lord's lands; another, his secretary; a tliird, the 
clerk of his foreign expenses — who, we are informed, 
by the by, always made up his accounts on the 
Sunday — and the fourth his master of grammar — 
to instruct, we suppose, the youth of his household in 
the orthography and syntax of their native tongue. 
Others of the priests were most consistently employed 
as chaplains and almoners, and one of them — ^appro- 
priately called the * Qospeller'—was for 'reading the 
Gospel in the chapel daily/ 

Tlie priests, whatever might have been their rank 
in the household, seem not to have enjoyed the 
privilege, extended to many other of the earl's 
dependents, of keeping a private servant; with one 
remarkable exception in favour of the almoner, who, 
if he be a writer of interludes^ is to havcf a servant (or 
secretary, perhaps), to the intent for writing of tiie 
parts, and else to have none: a provision that 
bespeaks a degree of consideration for the claims of 
literature that we should scarcely have expected from 
the general tastes and pursuits of the age; but the 
subsequent mention in these pages of my lord and my 
lady's libraries, as well as the circumstance alluded to 
by the editor, of there being still extant a very curious 
manuscript collection of poems made expressly for 
this same earl, shews him to have been very much in 
advance of his times in Ids love and patronage of 

There is another still more remarkable proof of 
this in the fact of his having caused the walls of 
several of the rooms, both at Wresil and Leckingfleld, 
to be adorned with a variety of poetical inscriptions, 
all containing, in the form of proverbs, moral precepts 
well worthy of being remembered. We must confine 
ourselves to one or two of these. In one of the 
chambers at Wresil was a poem beginning with tids 
useful advice : 

When it is tyme of coste and great expense 
Beware of waste, and spende by measare ; 
Who that outrageously makethe his dispens, 
Caosheth bis goodes not long to endure. 

The family motto being ' Esp^rance en Dieu,' there 
were^ in one of the rooms, the following rudely penned, 
but wise reflections upon it : 

Espersace en Dyeu : 

Trust in hym, he is most trews. 

En Dyea esperance : 

In Him pot thine affiance. 

Esperance in the world ? Nay, 

The worlde varyeth every day. 

Esperance in riches ? Nay, not so ; 

Eiches slideth, and soon will go. 

How many a poet of undying name and fame •has 

written volumes which contain not half so much trot 
wisdom as is set forth in these few doggrel lines. 

Very minute r^es are laid down for the 'ofderryage 
of the ehapell at matins, high-mass, and evinsoog; * 
and as a proof of the attention even then bestowed 
upon the choral service, no lees than seventeen gentlo* 
men and children are shewn to havo been dally 
employed in it 

The custom, so frequently and pleasantly illustrated 
by Sur Walter Scott in his novels, of youths of high 
birth being placed in the household of some powerful 
nobleman to learn the arts of war and chivalry, is 
mora than once hinted at in these pages. There 
seem to have been several residing under tlie earl's 
roof. They acted as cup-bearers and pages, and 
wen probably companions for the earl's sons, to 
three of whom we are here introduced. The elder 
of these^ ' my Lord Percy,' became celebrated at 
a hiter period as the youthful rival of his mature 
soveraign in the afl^tions of the queen's maid of 
honour, the beautiful but unfortunate Anne Boleyn ; 
and he is also mentioned in history as haring been 
employed to arrest Cardinal Wolsey, when the once 
brilliant star of that ambitious prelate was flickering 
on the verge of the horizon. There are some curious 
entries in the Bousehold Book connected with this 
young nobleman ; for instance, we are fhrnished with 
a list of the number of horses which a magnificent 
earl of the sixteenth century deemed snfllcient to 
support the dignity of his son and heir. 

First, there was ' a great doble trottynge hois Ibr 
my Lord Perey to travdi upon in wynter;' and a 
second possessed of the same substantial qualities 
for him to 'ryde on owte of townee;' but when ho 
approached the haunts of men, a more rtiowy steed 
was thought necessary, and a 'trottynge gambalding' 
horse (such as his father himself had loved in hia 
youthful days) was provided for 'my said Lord Perey 
to ryde uppon when he cums into townes.' For his 
daily use, probably to ride about the home domain, 
he had 'an amblynge hors,;' and strange as the fact 
may sound in the ean of modem fox-hunters, ' a proper 
amblynge lettle nagge for him to ryde upon when he 
goeth hunting or hawking.' 

These, witii a strong horse to 'carry his maile with 
his stuf for his change when he rydes,' comprised his 
stud — ^the sufficiency of which, considering that the 
list waa drawn up in anticipation only of his being 
'at yeres to ryde,' none, we opine, will otgect to. A 
gentleman in waiting, a groom of the chambers, and a 
seoond groom for ' keeping of my Lord Perey's gar- 
ments clean dayly,' formed the young nobleman's 
personal stafi*; and the services of at least one of these 
was shared with his next brother, for it was his duty 
to 'be always with my lord's sonnes, for seeing the 
orderynge of them.' 

'Two rockere and a childe of the nurey to attende 
on them,' formed the nursery establishment (tf the 
little Lady Margaret and Master Ingeham Perey. 

Of the female head of this princely mansion, we 
find less frequent mention than might have been 
expected ; but there is enough to shew that if tlie 
Countess of Northumberland did, like high-bom dames 
of the present day, take no very prominent part 
in the domestic arrangements of her household, she 
was at least well provided with the externals needful 
for upholding the dignity of her high position : my 
lady's gentlewomen, her chamberer, her pages, and her 
cup-bearers, are none of them wanting; and her name 
is always associated with her lord's in the orders laid 
down for the provision of breakfkst, dinner, or supper, 
in a manner that bespeaks them to have been equally, 
unlike many, fashionable modem couplesi seldom 

Of this noble lady, all we know is, that she was an 
heiress with the Plantagenet blood in her veins, being 

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remotely descended from * old John of Gkiunt, time- 
honoured Lancaiter.' She rarriTed her hneband six- 
teen yean, and at her deaths bequeathed her body to 
be buried at Bererley, in the tomb of the late earl ; 
and likewise Rave to Sir Bobert GeU, her chaplain, 
her lease at WUterfosse, to sing mass yeariy for her 
own and her husband's soul. 

The trifling amount of remuneration given in return 
for the various services we have described, occasions 
us at first much surprise. Comparing it with the 
standard created in our minds by the present rate 
of wages, we are inclined to charge tiie magnifl- 
ixnt earl with a degree of meanness quite incon- 
sistent with his high pretensions ; and the more so, 
when we learn further, that L.1000 is the whole 
amount of the year's assignment for the payment of 
all expenses connected with the hous^old ; but one 
glance at the relative value of money then and now, 
•dissipates our surprise, and we find that a calculation 
founded on the prices of wheat and other articles of 
consumption in 1609 and 1854, would lead to a 
result much more in accordance with modem ideas. 
Leaving this problem, however, to be worked out by 
those ^tter versed than ourselves in such statistics, 
we will proceed to give a short list of wages as we 
find them here set down, premising that it was the 
custom in those days for the nobility at certain periods 
of the year to retire from their principal mansion 
to some favourite lodge or cottage— styled here * my 
lord's secret hous' — where they enjoyed, like our 
own good Queen in her autumn retreat at Balmoral, 
the privilege of living for a brief season free from 
the incumbrances as well as the cares of state. 
As they no longer kept open house, the greater part 
of their servants were put on board-wages; some had 
* licence to go about their own businesse,' and were 
no longer 'at my lord's fyndinge;' and the same 
appears to have been the case with several of the 
head-officers and the young gentlemen who held posts 
in his household, who are often spoken of as being at 
their own or their friends' finding. The salary of the 
priests varied from L.2 to L.5. The dean of the 
chapel, though of necessity a doctor, or, at least, a 
bachelor of divinity, received, if he lived in the house, 
only Ii.4 ; and the chaplains, if graduate, fire marks ; if 
not graduate, 40s. : the priests of tlie chapel, by which 
is probably meant those constantly employed there, 
were to have — ^the first, L.6 ; the second, five marks; 
and the third, four marks — always provided, however, 
that fAe most di$creet of the three be appointed to be 
eub-dean, and to have no nwre wageM t The treasurer, 
comptroUer, and other high offiosrs, *if abydyngein 
the house,' received L.20 salary ; but if *cominge and 
goinge,' only ten marks. Forty shillings appears to 
have been the general rate of wages for 3reomen, and 
209. for grooms ; but there is a kindly thoughtfulness 
evinced by the following entry: 'Every futeman to 
receive 40s., becans of the moch waring of his stuf 
with labor.' 

My lady's gentlewomen had five marks, if not at 
'my lady's fyndinge;' but what amount of deduction 
was made in consideration of beef, bread, and beer, 
we are not informed. The wages of the arras-mender 
aforesaid were L.1, 18s. 6d, with the addition of L.1 
for 'fyndynge all manner of stuf belonging to his 
facultie,' except silk and gold. 

Every servant was required, immediately on 
entering his lordship's service, to be duly registered 
and sworn in the presence of the head officers, ' either 
by such an ooth as is in the Booke of Ooths, yff any 
euch he, or els by such an ooth [we give the extract 
verbatim] as they shall seyme beste by their 

The price of wheat was at this time 6s. 8d., and 
that of malt 4s., the quarter. Meat appears not to 
have been sold by weight, for we find an order for 

667 muttons, for the year's consumption, ' at 20d., the 
one with the other, fktte and leyne;' and a second 
'for 109 fatte beefes atlSs. 4d., to be bought at All 
Hallowtyde, for to serve my hous from that tyme to 
Michaelmas; and 24 leyne beefos, at 8s. the pece, to be 
bought at St Elyn's day (May 26), and put into my 
pastures to fede.* Pigs— or porks as they are called 
— ^were Ss. the piece ; veals, the same price; and lambs 
varied, from 28. between Christmas and Shrovetide, to 
lOd. from that time to midsummer. 

In an age when fiisting was rigidly observed, and 
where meat was entirely banished during the long 
season of Lent, fish would necessarily be an important 
article of consumption ; and we accordingly find large 
quantities laid in and dried. 2080 salted salmon are 
valued at 6d. the piece, and ' three ferkynges of pickled 
sturgeon at 10s. the ferkynge : ' red and white herrings, 
' sprotts,' and eels, are the other kinds thus prepared. 
Of fresh fish, the price is not given. 

Salt cost 48. the quarter, and vinegar 4d. the gal- 
lon ! but the noble financier seems to have demurred 
rather at this item of his expenditure ; for we find 
an order given, that 'for tlie future vinegar is to be 
made of the broken wines, and that the lagges [lees, 
we suppose] be provided by the clarke of the hous, 
and marked after they be past drawing, that they can 
be set no more a broche^ and see it put in a vessel for 


' A FoonLB ! ' Such is the title of an entire chapter of 
a current serial work, by one of our most popular 
authors, which naturally interests the public in the 
character and fortunes of the animal thus signally 
honoured ; and as every dog has his day, independently 
of the dog-days and perennial puppyism, we may take 
the occasion to offer a fow observations on the subject 
generally — the instincts, habits, and qualities of the 
species, and the education requisite to develop such 
peculiar talents as distinguish ' Sir Isaac,' the poodle 
hero of the novel alluded to, by Pisistratus Caxton. 

About fifteen years ago, his — the poodle's, not 
Pisistratus's— prototype, or rather prototypes, for 
there were a brace of them, were exhibited by a 
French savtmt in the Begent's Circus, and excited so 
much attention hy their performances as to be visited 
by many scientific naturalists, and other philosophic 
virtuosi, including the president and sundry inqui- 
sitive members of the Boyal Society. They were 
certainly extraordinary creatures ; and in the variety 
of their accomplishments, outstripped even the mar- 
vellous exploits related of Sir Isaac on his appearance 
before the mayor and inhabitants of Gatesborougfa.* 
But their owner, though assuredly bom under Sirius, 
was not a mendicant showman. He, M Adrien 
Leonard, had devoted twenty years to dog-study and 
dog^training upon philosophical principles; and he 
published, at Lisle, an Essai mar rEdneation dss 
Animaux^ taking the dog for the type, in a goodly 
octavo volume of no less than 436 closely printed 
pages. The publication contained some new, and 
ranch curious matter, of which we propose to avail 
ourselves in the present paper. Nor is the subject 
unworthy of the notice of science, since Descartes 
discussed the question whether animals had souls, and 
inclined, moreover, to the belief that they had; O. 
Leroy drew able distinctions between instinct and 
intelligence; and Bdaumur, Bufibn, Cuvier, and a 
host of other eminent men, entered into the careful 
examination of canine attributes and the remarkable 
extent to which they were susceptible of cultivation. 

M. Leonard, as might be expected from his suc- 
cess, goes the length of Descartes as the strenuous 

• Sm BUukwo0d^» Ma§amM Utt Oelober, 

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advocate of superior * intelligence,' and laughs to scorn 
Buffon*8 theory of action from impulses more or less 
balanced. He even accuses man of being too proud and 
biassed in his judgment, through a sort of jealousy of 
the near approach to his boasted reason by the roost 
sagacious specimens of the higher orders of animal 
creation. « We hare a body,' he says ; < so have these 
animals. They have the same organs as we, and 
these organs produce the same phenomena. Behold 
the dog ; the nerves from his brain communicate with 
the five senses, and put them en rapport with the 
exterior world. Light acts on his eyes, sound on his 
ears, taste on his palate ; and thence result sensations 
and images which determine action. Locke and 
Condillac suggest no otiier origin for our ideas.' 
Becoming more metaphysical, he adds, in proof of 
the animal possession of sentient and thinking facul- 
ties, the following dilemma: 'Either it is not the 
ioul which perceives, understands, considers, and 
wills in man ; or animals, like man, have a soul which 
perceives, understands, considers, and wills. The 
two souls are of the same nature ; and, served by the 
same organs, they receive the same sensations. 
Would you, then, give to animals immaterial and 
immortal souls?' 'Certes,' replies our authority, 
Q.E.D. ; but he confesses it is a mystery complicated 
and dark in every part 

The grand problem which he proceeds to solve by 
his experiments is, accordingly, to separate the 
intellectual faculties of dogs from the intellectual 
faculties of men, so as to demonstrate what it is that 
constitutes man, and what dog. It is said com- 
parisons are odious; but if so, M. Leonard seems 
inclined to think that Poodle & Co. have the best 
right to complain; at any rate, that his system of 
education can produce more moral and well-conducted 
dogs than the most efficient university or ragged- 
school instruction can turn out equally meritorious 
human beings. It is plainly Pup versus Child — ^liter- 
ally, Litter verms Family, let paterfamilias think what 
he will of it. 

But when we go into details, we find that the quad- 
ruped test does not run upon all-fours throughout. 
Children, for instance, are taught in schools gregari- 
ously, and example and emulation are the leading 
sources of their acquisitions and progress. M. Leonard 
takes his individual pup at from six months to a year 
old, and begins with feeding, walking with, and 
attending to it ; not permitting other pups to consort 
with, or other persons to interfere, so as to divert its 
attention from its original preceptor and course of 
lessons— this said attention being the first, chief, and 
moving principle on which everything else is founded. 
Having secured this point, he proceeds upwards to 
cultivate memoiy, the most abundant source of ideas 
in animals; and, as their sensibility is purely physical, 
and directed, through the senses, to exterior objects, 
the exercises prescribed are of a nature to develop 
impressions produced by punishments and rewuvls. 
The dog thus treated, he states, soon learns to know 
what is good for him, and what is bad ; what course 
of conduct brings him pain, and what caresses or food. 
He remembers, and he judges and chooses between 
the alternatives — of which thousands of examples 
might be cited— and if, adds our author, he judges, 
it must follow that he reasons. 

With regard to instinct, whether social as in man, 
or individual as in beast — according to Magendie — M. 
Leonard observes that in tlie latter, among the numer- 
ous phenomena dependent upon it, we see a double 
end: first, the conservation of the individual; and, 
secondly, the conservation of the species. By a care- 
ful and continued education, holding these ruling 
elements in view, and directing them as is required, 
the possibility of greatly extending the sphere of 
Snt^ect is accomplished. It is well remarked that 

instinct in animals is mucli more developed than in 
civilised men, as the latter rely on intellect, which 
supersedes the use of the instinctive faculty; and, 
therefore, it is through reason that men acquire habita 
of instinct ; and, vice versd, animals, by having their 
instincts cultivated, acquire a higher degree of intel- 
lect or reason. 

Having settled Uie philosophy of the case, the dogs 
most suitable for education are, as 'justified by ex- 
perience,' divided into three classes, according to the 
conformation of their skuU. In the first class are 
dogs with large foreheads, and a capacious brainpan, 
including spaniels, barbets, pointers, terriers, and 
setters, all of which have pendent ears. In the 
second class are greyhounds and mastiff's, endowed 
with less intelligence than tlie first, their faces long, 
their temples closer togetlier, and their ears only 
semi-pendent; and the third comprehends pugs, and 
the many varieties of cur and mongrel, with circum- 
scribed skulls, and the least intelligent of Uieir 

Taking one of the first class as a pupil, the teacher 
must arm himself with untiring patience, without 
which nothing can be done. He must then, as already 
stated, adopt means to obtain the prompt and fixed 
attention of the dog to his motions, gestures, looks, 
or voice, as he uses them to indicate the something 
which he desires to be performed, and which is made 
palpable to the sense of the animaL When he fails to 
comprehend, punishment ought to be moderate, but 
frequent, and administered on the instant, as, if any 
space of time intervenes, there can be no trace, and 
consequently no comprehension, of cause and effect. 
The dog is shewn what is wanted, and thus exercised 
till he understands and obeys orders, and then he ia 
caressed or rewarded with a favourite morsel of food; 
and we are informed, that though there is a general 
carnivorous appetite, inclining to meat verging on 
putrefaction, a dainty veal cutlet is the epicure viand 
of the canine race, which tliey esteem as aldermen do 
turtle, country bumpkins bacon, and coal-hearere 
heavy wet. 

Dogs are no philologists, and it is a great mistake 
to fancy, as some do, that they understand the 
meaning of words. All tliat is needful is that they 
should recognise in a sound a command to perform 
a certain act, and, to prevent misunderstanding, it is 
desirable that the words should be short, and not of 
a description to pun upon— for example, instead of 
the word assis^ ' sit down,' which may be confounded 
with iei, 'come hither,' our astute instructor calls 
' sur le cul,' and upon his tail you see the obedient 
neophyte at once demurely seated, and no mistake, for 
thereby hangs a tale of the whip or birch-twigs. Of 
intonation, however, dogs are obviously sensible, and 
M. Leonard liberally finds an apology for English 
dogs, thought stupid in France, in consequence of 
their not perfectly comprehending the French accent. 
It might happen that if r Grantley Berkeley's recent 
experience of the stupidity of French hounds might 
be occasioned by his faulty pronunciation of their 

It is mere charlatanism in the showmen-jugglers who 
pretend that the dogs they choose for their tricks are 
more favoured by nature than others of their kind. 
They are usually rough spaniels (canickes'), generally 
of a fair size, and having ears richly furnished with 
long and silky haur. In their exercises, they in- 
variably have their heads lowered towards the ground, 
so that they appear to be considering the objects 
spread before them, whereas they are only attending 
to the mechanical signs to which their master has 
accustomed them. Taps on a snuff-box, or, better, 
the clink of a toothpick, or, better still, a clicking on 
the nails, are the means most commonly employed. 
Irrespectire of this particular breed, our author 

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seleeta from his first diss of intellects, specimens of 
fine open coantentnce and handsome form ; for dogs 
and doguines are not, in tills respect, so vain of per- 
sonal appearance as to be sill/ and affected, like 
human coxcombs and flirts. They are only the more 
sensible and instructible. Notions of beauty or of 
superior attractions do not turn tlieir brain, and make 
them foolish in their bearing and behaviour. Indeed, 
no animal has any idea of grace, form, or size : a cur 
will bark at an elephant as pertinadously as at a 
mouse; and a horse will as readily consort with a 
dustman's high-boned drudge, as with a duke's high- 
bred hunter. It is annoying to add M. Leonard's 
conviction that all animals fear man, and that ail the 
stories of their attachment, having the semblance of 
moral action, are dressed-up fabrications or illusions, 
^e dog of Montargia, and other similar sagacious 
celebrities, are but shams and impostors. He has 
proofs in abundance, and no end of experiments, to 
shew that the animal does not love his master; that 
he sees in him only an instrument of conservation ; 
and if he attaches himself, it is but as tlie dog 
licking the hand about to strike him. 

'The two dogs,' he says, * which I submitted to 
examination by tlie IntHtuU of France and Belgium, 
and learned scientific societies of London, leaped, at 
my voice, from a high bridge into the river, one of 
them with a bit of bread in his mouth. Whilst they 
were swimming, I ordered the other to take it, and 
he did so in a moment, although I was at a consider- 
able distance, and self-preservation in the stream 
most have had a powerful influence over their action.' 
This was certainly a striking example of obedience to 
command, as the result of instruction; and from what 
we witnessed of their * talents,' as previously noticed, 
we could readily credit even more surprising evolu- 
tions of Braque and Fhylax, such being the proper 
names of these most obedient quadruped servants. 
At a given order, they would come to be beaten, 
exhibiting at the same time signs of the utmost joy. 
M. Leonard called dSs la gaiete in a threatening tone, 
«ven accompanied by the lash, but nevertheless they 
leaped, barked, wagged their tails, pricked up their 
ears, and, in short, displayed every demonstration of 
pleasure. From such premises, he contends for the 
probability at least of rejlection, as well as of memory 
and understanding in the animal, since, by means of a 
kind of formulary, he could cause them to execute 
what he desired, though the command involved the 
most opposite conduct. Thus, he would uLy.AUex vous 
coucker^ and in an instant arrest their impulse and 
bring them to his feet by the contrary * Come hither.' 
Or he would, in the same manner, and with the same 
eifect, almost instantaneously give and reverse the 
orders ' Be gay' and *Be sad ;' or he would put n piece 
of bread before Braque, saying : *That is for Fhylax ;* 
and vice vend, a second bit before Phylax, with the 
remark that it was for Braque; and leaving them 
untouched during an indeflnite time, the word *£at' 
(mangez) sent each to the morsel assigned to him, 
neither venturing to trespass on his neighbour's lot. 
This, M. Leonard observes, affords strong presumj)- 
tion of the intellectual faculty for which he has 
hazarded the term reflection, since, to a certain extent, 
it implies a combination of reasoning and comparison. 
We ought to state that Braque and Phylax were 
large handsome animals, white, with reddish-brown 
•pots, and in shape resembling the Spanish pointer. 

The well-educated dog is a wonder Ail physiogno- 
mist. The instinct of self-preservation, and tlie natural 
fear it inspires in man, are equally powerful in the 
animal, and he knows well how to read in your 
countenance all you approve. If he perceives in 
the movement of your brow the slightest indication 
of discontent, he is puzzled, bewildered, stupifled. 
Raising your roice produces a like effect ; and- If 

shewn merely for the sake of teaching, it is expedient 
to add some gesture which brings to recollection a 
preceding infliction of which he has experience. 
Wiien the animal has comprehended what you want, 
you ought to be careful not to distract his atten- 
tion; and to evince your satisfaction, and reward 
by a dainty, his b^bit of observation, which 
gradually diminishes his sense of fear. As the 
animal, like the child, is fickle, jumping firom one 
idea to another, and happy to deliver himself from 
the fatigue of any long-continued strain upon his 
spirits (esprit), it is absolutely necessary to correct 
this fault, which would otherwise compromise the 
success of the best means resorted to for his instruc- 
tion. \n pursuing the illustration of his subject, the 
author mentions some curious phenomena, not 
uninteresting to the student of natural history. For 
example, he states: 'In giving myself up to the 
education of my two dogs, I have made an important 
remark, which I will set down here. When I was 
occupied in instructing one of them— Braque, for 
example — the other, Fhylax, who was left to himself 
during the time, was, notwithstanding, attentive, and 
appeared as if he took an interest in the lesson. 
When, afterwards, I undertook to teach him the 
matter I had been explaining to Braque, I found that 
he comprehended it far more readily and quickly. I 
fancied that I was the dupe of an illusion; but 
recommencing my course, I tried the experiment very 
many times, sometimes with Braque in the first 
instance, and sometimes with Fhylax, but always 
with the same result. From this I conclude that 
animals are, like children, more apt to learn volun- 
tarily what is taught to their companions, than what 
is directly impressed upon themselves. Thence we 
might believe that the instinct of imitation exists in 
the dog as in man, and is a useful auxiliary in the 
education of both ; and perhaps,' he modestly adds, 
*with the former as with ourselves, it may develop 
those potent contributors to success by giving birth 
to emulation and amour propre. In hazarding this 
supposition, however, I place limits on these precious 
qualities in animals as in all other intellectual facul- 
ties compared with those in man.' At all events, it 
evidently facilitates canine education to have two 
pupils at a time. 

Although M. Leonard has defined the races among 
which the most intelligent or intellectual dogs are 
found, he allows that all are capable of some improve- 
ment, even thegreyhound ; respectingwhich he probably 
never heard the anecdote, that when the unfortunate 
Charles I. was asked which was the most pre-eminent 
of dog-kind, he replied the greyhound, for he has 
all the good-nature of the others without their fawn- 
ing — a fine reproof to spaniel courtiers. 

It is conceded by M. Leonard that the pretty 
lapdog breed of Charles II., as well as the mastiff, 
may be educated to a degree of intelligence which 
renders them very agreeable or useful — lUmost as 
much so as ' the spaniel with his eye so full of expres- 
sion, or the setter, so animated in his looks and 
movements.' We would match the Scottish shepherd 
dog, in a lesser degree the English butcher-drover's 
uncouth-looking assistant, the cur in charge of goods 
on a cart in London streets, and the Skye terrier, 
against any of their congeners, however highly 
fovoured by nature. 

But the sagacity, as it is called, of the dog, 
whether instinctive or trained, has been so uni- 
versally chronicled, and the tales of its wonderful 
manifestations so fully believed, that without denying 
the success of M. Leonard's curriculum, we are 
strongly disposed to take a more loving view of the 
social relations between the animal and man ; resting 
principally, as they seem to do, on the faculties and 
dispositions of tlie former. From the days of the 

Digitized by 




icriptaral Tobit to the present time, unid daMic 
and religioui miracles (frcMU Ulysses to St Bernard), 
down eren to the latest experiences of canine 
intrepidity, discernment, or affection, there is no end 
to the stories of the bravery, discrimination, and 
attachment to humanity of the dog. Was it not 
Argrus, the dog of Ulysses—intelligent as if he had 
the thousand eyes of bis imlucky name-father — 
tliat recognised his master on his arrival, after 
twenty years' absence, at Ithaca, when his fellow- 
creattties knew him not? 

Poor, old, disguised, alone, 
To all his friends, even to his queen unlaiown. 

• • • • 

Forgot by all his own domestic crew, 

The faithfbl dog alone his rightful master knew. 

♦ • ♦ • 

Him, when he saw, he rose and crawled to meet ; 
Twas all he could, and fkwned and kissed his feet. 
Seised the dumb joy— then falling by his side, 
Owned his retmning lord, looked up, and died. 

The St Bernard breed now patronised by Albert 
Smith, are, we are informed, taagfat how to set 
about their excavations in the snow ; and the larger 
water-dogs, accustomed to drag substances from the 
water, wUl frequently, not always, include a drowning 
individual in theur efforts to perform a usual service. 
M. I^eonwd taught liis pupils to be constant in this 
respect, by practising them on rag-stuffed figures of 
men artificially convulsed, as if perishing. Of the 
depreciated greyhound we can vouch from personal 
knowledge tliat one stolen and carried off fifty miles 
in a covered cart, was no sooner liberated, than she 
bounded away at full speed, and in a very few boucs 
was safe and sound at home. 

But almost everybody has had, or has the fiuniliar 
acquaintance of, dog-companionship, and been asto- 
nished by acts for which it was difficult, if not impos- 
sible, to account. ' Our philosopher of tlie objective 
school,' observes WilUam Smitli, the author of Thorn- 
daUf * proceeding from the simpler to the more complex 
organisations, finds himself far advanced in the study 
of man, whilst as yet lie is only studying the animal 
life around him. The unity of parts in each organic 
whole has struck him with admiration. In this unity 
or harmony of many parts lies the oneness of the 
creature. Wonderful is tlie dog that looks up at him 
with its manifest tliough limited intelligence. Eye 
and foot, nostril and Uiroat, every limb and organ 
displays an admirable oontenL He is one— this dog ; 
one through the perfect harmony of powers and sen- 
sations, desire, and act. He sees you, he remembers 
you ; he in some sort loves you ; your presence, at 
least, gives him pleasure ; he courts your oaress ; he 
has gentleness and joy, as well as anger aud ferocity. 
He, too, perceives, remembers, and combines his 
memories, so as, in his limited sphere, to employ the 
knowledge of the past in the present emergency ; but 
that the phrase would imply an imperfection— and he, 
too, is perfect in his kind — what is he less than an 
^ anested development" of roan ? ' 

After such descriptions as these, we may hope that 
it will be thought an abuse of language to speak of a 
ruined man having 'gone to the dogs,' or of throwing 
an impertinent fellow, or even physic, to the same 
animals, seeing that we are so nearly on an equality, 
and that they can find physic in tlie grass-field, if they 
need it, without a doctor. As for M. Leonard's educated 
specimens, we recollect playing a game at dominoes 
with Braque or Fhylax— we forget which— his master 
having left the room, and what signals he might make 
through the wainscot being inaudible to us ; but the 
result was, that our adversary would never permit us 
to put a wrong number down, and finally beat us 
with the lyparent delight of a successful gambler I 

The detail of tlie ways by which M. Leonard brought 
his pupils to such accomplishments would be mainter- 
esting to the general reader, tliongfa some of them 
might probably be introduced with benefit into tfae 
training of sporting-dogs, against the cmelty of 
wliose breaking-in, he earnestly protests, and 
insists on tlie greater perfection that could be attained 
by a milder mode of instruction. Tet a few of his 
leading rules may be noticed, and whoever likes to 
try the experiment, more or less oompletdy, may 
witness the effect on pups of thehr own. 

He never terrified them, especially at first, with 
severe punishments ; on the contrary, he began with 
merely prohibitive displajrs or cracks of the whip- 
patience and moderation being his watdiwoids. 

He taught them distinctly to understand their 
names, and- pay instant attention when they were 

Rewards of caresses and meat, acoom p an i ed by 
words of ai^robation, were constantly givm, as lessons 
wero comprehended ; and by degrees, only the words 
were retained to the entira aatidkction of dog and 

I^essons were never prolonged so much as to 
partake of the nature of punishments, and excite 
lassitude and disgust 

Much depended on regular and judicious feeding. 
The devoted attadiment of dogs to owners of the 
lower classes is ascribable to their frequent sharing of 
< the bit and the buffet' Even a Bill Sykes will have 
his faithful and ferocious associate, tiie ugliest of 
brutes, owing to tliis sort of treatment. At tiie same 
time, it is the brutal ussge ih^ receive fhim their 
masters, and which they endure out of their dread for 
them, that renders the bull-dog and other fierce crosses 
so savage towards strangen and all the rest of the 

licave to go out was requisite, and the open door and 
the word l&rty^ with perhaps a piece of meat thrown 
forth, were the signs of assent: obedience was the 
one thing insist^ on. If it were required to 
teach the animal to abstain from the food, balls 
of the size of billiard-balls, with small spikes on 
theur surface, were thrown at, or between tfae 
animals and the temptations, and by persevering 
in this line, accompanied by certain expressions, 
they were taught not to approadi or touch meats 
even if left alone with them for whole nights. In 
issuing commands, they were ingeniously brought to 
attend to the terminations of the words, and not to 
the tone in which they were pronounced. 

There are many ether curious ruses and oontrivanoes 
to facilitate the progress of instruction ; but as we do 
not pretend to supply a vade^meeum for a complete 
learned education, we shall dose witli the author's 
aphorism, that 'Education forces Nature to correct 
itself.' Canine civilisation I 

After dwelling on the value of a dog, well-taught 
in the degree according to the wish and pleasure of its 
teacher, M. Leonard draws the opposite picture mi tlie 
eftcts of spoiling, and ignorance, and consequent dis- 
obedience, in a manner so thoroughly £>encli, that we 
are tempted to copy it for the amusement of our 

' Par exmnpk,' he says, ' you enter the boudoir of a 
pretty lady, and lo ! there is a villainous Shock that 
leaps from under the sofs, where he is keeping com- 
pany with Ills mistress. He is not bigger than your 
two fists, and yet he makes more noise than the 
largest mastiff. He yelps at you with a eliarp bark 
and hubbub, very disagreeable to the tympanum. 
*'Be quiet, Biciionl" says his mistress, in a tone of 
voice which has nothing of the air of a command. 
Accordingly, Bichon takes good care not to obey. He 
yelps the louder. You advance into tlte apartment ; 
you would pay your compliments to the fair dame ; 

Digitized by 




you aMame a gnicioui air ; you tlirow your body into 
all the poaturet learned firom your dancing-master. 
But Shock heeda not, and aprine:8 furiously at your 
lega ; bia noiay brawling pre?enting her from hearing 
your soothing phrases. Your gracions air is conTerted 
into a grimace, and you are obliged to stop short in 
the midst of your best bow ! Madame laughs at your 
ridiculona figure. Bidion is encouraged; he shews 
his teeth ; and if it happen that your tibis are not 
well guarded, beware: you are doomed to carry oif 
the imprint of his jaws. The pain extracts an invol- 
untary cry. It is then resolved to recall Bichon to 
order. Bichon retreats under the sofa, casting an 
angfy look at you ; he reoelTes one of those little taps 
which are caresses. **xou are a michant, Bichon. 
What have you done to the gentleman ? Hold I there 
is a bit of sugar for you; and, another time, don*t 
begin such tridu. Attaut B&iche; make your peace." 
With such an education,* obsenres our author severely, 
* a dog cannot tail to be surly and misdueTous, and 
occasion very unpleasant scenes ; all which would be 
avoided if he were taught promptly to obey.' Perlu^s 
we might for 'dog' raad 'chUdl' 

Tbsbb are at least some novelists of our own day 
who possess a genuine right to their title, in having 
introduced a system of entertainment which would 
not a little have astonished their predecessors. Half 
a century ago, it was a subject for boasting to have 
read a recent book ; until very lately, it was unusual 
for people out of literary circles to know a real live 
author even by sight. Now, not only have cheap 
editions brought the works of great living writers 
within the reach of everybody, but the great living 
writers themselves have been made cheapo and are 
introduced to the world in their own proper persons. 
There is no more marvelling now about what sort of 
being in the flesh may this or that rich spirit be who 
haa dowered us with this or that immortal creation, 
because, if we choose, we can see him, body and 
breeches, once every week at least, and for the 
moderate charge of half-a-crown, hear him read one 
of his own productions. The thing will get so 
common soon, that there will be nothing to be said 
about it, nor is there novelty enough in the matter 
even now more than may suggest a few brief ideas. 

Many of us, dead and alive, have at some time or 
other ardently longed to feast our eyes upon those 
whose writings have even whiled away a weary hour, 
or given to us a hearty laugh ; and surely much more 
to look upon the thoughtful faces of those who have 
made us wiser and better, who have reached out to 
ua ' the shining hand' to help us out of the slough of 
thd world, or, at all events, to scatter flowers on the 
road. Now that we can do this, we may not perhaps 
appreciate the opportunity as we ought; and as it 
geta more common, we shall be doubtless less grateful 

What would we not have given to have heard old 
Chaucer, * the morning-star of song,' describe his own 
pilgrims on their road to Cantertiury! or Spencer 
read to us his Faery Queen, which nobody (as a 
wicked critic has said) was ever known to read 
for himself from end to end! Tet a time would 
doubtless have come when we should have tired of 
both of them. How highly should we have prized 
an hoar of the 'native wood-notes wild' of Shak- 
speare, warbled by 'Fancy's child' himself— a sight 

of that noble brow, of those eyes that saw into the 
hearts of all mankind! Tet, doubtless. Queen 
Elizabeth and court listened, if they did listen, to his 
'dramatic readings' with much equanimity and a 
most aristocratic lack of enthusiasm. Think what a 
vision of transcendent glory must blind John Milton 
have presented, rapt in his heavenly dreams, and utter- 
ing aloud his own immortal inspirations ! And yet to 
those charming short-hand writers, tlie Misses Milton, 
their task became soon prosaic enough. Would it 
not have been grand — we are descending, but we are 
yet a great way up^ and in noble company — ^to have 
seen Samuel Johnson, massive, ungainly, but yet not 
without a certain niigesty, rolling forth, pleno ore, his 
Vanity of Human Withea! Pleasant to have sat beneath 
Dr Sterne, and listened to his wilful digressions, and 
watched his eyes sly-twinkling over his solemn double 
entendres/ And better still, to have heard Fielding 
reading aloud, and relishing as he read, the woes of his 
own Partridge, the triumphs of his own spoiled favour- 
ite, Tom Jones I Our descendants, be sure, will envy us 
the having seen and heard the Fielding of to-day— the 
biogn^er of the Blifll of our own times, Mr Barnes 
Newoome the younger— «t his lecturer's desk. Mrs 
Blimber would have died happy, she thought, could die 
but have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tnsculum. 
How many of our children, nay, as we believe, of our 
great-great-graoddiildren, will envy us the having 
seen and heard that man who gave us Mrs Blimber, 
and a hundred other ladies and gentlemen with whom 
we have a very real acquaintance ; envy us, especially, 
the having witnessed his impersonation of Mrs 
Blimber's favourite, and the favourite of us all, little 
Paul Dombey I child, who more than all other ficti- 
tious children, has touched the universal heart of 
England. We ourselves remember travelling in a 
city cab to the Bank, in company with a director of 
the same, with an old London lawyer, and with a 
copy of that number of Dombey and Son that containa 
the account of the death of little Paul, which, as we 
read it aloud, drew tears from Pluto's eyes (and 
Plutus's), caused both the lawyer and the banker to 
weep. Over such a pair of unsympathising folks, in 
such a vehicle and on such an errand, sure never waa 
the victory of genius more complete. Consider, then, 
how much greater must be her power when her right- 
ful owner is wielding his own weapon in his own 
hand ! Who can forbear to weep for Tiny Tim, when 
he himself who created Tiny Tim is weeping with us? 
Who but must despise, and yet must pity, the iron 
Scrouge, when he who drew him himself exhibits the 
portrait, and marks out so unerringly the cruel lines 
upon the brow, and the place where the lines are in 
mercy smoothed away! Hail to this new-bom art, 
we say, and success to the begmners of it! What 
matters it, that a hundred imitators, miserables, whose 
stock-in-Uade is, not ideas, but a couple of candles, 
and somebody, else's book, have started up and over- 
run the land. For our parts, we only wish that the 
example of our novelists were followed by our poets, 
of which, as we understand, there is some likelihood ; 
that they would lend the music of their voice, and 
the illustration of their inspired looks— as they were 
wont to do in the golden age — ^to their own verses ; 
and that it might be permitted to us, for instance, to 
liear the deep- voiced laureate pour forth * his hollow 
oes and aes ' in his own Mort d^ Arthur^ like 

Noise of batUe rolled 
Among the moontaios by the winter sea. 

Digitized by 




The correspondent of a Scotch newspaper lately brought 
forward the followmg little (grrotesque ballad, with an 
inquii7 as to the aathonhip and the circumstances 
referred to : 

The devil sat in Damlck Tower, 
Oat of a shot-hole keekit he; 
He saw Jamie Leitch come ower the brig. 
To storm his batterie. 

Quoth he: 'Lang have I tarried here^ 
And thought for ever to remain. 

Since I was driven frae Galashiels, 
Which lang I 'd doomed to be my ain. 

*But now fiirewell to Elldon Hills, 
Farewell to Darnick Tower and tree. 

For in the reach o' Jamie Leitch 
There is nae dwelling-place for me.' 

Wl' that the devil *s ta'en a flight, 
And ower the Tweed essayed to flee; 

But Jamie caught him by the rump. 
And he has dippit Auld Clootie. 

Darnick, it must he understood, is a little village about 
three miles from Galashiels, and an equal distance firom 
Abbotsford, the poetical laird of wiiich was extremely 
anxious to add it to his domains on account of the above- 
mentioned old tower. A gentleman sent the following 
answer to the inquiry in the newspaper: 'In those 
remote times, as we all know, when witchcraft and 
sorcery held possession of the minds of the people, it 
was customary, as in the case of Sonlis, Michael Scott, 
and others, to attribute Satanic agency to men se- 
cluded in old towers, and possessed of more than ordi- 
nary energy and knowledge. The Heitons, lairds of 
Darnick (see Talet of the Border*, vol. vii.)> were great 
fighters, as old Watt Scott knew to his cost. Their 
crest was a boll's head, armed, which, according to the 
custom of the times, was prominent on the keystone of 
the portal. The character of the old laird at the time 
of the ascendency of Angus was ** deevillsh " enough to 
make him a good representative of ** Clootie ; " and the 
homed head looking through a shot-hole would help the 
ballad-monger to his metaphor. As for ** wee Jamie 
Leitch,** he might be some noted borderer who had 
joined Hertford when he burned Darnick Tower in Sep- 
tember 1545, and whom Heiton eyed with a true border 
feeling through a loophole — the act being very well 
represented by the head and horns of the crest on the 

Now, the fact is, that the verses were written by a 
person recently living, and are simply ajeu tPetprit on a 
fellow-townsman of their author, who had adopted a 
habit of preaching in his native village, and who, not 
content with his mission in that home-fteld, was Anally 
ambitious enough to extend his ministrations to the 
equally benighted hamlet of Darnick. Wo put it to 
our readers, Could there be a better example of the con- 
jectural liistory indulged in by antiquaries where nothing 
is known, than the above answer to the newspaper 
inquiry ? 

David Thomson, the writer of the verses, has a place 
In Lockharfs Memoire of Sir Walter Seoit, as the person 
who always wrote the poetical invitations to ' the Sherra* 
to come to the Galashiels annual dinner. He was a 
cloth-manufiicturer, a simple-hearted worthy man, with 
a great fund of natural humour, which doubtless Sir 
Walter failed not to appreciate. ' Hogg came to break- 
iiist this morning,' says Scott in his diary, 12th December 
1835, *and brought for hUi companion the Galashiels 
bard, David Thomson, as to a meeting of hue TweeddaU 
poeU^ The hite Thomas Tegg, who was n relation of 
Thomson, was taken by liim to Abbotsford, and intro- 
duced as the publisher of Johehy ; which the prudent 
bibliopole thought rather daring on his friend's part. 
However, Sir Walter merely remarked : < The more jokes 
the better,' and gave him a very Idnd reception. 

autifioial dl&uomds. 
Anotlier progressive step towards the possibility of 
creating^ diamonds by a chemical process has been 
realised in the &ct that sapphires have been so produced. 
M. Gaudin has communicated to the Academy of Sciences, 
Paris, a process for obtaining alumina — the clay which 
yields the new metal called aluminum— in transparent 
crystals, which therefore present the same chemical com- 
position as the natural stone known under the name of 
sapphire. To obtain them, he lines a common crucible 
with a coating of lamp-black, and introduces into it equal 
proportions of alum and sulphate of potash, reduced to 
a powder and calcined. He then exposes it for fifteen 
minutes to the fire of a common forge. The crucible is 
then allowed to cool, and on breaking it, the surfiice of 
the lamp-black coating is found covered with numerous 
brilliant points, composed of sulphuret of potaisium, 
enveloping the crystals of alumina obtained, or, in other 
words, real sapphires or corundum. The size of the 
crystals is large in proportion to the mass operated 
upon; those obtained by M. Gaudin are about a mUli- 
m^tre, or 3-lOOths of an inch in diameter, and half n 
millimetre in height. They are so hard that they have 
been found to be preferable to rubies for the purposes 
of watch-making. It is thus that chemistry, by pur- 
suing the recognised course of natural causes, wHi in 
its operation achieve similar results, and produce the 
diamond.-— m//tf'« Current Notes. 


Wavt and bright in the summer air — 
like a quiet sea when the wind blows fair. 
And its roughest breath has scarcely curled 
The green highway to an unknown world — 
Soft whispers passing from shore to shore. 
Like a heart content — ^e% desuring more ; 
Who feels forlorn. 
Wandering thus on the path through the com ? 

A short space since, and the dead leaves lay 

Corrupting under the hedgerow gray : 

Nor hum of insect, nor voice of bird 

O'er tlie desolate field was ever heard; 

Only at eve tlie pallid snow 

Blushed rose-red in the red snn-glow : 

Till, one blest mom. 

Shot up into life the young green com. 

Small and feeble, slender and pale. 

It bent its bead to the winter gale. 

Hearkened the wren's soft note of cheer. 

Scarcely believing spring was near ; 

Saw chestnuts bud out, and campions blow^ 

And daisies mimic the vanished snow. 

Where it was bom. 

On either side of the path through the com. 

The com — the com — the beautiful com, 
Bising wonderful, room by mom. 
First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand, 
Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand. 
Then growing, growing— tall, green, and strongs 
With the voice of the liarvcst in its song^ 
While in fond scorn 
The lark out-carols the murmuring com. 

O strange, sweet path, formed day by day. 

How, when, and wherefore — ^tongue cannot sRy. 

No more than of life's strange paths we know 

Whither they lead us, or why we go, 

Or whether our eyes shall ever see 

The wheat in the ear, or the fruit on the tree. 

Tet— who is forlorn? 

Heaven, that watered the fiirrows, will ripen the com. 

Printed and Publiihed by W. ft R. CnAUBsas, 47 Paternoster 
Row, LowsoM, and 8M Hlfh Street, Eoutauaoii. Also iold by 
William RoBnTM>H, 33 Upper Saokvilla Street, Duauii, and 


Digitized by 


Sititntt nni ^xts. 


No. 236. 

SATURDAY, JULY 10, 1858. 

Fricb 1^. 

In a recent discussion on the subject, it was suggested 
as an argument in favour of a man's marrying his 
deceased wife's sister, that in such a case he would 
Iiave but one mother-in-law. Tlie general laugh 
which greeted this remi^rk, proved how strong is 
the prejudice against that lucliless relationship, upon 
which has been immemorially expended all the sarcasm 
of the keen-witted, all the pointless abuse of the dull. 

Daro any bold writer, taking the injured and 
unpopular side, venture a few wordt in defence of the 
mother-in-law ? 

Unfortunate individual I the very name presents 
lier, in her received character, to the mental eye. 
A lady, stout, loud-voiced, domineering; or thin, 
snappish, small, but fierce; prone to worrying and 
lamenting. Either so overpoweringly genteel and 
grand, that * my son's wife,* poor little body, shrinks 
into a trembling nobody by her own fireside ; or so 
vulgar, that ' my daughter's 'usband' finds it necessary 
politely to ignore her, as she does her h's and her 

These two characters, slightly varied, constitute the 
prominent idea current of a mother-in-law. How it 
originated is difficult to account for ; and why a lady, 
regarded as harmless enough until her children marryi 
should immediately after that event be at once elevated 
to such a painful pedestal of disagreeableness. 

Books, perhaps, may be a little to blame for this, 
us in the matter of step-mothers— of whom we may 
have somewhat to say anon — and surely that author 
is to blame, who, by inventing an unpleasant 
generalised portrait, brings under opprobrium a 
ivhole class. Thus Thackeray may have done more 
harm than he was aware of to many a young couple 
who find ' the old people ' rather trying, as old folks 
will be, by his admirably painted, horrible, but 
happily exceptional character of Mrs Mackenzie. He 
tloes not reflect that his sweet little silly Rosie, as 
well as the much injured wives among these indignant 
young couples, might in time have grown up to be 
themselves mothers-in-law. 

But that is quite another affair. Mrs Henry, 
vrecping angry tears over her little Harry, because 
the feeding and nurturing of that charming child 
lias been impertinently interfered with by Henry's 
mother, never looks forward to a day when she her- 
self might naturally feel some anxiety over the 
bringing up of Harry's eldest born. Mr Jones, 
beginning to fear that Mrs Jones's maternal parent 
haunts his house a good deal, and has far too strong 
na influence over dear Cecilia, never considers how 

highly indignant he should feel if Mrs Jones and 
himself were to be grudged hospitality by missy's 
future spouse— little, laughing, fondling missy, whom 
he somehow cannot bear to think of parting with, at 
any time, to any husband whatsoever; nay, is con- 
scious that should the hour and the man ever arrive, 
papa's first impulse towards the hapless young 
gentleman would be a strong desire to kick him down 

Tims, as the very foundation of a right judgment 
in this, as in most other questions, it is necessary to 
put one's self mentally on the obnoxious side. 

Few will deny that the crisis in parenthood when 
its immediate duties are ceasing, and however suffi- 
cient its pleasures are to the elders, they are no 
longer so to the youngsters, already beginning to find 
the nest too smaU, to plume their wings, and desire 
to fiy— must be a very trying time for all parents. 
Bitter exceedingly to the many whose wedlock has 
turned out less happy than it promised, and between 
whom the chief bond that remains is the children. 
Nor without its pain even to the most united couple, 
who, through all the full years of family cares and 
delights, have had resolution enough to anticipate 
the quiet empty years, when, all the young ones 
having gone away, they two must once more be con- 
tent solely with one another. Happy indeed that 
father and mother whose conjugal love has so kept 
its prior place that they are not afraid even of this 
— the peaceful, shadowy time before they both pass 
away into the deeper peace of eternity. 

Nevertheless, the first assumption of their new 
position is difficult. Young wives do not sufficiently 
consider how very hard it must be for a fond mother 
to lose, at once and for ever, her office as primary 
agent in her son's welfare, if not his happiness ; to 
give him over to a young lady, whom perhaps she 
has seen very little of, and tliat little is not too 
satisfactory. For young people in love will be selfish 
and foolish, and neglectful of old ties in favour of 
the new ; and almost every young man, prior to his 
marriage, contrives, without meaning it, to wound 
his own relations in a thousand insignificant thhigs, 
every one of which is reflected back upon his unlucky 
betrothed, producing an involuntary jealousy, a ten- 
aciousness about small slights, a cruel quick-sighted- 
ness over petty faults. All this is bitterly hard for 
the poor young stranger in the family ; unless, having 
strength and self-control enough to remember that 
*a good son makes a good husband,' she uses all her 
influence, even in courting-days, to keep him firm to 
his aflection and duty. Also, her own claim being, 
although the higher and closer, the newer, the more 

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dearly she lo^es him, the more careful she will be, by 
no orer-intrasion of rights sufficiently obrious, to jar 
against the rights or wound the feelings of others 
who lore him^specially his mother, who has loved 
him all her life. 

Surely this fact alone ought to make any young 
woman, generously and fiuthfully attached to her 
husband, feel a peculiar tenderness towards the 
woman who bore him, nursed him, cherished him— if 
a woman in any way tolerable or worthy of love. 
Even if not, her disagreeablenesses ought to be viewed 
more leniently than those of otiier people. She must 
have had so much to bear with—as the younger 
generation will find out when tlie third generation 
arrives. Nay, the common cares and sufferings of 
mere maternity might well be sufficient, in another 
mother's eyes, to constitute an unalienable claim of 
respect, due from herself towards 'grandmamma.' 

*Bat,' says the incredulous reader, 'this is a purely 
ideal view of the subject Practically, what can you 
do with the old lady who comes worrying you in 
your domestic affairs, criticising your housekeeping, 
dictating to you about the management of your 
nursery, finally cutting you to the heart by hinting 
that you don't take half care enough of *' that poor 
dear fellow, who never looks so well as he did before 
he was married." ' 

Yes, poor dear girl I it must be owned you have a 
good deal to bear on your side also. 

Daughters and sons-in-law being always expected 
to be perfect— the daughter or son by blood being of 
course naturally so in the parental eyes— causes of 
necessity a few painful disenchantments on the part 
of the mother-in-law. She forgets that she must take 
her share of the difficulties which are sure to arise, so 
long as human beings are a little less than angels, 
and earth is not a domestic paradise. She had best 
early reconcile herself to the truth — ^painful, yet jtfit 
and natural — that she has no longer the first right to 
her child. Wlien once a young pair are married, 
parents, as well aa relatives and friends, must leave 
them to make the best of one another. They two 
are bound together indissolubly, and no interference 
of a third party can ever mend what is irremediable ; 
while even in things remediable, any strong external 
influence is quite as likely to do harm as good. 

A wife, be she ever so young, ignorant, or foolish, 
mtut be sole mistress in her husband's house, and not 
even her own parents or his have any business to 
interfere with her, more than by an occasional opinion, 
or a bit of affectionate counsel, which is often better 
not given till asked for. 

And in the strangeness, the frequent solitude, the 
countless difficulties of newly married life, no doubt 
this advice would be eagerly sought for, had it not 
been overmuch intruded at first. A girl, taken out 
of her large, merry family, to spend long, lonely days 
in aa unfamiliar house, be it ever so dear ; or entering, 
inexperienced, upon idl sorts of family cares, would 
frequently be thankful to her very heart for the 
wisdom and kindness of a new mother, if only the 
mother had early taken pains to win that confidence 
which, to be given, requires winning. For neither 
love nor trust comes by instinct; and in most of 
these connections by marriage, where the very fact 
of atrangers being suddenly , brought together, and 
desired to like one another, obstinately inclines them 

the other way — this love and trust, if long in coming, 
frequently never comes at all. Very civil may be 
the outward relations of the parties, but heart-warmth 
is not there. It is always *my husband's family' — 
not *mif family;' my 'daughter's husband,' or 'my 
son's wife'— never 'my son' and 'my daughter.' The 
loving patriarchal union, which both sides, elder and 
younger, ought at least to strive to attain, becomes 
first doubtful, then hopeless, then impossible. 

One secret, origuial cause of this is, the faculty 
most people have of seeing their rights a great deal 
clearer than their duties. About these ' rights' there 
are always clouds rising ; and one of the prominent 
causes of disunion is often that which ought to be the 
very bond of union — the grandchildren. 

Now, if a woman has a right on earth, it certainly 
is to the management of her own children. She 
would not be half a woman if in that matter ahe 
submitted to anybody's advice or opinion contrary 
to her own; or if in all things concerning that 
undoubted possession, *my baby,' she were not as 
fierce as a tigress, and as hard as a rock.' One could 
forgive her any rebellion or indignation at unwarrant- 
able interference from her mother-in-law, or even her 
own mother. And with justice ; for if she have any 
common sense at all, she may, with less experience, 
have as clear practical judgment as grandmamma, 
whose wisdom belongs to a past generation, and 
whose memory may not be quite accurate as to the 
times when she was young. Tet if the daughter-in- 
law has any right feeling, she will always listen 
patiently, and be grateful and yielding to the utmost 
of her power. Nay, there will spring up a new 
sympathy between her and the old lady, to whom 
every new baby-face may bring back a whole tide 
of long-slumbering recollections— children grown up 
and gone away, children undutiful or estranged — or, 
lastly, little children's graves. The most irritable 
and trying of mothers-in-law is a sight venerable 
and touching, as she sits with 'the baby' across her 
knees, gossiping about 'our children' of forty years 

But, speaking of rights, the wife has limits even 
to hers. Surely the 'primal elder curse' must rest 
upon the woman who voluntarily or thoughtlessly 
tries to sow division between her husband and his 
own flesh and blood — above all, between him and his 
mother. And putting aside the sin of it, what a poor, 
jealous coward must she be — how weak in her own 
love, how distrustful of his, who fears lest any influ- 
ence under heaven— least of all those holy, natural 
ties which are formed by heaven — should come 
between her and the man who has chosen her for hia 
wife— his very other aelf ; and whom, if he be at all 
a good man, he never will think of comparing or 
making a rival with any other; because she is not 
another— she is himself. 

On the other hand, a man who, however low in 
station or personally distasteful may be his wife's 
relations, tries to wean her from them, exacting for 
himself her sole and particular devotion, to the 
breaking of the secondary bonds, of which the higher 
bond ought to make both husband and wife only more 
tenacious and more tender — such a one is grievously 
to blame. People may laugh at, and sympathise with, 
the unfortunate victim of 'Mother-in-law Spike;' 
but he is certainly a more respectable personage than 
the ' gentleman ' who, driving in his carriage with his 
wife and son, passes an old woman — the boy's grand- 
mother, crawling wearily along the hot dusty road — 
passes her without recognition. Or the other gentle- 
man—living respectably, even handsomely— who takes 

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a deal of benevolent pains to solicit among hii friends 
and acquaintance Totes for admission to an alms- 
Iiouse for — though he does not exactly call bar so — 
* my wife's mother.' 

It is a carious fact, subversiTe of the theories of 
novelists, that mothers-in-law of sons generally ' get 
on' with them far better than with their daughters-in- 
law. While it is no unfrequent thing to see instances 
of a man's being kindly, even affectionately attached 
to his wife's mother, and she to him — almost any of 
us could count on our fingers the cases we know 
where a daughter-in-law is really a daughter to her 
parents by marriage. Some cause for this is the 
difference of sex : no man and woman in any relation 
of life, except the conjugal one, being ewer thrown 
together so wholly and so intimately as to discoTor 
one another's weak points in the manner women do. 
Consequently, one rarely hears of a lady being at 
daggers-drawing with her father-in-law. She is 
usually on the civilest, friendliest terms with him; 
and he often takes in her a pride and pleasure truly 
paternal. For truly, women who are charming to 
men are common enough : a far safer test of true 
beauty of character is it that a woman should be 
admired and loved by women. It would save half the 
family squabbles of a ^neration, if the young wives 
would bestow a modicum of the pains they once took 
to please their lovers, in trying to be attractive to 
their mothers-in-law. 

But the husband himself has often much to answer 
for. When with the blindness and selfish pride of 
possession natural to a man— and a man in lore — 
he brings bis new idol into his old home, and expects 
all the family to fall down and worship her, why, 
they naturally object to so doing. They cannot be 
expected to see her with his eyes. They may 
think her a very nice girl, a very likeable girl, 
and if left alone would probably become extremely 
fond of her in time, in a rational way; but every 
instinctive obstinacy of human nature revolts from 
compelled adoration. Heaven forbid that a man 
should not love, honour, and cherish his own wife, 
and take her part against all assaulters, if needful, be 
they of his own flesh and blood ; but one of the 
greatest injuries a man can possibly do his wife is to 
be always exacting for her more love than she has 
had time to win— always shewing her forth as a 
picture of perfection, whUe common eyes see her only 
as an ordinary woman, blest with the virtues and 
faults which women can so quickly detect in one 
another. The kindest, wisest, most dignified course 
for any young husband on bringing his wife home is 
to leave her there, trusting her to make her way, and 
take her own rightful position, by her own honourable 

A man has ordinarily little time or indination to 
quarrel with his mother-in-law. The thousand little 
irritations constantly occurring between women who 
do not suit one another, yet are trying hard to keep 
on good terms for appearance' or duty's sake, are 
ridiculous trifles which he cannot understand at all. 
Better he should not. Better the wife should keep her 
little troubles to herself, and be thankful that on his 
aide he is well disposed to be tolerant towards grand- 
mamma. Grandmamma, on her part, not unfirequently 
likes her son-in-law extremely, asks his advice, is 
proud of his success in life; and though thinking, 
of course, that he is not quite good enough for her 
darling child— as indeed the Angel Gabriel and the 
Admirable Crichton rolled into one scarcely would 
have been— still she has a very considerable amount 
of respect for him, and kindly feeling towards him. 

If she has not, and shews her want of it, she is the 
tinklndest, most dangerous mother that any married 
woman can be afflicted with. If by word or insinua- 
tion she tries to divide those whom God has joined 

together, if she is so mad as to believe she shall 
benefit her daughter by degrading her daughter's 
husband— truly this mother-in-law, cherishing a dis- 
like upon unjust grounds, deserves any retribution 
that may reach her. Even for just cause, such an 
antipathy is a fatal thing. 

And here we come to one of the most painful 
phases of this subject, one of the sharpest agonies 
that woman's nature can endure— that is, when a 
mother-in-law has to see her child, son or daughter, 
unworthily mated, forced to wear out life, to die a 
slow daily death, in the despair of that greatest curse 
upon earth, an ill-assorted marriage. 

One can conceive, in such a case, the motherly 
heart being stung into direst hatred for the cause of 
such misery— nay, bursting at times into the rage of 
a wild beast compelled to witness the torture of its 
young. This motlier-passion, as helpless as hopeless, 
must be, of its kind, distinct from any other human 
wretchedness; and under its goading almost any 
outbreak of indignation or abhorrence would be com- 
prehensible — nay, pardonable. To have to sit still, 
and see a heartless woman tormenting the life out of 
one*s own beloved son, for whom nothing was too 
noble and precious; or a brutal husband breaking 
the heart of a tender daughter, to whom, ere her 
marriage, no living creature ever said a harsh or 
unkind word— this must be terrible indeed to bear. 
And yet it has to be borne, again and again. God 
comfort these unhappy mothers-in-law! Their suf- 
ferings are sharp enough to make amends for the 
wickedness of a hundred Mr$ Maekeitzks. 

Yet until the last limit, the only safe course for 
them is to endure, and help their children to endure. 
Cases do arise, and a wise legislature has lately 
provided for them, when righteousness itself demands 
the dissolution of an unrighteous marriage ; when a 
man is justified before heaven and earth in putting 
away his wife ; and the counsel, ' Let not the wife 
depart from her husband,' is rendered nugatory by 
circumstances which entail sacrifices greater than 
any woman has a right to make, even to her husband. 
Every one must have known such instances, where 
the law of divorce becomes as sacred and necessary 
as that of marriage. But such melancholy unions 
are, thank God, the exception, not the rule, in this 
our land, and form no justification for the machina- 
tions of bad mothers-in-law. Therefore let them, in all 
minor troubles, practise patience^ courage, hope. If, 
according to the apostle, who wrote on the subject 
with that wide calm observation which sometimes 
seizes on a truth more clearly than does one-sided 
experience— the unbelieving husband may be con- 
verted by the believing wife, and vice versd, who 
knows but that a harsh husband, a neglectful wife, 
may sometimes be won over to better things, by the 
quiet dignity, the forbearance, the unceasing loving- 
kindness, of a good, generous mother-in-law? 

Let us take her in one last phase in her long life — ^it 
must have been a sufficiently long one — and these few 
words concerning her are ended. 

There arrives ofttimes a season when the sharpest, 
most intolerable mother-in-law becomes harmless; 
when a chair by the fireside, or a bed-ridden station 
in some far-away room, constitutes the sole dominion 
from which she can exercise even the show of rule or 
interference. Thence, the only change probable or 
desirable will be to a narrower pillow, where the 
gray head is laid down in peace, and all the acerbities, 
infirmities, or fatuities of old age are buried tenderly 
out of sight, under the green turf that covers ' dear 

Then, and afterwards, blessed are those sons and 
daughters, by blood or marriage, who, during her 
lifetime, so acted towards her that het death lays 
upon them no burden of bitter remembrance. And 

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blessed is she who, living, lived so that her memory 
is hallowed by all her childreu alike, and who is 
remembered by them only as * mother' — never, even 
in name, as ' mother-in-law.' 


GuiKES is a dull town in the north of France, 
about seven miles from Calais; and needs much 
to enliven it. It was on a Sunday afternoon, in 
December 1848, that I ran into a small apartment, 
shouting out : ^ Tom ! my lad, let us off to Ardres. 
Come along. The elections are on to-day, I hear, and 
all goes in favour of Napoleon. Vive la Rdpublique 1 ' 
France in 1848! What pleasing recollections, 
what happy thoughts crowd upon me whenever I 
revert to the days I passed in La Belle France 
throughout that memorable year. Happy, I say, for 
I was a Briton, though a young one — left without 
control for the first time in my life, with a moderate 
amount of pocket-money, and a good deal of assur- 
ance. I was about eighteen years of age — had blue 
eyes and a fair complexion ; and having, from a lad, 
imbibed a certain taste for raw beef and porridge, 
was pretty muscular, and exceedingly fond of fun. 
It will, therefore, be seen at once, when I say that a 
kind papa had sent me to France to learn the lan- 
guage in a short time, and nothing but the language, 
that he couldn*t have sent me to a better place. 
Young as I was, however, I was almost involuntarily 
driven into politics. 

The Tom I addressed above, was an English youth 
of about my own age, but a great deal more bull- 
doggy, and a terrible cracker of cocoa-nuts, as lie 
termed Frenchmen's heads: a friend after my own 
heart. He was in Guines to learn to parUz-vous. 
Arcades ambo! With him all went jollily. Beef- 
steaks and homo were well-nigh forgotten— never 
repined after. Together we sung Scots wha hae, and 
Old England shall weather the Storm ; and more than 
once have we silenced the cabaret chant of Guerre 
aux Anglais with a broadside of Rule Britannia, or 
Tivpitiwitchet. Where Tom went, I went; what I 
did, Tom did, and, entre nous, for a long time yery 
little progress was made in French. 
Tom was delighted with my proposition, and 

it was agreed that we should call for old B , to 

accompany us. Off we started, and upon crossing 
the Place, came as usual upon Henri, moustache, 
long sword, cornered hat, and all complete. He 
shewed his dirty teeth as usual — for he had vowed 
vengeance on us— like a vicious horse, such as not 
even a Rarey could tame. Henri was the com- 
missary's bead man, and an inveterate and undis- 
guised hater of all and everything English, the 
folks of which nation he was continually looking 
up, and making them understand the true nature 
of a procU'verbal His red moustache was so gum- 
med and twisted, that it stuck out at right angles 
with his small turned-up nose, a distance of three 
inches on either side. He got up this forky append- 
age, he said, to keep in awe all mauvais sujets. 
A 'ha, ha, ha!' from Tom as he passed, annoyed 
him ; and ho twirled one end of his facial cross-bar, 
and looked from under his shaggy eyebrows, as 
much as to say : * I '11 nail you yet, my chicks.' 

We found old B indulging in a cigar, and 

sipping strong coffee and cognac. 'Will you go 
Baron ?' * Ve I ve I Quite k votre service.' 

Who was old B ? Now, I cannot tell you, nor 

could any one I ever met tell me. He couldn't, or 
wouldn't, tell himself. This is all I know : he was a 
pompous, jolly, crafty, good-tempered, very poor 
professor of ten languages, but teaching only one— 
his own — German, which I was told he couldn't 
spelL He uhis, however, a baron ; he would always 

stick to that. It is very desirable I should dwell 

somewhat on the merits and demerits of old B . 

My narrative requires it. Old B demands it. 

He was a podgy, short-legged man, of about f ve> 
and-fifty, who got himself up for thirty or five-and- 
thirty, on Sundays and gala-days. He wore a wig, a 
broad-brimmed white hat, and a snuffy moustache; was 
very upright, and had all the appearance of a live 
baron, especially when supported by his gold eye-glass 
and immense diamond brooch, his tightly strapped 
blue inexpressibles of chess-board pattern, his small 
pointed-toed patent boots, and well-fitting swallow- 
tailed dress-coat of a greenish hue. 

His appearance was certainly distingue ; but tlie 
most curious thing was, no one ever remembered 
the baron to have been dressed differently. . This 
had been his gala-dress from time immemorial — 
when in prosperous times he lost his thousands at 
rouge et noir in Paris; the garments, perhaps, he con- 
descended to wear when he dined t6te-k-tdte with the 
President of the United States, and those in which 
the Patagonians, or some other onians of South 
America, desired to crown him their king. His coat, 
like himself, never grew threadbare, nor his yarns 
either. He had captivated an English countess, and 
often related, to our immense satisfaction, how in 
consequence he was forced to fly from England; 
he had drunk tea in China, and flirted with the 
maidens of Otaheite ; in short, he was the wonder 
and delight of all who met him, and he did look a 
real baron, although his brilliants were paste, and 
he had been a valet. This singular old person, 
strange as it may appear, nearly brought me to 
the hulks. This was the way it happened. 

Rapidly did we leave Guines, passing the English 
ironworks to our left, ascending the hill, flanked by 
its double row of trees, until we stood on memorable 
ground. We crossed the Field of the Cloth of Gold. 

I ventured to bring old B out on the subject, but 

the professor evaded my general question, and quietly 
answered that he didn't see anything about the scene 
that it should be christened by so fine a name. The 
baron seemed colder than usual. Tom tried politics, 
but it was of no use ; I had to come back to the old 
subjects. Les jolis blens yeux ! Vive la bagatelle ! 
The right chord was struck; the baron yarned and 
yarned away, and kept us in a roar, and on we went, 
determined to be jolly for that evening. 

An hour's walk brought us within view of the 
ancient — once strongly fortified— pretty little town of 
Ardres, where many a battle had been fought, to be 
fought over and over again ; and where we English 
made our last stand in France— to be eventually 
kicked out altogether. Now, a six-pounder would 
bring the whole place down. Yet there is the fosse, 
the portcullis, and long arched gateway with its 
ponderous doors and rusty irons: the fosse is dry, 
the walls are crumbling— all is decay. 

There resides here one remarkable Englishman — 
remarkable, because he ought to have been hanp^ed 
fifty years ago, and is himself of the same opinion. 
He is a wiry little man, upwards of a century old, 
and receives a pension from the French government 
for having sold Nelson in the Mediterranean. He 
was intrusted, it appears, with some important 
dispatches and other documents from Nelson, which 
he ran off with, and delivered into Bonaparte's hands. 
Exiled, a handsome pension ever since has been his 
reward. He was wont to allude strangely to the 
plunder of Malta. I once asked him how he felt, 
when h^ heard afterwards of the affair in Aboukir 
Bay. Tears started to his gray eyes, and a blush 
passed over his weather-beaten face. He invariably 
spoke well of old Albion, and I fancy there was 
a great longing within him to visit once again his 
native land. This old traitor lives at Ardres. 

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Through the faraous lonfi^ arcliway, we entered the 
town, and found all bustle and excitement. Flags 
were flying and drums tattooing. Some were dis- 
cussing, under the influence of long pipes and 
shrugged-up shoulders, tlie glories of La Belle France ; 
while others marched in a row, bawling out the 
Marseillaise. Cries of 'Vive Napoleon' resounded 
from the old ramparts. The town was full, gay, 
and happy. 

* Suppose we seek Monsieur H ^ I said; *we 

can then have a four game at billiards. He must 
have put up near at hand.' 

' A la bonne heure,' rejoined the baron ; ' I yill go 
hunt him out myself. I know Tell he vill come.' 
Pointing to a particular house, he marched off in 
his usual dashing style, saying as he left us: 'You 
▼ill enter li^ and yait for us. Au revoir 1' 

Through clouds of tobacco-smoke, innumerable 
dominoes and cards, and all kinds of noises and 
smells, we entered the cafe'. The rapid clack of 
the billiard-balls was to be beard amid the incessant 
jingling of glasses and the clattering hubbub which 
Frenchmen alone can make. But now they had 
assembled to uphold the glorious privilege of whole- 
sale liberty and uniyersal suffrage. How, then, could 
there be less excitement ? If a sinister-looking fellow 
had followed us from the time we first came into the 

town, and continued to track old B 's steps from 

caf^ to cafe in his search for H ^ what of it ? The 

baron was always an attraction. Monsieur H could 

not be found. 'N'importel I vill take you a game,' 
said the baron, examining a cue. ' It is a good table. 
AUons !' We continued to play upwards of an hour. 
I made some excellent canons; but the baron was, 
beyond doubt, the great gun of the room. Tired of 
play, we sat down at a small side-table over our 
cigars and grog, and placidly examined the motley 
groups around as. This was enjoyment. Vive la 

More than another hour had flown by when we 
tliought of returning; but lo! what meant that 
eager gaze of the outdoor population ? There was no 
necessity to think even, for a fellow in a blouse came 
quickly up and told us we were discovered, and must 
be off. Qu'est co que c*c8t? Ha! we were detected 
and foiled. We were politicals — spies direct from 
Paris to tamper with the voters. Qui, il u'y connait 
personne. lis viennent de Paris— oui. 

The fact was— however incredible it may appear — 
the good people of Ardres had really and positively 
been led away, by the baron's distinguished manners 
and appearance, to imagine that we bad come to 
their town to interfere with the voting. 

Ilalf-a-dozen fellows, armed with stout sticks, were 
deputed to shew us the way out, and give us a sound 
drubbing into the bargain. 

Upon leaving the cafi^ we were roughly collared. 
Here Tom floored his man ; the baron remonstrated 
and the brooch sparkled: but it was of no avail: 
we were spies, and off we should pack. 

They dragged us through the town, and with kicks 
and cuffs sent us flying homeward under a heavy 
Tollcy of stones from all the gamins of the place. 

O Liiberty! Liberty I ' It 's your absurdly ci^^a^^ 
manner that's done it all, baron,' I cried. *But what 
shall we do?' again I shrieked, for I was in a towering 
passion, 'Fight? Nonsense. Pocket the affront? 
No — I will have revenge ! ' 

* Revenge!' echoed Tom. *I will punch the first 
Frenchman's head I come across ; but, I say, that was 
a good on on Crapaud's figure-head. My knuckle 's 

'Parbleu, my pack is cut too. Diable, ve vill go 
to the pr^fet. Oh, my coat is ruined — my hat is 

smashed.' Thus lamented old B 

In quite a different spirit firom that in which we 

had set out, we trudged homeward : I plotting ven- 
geance—but what I didn't know; Tom intending to 
fight the first opportunity. The baron did nothing 
but eye his ruined coat and battered-in chapeau. 

Upon entering Guines, old B parted hurriedly 

from us. Tom and I continued our way very deject- 
edly, and were crossing the Place, when, lo ! vengeance 
was in my grasp ; all, all was clear as noonday — ^we 
could shock the whole nation in its nicest point. My 
mind was relieved. 

'Tom,' said I, with startling earnestness, looking 
him straight in the face, and clapping one hand on his 
shoulder, while with the other I pointed in the 
direction of the Hotel de Ville— 'Tom, we will cut 
down that tree of humbug.' 

' Bravo, bravissimo ! ' shouted Tom. 

'Hush r I resumed. 'Come to my apartment to- 
morrow, and we will concoct our plans.' 

' That tree is doomed. Bon soir.' 

We met next evening, and, for the benefit of future 
historians, and guidance of all would-be plotters, I 
will explain how we purposed to carry out our 
desperate resolves. 

♦ I have,' I began, ' thought over the whole matter, 
and see no great obstacle to the attainment of our 
wishes, provided we can overcome the first that 
presents itself. We must get a saw, and that so 
cleverly, that not a soul must even dream of such a 
thing. How is it to be done? Now, look ye here, 

Tom,' I continued: 'you know little W at the 

ironworks better than I ; call upon him to-morrow — 
keep your eyes open for the tool-house— you will fall 
over abundance of saws there— unobserved, clap one 

up your back, button your coat, bid little W 

adieu, and hasten here to me.' 

'Very pretty; to be nailed stealing a saw ; no, no! 
hit upon something better than that.' 

' Tom,' I answered quickly, ' I have pondered over 
the affair all night and to-day, and this is the only 
feasible plan I see; besides, if you are detected, it 
was a wager, you understand, and we must let our 
project fall to the ground.' 

' Fall, yes ; the tree must fall : all right— 1 11 get 
the saw.' 

'Tom, you 're a brick.' 

Here, cigar in mouth, he threw himself into a chair, 
cocked his legs on the mantel-piece, and folded his 
arms, while I proceeded. 

'The saw obtained, we must choose a dark night, 
and issue out of the house, about two o'clock, by the 
front-parlour window; for, by that time, we shall 
probably find Henri asleep.' 

' Well,' rejoined my companion, ' s'pose t 'other — 
s'pose Henri finds us awake? — ^his carbine is loitided.' 

' What, the white feather, Tom ?' 

*0 dear, no; I should think not— go ahead: we 
shall only be shot down by Redspikes, or have a little 
quiet recreation for five or ten years in the hulks — 
capital opportunity to arrive at a thorough loiowledge 
of the idioms of the language. I never shall speak 
French if I don't do something— so down with the 
humbugging tree, and the sooner the better.' 

We settled upon the following Friday. 

The inhabitants of Guines were justly proud of their 
emblem, as three attempts had been made, and had 
failed, to transplant a suitable poplar to its consecrated 
space on the Place, just before the H&tel de Ville, 
before they possessed the ' largest and finest Tree of 
Liberty in the whole of France.' They dug about it 
and dunged it, placed a pretty tricolored painted 
wooden railing round its enclosure, and bid Henri 
guard it with his most zealous care, ay, with his life. 

By Friday, it was known that Napoleon had gained 
the presidentship. Guines was said to have favoured 

* Tom, all right. Come along, are you ready ? It 

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rains in torrents, and the wind is awfully high — so 
much the better ? Yes— shut your door. Hush I 
hark ! Tread gently down this corridors-mind that 
step : c'est le premier pas qui carte 1 ' 

I had brought Tom to my room, as arranged. As 
the clock struck two, we buttoned up our old coats to 
the ne(^, fastened thick towels round our heads, tied 
on our slippers, and glided softly down a short flight 
of stairs into the parlour, where the window was 
soon opened, and the green blinds outside thrown 

With palpitating hearts, we looked out npon the 
darkness. What a night! The rain fell, and the 
wind howled fiercely through the deserted streets. 
The prospect was anything but inviting, and I mast 
own I began to feel my courage oozing away like that 
of Bob Acre8*s, when Tom very deyerly dropped into 
the street below, and called on me to follow. In the 
open air my pluck reviTed, and we had taken only a 
few steps forward, when— bang, bang. 

*What on earth is that row? It will rouse the 
whole place. It 's only a loose half of the blind flapping 
against the wall. Quick, on to my back ; you must 
close and tie it. Leave the window open.' 

Again we stealthily glided away along the most 
secluded thoroughfares, now and then stopping to 
listen for an unwelcome footstep; but nothing was 
to be heard save tlie roaring wind and pelting rain. 
We reached the Place unmolested, and strained our 
eyes towards the Hdtel de Ville. We gained the 
door; another pause; good—Bedspikes was asleep. 

* To work.' 

A few hasty strides brought us to the object of 
our vengeance. The saw is drawn, Tom's arm is 

^JDiabU/' he whispered, <I can't reach the tree. 
We are done — these cursed rails. Shall we get over?' 

'No, escape were then impossible. By Liberty, we 
won't be done,' said I, placing my shoulder firmly 
against the fence-work. * Now for your weight, Tom.* 
One, two, three. Ugh — crack went the wood-work; 
and in another minute we were in the enclosure, and 
hard at work. 

Sawing to windward, we had wellnigh brought the 
monster low, when we heard footsteps approaching; and 
we had to lie down flat by the side of our victim till 
the unconscious individual had passed away. Soaked 
to the skin, we rose and resumed our task, and soon 
had the satisfaction to flnd the tree give. Another 
vigorous essay, and it cracked ; then placing a round 
stone in the incision made by the saw, which opened 
wider and wider with every succeeding gust of wind, 
we prepared to leave the spot. 

'Do you think she'll go?' said Tom. 

'Depend on it, she'll go now with the first heavy 
squall ; she'll go, but we'll wait the issue yonder at 
the comer. Sharp's the word. By Jove, she's off!' 

I bad barely uttered these words, when the pon- 
derous tree fell with a roar, smashing through the 
fence-work that surrounded it. The noise was a 
fearful one to be heard in the middle of such a night. 
We had scarcely reached a sheltering position, a 
few yards off, when up flew a dozen windows, and 
out flew Henri, carbine in hand. 

^Quivalk?' No reply. 

He stood still a moment, then dropped his head as 
in the act of listening. We suffered an agonising 
suspense. Just then a door slammed violently in the 
opposite direction to where we lay ensconced, and 
off we bounded. We had escaped. It was the work 
of a few minutes only to regain the parlour, fasten 
up the blinds and window, and creep quietly into bed. 

Next morning, the town was in an uproar. 
Telegraphs were at work — so was poor Henri. 
Louis Nap. was furious— so was poor Henri. The 
authorities had the impudence^sheer thoughtless 

impertinence — to interfere with my appetite for a 
whole month, by quartering a dozen blood-thirsty 
gendarmes in a court-yard right facing our salU a 
manger. But, however, in spite of awful moustache 
and Napoleonic messages; in spite of the tales of 
Cherie, tlie maid, who archly hinted at dirty marks 
on the window-sill; in spite of the model they got 
made from the foot-prints found in the enclosure; 
in spite of more than one hundred examinations 
before the prdet^all they proved was, that Henri 
had been fast asleep, and the saw 'used by aa 
experienced hand.' 




Havtvo catalogued the eatables of three hundred 
years ago, we now turn to the wines; the yearly 
order for which we flnd to be ' 10 tons, 2 hogsheads 
of Gascoigne wyne— namely, 8 tons of red wyne, 
6 tons of clarett, and 2 tons, 2 hogsheads, of whyte 
wyne,' at L.4, 18s. 4d. the tun. The earl seems to 
have retained the tastes of bis Norman ancestors 
for the fair wines of France; but we would fain have 
known whether generous port, then so little popular 
with the English, was ever admitted to his board, 
or whether sherry, immortalised by Shakspesie some 
half-century later under its other name of sack, had 
yet found its way into the cellars of Wresil ; but 
on these points the Household Book is silent, nor is 
there mention made of any kind of spirits. Beer was 
the principal beverage of the household, and to 
discover the cheapest method of manufacturing it, 
seems to have cost the eari and his council some 
anxious days, if not sleepless nights, for we find the 
most minute calculations entered into on the subject. 

We are able to collect from these pages the names 
of a large variety of birds, which, though now lightly 
esteemed, were, in those days, introduced as luxuries 
at the tables of the great ; thus, it is thought good 
that sea-gulls be had for my lord's mess, and none 
other, if they be in season. Wypes (or lapwings), 
stints, redshanks, bitterns, curlews, with many moro 
equally strange, or equally distasteful to us as articles 
of food, are mentioned with similar restrictions, and 
seem to liave been placed side by side with partridges, 
pheasants, snipes, and wood-cocks ; even larks are set 
down as a delicacy not to be unreservedly enjoyed. 
Swans and peacocks were in high favour, and a 
warrant, drawn up as formally as if it related to the 
oonveyance of all the estates of all the Percies, 
authorises the bailiff of his lordship's manor of 
Leckingfield, to ' deliver to my well-beloved servants, 
Richard Gowge, comtroller of my household, and 
Gilbert Weddell, clarke of my kecfainge, against the 
feaste of Ciiristmas next coming, 20 cygnets,' &a 

We find in this list no mention of turkeys ; but had 
it been drawn up a few years later, they would prob- 
ably have held a prominent place, for Baker in his 
Chronicles says of the fifteenth year of this reign : 
*It happened that many things were now newly 
brought into England, whereupon tliis rhyme was 

' Turkies, carps, hops, piccarell, and beere. 
Came into England all in one yere.* 
The Household Book, however, clearly proves this to 
be incorrect, so far as the articles of hops and beer 
were concerned. 

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Let n» now take a momentaxy glance at the earl's 
breakfast-table, choosing for oar yisit a season when 
all good Catholics are supposed to eschew a too great 
attention to creature comforts ; and, first, we miss the 
now almost Indispensable luxuries of tea and coflee, 
for which, to modern tastes, the * quart of beyre and 
the qoart of wyne' are but rude substitutes; but 
there is the goodly loaf of trencher (brown) bread, 
the two mancheta, made of delicate wheaten flour, 
' the dysh of batter, and the pece of salt-flsh, or dysh 
of buttered eggs,' the latter to be replaced on flesh- 
days by half a chine of mutton or a chine of beef 
boiled : no great stint after all ! 

My lord and lady's fast-day dinner consisted of 
several Tarleties of flsh, such as * tarbot slyced or 
baked, a dysh of flounders, a dysh of fried smelts, 
with salmon, sprotts, and salt-fish, five manchetts, a 
pottell of beyre, and a pottell of wyne;' to this was 
added for them that had the 'revercion' — that is to 
say, those who waited and took the leavings—' three 
lofes of bred, and three pottells of beyre.' 

It will be remarked that there is here no mention 
of vegetables: potatoes, peas and beans, were then 
unknown in England ; but that others were at least 
occasionally introduced, may be gathered from a sub- 
sequent order, that 'from heretoforth there be no 
herbes bought, seeing that the cooks may have them 
anewe in my lord's garden;' and in the list of the 
servants we find a 'gardener for setting of herbes, 
cheppinge of knots, and sweepynge the garden cleane.' 

Similar minute directions are given for the 
'ordcrynge' of the boards of my lord's children and 
those of his various dependents ; and we observe a 
gradual decrease in the scale of luxury as we 
approach the lower offices, the ' dyshe of fresh fish, 
and the dyshe of cod or lynge, with butter, bread, 
and beyre,' dealt out to the head servants, being 
exchanged in the latter case for a 'pece of salt-fish' 

We have no bill of fare of any of the ' principal 
feasts;' but, from the variety of choice viands laid in 
for them, they seem to have been conducted on the 
most liberal and magnificent scale; indeed, no one 
who studies this Household Book can for a moment 
doubt tliat boundless hospitality reigned throughout 
the princely establishment of the Percy ; but it is as 
a domestic economist we are now chiefly consider- 
ing him; and of his pre-eminence in that character, 
almost every page furnishes many, and sometimes 
amusing examples : thus, we And him on one occasion, 
always of course with the help of 'his council,' taking 
a review of the operations of the past year, and 
gravely noting down such defects as the following, 
'in order that the provision thereof be amendit 
yerely from henceforth:' *That there be no white 
salt occupied in my lord's hous, without it be for the 
pantre, or for castynge upon meat or for seasonynge 
of meat; that, whereas mustarde hath been bought 
of the sauce-maker aforetime, that now it be made 
within my lord's hous, and that one be provided to 
be groom of the squellery that can make it; that 
there be no lambes bought when they be at the 
darrest, without it be for my lord's boorde, the cham- 
berlayns meas, and the stewardes meas ; and that 
whereas earthyn pots be bowghte, that ledder pots 
be bowghte for Uiem for servynge for lyveriea and 
mealet in my lord's hous.' 

These are a few of many equally important matters 
that engaged the attention of one who, in early life, 
had directed the movements of an army, and who had 
yet to stand side by side with his royal master on 
the memorable * Field of the Cloth of Gold.' 

In looking through these pages, we catch an occa- 
sional glimpse of some of the sports and diversions of 
the era to which they refer. 

Shooting with the long-bow, once so much practised 
by the English both as a means of defence and a 
favourite exercise, seems about this time to have 
fallen into some disrepute; for, during the reign of 
Henry YIII., acts of parliament were passed, render- 
ing it compulsory for every man under sixty, except 
spiritual men and justices, to have a bow and arrows 
constantly in his house, and also that every servant 
should possess a bow and four arrows, master pro- 
viding the same, and stopping the purchase-money 
out of his wages. In spite, however, of these 
stringent laws, we find good old Latimer constrained 
a few years later to lift up his powerful voice in 
behalf of an act which he designates as ' Grod's instru- 
ment, whereby He hath given ua mahy victories 
against our enemies,' and whidi, he moreover adds, 
is 'a wholesome kind of exercise, and much com- 
mended in physic' But that the use of the long-bow, 
however unfashionable elsewhere, was still practised at 
Wresil, is evident from the sum 'payde yerely to my 
lord's bowyer for seyinge and dressynge all his lord- 
ship's bowes in the yoman of the bowes keeping firom 
tyme to tyme, and also to the flecher for seyinge to 
all the shaif arrowes and all others — ^he to fynde,' it is 
added with characteristic precision, ' all feders, waxe, 
glewe, and silke.' 

Christmas in the olden time was, as is well known, 
a season of almost unbounded mirth and hilarity : in 
the houses of the great especially, Folly, with bis cap 
and bell, seemed for the moment to reign paramount ; 
and we are not therefore surprised to find a rewarde, 
as it is here styled, given yearly to 'an Abbot of 
Misrewle :' this being doubtless, as the editor suggests, 
the same respectable personage who, after the Refor- 
mation, when the word abbot had acquired an ill 
sound, reappeared as the ' Lord of Misrule,' to preside 
over the Christmas gambols in the houses of our chief 
nobility. A master of the revels was also appointed 
for ' overseeing and orderynge the plays, interludes, 
and dressynges that is played before my l(»d on the 
twelfth day after Christmas.' 

The drama seems to have been the favourite amuae- 
ment; and Scriptural subjects, not excepting those 
even which involve the deepest and most awful 
mysteries of the Christian faith, were chosen as 
vehicles for the display of dramatic action or panto- 
mimic skill. The priests were not only the authors 
of these religious plays, but in most cases the actors 
also. We have already heard of my lord's clerical 
almoner distinguishing himself as a playwright, and 
we now find others of the same holy calling ' playing 
a play at Shrovetide,' and again ' playing the play of 
Resurrection upon Easter-day in the morning in my 
lord's chapelL' 

Minstrels of various degrees of merit, dependent 
apparently upon the rank of their masters — ^for an 
' erls mynstrelle, ' we observe, was to receive more 
than a lord's—are noted down amongst the regular 
recipients of his lordsliip's bounty; in return for, 
or more probably in anticipation of which, some 
of their fraternity were always to be found playing 
at my lord's chamber-door, and those of his fiimily 
and guests, as soon as day dawned on New Year's 

In the administration of his charities, the Esrl of 

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Northttmberland proved himself a good Catholic, for 
he lavished what must then have been considerable 
sums in gifts to the church ; and though we, whoso 
lot has fallen on more enlightened times, may feel 
inclined to smile at the misappropriation of some of 
them, we must not forget at the same time to do 
justice to the liberality of the hand that knew how 
to scatter its wealth in so many and such diverse 

The shrine of our Lady in the Whitefriars at Don- 
caster seems to have been particularly favoured by 
the earl, being mentioned here as his own foundation. 
Both it and the prior who presided over it enjoyed a 
large share of his patronage. But he also assisted in 
*upholdynge the lytes of waxe which his lordship 
fyndeth bumynge yerely before our Lady of Walsing- 
ham, Sainte Margaret, in Lincolnshire, and the holy 
blood of Hailes '—this last being a pretended relic of 
the blood of our Saviour, brought from the Holy 
Land by the Earl of Cornwall in the reign of Henry 
IIL, and by him deposited in the monastery of Hailes 
in Gloucestershire. 

Several very ancient, and, as we 8uppo8e,now obsolete 
popish ceremonies are here alluded to, amongst others 
tliat of 'creeping (to) the cross on Good Friday,' 
which act of corporeal debasement the good earl and 
countess and their children diligently performed. 

On Maundy Thursday, the custom, still kept up by 
the sovereign, of relieving as many poor people as 
the benefactor is years old, was strictly observed in 
the castle of Wresil : gowns, shirts, wooden trenchers 
loaded with bread, *eahen cups' filled with wine, 
leathern purses containing pence equal in number to 
the years attained by the donor, were freely dealt 
round. One of the items thus alluded to is curious : 

*That my lord cans to be bowghto on Maundy 
Thursday 3| yards of brode violett clothe, for a 
gowne for his lordship to do service in, and to be 
furrede with blake lambe, which gowne my lord 
weareth all the tyme his lordship doeth service ; and 
after he hath done his service, at his sayd Maundy, 
doth gyf to the poorest man that he fyudeth, as he 
thynketh among them all.' 

On New Year's-day, there was a general interchange 
of gifts between the various members and inmates of 
the family; and rewards were dealt out to those of 
the domestics who were so fortunate as to be chosen 
to convey them ; but the exact amount to be given to 
each was carefully written down ; nothing was to be 
left to caprice, nothing to impulse : 

*My lord uaeth and accustometh. to gyf yerely to the 
servant of my lady, his daughter, the little Lady 
Margaret aforesaid, now a staid matron, and the wife 
of the Lord Cliflbrd, if she be on New-year's Day 
with his lordship, and send him a New-year*8 gyfc, 
6s. 8d.' 

The removal from place to place of a household such 
as that we have been describing must have been, under 
any circumstances, rather a serious affair ; and con- 
sidering that it was customary to remove a large 
portion, if not the whole, of the household furniture, 
we almost wonder that it could ever have been 
attempted more than once or twice in a lifetime. 
Hie usual mode of travelling for gentlemen was on 
horseback ; while the ladies either rode on a pillion 
behind them, or singly on their own palfreys, which 
tliey exchanged, when fatigued, or in bad weather, for 
a covered litter. We find, however, several kinds of 
carriages mentioned, such as horse-litters, chairs, 
close *carres,' chariots, and carts; but some of these 
bore small resemblance to the vehicles so named in 
the present day ; the chariot, for instance, must have 
been a sort of wagon, as is evident from the load 
assigned to it in the general order for the removal of 
the family, and also from seven * great trotting horses' 
being appointed to draw it, and a chariotman, on a 

smaller nag, to ride beside them. More than two 
horses had never yet been used for carriages, com- 
monly so called; and it was reserved for the proud 
and luxurious George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, 
some fifty years later, to astonish the worthy citizens 
of London, by appearing in the streets in a coach 
drawn by six horses. 

Still, whatever form it might ossume, the chariot 
took precedence of all the other conveyances em- 
ployed, and seems on these occasions to have been 
put to an unaccustomed use, for certain officers were 
charged * yerely, before the remewval of my lord at 
Michaelmas, to see all the vestry stuf, and the ward- 
robe stuf, carried by my lord's own chariot to the 
place appointed ; becaus my lord shall be put to no 
further charge of carridges than needeth, seeynge that 
the carridgc, with my lord's own chariot, may save 
the same, and the stuf begone at least a fortnight 
before his remewval.' 

If his' lordship travelled unaccompanied by his 
family, six horses were required for himself and suite, 
as thus: ' A nngge for him to ryde upon ; a second, to 
be led for him to change ; a third, for the groom of 
the robes to ride afore with his maile ; two others, for 
clothes-sacks, containing his lordship's bedde and 
body apporail ; and, lastly, one for the groom of the 
livery to ride afore, with the shavinge basin and 

All hail to the days of railways, and carpet-bags 
of diminished state, but added comfort, when an 
overland journey to India occasions less trouble, and 
occupies not much more time than was once expended 
in a transit between London and York. Well, though, 
might the ex-coochmnn of a nobleman, transformed into 
his lodgekeeper, remark lately to a friend of ours, while 
deploring the loss of that golden harvest which had 
often deposited n sovereign in his pocket in return 
for washing a visitor's carriage : * Why, bless you, sir, 
now-a-days the first lord in the land may walk in at 
that gate, with his bag and wrapper under his ann, 
and nobody know that he is a lord.' And what 
matter, say we : 

The rank is hut the guinea's stamp ; 
The man 's the gowd for a* that. 

It must now sufiice that we give a few more extracts, 
taken almost at random, further to illustrate the 
prudence and foresight by which the framers of this 
curious book were characterised, and first— 

* It is ordayned that whoever stands charged with 
the expenses and keepynge of my lord's hous for the 
yere, shall at all such tymes as my lord doth exccde 
in the fayre of his hous the ordinary service accus- 
tomed as appointed in his book of orders, as well at 
all feasts as in tymes that strangers cum, brynge my 
lord a bill of the names of such (articles) of flesh or 
fish which is expended above the ordinary fayre, end 
in what service it is expendit, that his lordship may 
dayly see at such tymes as strangers be with him, 
wherein he doth exceed the fayre ordinary of his hous. 

' Item, that the clarkes of the kechinge shall after 
they make any bargaine for any manner of provision 
for keepynge of my lord's hous, that they make him 
privy thereto, afore the bargayne be concluded, to the 
intent that they may know whether his lordship agree 
to the said price or not. 

'Item, that the clarke of the brevements (or regis- 
trar), by the advice of the comtrouller and head 
Clarke of the kechinge, caus the caterer to go abroad 
in the country weekly for hying of stuf in sucli 
places as is thought it shall be best dteap; and to by 
it seldomest where my lord liveth, except it may be 
had as good cheap there as elsewhere. 

'Item, it is thought good that all manner of wyld- 
fowl bo bought at tlie first hand, and a caterer to 
be appointed for the same, for it is thought that the 

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poaltren of Hemmingburgli and Clef hath taken great 
advantage of my lord yerely, of sellynge of cuneyi 
and wyldfowL' 

Bnt the Lord of Northumberland was not easily 
imposed upon, and we should think there was mar- 
TcUously little danger of the evil befalling him which 
he thus guards agunst. 

' That the clarke of the kechinge see that the senrice 
appointed in the booko of directions for the expenses 
of my lord's hous be observed and kept without 
imbridgement, to be examined every day what lacks 
thereof, to the intent that the officers shall not per- 
lutne it to their profit, if there be any, but that it 
remayne only to my lord's profit.' 

The Lord of Wresil was not, it would appear, the 
only nobleman who, after distinguishing himself at the 
court and in the field, retired to his country-house, 
there to relax his energies by paying a minute atten- 
tion to domestic afiairs ; for we find among the notes 
in the Household Book, an article entitled 'Lord 
Fairfax's orders for the servants of his household' 
after the civil wars. And at the risk of trying the 
patience of our readers, we must give two or three 
extracts from it, for the edification of modem house- 
wives, no less than to shew the gradual progress of 
refinement as we approach nearer to our own times. 

After appointing the servants to assemble by seven 
of the clock in the morning in the hall, he requires 
the 'clarke* of the kitchen to direct the cooks what 
shall be for breakfast for the ladies in their chambers, 
and likewise for tlie gentlemen in the hall or parlour, 
which must be served by eight o*clock, and not after. 

Dinner was to be ready by eleven— quite an 
Advance in civilisation this— and the great chamber 
being duly served, tlie steward and chaplain were to 
ait down in tlie hall, and call to them the gentlemen, 
if there were any unplaced above, and then the ser- 
vants of the strangers, as their masten be in degree; 
and if any unworthy fellow do unmannerly sit himself 
down before his betters, they must take him up and 
place him lower! With a regard to appearances 
scarcely to be surpassed by the most aspiring of 
modern pcavtnusy it is next provided that * the best 
fashioned and apparelled servants shall attend above 
the salt, the rest below;' and they are, moreover, 
instructed, that if one have occasion to speak to 
another about the service at table, let him whisper, 
< for noyse is uncivil ; and if any servant go forth of 
the chamber for anything, let him make haste, and 
ace that no more than two be absent. 

' For prevention of errands, let all sauces be ready 
ftt the door, for even a mess of mustard will take a 
man's attendance from the table ; but, lest anything 
happen unexpectedly, let a boy stand within the 
chnrober-door for errands. 

* Let no man fill beyre or wyne but the cupboard- 
keeper, who must mako choice of his glasses and 
cupa for the company, and not fill them hand over 
head. He must also know which be for beyre, and 
which for wyne, for it were a foul thing to mix the 
two together. 

* Let him which doth order the table be tlie last 
man in the room to see that nothing be left behinde 
that should be taken away.' And then his lordship 
thus concludes: 'Many things I cannot remember, 
which I refer to your good care ; otlierwise I should 
seem to write a book hereof.' 

And now we, too, must take our leave of this 
curious memento of days long gone by: we have 
culled only a few of its more prominent passages, 
in presenting which to the readers, we have pur- 
posely passed over many equally or even more 
curious; the correct signification of which, from 
the obscurity of the diction and the obsolete customs 
referred to, seems to be difficult to come at. If we 
should have succeeded in affording half an hour's 

amusement to those who may not have leisure or 
opportunity to examine it for themselves, the time 
we have devoted to the study of tlie Northumberland 
Household Book will not have been spent in vain. 

Thirty years ago» we remember Mr Cyrus Redding 
as a youngish man, of gentlemanly appearance and 
address, fond of society, and qualified by his manners 
and conversation to take a prominent part in it. This, 
together with his literary tastes and capabilities, is 
sufficient to account for the contents of the book 
before us ; by which we find that the author, in his 
progress through life, mixed much with the world, 
and possessed opportunities of seeing a good deal 
both before and behind the curtain. The present 
result is more a book of personal anecdotes than 
an autobiography; and the public appear to have 
applauded his judgment in making it so, for already 
we have the second edition of the work.* 

Our author tells us that he was dandled on the 
knee of Howard the philanthropist, and that he saw 
Lord North, although unable now to recollect either. 
John Wesley he both saw and heard in childhood. 
' A servant taking me out to walk, I saw him in a 
black gown, his long white hair over his shoulders, 
as in his portraits, at which I stared as at something 
wonderful. Children were clambering on the timbers, 
close to where I stood. On a sudden, he stopped in 
his discourse, turned round towards them, and called 
out in a clear, loud tone : " Come down, you boys, or 
be quiet." ' Another divine of eminence in America, 
called Murray, he likewise remembers ; the same who 
received from his countrymen the sobriquet of 
Salvation Murray, to distinguish him from another of 
the same name styled Damnation Murray. Franklin 
preferred the doctrine of the former, remarking, that 
* it was more natural than otherwise that God should 
reconcile a lapsed world to himself.' 

When Mr Redding had seen, as he tells us, 'a score 
of summers,' he set out for London, and in due time 
— 19 hours to 8i miles! — arrived at Bath, and found 
it realise the descriptions we read in obsolete novels. 
The pump-room was too small for the crowd of 
fashion, and almost every house exhibited a hatch- 
ment. Quin colled Bath 'the finest place in the 
world for an old cock to go to roost in.' Its merits, 
however, were more various, for it was choked up by 
the heau-mondey who rushed thither to drink water 
and to dauce, as well as to die. 

* Among the distinguished individuals then in Bath, 
were WiUiam Pitt, and the overshadowed Lord 
Melvillp ; the latter under the cloud of his impeach- 
ment. Pitt was rapidly sinking. The battle of 
Austerlitz, and defeat of the last coalition, pressed 
him to the earth. His desire was to be like hia 
father, a great war-minister, without the experienco 
and due appreciation of the difference of circumstances 
and times. His stamina were gone ; Bath did him no 
good. Two or three bottles of wine a day ceased to 
stimulate, and he had constant recourse to large doses 
of laudanum. 

*An official, in attendance at the House of 
Commons, used to be ready with a full beaker of 
port-wine when Pitt arrived. This he quaffed off 
nearly to tlie quantity of a pint before he entered. 
He would repeat the draught in the course of the 
evenhig. I liave at this time a friend who knew the 
official, proud of relating the circumstance. The 
reaction of such a custom was inevitable. Care about 
self-esteem did not keep him politically honest. Did 
the consciousness of it lead him to wine, or was it 

* Fifty rear*' BteoUeettMS, Literary and Permmdl, with Obser- 
vatiotu on Men and Thing: By CjrttB Redding. 8 TOlumcs. 
London: ChtrlM J. Skeet. 1858. 

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pure love of the beverage ? Perhaps it waa neither — 
a stimulant had become necessary to a feeble stomach. 
His father was fond of port wine, and took it despite 
the gout. 

' The sight of Pitt's person was not calculated to 
strengthen his cause with his youthful advocate, for 
such I was then. His countenance, forbidding and 
arrogant, was repellent of affection, and not made to 
be loved, full of disdain, of self-will, and, as a whole, 
destitute of massiveness ; his forehead alone was lofty 
and good. He walked with his nose elevated in tiie 
air; premature age was stamped upon his haggard 
features. ... As I recollect, he seemed nearly as tall 
as myself— in flesh, the merest scarecrow, which, per- 
haps, made him seem taller than he really was, having, 
by tlie use of alcohol, attenuated the muscular fibre.' 

It was later than this our author found Gravesend 
*a miserable little place,' where he was charged ^ye 
shillings for a biscuit and a glass of spirits and 
water. A companion, disapproving of the exorbitant 
profit, smashed stealthily half-a-dozen glasses on the 

Mr Bedding's acquaintance with the author of 
LacoHf who is mentioned repeatedly throughout the 
book, commenced in this wise: 

* I was sitting alone expecting a summons to dinner 
one day, when the door of the room opened, and, with 
little ceremony, a hard pallid-faced gentleman in black 
entered, and began : 

**I have heard of yon, sir; wished much to be 
acquainted; came from Tiverton; called to ask if you 
had seen one of my pamphlets," handing over one ; 
** singular thing, sir." 

** Pray, sir, whom have I the honour of addressing ?" 

"My name, sir, is the Reverend Caleb Colton, 
Cambridge Fellow, curate of Tiverton." 

*'Pray, sir, take a seat." Here commenced my 
acquaintance with that singular personage, the author 
of Lacon. A first- rate scholar and shrewd thinker; 
most superstitious about spiritual appearances. His 
pamphlet related to the Sampford ghost, and most 
extraordinary things he stated as facts, and verbally 
re-affirmed. He talked of the church, of Horace, of 
his own poetry, of which he had a lofty idea, and of 
Dr Johnson's opinion of spirits. In vain was dinner 
announced ; he took no hint, and, being pleased with 
his conversation, I thought the best way was to ask 
him to take a share of what awaited myself. He 
jumped at the offer, and said it would prolong conver- 
sation. I remember there were ducks on the table, 
and that he dined off a very small portion of one of 
them. Of wine, no dean, ** orthodox in port," could seem 
fonder in moderation. It was midnight before he 
departed. His conversation was scholastic and clever, 
mingled with the wonders of the ghost He had sat 
up two nights, had found the bells of the house rung, 
had undone the wires, and still the mysterious sounds 
were heard. He had rushed with a light into the 
apartment, and counted five or six vibrations of a 
clapper while he looked on. He had listened to 
footsteps on the stairs, where nothing could be seen, 
and had been so convinced of supernatural agency, 
that he had made himself responsible for two hundred 
pounds, to be paid to the poor of the parish, if the 
thing should be proved an imposture. This was a 
great proof of his sincerity, as no man loved money 
more. It may be observed, that he was so credulous 
about ghosts, he would not walk home of an evening 
across his own churchyard, unless he was lighted by 
some one, and a little girl of ten years of age used to 
accompany him on such occasions, carrying a lantern. 
He gave me a pressing invitation to Tiverton, and 
quoted many lines from a poem he was composing, 
called Hypocrisy, 

"Now," said he, '*do yon think any lines of Pope 
are more euphonical than these? " 

' His conceit at first surprised me^ but seeing hia 
weak side^ I flattered him. 

"Really they are good, and rery like" 

"There, sir, I thi^ these will convinoe yoa I can 
write verses of some merit." 

'His repetition was like a boy declaiming at a 
grammar-school ; upon all other topics he was shrewd, 
informing, and agreeable. He laid bare a sophistry 
admirably, and when he felt he had succeeded, he 
indicated it by a peculiar twinkle from the comers of 
his cunning gray eyes, bespeaking his satisfaction. 
His cheek-bones were high, and his features denoted 
none of that intellectual power which he undoubtedly 
possessed, rather the rMult of labour than genius. 
He seemed in conversation as though his whole life 
had been devoted to controversial debate, and that be 
had employed all his time in detecting fidlacies. His 
learning was great, his reading extensive, his memory 
retentive. He quoted from English, Greek, and 
Latin writers with great facility, when he wanted 
to illustrate any subject. His knowledge of the 
Scripture was apt and profound, yet he was careless 
in morals, selfish, reckless in conduct^ and sceptical 
in his faitii.' 

Mr Redding was, of course, disappointed with the 
appearance of Madame de Staei ; who, however, was 
* not ugly, but simply uninteresting and ordinary in 
feature, and somewhat heavy and rather full in person.' 
The conversational talents of this remarkable woman 
are well known ; but the practical distinction she drew 
between the English and Gevman characters, in reply 
to a question of Mr Redding, is as scute and as true 
as anything of hers we have seen. * Asking her what 
she thought of the Qermans, she replied in some 
respects they were mystics, fond of the extravagant, 
because their rulers left them little else with which 
they could deal fireely. They were not always exact 
reasoners, but that was an inconvenience under their 
circumstances which political amelioration would 
remove. They were baptised in theories, but mi^t still 
put to shame the logical English, who spoke continually 
of Locke and reason, and obeyed custom. " You do 
not take the trouble to test the soundness of your 
customs. The Germans are only at liberty to dream, 
but cannot act on their dreams." 

The conversation of Dr Wolcot at seventy-seven 
years of age was as racy as ever. As a physician, he 
seems to have been bom a generation before his time. 
He outraged both the faculty and the people by 
permitting his fever patients to drink as much cold 
water as they pleased ; he affronted and dismayed the 
apothecaries by analysing their medicines; and he 
said to Mr Redding with his heretical candour : * A 
physician can do little more than watch nature ; and 
if he sees her inclined to go right, give her a shove 
on the back.' When Wolcot was in Jamaica, the 
governor's sister asked him the news one morning, 
and he ' told her that a cherab had been caught up in 
the Blue Mountains, and brought into the town. 

" What did they do with it, my dear doctor?" 

**Put it in a cage with a parrot." 

"And what then, doctor?" 

"In the morning, the parrot had pecked out both 
its eyes." 

"You don't say sol"' 

Wolcot was the first patron of Ople, whom he 
brought forward in a very judicious manner. The 
young artist began with heads at 6s., which increased 
to 10s. 6d. ; and on returning, after his first painting 
expedition, with twenty guineas in his possession, 
'so wonderful was the sum in his unaccustomed eyes, 
that he first fiung the money on the doctor's table in 
a sort of rapture, and then sweeping the coin all off 
upon the carpet, rolled himself over it, exclaiming : 
" Here I be rolling in gold I " ' 

Among Mr Redding's acquaintance was Catalan!, 

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whom he found ' bIwbjb the mim elegiuit snd amiable 
creature, with the aame tweet simple smile, and 
modest manners/ Through anotlier acquaintance, 
an old lady, less known, be heard of some of the cele- 
brities of a former generation. * '' Charles Churchill," 
she obserTed, '^ nobody could ever dream he was able 
to write such fine poetry, who knew him as well as 
I did. He was such a heayy, dull man, and had so 
little to say in company. He often dined with my 
father, and had a great name with the players." 
Wilkes, she told me^ generally came to her father's 
house with Churchill, and had all the conversation, 
having something to say to everybody and about 

everything, but he was so ugly I found that Mrs 

Kendal, for that was Miss Cotes's name by marriage, 
did not think much of her fkther's friend as a gentle- 
man, though as a poet, the world, she said, was full of 
his praises.' 

Among the originals in this amusing cabinet, not 
the least inteiesting is Bi. Mentelle, a French mathe- 
matician. He was a handsome man of four or five 
and thirty, who lived in a summer-house in a garden 
— a glazed room about ten feet square— which he 
occupied free of cost, giving a half-crown lesson once 
a week to supply himself witli food : ' I entered his 
cell, occupied by himself and his books, nearly to 
repletion, together with a kmg box or chest, in which 
were several blankets, and across it a plank, on which 
he was sitting, his feet and legs in the box for the 
sake of warmth, his back against the wall wliich 
received the sashes on both sides, some of which had 
a pane or two fractured, and mended with paper, on 
which I observed closely written Greek characters. 
Before him was a tilted board, which served him for a 
table, and by the side of the box, an old arm-chair, on 
which several folio volumes lay open, one upon another. 
From the ceiling, suspended by a rusty wire, just over 
his primitive table, bung a {ttece of tin-plate bent into 
the form of a lamp, with a wick and oil in it. A 
small can stood in one comer, and in another, an 
earthen pitcher of water.' This gentleman conversed 
fluently in Greek, Latin, English, Italian, German, 
and Arabic ; and read various other tongues, including 
Chinese. He had trarelled on foot all over the con- 
tinent. * He was on intimate terms with the members 
of the French Institute, and the principal men of 
science in Paris ; and a curious figure he cut waking 
with some of them arm in arm in a soiled flannel 
jacket and trousers, without stockings, through the 
fashionable Boulevuds, as was often the case.' Mr 
Redding strongly advised the philosopher to abandon 
his cherished idea of coming to England, where 
poverty is only not as great a crime as robbery. 
*Your innocent sleep by the wood-side would be 
deemed a crime. The juge de ptdx would send yon 
to prison for that alone, and, if money were found 
upon you, it would aggravate the offence; He would 
ask why yon did not get a bed, if you were an honest 
man. He would say yon were a beggar, or were 
hunting game. Your knowledge, if displayed, would 
be treated as an aggravation of your offence, ** for one 
who knew so much must be an idler, who would not 
work for his bread." Do not come to England unless 
you haye money, and a good coat.' 

Let us now call up Foscolo ; for Mr Redding, witii 
crreat good taste, concerns himself only with the 
dead. ' Foscolo lived at Moulsey, but had a lodging 
in Blenheim Street There my introduction took 
place to this friend of Alfieri, well known as he was 
throughout Europe. Foscolo, at the moment I entered 
the room, was under the hands of his barber, lathered 
to the eyes. The lower part of his face looked like 
the wood-cut of a monkey I had in an edition of 
Gay's Fabkt^ when I was a boy. The upper part was 
fine, a good forehead, fine large gray ^es, his brow 
expansive^ scanty sandy-cokmred hair, all, however, 

depreciated by the suds and napkin over his shoulders. 
He sputtered from his ample lips through the snowy 
froth : ^ Sit down, my good friend \ I have heard of yon 
—we will talk presently." His scraggy neck was bare, 
but amid all, his countenance was expressive of high 
genius. He was scrupulously neat in his person, and 

gentlemanly when he pleased His temper was 

his great fsuling ; and he would too often disregard the 
exact truth in the relation of a fact, and thus get into 
a dilemma, and to get out of it, shew his quickness of 
feeling. . • . . We used to play at chess together, when 
he would make a bad move, and flying into a passion 
with himself tear off* his hair by the handful. I there- 
fore proposed that we should play no more, as it might 
lead to a personal quarrel. He said that he was sorry 
for it; he could not help quarrelling with himself, 
being so careless in his moves.' Here is a poetical 
portrait of Foacdo by himself: 

A furrowed brow, intent and deep-sonk ejes. 

Fair hair, lean cheeks, and mind and aspect bold I 
The proad quick Up, where seldom smiles arise — 

Bent head, and well-fonned neck, breast rough and 
limbs well composed; simple in dress, yet choice; 

Swift or to move, act, think, or thought unfold. 
Temperate, firm, kind, unused to flattering lies. 

Adverse to the world, adrerse to me of old ; 
Offctimes alone and mournful, evermore 

Moat pensive, all unmoved by hope or fear; 
By shame made timid, and by anger brave; 

My subtle reason speaks : but ah ! I rave — 
Twixt vice and virtue hardly know to steer — 

Death may fidr me have fiune and rest in store I 

An amusing account is given of the indignation of 
a lady of the genus irritable, who was off'erad twelve 
guineas per sheet by the New Monthly Magazine, 
edited nominally by Thomas Campbell, but really by 
Mr Redding. 'To imagine that I should write on 
such terms,' wrote Miss Mitford, Ms ridiculous. I 
left off writing for the magazines generally because 

sixteen was not enough, and in my letter to Mr V 

was as clear as possible on the point: I especially said 
six guineas an article, long or short.' These were the 
palmy days of the monthly magazines. How much 
do they pay now f The annuals, too, we remember — 
at least the first-class annuals— ^id not count the 
pages at all: they paid fifteen guineas per prose 
article. The contributions to the Book of Beauty were 
on a different footing : they were a homage to the fair 
editress. Lady Blessington, whose female contributors 
usually received an ornamental pen, or some other 
article of trifling value, as a return of courtesy. 

Mr Bedding is not an out-and-out admirer of Lamb. 
* Lamb's dislike of the country, bom and bred in Lon- 
don as he was, seems rational enough ; and from the 
same cause, his affection for ale and tobacco, attach- 
ments worthy of those who dislike flowers, kitchen- 
gardens, and love company, particularly low company. 
Lamb felt himself at home here. He owned, notwith- 
standing, that he had a delicacy towards sheep-steal- 
ing. Were not the Edinburgh Beyiewers right— could 
such a man be a poet? His charming essays came 
from his own habitual feelings, and the peculiarities 
of his social habits, and were quaint, fruitful pictures 
of certain things allied with those habits. Poetry is 
a difierent matter, and more universal in its nature — 
at least, that poetry which confers a lasting reputa- 
tion. A poet bom, bred, educated, and continually 
resident in a great city, with none but urban asso- 
ciations, is like a stall-bred ox that never pastured. 
The map of Iamb's world, and that of his followers, 
extended from Hampstead to Camberwell, and from 
Brentford to Bow. Hiey had heard, it was true, of 
other countries beyond those limits, which were the 
sojourn of the Troglodites, whose heads grew beneath 
their shouldos, for all they knew or cared abemt 

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them. Porter was their nectar ; the tavern-board or 
the book-cleared table in chambers, the fresh lobster, 
and the toasted cheese at supper, a little discourse on 
their own theories, amid the incense of the Indian 
weed, and they were in their element. Lamb had 
not seen the "wide" world. He cherished his cir- 
cumscription, and he was right if he liked it best. 
He was a kind relative, a good but pecnliar man, bat 
liad no sympathetic rejoicings with wild wanderers. 
He was an original, radically of the city in his habits 
as well as literature. The Thames was his lake, not 
Bala or Derwentwater ; the oozy beds of the coal- 
lighters on the fragrant borders of their opaque waters 
bathed his spirit. He loved the place of his nativity, 
and the streets and dwellings that he had known so 
long. The dinginess of Fleet Street and the Temple 
was his precious verd antique. All this was natural, 
nor am I aware that he ever upbnuded or envied 
those who expatiated more at large. His '* sect" died 
with him.' 

If we had room, we should be glad to quote a 
scene between Campbell and Professor Wilson. The 
former was talking with warmth of the tyranny of the 
Czar Nicholas in tearing away Polish children from 
their families ; and Wilson contending in ^ave bad- 
inage that it was all an error arising from mistransla- 
tion ; that the young Poles were really young pigs. 

But we must have done ; and we give Mr Redding 
the last word : ' Horace Twiss, with his grave coun- 
tenance, who should have been called single-speech, 
for he made but one good speech in parliament, was a 
sober and attentive man of business— his solemnity 
sometimes passing for extra wisdom. One day, going 
to see a friend in the Temple, I met him on the 
ground-floor. " Come with me," said he ; " Twiss is 
rehearsing ; don't make a noise." Horace had to be 
down at the house that evening. We peeped through 
the keyhole, hearing him in practice, and saw him 
address the tongs, placed upright against the bars, as 
'* Mr Speaker ; " but we could not hear all the oration. 
The honourable member preserved wondrous gravity, 
and the tongs falling, said to himself: " Ay, now the 
Si)etiker has left the chair." ' 

For years past we liave been taking lessons in mis- 
trust, and are more than half afraid of swallowing 
poison with our daily food. It would be well were 
we still more mistrustful, not only with respect to 
food, but to various other articles which are contin- 
ually passing through our hands. Poison lurks in 
a thousand places and things where we do not expect 
to find it, and a very slight circumstance often suffices 
to transform what we deemed a trifle of no account, 
into a death-dealing agent. Even when fatal conse- 
quences actually ensue, tliey are frequently attributed 
to any cause rather than the right one, especially in 
cases where children are the suOerers. 

It may not, perhaps, be amiss to instance a few 
such cases, and I do so with the view of putting 
persons on their guard, and inducing them to make 
themselves acquainted with the nature and properties 
of many dangerous things by which they are sur- 
rounded, and so prevent the repetition of accidents 
which are now, tlirough ignorance, of frequent occur- 
rence. Take, for example, the following : 

Not many days ago, the wife of a well-to-do farmer 
with whom I am acquainted came to town on the 
market-day, leaving an infant of ten months old in 
the especial charge of her eldest daughter. Almost 
immediately after her departure, the child, a most 

engaging little girl, was taken suddenly iU. Violent 
attacks of vomiting, between which the child lay in 
a kind of death-like torpor, were the symptoms, and 
a tooth, which was just making its appearance, was 
blamed as the cause of her suflering. As, however, 
some time elapsed, and no perceptible improvement 
took place in the state of the little patient, the aiater 
became alarmed, and despatched a servant to recall 
the mother. On her arrival, the also set down every- 
thing to the tooth, and but for the inquiries of a 
friend, to whom the circumstances of poor baby's 
illness were pathetically detailed, the aforesaid incisor 
would have borne the blame of having caused it. 

The friend, however, could not divest herself of the 
idea that the child's sufierings were not the resalt of 
teething, but of some mineral poison that had been 
accidentally administered to it, particularly when 
informed, that after it had taken the breast, though 
the sickness was greater, the bad symptoms began to 

'Are you quite sure,* she asked, Hhat your little 
one had eaten nothing injurious ? ' 

* Quite sure,' replied the mother, almost indignant 
at the bare idea that her darling's sufferings had been 
caused by any carelessness or neglect on her part. 
'Indeed,' she added, 'knowing she was about some 
teeth, I would not trust her to a servant, but fed her 
myself; and she was in no other hands except those 
of my daughter this morning.' 

'Then had she no playthings near her?' 

• Not any.' 

'0 no,' interposed the daughter; 'the only thing 
she touched was a piece of paper, and at first I 
thought it had made her sick, as she swallowed a 
bit of it, and sucked the colour off" the remainder.* 

The solution of the matter was now made perfectly 
plain. A few more questions proved the correctness 
of the visitor's suspicions. The paper alluded to was 
a large ticket of a brilliant and beautiful green colour, 
which had been taken off some article of clothing. 
Its gay hue and the glittering letters had attracted 
the child's attention ; and the mother, never deeming 
such a trifle could contain anything injurious, unhesi- 
tatingly placed in the eagerly outstretched little palm 
a portion of a most deadly poison. Fortunately, the 
dose did not prove sufficient to destroy life, though it 
was quite strong enough to place it in jeopardy. 

When paper-hangings were more expensive, and 
consequently less common than they are at present, 
the walls of two rooms in my father's house were 
washed with a green solution. Whenever these walls 
were swept, the person performing the operation was 
sure to complain of sickness, and an acid coppery taste 
in the mouth. This is easily accounted for, tliough I 
believe it occurred several times before any person 
attributed it to the real cause. Of course, the sweeping 
removed a portion of the colouring matter from 
the walls, in the form of a fine and subtle dust, which, 
being inhaled, produced slight symptoms of poisoning. 
Here, too, a child had nearly lost her life fh>m 
repeatedly wetting her finger with saliva to rub the 
colouring matter off* the wall. 

Of a similarly injurious natnre are the brilliant 
green-hued jMiper-hangings which have been so much 
in use of late. Only a few weeks ago, a medical 
man, writing to one of our leading journals, gave 
an account of his having suffered seriously from 
them. It appears from his statement, that being in 
the habit of spending a considerable portion of his 
time in a room hung with paper of the objecttonable 

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hue, he became ill, but, removing to another apart- 
ment, he speedily recovered. Subsequently, return- 
ing to his old place and habits, the bad symptoms 
again appeared. 

His suspicions were aroused ; and certain chemical 
experiments proved, beyond the possibility of doubt, 
that a highly poisonous matter had been extracted 
from the green-coloured paper, and transferred to his 
system, by inhalation, to an extent suflSdent to bring 
on serious indisposition. 

It seems, moreover, that in one of the continental 
cities, the police authorities have interfered, and 
actuaJly rent paper-hangings of this particular colour 
from the walls, to prevent the dangerous results which 
might have otherwise ensued to those who occupied 
the apartment. 

It was suggested, some time ago, that the gas con- 
tained in the air-balls which have lately been such 
favourite toys, might, under certain circumstances, 
render them anything but safe ar(icles to place in the 
hands of the rising generation. But it seems that 
here again the actual loss of two lives has resulted 
from the use of poisonous colouring matters in their 

The sufferers were the children of a man who 
manufactures these air-balls; and his whole family 
have suffered, more or less, by inhaling the poison. 
For my part, I honestly rejoice at the introduction of 
any new and attractive plaything, deeming it no light 
matter to furnish a child with a source of pleasure ; 
but surely novelty is too dearly purchased at the cost 
of human life. 

Again, it is quite-possible that a sufficient amount 
of poison to affect the wearer may be rubbed off a 
dress. A few months ago, many of the young women 
employed in a great Parisian dress-making establish- 
ment became suddenly ill while at their work. They 
were making up a number of ball-dresses, of a 
peculiarly beautiful and novel shade of green, and 
the friction indispensably attendant on their labour, 
had displaced a portion of the colour, which they 
had inhaled. 

A physician of eminence, who was consulted on 
tho occasion, gave it aa his opinion, that should these 
dresses be worn in a ball-room, a sufficient quantity 
of poison would be mingled with the atmosphere to 
produce most dangerous consequences to the 

These are only a few out of numerous cases which 
present themselves as all springing from similar 
causes. But they are sufficient for my present 
purpose, since they give ample testimony of the 
harm which may result from ignorance in a very 
simple matter, and also furnish instances of the 
yarious forms under which one poison only may be 
presented to us without awakening suspicion. 

Take the first case quoted. All persons who have 
anything to do with children, well know with what 
aridity the youngsters beg for pieces of coloured 
paper. They watch eagerly for the time when 
the last sheets of note-paper are taken from 
tho cover, or the envelopes from the gay band 
which confines them, in order to appropriate these 
little works of art—for truly many of them may 
be called such — ^to the manufacture of sundry devices. 
And probably not one mother out of a hundred is 
conscious that a misapplication of some of these 
innocent-looking and much-coveted articles might 
cost a child's life. 

We need only ascertain of what such colouring 
matters are composed to see clearly the cause of 
such disastrous effects. The majority of greens, in 
fact, all the most beautiful, are preparations of copper, 
the only mineral which produces that colour. In Ure*s 
Dictionary f we find, under the head * green paints,' a list 
of seven greens, nearly all of which are different prepa- 

rations of copper. Scheele's green, and Schweinfurth 
green, the two most beautiful pigments of this hue, are 
both deadly poisons. The first is composed of oxide 
of copper, and arsenous acid, or white oxide of arsenic 
Schweinfurth green, which is a still finer colour, 
contains the above-named ingredients, but in different 
proportions, and with acetic acid in addition. With 
regard to the first, Dr Ure tells us that it was 
detected, a few years before the publication of his 
work, as the colouring matter of some Parisian bon- 
bons^ by the Cojueil de SalubritS; since which, the 
confectioners were prohibited from using it by the 
French government More recently, I have myself 
read of a case where a child was poisoned through 
sucking the green colour off some twelfth-cake 

Now, where so large a proportion of the various 
shades of green are known to be formed by a mixture of 
some of the most powerfully poisonous substances, and 
since only persons possessing considerable chemical 
knowledge can distinguish those that are the least 
injurious, it is surely advisable to caution all who are 
not so well informed. Even when green is produced 
by a mixture of blue and yellow, Prussian blue, the 
one most commonly employed, is in itself slightly 

Before passing from the subject of colours, I will 
mention a few of the poisonous substances used in pro- 
ducing different shades for painting and dyeing. To 
attempt to give the exact composition of each colour, 
and the mode in which it is produced, would occupy 
too much time and space ; as it is, I only intend to 
name a few, sunply with a view to put persons on 
their guard against the misapplication of articles 
innocent enough in their proper places, and hurtful 
only when, as in the case quoted at the commence- 
ment of this little paper, they are placed in the hands 
of those who divert them from their original uses. 

Among the colouring substances used by the manu- 
facturers of paper-hangings and painted papers, are 
white-lead, chrome yellow — a preparation of lead^ 
Prussian blue, blue verditer— a preparation of copper — 
and the greens already mentioned. The above-named 
are all poisonous ; and when we consider the immense 
number of articles wrapped in these painted papers, 
no more need be said as to the necessity for great 
care in placing them in the hands of children, since 
any one knows that almost everything given to a 
child under two years of age is carried to the mouth. 
Even those of larger growth are apt to do the same 
thing ; hence the danger above alluded to. 

Probably, with respect to paper-hangings, much of 
the mischief might be obviated by using those which 
are glazed ; or— as it rarely happens dat the whole 
surface is so, the opposite effects produced by dead 
and bright shades being considered so desirable — they 
might be varnished iJier having been hung on the 

But green or other coloured articles are by no 
means the only ones against the improper use of 
which a caution is necessary. In looking through 
the columns of a newspaper, we frequentlj^ meet 
with paragraphs like the following : * A poor woman, 
who died lately at Bratoft, near Spilsby, Lincoln- 
shire, after a few days' illness, had incautiously 
applied some tallow from a candle to a scratch on her 
face. In a few hours after the application, her head 
and face became very painful, and previously to her 
dissolution, had swollen to a frightful extent— the 
consequence of some very poisonous ingredients used 
by chandlers for purifying tallow.' This was inserted 
in November 1861. In the following January, a 
similar case is quoted: 'A young man has died at 
Hull from putting tallow on a pimple on his face. 
The tallow contained arsenous acid, and verdigris 
had in consequence accumulated on the candlestick.' 

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Amongst the poorer classes of the oommunity, tallow 
18 a very fevonrite specific. As in the instances 
already mentioned, it is applied to scratches, pimples, 
cuts, and a hundred other trifling hurts. If a child 
is suffering from a cold in the head, a thousand to 
one hut its nose will be tallowed before it goes to bed, 
while a tallow-plaster, applied to the chest, is con- 
sidered the * soTcreign'st tiling on earth* to relieve any 
oppression there, or difficulty of breathing. I once 
saw such an application made to a frightful burn on 
the breast of an infant. It produced no injurious 
effect, because it so happened that these candles did 
not contain the poisonous ingredient which is to be 
found in some, as all tallow is not exposed to the 
same bleadiing process, some being simply whitened 
by age. Where, however, there is a quick sale, or an 
unusually large demand, certain substances are used 
to improve the colour which impart a poisonous 

Of course, only the initiated can tdl which are 
harmless and which hurtful ; hence the necessity for 
the disuse of tallow as a salve ; for though I have 
mentioned the lower classes of the community as 
those who make the most frequent use of it, they by 
no means stand alone. It is an old-fashioned and 
very favourite remedy even with some middle-class 
folk, as I can avouch from my own actual knowledge; 
and those with whom it is not, may do good by 
warning others against it It is horrid to tliink of 
the suffering whidi might have been entailed on the 
poor child to whose burned breast a tallow-plaster 
was applied, had it contained the poison so many 
candles do. 

More recently than any of the above cases, two lives 
have been lost in consequence of the careless exposure 
of certain pliotographic cliemicals of a deadly nature. 

In the first case, a photographer had left a vessel 
containing a poisonous solution on the sill of a window 
opening into a neighbour's premises. The child of the 
Utter drank the liquid, and died. 

The second case is still more to be regretted, since 
the ease with which photographic chemicals may be 
procured, furnished the means of committing suicide 
to a girl of sixteen, who had been a couple of months 
in the service of the artist's mother. The unhappy 
young woman had deliberately carried a bottle of 
cyodide of potassium — a substance which, on solution 
in a pure liquid, becomes prussic acid — to her bed- 
room, mixed a portion with water, and drank it. 
The coroner before whom the inquiry respecting the 
cause of death was made, strongly condemned the 
indiscriminate sale of such deadly articles, and recom- 
mended tlie interference of the legislature to prevent 
it. I cannot too strongly impress on the minds of 
those who use such dangerous substances, that the 
greatest care ought to be taken to prevent their falling 
into inexperienced bands. Probably the amateur is 
less likely to err in this respect than the professional 
photographer, since the latter, from constantly liaving 
them in hand, is apt to fcvget they are anything but 
the tools of his trade. 

To add to those instances would be easy ; but I 
will mention only one more case of poisoning from the 
accidental misapplication of an article in daily use. 
A lady who was in the habit of using what is called 
'almond flavour* for culinary purposes, incautiously 
left the bottle containing it within reach of a child, 
who, naturally supposing that what mamma put into 
her sweet-cakes must be good, seized the phial, 
drank the contents, and expired instantly, from an 
immensely powerful dose of hydrocyanic or prussic 

Any comment on the above cases is needless. They 
speak for themselves ; and should the attention drawn 
to them here be the means of inducing persons to 
make themselves acquainted with the properties of the 

articles they use, and thus prevent their misapplica- 
tion, the writer's purpose in collecting them will have 
been fulfilled. 


Engbossed with matters of European concern, per- 
haps few amimg us are aware of the energetic 
efforts which the government of the United States 
has latterly been making to establish means of 
communication across the great wildernesses which 
stretch from the borders of the Mississippi to the new 
American settlements on the Pacific. These efforts 
remind us of the almost continuous series of expedi- 
tions to lay open the course of the Niger and obtain 
a knowledge of the interior of Africa. Banning 
with Lewis and Clarke, there have been numberless 
expeditions in the far west, all more or less successful, 
one of the more adventurous and interesting of these 
journeys being that of Colonel Fremont, late candi- 
date for the presidency, whose achievements in 
opening a way across the Rocky Mountains gained 
for him the appellation of the Path-flnder. 

In pursuing these long and hazardous explorations, 
two chief difficulties were to be encountered — collision 
with the tribes of Indians, and the unsuitableness 
of the ground for wheeled carriages. With their skill 
as strategists and marksmen, tiie Anglo-Americans 
could indeed beat off successive hosts of natives ; and 
in point of fact, what with slaughter, natural decay, 
and diplomatic conciliation, the Indians are not now so 
formidable as tliey were even a few years ago. But the 
prodigious obstacles presented by nature still remain 
to be conquered— great trackless plains destitute of 
water, occasionally a broad river with shelving banks, 
rocky ravines, and lofty mountains. The transport 
of water in sufficient abundance for man and horse 
has, in particular, been found not more practicable 
than in the deserts of Arabia. Horses, bullocks, men, 
sunk under the privations to which the want of water 
exposed tliem; and nothing more dismal can be 
pictured than the track pursued by several of these 
expeditions — the route for a thousand miles shewing 
the bleaching bones of animals, along with the wreck of 
carriages and other objects which hiul to be abandoned 
by the daily diminishing force that still contrived to 
keep its face westward. At length it was proposed 
to try an expedition with the assistance of Camels, 
to be imported for the purpose from some place in 
Asia. The project, however, encountered the amount 
of doubt and opposition usually given to everything 
new and untried. It had been stated, on the autho- 
rity of Father Hue, an old traveller in Tatary, that 
the camel cannot swim; and, strangely enough, no 
one could positively rebut the assertion. Now, if 
Father Hue was right, there was at once an end of 
the scheme for employing camels in America, whose 
deep and broad rivers must be crossed in the passage 
across the plains. After some little debate, it was 
resolved to import camels and make the trial ; if they 
would swim — and, barring their obstinate tempers, 
why should they not?— the practicability of exploring 
in any direction was settled. 

Who does not look with some interest on the 
discussion of this curious problem— now solved, as 
we shall proceed to relate? 

Nearly a hundred camels and dromedaries were 
imported into the United States ; their place of land- 
ing being Indianola, a port in Texas, on the Gulf of 
Mexico. Here, being turned loose for a ttrae to 
recruit after the fatigues and discomforts of their long 
voyage, tliey got into good health, and were conducted 
to San Antonio, to be employed in the expedition of 
Lieutenant Beale and that of Captain Pope for sinking 
Artesian wells in the deserts intersected by the Rio 
Picos. According to the account given in a New York 

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newspaper,* which we chiefly draw on for what follows, 
Lieutenant Beale left San Antonio on the 25th of 
Jane, having selected for his expedition twenty-three 
camels and three dromedaries. The camels were 
laden with a large portion of the grain necessary for 
the teams of mules. Those of them whidi, in their 
native country, had been trained to this business, were 
found capable of carrying a thousand pounds-weight 
The expedition took the route from San Antonio to 
£1 Paso, and thence up the Bio Grande to Albu- 
querque, at some distance west of which the new 
explorations were to begin. From San Antonio to 
Albuquerque, by this route, the distance is over a 
thousand miles, a large part of it through districts 
very scantily supplied with either grass or water. It 
was accomplished in forty-flve days, the train moving 
at an average rate of fonr miles an hour, and the 
camels bearing the journey perfectly well. From 
Albuquerque the expedition marched to Zufii, an 
outlying settlement of New Mexico. Lieutenant 
Beale left Zufii on the 28th of August, having obtained 
an escort of troops from Fort Defiance, situate some 
ninety miles to the north in the country of the 
Navajos. His route lay nearly due west, along the 
35 th parallel of north latitude, and through a region 
hitherto almost unknown. As far as the Little 
Colorado, the road, though with volcanic ranges of 
mountains constantly in sight, some of them capped 
with snow, was txKnparatively level. There were 
abundant supplies of grass, with timber sufficient for 
fuel, and plenty of water. After crossing Little 
Colorado, which was followed for some days, and 
which has a wide and fertile bottom, with a fringe of 
cotton-wood along the banks, the expedition encoun- 
tered the San Francisco mountain, having on its 
eastern slope great forests of pine, and on its western 
forests of cedar. From the western foot of this moun- 
tain the country grows more ba^en, till, near the 
banks of the Colorado, it becomes a desert, excepting 
the bottom lands, a few miles in extent. The river 
here was found to be from two or three hundred 
yards wide, flowing at the rate of three or four miles 
an hour, and with nineteen feet of water in the mid- 
channel. It was unobstructed by rocks, and was 
apparently navigable for large steamers. The inhabit- 
ants of an Indian village represented the river as 
maintaining the same character as at Fort Yuma, 
near its junction with the Gila. 

Now it was to be proved whether the camel could 
Bwim—a test to wliidi Lieutenant Beale had looked 
forward with not a little anxiety. Having reached 
the Colorado, he was determined to settle the question 
for himself. The first camel brought to the bank 
refused to enter the river; but another being brought 
down, to the great delight of the whole company, it 
took the water freehf, cmd 9wam holdhf across. The 
otliers, tied one behind the other in strings of five, 
were taken across in the same way. They not only 
swam with ease, but, in this particular as in others, 
they seemed to outdo the horses and mules. This 
seemed to be the only remaining test needed to estab- 
lish the character of the camel as a beast of burden 
specially suited for those regions. Lieutenant Beale 
had started with the determination that the experi- 
ment should be no partial one, and he made it a 
point to subject his camels to trials which no other 
animal could stand. As to the result, he thus 
expresses himself: 

* In all our lateral explorations they have carried 
>vater, sometimes for more than a week, for the mules 
used by the men— themselves never receiving even a 
bucketful to one of them; they have traversed 
patiently with heavy packs, on these explorations, 
countries covered with the sharpest volcanic rock, and 

yet their feet to this hour have evinced no symptom 
of tenderness or injury; with heavy packs they have 
crossed mountains, ascended and descended precipit- 
ous places where an unladen mule found it difiScnlt 
to pass, even with the assistance of the rider dis- 
mounted, and carefully picking its way. I think it 
would be within bounds to say that, in these various 
lateral explorations, they have traversed nearly 
double the distance passed over by our mules and 

* Leaving home with all the prejudice attaching to 
untried experiments, and with many in our camp 
opposed to their use, and looking forward confidently 
to their fiiilure, I believe, at this time, I may speak 
for every man in our party, when I say there is not 
one of them who would not prefer the roost indifi*erent 
of our camels to four of our best mules, and I look 
forward hopefully to the time when they will be in 
general use in all parts of our country.' 

The country, for eiglity miles west of the Colorado, 
continues a sandy desert, with but little water or 
grass. At that distance, the expedition struck the 
Mojave, which there began to have some water in its 
bed. Crossing the San Bernardino mountain by the 
Cajon Pass, they reached Los Angeles on the 20th 
of November. This route ia far preferable in every 
respect to that by the Gila, hitherto followed. It is 
especially adnpted for the sheep-trade— slieep being 
the chief staple of New Mexico— and is likely to lead 
to increased trade and intercourse between New 
Mexico and California. 

What particularly adapts the camel for use in those 
regions is not merely its capacity to endure fatigue 
and long want of water, but the very coarse and 
scanty food with which it is content. Those animals 
eat as they go along anything of a vegetable nature 
they find in their path, bending their long necks 
and throwing their heads into every narrow crevice 
of the rocks where grows a cactus or a clump of 
grass, or cropping the leaves from the branches of 
trees without in the least slackening their progress. 
In tills respect, as in many others, they have a great 
advantage over mules or horses, which require food 
as regularly as man himself.— According to still later 
accounts, the camels were realising the best expecta- 
tions which had been formed respecting them; and 
we can fancy that their now thoroughly proved 
adaptability to exploratory purposes would suggest 
their being employed in expeditions to the interior 
of the Australian continent. 

• New York THftime, January 23, IWB. 


The liquor-traffic-suppression law of America is pro- 
claimed in this country to have been a failure — ^that 
is, impossible of observance, in any state where it 
has been tried. The reports to this effect are, 
however, premature; at least they do not comport 
well with some facts of recent occurrence. In tlie 
year 1856, two hundred women entered the liquor- 
stores of Bockport, Essex county, Massachusetts, 
and destroyed all the liquors they could find. One of 
the sufferers by this Jenny-Geddes movement sued 
Stephen Perkins and his wife, who were concerned in 
it, and the case was lately decided in tlie supreme 
court at Salem by Chief-justice Shaw. The defend- 
ants were absolved, on the ground that the law had 
declared liquors kept for sale to be a nuisance, and 
it was therefore lawful for any person or multitude of 
persons to destroy them, wherever found. A salute 
of ten guns was fired in honour of tiie decision, and 
many instances have since occurred both of public 
officers and private individuals walking into liquor- 
stores and deliberately smashing every vessel contain- 
ing liquor whidi they could reach, of course without 
being liable to any action in consequence. In fact, 

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Uqaor for sale is now, in Massachusetts, a species of 
property for which the law affords no protection. 
The lowest ' loafer ' on the streets may walk into the 
gayest liquor-palace, and do as he likes with it. 

The observance and working out of law in America 
is more tinged with the Lynch principle of natural 
justice than it is in oar old and long settled country. 
Hence we perhaps see in the above facts a procedure 
which would never be sanctioned in England. Tet 
we would not advise the liquor interest with us to be 
too confident of the future. Their enemies are a 
small body, but they are indefatigable in their efforts 
to direct indignation at the public-houses— and when 
we see such astounding mischiefs constantly flowing 
from that source, can we wonder at their success? 
To take an isolated example : There are 2239 public- 
houses in Liverpool, and the habits of the working- 
classes in that city are thus described by a missionary 
(Rev. J. A. Steinthal): * Saving is an exceptional 

virtue among them The great, the chief 

kind of wasteful expenditure is the money spent 

on drink It is hardly possible to conceive 

the sums thus uselessly and foolishly spent 

There is nothing which a man addicted to drink 
either reverences or fears. As long as the victim 
drinks, any attempt at moral or religious improve- 
ment is altogether hopeless. There is a general 
belief that intemperance is a very prevalent vice; 
I only wish it were more generally known how 
awful are its ravages, and that all persons would but 
see with their own eySS the ruin which it produces. 
I have seen fathers and mothers pledge their children's 

clothes for drink Until the curse of drink is 

removed, I have no hope of the permanent improve- 
ment of the working-classes. It is sad indeed to 
watch the degrading and hardening influence of the 
desire for drink. I constantly hear of men turning 
their wives and children out of doors, to find refuge 
where they can for the night. I have seen the ruins 
of a man*s furniture, which in drunken frenzy he had 
destroyed. I have seen tlie wife's spare garments 
scorched and burned by the folly of a man who wished 
to make his fire bum brightly. I have seen the awful 
horrors of delirium tremens, when a man was as 
effectually mad as if labouring under mental disease, 
wliich indeed, for the time, he was. It has been my lot, 
of late, to see the tears flow down many a mother's face, 
as she told me of her starving children, and yet I have 
known mothers spending their money at the public- 
house, wasting their husbands' hard-earned wages for 
that which is not bread. That which thus can deaden 
every natural affection, every appeal of duty, must be 
cast out from amongst us, if we are not to see greater 
degradations than we already deplore.' 

In answer to the objection, you cannot make people 
sober by act of parliament, they afiirm that to some 
extent you can. As is well known, a partially restric- 
tive act has been in force in Scotland for some time 
past. The entire cases of drunken disorderliness 
reported by the police in the seventeen principal towns 
of Scotland during the three flrst years were 116,101, 
against 145,366 in the three preceding years ; of such 
cases on Sunday there were 4299, as contrasted with 
11,471.* Of there being a ratio, indeed, between the 
number of open public-houses and the amount of this 
appalling body-and -soul-destroying yice, we believe 
there can be no reasonable doubt. 

How strange to contrast with the results of drunken- 
ness in an industrious population the results of the 
providing of drink in certain cases. A recent lunacy- 
inquiry case reveals to us a capital in the brewing- 
trade advanced, in sixteen years, from L.200,000 to 

* From a pamphlet recently published by Mr Dnncan M'Laren, 
The Rise and Progrett of Whiiky-dnnking in Scotland. Edinburgh : 

L.600,000, enabling the fortunate trader to purchase 
a royal residence, to hunt in splendid style in the 
Highlands, to keep racers, to marry a lady of noble 
family, and settle on her a jointure of L.1 5,000 a 
year ! We suppose the enjoyers and partakers of tiiese 
drink-made fortunes look on the money in Vespasian's 
spirit — Non olet, A touch of Ciiief-jastice Shaw would, 
however, change their tune — and it may come ! 


Thou art not of my kind, nor knowest 

What manner of a seal I bear. 
Save by that instinct which thou showest — 

God's gift to thee, a jewel rare ; 
A charm by which to understand 
The pitying touch of this weak hand. 
Like some lost human sense, to thee 

It teaches what man cannot teach. 
Oar common nature's mystery 

That lies beyond his reason's reach : 
Thy quick bright eyes — so meek, so true — 
Can pierce my being through and through. 
I do but look on thee, and lo ! 

Thou Vt all one quiver of delight : 
Thou seem'st, thus dancing to and fro. 

Some beam of heaven's reflected light, 
A flash of joy — a sportive ray. 
To haunt and guide my darkened way. 
"What is thy need, O gentle friend! 

That thou must watch me where I sit 
Chasing vain shadows without end — 

Nui-sing sick sorrow's fever fit ? 
Why whinest thou beside my door? 
I did but cry : * My heart is sore.' 

Thou canst not heal it; go tljy vtay. 

Thou wilt not?— Nay, then rest thee here : 
There's something in thy looks doth say 

' To me thy chamber is not drear.' 
Methinks thou'rt sent — at last, though late. 
To teach me how to ' stand and wait.' 
I never owned thee ; nay, nor fed. 

Nor taught thee tricks as idlers do ; 
Tet constant to my side thou 'rt led, 

Drawn by a chain that drawcth few. 
Writhe as I may, in thee 1 find 
A patience passing human kind. 

What if I smote thee?— Never wince ! 

I would not do myself that shame. 
My soul is struck, poor friend ; yet since 

Revenge thou knowest not even by name, 
I will go pray while strength is mine 
For such a nature as is thine. 

Say, did I smite, wouldst thou leap up 

And touch my check with silent tongrue ? 
Ay, tliou wouldst drain the bitter cup, 

Nor inly ciy : * My heart is stung,* 
But melt my wrath with blithesome cheer. 
Turning my passion to a tear. 
I could not so : the more my need. 

Heaven framed me with too keen a sense 
Of wounds that rankle while they bleed. 

And mhie own helpless impotence 
In this blank world that round me rolls. 
Strewn with the wrecks of human souls. 
Come I lay thy head upon my knee, 

O gentle Teacher, wise as strong I 
III bow me down, and leam of thee 

To win by love that suffers long; 
And find all rest beneath the sun 
In the calm sense of duty done. E. L. H. 

Printed and PnbUahed by W. & R. CnAMBEits, 47 Paternoster 
Row, LoMDOH, luid 889 Hlfrb Street, EnniuvnoH. Also sold by 
Wn.LZA.u RoBYSTsoir, 23 Upper Sadiville Street, Dvbuv, and 
all BookseUen. 

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Si tit net snb ^xtn. 


No. 237. 

SATURDAY, JULY 17, 1858. 

Price IM. 

I A3ff, for my own part, an individual of Spartan 
Tirtae and the strictest morals. If I picked up a 
purse of money in the street to-morrow, I am almost 
certain that I should advertise it in the newspapers. 
If I took somebody cl8e*8 portmanteau home witii me 
in place of my own, I should at once propose to 
myself to return it to its original proprietor without 
any consideration respecting the relative yalue of the 

Still, as the moral philosopher observed who ate 
the sucking-pig which was sent as a present to his 
friend, *One must stop somewhere;' and there is a 
limit even to my notions of what should be expected 
of an honest man. I condemn but cannot help extenu- 
ating the conduct of that paterfamilias who, upon 
the troublesome question of allowance of luggage, 
describes his party as 'seven first-class passengers,' 
when three of the same are infants, and pay no fares. 
Tiie poor fellow reasons (I hope and believe) some- 
what after the following fashion: 'The railway 
autliorities permit little children to travel free ; that 
permission is absurd unless they permit their baggage 
to travel free also , these iron cots are their private 
property; my own portmanteau has been partially 
usurped by certain heterogeneous garments of ridicu- 
lously small dimensions ; this bag, which I am always 
instructed to " see to,'* and carry in my hand so care- 
Dully, and which clinks as I move, as though there 
were something frangible in it, must certainly belong 
to them, and should be conveyed gratis. Moreover, 
I was not asked how many tickets I had procured, but 
bow many persons were travelling with me.' 

This last exculpation I consider to be a reprehen- 
sible quibble ; but if paterfamilias sticks solely to his 
first notion of the semi-generous manner in which the 
railway authorities behave in regard to infants, and 
practically reforms their half-measures — ^in spite of 
themselves—by giving a whole effect to them— that 
roan has then my sympathy, though not perhaps mj 
admiration. I confess I am not able to look upon a 
public company as upon a private individual. I have 
not imagination enough — my weakness arises from 
that, I think — to identify a Board with a human 
Being. 1 cannot detect that feeling of shame within 
me when I mulct an association of directors, which I 
should entertain if I took an article of value, or 
indeed any article, out of the coat-pocket of a single 
member of that body. I smoke in contravention of 
by-laws. I give money to luggage-porters, with a 
tacit understanding that I shall in return for it enjoy 
certain immunities, in spite of the particular requests 

to the contrary that are addressed to me in print at 
every station, and of the 'Certain Dismissal' which 
is threatened so inexorably to the recipients. 

With these little flaws in my otherwise immaculate 
moral character, it is not to be expected that I should 
entertain a servile respect for Her Majesty's Revenue 
laws ; that I should religiously observe those Duties 
which are not so much natural as Customary. I do 
smuggle a little, when an opportunity offers itself, and 
that's the honest truth. In addition to the pecuniary 
saving, which is not inconsiderable in articles such as 
lace and tobacco, there is a considerable charm in 
defeating an organised system, in setting at nought a 
whole army of individuals that has beeu expressly 
levied for my discomfiture. Besides, if the worst 
comes to the worst, if a smuggler falls into the hands 
of a revenue-officer, he cannot be put to death, nor 
even transported for life: the risk of fine or imprison- 
ment is of course considerable, but not more than 
sufiiciently great to enhance the excitement. I had 
done a little in velvets, and made insignificant ven- 
tures of silk and jewellery more than once before I 
tried my first grand coup in laces, but I felt upon that 
occasion, I confess, excessively nervous. 

It was autumn, and I was crossing the Channel to 
Dover amid a crowd of returning tourists, almost all 
of whom were dreadfully inconvenienced by a strong 
westerly wind. Tot homintSy tot sententia^ was never 
proved to be so false a proverb before. Numerous as 
the company was, it was all of one mind, or at least of 
one stomach ; the deck, as a modern wit (who I wish 
was my friend) once observed, looked like some horrid 
picnic. It was terrible, as I stood at the bow, to see 
nothing else but the drooping hats and bonnets of my 
fellow-beings as the Tesscl dipped and rose— an end- 
less game of pitch-and-toss, where nothing turned up 
but heads. One sea-green face, however, was visible, 
the property of a middle-aged lady of large dimen- 
sions, and it interested me very deeply. Those 
nervous eyes, that twitching mouth, that countenance 
vainly striving to look unconcerned, I recognised at 
once as belonging to the amateur female smuggler 
running her first cargo. She would have been ill, I 
could see, only she had too great a weight upon her 
mind to enjoy any such relaxation. She saw that I 
was looking fixedly at her, and a blush came over 
her face, at once * making the green one red.' Yes, it 
was plain she smuggled ; she was stouter than any 
woman of her general appearance had any right 
to be. 

'Madam,' said I, approaching her by a series of 
gymnastic evolutions, which the unstable character 
of the plane whereon I moved compelled—' I see you 

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have no attendant ; can I be of any service to you ? 
I am an old sailor, and have, as you see, my sea-legs 
under me.' 

The poor woman gazed on the limbs referred to 
with an unintelliRent and frightened air; she had 
eyidently never heard of * sea-legs,* or else she had 
understood me to say that I had three legs, and she 
stared accordingly. 

*I want nothing, sir, I thank you,* replied she 
feebly, * unless you could put me on shore.' 

* We shall be, my dear madam,* said I, taking out 
my watch, but keeping my eye steadily upon her — * we 
shall be in less than ten minutes at the Custom-house.' 

A spasm~a flicker from the guilt within — glanced 
over her countenance. 

* You look yery good-natured, sir,' stammered she. 
I bowed, and looked considerably more so, in order 
to invite her confidence. * If I was to tell you a secret, 
which I find is too much for me to keep to myself, 
oh, would you hold it inviolable?* 

* I know it, my dear madam— I know it already,* 
said I smiling; *it is Lace, is it not ?' 

She uttered a little shriek, and Yes, she had 

got it there, among the crinoline. She thought it 
had been sticking out, you see, unknown to her. 

* Oh, sir,' cried she, ' it is only ten pounds* worth : 
please to forgive me, and I'll never do it again. As 
it is, I think I shall expire.' 

'My dear madam,* replied I, sternly but kindly, 
*here is the pier, and the oflBcer has fixed his eye 
upon us. I must do my duty.* 

I rushed up the ladder like a lamp-lighter; I pointed 
that woman out to the legitimate authority: I 
accompanied her upon her way, in custody, to the 
search ing-house. I did not see her searched, but I 
saw what was found upon her, and I saw her fined 
and dismissed with ignominy. Then, having gener- 
ously given up my emoluments as informer, to the 
subordinate officials, I hurried off in search of the 
betrayed woman to her hotel. Siie did not receive 
me warmly, and for a long time, indeed, refused to 
hear a word that I had to say. At last I overcame 
her antipathy so far as to get her to look at a piece 
of point-lace of twice the value of that which had 
been so ruthlessly taken away from her. I then 
placed in her hand the amount of the fine in which 
she had been mulcted. Then I began my explanatory 
statement : 

*You had ten pounds' worth of smuggled goods 
about your person, madam. / had nearly fifty times 
that amount. If you were alarmed for the possible 
consequences of your rashness, what, think you, must 
have been the state of my feelings upon my own 
account? I turned informer, madam, let me con- 
vince you, for Uie sake of both of us. You have too 
expressive a countenance, believe me, for this sort of 
fVee-trading, and the officer would have found you 
out at all events, even as I did myself. Are you 
satisfied, my dear madam ? If you still feel aggrieved 
or injured by me in any manner, pray take more 
laoe ; here is lots of it.* 

We parted the best of fHends. 

I had a second adventure, the other day, of a much 
less dangerous cliaracter, but which, as it happily 
illustrates my great natural ingenuity, I here take 
leave to add. Having come from the Mediterranean 
a few weeks ago to Southampton, I happened to be 
in possession of a couple of pounds of exceedingly 
fine cigars, adapted to my special taste, and which 
I was determined no custom-house fingers should 
meddle with. As soon as the vessel was brought 
alongside the quay, I left my cabin, and made my 
way to the movable gangway. 

'Sir,' said the official at the deck end of it, with a 
malicious grha, *I think I must trouble you to take 
off your hat* 

*To you?* cried I — * never I You are not Prince 
Albert in disguise, I suppose, nor the Bey of Tunis ? * 

*Come, come,' exclaimed the fellow — official per- 
sons, it may be here observed, have the greatest pos- 
sible dislike to being rallied, or, as the vulgar have 
it, * chaff*ed ' by anybody—* none of your sauce ; you 
take that hat off, or it will be the worse for you.' 

•Which hat?* asked I innocently— * whose hat?* 

'Yours,' replied he savagely — * yours. It's tipped 
up over your forehead in a way which convinces me 
that you have something in it.' 

* My very dear sir,' answered I blandly, * of course 
I have something in it. I always carry my pocket- 
handkerchief there ; and there's my head besides.' 

Tliis suspicions person telegraphed, nevertheless, to 
his confederate upon the shore, who seized upon me 
as I touched ground, and with the same ridiculous 
pertinacity, requested me to take my hat off. 

*If you lay a finger on my hat,* cried I furiously, 
'111 first knock you down (I was six feet one without 
the hat, wliich was an exceedingly tall one), and then 
bring an action against you for an aggravated assault. 
I want to get into the town particularly ; there are 
friends expecting me— female friends ; I insist upon 
being let go.' 

The cold-blooded official smiled grimly without 
reply, and took me to his superior, by whom tlie same 
demand was repeated. I said that, in courtesy, and 
not upon compulsion, I would touch my hat to him ; 
but that I would not take it off without a warrant. 
Then I was marched away in custody of a sort of 
guard of honour to the office of the superintendent. 
That individual convinced me of his right to enforce 
this absurd request of taking off my hat ; and under 
protest, and to oblige him, as being a very gentlemanly 
person, I did it. There was nothing in my hat, as I 
had affirmed from the very first, except my pocket- 
handkerchief. Officials never apologise; but I do 
hope that they felt they had wronged a fellow- 
creature by their cruel suspicions. I hastened back 
to the vessel, dived into my cabin, and presently 
reappeared with my tall hat tipped over my forehead 
more than ever. 

* Would you like me to take my hat off? ' inquired 
I of the first gangway-man. ' Would you like me to 
take my hat off? ' asked I of the second. I demanded, 
in short, whether I should again bare my injured head, 
of every custom-house officer who hsid been super- 
fluous about that ceremony before. But they all 
looked sheepish or annoyed, and replied that they had 
had quite enough of me and my hat already. It was 
therefore certainly not my fault, but their own, that 
my two pounds of special Begalias, which really were 
in my hat the second time, have not assisted, in their 
proper quota of some eighteen shillings, to swell the 
revenues of my native land. 


Undsu this name, Dr Madden has given us a 
laborious, yet popular view of the various epidemic 
manias which raged in Europe during the middle 
ages, and particularly during the two excited cen- 
turies connected with the Reformation. It is a strange^ 
wild subject, profoundly interesting as a chapter of 
the mental history of our race, affording many import- 
ant warnings, and perhaps worthy of deeper philoso- 
phical consideration than it has ever yet received. 
Dr Madden treats it chiefly as a physician, tracing its 
connection with the more familiar forms of lunacy ; 
yet, being also a UtUrattur, he has not neglected to 
present it in such a manner as to attract the ordinary 

In the flnt Tolume^ and ssrller half of the teeond. 

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the learned author treats of the belief in sorcery in 
ancient and modern times, and of the lamentable 
cruelties thence flowing ; of a succession of epidemic 
manias connected with religion, which marked the 
time when the Catholic faith was in its highest 
vigour ; and of the hallucinations which befell indi- 
viduals of extraordinary piety during that epoch, 
as Jeanne d'Arc, St Theresa, &c. It fully appears that, 
when the public mind in any community is oppressed 
with calamity and physical terrors— as from pestilence, 
famine, or the convulsions of nature — it falls, as by a 
fixed law, into a condition in which it becomes capable 
of the wildest extravagances and follies. It is but 
necessary for one person or little group of persons to 
adopt some ridiculous course of behaviour — dancing, 
jumping, self-torturing— or to avow some monstrous 
belief, as that the doctors are poisoning the wells, or old 
women exercising witchcraft against their neighbours 
— in order to smit a large portion of the community 
wi th the same practice or creed. We have a remarkable, 
though isolated, example in the Barking Disease which 
broke out in a district of England in 1341. ' A certain 
wayfaring man,* says Camden, 'as he travelled the 
king*s highway found a paire of gloves fit, as he 
thought, for his own tume, which, as he drew upon 
his hands, forthwith instead of a man*s voice and 
speech, he kept a strange and mervaillous barking 
like unto a dogge : and from that present, the elder 
folke and full growen, yea, and women too throughout 
the same country, barked like big dogges, but the 
children and little ones waughed as small whelpes. 
The plague continued with some, eighteen days, with 
others, a whole moneth, and with some for two yeares. 
Tea this foresaid contagious maladie entered also into 
the neighbouring shires, and forced the people in like 
maner to barke.' 

Conspicnoas among the self-torturing maniat was 
that which gave rise, in the fourteenth century, to the 
order of the FlagtllanU or Scourgers ; for so we may 
date this mania in its full force, though it appears 
to have had temporary sway two centuries before, 
and even to have been known in the worship of pagan 
Rome. This order consisted chiefly of persons of the 
lowest class, who took upon themselves the repentance, 
or, rather, the penance of the people at large, and offered 
prayers for the averting of the great plagues that at 
that time ravaged Europe. These Flagellants marched 
in solemn procession, wearing mourning garments, 
and carrying * triple scourges tied in three or four 
knota, in which points of iron were fixed.' In 1849, 
two hundred of them entered Strasburg, where above 
a thousand joined them ; and thence, divided into two 
bands, some wandered north, some south. We have 
here two forms of mania combined — the migratory 
and the flagellatory. The subjects of this complicated 
malady, shewing insubordination to all authority, 
secular or spiritual, soon became obnoxioua to the 
court of Rome, as well as to the petty princes of 
Italy and Germany. But it was by no means easy to 
put down the movement, which would die down for 
a time, only to break out again and again. Certain 
enthusiasts went so far as to frame a table of equiva- 
lents in stripes and sins, and a whole year's penance 
came to be estimated at 3000 lashes. A holy man, 
St Dominic Loricatus by name, attained to such pro- 
ficiency, AS to work off in six days, by the administra- 
tion of 800,000 stripes, the penanoe of a whole century. 

His example was followed by devotees of botli sexes. 
Indeed, *in Portugal, the women had become so 
accustomed to this bloody and fanatical devotion, that 
they uttered reproachful cries, and heaped injuries 
on those who did not scourge themselves violently 
enough, according to their notions.' Nor was scourg- 
ing the extent of the selMnflicted torture ; the very 
rigid practised other mortifications — tiiey went bare- 
footed, carried crosses of enormous weight, some bore 
naked swords stuck in the flesh of the back and 
the arms, whicli, upon any unusually vehement 
movement, caused, of course, extensive and agonising 
wounds, of which many died. Flagellant processions, 
we read, continued in Lisbon down to 1820; nay, 
even so late as 1843, Dr Madden saw confraternities 
of penitents walking, attired as of old, and bearing 
crosses, but without tlie torturing scourges. 

A still more appalling form of epidemic theo- 
mania displayed itself, about the middle of the six- 
teenth century, among the frenzied Anabaptists of 
Holland and Germany. The outline of their brutali- 
ties and barbarities being in some measure familiar 
to us all, we will not dwell upon them at any length. 
SuflSce it to say that one of their leaders commanded 
men and women to lay aside and burn all their 
clothes as a burnt- offering, agreeable to the revealed 
will of Heaven; that a woman in Basle believing 
herself to have received a dif ine promise of having 
her life supported without food, tried the experiment, 
and died in ten days; that in St Gall a family, 
having passed two nights in visions and prophecies, 
one brother called another, whom he dearly loved, 
into the middle of the room, and in the presence of 
his parents, and with the perfect concurrence of the 
victim, struck off his head, in professed obedience to a 
heavenly command ; that at Fulda a prophet having 
been re-baptised, announced his newly acquired power 
of walking on the water, and prepared to cross a 
river in the presence of assembled crowds. Such was 
the faith his pretensions inspired, that a mother ran 
forward to place her baby in his arms. We wish that 
some accounts had been handed down to us of ^e 
reaction felt when infant and theomaniac disappeared 
under the water. 

Scarcely less terrible was the epidemic theomania 
that manifested itself among the French Huguenots 
in Dauphin^ and Languedoc, in the reign of Louis 
XIV. They had been subjected to every species of 
oppression and cruelty; and as Calmeil, who has 
profoundly studied the question of popular frenzies, 
justly observes : * Excess of suffering has a tendency 
to produce this form of mental malady.' The Pro- 
testants, tried, tortured to the utmost, without help 
or hope on earth, took refuge in their belief in super- 
natural assistance, and in that faith prepared to 
disperse and conquer, in their own way, the forces 
marshalled against them. On one occasion, the insane 
and unarmed multitude, being led on by a brother 
and sister— maniacs in the strictest sense of the word 
— against troops commanded by some of tlie bravest 
captains of the time, their method of warfare proved 
to be the blowing with all their might upon the 
enemy, and crying aloud : ' Tartara, Tartara ! ' firmly 
convinced that nothing more was necessary to their 
triumph I It is painful to read of three or four 
hundred of these poor lunatics falling on one day 
under the sword. 

The theomania dispUyed in the Cevennes early 
in the eighteenth century was peculiarly prevalent 
amongst women and children. * Thousands of women,' 
according to the Marquis of Guiscard, * persisted in 
prophesying and singing, though they were hanged 
by hundreds.' *I have seen amongst these people,' 
writes the Marshal de Villars, 'things that I could 
never have believed, had they had not passed before 
my own eyes. Throu^out an entire town, all the 

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women and girls, without any exception, trembled 
and prophesied publicly in the streets.' 

A most remarkable outbreak of specific popular 
monomania was that of tlie Jansenist Convulsionaries, 
which began in 1730. A certain Deacon Francois 
Paris, having ended a life of self-denial and active 
beneficence, his tomb became the scene of reputed 
miraculous cures and convulsions. As usual, the 
greater number of persons who came to this tomb in 
the cemetery of St M^dard, were people of weak con- 
stitutions, chiefly females, labouring under epilepsy, 
neuralgia, and hallucinations of various kinds. With 
regard to the marvellous cures that took place among 
tlicm, Dr Douglas, the learned bishop of Salisbury, 
after careful investigation, pronounces that 'few 
matters of fact were ever confirmed by more unexcep- 
tionable testimony, performed, as they were, openly in 
the heart of one of the greatest cities in the universe, 
on persons whom everybody could see and examine, 
aud of whose recovery every inhabitant of the city 
could satisfy himself, because they lived on the spot.' 

Amongst tlie involuntary physical phenomena, we 
read of one woman repeatedly shot up into the air 
with great force, and tiring out numbers who suc- 
cessively undertook the charitable task of seeking to 
restrain lier convulsive movements ; of another, whose 
body was often turned round as if on a pivot; of 
a deaf and dumb girl who, after two visits to 
the tomb, and horrible convulsions undergone there, 
was found able to hear and speak, though without 
understanding the words addressed to or repeated by 
her. Nor were women the only ones involuntarily 
affected. We read of an incredulous secretary of state, 
M. Fontaine, being converted to Jansenism when at a 
large dinner-party, by feeling himself suddenly com- 
pelled to turn round and round on one foot with pro- 
digious swiftness. These involuntary gyrations lasted 
upwards of an hour. As soon as they began, *an 
instinct which he believed from above prompted him 
to ask for a book of prayer, and the one which first 
came to hand, and was accordingly given to him, 
turned out to be a volume of moral reflections by 
Father Quesnel.' Not the least part of the wonder 
was his power of reading this book aloud while 
turning round with ' dazzling rapidity.' 

Poor M. Fontaine next became subject to ecstasies, 
trances, and visions; he practised and survived 
a total abstinence of eighteen days, during which 
he employed himself by day in manual labour, while 
he passed the night in prayer and in the recitation 
of psalms. No sooner had this unfortunate zealot 
partially recovered his health and strength, than he 
began to subject botli to the still severer ordeal of a 
three- weeks' fast, at the end of which he was an 
apparently dying man. Nothing daunted, however, he 
had scarcely regained a measure of strength, when he 
put into execution his fast of forty days, during 
which, however, he drank freely. 

The account of this Jansenist frenzy would bo 
incomplete without some further notice of the con- 
vulsive phenomena to wliich the sufferers were 
subject. During these, there appears to have been no 
amount or variety of torture which was not loudly 
called for by the Convulsionaries, and abundantly 
inflicted by those who held it a sacred duty to obey 
their insane requirements. Montgeron computes that 
4000 enthusiasts were employed to kick and strike 
the infirm as well as the multitude of young girls, 
who begged for their rudest blows. We read of 
one who hung herself up by the heels with her head 
down, and remained in that position three quarters of 
an hour ; of another, who, after being struck on the 
head with one log, then with four logs, had her arms 
and legs violently pulled in different directions, which 
process lasted a long time, because there were only six 
pereont to puU; of nambers of fair and delicate 

women who did not shrink from applying their lips 
to the foulest wounds, under the impulse of a morbid 
charity. This form of insanity, though in a great 
measure repressed by the royal order to dose the 
cemetery of St M(^dard, issued in 1732, lasted, accord- 
ing to Hecker, till the year 1790, when France was 
on the eve of another and still more fearful develop- 
ment of popular frenzy. But this Jansenist outburst 
was the last great epidemic of convulsive theomania, 

A large portion of Dr Maddcn's second volume 
is occupied with an account of the not less wild and 
strange demonstrations which were made in the 
French and German convents during the century of 
reaction which followed the Reformation. It was 
supposed that, under the influence of some person 
possessed of unholy powers, evil spirits entered into 
the nuns, who thenceforth shewed a frightful change 
of demeanour, falling into convulsions and agitations, 
in the course of which they flung themselves about in 
the most violent manner, foaming at the mouth, 
roaring like animals, speaking occasionally in what 
were thought unknown tongues, blaspheming, assum- 
ing attitudes grossly indecorous; sometimes falling 
down in a rigid and torpid state, in which they were 
found to be insensible to prickini^s and lacerations of 
the flesh ; at other times, bounding into the air with 
a force that seemed to come from some source inde- 
pendent of the natural muscular power. Occasionally, 
they would throw themselves into the form of a bow, 
bending backward so as to rest the whole weight of 
the body on the forehead, while the rest was in the 
air, and in this uneasy posture they would remain 
a long time. A strange howling, like that of a dog, 
was sometimes heard to proceed from the chest. 
During the paroxysms, the victims expressed aversion 
for those prayers and rites of the church which, in 
sane moments, they regarded with veneration, and to 
which it might be said they had devoted their lives. 
The moment the fit was over, to the surprise of the 
bystanders, they would resume their usual calm 
demeanour, and walk away as totally unaffected by 
the frightful contortions, spasms, and ravings under 
which they had for hours been suffering. When once 
an affection of this kind appeared in one or two 
members of a community, it usually spread quickly 
amongst the rest, notwithstanding the wishes of the 
hitherto sane to avoid it. What is more remarkable, 
pious ecclesiastics of the highest repute for sanctity of 
life, who came to do their best as exorcists, were in 
frequent instances seized with the same disorder. 

The statement made after recovery by Theresc de 
Sylva, superioress of a Benedictine convent at Madrid 
which became affected with demonopatliy in 1G28, 
gives a good idea of how the so-called possession would 
commence. Two or three of the inmates had been 
exhibiting symptoms for some weeks, when the supe- 
rioress began to feel internal movements of an extra- 
ordinary character. * She prayed frequently and 
fervently to be delivered from this great evil. Eventu- 
ally she prayed the prior. Father Garcia, to exorcise 
her. He refused to do so, and tried to convince her 
that all she recounted was the effect merely of 
imagination. She did all in her power to believe that 
it was so, but it was in vain. Eventually the prior 
put on his stole, and after many prayers, begged that 
God might be pleased to make it known to her if the 
demon had possessed her, or to cause those cruel 
sufferings she endured to cease. Long after he had 
commenced the exorcism, and while she felt altogether 
comforted and relieved, freed from all sufferings, she 
fell all at once into a kind of swoon and delirium,' 
which * continued about three months,' during which 
she was impelled to do and say * things of which she 
never had an idea in her life.' 

A good example of the spread of the affection to an 
exorcist is famished by the case of Feather Sarin, who 

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came in December 1C34 to assist ia expelling^ demons 
from the Ursuline nuns of Londan. fiefore he had 
bren at work more than a month, he was so far 
affected as to lose Ids speech. Then a demon, wlio 
possessed the face of the superioress, and spoke by her 
mouth, suddenly left her, and took possession of Surin, 
cnusinir him to change colour, constricting his chest, 
and also deprlying him of speech. Bein? exorcised 
out of the father, the demon returned to tim body of 
tlie superioress ; soon nfter, it came back to the father, 
IT ho now began to suffer internal pains that can9ed 
him to twist his body like one afflicted with the 
cholic. Writing to a friend regarding his sufferings 
three months after, he tells how the demon passes 
from the possessed person into himself, throwing him 
down in convulsions which last for several hours. * I 
cannot explain,* snys he, * what passes in me during 
this time, nor how that spirit unites itself to mine, 
still acting like another self, as if I had two souls, of 
which one is depMved of her body and of the use of 
her faculties, and holds herself apart, contemplating 
the actions of the soul which now occupies the bod}'. 
The two spirits fight in the same field, which is the 
body, and the soul is, as it were, divided. On the one 
side, the soul is subject to diabolic influence, and on 
the other to her natural inclinations, or those which 

God gives When, prompte<l by one of these 

devils, I wish to make the sign of the cross on my 
mouth, the other devil, with great rapidity, turns 
away my hand, and catclies my finger with the teeth, 

to gnaw me with rage The extremity in which 

I find myself is such, that I have scarcely one free 
faculty. When I wish to speak, my mouth is closed ; 
at mass, I am suddenly stopped ; at table, I cannot 
convey tiie morsel to my lips ; at confession, I forget 
in a moment all my sins ; and I feel that the devil 
comes and goes, as in his own house, within me. 
Directly I awake, he is with me at prayer ; he 
deprives me of consciousness when he plenses ; when 
my heart would expand itself in God, he fills it with 
rage; when I would watch, he sets me asleep; nnd 
he publicly by the mouth of the demoniac (the sister- 
prioress) boasts that he is my master.* 

It was the afflictions of these nuns of Loudun that 
led to the celebrated prosecution of the obnoxious 
priest, Urbain G randier. When this dismal case is 
treated among modern rational authors, it is cus- 
tomary to hold up the nuns as practising an impo- 
sition for the destruction of an innocent man; but 
the theory of a deliberate or systematic imposture on 
their part is precluded by the fact of the continuance 
of the same painful demonstrations for several years 
after Grandier's execution ; and, moreover, the Loudun 
possessions are but one example of many in which 
there has been no such malignant object alleged. 
For anything that appears, the Loudun nuns were as 
much tiie victims of some influence beyond the con- 
trol of their own better sense, as any others that 
gave similar manifestations. In our time, were such 
phenomena to present themselves, they would be 
treated as disease, and, instead of religious exorcisms, 
which seem only to have fed tlie malady, there would 
have been some strong alterative treatment of a purely 
physical kind. It may be suspected, however, that 
tiiere was something more in these cases of so-called 
dcmonomania than what our orthodox medicine is 
willing to admit. The resemblance of many of the 
phenomena to those of mesmerism is extremely 

Our readers will understand that these are but 
glances at a series of strange and wild historiettes^ 
which they will find in full and interesting detail in 
Dr Madden's book. We close the volumes of our 
learned author with thanks for his bringing so many 
curious matters into a regular and accessible form. 
With his theories regarding them, proceeding as these 

do on the narrow views of existing medical science, 
we cannot say we are satisfied. They all seem to us 
to rest on some assumption, and they certainly ignore 
wliole classes of facts as well attested as any of the 



As soon as the few friends who visit this little 
vicarape of mine at Woodislee, for the first time, have 
done admiring its low white front, all garlanded witli 
honeysuckle, and the wild growth of ivy overhead, 
I take them to the school-house, as a sight more 
pleasant still ; quite as large, and twice as high it is, 
and built of rough-hewn stone, with a porch almost 
as big as the house itself, to shelter the children 
when they come too early for their school-time. The 
thymy smell of the moorland is borne to us as wc 
approach, along with the murmur of their voices, mak- 
ing it seem doubly like the hum of bees; and the stock in 
its garden, and the sweetbricr that peers in at its open 
casements, make the air fragrant witliin. The school- 
rooms of both boys and girls are lofty and well venti- 
lated, and however their young hearts may long to be 
up and away over the purple hill, there is, at least, no 
headache nor drowsiness to dull their little wits. In 
the winter-time, too, all is snug and warm, so that 
fewer small red noses, and a less universal infant 
snuffle, are perceptible in the school-house of Woodislee 
than in any similar place that I am acquainted with. 
The squire built it at his own expense, and the 
cottage of the master and his wife beside it likewise. 
Higher upon the moorland yet—a beacon to be seen 
from half-a-dozcn counties, and a landmark for the 
ships that come up from the western world — stands 
the new church, and has stood there those ten 
years in despite of tho four winds. Oh, pleasant 
sight upon a Sabbath morn, while the bells are still 
ringing their first peal, and along the winding sand- 
road come the good people up by twos and threes : 
the young men in their clean white smock-frocks, 
and the girls in gay apparel; the old men toiling 
slowly with in hand, their gray hairs lifted by 
the breeze, and their old datncs resplendent in 
the scarlet cloaks they are so loathe to leave 
off wearing, though tlio summer is come ; and all, 
as they stop to rest from time to time, turning to 
westward gladly for that glorious view. The glim- 
mering towns, from which, too, comes a faint and far- 
off music; the teeming hedgerows, with the deep 
blood-red Devon lanes; the crystal river hiding 
from the sun in the cool copses ; the sparkling sea, 
with its fair burdens mostly motionless, but on its 
verge a dim white speck that grows, and close in- 
shore (that WAS itself a speck when the bells rang for 
school an hour ago) a huge three-masted ship — an isle 
of snow, or a white cloud fresh fallen ; and so with 
thankful hearts, I hope, for the fair world that has 
been given us to dwell in, we enter into church at 
Woodislee. Massive need its walls be, and the tall 
gray tower, straight and without flaw, when the fierce 
north-wester blows— and they are so. The good squire 
built this also— Mr Markhara that is, who lives in the 
great house yonder with the gables, which is called 
the Grange. 

When 1 first came to Woodislee, I came as curate, 
for the incumbent was near ninety years of age, and 
very infirm. 1 had a hundred pounds a year, and the 
little cottage that is now in ruins close by the old 
church, to live in, and never dreamed to have done 
better. That would have been enough and to spare, 
indeed — without my good wife here and the four little 
ones of course, who then were not in the question — 
for the place is not a dear one at to living. The Brent, 

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which yon have seen, runs hy our door, supptied me 
well with trout, and I was my own fishmonger. A 
knife and fork, too, were always laid for me at the 
sqaire's hoard ; and on Sundays, without exception, I 
was there to use them. No mere hluff country mag- 
nate was Mr Markham : 

A lord of fat prize^oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of phie, 
And pamphleteer on g^ano and on grain. 

Or rather, he had all the qualities of such a man, and 
finer ones besides : a good scholar, an elegant musi- 
cian, and a gentleman as I discovered at the first; 
who pleased my Oxonian fancy with his classics, and 
knew the literature of his own land also at least as 
well ; who played on flute and violin divinely ; and 
who, when lords and bishop and county families 
rayed round his table, remembered not the less — a 
virtue very rare in hosts — the curate of Woodislee. 
Of his real worth and goodness, I knew more as I 
knew him longer ; his open hand, his kindly heart, 
are dear even to speak of. I bring one proof of them, 
not stronger than I could select from a crowd of 
others, nor better witnessed, although it affects 
myself. The Sunday after poor Mr Melville — the old 
incumbent — died, I was, as usual, at the Grange; 
and, as was natural, our talk fell upon his loss and 
on the future vicar. 

' I have appointed one in my own mind,' said Mr 
Markham ; * and if he chooses to accept the living — 
as there is no reason whatever for delay — he will read 
himself in within the month or so : a young man not 
over-rich, who knows the people here, and is well 
liked by them/ 

* I fear then, sir, he will not want a curate, since 
the parish is so small ?' 

' No ; I fear not, Grantley. We shall be sorry to 
lose you, although wc have seen so little of each 
other ; but I will have you in my eye be sure, as will 
my wife, in whose way curacies come somehow more 
than they do in mine.' And so we parted for that 
time with a hearty hand-shake. 

Ah, what a wife that Mrs Markham was I a fair 
blithe woman then, with auburn hair just dusted o'er 
with gold, and wearing her thirty summers like a 
flower. She, with her pleasant smile, was the fit 
messenger to tell me ere the month was up that I 
myself was the new ricar of Woodislee. She took as 
great delight to bring the news as I to hear it. * The 
vicarage is yours,' said she; 'and may this please 
yon, Mr Grantley, as it pleases us. It was not with 
my will that it was kept a secret from you for so 
long ; but you know my husband loves his kindly 

It was not likely after this that I should become 
less their friend; and indeed the Markliams and 
myself were for ever together. Both as clergyman 
and as familiar intimate, my intercourse grew very 
close with them indeed. I learned (with pains enough) 
even to join their little concerts in the hall ; I read 
with them old plays in winter evenings ; and the vicar- 
age was almost less my home than was the Grange. 
I am not sure that they did not choose my wife for me, 
if so, I have the greatest gift of all to thank them for ; 
and they stood both of them as sponsors to my eldest 
boy. About two years after I had been installed as 
vicar, I began to observe a great strangeness in Mrs 
Markham. She grew absent, started when addressed 
—-espeoially if by her husband — ^wasted visibly, and 
lost in part her pleasant looks. The squire did not 
see this ; she had always a smile to greet him with, 
however she might look to others ; and would watch 
him sometimes, when he was not regarding her, with 
a concentration of affection in her gaze more intense 
than ever. Another change was this: the squire's 
fortune being very large, his wife had a most liberal 

allowance, and kept quite a little establishment of 
her own. Her charities, besides those that were in 
common with his, were extensive. When any persons 
needed help beyond that which I was justified in 
giving, I had been accustomed to apply to her as 
readily as to him ; but now her alms at first dimi- 
nished, and then altogether ceased. She parted, 
under some frivolous pretence, with her carriage and 
ponies, and, from being rather fastidious and choice 
in her attire, she came to dress with great simplicity, 
and almost ill; so that upon that point her husband 
rallied her. One night she was singing with us in 
the hall, as usual, a favourite Scotch song of his that 
she had sung a hundred times before, when her voice 
suddenly trembled, as though her heart was breaking, 
and she burst into a fit of tears. It was one of those 
exquisite melodies of Burns upon the domestic 
affections, and Markham spoke touchingly to me 
afterwards of that excessive fondness of his wife's 
for him which had so completely overmastered her. 
'If I were to be taken from her,' said he, 'I do 
believe dearest Jane would die.' 

Certainly, to watch her anticipating his slightest 
wish, and listening to his eyery word as though it 
were to be his last, it might well seem so. Upon my 
venturing to remark to him that she was generally 
in by no means good health, and not in her usual 
spirits, he thanked me, and was nervously alive to 
this at once; and thinking a little company might 
cheer her, he sent for his maiden sister from the north 
to spend some time with them — a quiet elderly lady, 
very excellent, but not in any way gifted as her 
brother and sister-in-law were. We two struck up 
an acquaintance very soon, and the squire was wont 
to make facetious allusions to it which would have 
been embarrassing from anybody else. She soon 
filled up, in some measure, that position of Lady 
Bountiful in the parish which Mrs Markham had 
abdicated — ^although I confess she somewhat lacked 
the gracefulness of her welldoing — and evidently to 
that lady's satisfaction. It left her more to herself, 
and at liberty to retire to her chamber or elsewhere, 
as had now become lier favourite custom. This, 
combined with the other peculiarities in her conduct, 
although still veiled from her husband's notice, did 
not escape the quick womanly eye of Miss Markham. 

'I cannot think,' said she, as we were taking a 
parochial walk together about three weeks after her 
arrival, * what change has come over Jane. If we 
did not know herself and George to have been the 
most loving couple that ever breathed, I should be 
inclined to think her an unhappy wife; and if I were 
not thoroughly convinced of the badness of her late 
husband, that she was regretting his loss.' 

I had never heard until that moment of Mn 
Markham having been ever a widow, and I expressed 
my surprise strongly. 

'Indeed ?' said my companion. ' I had made oertaio 
that they had intrusted you with that revelation ; but 
since you are aware of so much, you may now just 
as well know all. 

'Mrs Markham, whom, you perceive, even at tliis 
time, charming and almost perfect as she appears, 
to be extraordinarily sensitive and unsuspicious of 
evil, was, as Miss Jane Kaby, romantic to the last 
degree. She eloped at school, at the age of seventeen, 
with an adventurer named Heathcote. I never saw 
him myself, but I have been told that he was in 
3'Ottth extremely handsome^ and gifted with some 
attractive but superficial talents. After living to- 
gether a short time in great unhappiness, so far as 
Jane was concerned, he deserted her, and sent her 
back to her friends. He did not appear again for 
yean. He must have treated the poor girl very 

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brutally, to account for the horror and abaolate 
loathing which ahe entertained for him. He knew 
tliat she did so, and used that knowledge for his own 
profit. He had openly boasted that "lie had not 
married a milksop like her for notliing, but for her 
money ;" and the moment which secured to her her 
property, the very day on which she came of age, 
brought this harpy to her side again. She bought 
him off with ransoms, then and at many other times, 
as the civilised nations in old time bought off the 
savage, and with the like result — he became more 
frequent and extravagant in his demands. When I 
say that he was a systematic gnmbler and a drunkard, 
I believe that I have mentioned only his lighter 
foibles. Tlie relics of her original fortune only re- 
mained to her, when be required of her a blank 
check to be filled up at his own pleasure. This, 
backed by her paternal uncle, and sole relative, in 
whose house she was then residing, she steadily 
refused to give him; and ileathcote, uttering the 
most frightful threats, was obliged to content himself 
with a draft drawn by Mr Baby upon his own banker 
for a hundred pounds. He drew it merely to save 
his niece, who was in an agony of terror from her hus- 
band's violence, and to get the man out of the house 
as quickly as possible; but, as the matter turned 
out, this was the luckiest thing in the world. Heath- 
cote altered the *' one " upon the order to " five," and 
the number '* 100 " to " 500," and so got the check 
changed by the commission of a felony. The next 
time that this fellow came for his merciless tax — 
which was soon enough^Mr Raby had a policeman 
in waiting for him. '*If," said that gentleman, **you 
ever again attempt to persecute my unhappy niece, 1 
transport you for the term of your natursi life. You 
may thank her alone that I suffer you to escape your 
just punishment this time. If it rested with me only 
— and luckily the proof of your penal crime does 
rest with me, and with no * milksop '—you should be 
shipped off as soon as law could ship you." Heathcote 
hectored a good deal, and strove to obtain an inter- 
view with his poor wife ; but Mr Baby was firm. He 
told him out one hundred five-pound notes, and 
enclosed them in a cover, whereupon he wrote his own 
name and address, to remind him of this compact, 
telling him that it was the last handwriting and the 
last Bhilling of his that he should see. The conditions 
of gift were, that the recipient should depart for 
Australia forthwith, and never set foot again in 
England. " The fellow five hundred, the forged check, 
air, is in my own possession ; and if I ever see your 
face again, shall be produced in a court of law" — 
which penalty the other, there being no help for it, 
agreed to. Heathcote's brutality must have been 
something excessive to have trodden all traces of love 
out of a heart like Jane's ; but he had quite succeeded 
in so doing. Although she had not consented to her 
uncle's threat being held over him— and happy was 
it that it did not rest with her to use it— she could 
not but feel comfort from the event. Bix months' 
experience of freedom did wonders in restoring her 
roses and lightening her heart of a sorrow that 
seemed likely to crush it altogether. She began to 
move about less like an automaton, to wear the smile 
of content, if not of merriment, and to be in some 
sort like the Jane Baby of five years before. Then 
came some news which made her serious and silent 
a while, but could scarce have made her sad : Heath- 
cote was dead in the bush, slain by the hand of one 
of his own wicked companions. In a concealed 
pocket within his vest was found the roll of bank- 
I notes in their still unbroken cover. It had escaped 
: the eyes of his murderer, or the passing by of some 
' honest settlers had disturbed him in his unfinished 
search. They forwarded the parcel to Mr Baby, 
with a narration of these &cts. A year after this 

event, it would have been impossible to recognise the 
spirit-bowed and fragile Mrs Heathcote in the by no 
means inconsolable widow which she had then become. 
Thanks to her brief matrimonial career, she was not 
rich, but beautiful and happy as you see her now, Mr 
Grantley, or rather as you did see her until within 
these few months. My brother married her with the 
full knowledge of her former life, and has never had 
a moment's cause, as he says himself, to regret his 

This narration, which the kind-hearted but mis- 
doubting little old maid made piquant with various 
garnishments of her own, in the way of flings at the 
foolishness of young girls, and the futility of early 
marriages, did not much enlighten me, as to what 
was ailing with poor Mrs Markham, although it 
increased my interest in her fortunes. Her conduct 
towards myself remained unaltered, or was marked by 
even greater communicativeness. She put to me 
several hypothetical cases of conscience, of which I 
could see no possible bearing on herself, and begged 
me, as a clergyman, to give her my best opinion on 
the subject. She told me that she had often bewailed 
the having no children, which she had once considered 
to be the sole blessing that had been denied her ; but 
that now she thanked God she was childless. The 
horrible thought began to cross me that my dear 
benefactress and firm friend was going out of her 
mind; and that idea grew stronger, although Miss 
Markham shook her head at it, and hoped it might be 
no worse. She was as good a person as ever lived ; but 
she had the weakness of her order, which somehow 
is always to think the worst that can be of all 
her sex. But when I had seen Mrs Markham 
come out of the firwood, under the sandcliff, a little 
after sunrise one morning, and she told me, pale as a 
spectre, and quivering in every limb, that she had 
only been to get an appetite for breakfast ; when she 
asked me at another time for the loan of twenty 
pounds for a very pressing emergency, and begged me 
to keep it secret; and when I coupled with these 
things lier piteous endeavours, so transparent to 
myself and her sister-in-law, to conceal her unhappy 
condition at all times — a mark most significant of 
an unsettled braiu— I felt quite sure of my painful 
surmise being but too true. I was even debating 
how to break this horror to Mr Markham, that 
remedial measures might be resorted to before it 
was too late, when a circumstance occurred which 
changed my suspicions into a certainty even atill 
more terrible. 

(2b be eoneludid in our next,) 


No person of a meditative turn of mind can long 
remain a spectator of the improvements effected in 
almost every department of the manufacturing world, 
without being profoundly convinced of the immense 
strides which have of late years been made in the 
practical applications of chemistry. 

Chemistry, to our forefathers, was a vague and 
speculative science, having no bearing, direct or 
indirect, upon any one of the arts or manufactures. 
The learned found, in its unmeaning nomenclature, 
a convenient shelter for tlieir own ignorance on many 
points; and the unlearned looked upon it as far 
above their comprehension, and altogether void of 
useful or practical application. One or two great 
men, of whom Robert Boyle ought perhaps to be 
placed first, disgusted with the arbitrary rules which 
had been laid down by the cliemists, founded, most 
of them, on the mere ipse dixit of men wholly un- 
acquainted with the cause of any natural phenomena, 
attempted to overturn the more absurd parts of the 
soHudled science; and their exertions met with a 

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good deal of eucceas, and paved the way for great 

At the present day, chemistry is par excellence 
the science having utility as its invariable result, and 
working hand in hand witli nearly every art and 
manufacture. Yet it has not become a common, a 
simple, or an easy pursuit ; it is perhaps as difficult, 
and even more so, to gain an intimate knowledge of 
modern, than it ever was of ancient cliemistry. If it 
was troublesome to recollect the thousand and one 
peculiarities attributed of old to phlogiston — caput 
mortmim, quinta essentia, terra vitrifiabilis^ and terra 
fusibilis — it is no less troublesome, at the present 
day, to recollect even the names of such substances as 
arseniomethylimylium, stibiotetramethylium, hydrar- 
gobenzamide, aiid trichloracetamide, although these 
latter words exactly express tlie composition of the 
bodies they index, and are the simplest which, 
compatible with correctness, can be put together. 

Nothing will so clearly shew the advantage which 
has accrued to society generally by recent chemical 
investigation, on an examination into the manufac- 
ture of some article brought before us in everyday- 

Wien, owing to some great convulsion of nature, 
a mighty forest, with trees of a magnitude unequalled 
in this post-diluvian world, with tangled thickets and 
waving fern beneath them, is buried hundreds of 
fathoms below the surface of the earth, and pressed 
down for centuries into t)ie smallest possible compass 
by millions of tons of matter resting upon it, it might 
be supposed, that eo far as the uses of mankind were 
concerned, a great and irreparable loss had been 
sustained. The noblest of those trees, if hewn down 
and exposed for a hundred years or less to the action 
of the atmosphere, would rot away, and be resolved 
into the simple forms of matter, by the union of 
which they were constituted. Then what will it be 
after fifty, sixty, or an indefinite number of centuries 
have rolled over the globe ? 

Certainly they would not be lost* Nature neither 
tcastes nor loses. When those forests existed as forests 
in all their beauty, there was no liand upon the earth 
to hew them down, no inventive creature to make use 
of their productions. Nature acted like a frugal house- 
wife ; and just as Mrs Brown or Mrs White, finding 
in her garden the supply of gooseberries exceeding 
her present demand for that fruit, * preserves' the 
surplus for winter use. in the form immediately 
recognised by the little Browns and Whites as 'jam,' 
nature preserved her vast and otherwise useless forests 
in great sunless, airless storehouses, in the solid 
crust of the earth; and now gives them up to her sons 
in the no less valuable form of coal. 

From coal, man has obtained ninny things which he 
would have vainly sought for otherwise ; and not 
least of these products, though, until lately, poked 
quite away in a corner, he has obtained tar. 

Every reader is perfectly familiar with the colour, 
odour, and generally disagreeable nature of tar. We 
don't mean the rich, fragrant, foreign fluid, prepared 
from the roots and otherwise useless portions of 
resinous firs, and known as Stockholm tar; nor yet 
the purer extract furnished by the wood-vinegar or 
pyroligneous-acid-maker. These are tars, but they 
are not our tar: our tar is far more disagreeable than 
any other kind, and is usually called, in allusion to 
the source whence it is obtained, coal-tar. 

Coal-tar is torn from the long embrace of its parent 
coal, at the period when that parent yields up to the 
service of man a no less cherished offspring, gas. As 
coal is heated in confined chambers, the carburetted 
hydrogen, for the production of which the operation is 
performed, is separated, and with it a quantity of the 
black treacley-looking fluid known as tar. This is 
collected in proper receptacles, and aa it is of no use 

to the gas manufacturer, is sold to those whose 
special business is its preparation. 

Until the last few years, the applications of coal- 
tar were very simple, and very limited : it was spread 
over a vast variety of substances which required its 
preserving influence to guard them from the weather; 
it was used as a routrh varnish for gigantic ironwork ; 
and it formed an important ingredient in various 
compositions used instead of stone for esplanade 

Modern chemistry, however, attacking one by one 
the myriads of matters entering into the composition 
of this * terrestrial ball,' one fine day seized hold of 
tar ; and after torturing the poor fiuid in a thousand 
different ways, examining and cross-examining it by 
its ministers, heat and cold, acids and alkalies, tests 
and reagents, pronounced it a very remarkable and 
highly complicated substance. 

Wliat is tar ? 

Tar is a union of a very considerable number of 
organic bodies, some being solid, and others fluid. 
It contains — if you desire a clear and satisfac- 
tory idea of its composition — ammonia, aniline, pico- 
line, quinoline, pyridine, phenic acid, rosolic acid, 
brunolic acid, benzole, tolnole, cumole, cymole, naph- 
thaline, paranaphthaline, chrysene, and pyrene. As 
each of these sixteen substances is individually more 
or less complicated, we are not, we think, wrong la 
saying that the fluid formed by their union is 
somewhat remarkable. 

We wont go into the chemical nature of tar; we 
might say about every one of its constituents as much 
as would fill half-a-dozen columns of this Journal, 
and yet those constituents are as yet but very imper- 
fectly understood. Wo prefer rather glancing at tiie 
actual serviceable products which have been obtained 
from coal-tar. 

The apparently simple business of the tar-worker 
is to take his tar to pieces ; not to separate it into all 
the various components we have enumerated, for that 
would be a very difiicult, and perhaps useless proceed- 
ing, but to extract from it a number of vastly different 
bodies, which have been put to a variety of uses in thQ 
manufacturing world. 

In nearly the whole of his operations, the simple 
agent used by the tar-workcr is heat. It is one of 
the fundamental lawa of chemistry, that every fluid 
at a certain temperature shall assume a gaseous form; 
the temperature at which such change takes place 
being entirely dependent upon the nature of the fluid 
operated upon. The highly complex bo<ly, tar, is 
therefore placed in certain large stills, each containing 
from 2000 to 3000 gallons ; and heat being applied, the 
tar in time begins to boil ; and each of its fluid con- 
stituents, which nssumes the form of vapour at » 
different temperature from the others, separately 
makes its appearance at the end of the still-worm. 

The first of these is a quantity of ammonia and 
other gases, all of which arc collected in cold water, 
which soon becomes strongly impregnated with them, 
and is used for the preparation of a rough description 
of sulphate of ammonia, which finds a ready sale as 
an important ingredient in certain artificial manures. 

As the heat is increased, an oily fluid comes over, 
technically called Might oil,* which is carefully col- 
lected apart from tlie other products. When as 
much of this light oil hns made its appearance «» 
about equals in bulk one-twentieth of the tar origin* 
ally put into the still, it ceases to be produced, and 
is succeeded by a dense dark-coloured fiuid, ^'^^[l * 
peculiarly offensive odour, known as * dead oil.' '"'® 
dead oil comes over in much larger quantity tha^ 
the light oil, equalling fully one-filth of the tar. 
When the dead oil hns ceased to run, the distiller 
knows it is of no use to keep the pot boiling w»y 
longer ; the fire is therefore put out, a huge tap «* 

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the bottom of the utill is turned, and the thick bliick 
residuum, still fluid in its heated state, being neither 
mnrc nor less than common pitch, is allowed to ran 
alonpr certain channels prepared for its transmission, 
into immense underj^onnd tanks in which it is stored. 

By simple hoiiing, tlien, our manufacturer hss split 
up his tar into four very different matters— pitch, 
dead oil, light oil, and ammoniacal liquor. 

With the pitch he does very little. Shortly after 
running from the still, it is ladled out of the great 
taiiks already mentioned into moulds formed of the 
halves of resin-casks, rublied with chalk on the inside 
to prevent its adhering; and being sold in tliis state, 
it is used for a variety of well-known purposes. 

The greater part of the dead oil, too, has no 
further process to undergo. The product is in reality 
R rough mineral creasote, and possesses in a high 
degree the antiseptic properties for which creasote is 
so celebrated. The dead oil is about the most import- 
ant thing got out of the tar; thousands and thousands 
of gallons are every week sold to the different rail- 
way companies for the soaking of sleepers and other 
timber; for once well impregnated with the fluid, 
every description of wood may^ bid defiance to both 
wet and dry rot. A good deal of the oil is, however, 
used for a very different purpose. It is exceedingly 
inflammable, and contains a large amount of carbon ; 
and these two peculiarities are taken advantage of 
by slowly burning it in curious little lamp-furnaces 
connected with vast brick flues ; the smoke from the 
burning oil is rapidly deposited on the sides of these 
flues in a form which washerwomen would recop:nise 
08 'blacks;' and being periodically scraped off, it 
makes its appearance in the market as Mampblack.' 

The light oil is, however, a substance requiring 
a good deal more preparation, and servini^ a greater 
variety of purposes than any of the other products. 
Light oil is impure coal naphtha; and to free it from 
its impurities, especially those affecting its colour and 
smell, is the crowning object of the tar-distiller. 

As it comes over, in the first instance, it is a dark- 
brown liquid, smelling most horribly. Being in this 
state all but useless, it is at once redistilled, and 
loses a large amount of smell and colour. It is now 
ordinary 'naphtha,' and used for a variety of purposes, 
but it still contains a large quantity of a peculiar 
greasy matter, called 'paranaphthaline,' from which no 
amount of distilling would entirely free it. To separate 
it from this paranaphthaline, therefore, it is mixed with 
' oil of vitriol,' in an iron reservoir, and the acid and 
naphtha are thoroughly shaken and stirred together. 
For some little understood reason, the fatty paranaph- 
thaline leaves the naphtha, and attaches itself to the 
acid, carrying along with it a vast amount of impurity, 
and leaving the naphtha in a very commendable state 
of cleanliness. As the oil of vitriol is nearly three 
times as heavy as the naphtha, directly the stirring 
and mixing process is at an end, the two bodies 
separate, and are drawn off from the reservoir into 
proper receptacles. 

The naphtha is now either sold in its present con- 
dition, or again distilled. For the most particular 
purposes, indeed, it is distilled or rectified three times, 
the whole operation being conducted by the steam of 
boiling water ; and the fluid is known to the trade as 
once, twice, or thrice run naphtha respectively. 

Here the legitimate labours of the tar-distiller end. 
He has prepared from his black tar, pitch, creasote, 
lampblack, naphtha, and sulphate of ammonia. The 
first three are used, as we have already said, in their 
existing forms; while the fourth, the coal-naphtha, 
has yet to undergo a greater variety of changes, and 
to fulfil a larger number of offices, than all the other 
products put together. 

In the state in which the naphtha leaves the tar- 
workcr*8 yard, it is used extensively for illumination, 

for which it is eminently fitted by the immense 
amount of carbon it contains ; and if the lamp 
employed in burning it be only so constructed as to 
allow of the actual combustion of this carbon, the light 
emitted is probably greater than that obtained from 
the same bulk of any other known substance. It is 
also a solvent of caoutchouc, gutta-percha, and other 
gums, and therefore much in request by the varnish- 
mnker; whilst purified and deprived of its smell, by 
some secret method it becomes the benzine collas, 
extensively used as a valuable detergent of grease 
from wearing apparel, kc. 

When coal-naphtha is submitted to the action of 
certain chemical bodies, totally different from itself 
in their nature, the most remarkable changes take 
place in it; certain of its principles unite with certain 
elements of the added body, and compounds aro 
produced of the most unexpected nature. 

Thus we have said that one of the constituents of 
tar is benzole; how, when the tar is distilled, and 
separated into the dead oil and the light oil, this 
body benzole suffers no alteration in its nature ; its 
aflSnity for sox.e of the other ingredients of the naphtha 
is so great, that simple heat is altogether insuflScient 
to produce a disunion ; and the consequence is, that 
the benzole goes over with the light oil, and con- 
tinues to form part of it. 

By using rather more energetic chemical means, 
however, tlie benzole may be separated from the 
naphtha, about a pint being obtained (torn two gallons. 
It makes its appearance as a heavy, oily substance, 
with very little smell, and a pungent taste. When 
this apparently useless fluid is mixed with nitric acid 
or aquafortis, a singular phenomenon occurs — the two 
substances, the benzole and the acid, unite, and pro- 
duce what chemists call nitro-benzol, a fluid precisely 
resembling in smell and taste oil of bitter-almonds, 
and extensively used in various ways in place of the 
more expensive and poisonous substimce which it 

Yet another strange transformation may be effected. 
Phenic acid we have enumerated as existing in tar ; 
and phenic acid, like benzole, is not altered during 
the process of distillation, but passes over with the 
naphtha, and 'forms part of it. Phenic acid further 
resembles benzole in being of little use in its pure 
state. When, however, it is treated with nitric acid, 
already mentioned, and evaporated, long pale-yellow 
crystals, bright and clear, make their appearance, 
very beautiful to the eye, and intensely bitter to the 
tongue : these are crystals of carbazotic acid. Their 
colour has caused a solution of them to be extensively 
used in dyeing silk ; their taste has made them ser- 
viceable in adulterating beer. 

Using only the multiform processes placed at his 
command by modem chemistry, the investigator into 
such matters has gone on experimenting upon all the 
compounds of this curious body, tar, and has baptised 
with fearfully hard names the substances produced 
therefrom, until he has given us binitrobenzol, hydro- 
benzamide, bi-bromido of chlorabronaphtese, and a 
dozen other no less mystifying substances. Those 
above mentioned are, however, the principal ones 
which have yet been put to any practical use. 

Who will despise the nauseous black coal-tar now ? 
With substances obtained from it, we have rendered 
our timber impervious to rot, have painted our 
dwellings, paved our streets, made our varnishes 
and water-proof garments, taken grease from our 
Sunday clothes, manured our fields, d>ed our silken 
fabrics, adulterated our beer, and flavoured our soaps, 
sweetmeats, and confectionary ! 

Who can tell what else we shall get from this queer 
stuff? Chemical research occupies a long time ; and 
chemical experiments of any importance can be per- 
formed but by a few; hence many of the sixteen 

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constituents of tar have hitherto been little studied. 
When they yield up tlieir secrets to the magic power 
of analysis, other bodies quite as useful and remark- 
able as those we have mentioned, and perhaps even 
more so, may be presented to ua from that most 
prolific substance, coal-tar. 

In some parts of India, house-robberies are almost 
unknown; you may leave your doors open every 
night, and take no precaution, yet never be one whit 
the poorer ; while in most of the cantonments of the 
upper provinces and other places, you will be robbed 
for certain, unless you have a regular night-guard, or 
keep a chokeedar or watchman. Tour safety does not 
consist in the vigilance or prowess of this individual, 
but simply in the fact that thieves and chokeedars, 
if not, as some assert, one and the same individuals, 
have a mutual understanding with each other; and 
when you literally fulfil the proverb of * Set a rogue 
to catch a rogue,' by retaining one of them aa your 
tervant, all the rest respect your property. 

Long practice enables the chokeedar to sleep in 
almost any position; sitting, lying or standing, no 
matter how uneasy the posture or hard the resting- 
place, all come alike to him. lie sleeps tranquilly in 
the verandah during the greater part of the night ; 
occasionally he rouses himself, and stumps round the 
house, making a great show of vigilance, by clatter- 
ing his stick, and uttering a peculiar sound, as if he 
was clearing his throat in a passion; but this is 
entirely to display his zeal for your benefit, not from 
any fears for your goods and chattels. Sometimes he 
will ask leave of absence for a day or two, and your 
property remains quite secure, though you need not be 
astonished if you hear that your chokeedarless neigh- 
bour has suffered considerably in the interim, and 
may form your own conjectures regarding the way 
in which your servant has employed his holiday. 

Sometimes an individual was found hardy enough 
to refuse to pay this black-mail, and trust for security 
to a brace of pistols and a dog. But, sooner or later, 
the fine morning came on which he awoke to the 
consciousness that the rogues had outwitted him, 
and that all or some of his valuables were absent 
without leave. Pistols are easily tampered with ; and 
though a good watch-dog is the best safeguard, the 
thieves generally manage to gain his confidence, and 
seduce his fidelity by gifts of sweet-meats and such- 
like dainties. If, as rarely happens, the road to the 
animal's affections did not lie through his stomach ; 
if the dog was an honest dog, superior to bribery, and 
who refused to be influenced by such paltry consider- 
ations, the same appetising tit-bits presented the 
means of administering to him eitlier a sleeping- 
potion or a permanent quietus. 

But though robberies are common enough in can- 
tonments, the camp is tiie great harvest-field for 
rogues. So many opportunities are afforded while 
marching, so many things left scattered about, and 
a tent is so much easier to enter than a bungalow, 
that a regiment or detachment seldom make a march 
of any length without suffering from their depreda- 
tions; but how these opportunities occur, and how 
they are taken advantage of, may best be illustrated 
by giving the details of a few occurrences on the line 
of march. 

In most native infantry messes, it is the custom, 
when beginning a march, to pack up all plate, glass, 
crockery, &c., only leaving out enough to serve up 
the eatables on. Every ofiAeer is expected to bring 
his own plate, spoons, forks, and chair. The general 
dinner-hour was just as it grew dusk, and at sunset 

each servant carried the requisites for his master to 
the mess-tent, and placed them in their allotted poai- 
tion. One evening, just before the first dinner-bugle 
sounded, a thief watched the opportunity of the meaa- 
tent being empty, and coolly walked into it at the 
opposite side from the cook-house, where all the 
servants were congregated. He passed within two 
yards of a sentry in doing so, but no one hindered 
him, taking him for what he appeared, an officer's 
servant He then went round the table, appro- 
priating every silver article thereon, judicioualj 
rejecting the plated ones ; and having made all into 
a compact bundle, deposited them in the folds of 
his dhotee or waistcloth; then hearing a coming 
footstep, he emerged as deliberately as he entered. 
Fortunately it was the mess-bearer who entered ; and 
he, comprehending the nature of the mischief by a 
glance at the despoiled table, did what natives invari- 
ably do under all circumstances of excitement, whether 
it be joy, sorrow, fear, surprise, or anger — namely, he 
made a great uproar. The rest of the servants joined 
in the chorus, like a pack of jackals when they dis- 
cover a bone, and soon the camp resounded with the 
cry of * Chor, chor ! * (Thieves, thieves I) 

The robber, with the missing articles in his substi- 
tute for breeches pockets, had by this time reached 
the outskirts of the camp, and had actually passed 
the line of picket-sentries, when the cries, of which he 
well knew the cause, struck upon his ears. Had he 
conducted the rest of his proceedings as deliberately 
as his former ones, the chances were ten to one he 
would have got clear off* with his booty, to chuckle 
over the stupidity of the Feringhees and their fol- 
lowers ; but conscience makes cowards of pagans as 
well as Christians. Anxious to gain the friendly 
shelter of the neighbouring jungle, he quickened his 
pace to a run, which attracted the attention of a 
classie (tent-pitcher), who was busily engaged in 
making tent-pegs from the wood of a babool tree 
{Mifnosa Arabica), near the spot. Guessing at once 
that this was the individual who had caused such 
commotion in the camp, he applied the thick end of 
one of the tent-pegs to his pericranium with such 
emphasis, that the thief bit the dust. The shock 
loosened the bundle he had deposited in his dhotee, 
and out rolled spoons, forks, ladles, &c., in moat 
admired disorder. 

The sudden and unexpected appearance of these 
articles gave the classie ample proof of the nature of 
the crime which had been committed, and he stood 
over the culprit, brandishing the axe with which he 
had been pointing the tent-pins, and shouting for 
assistance, which speedily arrived, and the man was 
carried off to the quarter-guard. Wliile on his way 
thither, one of the servants identified the clothes he 
wore as his own. They had been made up in a 
bundle along with some other articles which had been 
stolen some nights previously off his maater's hackery. 
The culprit was tried by the civil powers, and rewarded 
for his misdeeds with twelve months on the roads. 

At some halting-places, a most barbarous and nefa- 
rious practice prevailed of poisoning horses for tlie sake 
of the hide. The poison was made up in a ball of poor 
(coarse sugar), of which horses are very fond, and 
thrown into their grass whilst feeding at their pickets. 
Tlie animal soon sickened; and when the troops 
marched off next morning, was left beliind dead or 
dying, and the rascally choomars (leather-dressers) 
obtained what they wanted. 

Cawnpore is celebrated for its manufacture of 
saddlery, harness, &c., in imitation of English articles 
of the same kind. They do not last long, and have a 
disagreeable smell ; but being very cheap, meet with 
a ready sale. In consequence, leather is in great 
demand there, and the first halting-place, about eeven 
miles north-west of the station, for a long time enjoyed 

Digitized by 




a most unenviable notoriety for poisoning liorsea. The 
practice hat of late years been almost entirely discon- 
tinued, and was for a long time checked by tlie device 
of an officer, wlio, enraged at the loss of a favourite 
charger, determined to punish the authors of its death. 
He pretended to march off with his regiment, but 
retorning by a circuitous route, he concealed himself 
with several men near where the body of his horse lay. 
In due time, the choomars thinking the coast cleiir, 
came to skin the dead animal, when the ambush set 
on tliem with sticks, and thrashed them till they 
were tired. They then, with the choomars' own 
knives, hacked the skin so as to render it useless ; 
and before they had time to raise the neighbouring 
village, decamped to join their regiment, with the 
happy internal consciousness of men who had done 
a g<K>d action. 

Every nation has its own code of morals, and its 
peculiar ideas on the subject of honesty. Tiie High- 
land cateran was looked on as a gentleman, provided 
* he never lifted less than a drove in his life.* We 
frequently see instances of men who consider imposi- 
tion justifiable in matters of horseflesh, which they 
would repudiate in any other. The most lax notions 
of honesty are generally prevalent regarding the 
ownership of umbrellas and walking-sticks. 

The natives of India have perhaps more strange 
notions on these subjects than any other people. A 
murder is not a murder if committed on behalf of 
their faith, or to protect the honour of their family. 
A lie is not a lie if told to a Christian on behalf of one 
of their own creed. Many vagabond good-for-naughts 
are highly respected, while honest tradesmen are 
looked down upon. A tailor is looked up to, while a 
shoemaker is despised. A man may become a beggar 
or a oow-herd without falling in public estimation ; 
but be would be eternally disgraced if he carried a 
burden on his head, or took charge of swine or 
poultry. A Parsee will cheat and overreach you in 
the most unscrupulous manner, but nothing would 
induce him to give you a light for your cheroot. 
A sepoy that may be trusted with untold gold, will 
steal firewood and sugar-canes whenever and wherever 
he can lay hands on them. What is a virtue in one 
caste, is a crime in the eyes of another. But all 
classes agree in their universal hatred of the pro- 
fessed thief. Whenever one is caught, he is abused, 
reviled, and maltreated in every possible manner. 
If caught in the lines or camp of a regiment, every 
nian, woman, or child belonging thereto considers it 
laudable to give him a box, blow, kick, cuff, pinch, 
or some similar demonstration of good-will. At 
Benares, several years ago, a thief caught in the lines 
of a native infantry regiment was actually pommelled 
to death in this manner; and the same thing very 
nearly occurred in my own regiment, when this sum- 
mum jus had well-nigh proved the summa injuria to 
an innocent individufld. 

One night, while marching in the upper provinces, 
the mess khatuamah was robbed in the most artistic 
manner. He occupied a small tent called a ahouldarry 
on the right, immediately in rear of the grenadier 
company — the other occupants being his wife and 
two children. While all were fast asleep, some 
cunning rogue effected an entrance by cutting a slit 
in the side of the canvas, and not only stole a bag of 
cooking- utensils and some other small articles wliich 
lay scattered about, but also succeeded in removing 
the silver necklace and armlet of one of the children. 
How he was able to open the fastenings of these 
in the dark, 'seems almost incomprehensible, as 
the necklace required considerable pressure to unclasp 
it, and the armlet was fastened by a screw ; but the 
probabilities are, that the thief had reconnoitred the 
localities by daylight, and, under pretence of playing 
with the children, had loosened the fastenings so as 

to render their removal easy. When the khansamah 
awoke to a consciousness of his loss, he fancied it liad 
only just occurred, and that the thief had not had 
time to escape, although, from subsequent inquiries, 
it seems most probable that he had got clear off some 
time previously. 

He accordingly shouted *Chor, Chorl* until the 
entire camp was astir. * Where is he? In which 
direction ? * 

*Gone to the right,' was the reply; and a number of 
sepoys and camp-followers started off in the direction 

Foremost of all was an unlucky gareeioan (hackery- 
driver), who, in his zeal to capture the robber, kept 
ahead of all the others. This gave him the appearance 
of running away and being pursued by the otiiers, so, 
as he rushed past the picket-sentry, the latter tripped 
him up, and he fell heavily to the ground. 

Before he had time to rise, he was assailed by a 
number of the pursuers, who, without further pre- 
amble, began to execute summary justice on the 
supposed robber. In vain he protested his innocence, 
and declared he was no thief. His cries were un- 
heeded, probably unheard in the burst of clamour 
and execrstion which surrounded him. He probably 
would have fared even worse, but the patrol coming 
up, rescued him, and carried off the poor wretch bleed- 
ing, and almost senseless, to tlie quarter-guard, where 
the truth soon became manifest, and apologies were 
tendered to the gareewan for the ill usage he had 
suffered. The men afterwards made him some small 
present by subscription, and the hunneeahs put him 
on the free-list of their shops for as much grain 
as he could eat till the end of the march, which proved 
a more satisfactory balm to his wounded feelings than 
any expressions of regret could have done; and the 
poor fellow seemed as if he would not mind taking 
another thrashing to get into such good quarters 

While my regiment was stationed at Meerut, I took 
the opportunity of parades and drills being excused 
in consequence of the inspection of another regiment 
quartered there, to give myself and my horse some 
exercise. It was a cold bracing December morning, for 
there is such a thing as cold weather in the North-west 
Provinces, and though the thermometer seldom falls 
below forty-three degrees, it appears quite cold to 
those who for eight months in the year are accustomed 
to double that temperature. There is something 
peculiarly refreshing and invigorating in such morn- 
ings ; the energies which have been dormant during 
months of lassitude and inaction, appear to awake 
with redoubled vigour after their long repose, and men 
and animals seem to fed the effect equally. My horse 
and myself being of the same opinion, indulged each 
other's inclinations. Going along at a slapping pace, we 
soon left cantonments far behind us. Proceeding in 
this way, I overtook Swanton, one of our married 
captains, who said he was going out to meet Dod 
and his wife, whom he expected to rejoin from leave 
that day, and take up their quarters with him until 
they had time to get a bungalow for themselves, and 
asked me to join him. Adolphus Dod was our senior 
lieutenant, and had for many years held the situation 
of interpreter and quarter-master. A brevet-captain 
and regimental subaltern of eighteen years' standing, 
the slowness of promotion had given him an excuse 
for grumbling, which he improved on all occasions. 
He was a steady, conscientious officer, and excellent 
linguist ; and his long service, and intimate acquaint- 
ance with the language and habits of the men, gave 
him a good deal of influence with them and the 
commanding officer. Being of an unsociable, and close, 
almost penurious disposition, he was not much of a 
favourite with the intermediate ranks; and we did 
not scruple to amuse ourselves at the expense of bis 

Digitized by 




foibles. He had nn idea that the gentility of n 
oame should be admeasured by its length, and tliat 
its brevity was a symptom of plebeian extraction ; 
he was therefore as much ashamed of his patronymic 
as ho was proud of his Christian name. We 
youngsters used to irritate him exceedingly by writ- 
ing chits and letters to him on any and every 
occasion, superscribed with his rank, titles, and 
prenomen, in as larg^ characters as our space 
admitted, and his cognomen as minute as our pen- 
mansliip could effect, without being illegible. The 
direction usually ran thus: 'Lieutenant and Brevet- 
captain, Interpreter and Quarter-master Adolplius 

A gracious response was seldom accorded to these 
missives; but as the contents were always strictly 
polite, there was nothing to lay hold of, and Dod 
chafed not the less because he chafed in silence. Not 
wishing to lose his staff allowances, he had not taken 
leave for many years ; but during the previous rains 
he had suffered so severely from intermittent fever, 
that the doctors, much against his will, sent him 
to Simla for three months, where ho soon recovered. 
There is no occupation to be found by the sojourners 
at that sanatorium to consume tlieir spare time, 
except love-making and gambling. Too prudent to 
indulge in the latter, he fell a victim to the former, 
and surrendered his liberty to a young lady of the 
florid and globular style of beauty, whose appear- 
ance suggested to every reflective mind the idea of 
a milk-pail. Perhaps, as people always fancy their 
opposites, he loved her for the contrast she pre- 
sented to his own tall raw-boned person, from which 
the sun seemed to have dried every ounce of superflu- 
ous flesh, making him a perfect cab-horse beauty, 
all bone and sinew. At any rate, he made her Mrs 
Adolphus Bod, and proceeded with his bride to rejoin 

the ; and it was for the purpose of meeting them 

and receiving the stranger with due honour, that 
Swanton and I were cantering along the northern 
road from Meerut. 

After proceeding a little distance, we saw some one 
riding towards us, whom I took for a very seedy- 
looking sepoy on horseback, and would have passed 
on without pulling up; but Swanton recognising 
Dod's splendid pray charger, exclnimcd: *By Jove, 
that's Selim, and Dod himself on his back; but did 
you ever see such a scarecrow ? The man must be 
mad to go abotit masquerading in such a trim this 
chilly morning.* The figure which now presented 
itself to us was attired in a sepoy's red coatee and 
pantaloons, which had evidently been made for a 
very small man, whilst the wearer was six feet two 
tV'itli his boots off. Consequently, the trousers did 
not go down low enough to hide the want of stockings, 
or come up high enough to get within hail of the 
waist of his scanty coat. 

To All up the intervening hiatus, he had tied one 
of the servant's cummerbunds round his waist, the 
variegated ends of which hung down in front apron- 
fashion, where, to say the truth, they were much 
needed. The coat, which could not be induced to 
meet within several inches, was fastened in front with 
bits of string, and the narrowness of its back gave 
him the appearance of a person in a strait-waistcoat. 
Bound his neck, in lieu of neckcloth, were the 
voluminous folds of his syce's pugree (turban), once 
a bright rose colour, but now shewing signs of long 
and hard service, in many a greasy mark and unctuous 
stain. On his head was a hat, we had often seen him 
wear under happier circumstances ; it was a white 
felt, something between a steeple-crown and wide- 
awake—on the elegant and unique appearance of which 
Dod used to pride himself; but now its glory was 
departed : it was saturated with some dark fluid ; the 
leaf hung down limp and crumpled, and the crown 

was bulged into the shape of the crater of a volcano. 
His snllow face looked blue; his teeth chattered; and 
his bare feet, thrust into yellow native slippers, 
shivered in the stirrups from cold. He appe.ired so 
crest-fallen and miserable, that we endeavoured to 
suppress our laughter; but when he proceeded to 
recount his sorrows, the whole affair, and the narrator 
in particular, looked so absurd, that human gravity 
could stand it no longer, and we laughed long and 
loudly, to his infinite disgust. Dod's account was so 
uncoimected and mixed up with various unparlia- 
mentary expressions, that I must give a version of 
his story in my own words. It appears he had two 
tents; one for sleeping in, the other for use during 
the day. The latter was always sent on overnight, 
so as to be ready pitched on their arrival at the next 
encamping-ground. He had with him the usual 
number of servants, and a guard of a naik and four 
sepoys, for the protection of his baggage. After 
dinner the previous evening, the large tent had bcea 
struck as usual, and sent on ahead, along with ail their 
^ARgAgc and wearing apparel, except the garments 
they were to wear next morning. The naik and 
three men of the guard also went on, leaving one 
sepoy behind in charge of the smaller tent. Early 
rising and long marches produce sound alurabers; and 
whilst Captain and Mrs Dod, with the few servants 
left behind, were far away in the land of dreams, some 
reckless rogue managed to effect an entrance into 
their tent, and made a clean swe<*p of its contents. 
When Dod arose at daybreak, he groped about for his 
nether garments, but not being able to lay his hands 
onlthem, called for a light. When it came, the 
appalling truth, in all its naked horror, burst on his 
benumbed senses. Every individual article of tvearin? 
apparel, masculine and feminine, had been carried off; 
nothing had escaped the fangs of the harpies except 
the lady's riding-hat, a very spicy affair, with a 
drooping feather, but rather unsuited to her present 
toilette de nuit. Poor Dod was cleaned out; and lie 
at length bethought himself of tho sepoy's coat and 
pnutaloons, which he proceeded to don, while his 
wife, wrapped in blankets like an Indian sqnsnr, 
buried herself in the depths of her paVxt; and ihey 
set out on their march until we met them, as above 

We turned our horses' heads to accompany Dod 
back to cantonments, who, being shy of making m) 
extraordinary an appearance in public, proposed tlwc 
we should go round to avoid the main thorough- 
fare. Swanton assented, but I thought there was a 
mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he did so. ^}<^ 
accordingly turned aside from the road, crossed a plaiOi 
then through several lanes, and into a large mango tope. 
As we passed through this, the pace became a sharp 
gallop, and we emerged on the brigade parade-ground, 
where the 76tli native infantry were being reviewed. 
Dod tried to pull up, but Selim was not to be out- 
stripped by his neighbours, and never stopped till 
he arrived at the saluting-flag, amidst a gronp of 
carriages and equestrians, just as the 76th adv«ncea 
to the general salute. All eyes were turned on tlie 
grotesque figure of our companion, whose counte- 
nance, now inflamed with rage and shame, made l»» 
other charms more conspicuous. He seemed «1oubtful 
for some time whether to knock down Swanton or 
make a bolt for it, but finally chose the latter, aiiJ 
rode off amid roars of laughter. , 

How different a reception was this from what D«>^ 
had pictured to himself. He had intended niakinffa 
triumphal entry, a kind of matrimonial ovation; hut 
here was he the laughing-stock of half the 8^*"'j"| 
whilst his lovely bride was ignominiously compelled 
to hide her confusion, and conceal her scanty draperVi 
in the deepest recesses of a palanquin. , 

Within a year after this, Dod was promoted, «"*" 

Digitized by 




left the re^jinient for an appointment on tlie general 
itaff, to his great delight, for he never got over hig 
discomfiture on this occasion, or forgave Swanton for 
the trick he had played him. 


In Scotland, where Burns is read as well as sung, and 
where stately hospitals stand frequent monuments of 
the desire of a nation to learn as well as to teach, the 
difficulties which obstruct the. education of the poor 
in England can be scarcely estimated. Not only are 
the hands of the legislature hampered by innumerable 
sectarian animosities whenever it attempts to deal 
with the question, but tlie people themselves are 
in most cases far from anxious for this boon of 
Universal Instruction to be granted. That, in the 
agricultural districts, the Employers— such is their 
wisdom—are often avowedly indisposed to allow their 
work-people ' to be made dissatisfied with tlieir condi- 
tion in life, by book-learning,' is true enough ; but in 
the manufacturing counties it is the Employed, the 
Hands, who arc found to have even a stronger objec- 
tion of their own to the schoolmaster in any shape 
being sent among their children. 

Yet, it is not too much to say, that, next to sanitary 
measures, next to the absolute necessity of improving 
the dwellings of the poor, this education of the mass 
of tlie people is the most pressing need of our social 
system. The machinery which is already working to 
that end is, indeed, of trifling power in comparison with 
the work required of it ; but even if it were of ten 
times the force, the raw material, the to-be-instructed, 
would not be forthcoming any the more. Even as it 
is, the supply of schools, in many places, exceeds the 
demand ; let church schools, dissenting scliools, secular 
schools, what schools you will, be multiplied to any 
extent, and still we shall find, as we find now, that 
the diildrtn doiCt attend tkem» Even if the political 
zealots should agree — of which there is no reasonable 
hope — to sink their differences in the common good, 
and the political economists should waive their objec- 
tions to a comprehensive scheme of government 
education, the scheme, nevertheless, would fail as 
matters stand, inasmuch as those whose good it con- 
templated would not accept the benefit. They might 
have the fruit of the tree of knowledge brought to 
them, but they would still decline to eat. . 

Such being the state of the case, a pamphlet bear- 
ing this title, A Plan by which the Education of 
the People may he secured without State Interference 
or Compulsory Rating^ and in Strict Accordance with 
the Principlts of Civil and Religious Liberty,* seems 
attractive enough ; and its contents, we are bound to 
say, without pledging ourselves to all the author's 
sentiments, are scarcely less fair-seeming thau the 

One point which Mr Wrigley — who is himself a 
manufacturer employing a vast number of work- 
people — insists upon mainly, and the one which seems 
to U8 alto to need to be particularly urged, is this, that 
the interests of parents and child are, in the case of the 
poor, directly opposite and inimical to one another. 
You cannot persuade the father that that which takes 
money out of his own pocket, or which at least 
prevents money from getting into it, is for the good of 
his offspring. Even if the infant be sent to school at 
all, it is taken away to make money as soon as it can 
possibly earn any ; and this so universally, that the 
average time that children in a manufacturing district 
remain at school is — according to the Report of Her 
Majesty's Commissioners — less than a twelvemonth. The 
smallest gain to be made out of a child's labour is 
found sufficient to tempt the selfish parent to take 

• Manchester : Johmon di Bawson. 

away from it all the advantages of edtication. We 
are far from lieing so Pharisaical as to expect, where 
there is an absolute necessity for more money, any 
great moral sacrifice of this kind on the part of the 
poor ; and we are only referring to well-to-do work- 
people in ordinarily good times, or, in other words, to 
the majority of the manufacturing classes. Even 
in districts where the wages average only 12s. a week, 
'the working-man,' says one of the Keports, *nnt 
unfrequently spends one-sixth of that sum per week 
in beer and tobacco;' and when the wages are higher, 
the waste is found to be proportionally far greater. 
Mr Watkins, a school-inspector for York, Durham, 
and Northumberland, in 1850, estimates the yearly 
cost of elementary education at from 14s. to 16s. a 
year, or 4d. a week at most. 

Surely where wages are good, this would not be a 
very severe exaction; and where they are bad, the 
pamphlet proposes a special plan for gratuitous 
instruction. But in the first and general case, how 
is the workman to be induced to save the necessary 
4d. for this purpose ? 

^ I earnestly plead,' says Mr Watkins, after describ- 
ing the causes which take ninety-five poor children 
out of a hundreil away from school before they can 
pos9il)ly be benefited, 'for the solemn voice of the law 
protecting the child from parent and employer alike.' 

The intelligent writer whose letters, signed 'A 
Nottinghamshire Clergyman,' we are familiar with 
in the columns of the Times, expresses himself thus: 
* In ray own parish, where we have a trained master, 
there are but three months in the year when there is 
any tolerable attendance. With the opening of spring, 
every child in the parish is called away to bean- 
dropping ; that over, the school begins to fill, when, 
in a few weeks, it is again nearly drained by the 
osier-peeling; then comes weeding, hay-making, har- 
vest, and finally hop-picking, so that until November 
comes round again, we have no certain or regular 
attendance of scholars, and the main body have had 
time to forget all they have learned. Nothing better 
illustrates this than the fact, that in one school in 
this district, with a hundred and forty scholars on its 
books, there were but five children last year for whom 
the capitation grant could be claimed ; and in another 
of seventy, but two. No increase in either the quantity 
or the quality of the education offered, will in any degree 
meet this evil, which proceeds from want of appetite, or 
rather from the greedy appetite for money* And he 
concludes with this remarkable statement : ' The only 
effectual remedy now, or at least the only one that 
can produce any speedy effect, is to make education in 
some shape or degree compulsory.' 

These views, Mr Wrigley, who is a political econo- 
mist and a radical, and not at all the sort of person 
to interfere with tlie civil and religious liberty of any 
man, most readily endorses. *It is,' says he, 'the 
right of the child to be educated for its own benefit ; 
and if, for the interest of society, it is necessary that 
it should be so educated, a clear right of interference 
is established in both cases.' Physical health in 
children is already insisted upon by the law in the 
caso of vaccination, and why should not mental 
health be equally cared for ? Among other proposi- 
tions of which we have not here space to treat, but 
which seem to us to deal thoroughly with every 
branch of the subject, Mr Wrigley has this principal 
one : * Tliat, in order to secure the co-operation of all 
who are interested in the employment of infant 
labour, it is necessary to prohibit the employment of 
every child under a certain age, say eight to ten 
years; and that after that period, it shall only be 
employed on tJte production of a certijicate granted by 
a public officer after examination, shewing that it has 
arrived at a certain standard of elementary education ; 
and tliat a breach of this regulation shall subject both 

Digitized by 




parent and employer to certain lef^al penalties/ This 
elementary education ia to be given in the manner 
most pleasing to the parent; and upon this subject, 
after anticipating various other objections, he has the 
following : ' If there be one thing more than another 
that distinguishes this plan from all others, it is that 
it secures that which they are all aiming at, but fall 
to accomplish, whilst it successfully avoids the reli- 
gious difficulty by which they are obstructed. It 
offers every facility for religious education, when it 
is desired, and at the same time preserves religious 
freedom untouched. The difficulty from the first has 
always been that the country would not sanction any 
scheme of general education of a merely secular 
character, and hence it became clearly impossible for 
the government to initiate any plan so as to meet the 
sectarian scruples of every denomination.' 

The pamphlet, indeed, is full of interesting and 
suggestive matter, and its propositions are the more 
striking, that they emanate, as we see, from Man- 
chester, where any unnecessary interference of the 
government is not apt to be popular. 


I THINK I roust have been bom with a travelling 
mania, for^ from my earliest childhood, travelling has 
been my deliglit ; and destiny has so far seconded my 
desire, that I have been a traveller from my cradle. 
With pleasure I commenced a journey, with pleasure 
pursued it, and usually with pleasure ended it. I was 
never sea-sick, never land-sick, and, in my earlier 
travels, never home-sick, for all I loved were with me. 
The proverb says, *A rolling stone gathers no moss,' 
and I am not in a position to deny its truth ; but the 
traveller lays up a rich store of thoughts and memories 
that will gladden more than gold the evening of his 
days, and before his mind's-eye there moves an ever- 
changing diorama, bringing back to him the bright 
scenes of his youth with a vividness tliat gilds the 
gray hairs of his age. 

My first travelling adventure of any consequence was 
in South Africa — and it now stands before me as dis- 
tinctly as if it was but twelve days instead of twelve 
long years since I dwelt in the lighthouse-looking 
fort, perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the 
surging green sea of the Fish River bush, from which 
my r^-coated companions and I kept close watch 
for the Caffires, who never came within sight of our 
telescopes. What a dreary and monotonous life I 
found it, despite the beautiful scenery that surrounded 
us, and the occasional commandoes on which we were 
sent out; and when, at the end of three months, I 
received orders to take command of another offlcer*s 
detachment, at a post nearer to the frontier, how 
rejoiced I was, for I trusted that there a more 
soldierly life was in store for me, and I knew that, 
at all events, I should have the pleasant excitement 
of a jonmey. 

There were two routes by which I might reach 
Fort Nash, the more circuitous of which was a 
wagon-track, while the shorter one was practicable 
only for horses ; despatching my baggage and servant 
by the former, I set out myself on the latter, at- 
tended b^ a mounted rifleman, in the double capacity 
of escort and guide. And a tight Cossack-looking 
fellow was Steermann Draghooner, in his green jacket 
and leather trousers, with his rifle slnng by his side, 
despite his Hollandish appellation and the flat Hottentot 
features, half hidden beneath tlie peak of his shako. 
There was infinite intelligence and good -humour 
gleaming in his rat-like eyes, and the white teeth that 
shone forth from beneath his woolly moustache. Tet 
once or twice I could not help smiling at the idea of 
this being my protector, as I looked back at the little 
', perched, monkey-like, on the back of bis large 

steed, fallowing me so gravely down the steep ragged 
path leading to the nearest dri/i, or ford, across the 
Fish River. But as a guide he was invaluable, for 
I knew not a single foot of the way ; and therefore, as 
soon as we reached the bank of the river, our positions 
changed, and Draghooner, putting spurs to liis horse, 
trotted on in advance. 

Before us glided the river, filling almost to the brim 
its canal-like bed, for there had recently been rain 
among the mountains; while the rapidly rising tide 
was still further increasing its volnme. Crossing the 
river obliquely, there was a line of broken water, rising 
occasionally into surges, which burst with a hoarse 
murmur, and lost themselves in the whirling eddies 
the opposing currents caused to froth immediately 
above. This line of breakers covered a ridge of rock, 
shelving irregularly on the lower side, and precipitous 
on the upper, its summit being our path across the 
river ; a sufficiently perilous one at any time, for it is 
only during very low tides that the eye of the steed or 
his rider can see where the foot of the former is to be 
placed; but now, rendered infinitely more hazardous 
by the unusual depth of the stream and ita increased 

But with his usual quiet aspect, the Hottentot 
brought his horse to the brink, and the animal atepped 
into the water with a readiness which must have been 
the result of experience; for my own English-bred 
horse at first refused to follow his example, rearing 
and curvetting on the bank, as if resolved not to 
wet a fetlock. At length, considerable coaxing, and 
the sight of the troop-horse far in advance, induced 
him to enter, when he went picking his way cauti- 
ously along his unseen path, as if he knew the truth 
— that a single false step would send him over the 
ledge among the gurgling eddies which wreathed 
themselves almost within reach of my hand. But he 
betrayed no further repugnance to the foaming waters, 
save now and then a snort when they surged up 
unpleasantly near his nose. 

I had advanced nearly to the middle of the river, 
and had reached a part where the breakers were 
becoming larger, when a loud snort or pufi', apparently 
close at hand, startled me, and sent my horse plunging 
almost over the ridge. I looked hastily round, but 
nothing was to be observed except what appeared 
to be an old shapeless boat, turned bottom up, coming 
floating down with the stream. Could that sound, 
I thought, be the smothered cry of some unfortunate 
being drowning beneath the overturned boat? and 
I spurred on my horse, hoping I might be in time 
to aid a fellow-creature perishing so near. 

Another moment, and the old boat reached tiie 
ridge, and immediately, to my astonishment,' begau 
to rise above it, higher and higher, until there 
stood out in contrast with the snowy foam a huge 
black head, garnished with two gleaming tusks. Both 
horse and rider stood still and silent with amaze- 
ment, as next came fortli the shoulders, and then 
the body and rock-like legs of an enormous hippo- 
potamus, down whose wrinkled sides the slimy mud, 
which the water had diluted without being able to 
wash off", rolled in inky rivulets, while the huge 
creature puflTed and panted as if wearied by the 
efiTort he had made. 

I felt more astonished than alarmed at the sight of 
my new neighbour, for I knew that a meeting with a 
hippopotamus is rarely dangerous, if he is not meddled 
with; and I confidently expected he would shortly 
continue his route down the river. But, to my great 
discomfiture, he turned sharply to the right-about, so 
as to face me, and commenced his rolling march 
towards the shore along the very path in which I 
stood. My horse started back, neighing in aflnght, 
and became nearly unmanageable, while onward the 
monster came^ spUshing recklessly among the breakers. 

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Had I been on dry land, or in smooth water, I would 
have turned round, and fled without striking a blow 
in my own defence. As it was, I dared not venture 
on such a step, lest my horse should stumble and 
be swept down the river, with whose course and 
dangers I was unacquainted. The only plan, there- 
fore, left me was to retire before the intruder as I 
would from the presence of royaity->that is, backward; 
and a very difficult matter I found it, for my horse 
was trembling with fear and anger, as he gazed with 
starting eyeballs on the immense creature before him, 
and restive at being forced backward along a path the 
dangers of which he knew, but could not see, and of 
which I myself could only guess the direction by the 
line of foam stretching before me. 

Meanwhile, the new-comer, rolling lazily along, drew 
every moment nearer, yet still appeared unconscious 
of our presence, unless I was correct in fancying 
that there was a wicked gleam twinkling in his small 
•anken eye. How much force that thought added 
to the desire already boiling within me, to dis- 
charge my pistol into that sole vulnerable spot! 
But prudence deterred me, by reminding me how 
small was my chance of slaying my adversary com- 
pared with that of enraging him ; and so, with the best 
grace I could, I retreated along the path I had found 
so difficult when advancing. But oh I when we reached 
the shallow water, and turning off, were able to dash 
along the bank, how wild a neigh of joy burst from my 
horse's lips— if ever there was an equine * huzza,' it 
was that 1 

When my steed's mad gambols were over, and I had 
space to look round me, there was the hippopotamus 
rolling slowly after us. But he soon turned off 
towards the river, and let himself luxuriously down 
into a huge mud-pond among the sedge, breathing 
forth his satisfaction in loud grunts, that sent the 
birds fluttering off from the neighbouring trees. 

Having seen the enemy thus safely disposed of, I 
returned to the drift, on the further bank of which 
Steermann Braghooner was standing in evident aston- 
ishment, and once more essayed to cross the ridge. 
But scarcely had my horse entered the water, when I 
found the tide was now nearly full, and that he was 
compelled to swim. However, the animal's blood was 
up, and he made no difficulty, but breasted the rushing 
waters gallantly, cutting his way through them with 
the boldness and grace of a water-dog. It was well 
he possessed the energy and courage, for, as we got 
further into the stream, I perceived thal^ no longer 
opposed by the tide, the swollen current was running 
rapidly, and that we were unable to hold our way. 
Further and further down it swept us, despite my 
good steed's efforts and the encouraging cries of 
Steermann ; and though we gradually neared the other 
bank, I began to think the passage of the Fish River 
would prove a more serious matter than I had antici- 
pated, for the grassy bank was beginning to be 
checkered by patches of impervious jungle, which I 
feared would shortly prevail. But I need not have 
troubled myself; for the next minute my horse threw 
back his head, striking me on the forehead, and sending 
me reeling from the saddle. 

When I recovered recollection, I was lying on the 
grass a little below the drift, and the first object which 
met my eyes was the dripping form of Steermann 
Draghooner bending anxiously over me. My gallant 
little escort! he had thrown himself into the water, 
and at the risk of his own life saved mine. Brave- 
hearted Hottentot I how little he made of the deed, 
and how little he comprehended my gratitude, or 
the reason that made me thenceforth his fast 
friend. Meantime, left to himself, my horse had 
scrambled to land, and now stood with drooping head 
awaiting my recovery. But it was more than an 
hour ere I was fit for tlie wearying walk up the steep 

hill which bounded the Fish River valley on the 
Cafi^land side, where the rocks and stumps obliged 
us to lead our horses. 

At length the ascent was achieved, and gladly yre 
vaulted on our steeds to refresh our spirits by a canter 
over the level prairie, and make up in some measure 
for lost time. On we went, laughing to see the 
wondrous bounds of tlie springboks, or Cape ante- 
lopes, and the ungainly carriage of the ostriches, as 
they sped along in mortal terror at our appearance. 
At length some dark specks became visible at a 
distance on the plateau, but were soon lost again 
among the groups of trees that dotted the plain like 
islands in a grassy sea. I inquired of my companion 
whether they were hartbeests or gnus — two animals 
I had never seen. 

* Dem Caffre, sur,* replied Steermann, drawing near ; 
*and dey got no pass.' 

'How do you know ?* I asked. 

' 'Cos dey hide. Ah, de black tief come fbr plenty 
troobles,' ejaculated my escort, shaking his head with 
an air of experience. 

Having no opinion to give, I held my peace, and 
rode quickly on, directing my course close by the 
green isles where the black specks had taken shelter, 
mentally resolving to inquire into tlie truth of the 
Hottentot's suspicions. As I drew near the groups 
of trees, the light feathery foliage of the acacias that 
composed them forbade the thought that they could 
conceal a Bushman, far less a party of stalwart 
Caffres. At last I approached one which the thickly 
clothed branches of the laurel and the wild plum 
rendered nearly impervious. Here, if anywhere, were 
the fugitives; and cantering round to the opposite 
side, followed by Steermann, I came on a party of four 
coal-black Caffres, crouched beneath the trees, each 
with his bundle of assagais laid close by his side. 

Calling Draghooner forward, through his interpre- 
tation I demanded to see the pass by which alone a 
Caffre was entitled to enter the territory between 
the Fish River and the Keiskamma, and then only 
unarmed. My trusty attendant had divined rightly, 
for there was no pass forthcoming, and the clumsy 
excuse they made of having lost it on the way, was 
too palpable; so, assuming an air of official dignity, 
I reproved them for being found in the neutral 
territory without a proper authority, and commanded 
them to return at once into Caffreland. But even 
while speaking, there came over me a sense of the 
ludicrous, in the idea that I with but the two rifle 
barrels of my escort at command— for my gun had 
been lost in the river, and my pistols wetted com- 
pletely — should thus defy men, who had each, lying 
by their right hands, the price of five lives. Fortu- 
nately, the Caffres did not view the affair in the same 
light, but with an affectation of great humility, they 
gathered up their weapons and karosses, and departed 
across the flat, comforting themselves, probably, with 
the reflection, that any other moonless night would 
serve their turn as well. 

Having arranged this business, I was at liberty to 
pursue my journey, though the tall grass among which 
we had now entered, reaching sometimes to our horses' 
knees, at others nearly to our own, was a great impedi- 
ment to our progress. Owing to this, together with 
the long delay at the drift, night fell while we were 
still many miles from Fort Nash ; the road was bad, 
too, and there was no moon, so we had nothing for 
it but to unsaddle beneath the nearest acacia patch. 
This necessity in so delicious a climate we should have 
regarded as no great hardship, had we only been 
provided with supper ; but though many a bock and 
hare had crossed our path that day, we had been in 
too great haste to draw trigger at them : so our repast 
consisted only of a few biscuits and the contents of mj 

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But Bhort-commons and fatigue appeared to have 
no effect on the spirits and energies of Steermann 
Dragliooncr, who bustled about as if all the duties of 
an establishment devolved on him — knee-haltering 
the horses, and turning them off to feed — gathering 
sticks and making; a fire on a spot he had previously 
denuded of the tall, dry prairie-grass that covered the 
whole region—searching about to discover whether 
any birds or hares resided in our neighbourhood, or 
any ostrich-eggs had been deposited about; and though 
all his quests were fruitless, still, not losing heart, but 
whistling, as with a wisp of grass he rubbed down 
the horses before he tied them to a tree, to insure 
their being forthcoming in the morning. Long after 
fatigue and my river-adventure had made me glad 
to roll myself in my cloak, and making a pillow of 
my saddle, stretch myself on the soft, dry grass, I 
could see his dark form sitting in the flre-light ; and 
every now and then, as I stirred in my sleep, the tones 
of his low, sweet voice, as he sang the long-drawn 
cadences of Dutch hymns, echoed in my ear. 

At length tlie Southern Cross had mounted high 
into the heavens, the fire died out, and Steermann, 
wrapping himself in his cloak, lay down beside it. 
We must have slept for hours, when I was suddenly 
awakened by the loud neighing and stamping of the 
horses, and then I became conscious of a suffocating 
sensation, as though the sirocco were blowing over 
me, and covering me with its burning sand, and an 
impetuous rushing sound seemed filling my ears. 

I sat up instantly, but the oppressive heat was still 
around me, and louder than ever was that strange 
sound, while the whole atmosphere seemed filled with 
a lurid glare. Calling on Steermann, I sprang to my 
feet, and looking round me, saw that we were enclosed 
by a wall of fire. On every side were long forked 
tongues of flame leaping up wildly into the air, or 
springing on the scattered acacia-trees, and wreathing 
tliem witli their fearful beauty for a few moments, 
till ti)ey fell into the blazing sea below ; for like bil- 
lows of fire did the confingration rage, rolling along 
with almost incredible speed, as the dry prairie-grass 
yielded quickly to its influence; while, above all, 
the deep, hoarse voice of the furious element rose in 

Til us surrounded, my companion and I stood beneath 
the trees beside our struggling horses, while the hot 
thick smoke that now began to roll in volumes over 
us, oppressed onr breathing, and confused our scarcely 
awakened senses; while the burning belt drew rapidly 
closer. It was a fearful moment, and we gazed on tlic 
scene around us in silent horror. Heaven grant that 
when death really comes, he may not come in that 
guise. Suddenly the Hottentot beside me cried in a 
sharp, bitter tone: 

' Dem rascal Caffre, dey fire de grass all round—hope 
roast us like buck ! ' 

•Then we can do nothing?' I said, roused from my 

•Noting, Bur; only die,* was the desponding reply. 
' We got no wings to fly, and would need jump higher 
than springbok to jump dat fire. Oh, it hani to die 
while Caffre laugh \ ' he added bitterly. * If me could 
only catch him ! ' and he raised his rifle menacingly, 
the next moment to throw it down in despair; then 
going over to his horse, he took his head silently 
between his hands, and leaned his own face upon it. 
The horse ceased its restless stamping: they were 
friends, that horse and man, and it seemed as if the 
fond caress brought comfort to the hearts of both. 

But it is not in the nature of an Englishman to 
yield his life without a struggle to save it. I looked 
round. The onward roll of the fiery waves made the 
view a narrow one : I glanced at the trees above our 
heads, but the sight of one blazing not far distant 
reminded me that they too would share the general 

destruction. Tlien I thouglit of the grass : could we 
not tear away suflScient — for men work hard when 
the wage is life— to permit us to stand in safety, 
tliough the flames raged around us? I made the 
attempt, but the strong wiry grass resisted; I oniy 
cut my hands. How bitterly, now when too late, I 
repented our want of caution in passing the niglit 
where there was no water ; but our horses had drank 
half an hour before we stopped, and it was some 
distance to the next v/y, or pond. 

In such times, much both of thought and action u 
crowded into a short space. It was not mora than ten 
minutes since I awoke, and already the flames had 
approached so near that I could feel their buroin; 
breath upon my cheek. It seemed as if the martyrs 
fate was close upon us, without the martyr's holy 
motive to bear us up. I felt I had not nerve to watch 
that fiery death advancing upon us fathom by fathom; 
I could better meet it in the bustle and hurry of 
action; and calling to Steermann to follow my ex- 
ample, I sprang on my horsc*s back, and putting spun 
to his sides, galloped him madly at the flames. 

On we went, through a body of living fire that rent 
our skins and burned our hair and clothes ; on through 
a plain of burning stubble, that burned our horses' 
feet ; on, with a speed greater than that of the fleetest 
racer, while our blazing garments flew on the wind 
behind us ; on, on, until at length we reached water. 
And only they who have passed through a like fierjr 
ordeal can tell with what delight both men and horsa 
cast themselves into the cool element. 

At last day broke, and, remounting oar suffering 
horses, we rode on to Fort Nash, where we arrived to 
burned, blackened, and haggard, that none could recog- 
nise us ; and it was many weeks ere any of us, biped 
or quadruped, recovered the effects of that momentoiu 
ride through fire and water. 


On the path toiling, I thought not of toil ; 
Troubles might meet us, I did not recoil ; 
Sunshine above us, but in our heai'ts more, 
Kich in bri);ht hopefulness, outwardly poor : 
'Twas thus we started, thy hand clasping mine, 
Tliou my love owning, my foitli built on thiuc. 

* On the path/ snidst thou, * together wc '11 keep. 
Though it be thorny, love, thon;;:h it he steep. 
Alone one might falter, but we hand in Imnd 
Strength each from each, love, can ever commantl* 
Yet I — the weaker — ^have held to the track. 
Singly have raachcd tlio goal; thou hast turned back. 

On the path, sadly and lonely I sped. 
Silently, tearlessly, buried my dead ; 
One by one buried them out of my sight, 
Deep in the heart that, near tlicc, was so light. 
Tlope with its blossoms all withered and shed, 
Love, Faith, and Fellowship — these were my dead! 

On the path still, but my toil is nigh done ; 
I \e but to cuter the homo I have wOn. 
Home ! — what a word! but the name is too sweet 
%Vheu the licart rests not, and the tired feet, 
As o'er the threshold they wearily tread. 
Raise by their echo the ghosts of the dead. 

From the path stepping, too clearly I see 
Not what is present, but what was to be : 
From the dark grave where I laid them to rest. 
The Love and the Faith that were dearest aud best. 
Like phantoms arise which the tomb cannot keep, 
And 1 lose them anew, having leisure to weep. 


Printed and Published by W. & U. Cbamdkiui, 47 Pnterno^rr 
Row, LoMi>ON, and 839 Hlfrh Street, EiUNuvnaif. Also «oId bv 
WiixiAM RoBKunov, 33 Upper Sackville Street, Dcbuh, aod 
all Booksellsrs. 

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\ tit net anb ^rts. 


No. 238. 

SATURDAY, JULY 24, 1858. 

PmcR 1^. 



EiGBTT-FiYE years ago, ^vhen Johnsoo, in following 
out a long-clierjshed wish, set forth on his famed 
journey to the Hebrides, his friends thought he was 
undertaking an exceedingly distant and dangerous 
expedition ; and Boswell, his companion, on whose 
' gaiety of conversation and civility of manners, lie 
relied for counteracting the inconveniences of travel,* 
has told us that on his mentioning to Voltaire his 
design of visiting the Western Isles, the philosopher 
of Ferney looked as if he had * talked of going to the 
north pole.' Nor were these apprehensions ill founded. 
Not to speak of the ordinary difiSculties of land- 
travelling in Scotland in 1778, the islands, stretching 
at lesser or greater distances along its western coast, 
were reached only by small boats, requiring no little 
skill in management, or by casual sailing-vessels, by 
which the very limited trade of the islanders was 

Now, what a change! Rulways on land, and 
atcam-yessels on the seas, have worked such wonders, 
that a journey which was terrifying eighty to ninety 
years ago, and even much later, can now be performed 
with perfect ease, expedition, anl certainty. What 
occupied Johnson about two months, may now be 
performed in about ten days. Wliat he actually saw 
in the Hebrides during three weeks, may now be seen, 
and to infinitely greater purpose, in three or four 
days, while, in point of cost, tlie comparison is 
equally in favour of the present modes of conveyance. 

Accustomed, once a year, to make a run for a few 
weeks on the continent, I resolved that this summer 
I should confine myself to the attractive scenery of 
tlic Hebridean isles ; and others, I doubt not, may be 
similarly influenced. The recent regulations and 
troubles about passports— things disgusting to an 
Englishman at the best— have set us all to consider 
whether, within the compass of the British Isles, there 
are not scenes as picturesque as the Rhine, as grand 
as the Swiss mountains, and in all respects as inter- 
esting, in a social point of view, as anything presented 
in continental travel. I am at all events hopeful that 
some little account of what I saw and heard of in a 
short excursion among the Hebrides, may draw the 
attention of tourists to 'a line of route as remark- 
able for striking scenery as for the comfort and 
-security witli which it may be pursued. To give 
some assurance on these latter points, let me endeavoun 
in the first place, to describe what may bo called the 
mCcanique of travel to and from the Western Isles. 

Boswell and Johnson, it will be recollected, took a 

tedious and painful route through a mountainous 
region from Inverness by Glenelg to Skye, which was 
the first island they touched at, by crossing a ferry in 
an open boat. Modern tourists have a choice of two 
principal routes— one by railway to Inverness, and 
thence along the Caledonian Canal, at the western 
extremity of which steamers are ready to take them 
to the islands; the other by the Clyde, the islands, 
and the Caledonian Canal, being just a reversal of 
the preceding. The plan we should recommend to 
tourists from London and the central parts of England, 
is to proceed by railway direct to Glasgow; there* 
going on board one of Hutcheson's steam-boats, they 
have no further trouble, being conveyed in a series 
of elegant floating hotels for hundreds of miles, stop- 
ping here and there every night to sleep at nicely 
furnished inns on the islands or mainland. This 
being done as far as wished, the tourist may finish 
off with the Caledonian Canal to Inverness, taking, 
if he pleases, some picturesque side-routes on the 
way home by Edinburgh. With Glasgow and the 
Clyde, the stranger cannot fail to be astonished— a 
great, populous, and prosperous city, the creation 
almost of the last seventy or eighty years, and a 
great navigable estuary made by enterprise and 
industry out of a very ordinary river, which was not 
long ago only fit to bear boats and gabbards, and 
now carries to the ocean large American steamers. 
Among the marvels accomplished by the people 
of Glasgow, none is more surprising than their 
steam-boat system. It was the Clyde on which the 
first steam-vessel was attempted in Great Britain; 
and since 1812, when Henry Bell made this memor- 
able experiment, the Clyde has kept the lead both as 
to building and running steamers. Favoured by the 
profusion of these handy vessels, Glasgow may be 
said to have dispersed itself along the shores of the 
Clyde and its lochs nearly as far as the ocean. 
Stretching along the lower slopes of the hills, nestling 
in nooks, and perched on craggy eminences, are seen 
an endless variety of cottages, villas, and castles, the 
summer or permanent residences of a wealthy and 
comfort-loving mercantile community. From point 
to point, at which commodious piers have been thrown 
out, steamers may be seen plying at all hours of the 
day ; so that, according to pleasure, you may travel 
about agreeably on the water from place to place- 
now running up a Highland loch, environed by rugged 
mountains, next skirting along a villa-ornamented 
shore— and so seeing and enjoying a vast deal in a 
day at a most insignificant outlay. Of course, this 
immensely convenient system of steaming attained 
comparative perfection on the Clyde before it was 

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extended to the western isUuids; and bat for the 
enterprise of one indindiuil, to whom the world owes 
something, it would in all probability not have yet gone 
that length— at least to an extent worth speaking of. 
I allude to David Hutcheson, one of the remarkable 
men of his time, who lives to enjoy the reputation of 
having opened up the Hebrides to a course of modem 
improvement Mr Hutcheson's life, like that of Bian- 
coni in Ireland, shews in a particular manner what 
one thoughtful and energetic man may do to advance 
the interests of his country. A notice of his projects 
embraces little else than an account of the existing 
Hebridean organisation of steamers. 

Beginning his commercial life about forty years 
ago as a junior clerk to one of the earlier steam-boat 
companies on the Clyde, Mr Hutcheson was after- 
wards for many yean connected with the firm of 
J. and G. Bums, a large shipping concern in Glasgow 
and Liverpool, and principal proprietors of the Cunard 
ocean steamers. Among other places on the coasts 
Messrs Bums sent steamers to the Western Isles; 
but this brancli of their trade, it seems, did not pay, 
and was willingly resigned to David Hutcheson, who 
had formed his own opinions on the subject. With 
an enthusiastic, and we should almost say a poetic, 
admiration of the West Highlands and Islands, and 
desirous not only to make tourists acquainted with 
their scenery, but to develop the resources of their 
immeasurable solitudes, he entertained the notion, 
that by giving large and finely appointed steamers, 
and doing everything on a liberal scale, the intercourse 
with the Hebrides might be established on a solid 
and prosperous basis. Animated with this idea, he 
began his operations about 1851, assisted by his 
brother, Mr Alexander Hutcheson ; and latterly, the 
firm of Hutcheson and Company has included Mr 
D. Macbrayne, a nephew of the Messrs Bums. 

Passing over Mr Hutcheson*s initiatory attempt to 
establish an enlarged traffic between Glasgow and 
the Highlands, we come to what more immediately 
concems tourists — ^the present arrangement of his 
steam-boats, which is in peculiar adaptation to the 
nature of the waters to be traversed. Looking at a 
soap of Scotland, we see that the long peninsula 
terminating in the Mull of Cantire cuts off the lower 
part of the Clyde from an}' ready access to the 
western coast, but that to accommodate the transit 
of small vessels, the Crinan Canal has been formed 
across the neck of the peninsula—this very useful 
canal, about nine miles in length, commencing on the 
east at a place called Ardrishaig on Loch Fyne. 
Carrying the eye northward on the map, we perceive 
that, having got into the western sea and as far as the 
top of the Linnhe Loch, a transit can be made by the 
Caledonian Canal to Inverness. Now, independently 
of sea-going vessels to go round the Mull, here are 
several kinds of vessels in requisition to sustain the 
intercourse of a line of route which is awkwardly 
broken into distinct parts. All, however, is provided 
for. The Hutchesons possess altogether twelve 
vessels of different classes, consuming in the aggregate 
per annum 24,000 tons of coal, whidi for convenience 
are placed in d^pdts at various leading ports. 

To begin with the largest in this effective fleet, we 
have the Clansman and StorL The«e are strongly built 
for sea, broad in the beam, and with powerful engines 
—that of the Stork having a power of 220 horses. 
Both are fitted for carrying goods and passengers ; and 
as a night has to be passed on board, they can each 
make up fifty sleeping-berths in separate cabins and on 
sofas. One of them leaving Glasgow every Monday and 
Thursday, proceeds round the Mull of Cantire, calls 
at Oban, Tobermory, Portree, and other places, their 
regular destination being Stornoway in the distant 
Lewis. They, however, make more extended calls 
beyond Stomoway; as, for example, Lochinrer on 

the mainland, a favourite residence of the Duke of 
Sutheriand and family, likewise Ullapool, and 
Gairloch in the western part of Boss-shire. OTer 
this wide range they ply unitedly from March till 
November, and one alone plies once a week in winter. 
Twice a year, for the special accommodation of 
herring-fishers, they go round the north of Scotland 
to Thurso. Unless one were to visit the strangelj 
indented west coast and islands, he could scarcely 
realise the importance of these voyages of the Claat- 
man and Stork, which, after passing Islay and Jan, 
pursue first a sinuous course through the Sound of 
Mull ; then rounding the extremity of ArdnamarchaD, 
enter that narrow and intricate channel between the 
mainland and Skye called the Sound of Sleat; iaitij 
issuing into the more open Minch, they take a route 
direct for Stomoway — ^throughout their long and 
devious course among the islands, landing and taking 
in passengers and goods, and, as it were, sowing the 
seeds of civilisation and prosperity in places which, 
but for their periodical visits, would be as difficult 
to reach as if situated in another hemisphere. 

The next class of vessels to which we may draw 
attention, are those steamers of handsome stractore, 
sharp in the bows, and of light draught of water, 
which are designed exclusively for passengers on the 
route from Glasgow by Ardrishaig and the canals to 
Inverness. This continuous line, as already men- 
tioned, is effected in several stages. The first part 
of the journey is performed lh>m Glasgow to Ardrish- 
aig by means of the lona, a vessel which I shonid 
imagine to be unmatched for its elegance and speed. 
Built in 1855 by J. & G. Thomson, of Glasgow, at i 
cost of L.10,000, this beautifully moulded steaoD-boit, 
measuring 284 feet in length, with 21 feet breadth of 
beam, draws only 4} feet of water, along the lorfaoe 
of which it skims with a rapidity of nearly nineteen 
miles per hour. As to its remarkable speed, of which 
I can speak from some experience, it is said that 
it has more than once run between the Clocfa sQ(i 
Cumbrae light-houses on the Clyde, a distance of 
fifteen miles and two-thirds, in 47^ minutes; and it 
may be doubted if a like velocity nas been attained 
by any steamer of its dimensions in Europe. With 
the rate of speed reached by American river-steamers, 
it is unnecessary to make any comparison ; for where 
the safety of lives is of no importance, and disaster 
incurs no obloquy, vessels can be urged to a degree 
of velocity alike excessive and dangerous. 

The Zona is propelled by two oscillating engiiw«T 
one working on each side of a fixed exhausting cylio- 
der — an arrangement which secures a certain esse oi 
motion ; and this latter quality is furtlier promoted bf 
the use of patent feathering floats on the paddles- 
that is to say, each float, afcer making its propulsive 
stroke, rises slopingty and with the least possible 
resistance from the water. The smoothness of action, 
along with a certain saving in force effected bf this 
peculiar process, would render its adoption ve^ 
desirable for ocean -steamers, but for the risk <n 
derangement The feathering requires a good deal of 
mechanism intermixed with the floats, and were toy 
part to break while a vessel was far at ses, the resmt 
might be serious; whereas an accident occurring on 
the Clyde or west coast could be easily remediea- 
Strength and security are matters of prime consi- 
deration in building British sea- going steamers; 
speed and easiness of action being properly oi 
secondary importance. 

In point of interior fittings, the lona is like*'*^ 
entitled to be called a crack boat. Tlie long open 
deck is furnished with an abundance of cuihionet^ 
forms and chairs, and the saloon is decorated w » 
style of great comfort and elegance — ranges of sota- 
seats covered with red pile velvet, long mahogftDy 
tables, mirrors and gilding, along with appointxseats 

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10 the steward's department aa good aa at any first- 
rate hotel. A health-seeker and gourmet might do 
worse than to live for a week or two in the lona^ 
travelling daily up and down the Clyde, inhaling 
draughts of fresh air, seeing heauttful scenery, feasting 
on salmon so fresh as still to retain its creamy curd, 
and on herrings caught only an hour or two ago in 
Loch Pyne — herrings par exctiknee, for in comparison 
all other creatures of this species are next to worth- 
less. I may here add once for all, that not only in 
the Zona, but in all Hutcheson's vessels, particular 
attention is paid to the alimentary departments. 
These, indeed, are conducted by the respective 
stewards on their own account, but according to 
certain terms as to quality and charge; and the good 
principle is followed of allowing no gratuities to be 
asked or taken by any one whatever. The usual 
charge is 2s. for breakfast, and 2s. 6d. for dinner ; at 
each meal, besides the ordinary fishy delicacies, there 
being a profusion of dishes, and water with ice. Lest 
any one should be impatient for an Zona breakfast, 
I should explain that it is not served till a few minutes 
past nine o'clock, when the vessel has taken on board 
passengers at Greenock. Starting on its trip from 
the Broomielaw at seven, passengers have two hours 
to grow hungry, which they never fail to do ; and the 
sight of Dumbarton Castle in tlie foreground, with 
Greenock in the distance^ is for the most part looked 
for with an interest unconnected with the history of 
these places. Those who do not choose to encounter 
this sUutary hungering process, start by rail an hour 
later from Glasgow, and come on board at Greenock 
just as the steward's lads are carrying the hot dishes 
from the cooking-house to the saloon. 

On board and breakfasted, the tourist complacently 
lounges on the deck, either skimming the morning's 
news in the North BritiA DaHy Mail, which he buys 
from a boy with a basket of books and papera, or 
gazing delightedly on the ever-shifting outlines of the 
Argyleshire hills. Touching at Dunoon and Inellan 
— ^populous villa-towns of yesterday — ^next, running 
into Bothesay in Bute, celebrated for the amenity 
of ita climate, and then proceeding through the narrow 
zigzag channel known as tlie Kyles of Bute, the 
vessel at last reaches Loch Fyne. Up this arm of 
the sea it goes, detaching at Tarbert a boat-load of 
passengers, who design to cross the peninsula in 
order to reach Islay by means of a separate steamer ; 
and at a distance of about twenty miles from the 
mouth of the loch it arrives at Ardrishaig~a village 
consisting of a few houses and a hotel. Here, about 
one o'clock, all quit the lofM, and walking one or 
two hundred yards, they get to the banks of the canal, 
where lies a pretty track^boat called the Sunbeam^ 
which the Hutchesons keep for the convenience of 
their passengers. Drawn by three horses at a smart 
trot, the Sunbeam, with its load of passengers and 
IttggAg^ glides smoothly and silently along the canal, 
that winds among craggy knolls, overhung with 
hazels, ferns, and wild flowering plants, and offering 
at various points glimpses of residences of Highland 
gentry ; the more imposing of these seats being the 
princely mansion of Fortalloch, which is said to have 
cost as much as L.100,000. As the &tnheam is neces- 
sarily detained at the several locks, the time spent in 
the transit is fully two hours. If the weather be 
fine, many prefer walking a few miles. On arriving 
at tlie western extremity of the canal, we have before 
us an inlet of the sea, with a pier, at which lies 
hissing the Mountaineer — ^a steamer bearing a close 
resemblance to the lonag its only difference being 
that it ia not quite so long, and is otherwise better 
adapted to pass through the seas which surge along 
the weatem coasts. The transference of passengers 
Aud baggage to the Mountaineer occupies but a few 
minutes. As regards their luggage, about which 

tourists are usually somewhat nervous, they may 
keep themselves quite at ease, for at each end of the 
canal it is sliifted in attendant carts and trucks by 
properly appointed servants of tlie company ; every* 
thing, including boats, carti^ men, and horses, forming 
part of an apparatus which has for its exclusive 
object the forwarding of passengers with the smallest 
degree of anxiety or trouble to themselves. For 
those who may prefer riding from end to end of the 
canal, there are always Highland cars, open and 
covered, in attendance for hire at Ardrishaig. Matters 
are ao arranged that passengers brought by the 
Sunbeam from the west find the lona on their arrival, 
and ordinarily, therefore, on the small quay of 
Ardrishaig there are for a few minutes two contending 
floods of people— one streaming out of, and the other 
into, the lona. It is further arranged that that very 
important affair, dinner, takes place in the lona while 
passing homeward down the comparatively tranquil 
waters of Loch Fyne, and in the Mountaineer while 
proceeding up the Sound, which is bounded by tiie 
islands of Scarba and Linga on the west, and Luing 
and Shuna on the east. 

By the time that dinner is over, the lofty peaks of 
Jura are sinking in the horizon ; the Mountaineer is 
now ploughing her way past Sell, on the right ; and 
on the left, are seen towering the gigantic mountains 
of Mull, one of the largest of the Hebridean isles. 
Holding on with an inclination towards the east, the 
vessel nimbly passes into a narrow sound, bounded on 
the west by the rugged but green island of Eerrera ; 
at length, about fire o'clock, it steams into the 
beautiful land-locked bay of Oban ; and the traveller 
has reached what is yet only a pretty village of good 
white-washed houses, but which, from its &vourable 
position and mild climate, must eventually become 
the metropolis of the west Highlands and Islands. 

Oban, of which more shall be said afterwards, is a 
favourite centre-point for tourists, who wish to make 
a trip in any direction — to the islands of lona and 
Staffa on the west, Skye and Lewis on the north, 
Inverness on the east, and also in an easterly 
direction, the vale of Glencoe, Loch Awe, and a 
number of other places celebrated for their singularly 
grand scenery, as well as their connection with the 
stirring events of history and tradition. 

After calling at Oban, the Mountaineer proceeds 
up the Linnhe Loch, by Fort- William, to Corpach, 
where it arrives the same evening. Passengers imme- 
diately transfer themselres to a spacious omnibus, 
luggage is put into two vans, and the whole, in less 
than half-an-hour, reach Banavie, where they remain 
for the night. Tourists to whom time is of import- 
ance, or who habitually rush past everything, as 
if that which was worth seeing is still somewhere 
further on, place themselves next morning in one 
of Hutcheson's vessels, kept for the passage of the 
Caledonian Canal, and so at once get forward to 
Inverness in the sftemoon of the same day. Others, 
more considerate, make a short stay at Banavie or 
Fort- William, to visit, if not to ascend, Ben Nevis, 
to see the ruins of Inverlochy Castle, to visit the 
parallel roads of Glenroy, or to make a trip of a 
few miles along the banks of Locheil to Glenfinnan, 
where the unfortunate Charles Stuart first planted 
his standard in 1746. 

Beverting to Oban as a general rendezvous for 
tourists planning Hebridean excursions, it needs to 
be explained that to afford scope for sigh^seers the 
Hutchesons stotion here a third vessel of their swift 
class, the Pioneer, which on certain days proceeds to 
tlie highly interesting islands of lona and Staffa, and 
on others to Loch Leven— a branch jutting inland 
from the Linnhe Loch— at the upper extremity of 
which vehicles are in attendance for a trip to 
Glencoe. Curiosity being there satiafled* tourists 

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may return by the same vessel to Oban, or d loosing 
not to be in a hurry, they can stay at the hotel at 
Balaliulish, and be taken up by the Mountaineer next 
day, on its way to Fort- William and Corpach. Let 
it further be remembered that, if after excarsioning 
among tlie Hebrides, one wishes to return direct 
through the Highlands to Loch Lomond, and adjacent 
districts, he has a stage-coach from Oban quite at his 

Having expatiated at such length on Hutcheson's 
system of tourist-steamers, it seems only necessary 
to add, that as these beautiful vessels are employed 
chiefly in summer, his organisation is completed by the 
running of two steam-vessels of lesser size, the Cygnet 
and Lapwingy which go through the canals and ply 
with goods and passengers to and from Inverness 
during the whole year. They are a smart and well- 
found craft, with comfortable sleeping-berths; they 
touch at Oban and other places, and by their agency 
a constant intercourse is kept up with Glasgow and 
the northern parts of Scotland. We do not need to 
particularise the more circumscribed steam-system of 
the Hutchesons in connection with Inverary ; it will 
be of greater public interest to state that, by their 
means generally, in co-operation with other causes of 
improvement^ an extraordinary impetus has lately 
been given to the establishment of new mail-routes, 
light-houses, buoys, and beacons; the plantation of 
villas along the shores of the Highlands, and, above 
all, the extension of hotel accommodation for tourists. 

A resident in the south, who prob<ably pictures the 
Highlands as little better than an unmitigated wilder- 
ness, can hardly by any force of description be brought 
to understand that at Dunkeld, Inverness, and Oban, 
he will find hotels about as extensive and magnificent 
as those at Euston Square and Paddington— very much 
better than the generality of hotels in the heart of the 
metropolis. The Caledonian Hotel at Oban, which 
has lately undergone considerable enlargement, con- 
tains a hundred bedrooms, the equipments in which 
are all of first-rate quality; the saloon has dining 
accommodation for upwards of sixty guests ; so that 
the other day, when I formed one of thirty-eight at 
the table-d'hote— dinner faultless— this large and 
elegant apartment seemed to be half empty, though, 
as the season advances, it will soon be filled with 
strangers from all parts of the world. The Times (of 
the preceding day), without which an Englishman 
does not well make out existence, was lying on one 
of the side-tables. This is but a type, however, of 
many Highland hotels; and, in point of fact, any- 
thing shabby will no longer do. Where Johnson and 
Bos well were fain to sleep on a couch of heather, and 
eat oat-cakes, you will find handsomely built inns, 
furnished with all the appliances of civilised life. At 
the Trosachs on Loch Katrine; at Tarbert, Inver- 
snaid, and Inverarnan on Loch Lomond ; at Arruchar 
on Loch Long ; at Inverary on Loch Fyne ; at Bala- 
hulish ; and at Brodick in Arran, travellers will find 
capital hotels, where they may agreeably spend a few 
days, and drive about in a very luxurious sort of way. 
Tourists on the grand route by the Caledonian Canal 
— the greatest work of its kind in Britain, and which 
should by all means be included in a nortiiern trip — 
have an opportunity, as already hinted, of ruralising 
pleasantly at Banavie. There are here two hotels, 
an old and new one, under the same management, 
which make up unitedly sixty-two beds; and an 
addition is now making to,the new house, which, we 
understand, will raise the number to eighty beds. 
The new house — an aspiring mansion in tlio Italian 
style— was built a few years ago, at a cost of several 
thousand pounds, by Cameron of Locheil. And who 
18 the enterprising lessee of this hotel-villa but our 
Napoleon of Highland steamers— David Hutcheson — 
who thus insures, through a sub-tenant, Mr John 

Mackenzie, the best accommodation to his Hebridean 

If any one be disposed to accept our advice on 
the subject of Scottish tours, we should repeat the 
counsel, not to hurry too quickly over the very uter- 
es ting stretch of sea and land between Glasgow and 
Inverness. Don't push on as if between death and 
life. Do the thing deliberately and satisfactorily; 
stopping a day or two here and there ; making Uttle 
side-trips to see deep mountain gorges, strange geo- 
logical formations, scenes of deep historic interest, and 
waterfalls which we can assure Londoners will be foand 
somewhat more efl!ective than that at Shanklin Chine. 
With Hutcheson's steamers, with boats and ligiit 
Highland cars, which can be hired on every desirable 
occasion, and hotels with which even the most fas- 
tidious can find no reasonable fault, what can be 
more exhilarating — what, to many, more new in 
physical and social aspect — than a well-arranged 
excursion in the West Highlands and Hebrides. 

W. C. 


The theatrical world, considered more particularly as 
a branch of that literary and artistic ' Bohemia' which 
has recently attracted public attention, is in all prob- 
ability a teri-a incognita to the majority of our readera. 
Next door to the theatre, however — 'next door' to 
every temple of the drama we know — is invariably 
a public-house, where we can at any time see the 
world in question, a world embracing managers 
and actors, and their satellites and hangers-on in 
general, but more particularly made up of lessees, 
shareholders, renters, acting-managers, stage-man- 
agers, prompters, leading men, leading ladies, hearj 
ladies and heavy men, singing chambermaids, juvenile 
tragedians of both sexes, first old men, first and 
second light and. low comedians, walking gentlemen, 
respectable utility gentlemen, character actors, eccen- 
tric men, copyists, scene-painters, clowns and panto- 
mimists, leaders of the band, r^petiteurs^ fiddlers and 
other musicians, wardrobe-keepers, theatrical tailors, 
dressers, dancers, chorusers, ballet-masters, ballet- 
girls, master and working carpenters, gas engineers, 
property-masters, property-men, cleaners, stage foot- 
men, supernumeraries, box book-keepers, money and 
check takers, and nondescripts of all kinds (iodadiDg 
the watchful mammas of the afore-mentioned leading 
ladies and singing chambermaids), the more parti- 
cular designation of whom can only be known by 
an inspection of the treasury books — the tressor; 
being a place certain to receive a visit at least once 
a week from the whole corps of theatrical hangers-on, 
the dramatic playwright himself not excepted. lo 
addition to these, we have a countless number of 
danglers after actresses, admirers of actors, adapters 
of plays, theatrical critics, garrulous old playgoers, 
whose great point is the debut of Mrs Siddons ; stage- 
road people, whose am'bition is to talk theatrical slang 
and give imitations of Kean ; a small poet or tvo, a 
few painters, and three or four budding authors, vlio 
have always a manuscript tragedy in their pocket. 
These varied elements, properly mixed together, \i^^ 
the brandy and water they consume, make uin ^ 
the old poet says, ' a mad world, my masters.' ^^ 
door to the theatre, then, at the actors* house of 
call, we might see representatives of this motley 
crew, and from their conversation gather an idea of 
their world. We say might do so, if we would ; hut, 
fortunately, we are not compelled either to endure 
the smoky atmosphere peculiar to the actors' hoase 
of call, or submit to sufibcation from the fumes of 
the hot spirits and water which are there the fssliion* 
Lend us your eyes, kind reader, and look upon this 
broad sheet with us, and we wiU put you on another 

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and a better plan for your explorations of tliis mimic 
kingdom and its painted inhabitants. Our adrice 
to persons wishing to Tiew the theatrical world is 
to study the Eixi newspaper. 

The most correct idea of the theatrical world, and 
its appurtenances of men and tilings, is undoubtedly 
to be obtained from that world's own oracle and 
friend, the Era, which is, to those engaged in the 
theatrical profession, what Belts Life is to the mem- 
bers of the sporting world. In the Era we find the 
week's theatrical affairs detailed at full length. 
No matter what branch of the profession we desire 
to scan, in that paper we find the necessary parti- 
culars — all that is known about theatres, opera- 
houses, singing-saloons, tea-gardens, circuses, and 
exhibitions in general is chronicled, from the 
announcement 'to proprietors of first-class concert- 
halls, gardens, &c.,' of the disengagement of that 
eminent nigger, Herr Guildenstem, 'the great ori- 
ginal performer on ten tambourines at one time,* 
to the astounding intelligence that Mr Waverley 
Mortimer Blank, ' the renowned tragedian,' is again, 
and for the third time, re-engaged at the Theatre 
Royal, Slashington. We can see also» in the news- 
columns, that the walking gentleman, who was adver- 
tising his services in the number of a fortnight ago, 
has been engaged at the theatre of Bagot-on-Shipston, 
where, we are informed, he has made a favourable 
impression on the Bagotonians ; but we regret to find 
that 'the heavy man,' whose wife is useful in the 
'singing chambermaids' (their joint terms being 
very moderate), is still out of employment. Poor 
gentleman ! perhaps he is too heavy for the present 
state of tiieatricals, which are indeed tending decidedly 
to a lighter style than has marked their progress of 
late years. 

There is no want connected with the profession 
that cannot be supplied by the advertising columns. 
As an example of what is done, let us take the case 
of the aspirant to stage-honoars. He will find from 
an advertisement that he can be 'practicsilly 
instructed and completed for the theatrical pro- 
fession,' by a gentleman who for twenty years 
has been 'manager, author, and actor of the 
Theatres Royal, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, 
Lyceum, Strand, Adelphi, Olympic, and Surrey 
Theatres.' Or if the aspirant be a lady, here 
is her chance: 'Miss Charming has returned to 
London for the season. She is prepared to resume 
dramatic instruction to ladies, and undertakes soon 
to render them competent to fill situations. Terms 
moderate. It is desired to form a company for the 
provinces, to commence about September, and those 
who evince aptness will be engaged.' Supposing the 
stage-struck hero to have undergone the necessary 
cramming as to the 'business' of the boards— that he 
has been taught how to kneel to a lady, how to cross 
from P.S. to O.P., and further, that the gentleman of 
twenty years' standing has given him hints on the 
expression of stage passions— that 'madness opens 
the eyes to a frightful wildness, rolls them hastily 
and wildly from object to object, distorts every 
feature, and appears all agitation; the voice some- 
times loud, and sometimes plaintive, accompanied 
with tears;' or that 'affectation displays itself in a 
thousand different gestures, motions, airs, and looks, 
according to the character,* &c. Supposing the 
curriculum of practical instruction to have been 
achieved, the next business is to procure a wardrobe, 
and an—engagement. We presume, of course, that 
the tyro, ere reaching this stage of his career, has 
like all other novices, laid in a large share of burnt 
corks, so useful in the fabrication of stage-beards, 
eyebrows, &c., and also a few hares* feet for the 
due distribution of the rouge and pearl powder, so 
essential to what is called 'the make-up' of all 

kinds of stage - heroes. Tlie wardrobe is easily 
managed, especially in London, and we presume it 
to be from the great metropolis our Novice is setting 
out. Let us suppose, also, that he has already applied 
to the theatrical agents, in order to have his name 
placed on the roll of actors wanting an engagement. 
If his instructor has not himself introduced his pupil 
to one, he finds the address of several in the Era, 
Having 'stumped up* what the agent will facetiously 
designate ' the needful ' — about half-a-guinea, more or 
less— his name will then be entered on the books, and 
an engagement ought to follow in due time. The 
agent of course inquires carefully as to his ' props * — 
that is, his properties, in the shape of dresses, swords, 
&R. ; and finding that the youth is unprovided in 
those indispensable articles of dress which all actors 
are exx>ected to find for their own use— as boots, 
collars, tights, shape-hats, swords, &c. — the agent 
pretends to glance at the Era, and then starting up 
from his chair, he hauls off the youngster, exclaiming 
rapidly: 'It's all right, my boy; come along with 
me to Sam Days; he's advertising again, and I'll 
get him to do it at a moderate figure for you ;' and 
so the business of costume gets settled; and of 
course, as the agent is Days*s &iend, it is but right 
for him to pocket a trifle of 10 per cent, or so on the 

At this stage of the affair, we may almost hail our 
3'outh as a member of the theatrical world; he has 
now the entrSe at the agent's chambers — agents* 
chambers are usually to be found in a public-house 
— and that gentleman very condescendingly partakes 
of the Novice's beer, and tells him stale anecdotes of 
the players in return. In due time, the promised 
engagement comes on the tapis; some Saturday 
morning, just as the Novice is getting restive, the 
Era announces that ' Mr De Courcy Smy the intends 
visiting London, for the purpose of making arrange- 
ments for his ensuing seasons at the Theatre Royal, 
Slopperton, and the I^yal Lyceum Theatre, Swindle- 
ham ; and will be prepared to treat with acknow- 
ledged stars and professional talent, for the regular 
company, on and after the 20th instant : all applica- 
tions to contain a stamped envelope for reply, and to 
be addressed to L. Suckem, at the Sword and Tights, 
Wych Street, Drury Lane.* The moment Novice reads 
this, he is off to Suckem's, at full speed, and insists 
upon that gentleman procuring him an immediate 
engagement in Smythe's company. As Suckem does 
not see his way to any more plunder, in the shape 
of beer or additional goes of brandy and water, ho 
reluctantly complies; and in the course of a few days. 
Novice finds himself in the green-room of the Theatre 
Royal, Slopperton, an undoubted member of the 
'profession,* and certain to have his goings and 
comings duly chronicled in the Era, for the edification 
of the public in general, and the theatrical world in 

There now opens to the greedy eye of Mr Novice 
that inner theatrical arcanum, veiled from the com- 
mon gaze by the impenetrable green curtain; and 
for the first time he sees the mass of people con- 
nected with the theatre, of which he is but a unit, 
all in" motion like the heavenly bodies circling round 
a common centre— that centre being Algernon De 
Courcy Smytlie, the sun of the theatrical world 
of Slopperton. We will not attempt to describe 
'Smythe's lot,' as Suckem calls them. They are 
sufficiently seedy in their apparel, and starved-look- 
ing in their appearance, to indicate at once their pro- 
fession. Our aspirant soon finds out how much of 
tinsel and paint is lavished upon all things behind tho 
scenes ; he also finds how unreal the talk is of tho 
mimes; how much each is for himself, and how 
little he cares for his neighbour, except when he 
wishes to borrow his best pair of tights. He listens 

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respectfully, #hile the heayy woman retails her tUhits 
of scandal about the singing chambermaid ; or, by winks 
and nods, insinuates that the low comedian's wife 
was seen, upon a late occasion, in suspicions proxim- 
ity to a pawnbroker's office ; how beautifully, too, she 
throws out a little innuendo about the leading lady's 
penchant for brandy and water; and, finally, after 
settling these small matters, observe with what an 
air she manages to borrow fiye shillings iVom the 
edified Novice. Out of doors— in the tavern fre- 
quented by the company— our young actor, not 
having much study to get through, mixes in the outer 
theatrical world, and has already even a hanger-on 
or two wholly to himself, simply because he belongs 
to a place that has such an undefined charm about it 
as to command a larger amount of attention than 
almost any other world, whether of science or art. 
There is centered in the theatre so much that is novel 
or wonderful, that even the utility actors of a fourth- 
rate town command their little circle of followers. In 
high life, does not the Court Circular chronicle the exits 
and entrances of the great heroes and heroines of the 
lyric drama? Does not my Lord FitEkemel get the 
programme of the opera season sent down to him by 
special train the moment it can be had— damp as it 
is— from the printing-office ? Of course he does ; and 
there are a score of other noblemen who are equally 
ardent; and if our aristocracy do this, is it any 
wonder that Tom, Dick, or Harry, follow suit, and 
like to know all they can about what is doing behind 
the scenes of the Theatre Royal, Slopperton ? 

But time flies, and the Theatre Royal, Slopperton, 
after languishing for a few weeks, and entertaining 
but scanty audiences, abruptly closes its doors ; the 
manager, as the low comedian says— accompanying 
the information with a wink of the eye and a twist 
of the tongue— is * nowhere ; ' and the company, left 
without salary and with no prospect of immediate 
engagement, make the best of their way to the nearest 
harbour of refuge. But our Novice needs not be dis- 
couraged yet; he will frequently have to encounter 
such mishaps; they are a part of the system. But how 
is it, we are asked, that the Theatre Royal, Slopperton, 
is obliged to shut its doors? Slopperton is a large 
manufacturing town with an intelligent population, 
fond of theatrical entertainments ; and, in former times, 
when its population was much smaller than it is now, 
it gaye to London some of its greatest actors. It was 
one of the nurseries for the London stage. Eemble, 
Kean, Munden, Dowton, O'Neii, Listen, Mathews, 
Bannister, Incledon, and a dozen others equally 
celebrated, trod the Slopperton stage on their way 
to London. We cannot tell, but so it is : the class 
who now attempt the reanimation of our provincial 
theatres are, with some few exceptions, mere parodists 
on the players of the past. 

We may now, leaving our Mend to find out a 
new field for the exercise of his histrionic talents, just 
glance at the country theatre. It is generally a dim 
dirty house, with a repellent poyerty-stricken sir, 
and situated in some hidden comer of the town, 
which only the most determined perseverance will 
enable one to find out. You pay your half-crown, 
and enter. At once you are unfavourably struck 
with the dismal appearance of the place. The old 
tattered seats, damp and mouldy, the old torn green 
curtain, that never will come down straight, the old 
scenery bare and worn out, the old battered drinking 
flagons and other ' properties,' that hare been shewn 
at innumerable banquets presided orer by innumer- 
able Macbeths, are all characteristic of the place. 
Year after year are represented the same old stock- 
plays — George Bamwe% or, it may be, Caeth Spectre, 
with the everlasting farce of Fortunes Frolic, or the 
Ploughman turned Lord. There is no thought of 
attracting the refined and elegant, nor eren of inter- 1 

esting the intelligent mechanic; no Idea is entertained 
of keeping pace with the advancing spirit of the sge. 
In fact, the provincial theatre fell fast asleep folly 
forty years ago, and has not yet awakened. Bat if 
the country theatre is bad, the country manager ii a 
great deal worse. In nine cases out of ten, he is t 
mere adventurer, with little or no education, low- 
bred and vulgar, with bullying manners, and s 
tendency to oblivion in all pecuniary transactionB. 
We don't allude to the managers of first or second 
class provincial theatres, who are most of them 
respectable men. The specimen we select takes a 
country theatre as ' a spec,' goes to some dramatic 
agent, such as Suckem, and so collects a company. 
He hires a wardrobe from some Jew costumier, and 
by hook or crook gets himself and his company for- 
warded to the scene of operation. For the first week 
all goes well, the company obtaining the whole amount 
of their salaries. 'Business,' as it is called, continues 
brisk, perhaps even for a fortnight, and then a dismal 
change comes o'er the spirit of the scene. Some fine 
evening, it gets whispered about that the manager ii 
* nowhere;' and early next morning, the leading lady, 
who is inclined to be stout, has the misfortune to 
be caught stuck fast in the ratlier narrow window 
of her apartment on the ground-floor— a predicament 
she has got into through a yain attempt to escape the 
just demands of her landlady. Her 'properties'— 
consisting of five silk stockings, a pair of black velvet 
shoes, one and a half pair of white satin slippers, a 
much-used suit of silk fleshings, one aandal, four 
skirts, an old red silk train and a tinsel crown, with 
a box of worn gloyes and a white muslin robe— bsTe 
been previously spirited away by the leading Uui/s 
mamma, who travels with her. The low comedian of 
the company, who travels only with a pair of tights 
and a few wigs, has been more lucky ; he nevw takes 
his * props,' as he calls the articles in question, to his 
lodgings, but always leayes them next door to the 
theatre in case of accident After the escapade of the 
leading lady, a miserable attempt is made by the com- 
pany, as a republic, to keep the place open for a night 
or two; but the mysterious disappearance of the 
wardrobe creates a difficulty which no amount of 
ingenuity can overcome; in addition to that, the 
printer (a green hand, newly arrived in the place) is 
wondering wlio lie is to look to for payment of his 
bill; while to crown all, the landlord has taken 
possession of the key of the theatre, glad to get 
quit of the yagabonds without any rent, and the 
place is peremptorily closed. So ends a season which 
is the exact counterpart of many more, and thus mns 
the theatrical world its exciting round. 

We can assure our readers that the picture we have 
painted of the unscrupulous manager who takes a 
theatre as a * spec,' and the dire consequences which 
follow, is not over-coloured. As a companion portrait, 
we present that of an honest manager struggling with 
adversity — ^it is painted by himself, and no touch from 
our pen could make it more graphic As will be seen, 
it takes the shape of an address to his audience at the 
end of a disastrous season : 

After the usual thanks to the ' ladies and gentle- 
men' for their presence, he proceeds: 'At the 
conclusion, however, of a season which is well 
known to be about the worst there has ever been 
in this town, you will npt expect anjrthing very 
checrflil of me, especially when I tell you that I 
am very ill, that my wife is worse, and that we 
are both weighed down with turmoil, anxiety, and 
disappointment. I commenced my unfortunate season 
with an opera comi>any for a fortnight, which was 
very unsuccessful. I then commenced with the dra- 
matic company, which was still worse. .... Finding 
everything going the wrong way, . I strenuously 
endeavoured to procure the visits of some first-class 

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''•Un." One, howerer, was in Americm, another 
lettled for the time in London, and a third did not 
think this town would pay him— and those who did 
come, soon found tuch was the truth. With such 
stars as I could get, our receipts nerer exceeded 
£5, Is^ and were as low as £2, 17b. Mj friends, 
however, assured me that if I could weather the storm 
till Christmas, and then get up a pantomime, I might 
he sure of a reward at last. I tried the experiment ; 
produced one — with much difficulty — that I helieve 
gave general satisfaction ; hut, alas t although there 
were one or two fair houses, the receipts fell during 
the first week of its run to L.4, 13s., and during the 
second to L.3, Is. 6d. I tmfortunately entered into a 
contract to pay the enormous rental of L.225 for the 
season, of which — ^notwithstanding the had business 
and general depressions — L.175 has heen paid. 
(Cheers.) Finding it impossible to pay the last 
instalment, I made an appeal to the proprietors, 
and assured them that the L.60 I paid down was 
sunk, that what money I brought with me was 
gone, what I had raised was spent, and what I 
had borrowed was unpaid — ^that having lost my 
all, my wife being so situated as to be compelled 
to give up her professional duties — with an antici- 
pated increase to my family— my season at an end 
here, and nothing settled for the fUture elsewhere, 
I must throw myself upon their consideration, and 
— a good rental having been already realised— hope 
for a release. To all this I received no answer, 
but a brief inquiry about what security I could give 
for the balance. I replied that I had exhausted every 
resource, and could pay no more; but that I was 
anxious to do all an honest man could do — that there 
was a great holiday coming on the occasion of the 
Princess Royal's marriage, and I would get up a 
strong entertainment, and they might put their man 
men at the doors and take the receipts, (Cheers and 
cries of ''Bravo.'*) Now, ladies and gentlemen, I 
know that not one man in twenty would have made 
such an offer, and I ask you if mortal man could do 
more ? (" No, no.'O Well, to that proposition I could 
obtain no answer; but all at once, while I was expect- 
ing one, I found the bailiffs in the theatre. But I had 
acted according to a hint I had received, very carefully 
removing all my best things, and safely disposing of 
my wife's dresses, upon the value of which I had 
heard certain parties had been calculating; so when 
the bailifb came in, they found little more than would 
pay for the distraint. (Tremendous cheering, and 
cries of " Bravo," and hisses from the proprietors.) It 
is to that faci ladies and gentlemen, that I am 
enabled to appear before you this evening. I was 
therefore placed in a position to treat ; but no thanks 
to the proprietors if I am not now obliged to leave 
the town without one article of wardrobe, conse- 
quently, unable to take any other theatre, or even an 
engagement in one — for the wardrobe is to an actor 
what tools are to mechanics — and as the result, in 
a short time, perhaps, to find my children wanting 

As 18 the country theatre, so, generally speaking, are 
country actors. The damp and mould of the one, 
with its ragged seats and tattered scenery, are but 
representatives of the muddled brain and seedy habili- 
ments of the other. One cause of their decline is, 
that, in the present day, they can have no hope of * a 
career.' The two great tlieatres of the metropolis 
are closed to the British drama : the one is a temple 
for foreign music and dancing; in the other, horse- 
manship, tumbling, antipodean feats, Tom Thumbs, 
and performing elephants, have taken the places of 
Munden, Dowton, Kean, and Mathews; in other 
places the sublimity of the tragic scene has been 
usurped by the red-hot bombast of melodrama ; and 
the fine old comedy of other days has been banished 

to make room for the 'screaming' farce and the 
extravaganza. If we are so fortunate as to have 
even one great man to play a hero, he is surrounded 
by a mob of nobodies— ill-trained, and worse dressed, 
having no fitness for their profession whatever, except 
their consummate impudence. A shadow, in fact^ 
has fallen upon the stage ; and at present we have few 
players worthy of the name. The great ones of former 
days, and the best of their offshoots, are dead, and their 
memories are all that is left to us, for nobody has 
caught their mantles. 

London, however, is still regarded as the common 
centre of the profession. Country managers — of 
whom there is about one hundred, not including the 
directors of the few strolling companies still extant 
— always resort to the great metropolis to gather 
together their little band, and pay their annual round 
of visits to such of the theatres of Lond<Hi as have 
an open door, and play in the national tongue; at 
the present time, there are about twenty of these, of 
various kinds and ranks. The country manager, and 
also the respectable country actor, have both of them 
a great liking for London. There they can epjoy a 
peep of that greater theatrical world of which their 
little town is but the miniature. The respectable 
provincial manager has usually the entrie to the best 
of the London houses, because most of the London 
managers being actors, he receives an annual visit 
from them, in their capacity of 'stars,' and so keeps 
up a friendly acquaintance. He thus gets wonder- 
ful peeps into the inner circle of some of our London 
houses, and obtains ideas as to how all the different 
' oracles ' are worked which help to oil the machinery 
of a London theatre. He sees the great man in his 
'sanctum;' finds out the true relation between the 
London dramatic autiior and tlie critic of the daily 
paper, and sometimes stares to find them one and 
indivisible. Most of our play and farce writers are 
'on the press ;' and a shrewd manager takes care to 
select his authors accordingly, knowing that they 
form a clique, of which each member is bound to puff 
the other's production, because all in their turn need 
a similar favour. Still, however, the production of 
the new farce requires tact and 'management;' and 
there are numerous interviews between the author 
(translator, ought we not rather to say ?) and mana- 
ger, before matters get finally arranged, and the puff 
preliminary is sent out. Outsiders rarely get a piece 
accepted; but when they do^ what a gantlet of 
criticism they have to run I 

The country manager of the old school— Mr Flacide^ 
we will call him— not being engaged to dine either 
with Mr Buskin or Mr Rosdus, his two most profit- 
able stars, both of whom are managers of London 
theatres, steps down to Wych Street to the Sword 
and Tights, to enjoy a quiet pipe before the parlour 
fills with its wonted company. The oigan of 
the profession, wliich he finds lying on the table, 
opens up a new world to him: he recollects the 
time, not many years ago^ when the drama had no 
such expositor; and he is more than astonished, as 
he glances over the advertising columns, at the won- 
ders with which it is filled, never having known before 
that there were so many kinds of public amusements 
competing for patronage. What particularly strikes Mr 
Placide is the manner in which the actors and actresses 
of the present day advertise and puff themselves, and 
how men, who are but fourth-rate actors in a second- 
rate London theatre, pretend that they are stars of 
the first magnitude in the provinces. Then in every 
second advertisement he comes on the word ' profes- 
sional,' and determines to hate it, because it is a 
new word to him. He likes better the old word 
comedian or actor: 'professional' includes, he thinks, 
all sorts of horrors, such as niggers, bounding 
brothers, anti-podeanists, and equestrian troupes. 

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* Ay, ay/ Bays Fladde to himself over his pipe, 'no 
wonder we managers can't make our salt now, with 
such entertainments surrounding us on all sides. Here 
is no end of concerts and exhihitions, where the public 
not only get amusement, but beer as well. What 
theatre, I ^ould like to know, can stand against beer ? 
Or, if we can beat the beer, by means of either Buskin 
or Roscius, can we stand up against the performing 
monkeys who are starring all the year round at the 
theatre; or, suppose we can even do that, how about 
the niggers in the concert-halls? A new Shakspeare 
could liave no chance against the niggers— that he 
couldn't. Then, again, here in London we have the 
squalling Italians: there's Tamberlik going to get 
a cool thousand a month ; there 's a palace been run 
up for them in five months' time. Who would run 
up a palace in five months for the British drama, I 
should like to know ? ' And Mr Placide having vented 
these opinions quietly to himself, replenishes his 
tumbler, and re-adjusts his pipe, and has what he 
calls * another go in at the paper.' But we need not 
follow him further. Suffice it to say, that he cannot 
tolerate the modern system of advertising at all. 
*Only to Uiink,' says he, 'that men have such 
impudence — ^men I would not give fifteen shillings 
a week to! Advertising; ay, it may be all very 
well for Mr Smythe— / can't aflford it. Here is 
the thing for me;' and Mr Placide runs over the 
advertisement of the 'Inauguration of the Burial 
Ground of the Dramatic, Equestrian, and Musical 
Sick-fund Association.' * Ay, the grave will have us 
all at last ; I'm glad to see that there is sense enough 
left in our actors to provide for this last scene of dl. 
Truly doth Shakspeare say : 

Life 's but a walking shadow— a poor player. 
That struts aud frets his hour upon the stage. 
And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, fall of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing.* 
And with these axioms of the great bard, we humbly 
take our leave of both the country manager and the 
TuEATiucAL World. 


It is always difficult to shake off ancient prejudices. 
Without a struggle, the truth of no new theory has 
ever yet prevailed against the errors of long-received 
opinion; for the latter is strong at once in all the 
strength of its own prescription, and in all the weak- 
ness incident to the novelty of its assailant. Of this 
truth one striking instance familiar to our readers 
occurs in the history of the Struggles of Vaccination.* 
Another instance, more striking still, presents itself 
in the story of that Great Discovery from which the 
birth of mcdem physiology must be dated. 

The history of the discovery of the circulation of 
the blood, which M. Flourens has a well-established 
claim to have told for the first time with scientific 
accuracy,! extends, from Galen to Harvey, over a 
period of more than fourteen centuries. It may be 
difficult, but it will not, I think, be impossible so to 
strip it of its technicalities as to make the story not 
only intelligible, but interesting to the least scientific 

The arteries which, during life, as we now know, 
are distended with blood, are found, after death, 
to be not only in a great measure emptied of that 
fluid, but to contain air in considerable volumes. 
Reasoning from these facts, the physiologists who 

* S«o Joumalt toI. vi., p. 16, and toI. vili., p. 263. 

t liUtoirt de ta Diamverte de la Circulation du Sang. Par 
P. Flourens, Hembre deTAcad^mie FnuifaiM, et Seer^tairo Per- 
petuelde rAcaddmie dos Bdcnces (InsUtut de France), Professour 
au Mos^ d'Hiatoire If aturelle de Paris, &c. DooxiAme Edition. 
Paris. 1857. 

preceded Galen, and especially Erasistratus and bii 
school, maintuned the theory that, like the wmdpipe, 
the arteries were simply air-passages, the air vbich 
penetrated to the lungs by the trachea being conveyed 
by the venous (or, as we should call it, the pulmonary) 
artery to the left cavity, or ventricle of the heart, and |! 
thence by the aorta, or great arterial trunk, and its 
innumerable ramifications, to every part of the system. || 
From the functions thus hypothctically ascribed to 
them, the arteries derived the name they still retaio 
(from Greek, aer, the air, and terein, to preserve, as a j 
a pipe preserves the breath). j 

With this theory, Galen was so little satisfied, tliat, | 
while yet a young man, he set himself first to investi- 
gate, and then to overthrow it. He proved, by a aeries ' 
of experiments on the living body, that the arteries 
during life contained blood, but did not contain air; be 
shewed that the air which entered the lungs by inspin- ii 
tion did not penetrate beyond their air-cells; and he ' 
even ascertained that in some essential property the 
arterial differed from the venous blood. But here , 
this great physiologist stopped. He had made, indeed, ' 
a great stride in advance of Erasistratus ; but he had 
not, from his necessarily limited knowledge of ana- 
tomy, the means of determining the real nature of 
the respiratory functions. He believed that the office | 
of the air was simply to cool and refresh the blood; | 
nor was it fairly ascertained until some years after * 
the death of Haller, whose opinion coincided vitb ' 
Galen*s, that the lungs, and not the heart, sre, in ' 
truth, the centre of animal heat |< 

The service, then, whicli Galen rendered to pliysi- ' 
ology, was to establish beyond a doubt that air did not 
pass en masse into every part of the body — that it did 
not distend the arteries, nor cause the pulse to beat. , 
His discovery that arterial differed from venous blood 
in some essential property, he accounted for by a 
theory which subsisted— so enduring was liis autlio- | 
rity— until the middle of the sixteenth century. The , 
veins as well as the arteries— so ran the nev hypo- 
thesis — were necessary to supply the system with I 
blood. But the blood of the latter had its origin in || 
the left ventricle of the heart, and therefore, ss the 
more spirituous, nourished only the more refined aud i 
delicate organs, such as the lungs. The blood of the || 
former, which issued from the right ventricle, , 
nourished the more gross and solid organs, such as 
the liver. But the venous blood, without an infusion 
of the spirit of the arterial, would not always be able 
to perform its functions. The wall, or septum, there* 
fore, which separates the two ventricles, roust be so 
perforated as to permit the inferior fiuid to be easily 
and uniformly supplied with a portion of the ethereal 
properties of the superior. I have already said that 
it was not until the middle of the sixteenth centary 
that this error was corrected and exposed by Vesalius, 
* the father of modem anatomy.' 

But here, in his turn, Yesalius stopped. The dis- 
covery of tlie pulmonary circulation was reserved for 
a man who had devoted his energies not to anatomy 
but to controversial theology, and whose name hss* 
by a terrible and melancholy event, been inseparably 
associated with that of John Calvin— Michael 

Here, however, it may be necessary to remind the 
reader, that in all the higher classes of animals there 
is a double circulation, the one wholly distinct from 
the other. The first is that which, under the name 
of the pulmonary circulation, transmits the blood 
through the lungs for the purpose of its being exposed 
to the influence of the air in respiration. The second 
is that which, under the name of the systemic circu- 
lation, distributes it, after having been so cxpoaed, 
throughout the body. 

Servetus, like Vaselius, denied ta limine the tratii 
of Galen's hypothesis, tliat a spirituous influence of 

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Bome kind is tranimttted from the left to the right 
Tentricle tiirough perforations in the septum. But 
he so far agreed with him as to admit, first, tliat there 
was nn essential difference between the venous and 
arterial blood, and, secondly, that by reason of the 
spirit it contained, the latter was fitted to perform a 
functional part in the finer processes of the system 
for which the former was utterly unfit. But here 
Sixain the two hypotheses clashed. The air we inspire, 
Servetus argued, has nothing at all to do with the 
refrigeration of the blood — nay, it is the very spirit 
which Galen pointed to as distinguishing the arterial 
from the venous fluid ; for the venous artery ♦ 
conveys the blood from the right cavity of the heart 
to the lungs ; there the artery divides itself into a 
multitude of smaller vessels, which again unite to 
form the pulmonary vein; and by the pulmonary 
vein the blood is transmitted to the left cavity of the 
heart. * It is during its passage from the one system 
of vessels to the other that the blood comes in contact 
with the air, assumes a scarlet colour, and is purged 
of its impurities, which are expelled by expiration.' 

It was reserved for modern chemistry to demon- 
strate the nature of the chemical change which the 
air undergoes from its contact with the blood in the 
lungs. It was reserved for Harvey to discover that 
the blood is transmitted through the artery and 
pulmonary veins, not in small quantities, but in 
torrents. Otherwise, Servetus'a exposition of the pul- 
monary circulation, when divested of its metaphysical 
entanglements, is clear and satisfactory. The differ- 
ence of the two circulating fluids was pointed out. 
The unity of the curculating current yet remained to 
be demonstrated. 

Servetus fell a victim to Calvin*s intolerance. His 
treatise 0/ the Restoration of Christianity, which con- 
tained his discovery, and of which only a few charred 
fragments remain in the Imperial Library of France, 
was burned with him, and the discovery itself was 
for a time lost. At length, about six years after his 
untimely end, Bealdus Columbus, a professor of 
Padua, then the most celebrated school of anatomy 
in Europe, arrived by an independent process at the 
same results, and began to teach the doctrine of 
pulmonary circulation exactly as Servetus had laid 
it down. He was followed at Pisa by the celebrated 
botanist, Cesalpinus, who was the first to introduce 
into anatomical nomenclature the now familiar phrase 
of the ' circulation of the blood.' 

Amongst the most distingiiished of Vaselius's 
pupils was that Fabricius d'Aquapendente, who 
during fifty years filled the chair of anatomy at 
Padua, and contributed more perhaps than any other 
person to the scientific reputation of the school. In 
1574, lie discovered the valves of the veins and the 
mechanism which permitted circulation, and thus made 
another important step towards a knowledge of its 
true theory. ' But he did more than this ; for Harvey 
was his pupil ; and it was under his instructions that 
the mind of the young Englishman became stored 
with that knowledge, and was trained in those habits 
of reflection, which enabled him, some years after- 
wards, to arrive at results so important not only to 
science, but to the welfare of mankind.' 

Fabricius survived his great discovery five-and- 
forty years; and it may well seem strange that he 
should have gone down to the grave without having 
seen its full significance. This was seen by Harvey, 
and by Harvey alone, of all the anatomists of that 
age ; and in 16I8,t the very year of Fabricius's death, 

* The Venn arterhsa, or pulmonary artery, It may be u well 
to remind the reader, is so called bMaase, althoagh it has the 
Btracture of an artery. It eontains venous blood. 

t Dr Willis in his Ltfe of Harvey, published by the Sydenham 
Society, antedates this event three years, wlthoat assigning any 
reason for so doing. 

he first proclaimed the great truth to the world from 
his professorial chair. 

*I remember,' snys Robert Boyle, *that when I 
asked our great Harvey, in the only discourse I had 
with him, which was but a little while before he died, 
what were the things which induced him to think of a 
circulation of the blood, he answered me, that when 
he took notice that the valves in the veins of so many 
parts of the body were so placed that they gave free 
passage to the blood towards the heart, but opposed 
the passage of the venal blood the contrary way, he 
was invited to think that so provident a cause as 
nature had not placed so many valves without design ; 
and no design seemed more probable than that, since 
the blood could not well, because of the interposing 
valves, be sent by the veins to the limbs, it should 
be sent through the arteries, and return tlirough the 
veins, whose valves did not oppose its course that 

In 1628, Harvey published his famous Discourse on 
the Motion of the Heart and Bloody which forms the 
basis of modern physiology. From a passage in this 
great work, it would clearly appear that its author 
fully anticipated the rancorous opposition which the 
startling novelty of his discovery excited. It was 
assailed at once by men of science, and by men of 
letters. By the former, the great anatomist was 
stigmatised as an impostor ; by the latter, as a daw 
in borrowed plumes. By the vulgar at home he was 
held, says Aubrey, to be crack-brained ; and, as he tells 
us himself, of all his proselytes amongst the faculty, 
not one exceeded the age of forty. On the continent, 
his assailants were numerous, powerful, and uncom- 
promising. The opposition of the Padnan anatomists 
may have been in some degree influenced by jealousy 
of their ancient pupil; that of the medical faculty at 
Paris arose exclusively from what M. Flourcns calls 
'their ridiculous infatuation' for Galen. Still, the 
doctrine was early taught in the Jardin du Boi by 
Durozer, and by Dionis, the first surgeon of that 
age. *If M. Durozer,* says Guy Patin, in one of 
his amusing letters, *knew nothing more than how 
to lie and the circulation of the blood, his knowledge 
would be limited to two things, of which I hate the 
one and despise the other. Let him come to me, and 
I will teach him a better way to a good medical 
practice than this pretended circulation* — to Patin, 
whose practice was limited to bleeding and the 
administering of senna! 'We save more patients 
with a good lancet and senna, than were ever saved 
by the Arabian physicians with all their sirups and 

In France, however, as M. Flonrens remarks, * this 
folly was confined to the faculty ; it did not belong 
to the nation. Moli^re ridiculed Guy Patin,* and 
Boileau ridiculed the faculty, and Descartes, the 
greatest genius of the age, proclaimed his belief in 
the circulation.* 

Dr William Hunter has said that, after the discovery 
of the valves of the veins, the remaining step towards 
the discovery of the circulation might easily have been 
made by any person of common sense. It is remark- 
able that tlie simplicity of great discoveries should 
always be made to derogate from the genius of those 
who make them. Now, Aquapendente was surely a 
person not devoid of common sense, and yet even he 
failed, as we have seen, to perceive the true bearings 
of his own discovery. ' He said, indeed,' as Mr Lewes 
has remarked, ' that the purpose of the valves was to 
prevent the accumulation of blood in the lower parts 
of the body ! ' Nor would it be a hard task to prove, 
in spite of De Blainville's insinuations t0 the con- 
trary,! that, even as a possible process, the true theory 

• Gny Patin Is the Diafolms of VEeole des Miieeins. 
i Sistoire des Seienees de f Organisation, vol. 11. p. S27. 

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of the circnlation was raspected by no European ram- 
tomist during the time which eUpied between 1574 
and 1618, except by Harvey— who, at even Hunter 
admits, was at work for many years 'upon the nse 
of the heart and tlie vascular system in animals/ 
Any attempt, therefore, to rob our countryman of 
the glory of his great discovery ' must be silenced by 
a decisive verdict.' 

* Perhaps,' said Shr Humphry Davy, in reply to 
some one who was remarking on the value of his 
discoveries in the decomposition of the earths and 
alkalies — 'perhaps you give me more credit than I 
am entitled ta Others discovered the voltaic bat- 
tery ; the time had arrived when it was to be applied 
to the purposes of chemistry ; and it was into my 
hands that it first fell.' Something like this, perhaps, 
may be said of the discovery whose history we have 
been considering. A little earlier, and it could not 
have been made; a little later, and it would have 
been made by some one else. With the old dogma 
of a perforated septum unezploded, the discovery of 
tlie venous valves would have attracted no attention ; 
and before the discovery of the venous valves, the 
idea of a double circulation would have been laughed 
at. Step by step in this wonderful story we mount, 
from Erasistratus to Oalen, from Galen to Vesalius, 
from Vesalius to Servetus and Columbus, from them 
to Aquapendente, and from Aquapendente to Harvey, 
who, gifted with a more comprehensive genius than 
ray of his contemporaries, took advantage of the 
labours of his predecessors, traced analogies which 
had been overlooked, laid bare the fundamental 
organism of the higher raimal economy, and demon- 
strated the laws by which it is regulated. 

It was on a Tuesday, in the midsummer, and the 
squire was gone to a meeting, likely to be a stormy 
one, upon education, at the neighbouring town ; Miss 
Markham, ever desirous of a little shopping, had 
aocompraied him, and I had intended to have done 
so likewise, had not the illness of a parishioner 
suddenly prevented it. His case requiring certain 
aliments which were not within the scope of our 
resources at the vicarage, I walked down to the Grange^ 
according to custom, to request that they might be 
sent to the sick man's cottage. Mrs Markham was 
not within ; but the beauty of the afternoon enticed 
me upon the terrace, the extremity of which commu- 
nicated with the walled garden. The gate was always 
kept locked, I knew, and only the squire and the 
head-gardener had the keys of it. Sauntering slowly 
along upon the turf, and drinking in the prospect 
dreamily, I had reached the extremity of the walk, 
rad was about to turn, when I heard the whispering 
of voices. I could not see who the persons were, for 
they were behind the wall in the garden close below 
me; they had no business there, I knew, and had 
probably come after some very choice melons of the 
squire's. I made no scruple, therefore, of listening ; 
but after the first few words, I felt as though I would 
have given both my ears rather than have done so. 

' I tell you, Jane, that now or never is the time. 
There is a heap of money in his desk to-day which 
will go to the bank to-morrow. Markham is away 
at RtttTham, and it will not kill him when he comes 
to find it gone.' 

' Never 1 ' said a clear full voice which I knew to be 
Mrs Markham's. <I will die first I will go away 
with you yourself, before I would rob my husband.' 

'Your husband?' said the other with a sneer. 
* Pooh, pooh 1 you need not be so squeamish for a few 
pounds, since you are in for so mray pennies already. 
Why, you've made firee of hundreds' 

' Not a shilling,' she interrupted Tehemently^' not 
one single shilling have you touched of bis. My own 
luxuries, my comforts, the wants of God's own poor, 
have gone to support your profligacy; but not one 
farthing of hut. Heaven knows.' 

* Jrae^' said the ruffira slowly, * takd you good heed 
to wliat I say : I'll blow upon you, and Uil all to hit 
face. I'll carry yon ofl; I swear it, before his very 
eyes. What you have known of me hitherto is nothing 
to what you shall know of me when you and I come to 
Uve together again.' I seemed to see and feel through 
the wall itself the shudder that ran tlirough tbst 
poor lady's frame at these words. If I had thought 
the worst of her, instead of being assured, as I then 
was, that her wicked husbrad Heathcote was indeed 
alive, and persecuting her with a power more terrible 
than ever, my heart would not have bled for her ku 
painfully, my Indignation against him would not 
have risen higher; but as it was, my teeth veie 
grinding in my wrath, and my stick was furiously 
gripped, as though it were a sword. Silently, like 
a thief in the night, I stole down to the wall, and 
setting my feet in some convenient crevices, peered 
cautiously above it. Both, luckily, had their facet 
turned away from me ; but I could see, even on the 
man's back, scoundrel and coward written. His poor 
wife's wrongs and goodness, and all that I had heard 
of his brutality, swept over me in a sea of indigna- 
tion. Oh, for one quarter of an hour of my college- 
days, before I had put on that ecclesiastical garb ! Ob, 
to have given him ever so brief an example of that 
*one, two,' which I remember to have had some skill 
in, in the bygone time. My years and profession, indeed, 
were already so far forgotten, that I rather wished be 
might just have laid his hand upon her in his rsge. 
My stick was an ashen one, and would not hare 
broken for some time, I think. He wanted to do it^ I 
could see by his twitching fingers : the bowed and 
trembling, but still graceful figure ; the appealing sobs, 
of which I could only guess the meaning ; the young 
life withered and struck down in its joy by his crael 
threats and presence — they moved him not one jot 
I dared not trust myself to look any longer, bat 
resumed my station at the foot of the walL After a 
storm of menaces, met by almost hysteric expostula- 
tions that grew feebler every moment, I heard him 
say: *You know where I am to be found, ^o^*"j 
rad if what I demrad does not' come to my bud 
within the next eight-rad-forty hours, I come to tbis 
house as surely as you are my wife, and daim jo^ 
I heard a fall upon the ground, and knew that bis poor 
victim had fainted; but I waited until the ^«*^": 
who heeded her no more than if she were a log— ba^* 
left the garden and plunged swiftly into the copse 
that fringed ito northern side. I rra in then at tne 
open door, Ufted Mrs Bfarkham from the path, ^ 
revived her at the spring that flowed hard by. ^oe 
was afraid, on coming to herself; to look up at o^ 
taking me for Heathcote; but I told her howl ww 
walked in, seeing the gate open, rad expecting to noa 
her gardening, rad how I feared the heat bad ooeu 
too much for her. She was ice-cold, poor tbing;^° 
she murmured: * Yes, the heat, it was the heat,' *•/•" J] 
ported her homewards up the hill. I got away io?J 
diately, rad pretending a telegraphic message, pac^ 
up a little carpet-bag, drove down to the W**' 
station at full speed, rad arrived In time for tne bf 
express, as I had hoped. 

On the next Wednesday at noon I was back sgam, 
and at once took my way down to the Grangs. 
Markham had been very ill, I heard, and was nor n^ 
better; the squire was even then at her ^^^J'^^g,^ 
sent for him upon the plea of very urgent "^^ 
rad he came down into the library at once. *^ 

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not been in his own honte, rad expecting to meet no 
other but himself, I should not have known him. His 
eyes were swollen snd dull, his gait tottering, and his 
features white and drawn like the face of a dead 
man. She had told him all at last ; his first and only 
love, his true deroted wife, the partner of six happy, 
happiest years, was to be torn from him by another, 
and doomed to a life of misery. 

' Grantley,' said he, in a hollow unnatural tone, * I 
bare that to tell which will wring your heart, I know 
— ^it has already broken mine.' He had fallen into a 
chair, like one whose limbs refused to sustain him, and 
the tears coursed down his cheeks unchecked and 

*Markham,' said I, 'I know all— every thing— more, 
I think, than you can tell me. Your agony is not 
for yourself, but for your— for her, I am well assured. 
She shall not be dragged away. Be comforted. He 
shall nerer toudi a hair of her head.' 

His despairing eyes turned towards me not without 
a touch of hope. I was about to speak further, when 
the front-door bell rang gently. 

' The man is come,' groaned the poor squire, as if 
inexorable fate had laid its Tery hand upon his 

' Shew him in,' said I to the serrant, for his master 
seemed to hare lost all power of speech. For my part, 
I drew a hopeful augury from that delicate bell- 
ringing: a ruffian that had nothing to fear would 
hare pulled with both his hands. 

Heathcote slouched in with an insolent air, half 
sneak, half bully. 

' I don't want the parson to hear what I haTe got 
to say to you,' were his first words. 

Mr Markham, who kept his back turned towards 
him, wayed his hand to me In sign that I should speak 
for him. 

' Toa may say whatever you wiU,' said I quietly. 
'I am aware of the object of your coming: you 
want to extort the money from this gentleman, 
which yon tried to persuade another to steal from his 
own desk.' 

«0h, she told, did she?' said the yillain, with 
a diabolical smile. *It will be the worse for her, 
presently, that's all.' 

* No^ sir, she did not, if you mean your wife, Mrs 
Heathcote. Ay, sir,' added I, as he started back, <we 
are aware of all that and very much mote. You were 
OTerheard in the garden. There is more than one 
thing known, witnesaed, Henry Heathcote, of your old 
doings, which you are not aware of.' 

I saw him turn as pale as the poor squire himself 
' Whether or no»' said he after a little, * I shall have the 
money or I shall have my wife — who has committed 
bigamy — whichever that gentleman there pleases.' 

' That gentleman,' said I, as I observed Mr Mark- 
ham was about to speak, 'is not to be intimidated 
month after month, as Mrs Heathcote was, into supply- 
ing your bottomless purse. Nay, sir, your oath is not 
to be trusted ; I hold in my hand a warrant for your 
apprehension, procured yesterday from Hampshire by 
Mr Raby, upon a duurge of forgery, the proof of 
which I have now with me. The consequences are 
upon your own head, remember, and when you leave 
this house, it will be for a jail.' 

' I was quite prepared for this, sir,' said the ruffian, 
with a look of indescribable malice. ' Mrs Markham 
that wasy will, however, accompany me to prison. Fine 
food for the scandal of the county that will be ; and 
a good convict's wife she will make to me in my 
banishment without doubt.' 

Mr Markham writhed like one in torture upon his 
chair. We were indeed in the man's power, as he 
said, and my journey into Hampshire had been but of 
small service. One desperate course, however, which 
had been suggested by Mr Baby, was left to me^ and 

I tried it 'Miserable man,' said I sternly, 'do you 
then dare to force us to extremities ; you scoff at 
banishment, but what say you to the gallows? you'— 
I strode up to the trembling wretch, and laying my 
hand upon his shoulder, whispered aloud — 'you 

The sweat stood out upon his pallid brow, his 
knees smote together, and his hair seemed absolutely 
to bristle up, so abject was his terror. 'Mercy, 
mercy ! I never found the notes,' he murmured. 
' No,' said I ; ' but here is the packet '—and I produced 
it—' and red with the blood that still cries out against 
you I' At the sight of this frightful evidence, the 
coward knelt upon the floor and covered his face with 
his hands. 

'Rise, wretch— go I' thundered the squire, who had 
risen up like a man returned to life from the grave. 
' Here is money, the sum that yon demanded— take it 
If ever again these eyes of mine light on you, as sure 
as there is a sun in heaven, I hang you.' 

The cast-down, half-paralysed figure of Mr Mark- 
ham seemed to dilate as he said these words; he 
looked like some incarnate Nemesis denouncing a 
certain vengeance upon the creature at his feet It 
gathered itself up like a stricken hound, seized the 
proffered notes without daring to look up into the 
donor's face, and rushing out of the door and from 
the house, as though the executioner was even then 
upon his heels, sped away under the flaming eye of 
noon from Woodislee, for ever. 

Mr Raby's guess had been a true one. The pocket 
of Heathcote had been picked by one of his wicked 
companions in the bush, and he had murdered the 
thief for the purpose of recovering the packet, in 
which hope he had been foiled. This having been 
found upon the body, had been judged conclusive to 
identify it with his own remains; and for these so 
many years he had not dared to shew himself in 
civilised parts to gainsay it, but had lived the 
marauding life of a bushranger. Tired of this, and 
having by a successful pillage obtained enough money 
for his transit homewards, he had ventured back to 
England. Finding his unfortunate wife well married 
and in such great happiness, his hatred of her was 
redoubled, and his determination strengthened to 
persecute her further at all haxards. The poor lady 
had never before had strength of mind to reveal his 
extortions, nor the horrid truth of his being still in 
existence ; and now her confession, and the certainty 
of having to leave her beloved Markham for this 
dreadful husband, had brought her into the most 
dangerous state. She had prayed for death more 
fervently than any dying man for life ; when, there- 
fore, the squire had cairied up to her the result of 
my interview with Heathcote — for he did not 
needlessly distress her with the account of his new 
atrocity, and of the means whereby he had finally 
got rid of him— she was almost beside herself wiUi 
joy. Her gratitude towards me was without botmds, 
and as she strove to raise her attenuated form from 
her couch to receive and thank me, tears choked her 
utterance. The squire was but little more composed. 
With their mutual confidence, which had been but 
this once broken, quite restored, and their very life- 
blood, as it seemed, set once more flowing in their 
veins, it fell to me to wake them from their dream 
of new-found happiness, by reminding tliem of the 
real position in which they stood. The reaction fh>m 
the extremity of despair to the certainty of safety, 
had been too great to admit of any thoughis save 
those of unalloyed content Oood and Christian 
man as the squire was, the circumstance of Mrs 
Markham being still the lawful wife of Heathcote 
—whatever that man's character might be— and 

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therefore making her continuance at the Grange 
irnpOBsible, had never once occurred to him. The 
man having been tlioroughly got rid of, and all idea 
of personid annoyance at an end, Mr Markham had 
dissociated her in his mind from all relations with her 
first husband at once. The poor lady must have indeed 
thought often of her sad case, but had put it from 
her, probably, as something too horrible to be dealt 
ivith justly; nevertheless, she was the first to see 
the rightness of the path, which it was my duty as a 
clergyman to point out to both of them. If ever 
there was a case wherein spirit and letter seemed at 
war ; if ever one wherein an innocent error seemed to 
be more terribly avenged than crime itself, I acknow- 
ledged that it was this of theirs. My heart was wrung 
for them to its core, but I had no glimmer of doubt 
as to what was necessary for them to do. Tenderly, 
but firmly, I put it before them ; and before I had 
done, Mrs Markham sighed to me that it was enough. 
*I go,* said she, 'dearest George, at once, while I 
have still strength to travel.' 

* The vicarage, madam, is of coarse your home as 
long as you please.' 

•I thank you, dear Mr Grantley, but I leave 
Woodislee,' said she, * as far behind as possible this 
very night.' 

*And I,' chimed in the good little old maid, 
whom we liad almost forgotten, she had been so silent 
ft spectator — 'and I with you, sister Jane, to the end 
of the world, if you will. She is my care, George, 
from henceforth, for I have wronged her in my 

The squire's grief was terrible to witness ; but he 
made no opposition. Miss Markham had a small 
estate in a distant county, to which it was arranged 
that the two ladies should immediately remove. Boxes 
were hurriedly packed, the travelling-chariot ordered 
to the door ; and after such a leave-taking as I trust 
does not often fall to the lot of mortals, the invalid 
was lifted in, in a fainting state, and borne away 
swiftly into the night. Darkly, indeed, it fell upon 
the Grange, where the widower was left mourning 
for the wife that was yet alive. Weeks and months 
passed by, but he would not be comforted. The 
sketch-book on the table, the piano in the hall, the 
flowers that her graceful hands had tended in and 
about the house, the garden wherein she had loved 
to busy herself, her favourite walks, the very pros- 
pect which her soul had so delighted in, were robbed 
of all their charms for him At once. Tears instead of 
smiles sprang forth at the sight of -them, horror was 
bom of them in place of joy — skeletons of their former 
selves wherefrom the glory had departed, and into 
which the life was no more breathed. As kind and 
as good as ever, his cheerAilness seemed quite to have 
forsaken him, and he was growing old at heart and 
gray on head apace. Mrs Heathcote — ^for she had 
reassumed her former name — ^never wrote one line to 
him, nor he to her ; but his sister corresponded with 
the squire daily, and to receive those letters and to 
talk with me and others who had known her of his 
departed wife was his sole pleasure. 

It was some two years after the separation of Mr 
and Mrs Markham, that I exchanged my vicarage at 
Woodislee for the summer months, on account of the 
sickliness of my eldest child, for a parish on the sea- 
coast, and with much difficulty, I got the squire to 
accompany us. The novelty of the mode of life and 
scene were somewhat benefiting him, and long 
excursions on the water afibrding him most amuse- 
ment, I persuaded him to take them continually. One 
evening, while he was thus employed, I was suddenly 
sent for to the beach, to see what could be done for a 
poor fellow who had fallen off the cliff. He was, the 
messenger told me as we hurried along, a well-known 
accomplice of the smugglers infesting that part of the 

coast, and had met with this accident, it was supposed, 
while signalling to some of them the approach of ' 
a revenue cutter. A little crowd had gathered roand 
him on the shore, but not evincing that sympathy ; 
which is usually felt among the poor in places of that 
sort for victims to the excise-laws ; they had, howercr, 
furnished him with a mattress, and were giving him 
water. He was speechless, and scarcely sensible, thcj ' 
said ; but a glance at his terrified eyes as I came up 
convinced me to the contrary. Mangled as he was about ; 
the head, and altered by what appeared to me to be the 
certain approach of death, I recognised the wretched 
Heathcote at once. He was borne, by my directiom, 
to the nearest cottage, and a man on horseback de^ ' 
patched for medical help, although I saw it coold be , 
of little avail. I remained by his bedside all through ' 
that night, and it was a fearful one. When the doctor { 
told him that, without doubt, he was a dying man, I , 
thought it would have killed him on the instant 'I i 
have done everything that is horrible, and nothing 
good my whole life long,' he said. I gave him each ' 
comfort as I could witli truth afford him, and urged 
him to penitence and prayer. His murder, his 
felony, and whatsoever other crimes he may ha/e ^ 
committed, did not seem to oppress him so heavily 
as his treatment of his poor wife. 'An angel, an 
angel,' he repeated constantly, 'and I was a fiend to i 
her. Markham, Markham, he will make her happy |i 
yet. Poor Jane ! ' • Poor Jane ! ' were his last wordi , 
When, after his burial, I told the squire this, be vas 
affected to tears. *My hatred of that man,' said h«. | 
'has stood between me and heaven, I believe; bat I ^i 
forgive him all.' l| 

In twelve months' time from that forgiveness, he || 
stood within this church upon the hill at Woodislee, |, 
and was married aftesh unto Jane Heathcote by me. . 
It was a happier day than any of us had hoped to 
see at tho Grange again ; the only person who shed | 
a single tear was dear little Miss Markham, bat that || 
is her way of expressing intense satisfaction. Not a | 
villager was there who did not rejoice in their joy, 
from the ancient clerk of eighty years, who kissed the ^ 
bride's hand at the door, to the little school-children 
who scattered flowers before her feet There is very I 
little else to tell. Besides, see, there comes toddling 
up to us a little fellow before whom nothing farther | 
nmst be said ; a pleasant-looking, handsome lad with , 
the smile—the old smile that is worn again noir-^^ I 
his mother. Once upon a time, I remember, she 
said that she was happy not to have him ; but they 
were both glad at tho Grange, too, I think, to welcome 
the young squire. 



In a recent number of our Journal, we took oc««8ion 
to make further known the very interesting bistory oi 
the education of Dr Elizabeth Blackwdl of New TorK; 
the first woman, or certainly the first Englishworoan» 
who has become a regular diplomaed physician. Sacn 
trials and difficulties as that lady had to go tlirougj 
and overcome are now happily at an end for all otlierj 
of her sex who contemplate making themselves useful 
to humanity as healers of disease. . ^ 

A female medical college— of the sort wliicu J^ 
Blackwell in 1849 trusted to see instituted ' in course 
of time'— has been established at Philadelphia i^ 
some seven years, and we hold in our hand ^*'^J*i 
dictory address to its students of Ann Preston, M.i^i 
Professor of Physiology and Hygiene. 

This seems to us to be a prudent as well as a 
eloquent composition. There is no indignant dec j 
mation about women's wrongs or alleged i****^".^ ^f 
inferiority, and no ambitious exultation at the id^* 

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* medical men * being supplanted by medical women. 
The sphere of the new practitionera is declared to be 
mainly confined to the sufferers among their own sex, 
wlio * nre especially the victims of a wrong hygienic 
condition, and need medical advisers with whom they 
can commune freely,' and by whom they can be 
physiologically instructed. In the Appeal of the 
Corporators of the college, affixed to the valedictory 
address, this point is also judiciously urged : 

' They consider that woman, as a wife and mother, 
pre-eminently needs a clear understanding of the 
functions of the human body and the means of 
preserving health ; and that high-toned and intelligent 
female physicians, from their relations to their sex, 
must be most important instrumentalities in impart- 
ing such knowledge, where it is most needed and will 
do the most good. 

* It IS well known that there is a vast amount of 
suffering among women, which is left without relief, 
from the shrinking delicacy of its victims, and it is 
therefore a demand of humanity that women should 
be put in possession of the requisite knowledge to 
admini.Hter the required treatment in such cases.' 

Indeed, among the more liberal of the faculty here 
in England, we have often heard it admitted that 
women would be, for many reasons, far fitter medical 
attendants upon their own sex than men; 'but,' 
add these ungallant sons of ^sculapius, * though we 
believe they have nerve and intelligence in plenty, 
we fear their crotchets: we scarcely ever knew a 
woman of mind without some twist in it.* 

Dr Ann Preston, however, affords an example of 
one who has either been born without the twist, or 
whose professional education has enabled her con- 
siderably to rectify it; she gives satisfactory evidence, 
too, upon another matter, concerning which tlie ladies 
have been much maligned. 

* Notwithstanding the common reproach that women 
are ungenerous to women, and that they exhibit 
pettiness in transactions of business, I am glad to be 
able to tell you that in my intercourse with them I 
have found, with few exceptions, the reverse to be 
true: nobleness, generosity, and sympathy all unhoped 
for, have been largely manifested, and my professional 
experience has deepened my respect and regard for 
woman and for humanity. 

* Ladies, if you prove yourselves capable and worthy, 
as we believe you will, society is ready to receive 
you ; on every side the demand for your services is 
becoming more imperative. 

'But you must not expect a lucrative practice to 
spring up in a day. Solid superstructures are the 
work of time ; and slowly, carefully, woman also must 
work her way, building up the reputation which is 
her professional capital.' 

The opposition which these female practitioners 
have had to encounter has, of course, been Yery con- 
siderable; and even now the professor warns her 
class of the unacknowledged, or but half-acknowledged, 
position which they nmst needs occupy. ' That sym- 
pathy and assistance from older members of the 
fraternity, which the inexperienced practitioner so 
much ncNeds, will indeed be given you by many of the 
wise and good : even now, numbers of those who are 
recognised as standing among the highest in the 
profession will meet you freely in consultation; but 
still we cannot ignore the fact that, as a body, physi- 
cians have not yet welcomed woman into their ranks 
as a needful or desirable auxiliary.' 

The whole cost for two or more courses of lectures 
and for graduation at this Philadelphia college is only 
175 dollars. And for the encouragement of those 
whose means will not allow of the usual expenditure, 
six stadents will be admitted annually on the pay- 
ment of twenty dollars per session, exclusive of the 
matriculation^ demonstrator's, and graduation fees. 

A department of remunerative and virtuous activity 
is indeed thus opened, with very moderate outlay, 
to females. And we cordially agree with Professor 
Ann Preston, M.D., that those women who shew 
themselves competent for the medical profession, 
deserve without doubt to succeed in it. ' Fitness and 
capability will indicate themselves against the world: 
they are 6od*s endorsement of the rightfulness of any 


An act is to come into force next month for the final 
putting-down of smoke in factories. It becomes of 
course a point of wisdom with factory proprietors to 
prepare for a change which it will no longer be 
possible to avert; for, though their reluctance to 
make the required alterations has heretofore baffled 
local acts and local authorities, we apprehend that 
this will no longer be possible with a general act, any 
more than it was with the proprietors of the Thames 
steamers four years ago — all of which are now smoke- 
less, much to the comfort of the public. We have no 
doubt that the old proverb, 'where there is a will 
there is a way,' will receive fresh illustration on this 
occasion. TJic old objections as to impossibility of 
preventing smoke in engine-furnaces without dimin- 
ishing power, can no longer hold, after wliat we have 
seen on the Thames, and what we see in many 
furnaces on land — our own, for example, where /or 
nine years past there has been no smoke whatever, 
excepting for a few minutes each time the fire is put 
on after an interval of work, and this without any 
detriment to the efficiency of the machinery. Our 
plan, thus proved so effectual, and by which ten per 
cent, of fuel is saved, is Jeukes's patent (revolving bars 
for slow feeding) ; but there are many other effective 
plans, some of them perhaps even simpler,* and it Is 
likewise ascertained that, with 'ample boiler-power, 
good draught, and a regulated and moderate admission 
of air into the furnace,' there can be no offensive 
amount of smoke. There will, therefore, be no valid 
excuse for breach of the law. Its violators must be 
held as making plain confession that they refuse to take 
a little trouble and incur a little expense to save the 
public from this intolerable nuisance ; and they will 
stand the consequences. 

We most earnestly hope that' there will be no 
slackness on any hand in carrying out the behests 
of the act. The physical annoyance sought to be 
put down is ' gross, open, palpable,' leaving no excuse 
for neglect of remedial measures; but it requires 
only a little reflection to see that there are also 
moral and social consequences of smoke, and these 
of no light importance. In large towns much exposed 
to smoke — Manchester and Liverpool form marked 
examples — we everywhere see a tendency of the 
upper class of people to live in places by themselves 
out of town, the main purpose of the movement being 
to get pure air. Tliat the smoke is the main griev- 
ance sought to be avoided, becomes evident wlien we 
view the cose of a city like Edinburgh, not much pol- 
luted by smoke, where we find no similar tendency. 
There, the people really live in town. Now, when 
families are thus dispersed, and for any intercourse a 
large space has to be traversed, it becomes impossible to 
have an easy and inexpensive style of entertainment : 
hence an encouragement to ultra-luxurious habits — 
itself a great evil. Tiie worse evil, however, is, that 
the cultivated and intelligent classes . are wholly 
separated after four or five o'clock every day from 
the mass of their fellow-citizens, who, thus deserted, 

*Tbe system of reToWinff bars neermitates the use of a kind of 
coal which does not form large tcarue (clinkers), as these make 
a choke at \rhnt fs called * the bridge.* Where the suitable coal 
cannot be got at a moderate price, it will of course become 
neceeaary to resort to some other plan. 

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seek amuiements rad indulge in tattet of their own, 
wholly free of the mor»l element which an upper 
clau can impart A separation of aympathiBB also 
becomes unavoidable, and thus it may be that revo- 
lutions are partly prepared for even by so apparently 
insignificant an agent as— smoX^s. If this fiend, then, 
can be efiTectualiy put down in our large industrial 
citiesi we conceive tliat an improvement is effected, 
not merely in our daily physical experiences, but in 
our social and political estate. 


In the present age, when practical usefulness and 
scientific inventions are driving poetry and imagi- 
nation from the field, the old customs and festivals 
of former ages are rapidly disappearing. We are 
not amongst those who desire to mourn over the 
departure of 'the good old times.' If, with the 
sports and pastimes of former days, something of 
light-hearted mirth and fun has passed away from 
this worky-day world of ours, we believe it is 
only the shadow we have lost, and that the substance 
still remains; we believe that with fewer stated 
periods for festal enjoyment, man is a happier, nobler 
being than in the days oif tourneys and morris- 
dandngs, of May-poles and mummings. But we 
would not have the memory of these things die ; they 
are interesting as signs of the times ; and indications 
of national manners, customs, and feelings, deserve 
a place more important than is usually assigned them 
in the pages of history. These fdtes, which melt 
under the progress of civilisation like snow before the 
mid-day sun, still linger in some parts of Europe, and 
are cherished by the inhabitants of certain districts or 
towns with fond reverence. One of these national 
festivals which prevails still at Zurich, is curious and 
interesting enough to merit especial notice. It is 
called 'Das Sechse Lauten, or the ^x o'clock Bell.' 
This custom has existed from time immemorial, and 
its origin remains a matter of dispute. 

Those who refer its commencement to a historical 
event, tell of a time when Zurich, having expelled 
from its councils certain men obnoxious to the state, 
was threatened with an attack from these malcontents, 
who incited the neighbouring Counts of Hapsburg 
and Toggenburg to join them in their treacherous 
design. The plot was defeated by the penetration 
of the boatman employed to ferry them across the 
Limmat, who, detecting in their words and gestures 
something which savoured of treason to his beloved 
city, cqntrived to sink the boat, and bury the con- 
spirators in tlie waters. Meantime, a boy who had 
been concealed behind a large stove, had overheard 
words which betrayed the treacherous plan, and 
conv^ed intelligence of it to the burgomaster; the 
great bell of the church tolled an alarm, and quickly 
the inhabitants flew to arms : those conspirators who 
had escaped drowning were met by men prepared for 
their reception, and speedily put to the sword. A 
walled-up door was formerly shewn in the church, as 
a memento of the bloody night, through which some 
traitors attempted in vain to force a passage to stop 
the ringing of the bell. This account of the origin of 
the Sechse L&uten is accepted by many, who affirm 
that on the anniversary of that day of deliverance, 
a kind of carnival was held in the town. 

Another version, and one more consistent, we 
beliere, with probability, is, that it was a festival 
in honour of the approach of spring. When the sun 
begins to rise higher and higher in the heavens, and 
the winter is retiring before his warm and life-giving 
beams, then the people rejoice with great joy ; and on 
the first Monday after the spring equinox, tlie fite is 
held. On this day, the bell of the principal church 

begins to toll at six o'clock p.u^ and oontmuea iu 
evening chiming until the autumnal eqifinox returns. 
Those alone who know what a winter amidst snowy 
mountains is, can comprehend the joy of the Swiss 
peasants when the days begin to lengtlien, and the 
sun penetrates for a few more hours daily the deep 
recesses of tlie valleys. Nature, which has ao long 
presented one monotonous and dreary aspect, putt 
forth new signs of life ; green leaves appear, end tioj 
flowers peep above tlie snow; tlie meadowa look 
fresh, and the birds begin their sweet spring eongi; 
the snow yields its place to verdure; and the brooks, 
forced from their icy fetters, dance as if from joj. Then 
the human heart rejoices too; the interoourae betweca 
the mountain hamlets and the towns, so long auepended 
by snow-drifts, is resumed; and man onoe more 
meets his fellow-man in the market-place or in the 
church. Surely it is a season for joy and thanks- 
giving; and as a celebration of this return of life and 
gladness, we are inclined to regard the Sediae Liuten. 

It is impossible to fix any date to the oommenoe- 
ment of this festival; it seems to haye been held 
annually, and reminds us strongly of the ancient 
German fiestivities with which the return of spring 
was hailed— remnants of which may still be found 
in the Steiermark, Silesia, and Bohemia, &c Here^ as 
there, the fir-tree— usually associated with Chriatmss 
in other parts of Qermany — plays a conspicnona part: 
it is decorated with garlands and bright ribbona, and 
carried through the town by girls dressed in white. 

The Zurich records furnish accounts of the Tariotts 
modes in which the Sechse Lauten has been cele- 
brated. The ceremonies observed were in some 
points always the same, but additions and ▼arietions 
were made each year, whidi prevented monotony. 
The Ziinfte or guilds of the difierent trades undei^ 
took the chief management. Ttie freemen or livery 
of each guild assembled in theur respective halls to 
share the mid-day and evening meals; the roosu 
were ornamented with boughs, garlands, and stream- 
ers ; and as the six o'clock evening-bell tolled ita first 
note of welcome to the spring, the halls, farilliantlj 
illuminated within and without, resounded with 
shouts and toasts, songs and speeches. Processions 
were formed, and one particular hall having been 
selected as the place of rendezvous, the guilds 
assembled there. A silver goblet, diosen from the 
plate-chest of the corporation, was borne by the 
leaders in the procession, filled with sparkling win^ 
and quaffed in sign of the amity and htfmonj 
existing amongst the trades. 

While these processions and festivities were 
enacted, the hills around the town were blazini 
with huge bonfires, in one of which an efilgy of 
Winter was burnt. The figure represrated a decrepit 
old man, with hoary hair, and a long snowy beard, 
enreloped in warm wrappings. It was borne about 
the town amidst universal derision and contempt; 
and finally, suspended over an enormous fire, it wss 
consumed, while the people shouted for joy, and 
piled fresh straw and fagots on the flame, until not s 
restige was left of poor old Winter but a heap of 
burnt-out ashes. 

These are the usual ceremonies of the filte whidi 
are always observed, while each year some nev 
sport is invented, adding fresh interest to the 
scene. These often take their rise in politnul events, 
local reforms, or social changes. The custom hid 
fallen somewhat into disrepute, when, in 1819 A.Dn i^ 
was revived with fresh vigour; and from this time it 
seems to have flourished in unbroken prosperity. 
Sometimes one guild took the lead, sometimes 
another; the processions were ordered with much 
care and forethought ; beautiful coloured lamps were 
borne by the members of the oorporattons, on which 
were piduted their arms and the insxgnin of thdr 

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trade; banners were embroidered, the hails beaati- 
fally decorated, scenic representations given of 
historical events, the costumes for which were 
carefally prepared ; declamations and speeches both 
grave and gay were held, and imagination tasked 
each year to produce some novelty. While the citi- 
zens were thus busy in their guilds, the people caught 
the spirit, and added their part to the gaieties of the 
scene. Early in the morning, boats, adorned with 
flags, and steamers filled with peasants from the 
neighbourhood, arrived, all in gala costume, and the 
streets swarmed with festive groups. 

In 1830, for the first time, processions passed 
through the streets in broad daylight, with bands of 
music, all who joined in them being attired in the 
costumes of the olden times. In 1838, tlie guild of 
the smiths undertook to solemnise a political change 
which had taken place in the canton, in which a young 
Zurich had been actively engaged in destroying old 
customs ; in grief for these innovations, the guilds, 
headed by the smiths, bore their colours in funeral- 
procession to an elevated spot above the town, and 
buried them beneath a group of lime-trees. 

We shall endeavour to give a more detailed account 
of two of these singular festivals, each of which was 
characterised by peculiar and interesting ceremonies. 
On one occasion, after a very severe winter, during 
which great hardships had been endured by tlie 
Swiss people, there seemed an unusually eager desire 
to make the Sechse Lauten brilliant and imposing. 
As the spring broke with its promise of warmer 
days, and relief from the pressure of want, the joy of 
the people was unbounded ; a general enthusiasm 
pervaded all parties: crowds filled the streets; and 
beggar and burgher, peasant and townsman, joined 
heart and soul in the rejoicings and festivities. 

By noon, the burghers, in their plain but honour- 
able craftsman-dresses, were seen hastening to meet 
their brethren at the well-famished tables in their 
halls. After the dinner was ended, it had been 
arranged that the visits to the different guilds should 
then be paid, rather than defer them until the evening. 
Tiie processions were manhalled accordingly. First 
came the butchers, in the full costume of their trade, 
attended by their apprentices, dressed as maidens; 
twenty-five of these bold butchers* boys bore on their 
shoulders a gigantic sausage, measuring fifty feet in 
length, and containing three hundredweight of the 
best pork, veal, and beef; across its aldermanic pro- 
portions lay two huge knives and forks, which 
subsequently served in the carving and distributing 
slices among the people. Next came the fishermen 
and boatmen, carrying on a large pole a fish of enor- 
mous dimensions ; this proved to be a sham specimen 
of the finny tribes, which, when ripped up, showered 
abroad a quantity of perches and smaller fry, composed 
of sugar and sweetmeats. Amongst the bakers, a prize 
had been ofiered for the best and largest loaf; and 
in their procession, these prize-loaves were placed 
on gaily decorated carts, bearing other specimens of 
the skill of the Zurich bakers. The largest of these 
loaves was two feet wide, and ten feet long, and 
weighed 260 pounds. These guilds were succeeded 
by others too numerous to be mentioned particularly, 
each one bearing specimens of tlieir particular trade 
— in wine, cheese, tobacco^ and other wares. Before 
each division, a silver vessel was borne, filled to the 
brim with sparkling wine. About five o'clock, all 
the processions, after parading the town, formed into 
one line, and proceeded to the Baugarten— a kind 
of park on the shores of the lake. Here the sausage 
waa cut up and, with the other good things, dispensed 
among the admiring crowds; and soon the bell was 
heard pealing forth its solemn tones, calling on all 
to join in one song of universal thanksgiving. As 
the BTening advanced, and the shadows deepened into 

night, fires blazed from the hills, fireworks shot 
their brilliant lighU of varied tint high into the air, 
and the quiet stars shone brightly down on the 
scene — all lay reflected in the tranquil waters of the 
lake. Night deepened, the fires were burned out, 
the rockets were spent, the lamps dimly flickered, the 
crowds returned to their various homes; another 
winter had been dismissed into the abyss of time, 
and a new summer was opening on the joyous and 
grateful people. 

The next Sechse Lauten we propose to describe 
was celebrated in 1856. Expectation bad been highly 
raised: it was noised abroad that preparations were 
being made on a scale of magnificence unequalled in 
former years. On the morning of the 7th of April, 
the city began to fill ; steam- vessels from all parts of 
the lake arrived, bringing crowds of passengers ; gay 
motley groups of peasants in their pretty picturesque 
costumes, ladies in fashionable attire ; officers, priests, 
people of all ranks and ages. Hundreds of little boats 
covered the waters, and tnun after train brought new 
multitudes of eager spectators by the railway. This 
new means of conveyance, but recently established in 
the country, tempted thousands from all parts of 
Switzerland, so that Zurich had never before seen 
her streets so densely crowded. 

Hitherto, these annual festivals' had been peculiarly 
local in tlieir character ; this year, for the first time, 
they assumed a cosmopolitan form. The march of 
civUisation was felt even in the remote cantons of the 
republic ; the spirit of innovation — that restless sprite 
whose influence no nation can resist — asserted her 
right to sliare in the Sechse Liiuten of Zurich. The 
guilds. Inspired by one idea, agreed to unite in carry- 
ing it out in the best manner possible, and the result 
surpassed all expectation. Zurich was to be regarded 
as the centre-point of all the railways in the world ; 
trains were supposed to arrive from all the four 
quarters of the globe, bearing deputations from aU 
nations and peoples, who subsequently forming mto 
processions, paraded the streets. Switzerland, with 
the strong prejudices peculiar to her national cha^ 
racter, had long opposed the introduction of railways : 
at length one or two lines had been constructed, and 
the wild whistle of the locomotive, the whizzing 
and hissing -of the steam, were heard resounding amidst 
her mountains and valleys, disturbing their peaceful 
tranquillity, yet bearing in their train blessings 
undreamed of by the alarmed inhabitants. It was a 
happy thought to mark this epoch; to bring before the 
Swiss people thus assembled from all parts the advant- 
ages which intercourse with other countries would 
bring their own, and, in sport, present them with 
pictures suggestive of so much fiiture benefit 

The hour appointed for the opening of the festivities 
approached; every window and balcony was filled; 
the streets and roofs of the houses presented a dense 
mass of heads; the guild-halls gay with banners; 
music sounding everywhere ; and all was gaiety and 
expectation. Suddenly the sound as dT a rushing 
wind was heard; smoke curled in dense clouds 
from the chimney, the whistle shrieks, and the huge 
engine appears in sight, the Miraada Spedaada^ 
covered with tlie flags of the federal states. Eight 
carriages followed in its rear: the northern and north- 
eastern trains; the eastern and south-eastern; the 
southern and south-western ; the western and north- 
western, bringing people from every country lying 
between the poles and the equator. Soon the streets 
were alive with the various groups which these trains 
had conveyed. 

To describe the scenes which now followed each 
other in quick «uooession would be impossible; eveiy 
moment brought a new party under notice, all 
mingling in seemmg confusion, yet each retaining its 
individiudity. In tiie northern car arrived groups in 

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full costume from the Black Forest^ from Saxony and 
Mecklenburg, &c. ; here was seen a wedding-party 
from the rich Altenburgher peasantry, with gaily 
dressed maidens and gallants on horseback; there, 
a gala-coach filled with Hamburg merchants and 
brokers, with a shipfal of Y ierlandem (the people who 
live in the neighbourhood of Hamburg). These were 
followed by Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians; and 
bringing up the whole, Mr and Mrs Esquimaux were 
seen, seated in a fur-covered sledge drawn by six 
panting dogs. The north-eastern division sent forth 
Tine-growers from the districts of the grape ; a gay 
anmmer-party from Munich; carriages, laden some 
with nobles, some with peasants, from Bohemia; 
Berlin with her Kladderadatsch (the 'Punch' of 
Germany), guarded by a policeman in Prussian 
uniform; Polish droschkies, accompanied by noble- 
men on horseback. Then came the Emperor of all 
the Russias, surrounded by his staff and guard of 
honour, Cossacks and Bazouks ; while a huge 
Russian carriage filled with nobles, a cart with 
serfs, brought up the rear. From the arctic regions 
there were Tongcnese and Finlanders with their rein- 
deer sledges, and the whole summer establishment of 
a Kamschatka family. Amongst the eastern com- 
panies were seen the braye lads and lasses of the 
Tyrol and Steiermark, with Viennese citizens in gay 
attire ; a marriage-party from Appcnzell and St Gall ; 
proud Hungarian magnates in their splendid gala 
costume, on horseback ; horse and cattle dealers from 
tlie Carpathians, and in their suite a troop of dark- 
eyed gipsies. Tlie east sent forth her fair Circassians, 
Tatars on foot and horseback, with wandering fami- 
lies in tented wagons; even the Celestial Empire 
deigned to furnish representatiyes for this great 
world's assembly. A Chinese fair was arranged, and 
a mandarin in solemn state was borne in rich eastern 
litter ; and a Japanese general followed, attended by 
the clang of martial music. New elements came to 
the fgte with the southern train— Itnlian serenades 
and carnival antics, bright eyes glancing, and soft 
mandolines keeping time to merry dancing feet; 
English tourists in Italy, brigands and Swiss guards ; 
a strain of delicious church- music, wafted, one knew 
not how, fVom Rome ; peasants from the Campagna in 
all the glowing colours of the rainbow ; pifferari, friars, 
and monks; lazzaroni and Neapolitan fishermen, 
Calabrians and Corsicans. The new civilisation of 
the south-east, headed by the Sultan Abdul Meschid, 
seated in a carriage surrounded by his new Christian 
allies; fair creatures from the harem, for this day 
unveiled, and exposing their charms to vulgar eyes ; 
deputies from the Suez Canal commission, marcliing 
under a huge umbrella borne by Egyptian attendants ; 
grotesque Bashi-bazouks, Greeks, pious pilgrims to 
the shrine of Mecca, Bedouins of the desert — all 
following in the sultan's train. Then came the 
dreamy fire-worshipper, the follower of Zoroaster ; 
the Indian nabob in his palanquin ; a carriage filled 
with colonists from Sydney ; and Lola Montes, with 
her graceful arts and wiles, taming the savages of 
New Holland. Africa, too, sent Arabs from Sahara, 
Algeriue pirates, and the dark negro from Nubia, 
with Caffres and Hottentots from the south. Then 
came tlie aborigines from New Zealand and South- 
sea Islands, tattooed and draped in feathers. In the 
south-western division came Savoyard boys, with 
marmots, and organs, and plnster-casts ; a bridal- 
party from the south of France; muleteers and 
herdsmen from the Sierra Nevada, smugglers from 
the Spanish coasts, and piccadors ready equipped 
for the bull-fight. The Spanish islands were repre- 
sented by slave-drivers and planters,. and his serene 
majesty Soulouque from Hayti, attended with his 
dusky suite; merchants from Buenos Ayres; and 
giants from Patagonia. 

The birth of a young heir to the French imperial 
crown was marked by a stork bearing a child in its 
biU, while market-women (dames de la halle) brought 
gifts to grace the event ; Paris sent her grisettes and 
students, soldiers and civilians ; and the peace con- 
gress^at that time sitting in Paris — was duly repn- 
sen ted; tlie four great western powers solemnly 
seated in an open carriage, with Prussia and Pied- 
mont standing as footmen behind, and Elihu Burritt 
and Cobden sitting on the box attired like Mercuries, 
each bearing a palm-branch, the accompanying ser- 
vants dressed in green, the livery of hope. In tlie 
western train was Bamum, with his wondrous shows; 
while Mexicans and Red Indians closed the procession. 
England came in the north-western division, witli ber 
weavers and colliers; the queen and prince-cons(Ht 
in an open carriage ; milors and miladys, boxers and 
engineers; a faithful impersonation of John Ball 
accompanied by Punch; while Irish beggars and 
Scotch tana culottes brought up the rear. The pro- 
cessions took more than four hours to pass tbroagii 
the streets of Zurich. The whole was closed by u 
enormous cosmopolitan omnibus, and a peace-batterj, 
from which genii fired amongst the people rounds of 
shot, consisting of little rolls of bread. The evenin/s 
amusements were terminated, as U8ual,l>y corporation 
visits to the various guild-halls ; toasts were drunk, I 
speeches made; and thus ended the curious and , 
interesting festival of the Sechse Lilaten of I85& 

All shinomcring in the morning shine. 

And diamonded with dew. 
And quivering with the scented wind 

That thrills its green heart through— 
The little field, the smiling field 

With all its flowers a-bl owing. 
How happy looks the golden field 

The day before the mowing I 
All still ' ncath the departing light, 

TirUight— though void of atars, 
Save where, low westering, Venus sinks 

From the red eye of Mars ; 
How peaceful sleeps the silent field. 

With all its beauties glotrmg. 
Half stirring — like a child in dreams — 

The night before the mowmg. 

Shai'p steel, inevitable hand. 

Cut keen— cut kmd ! Our field 
We know full well must be Uid low 

Before it fragrance yield. 
Plenty, and mirth, and honest gain 

Its blameless death bestowing — 
And yet we weep, and yet we weep. 

The night before the mowing I 


The truth seems to be this : durmg the 8prinff» b'^ 
do great good by killing insects on which they i 
themselves and their young; but when the ^^^fSL, 
in the ear, and ready' to shed out, the crowds of pj ^ 
which flutter about on the tops of the stalks arc saw 
beat out the grain in largo quantities, which falls on 
ground, and is wasted. Young birds should be w 
down before harvest; there will generally be en^u^^ 
left to breed in the spring. Somethmg analogous r^. 
be said as to rabbits. They do very little harm, it » -^ 
except when the corn begins to form its stalk, ^"" ^,5^ 
the green crops, as peas, tares, &c., begin to »**'"'l' j^ 
they do considerable damage. They should ^^^^^^ 
killed down during winter, a few only being left t® "^ 
— Correspondent of Notes and Queries. 

Printed and PubUahed by W. ft B. Chahbxu. ^'.^U^bf 
Row. LoifDOM, and 8S9 Hifh Street, Edi.hburoh. (^^tsA 
WiLMAM RoMKiiTsos, 25 Upper S«*vilto Street, l)c»w 
•11 Booksellers. 

Digitized by 


Si titntt anb ^ris. 


No. 239. 

SATURDAY, JULY 31, 1868. 

PniCE IJ^. 

Thbrb are few things by which the flight of time is 
more sensibly measured than by the diffbrenoe of 
feeling with which at various periods of our lives we 
indite or receive Letters. In the dawn of life, indeed, 
as At its close, we have the greatest unwillingness to 
set pen to paper at all ; but the causes of the disin- 
clination are quite dififerent. In those very early 
times, we are not perhaps confident about our ps and 
7s; whether our h should have a loop in them, or 
whether the personal pronoun should be a little i or a 
big one. Our spelling is entirely phonetic ; and maybe 
we are not unconscious of our want of ear even 
for the attainment of Ihat accomplishment ; while, in 
addition, we are sure to have some misunderstanding 
with our own middle finger, which the writing-master 
requires xis to straighten, and which Nature aa impe- 
ratively demands shall be kept bent. Unhappy epoch 
of pothooks and hangers, how well do we remember 
it ! when we could not persuade oar teacher that a 
child could possibly be near-sighted, and * Sit up, sir ! 
ui/l you sit up, sir ? ' sounded so implacably in our 
cars. How nose and chin followed closely that serious 
pen of ours in all its rounded turns and exquisite 
up-strokes ! How our lips, through a sense of the 
overwhelming importance of the task, formed them- 
selves into the shape for whistling — when whistling, 
goodness knows, was far from our thoughts — as it 
delicately dotted the ts ! How our whole face accom- 
panied its horizontal movements, when it crossed — 
uot the Rubicon, but— the Tees ! Still, what we had 
to write, we wrote willingly enough ; albeit, for the 
above reasons, and because composition itself was not 
at that time a very easy matter, our epistles were not 
of the longest; the paper superficies they covered 
was indeed considerable, but they did not in those 
early school-days contain much epistolary matter : 

* Mt beau Ma — I am very well so is bob all our tin 
is gone, a cake would not be unexoeptable we dont 
get enough to eat dear Ma indeed. Love to Fa and 
Nero who i hope is looked after.— Your dutiful and 
affectionate son, Jemmt.* 

We always accomplished that ' dutiful and aflTec- 
tionate ' without mistake, on account of our having to 
send off a * holiday letter' at the conclusion of every 
half-year, which ended with those adjectives. Doctor 
Whackem himself set the copy of this for the whole 
school, and looked over our shoulders with painful 
frequency during the epistolary process. What a 
number of fine sheets, with lines so carefully ruled 
I for us, did we spoil with blots and errors ; and what 

a hypocritical piece of composition it was when all 
was done, and how it smelled of india-rubber where 
they had tried to erase the pencil-marks 1 

* My dear Papa akd Mamma— I am very well and 
happy here, for Minerva Hall is indeed a home to us ; 
but I shall of course be very delighted to see you 
again. Tliis is to inform you that the holidays 
begin upon the Friday after next, when Doctor 
Whackem will give oiit the prizes in the schoolroom 
at half-past one, D.V. The Earl of Reddiforaniman 
has consented, with his usual urbanity, to take the 
chair. I hope I shall please you, my dear parents, 
by getting a prize. Doctor and Mrs Whackem desire 
me to give you their kind compliments ; and believe 
me to be your dutiful and affectionate son, Jahes 


It was a pleasure to write even such an epistle as 
that in those times, because of the holidays it heralded. 

Then the Letters we received at school, how unex- 
ceptionably welcome they were to us, especially if they 
weighed somewhat heavier than usual, and cunningly 
and safely imbedded in the sealing-wax there was 
found the desired half-sovereign ; or if they conveyed 
tidings of 'a parcel' — expression delightful in its 
very vagueness — already despatched to 'my dearest 
Jemmy ' by the carrier, the contents of which were 
to be equally divided with our brother Bob. Alas I 
what memories the sight of one of those letters would 
awaken now ; what regrets! what teara! We some- 
times grudged poor Bob that equal share of his ; we 
were glad when there were pots of gooseberry-jam 
sent — ^Bob didn't like gooseberries — and on all occa- 
sions drove too hard a bargun with him, he being the 
youngest. He never grew to manhood and to ' Robert,' 
but lived and died ; and will be ever known among 
the rest of us— who are thinning by this time sadly— 
as our boy-brother, ' Bob.' There were no such asso- 
ciations about those school-letters then. 

In our adolescence, letter- writing was even a bly ther 
matter still. There was then never any necessity com- 
pelling us to it. Out of the abundance of our heart, 
the pen indited. Our honest thoughts, ftoher far than 
afterwards — and not less true, perhaps. Chough some- 
what crude — flowed from us without effort and without 
fear. What aspirations had we at that epoch, which— 
to our present shame, be it confessed— our cheeks would 
bum with self-contempt to hear now uttered by the 
friend to whom we wrote them ; and he again had the 
like radiant visions, and laid before our sympathising 
eyes his own fond dreams of life. What vigour, what 
elasticity, what overflow of genial humour one must 
have then possessed to have filled whole pages gratis I 

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Now, tinleM compelled by direst need, we never catch 
ounelvet leaning over foolicap, except for a consider- 

Lore-lettem — what a iplendid oocnpation the 
writing of those was wont to be I How pleasant to 
issue from our mental mint a thousand honeyed 
synonyms for the Beloved Object I How we lingered 
over each soft expression, toying with it tenderly as 
though it were itself the half-angelic being to whom It 
was addressed I 

She is sixteen stone by this time, and her (second) 
husband's name is Potts, a drysalter ; but that dread 
Aiture was, in mercy, nnrevealed to us at one-and- 

Jones was in love with her also ; and I have got 
one or two of his letters now, which the dear girl let 
me have at that time^ in the strictest confidence. 

What an unsuspecting, generous, impulsive, affec- 
tionate young fellow he must have been! (I hope 
Jones has not got any of mine, composed about the 
same epoch). Wizened, bloodless, grasping little 
money-seeker that, he is, how could he have ever 
concocted such epistles ! I can't fancy him inditing 
anything beyond ' Received yours of the 24th instant,' 
and *I am, gentlemen, your most obedient humble 
servant ;' by which he means theur commercial rival, 
and most uncompromising foe. 

I wonder whether it would be possible Har a man to 
write a band JUk love-letter to a wife ; I mean, of 
course^ to his own wife^ for in the case of another's 
(we have heard) the thing is practicable, and even 
easy enough. One couldn't have the fiioe to call her 
an angel, although one might wish her in heaven ; and 
as to her being addressed as a fiury— think of Belinda 
Potts, and a lairy of sixteen stone! The hand- 
writing of dearest Belinda resembled a slanting 
shower of summer-rain ; and when it was crossed, as 
it very often was, by another slanting shower, it was 
mther difficult to decipher. I think, however, that 
only enhanced the interest of her delicious meaning, 
which came out, when it did come, all the fresher, 
like a flower from the mist I could detect her long- 
looked-for communications by more than one organ of 
sense befbre they left the postman's hand; their 
envelopes being pink, and redolent of patchouli. That 
was how I discovered that Belinda was corresponding 
with yonng Hitchins, as well as with myself and 
Jones. Hitchins was her first hvsband, and ran away 
with her from her paternal roof. I should like to see 
any nnassisted individual attempting to run away 
with the present Mrs Potts. 

When Ciqiid has once departed, taking with him 
the golden pen and the red (heart's blood) ink, there 
is no more joy in Letters. They henceforth become a 
matter of business only and of compulsion. We 
strive to trick the post-office by making a single 
stamp do double duty, and, on the other hand, grudge 
bitteriy having to pay the least over-weight in the 
communications of our friends. 

Li our married and settled condition the postman 
becomes to us a daily nuisance. He brings earnest 
manuscripts from our wife's brother, who is in want of 
a hundred and fifty pounds for a special purpose, 
after whidi, he says, he will be an honour to the 
ihmily; affectionate notes fnm our mother-in-law, 
vho is looking forward to spending three or four 
iiKMitht with her dearest Jemima, and her Janie% who 

seems like her very own blood ; circulars from 
charitable societies, who 'make no apology for ^peal- 
ing to our sense of Christian duty' (there are do 
such satirists as your philanthropic people). Wont 
of all— because reminding us in the cruelest possible 
manner of the genial past— college bills for wine, 
cigars, or other vanity we had fondly deemed to hare 
been paid for years ago. 

Then, as we grow to be more and more of a 
paterfamilioif more and more bills ; we groan in 
spirit as our delighted daughters hasten at that dieid 

* rat-tat ' (rustling those expensive morning-dresses of 
theirs), to open the letter-box. What contents ^ 
bring us, to spoil our matutinal meal, and to impair 
a digestion which is already in the most artificial 
state imaginable! i 

Here they are. Bill, Bill, Business, Circular | 
(social). Circular (religious). Death (Poor Smith gooe; | 
our own age, too, within six months or so, and simliar 
habit of body ; horrible !), Bill, BiU (*I wish, Jemisu,' , 
tossing it over to the wife of oar bosom, 'yon would i 
dress the gurls more like young people of moderate j' 
means, and less like balloons ; I won't pay for meh 
foolery, that's fiat), Mother-in-Uw ('Here's jtm ' 
mother coming again; let her pay for them*), Bxumm, 
Brother-in^Uw, Bills. j 

AUm, this langhing mask of oars conceals s aad 
countenance. The satirist of onr own day who calls i 
old letters the best satures in the world speaks a fright- ' 
fill truth. Unlock the old chest full of them, the ob) 
drawer, or the old desk, and cast your eye over tlie 
yellowing rubbish it contains. Open the worn coren, 
saperscribed in the forgotten handwritings, and nsd 
the once welcome words spoken by hearts that htte I 
long been dianged: your mbtress's, ' she thst married 
the nabob, and for whom you now care no more tfaas , 
for Queen Eliiabeth;' or your beloved sister^s— •!>) ' 

* how yon dung to one another until you qiisrrelled > 
about the twenty-pound legacy!' This hnmoor of , 
the modem humorist is terribly grim I 

A genius, of our own day likewise^ but of s r&j 
diflbrent kind, has written something worthier tfaas <i 
this upon the subject of Old Letters — ' of those ftlles i 
leaves which keep their green (he calls them), tbe 
noble letters of the dead.' He shews himaelf sitting ^ 
alone In his chamber at late eve, when tbe rest of | 
the house have retired, and when, without, 'the white , 
kine glimmer, and the trees lay their dark arms 
about the field,' reading aloud the old letters of hii 
dead friend: when, strangely on the silence bro^ ' 
the silent-speaking words, and strange was V>^'' i 
dumb cry, defying Change to test his worth; <ad ^ 
strangely spoke the faith, the vigour, bold to dwell 
on doubts that drive the coward back, and ^f^^ ., 
through wordy snares, to track Suggestion to h^ ' 
inmost cell ; and word by word, and Ime by lio«» ^ 
dead man touched him fcom the past, and flasfa^ 

his living soul on his Thus he held awful coor 

verse, till the doubtful dusk revealed the knolls ooce ^ 
more, where, couched at ease, the white kine gli^ ; 
mered, and the trees laid their dark arms about m ^ 
field: till, sucked fh>m out the distant gloom, » | 
breeze began to tremble o'er the hirge leares of toe , 
sycamore, and fiuctuate all the still perfume; ^ i 
gathering freshlier overhead, rocked the fhll {o\i»^ | 
elms, and swung the heavy-folded rose, snd flunf ^ 
inies to and fro, and said, *the dawn, tbe dawn, »^ 

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died away; and Eaat and Wett, withoat a breath, 
mixed their dim lights like Life and Death, to broaden 
into boundless day. 

SECOND Anncui. 
LfAGDYE a pretty little town of white-washed booses 
stretching like a semicircle round the head of a 
bay with a snnny western exposnre— a background 
of irregular protuberances rather than hills» which 
terminate on the right in the woody heights and 
picturesque ruined castle of Dunnolly, and on 
the left by a similar piece of rugged scenery, 
amidst which, among embowering trees, are placed 
two or three villas: then, imagme that the bay is 
bounded so completely in front by a green and 
pastoral island, as to seem enclosed by the land, and 
you may have some notion of Oban— an object so 
calm, so pretty, so uncongenial on these wild and 
secluded shores, that at first sight it occasions an 
emotion of surprise. A little inquiry makes the 
stranger aware that Oban, like many other towns 
in the Highlands, is a modem Scoto-Sazon settle- 
ment, founded for the purpose of improving the 
country; and that latterly, very much through the 
efficacy of Hutcheson's steamers, it has undergone 
considerable extension. Tasteful villas are perching 
themselves about on the rocky knolls behind the town ; 
branches of banks and other conmierdal undertakings 
are being established; and hotel and lodging-house 
accommodation is recently much enlarged. Already, 
I have spoken of the Caledonian Hotel as a high-class 
establishment ; but there are some other good hotels 
for tourists : I am, in short, told that the town can 
accommodate five hundred strangers, and that, by 
casual visitors alone, as much as L.10,000 is spent 
annually in the place.* 

Two olijects of much antiquarian interest in 
the immediate neighbourhood, the ruined castles of 
Dunn^y and Dunstaffiiage, usually attract the 
notice of visitors. By the politeness of the proprietor 
of DnnnoUy, the small party of excursionists of 
whom I formed one^ were permitted to visit the ruins, 
which, clothed in ivy of the brightest green, and 
placed on the summit of a huge rock overlooking 
the sea, form a beautiful and imposing feature in the 
landscape. Bunstafibage Castle»gray, massive, and 
of greater historical interest than Dunnolly— is 
situated ai the distance of three miles from Oban; 
and being shewn by a resident keeper, it can be 
seen at all times with no more trouble than a short 
walk or ride. No stranger should omit visiting 
Dunstafiibage, for independently of its connection wi£ 
events during the old Scottish monarchy, and its being 
tlie original repository of the iluned Stone of Destiny, 
now forming part of the coronation-chair in West- 
minster Abbey — the scenery around, a happy 
blending of sea, rocks, islands, and lofty mountains, 
of whidi Ben Cruacban is the most conspicuous, 
cannot fail to evoke the most pleasing emotions. 

It is time, however, to be getting on. While I 
have been talking in a very rambling way about how 
tourists are to transfer themselves to Oban, and of 
some things that are to be seen there, the Jfountatncar, 
distinguishable, like all oth^r of the Hutcheson boats. 

* Parties under any diffieultiM leipectiiig their movmneoM, 
may apply to Ur M* Arthur, agent at Oban for Hateheaon's 
Btounen. Hla oflloe ia on the quay, and ho will be found an 
obliging and uacAdadTiaai; 

by its red funnels, is hissing and snorting at the 
pier like an impatient Highlander, and threatening 
to break away and be off on what was intended to be 
a special cruise among the islands. It is a summer 
morning in the end of June, and our party, seven in 
number, having hastened from the hotel, are now 
on board; the hissing ceases, the paddles begin to 
rumble, and in five minutes we are steaming at the 
rate of nearly eighteen miles an hour down the 
Sound of Kerrera. It was a very joyous-looking 
day, bright patches of sunshme interspersed with 
deep shadows on the hills of Lorn ; the air crisp and 
dry ; and the sea in a tolerably well-disposed mood. 

Our first destination, of course, was lona, ' that 
illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the 
Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving 
barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the 
blessings of religion.' To reach this classic spot, 
steamers proceed from Oban according to wind and 
tide, either round the north or south side of Mull : if 
by the northern route^ Staflk is first visited; if by 
the southern, looa— the usual practice^ we believe^ 
being to go one way and return another ; by whidi 
means the tourist circumnavigates Mull, and has 
an opportunity of seeing, dose inshore, various lofty 
and jagged precipices, and several ruined castles 
standing in desert loneliness on half-insulated peaks 
over the white foam which dashes on the iron- 
bound coast, while tu above and beyond these 
objects he will have a view of huge, misty-topped moun- 
tain masses, one of whidi, the giant of a particular 
group, attains the height of 8000 feet The voyage to 
lona, by the shortest or southerly passage, ordinarily 
occupies about four, but on the present occasion, it 
was effected in threes hours. We left Oban at seven, 
and at ten were in the Sound, a mile in width, which 
haa the Boss of Mull on the east, and Ion» on the 
west— the isles of Colonsay and Jura being seen far 
away in the south. At this point, the territory of 
Mull sinks into tameness, and offers some scope for 
cultivation, with space on the level shore for a vil- 
lage, whence there is a boat-ferry to lona, which, at a 
glance, we perceive to possess the same vnpicturesque 
features as the opposite coast. 

Bunning up within a hundred yards of the island, 
a boat is seen to put off, manned by two or three 
natives, the leader of the crew being Alexander Mac- 
donald, an intelligent and obliging Highlander, wlio 
speaks English, and acts as guide and interpreter to 
strangers. Approaching the shore, which is covered 
with big boulders partially overgrown with se»-ware^ 
and over which, on landing^ we pick our way to the 
dry sward beyond, we perceive that, in the present 
day, the island of Colnmba is a simple pastoral bit 
of land, rising in the middle to a height of two or 
three hundred feet, and with a slope towards the 
sea, on which is concentrated within a space of a 
hundred yards all that is interestuig to visitors. But, 
then, such interest I Standing right in front of this 
gentle slope we have, first, close on the shore, a row 
of low huts covered with thatch, a species of roof not 
seemingly able to encounter of itself the gusts occa- 
sionally blowing from Mull, since it is enshrouded in 
a netting of straw-ropes, held down by big stones, in 
a manner rather threatening to the heads of the Celtic 
children, who are sprawling about in their little kilts 
before the smoky doorways of the cbichan. It is 
proper to understand that this collection of some forty 
hovels is called, in Gaelic, Baile Mor, or tlie Great 
Town. I have no doubt that it is considered by the 
natives a very fine city, more especially as it possesses 
a slated house at the south end, where refreshments of 
a simple kind are dispensed. Baile Mor contains no 
inn, nor are any spirituous liquors sold within it^ on 
which account it requires no policeman or magistrate. 
I Considering its sise, it is well off fer chuiuhes. At a 

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little distance, on a rocky point of the shore, stands a 
newly built Free Church ; and scattered aboat behind 
the village are an Established Church, a parish school- 
house, and manses for each of the two ministers. 
These last-mentioned buildings, which are of respect- 
able dimensions, are, I believe, the only dwellings in 
which lodgings may be obtained by persons who 
desire to make a deliberate inspection of the island 
and its curiosities. 

Let us have a look, however brief, at what distin- 
guishes this otherwise uninteresting island. Partly 
belilnd the row of thatched huts, and partly a little 
to the north, amidst enclosures of low stone dikes, 
are a series of ruins in three detached groups, to 
which we gain access by a rude kind of pathway, 
environed by the patches of potatoes and com of tlie 
humble villagers. Guided by Macdonald, we do not 
reach the ruins in the order of their antiquity, but 
according as they happen to lie. The more southerly 
group reached first in the series, is a nunnery, of 
which the chapel, with walls tolerably entire, is the 
principal remnant This monastic establishment for 
females is said to have been founded in the early part 
of the thirteenth century, a date almost indicated by 
its finely rounded Saxon arches. Within and around it 
are some flat tombstones commemorative of prioresses 
and ladies of rank who were here intened. On one, 
considerably mutiUted, the sculptured figures are 
exceedingly fine, representing the last prioress; her 
head supported by angels, and the figure of a little 
dog on each side— indicating, possibly, that she had 
been attached to these animals. The date of her 
death is 1543. Turning round an angle of the build- 
ing after examining these relics, there stood before us, 
ranged demurely along a wall, about a dozen little 
girls, each holding in her hand a small plate of pebbles 
and shells, which were silently offered for our inspec- 
tion and purdiase. There was something aflTecting in 
the attempt of these poorly clad, but clean and orderly 
children, to pick up a few pence in exchange for the 
only articles they could find for sale, the coloured 
stones— bits of serpentine, quartz, and feldspar — 
which had been worn by the attrition of ages on the 
shore of the adjacent seas. We selected and purchased 
some of these tiny fragments ; but on giving a shilling 
to be divided among the party, we were disconcerted 
to find that the girls did not understand a word of 
English— a circumstance not very fiattering, I must 
needs think, to those who charge themselves with their 
education. Luckily, Alexander Macdonald made 
them all happy, by translating and explaining our 
intention. Strangely enough, it is alleged that the 
custom of offering pebbles and shells for sale dates 
uninterruptedly from the period when pilgrims to the 
shrine of Columba piously bore away relics of the 
saintly island; morsels of serpentine, in ps^cular, 
being prized for the purpose of being s6t in rings, 
which possessed a certain protective virtue against 
divers accidents and misfortunes. Wordsworth, it 
will be recollected, alludes in one of his sonnets to 
the pebble-sellers of lona : 

How sad a wekoroe I To each voyager 
Some ragged child holds up for sale a store 
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore 
Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, 
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 

The next group of ruins to which we are admitted 
is that of St Oran's Chapel, being apparently a 
sepulchral chapel in the midst of the burying-ground, 
which had received the remains of Irish, Scottish, and 
Norwegian kings for several hundred years, besides 
those of abbots, bishops, chiefs, and others who had 
deemed it an honour to be entombed in what, during 
the middle ages, was one of the most noted resorts of 
learning and piety in Western Europe. Several rows 

of flat tombstones, sculptured and in good presei 
vation considering the usage they have receiv^ froi 
iconoclasts and fanatical relic-hunters, are pointe 
out by the guide; the whole being of a darabl 
species of mica slate, but gray, and partially covers 
with vegetation. Eight hundred years ago, this spg 
of earth received the mortal remains of Duncan— <u 
historical event of which Shakspeare, with his osiu 
tact, makes proper use : 

Roste, Where is Duncan's bod v ? 

MacA^, Carried to ColroeVk'ill, 
The sacred storehouse of bis predecessor;, 
And guardian of their bones. 

The various names given to lona can hardly fie 
to perplex a number of tourists. On the tomi- 
stones, it is uniformly called by a word forme*] d 
the single letter I or Y — ^pronounced E, Colme^skiJl 
sometimes writt«n Icolmkill, signifies the cell d 
Colme. Latinised according to the medieval usa^ 
Colme becomes Columba, and I is euphonised ki^ 
lona. The real name of the island, therefore, is I 
or, in pronunciation, E. While so called, it becinii 
in 663 the chosen residence of a handful of Iri^ 
missionaries, who, under the charge of Colme, tbeir 
gifted superior, introduced the knowledge of Christi- 
anity into Scotland. Of St Colme, or Colmh 
however, the island cannot with certainty shew aor 
trace. The early and simple edifices of the apostolic 
band were merged in edifices of a more aspirin; 
kind, which sprung up under the ritual of the Chared 
of Rome. The nunnery, as already seen, is a coo- 
paratively modem erection, and so is the third or 
last group of buildings to which we are oondacteii, 
consisting of the cathedral, which latterly became ti» 
seat of the bishops of the Isles. This edifice u tbe 
most imposing of all the ruins. Its tall square tover, , 
seen at the distance of several miles, rises from tli£ 
centre of a cruciform structure, of different 8ge«-to ' 
the older Saxon arehes there being added the poicted I 
Norman, along with decorations of a still later perioi. 
It will be for ever matter of regret that the n.^ 
for indiscriminate destruction which marked tlie 
Reformation in Scotland, should have been curied 
the length of puUmg in pieces all that was artistic- 
ally beautiful, all tliat was consecrated by letmi^ 
and religion in lona. Buildings were destroyed, 
clergy and educators chased away, piles of docamenii 
of vast historical value dispersed, and the vm 
allowed to lapse into barbaric rudeness; the only 
parties benefited, as was usual in such cases, b^i^g 
those singularly disinterested personages who ac- i 
cepted from the crown gifts of the varied pstrimon/ i 
of the colony of Columba. After much dilapidatioo. 
some care has been taken by the proprietor, in^' ' 
junction with the lona Club^ to secure the ruins ft^ 
utter demolition ; nevertheless, it is painful to tff i 
that the whole place is kept in a shabby, ill-assor^ 
condition, and if something be not done to secure vf 
masonry several finely groined vaults, damp *^ i 
decay will speedily lay them prostrate. Both lo 
going to and walking about the ruins of vn 
cathedral, the visitor sees several upright crowed 
consisting of slabs of sculptured slate; such beios 
everything that remains of some hundreds of timiiv 
elegant objects with which the island was at one tune || 
adorned. , ; 

Once more on board, the Mountaineer 't^JJJ*: ,' 
rapidly out of the Sound of lona, with her bow u 
pointed in a northerly direction to Staffs, wh^cn*^ jl 
seen right ahead, at the distance of six or ^^ 

miles; the view towards the east disclosing 


with the small island of Qometra, at the openioS f , 
a bay on the coast of Mull. As Ulva, like StsfeJJ 
a basaltic formation, we now may be said ^/T^ i 
got into an archipelago of a very remarkibie i^"' ji 

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geologically; it being far from improbable that the 
whole is bat part of a range which comprehends the 
Giants' Causeway. Perhaps nothing more strikingly 
marks the low state of public intelligence which 
prevailed eighty to ninety years ago respecting the 
Western Islands, than the fact that Staffa was then 
unknown as an object of scientific interest. Pennant, 
wlio made his journey in 1772, did not land on the 
islet ; he only speaks of seeing it at a short distance. 
Sir Joseph Banks visited it a month afterwards; 
spent two days on it, having brought a tent for the 
purpose ; and he was really the first man of science 
who became acquainted with its wonders. Before 
either Pennant or Sir Joseph had made any public 
statement of their discoveries, Johnson and Boswell 
visited the Hebrides ; and, strange to say, they knew 
nothing, and were told nothing, of either Stafia or 
Ulva. Boswell observes that when about to quit 
Col, 'they were informed that there was nothing 
worthy of observation in Ulva;' and so they took 
boat to the small island of Inchkenneth, on their way 
to Mull. It may be doubted whether these wandering 
philosophers would have cared much for seeing Stafia, 
even if they had heard of its natural marvels. John- 
son had UQ regard for scenery, however grand; he 
liked to go from one private house to another, 
conversing about social and political questions ; while, 
in his peregrinations generally, he was at tlie mercy 
of any one who had a boat, and would, as circum- 
stances served, generously send him on from island 
to island. However this may be, the fact is certain, 
that not till 1774 did the world know anything of 
Stafifa, of which Shr Joseph Banks, in a burst of 
enthusiasm, says, 'compared to this, what are the 
cathedrals or the palaces built by men ? — mere models 
or playthings, imitations as dimii>utive as his works 
will always be when compared to those of nature.' 

Stafia makes no great appearance from the sea. It is 
onlj' when we get near it that the grandeur of its cha- 
racter becomes apparent. Ordinarily, boatmen with 
boats from Ulva are in attendance to land passengers 
from the steamer. When the sea is cnlm, they con- 
duct their boats to the inner extremity of Fingal's 
Cave, which penetrates a high precipitous cliff* with a 
southern exposure. On the occasion of our visit, the 
sea was too turbulent to adroit of our taking this 
liberty. A boat from the steamer landed us on a 
lower part of the rocky shore near what is called the 
Clamshell Cave ; and thence we climbed to the grassy 
surface of the island. We were enabled to make this 
ascent by means partly of a wooden flight of steps, 
that forms one of several spplinnces with which Mr 
Hutcheson has provided the island for the convenience 
of passengers by his steamers. To leave nothing; 
in this respect undone, he has leased the island, and 
sublet it at a loss for feeding sheep, of which we saw 
a few browsing about. The surface is irregular, 
shelving generally down in a northerly direction with 
a kind of ravine in the centre. The only appearance 
of a human habitation is the open ruin of a hut on 
the higher grounds ; and besides its sheep, the only 
inhabitants of the island are various kinds of sea- 
fowl, which are seen in myriads, hovering and 
screaming in front of the precipitous headlands. To 
have a view of Fingal's Cave, the party walked along 
the tops of a lower range of basaltic columns — not 
very even footing — which skirts the shore on the east, 
and in a scrambling fashion got safely round to tlie 
cavern. The description of this wondrous recess — 70 
feet in height and 230 feet inwards — has been so 
often given, that it would here be superfluous to ofibr 
any account of it. By means of a rope, held by iron 
bolts to the rock, visitors with nerve to do so, may 
walk on the slippery tops of columns some way within 
the cavern, about half-way from the water to the roof. 
None of us tried this hazardous experiment The 

crested billows rolled angrily inwsrd, dashing them- 
selves on the irregular sides, and surging up in masses 
of foam on the further end of the gulf. The Queen, 
on her visit to Staffk a few years ago, was so fortunate 
as to be favoured with that degree of calmness in the 
ocean which enabled her to be rowed in a boat to the 
innermost recesses of the cave, a feat in which her 
Majesty shewed her usual intrepidity. 

For the sake of science as well as art, it is to bo 
regretted that there are no means of making a pro- 
tracted stay in Stafik. During the necessarily short 
time allowed to tourists, they can just see that the 
whole island is a mass of basalt, broken irregularly 
into columns, perpendicular and sloping, some large 
and some small, some entire, and others which, being 
broken off* midway, ofifer a convenient footing to 
visitors in their rambles about tlie shores. A regular 
inquirer into bssaltic phenomena would, however, 
need to extend his investigations far beyond Stafik. 
Besides the curious formations of Ulva, there will 
be found fantastic groupings of columns on the coast 
of Mull, Skye, and Eig; those in the latter island 
being of magnificent dimensions, towering as they do 
to the height of thirteen hundred feet above the level 
of the sea. 

From Staffk, the Mountaineer, still early in the day, 
steamed her course northward ; passing on the left 
Tiree and Col, and on the right Ardnamurchan, a 
bold headland, the most westerly point of the main- 
land. We then proceeded towards the Sound of 
Sleat, leaving on the left the conspicuous islands of 
Muck and Eig, and more distantly the island of Rum. 
Entering Sleat Sound, we had on the right successively 
the districts of Moidart, Morrer, and Enoydart— all 
bold, rocky, and with huge hills forming extensive 
pasturages; the coast being indented at several 
places with long withdrawing lochs, of which Loch 
Nevish seemed to be the moat extended. On the 
opposite or northern side of the Sound was that part 
of Skye called the Point of Sleat, near which, amidst 
plantations, stands Armadale Castle, the seat of Lord 
Macdonald, the principal proprietor in the island. 
Although passing quickly up the Sound, we could see 
that on each side beyond the sphere of his lordship's 
grounds, the slopes of the hills were dotted over with 
the diminutive thatched huts of that aboriginal race 
of crofters whose miserable existence is an anomaly in 
the middle of the nineteenth century. 

In the afternoon, a drizzle came on, the mista 
settled down on the summits of the hills, from which 
and other appearances, it was judged prudent 
to cast anchor for the night in the small and well- 
sheltered hay of Eillan-Oronsay, in Loch-na-dall. 
Here the Mountaineer, accordingly, came to a pause 
about a hundred yards from the shore. The idea of 
lodgings for the night at a small inn was suggested, 
but overruled. Tlie steward had provided bedding 
for the sofas in the saloon, and could accommodate us 
all nicely ; so there was no further trouble on that 
score. It was proposed that after dinner a good deal 
should be done in the way of fishing over the side 
of the vessel, with lines provided for the purpose at 
Oban. But, here, again, anticipations expired in talk. 
The evening was pronounced rather moist for any 
amusement of this sort, and lighted candles and whist 
for a time banished the notion that we were moored 
within hail of a state of social life which had not been 
seen in England since before the landing of Julius 
Csesar. A long day's exposure to the air made us all 
sleep soundly. On retiring, if such a phrase may be 
employed under the circumstances, a law was passed 
enjoining heavy penalties on snoring, a crime which, 
as it turned out to the credit of the whole party, no one 
was even in the most distant manner charged with. 

Next morning, betimes, all were alert. At seven, 
up anchor, steam let on, and off* we were again in 

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contiituAtion of our cruise. A council being called, it 
was resolved to proceed first up Loch Hourn, an arm 
of the sea projected eastward into InTemes»-shire 
from the Sound of Sleat, and which is bounded on 
the north by Glenelg, and on the south by Knoydart. 
Loch Hourn is so rarely visited, that to nearly all on 
board tl^e excursion was perfectly new ; nor probably 
would it have been quite safe, if we had not had the 
good-fortune to have with us a retired veteran in 
Hebridean navigation — Captain M'Killop, who, it 
may be noted, was tlie conductor of her Majesty 
when visiting the Western Isles. 

On entering Loch Hourn, which varies from a mile 
to less in breadth, we are struck by the picturesque 
mountain masses, here swelling into rounded pastoral 
hills, and there rising into lofty jagged peaks, fron^ 
whidiy down precipitous gullies, dash long foaming 
cataracts tliat, firom their whiteness, resemble at a 
distance streams of milk, while around the more 
elevated hUl-tops, at the height of a thousand feet, 
play the morning vapours not yet dispersed by the 
sun. On the lower braes, browse flocks of Cheviot 
sheep; and these, with the figures of shepherds 
and their dogs, not less than the absence of smoky 
huts, plainly tell us that Knoydart has passed into 
the hands of an improving low-oonntiy landlord. 
The soenery, interspersed wiSi natural oak and hazel, 
oontinnes beautiful as far as the steamer can advance. 
At a turn of the loch, a boat having been sent ashore to 
a village for a native pilot, the vessel securely passed 
into an inner reach of the loch, up which it proceeded 
to nearly its furthest limits. Here, on the south side, 
the party landed, and» Cuvoured by a bridle-patli, 
which, by and by, widened to a suflkient breadth for 
carriages, we walked several miles to the pass into 
Glen Qu(Hch, a gorge in the mountains environed 
with huge isolated rocks and boulders strewed about 
in all the rude grandeur of nature. Retracing our 
way, and again on shipboard, the vessel proceeded 
by Glenelg Bay into Loch Alsb, and then struck up 
Loch Buich, the mountain scenery at the upper 
extremity of which transcended, as we thought, even 
that of Loch Hourn. At the entrance to Loch Duich, 
situated on a rocky knoll on the beach, are the 
ruins of Eillan-Donan Castle, an ancient seat of the 
Mackenzies, * high chiefs of KlntaiL' On the same 
side of the loch, in Loch Alsh, are seen various 
modem improvements, including the mantioa and 
new inn of Balmacarra. 

About this spot, the channel between Skye and 
the mainland makes a sudden turn, and the steamer 
shortly passing through the strait of Kyle Akin, 
where there is a ferry, enters a wider Sound, and for 
our gratification turns to the right up Loch Carron. 
The scenery on this loch, which is about twenty miles 
long, is no doubt fine, exhibiting hcae and there along 
the shore good specimens of raised beaches ; but we 
are by this time not a little spoiled for sights; alter 
Hourn and Duich, nothing of the loch nature will pass 
muster; and returning to the more open Sound, we 
hasten on to Portree in Skye, where we are to pass 
the night. This part of the voyage was made by first 
touching at Broadford, where there is an inn, and then, 
after rounding the north of Scalpa, proceeding past 
Raaaay, on the shore of which island stands Raasay 
Houae, a handsome modem mansion— an improvement 
on that in which J(^mson was hospitably entertained ; 
the estate havmg passed from the hands of the 
Macleods mto the possession of Mr G. Rainey, by 
whom great changes for the better have been 

* It wIU be rteolleeted «h«t Johnson Mid Boiwell went in mn 
open boat, manned by four etont rowen, from Corriachatachin, 
near Broadford* to Baaaay, the doctor, ae Boswell saTs, eitUng 
high hi the etem, * like a magnificent Triton.* Malcolm Mac- 
leod, one of the Raaiaj tkmUj, celebrated to the year 1745-6, 

The harbour of Portree, so completely environed 
by jutting high grounds as to aflbrd the best ahelter 
to vessels, reo^ved ours for the night, and all went 
ashore to Boss's Hotel, a house ofiering good and 
extensive accommodation. Portree^a name signi- 
fying King's Port, being so culled from a visit of 
James V. of Scotland, on one of his western exenr- 
siotts— is a substantial little town occupying the 
brow of a high ground overlooking the harbour. 
The place was thrown somewliat into oommotion 
with the unexpected visit of the JlfotenfauMer, but 
the inhabitants gradually subsided into tranquillity, 
and unmolested we rambled about the nelghbow- 
hood in search of anything to look at. Tbe only 
objects which attracted us were a recently effected 
octagonal tower, on a oonspicttous height, haatening 
to ruin from sheer neglect, and on sooie low grounds 
a parcel of those dismid straw-oovered biggings of 
which we had seen distant speeimeDS on the coast of 
the island. Aided by an interpreter, a gentleman 
and I ventured on paying our respects to the inmates 
— ^but such a scene of dirt and poverty presented itKlf 
as filled us with horror and compassion. Bare alone 
walls, rafters overhead glittering with soot, and on 
which a few fowls were perched, the smoke of a peat- 
fire in the middle of the floor, finding its way oat by a 
hole in the roof, window-holes, and door; the sty-like 
beds, straw and dingy blankets huddled in confusion ; 
the clay floor and ragged yet healthy-looking children. 
In only one of the houses was English spoken. And 
how do these wretched people live? Small patches 
of ground under crop, but iU cultivated, and shewing 
about as many weeds as stalks of com or potatoes, are 
thehr principal reliance, along with fishing or executing 
any odd jobs that come in the way. In one of the 
huts, on looking into a gloomy recess separated from 
the rest of tlie apartment by a few ill-put-together 
boards, we saw a man lying ill— a sad ^lectade of 
human desolation. The only bouse in which there 
was an effort at cleanliness was that in which English 
was spoken. The inmates here appeared to labour 
under the like desperate poverty; yet there was an 
air of the most pious resignation to what was prob- 
ably felt as a dispensation of the Divine wilL I could 
almost wish that habitual grumblers about trifles had 
been with us on this occasion. On one side of the 
peat-flre, which, as usual, was in the middle of the 
floor, sat an aged and lame man, the father of the 
family ; on another side was the old mother, cardii^ 
wool ; while on a kind of cushion on tlie ground, with 
legs drawn up and helpless from rheumatism, was 
placed their daughter, who, according to her own 
account, had been so afflicted for the space of ten years. 
Administering on our departure some slight gratuity 
to this unfortunate being, the melanclioly consideration 
was forced upon us that the old crofting system, which 
is throughout signalised by this depressed and hopeless 
kind of existence, is totally wrong, and ahonld be 
obliterated at every available opportunity. Situated 
as they are, tlie poor people of whom we had a 
specimen, can neither do any good for themselves nor 
in any sense benefit mankind, and but for what to 
many may seem a certain degree of harshness, they 
would absorb in the form of poor-rates more than 
all the rental of the land. The common sense of the 
country, I should think, must come to this conclusion 

acted as pilot, and rang a Oaello ■'wg, which waa chomeed by 
the boatmen. * We lailed,' adds Boswell, 'along the coast of 
Scalpa, a rugged Island, about four miles in length. Dr Johnses 
ptopoeed that he and I ahould buy li, and found a good eclMol, 
and an episcopal church (Malcolm said be would come to it), 
and hare a printing.preM. where he would print all the ErM 
that could be found.* With such Urely chat, dM thej try to 
mitigate the terrors of what seems to have been a ^•tj 
boiateroos sail of several hours. In the present daj, oae of 
Hotcheson's steamers would have carried the party tfom 
Broadford to Raasay In an hour, as easHy as aa omnibus 
woiM take them tnm Charing Orees to St Paulls. 

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at last. Cruel &• it may appear, there is nothing for 
the poorer inhabitanU of Skye, and aome other 
portions of the Highlands and IsUnds, but emigra- 
tion. It is true, an outcry has been raised against 
expatriating an old race, for the sake of depasturing 
their lands with sheep for a southern market; but 
let any one visit the smoky hovels which are scattered 
along so many damp and unreclaimed hillsides, and 
see how utterly hopeless is the condition of their 
inhabitants— their very contentment being not less 
an evil than the language which cuts them off from 
any chance of intercourse with the busy world beyond 
—and seeing all this, say whether tlie removal of this 
Celtic population to scenes calculated to evoke their 
latent energies would not manifestly be a blessing. 

Having caught a few glimpses of the Storr, the 
CuchuUin Hills, and some other striking features in 
the scenery of Skye, we letomed with the Mountameer 
to Oban. 

In this voyage homewards, the vessel, after passing 
Ardnamurchan, proceeded down the Sound of Mull, 
by adopting which we were afforded an opportunity 
of calling at Tobermory, a neatly built modern town 
within a sheltered bay on the north-eastern shore of 
Mull. On the opposite and equally bold coast of 
Morven, a part of the mainland adjoining Ardna- 
murchan, we observed in succession, placed on craggy 
steeps overhanging the sea, the ruins of three old 
castles— Mingarry, Aros, and Ardtomish; this last 
the scene of the opening passages in Scott's Lord 
of the IsUs, having been the residence of the proud 
chieftain of Loni» whose 

Turrets' airy head. 
Slender and steep, and battled round, 
Overlooked dark Blall I thy mighty Sound, 
Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, 
Part thy swarth hnis from Morven*8 shore. 

On the point of Mull, at the entrance to the Sound, 
are the remains of another of these strongholds, 
Duart Castle, an ancient residence of the chief of the 
Macleans. On tlie point of Lismore, a long green 
island which we skirt on the route to Oban, |g seen 
another picturesque ruin. Associating these old 
Hebridean fortlets, places of importance in their time, 
with DunnoUy and Dunstaffnage, Dunvegan in Skye, 
and other remains of a similar nature— all admirable 
studies for the landscape painter— along witii the 
still more touching ruins of lona, the conviction 
arises in the mind that here, in this western region 
washed by the waters of the Atlantic, and in ages 
long past, there exbted a state of refinement, which 
receives little notice in the page of ordinary history 
— in fact, we see what till this day is so very limitedly 
known in the eastern and more populous districts of 
Scotland, that the sight for the first time, not only of 
these decaying remains of art, but of the grand and 
more imperishable features in nature, oomes upon one 
with something like the effect of a revelation. 

A special object with us in returning to Oban, was 
to visit the sinuosities of the Linnhe Loch as fkr as 
Locheil and the entrance to the Caledonian Canal; 
and this was pleasantly accomplished by the MowU- 
ameer in the space of a single day. What tourists 
have an opportunity of seeing in this aocessible 
quarter, has been already hinted at — Glencoe, tlie 
scene of the unprovoked and horrid massacre of the 
Macdonalda in Felmiary 1692, being alike for its 
historical interest and sublime physical features, a 
spot pre-eminently deserving of a visit 

An impression left on the mind by a Hebridean 
excursion is, that the world generally is as little aware 
of the deeply interesting character of the scenery of 
the western islands and coasts, as of the comparative 
ease and inexpensiveness with which a pretty length- 
ened tour, by means of Hutcfaeson's boats and other 

appliances, can now be effected. Another thing 
which, being pressed on our notice, affords no little 
satisfaction : I allude to the obvious improvement of 
the country, mainly, as we learn, through the transfer 
of property to men of capital and enlarged intel- 
ligence, from England or the Lowlands of Scotland. 
In sailing about, you can always see at a glance, by 
the erection of substantial villas and farmhouses, the 
clearing and draining of fields, the growth of plant- 
ations, and the building of piers and wharfs, that 
energetic Anglo-Saxon minds are busily at work ; and 
that at no distant day, by the gradual thinning of 
the numbers of the aborigines, the state of the 
Highlands and Islands will be entirely changed, of 
course vastly for the better. It is very pleasing to 
know that the progress of improvement is found to 
be compatible with the preservation of much that is 
picturesque and admirable in Highland costume and 
character ; and perhaps I do not exaggerate in saying, 
that many of the new IkigUsh inroprietors are in 
this respec^ by adoption, more patriotically Highland 
than the Highlanders, and possess as keen an appre- 
ciation of the matchless sceneiy to which th^ have 
migrated as the Celt of twenty generations. 



Amidst the whirlwind of the late tobacco co n troversy, 
any itatcment irrespective of party, illustrative of 
that unfortunate narcotic, would have been listened 
to by either side with impatience. Now that the 
storm has somewhat abated, all the smokers who are 
likely to be convinced at all having given in their 
adhesion to moral and medical authorities, and the 
rest being beyond the power of eloquence— a brief 
narration, having tobacco for its subject, may perhaps 
be borne. Being merely annals and impartial histoiy, 
we say, the author of that celebrated tract, entitled 
The Pipemoker^s Fate, or the End of a (Xgar, may 
appreciate the information we have to ^ve him, 
equally with the vrretch who may read it with a 
Havanna in his mouth. 

We are tobacco-merchants ourselves, and therefore 
open to the charge of prejudice if we took it in hand 
to give our own account of this matter ; and we have 
accordingly selected the most sagacious-looking of 
the very oldest bundle of cigars we have in our 
possession, and requested him to narrate to the 
public his own story : 

My ancestors first visited this country under the 
auspices of Sir Walter Baleigh; they were at that 
time foreigners, nor, indeed, are any of the thousands 
of us bom and reared here, acknowledged to be sons 
of the soil up to tills present writing. By a pleasant 
fiction of the tobeoeo-dealers, readily entered into 
by their agreeable patrons, we are supposed to be 
in^genona only to alien climes^ As a matter of fact, 
we flourish fdmost everywhere. The American 
branch of our family is supposed to be the best— a 
word which signifies in that country, as in this, the 
richest In Virginia, we are the crime de h er^me, 
tlie weed of weeds. Next to that favoured region, 
perhaps Kentucky is entitled to make her proud 
boast of US. From Maryland we oome with light 
bright faces, and are exceedingly esteemed in this 
country. Those of us who belong to South 
America differ much from their northern brethren. 
Braiil tobacco is a very short scrappy-looking leaf 
of the family tree, and is covered with the sandi of 
the plains. Tliat of Columbia is more tolerable, 
and of a fair complexion. German tobacco is a 
poor relation whom we are loath to own, with a 
most prolific growth— which poor relatloni always 
have— of dark-coloured leaves with little fiavour. 
Havanna is unquestionably oor snoeitral leai; 

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the heads of our family there reside, respected 
and esteemed, and emitting a most agreeable odour. 
Yara, an independent member of our race, with 
a dry— almost sarcastic — amontlllado kind of dis- 
position, has also his admirers. In Turkey, we 
are very bright coloured and sweet tasted, without 
having, however, much strength in us. Latakia is 
an especially aristocratic, enervated, listless species 
of this description. Greek, Hungarian, and Chinese 
tobacco assimilate to the Turkish. In Java, we are 
said to be 'of volcanic growth and gutta-percha 
flavour;' an evidently malignant and exaggerated 
definition, invented, as is most probable, by a detected 
cabbage ; in Holland, we are very respectable ; but 
all these latter branches of us can be purchased in 
the London markets at from 3d. to 7d. a pound. 

The great object of the manufacturer of tobacco is 
to make a mixture of us that will stick together, and 
absorb as much water as possible without our getting 
absolutely mouldy and fermenting— through sheer 
sulkiness and indignation, and when all bounds of 
endurance are passed. One species of us, cut by 
itself, is too strong; another is too mild: one will 
break to pieces in cutting ; another bears to be pulled 
about in all directions. Different proportions of us 
are used in different seasons, in summer, in autumn, 
in winter. Tlie quantity of water each kind of us 
will imbibe is calculated to a drop, and its increased 
weight known to a fraction ; the profit is confined to 
one or two per cent. At first, a moderate quantity of 
water was applied to moisten us; now, the demand for 
cheapness, and the increased competition, compel us 
to derive one-third (nearly) of our total weight from 
moisture, and drive us, as it were, to drink, whether 
we will or no. The ancients may have had perhaps 
a higher moral standard for their commercial transac- 
tions ; the modems must needs have a sUding-scale of 
principle, it seems, unless they would visit Basinghall 
Street, and we suffer from the times. The genuine 
Yankee tobacco wont take much water ; but the Ger- 
man — ^poor stuff enough in its natural state, without 
any Anglo-Saxon blood in him — soaks like a sponge : 
tliese two, therefore, are mixed together, and other 
growths are added of all kinds. Kext to making us 
heavy, the great object is to render us * fleecy,' so as 
to be held up in a large piece of several pounds-weight 
together ; for the retail shopkeepers will not buy us 
when we are * short,' as it is called, for then being 
weighed and sold out in small quantities, but too 
much of us becomes dirt and dust. The object of the 
importer is of course to get a i>erfect]y dry leaf, so 
that the enormous tax upon us may be levied inde- 
pendently of any weight of moisture. He buys us 
from samples drawn at the Custom-house, and very 
queer stuff we look when he takes us for the first 
time out of our bales. Tliese bales, by the by, are 
generally made of the hides of the animals of the 
Pampas, and are sold, on account of their enormous 
strength, to oyster-dredgers. We resemble, on our 
first release^ shut up fans, of the colour and texture 
of dried haddocks; we are then called 'hands,' on 
account of our possessing five leaves, or fingers, upon 
each stem ; but so brittle are we, that we can't bear 
even shaking. 

We suffer ourselves, however, to be softened by 
steam, and in the thus warmed state, become perfectly 
pliable and supple. Our backbones, or stalks, are 
then extracted ; we are next mixed together in great 
cakes, squeezed in hydraulic presses until rendered 
solid, and then subjected to an improved chaff-cutter, 
which cliips us, with the perfectest regularity and 
dispatch, to any degree of fineness. When cut, we 
are passed through a steam-chamber, which expands 
us a good deal, then— having been shaken about on a 
heated copper, and all objectionable foreign sub- 
stances being removed— we remain cooling in little 

mole-hills for twelve hours or so, and are then ready 
for sale. Our leaf, cut without the central stalk, is i 
called Shag tobacco; when cut with it, Bird'sere. > 
Different prices are caused by certain varieties, in | 
colour and flavour ; and to produce these, ire hare to 
be sorted, out of an original imported case. | 

Cigars are made from different kinds of tobacco: . 
Havanna, Cuban, Yara, Columbian, and German xce I 
most generally used. Each cigar consists of three 
parts; the interior is compost of what is called 
* fillers,' with scraps of leaf of every sort and kind r { 
tills is surrounded by a tolerably large piece, which is^ . 
yet not good enough to form the outside * wnq>per : ' 
and this last, selected for its beauty of appearance | 
and smoothness, is the mummy cloth which encloses 
the whole. There is great difficulty in getting leaf to 
'dress itself well enough for this purpose; it is l^>t | 
to look shabby and torn, and scarcely decent. Ger- 1^ 
man leaf makes the neatest and cheapest vrrappo-. 
Both the inside and outside of a cigar are of course I, 
made of materials varying as their price. A cigar 
that sells at threepence, is made of Havanna inside ; 
and out ; one at twopence, of Cuban inside, and Ger- , 
man out; one at a x>enny, of German inside and oat; , 
or, as some assert, of straw inside, and cabbage out ; | 
but that has nothing to do with us. 

When we are rolled into cigars, we have more . 
aliases bestowed upon us than pickpockets ; * a great I 
deal of water, and a great many names,' as the wags \ 
say. Your twopenny cigar, for instance, is WoodciUe^ \ 
alias Hajfdee, alias Cubanoy alias Tragancia^ alias ! 
Afarmtt, and is a scamp of the deepest dye. Names 
mean absolutely nothing. Boxes, brands, and labels I 
are all imitated, or made up by the junior dcrks out j 
of the Spanish dictionary. ' 

Foreign cigars are rarely met with in any quan- 
tity, the price being so very great tltat dealers 
scarcely care to keep them. They pay nine sliiUlnjrs 
a pound duty, and cannot be sold under fooipence | 
each. They are superior to those of home-make ia 
appearance, in consequence of having been made up 
soft, and dried gradually upon their voyage from the i , 
Havanna; the material also being in that country | 
of comparatively little value, only the best parts are 
used. Otherwise there is no reason why they , 
should be better than the best English cigars made 
from the best foreign leaf. The foreign cigars are |; 
packed in hexagonal bundles of one hundred each. 
Manilla cheroots have been analysed by an eminent i 
chemist, and proved to contain no opium — which 
has been the heinous offence hitherto laid to their || 
charge — and they are clearly of a more rmtiond I. 
form than the cigar. The point of the latter is ;{ 
made with considerable trouble, only to be bitten ,, 
off and tlirown away. Cheroots would be made of I 
as good a material as are cigars, were there as ! 
great a demand for them. Tlie cigar-mdbers torn ' 
out three or four hundred daily, and earn from one to m 
two guineas a week. While they work at their deslcs— | 
in the large establishments, to the number of thirty or ; 
forty in a room— one of them, whose work is of course I ' 
done for him, is often accustomed to read alond to the | ■ 
rest. The employment of these human rollers is sa 
easy, ladylike one enough, and might be practised 
instead of potichomanie. Every fragment of us saved 
is applied to some purpose. Our stalks are made into 
Scotch snuff, the Irishwoman's * soft roe ' ground up 
very fine, sifted and scented (or not) with different 
mixtures. Rappee snuff is our leaf powdered to a gun- 
powder grain— sifted, and wetted, and scented with otto 
of roses. Roll-tobacco, used for * plugging,' is made of 
the richest Virginian, spun into different thicknesses, 
and pressed for months. There are far worse tilings 
done with us in some places than thoso I have here 
described ; there is quite a Borgia system of poisoning 
administered to the British public, under pret^co of 

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the pipe of peace. I am myself, lioweTer, in a respect- 
able house. I am bound round with a f^angled 
ribbon, like those worn by Spanish dancers, in com- 
pany with ninety-eight of my fellows. The name 
that I at present enjoy is that of an Imperial Lopez 
Regalia; but to-morrow I may be a Nicholas^ and the 
next day an Omar Pacha, Tobacco for pipes comes 
to the consumer, as I hare said, with but small profit 
to the dealer, but the cigar must be paid for— as 
that cadet of our family, SnufT, would say, ' through 
the nose.' 

But, alas, alas, I am in the hands of a purchaser ; 
it is well that my story is told; for my existence 
will be but for a few minutes longer, and then my 
ashes will bo scattered on the winds! 

Some time after Louis XVIII. was restored to the 
throne of his ancestors, when the last of the emi- 
grants had returned and set themselves up in the 
dilapidated hdtels of Paris and the still more ruinous 
chuteaux of the country, with a large display of old 
crests and titles, and a great diminution of ancient 
state and style; when the Faubourg St Germain 
and its adherents firmly believed that the Bourbons 
were never more to be rooted up, but the regime 
would go on from one generation of Louises and 
Charleses to another, always maintaining etiquette 
and keeping down the -people— the entire house of 
Courtois was thrown into confusion by two young 
persons, who insisted on getting married. 

The house of Courtois belonged to the noblesse^ of 
Brittany. It was very numerous and very poor, 
with the exception of its venerated chief, a marquis 
of seventy-three, who had come back in the time 
of the Emperor, recovered all his own estates and 
part of somebody else*s, married in regular snc- 
(!ession three handsome dowries, wore crape for the 
ladies who accompanied them, and was now a 
widower with no children. The marquis kept fsst 
hold of all that came into his hands, and gave 
laws to the whole of bis kindred. They knew 
he would die some day ; and as most of their pros- 
pects depended on his testament, there was not a 
more absolute monarch in ancient or modem history. 
They managed their houses, they educated their 
children, they were married, and, it was said, bom 
according to his commands. The number of the 
families that existed on the hope of his demise, 
and obtained consideration from their neighbours 
and credit from their tradesmen in consequence, may 
be imagined, from the popular assertion, that there 
was not a town or village in France destitute of 
a Courtois. Every one of them enjoyed a pedigree 
reaching from the first crasade; but, for the sake 
of ancient blood, it is to bo lamented that not 
only fortune, but nature herself, had behaved in 
anything but a liberal manner to that noble house. 
It was a fact not less generally recognised than 
their numbers, that all the sons were stupid, and 
all the daughters plain ; and the disposal of either 
was always a difficult business. The disturbing 
young persons above mentioned were striking ex- 
ceptions to this family rule. Silvestre had been 
born at Bordeaux, and Adelise at Avignon. They 
were both orphans. Their relationship was that of 
cousins thirteen times removed. The gentleman*s 
estate consisted of a ruinous building, half farmhouse 
and half chateau, which one of his ancestors had 
built for a hunting-lodge in Bas Br<$tagne; but 
the surrounding domain had diminished to some 
metres of garden-ground : and the lady's dowry was 
limited to a pearl necklace and certain trimmings of 

old lace bequeathed to her by her grandmother. 
The whole house of Courtois had, nerertheless, formed 
high expectations of their future. Silvestre had 
taken so many honours at college, that his granduncle, 
who was confessor to one of the Duchess de Berri's 
maids, promised to get something done for him if he 
went into the church; and Adelise came from the 
convent of St Clair such a pretty, graceful girl, that 
her cousin, the count's widow, who wanted somebody 
to enliven her large dreary hotel in the Faubourg, 
and cheer up her very small parties, said she would 
introduce her to good society. Who knew but the girl 
might make a brilliant match, and the marquis might 
give her a dowry ? 

If there was ever the slightest probability of the 
latter event, it was rendered null and void by an 
unlucky meeting at mass in the Madeleine, where 
Silvestre saw Adelise, and Adelise saw Silvestre. Both 
remembered that they were relations. An acquaint- 
ance and a love-making followed ; and then, in spite 
of all good adrices and every manner of warning, 
the pair would make a match of it Of course the 
marquis was consulted by a family deputation, for he 
lived in strict retirement, at least from his relatives, 
though liis house was never empty of company and 
cards. His decision was given in the course of a 
fortnight: that the young unmanageables should be 
married with all convenient speed, supplied with two 
cheap suits each, and sent to live at tneir ancestors' 
hunting-lodge in Brittany. These orders were carried 
into immediate execution. The lovers promised to 
pray for the marquis all their days, and went rejoicing, 
with the two cheap suits, to lead a life of Arcadian 
simplicity and unalloyed happiness, under the 
administration of old Jacquette, who had been 
Silvestre's nurse, and stewardess of the ch&teau and 
garden-ground, ever since he grew too tall for her 

Their appointed residence was situated in a wild 
and solitary dell about a league from the village of 
St Amand. The country round was half marsh and 
half moorland ; it had once been a forest, and in some 
spots there was still underwood enough for the wolf 
and wild-cat to bring up their families. The house 
had been a low square fabric, with four turrets ; these 
were gone, and so was part of the roof. There were 
jast four rooms habitable on the ground-floor, and 
only two of them furnished, with chattels which 
Jacquette had inherited from her grandmother ; but 
the arms of Courtois were still discoverable over its 
moss-grown entrance. There was a tradition that a 
robber had been hanged there by one of its ancient 
lords ; so the whole country was proud of the place, 
and called it the Cii&teau St Amand. St Amand 
itself was one of the poorest and oldest-fashioned 
villages in all Brittany. Under the roofs of its timber 
cottages, the cows and the sheep, the hens and the 
family, all lived sociably together. They ground 
corn there with a handmill, and believed that the 
oxen talked to each other every Christmas-eve. No 
physician or notary had ever looked for practice 
there ; no government had ever thought it worth while 
to appoint a pri/et or postmaster in that village. 
All its public afiairs were managed by Father Martin; 
he had said mass in St Amand for thirty years, and so 
many changes of governors had occurred in that time, 
that the good man could never distinctly make out 
who had last come back to the Tuileries ; but nobody 
had ever known him to forget a fraction of his own 
dues. Under such temporal and spiritual direction, 
a Breton village might do very well without physician 
or notary, postmaster or prdfet; but it could never 
do without a wise woman ; and that important office 
was, by common consent, assigned to the stewardess 
of the ch&tenu. Noboby knew her age ; the more her 
hair grizzled, the more carefully did Jacquette cover 

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it with the red handkerchief which formed her only 
head-dress. Sun and wind had brought a naturally 
dark complexion to the identical tint of the russet 
woollen gown she wore invariably week-days and 
Sundays. Jacquette*8 costume was not rechnrchi, 
nor her beauty striking ; but she was a short, robust, 
muscular woman, very active, very thrifty, generally 
good-humoured, and always proud of herself and her 
munsion. In one of its furnialied rooms she had lived 
with her cow for the last ten years, keeping the other, 
which contained the flower of her grandmother's 
legacy, religiously shut up against the coming of the 
young master ; for it was her conviction that, when 
Silvestre made his fortune, or a great match in Paris, 
he would retire to his family seat and live like a 
Courtols. In the meantime, Jacquette looked after 
her one cow and bit of garden-ground as the only 
estate she had to manage ; and never were cow and 
garden turned to greater advantage. The good 
woman was accustomed to boast that she grew tlie 
strongest garlic, and made the hardest cheese, in the 
commune. Certain it was that on the cow and garden 
she lived, and contrived to save something— how 
much, no man was permitted to know — and that 
mystery, as usual, added importance to the subject. 
But though deeply respected on this account, Jac- 
quette was still more venerated by the viilagert for a 
faculty she had of dreaming. It was asserted even 
by Father Martin, that no event, public or private, 
had ever fallen out in the land, without informa- 
tion of its coming being conveyed to her some- 
where between the setting and rising of the sun. 
The number of births, deaths, and marriages she had 
thus foretold, would have astonished anybody but a 
Bas Br^ugne. The loss of cattle and slieep, the falling 
of old houses, and the occurrence of thunder-storms, 
had been made known to her witliout measure. The 
young people of St Amand were accustomed to con- 
sult her regarding the prosperity of their love-affairs, 
the old about the probabilities of their harvests; and 
Father Martin lumself held conferences with her in 
hard winters touching his Christmas dues. 

To this gifted woman, her cow, h«r garden, and her 
two fnmiriied rooms in that crumbling old house, 
came the newly married pair. Of all the relations, 
Jacquette had been most disappointed and indignant 
at the match, particularly, it was thought, because she 
had received false information on the subject in some 
of her dreams, and predicted a charming bride and' 
a surprising dowry for Silvestre. The honest woman 
scolded them to the whole village till they arrived ; 
then she did her best to make them welcome: opened 
the state-apartment, turned the cow into an empty 
one, worked early and late to make things go far 
enough for three, taught them all she knew of 
gardening and cow-management, and kept a sharp 
eye on their conduct, for Jacquette knew they were 
but foolish young people. Count nor seigneur had 
resided in tliat neighbourhood for three hundred 
years ; the villagers had, in consequence, an immense 
respect for nobility ; and, as the young strangers were 
of the house of Courtois, did not wear sabots, and 
enjoyed the protection of Jacquette, they were 
received with uncommon reverence at the church and 
market of St Amand. It was not a gay life or 
a very promising one, but Silvestre and Adelise were 
in those years when prospects are of little account, 
and in that state of mind which makes people every- 
thing to each other. Tlie young man had not been 
long enough in view of having soonething done for 
him, to miss that outlook and ill its accompaniments. 
The girl had seen just sniBcient of her cousin's good 
society to know that it regarded her as a young 
person brought home from the convent to be disposed 
of if possible. They had been poor and despised in 
Paris, it was better to be poor and revereaoed in 

Brittany; so they lived contentedly under Jacqsette^B 
government^ Aared her labours and her fare, and 
repeated to each other aU the verses they ooald 
remember about the happiness of a quiet oonntry-Iifey 
far from the cares of courts and the sins of cities. 

Things had proceeded in this fkshion for about six 
months at the diftteau St Amand. By good-Inck, 
no more of its roof had fallen in, nor had the cracics 
in its walls grown much wider, and there was every 
probability of its holding out for the rest of that 
season, as the winter storms were almost over and 
Easter at hand ; yet her cow and two old hens, aoena- 
tomed as they were to the good woman's eocentridties, 
must have been astonished one Saturday morning, 
for Jacquette got up sighing and groaning, as if not 
only her own days, but those of the chftteau had been 
numbered. The young people were not permitted Co 
know it, but they could not help seeing that there 
was something wrong: she groaned over her spinnings 
wheel, she grieved to her garden spade, she paused in 
frying an omelet to cross herself devoutly, and 
admonished them to go and say theur prayers. Bfoi« 
amazed than edified by these signs of affliction, 
they naturally began to fear that Jacquette's senses 
were giving her the slip ; but, after mass next day, 
when they stayed to see the dance on the village- 
green, the secret was revealed to her Sunday visitor. 
It has been stated on good authority that there is no 
such thing in France as a woman without a lover. 
The stewardess of the ch&teau, accordingly, had one: 
the widow Renee's son, commonly known in the viUitge 
as Lazy Jules, had paid his respects to her every' 
Sunday evening, through shower and shine, for the 
last five years, and b^n hospitably treated to the 
hard cheese and tlie strong garlic. For the latter 
delicacy Lazy Jules had a special preference ; but, on 
this eventful evening, instead of producing the con- 
sumables as usual af^r the first salutations, Jacquette 
seated herself on the opposite bench, crossed her 
arms, and gave a deep groan. 
< What is the matter ?* said Lazy Jules. 
* Don't ask me,' said Jacquette; * I would not tell It 
for all the world ; but I suppose I must to you, Jules. 
Listen then, but you won't speak of it — ^no, not to 
Father Martin himself. I had such a dream on 
Saturday morning, just before the cock crew. Jules, 
I can't make it out ; but I never had such sorrow in 
my sleep. I thought that Father Martin had come 
here early in the morning— though, good man, he 
never gets up too soon— and brought, oh, such bad 
news to my young master and mistress. What it was, 
I cannot remember, nor make out at all ; but I woke 
with the tears in my eyes and the grief in my heart, 
and I know there is some great evil hanging over 
them. Maybe, it's my own going home, Jules. I 
have led a good life and a hai^d one, and should not 
care much fiir myself. Nobody would miss me, I 
suppose,' and she glanced at Lazy Jules inquiringly. 
< But these young people, what would become of them 
without a caretaker ? ' 

On which grievous consideration, Jacquette began 
to cry. Lazy Jules assured her she was good for 
forty years to come, seriously recommended her to 
trust in Providence, and finding that the cheese and 
garlic were not forthcoming, he soon after tadk his 

Jules had been for some time contemplating the 
propriety of breaking off his suit. A suspicion had 
crossed both him and his mother that Jacquette's 
savings might not be as considerable as they had 
been led to imagine; and now that such shadows of 
coming evil had fallen on her sleep, his resolution 
was taken, never to be found another Sunday at the 
chftteau. In the succeeding week, his spare hours— 
and they were always numerous with that young roan 
—were spent in imparting to the whole neighbourhood 

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the tale which wis not to be commmiicAted eren to 
Father Martin himaelf ; and before the next Sunday, 
all St Amand were wuting for the chfttean to be 
blown down or burned, in fulfilment of Jacquette*8 
dream, and were alio aware that Lazy Jules had 
determined to yisit there no more. Of course, the 
state of the public mind at length reached the ears 
of the wise woman ; and what she said on the occa* 
sion concerning Jules, his mother, his family, and his 
ancestors, need not be recorded here, for Jacquette's 
tongue was none of the smoothest when she had cause 
of wrath ; but the scold was not fairly over till about 
three weeks after, when she was roused one morning 
in the early gray by a loud knocking at the outer 
door. The gw)d woman's heart died within her as 
Father Martin presented himself; but the priest's 
countenance was full of joy and triumph. 

^Wake up your young master and mistress,' he 
said, 'for I hare brought news they will dance to 
hear, in spite of all your dreams. The old Biarquis 
of Courtois is dead, and has left all his fortune to 

Father Martin never made a joke about money ; it 
was too sacred in his eyes. Jacquette knew that; 
and scarcely was his tale told, till she was at the bed- 
side of the slee^nng pair, Tigorously shaking them 
both, and crying : * Get up, get up ; you'll lie no more 
in my old grandmotliei's bed, nor eat garden-herbs ; 
there's silks and satins, horses and carriages for you ; 
you 11 go to mass with two fbotmen behind, and be 
called my lord and my lady.' 

After this rousing, it was some time before the 
young people could understand that Jacquette's 
senses had not departed, and that the legacy for 
which the whole house of Courtois had done suit 
and serTice before they were bom, was actually 
their own. The old marquis had died at last, and 
whether to disappoint all his relations, amiable 
man, or to enrich the only promising members 
of the family, he had proTiousiy made his will in 
favour of Silvestre and Adelise, constituting them 
joint-heirs of all his possessions except the title, 
which descended to his heir-at-law, a lieutenant in 
the African Chasseurs, whom the noble marquis had 
cordially hated. Tlie rage and disgust of his numer- 
ous relatives when this testament was made public, 
may be imagined. They unanimously refused to 
attend any mass said for the soul of the deceased, 
and it was debated among the pillars of the house in 
Paris, whether or not a commission of lunacy should 
not be had recourse to. Equally high rose the tide of 
public feeling at St Amand. It was feared that the 
widow Benee and her son would drown themselres on 
the first announcement of the event ; but they only 
set off for Upper Br^tagne. Jacquette utterly lost 
lier repute for dreaming from that day ; nobody 
would believe in any subsequent revelation she might 
get in her sleep; but the honest soul thanked Qod 
and all the saints; and it was glorious to hear her 
dilate on the new roof, the four turrets, and the 
general plastering tlie ch&teau would get when her 
young master and mistress came back from Paris in 
full possession of their great fortune, to keep their 
family coach, and buy up the whole country, with 
the right of hunting boars and hanging robben, like 
their noble ancestors in the good old times. 

To Paris her young master and mistress went in 
pursuit of their legacy. They had left that centre of 
civilisation under the cloud of a penniless marrisge— 
they returned to it people of mark and consideration, 
protected by notaries, and envied by all their relations. 
As the commission of lunacy was not likely to be got, 
the latter transferred to them the homage they had 
been so long accustomed to pay the departed marquis. 
Once established in his h&tel, friends and adrisers mul- 
tiplied around them, every one endeavouring to make 

those young people so fresh from the country sensible 
of wants and requisites becoming their new position. 
Wliat the granduncle and cousin of former days did 
or proposed to do, history does not inform us; but 
Silvestre and Adelise were introduced to fashion, to 
elegance, and to society with the celerity known only 
to the happy possessors of large fortunes. German, 
barons, Italian counts, and Russian princes came and 
did them honour. Madame learned the value of 
diamonds. Monsieur the use of cards. They forgot 
nil the verses about country-life; they did not like 
to hear Bas Br^tagne mentioned, lest the chiteau 
and Jacquette might come to people's knowledge, 
and it would have been an unpardonable ofl'ence to 
suppose that they had ever been out of Paris. 

These were not the only changes their good-fortune 
wrought on the young Courtois. At the particular 
suggestion of their evil genius, the marquis had so 
made his will that it was impossible to say where 
their individual rights terminated, or what was the 
boundary of each legatee. They would not have 
disputed for mere bank-paper or acres; but there 
was a latent love of power and oommand in both 
characters, which had not been visible in the young 
man for whom something was to be done : in the girl 
brought home fh>m the convent, or in the pair who 
married for love without a sou, and lived and gardened 
with Jacquette in the ruined chateau. Scarcely had 
the novelty of being in Paris and having money 
worn off, when questions regarding privileges and 
proprietorship begsn to arise. The joint legacy 
made them separate interests. First came debates, 
and then quarrels. The husband found out his 
authority, the wife her munitions of war. Both 
parties got lawyers and friends. Within a year after 
their happy accession, they were holding rival sUte 
and receptions in the marquis's great house. Adelise 
was flirting desperately with a Russian prince of the 
true Tatar type^ by way of avenging her wrongs; 
and Silvestre was paying court to a terribly rouged 
duchess of sixty-five. There were temporary recon- 
ciliations, and still fiercer quarrels. There were 
family councils, and suits in law-courts ; and at 
length, all Paris talked of the trial of a lady, young 
and beautiful, rich and nobly bom, but accused of 
poisoning her hnsband^it was said to frustrate his 
design of shutting her up in a lunatic asylum. 

Jacquette had gardened and spun, and looked after 
her cow almost two summers; every evening and 
morning walking up to the rising ground above the 
village, in hopes of seeing her young master and 
mistress return with the family coach and other 
requisites for putting on the new roof and four 
turrets. Letters never came or went from St 
Amand. Jacquette knew no surer method of getting 
intelligence of her young people than a journey to 
Paris. It was a long way, and made a sad inroad on 
her savings ; but she reached the great city just in 
time to hear that Madame Courtois had escaped the 
guillotine— her sentence being commuted, in con- 
sideration of the above-mentioned set-off, to twenty 
years' imprisonment Sad of heart, and sorely dis- 
appointed, the faithfiil stewardess returned home. 
She never told the story to anybody but Father 
Martin; and in process of time, it seemed to have 
dipped out of her own mind, for as the roof crambled 
away, and the walls grew more crazy, she was accus- 
tomed to wonder to the good villagers who looked in 
upon her and her respected mansion, why the young 
people did not come back and begin tiie repairs. 
Latterly, as revolutions multiplied in the land, and 
even the Bas Bretons began to talk potitics, she was 
heard to say that things would never be right in 
France till the chftteau got iU new roof and four 
turrets ; but the predictions of her later years had 
no weight with the people of St Amand, for th^ 

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remembered that a great fortune had corae to 
Jacquette'8 yonng master and mistreM, in apite of 
her false dream. 

To say that hot weather has been the clilef subject 
talked about, tliat it has taken the vivacity out of all 
other topics, except, perhaps, the noisoroenesa of the 
Thames, is to begin with a truism. As usual in 
extraordinary coses, Mr Glaisher and his brother 
meteorologists have been trying to find a parallel 
season, and they have had to go back forty years. 
Such extreme heat before mid-summer is indeed 
n rare phenomenon. As a consequence, rains almost 
tropical in charncter have fallen. In one of the 
storms, three inches of rain fell at Birmingham 
within three hours, and one half of the quantity in 
twenty minutes. Hence we of the temperate Eone 
have seen somewhat of the effects of great heat and 
moisture peculisr to the torrid zone. 

The functionaries of the Britisli Association have 
issued a very good-natured circular, to announce the 
meeting at Leeds for September next— 22d to 29th— 
and to invite many, both Britons and foreigners, to the 
gathering, assuring them of amusement and comfort, 
as well as science. They promise a sight of manufac- 
tures, of interesting natural scenery, caverns, cascades, 
and so forth, attractive alike to the geologist and 
artist. If tlie invitation had only promised, besides, 
an entire absence of smoke, it would have been 

With a view to foster their art, the Photographic 
Society are organising a scheme for the exchange of 
photographs among their members.— Photography is 
now brought into play for one of oar social usages ; 
and people who make morning-calls, instead of leaving 
a card with their name, will henceforth leave a card 
on which their own portrait has been photographed 
in miniature. Likenesses instead of names; the 
notion is a good one; but will the select few who 
indulge in the luxury have a fresh portrait taken 
every year to insure a faithful likeness ? 

According to official returns, the quantity of paper 
charged with duty in this country in 1857 was 
187,414,667 pounds, shewing a decrease from the 
former year. This falling off, it is said, would not 
have taken place but for the injurious and unfair 
operation of the paper-duty. Were this duty taken 
off, we should see a rapid development of ingenuity 
in the art of paper-making— materials which cannot 
now be worked up at a profit would then come into 
use, and many a languishing mill would revive into 
busy life. The government is not prepared to remove 
the tax ; but the House of Commons have resolved 
that the duty on paper is * Impolitic,' so we may hope 
that in the course of next session the obnoxious 
impost will be repealed. 

Mr Carrington of Redhill Observatory has drawn 
up a sot of instructions for the guidance of astron- 
omers who may travel to South America to observe 
tlie forthcoming eclipse of the sun. It has been 
suggested, that while one party observes on the east 
coast, and another on the west, a third should take 
observations from one of the elevations of the Andes, 
between the two. — We hear that the United States 
government, now that the delusion alx)ut 'British 
outrnges * has died away, intend to equip an expedi- 
tion to follow up the discoveries made by the late Dr 
Kane within the Arctic Circle. — ^News from the Niger 
expedition reports that Dr Baikie was at Rabba in 
good health and condition.— We have another in- 
stance of the intelligence of the New Zealanders in 
the establishment of the Port Nicholson MtMsenger, a 

newspaper printed in the native language for the 
benefit of the natives. Communications from natirei 
in their own vernacular are frequent ; and considering 
the advances they have made in other ways, we shall 
not be surprised to hear before long of Maori editon, 
printers, compositors, and publishers. — At Cape 
Town, a new building has been erected for a library 
and museum ; which affords satisfactory evidence 
that money-making does not, as has been said, engron 
the whole attention of our brethren on the other nde 
of the globe. 

In a communication to the Statistical Society cq 
Public Works in India, Colonel Sykes rectifies certaio 
popular misconceptions, and shews that much more has 
been done than is commonly supposed. Nearly nine 
thousand miles of road have been made in tlie Pan- 
jaub states— the countries on both aides of the Indus 
— ^in Hazara— the Peshawar Valley, since 1853. A 
considerable portion is, of course, roughish in qualitj; 
but a rough road is better than none, and improve- 
mcnts are continuous and systematic. The Grand 
Trunk-rond from Calcutta to Delhi, 837 miles, it as 
good as any turnpike-road in England, and cost 
L.489,100. The Great Deccan Road from Mirz&poor 
to Nagpoor is 400 miles in length, and the road from 
Bombay to Agra, 785 miles. Four steamers and four 
flats ply on the Ganges, and on the Indus ten of eacli. 
A line' of what are called steam-trains is to lie 
established on the river, to run between the tenninns 
of the Sind railway at Kotree, and Moultsn, the 
terminus of the Pnnjaub railway, each train to be 
capable of carrying a tliousand men, or a proportionate 
burden of merchandise. The whole outlay for public 
works in 1854-55 was L.2,280,P00. Irrigation works 
are in progress ; and where these are introduced, the 
land is fertilised, and the wealth of the empire 
increased. The Ganges Canal is to yield L.l45,O0O 
a year of revenue. The value of water is great in » 
country where little or no rain falls for eight months 
of the year ; but, as Colonel Sykes observes, it is not 
all land tliat will bear a water-rate, and <it is, more- 
over, quite a mistake to suppose that the bulk of the 
population in India lives upon rice, which, from 
requiring a water-supply, has its cost so much 
enhanced above that of the plentiful panicums and 
sorghums : as a general food, the consumption of rice 
is only general in the low districts of Bengal, Orissa, 
Madras, and Malabar.' 

The carrying out of public works in India is a very 
diffbrent thing from what it is in this country, wlicre 
all means and appliances are abundant. There the chief- 
engineer must be ready with manual labour as well ss 
mental labour; 'his resources are cliiefly in himselfi 
for he must be not only the designer of tlie vork^ 
but the head-mason, the head-carpenter, the hm 
brick and lime-burner ; in fact, the man of all detail) 
and of all general design.' 

The Acclimation Society of Paris, having obtained 
a grant of fifteen hectares of land in the Bois de 
Boulogne, are about to establish a garden for the 
better carrying out of tlieir various operations, which 
are 'to acclimatise, multiply, and distribute aninrial 
and vegetable species, either useful or agreeable. 
With this resource the Society will be able to tt<JConv 
plish more than heretofore. As we have shewn froni 
time to time, they have already done great things = 
they have introduced the j'ak, with its wool, into 
France ; a new species of yam, as a substitute lo: 
the potato ; potatoes fresh from South America, to 
renovate the worn-out stocks of Europe ; the sweet 
sorgho, in the culture of which Southern Europe will 
become a sugar-producing country ; the silkworm oi 
the castor-oil plant— Pa/ma Christi, and with such 
success, that the worm is now in its twenty-fir>' 
brood, and is accustomed to feed on the leaves of the 
teasel ; moreover, by careful managementi the hatching 

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of the eggs is made to time with tlie growth of the 
teasel leaves. This is a remarkable result, as the 
silkworm in question is a native of Algeria, where 
the warm temperature is earlier than in France. 
Aided by French missionaries in different parts of the 
world, the Society have nearly succeeded in propagat- 
ing the oak-silkworm in the open air, in countries 
where the climate is dry. And Uiey have recently 
received plants of the Loza^ a species of buckthorn, 
which produces Chinese green, or green indigo, as it 
is sometimes called ; which plants, it is said, will 
bear the winter of Paris. Other facts might be 
enumerated; but in these the Society fully demon- 
strate their claim to consideration. 

This Chinese green will become a Taluable addition 
to industrial resources, particularly for dyers. M. 
Rondot has vnritten a book about it, entitled Notice du 
Vert dt Chine, giving a clear history of that remark- 
able product and its properties. The book contains 
specimens of calico and silk dyed with the * green,' 
and engravings of two plants, Rhammu vtUis, and 
JRAamntu ckhrophonts, from which it is derived. These 
plants are new to European cultivators; they are, 
however, allies of the BhamnuB theezans, which has long 
been known as a tree from which the poorest class of 
Chinese pluck the leaves to use as a substitute for 
tea. The colour of the dyed silk is remarkably bright, 
a blue green, one of tliat class of colours which 
increase in brilliance in the light. It contains, in 
fact, some immediate principle which can only 
be developed by light, and it is a nice task for 
chemists to discover what this is. Persoz says 
that light will have to be more and more regarded as 
An industrial agent ; and' of the Chinese green he 
remark! that it is euigensHsy containing neither yellow 
nor blue. By experiments made at Lyon, it appears 
that six species of the European Bhammts will yield 
a green dye : all the others are to be tried. 

Natural history has been somewhat popularised of 
late, and now another contrivance for promoting the 
study is put forward in tiie Buttei^y Vivarium. 
Youthful students will doubtless derive as much 
pleasure and amusement from butterflies and moths 
as from fishes and water-snails. We have heard, too, 
of a Bryarium — a glass-case for mosses^a description 
of which was communicated a short time since by the 
Rev. H. Higgins to the Linnsean Society. He fits the 
case with shelves, and keeps the plants in pots in 
proper soil, and waters them when needful by means 
of a syringe. Some of the pots require to be placed 
in trays of water. In this way a large collection of 
mosses may be grown ; and a little experience shews 
which kinds thrive best. Mr Higgins finds some 
species of Bryum very successful, and mentions the 
Fissidenta as *gems for cultivation.' 

A botanical subject reminds us that a veteran 
botanist, Mr Robert Brown, died last month, at the 
age of eighty-five. He was in many respects a 
remarkable man. As keeper of the Botanical Depart- 
ment in the British Museum, he continued his duties 
there within a few weeks of his decease, retaining his 
usual clearness of mind and cautiousness of expres- 
sion ; and his sight was so good that he never wore 
spectacles. In him we have lost a link with the men 
of science of the past generation—John Edward 
Smith, the founder of the Linnasan Society, Banks, 
Solander, Davy, and others. 

Mr Sdater has read a paper before the Linnsean, in 
which he attempts to systematise a part of natural 
history in a way tliat will interest naturalists. Among 
the facts which he brings forward, he states that 
tliere are in the globe 7500 species of birds, and 6000 
square miles of ^e globe's si^ace to each species. 

The fourth volume of General Sabine's translation 
of Humboldt's Cotmos is published, ur rather the first 
part of the fourth Tolume, containing, however, 699 

pages. It treats of the * organic and inorganic 
domain;' coming down from the sidereal universe, 
where we can use only our eye, to tlie earth, which 
we can examine and experiment on by our other 
senses and other means, and in which we are more 
interested. It sums up what is known of the pheno- 
mena of terrestrial msgnetism ; of the density and 
ellipticity of the earth ; of certain rolcanic phenomena 
of the aurora ; and all with the same masterly insight 
and power of generalisation as in the former volumes. 

Apropos of volcanic phenomena, Sir Charles Lyell 
has read a paper before the Royal Society on lavas 
and the formation of Etna. His recent visits to 
Sicily and Naples, and persevering and laborious 
investigations while on the spot, have led him to 
conclusions opposed to those of Von Buch and Elie 
de Beaumont, who hold that volcanic craters are the 
result of upheaval. Sir Cliarles attributes them 
rather to the repeated outpourings of molten ma- 
terial which have built them up, so to speak, on the 
outside. With this the question is raised, and now 
geologists of both schools have only to argue it out to 
a true conclusion. Meanwhile, Vesuvius is pouring 
out new fioods of lava, repeating phenomena which 
they may witness with their own eyes, and inform 
themselves by actual operations. Sir C. Lyell 
expresses surprise that so little should be known of 
the last eruption of Etna, 1854-55, and so little 
notice taken of it, considering its magnitude — the 
greatest for centuries. Where, on his former visit, 
he had seen verdant glens and forests, now all is 
obliterated, and for many a league the eye views 
nothing but ridges of black lava. 

Some curious experiments have lately been made, 
shewing the efiects of electricity on thin jets of 
water. If an electriser be held near a jet which 
forms a sheaf-like stream on passing through an 
orifice, the dispersion ceases, and it be«>mes a single 
thread of water ; but if the electriser be brought yet 
nearer, then the drops are reproduced. Again, hold 
an electrised stick of sealing-wax at the top of a 
small column of water, and the cyliildrical form will 
be unbroken; but shift the electriser to the base, 
and the brush forms at once at the top of the jet. — 
Mr Faraday shews that if a ball be placed on a fiat 
metaUic plate connected with a Grove's battery, it 
(the ball) sends off a stream of sparks as soon as the 
current is established, and runs rapidly around the 
plate.— De la Rive, in a letter to Mr Faraday, 
explains a method by which he produces an artificial 
aurora. Into a glass balloon, he introduces one end 
of a bar of soft iron, fitted with the necessary con- 
nections; he exhausts the air, and sends in a very 
small quantity of vapour of alcohol, ether, or turpen- 
tine, and then making a communication with a 
Ruhmkorff's coil, he gets an aurora on and around 
the end of the rod, which throws off luminous corus- 
cations and rotates quickly. The direction of tho 
rotation may be changed at pleasure. But for sur- 
prising effects product by electrical discharges in a 
vacuum, Mr Gassiot's experiments, shewn before the 
Royal Society, excel all other. He produces quivering 
bands of light of surpassing beauty ; and to demon- 
strate what further can bo accomplished, he is making 
glass tubes for the vacuums of dimensions far ex- 
ceedmg any hitherto attempted for the same purpose. 
Out of all tills it is thought we shall arrive at some 
positive conclusions concerning the phenomena of the 
aurora, besides other manifestations of electricity. 

As regards a useful practical application of elec- 
tricity, we hear that a manufacturing chemist in 
France^ taking advantage of the sulphates thrown 
down by a battery in action, has pr(>duced 180,000 
kilogrammes of ' metallic white,' fit for house-painters, 
since 1858. 

Advances have been made in the pbysiolo^cal 

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applicatioxiB: Mittdelidorff of Brealau heats wires 
to a white heat by means of a battery, and asei them 
for cauterisiDg ulterior surfaces, or to cut off tumours. 
The advantage is said to be great, because the wire 
can be applied to the part affected before heating, and 
that the beat, though intense, can be withdrawn as 
instantaneously as it is produced, and the patient is 
spared the alarm of seeing a red-hot wire brought 
near his &ce^ breast, &c— llie Nuovo CvmaOo contains 
an account of experiments 1^ Count LinaU on that 
interesting subject— the reinvigoration of nervous 
energy by electricity. He brings a current fh>m 
a DanieU's battery to bear at the same time on the 
dorsal and the epigastric regions of his patients for 
two or three hours at a sitting; and, after several 
sittings, he finds that the circulation is increased in 
activity by about one-serenth, with a more energetic 
pulse ; tliat the respiratory function is augmented in 
a similar degree, as also that of the stomach and 
intestines, while the repairing power of assimilation is 
sensibly facilitated. 

A finog poisoned with emrart, that South American 
poison, exhibits curious results: the nerve will not 
contract on the application of electricity--shew8, 
indeed, not the slightest sign of sensibility; but if 
the muscle is touched with the wires, it contracts 
strongly, and preserves tlie contractile power longer 
than if unpoisoned. Cold has the effect of diminishmg 
the rapidity of a current of electricity through a 
nerve ; a fact from which operators may take a hmt. 
M. Duchenne of Boulogne — on whom a decoration was 
lately oonfiened by a decree published in the Moniieur 
—turning these and oth» conclusions to account, has 
demonstrated, and with marked success, the thera- 
peutic effects of electricity. He owes much of his 
success to the means by which he localises his 
applications. He makes use of three terms in his 
process— namely, electrisation, galvanisation, and Fara- 
disation ; the last, which is induced electricity, is the 
best agent in muacnlar electrisation, especially when 
required to be long continued, and is, as M. Duchenne 
avers, M< medical electricity par excenenee. By dint 
of experiment, he has determined the proper dose for 
the respective nerves and musdei^ an esaential con- 
sideration, seeing that an OTerdose involves danger, and 
the patient might find himself fixed with a contraction, 
or deformity, greater than that he wished to cure. 
Some of M. Duchenne's cures are astonishing; by 
persevering in his electric applications, he has restored 
paralysed and contracted limbs to thehr natural con- 
dition, inducing the power of roluntary motion ; and 
when that is once achieved, even in a small degree^ he 
leaves it to the will to finish the work. His electric 
moxa is described as more severe than the actual 
application of fire. 

Mr Gant, of the Boyal Free Hospital, has published 
an inquiry on tlie Evil BuulU of Oeerfitding CatiUj 
the main point of which is, that meat forced and 
formed unnaturally is unwholesome ; hence disturb- 
ance or loss of health in those who eat thereof. 
Cattle, sheep^ and pigs, are now fed up to a size 
quite disproportionate to their age, or rather to their 
youth, that prizes m^ be won at eattle-showa. The 
heart and lungs are in consequence made to work at 
high-pressure; these organs thereby become diseased, 
and with them the whole carcass. Mr Gant tested 
liis conclusions by following the unwieldy creatures 
from the show to the slaughter-house, by observing 
what there took place^ ar^ by examination of the 
meat after it was cut up. Among the overfed 
animals, he mentions the Prince Consort's pigs as 
distressingly fat and heavy. These evils have been 
complaint of before; but the answer is, that by 
overfeeding a few, you improve the whole breed of 
cattle, and so supply the market with better meat. 
However, seehig that Messrs Lawes and Gilbert have 

written a paper on the feeding of cattle, and presented 
it to the Boyal Society, we mny hope em long to be 
in the possession of sound, practical condusions oo 
the subject. 

M. Gobley has made a carefal analysis of sduIi^ 
to determine anew the constituents of which those 
slow animals are formed, with a Tiew to ascertain 
whether they really do contain a cure for tbondc 
affections. His conclusions negatire the belief thtt 
the carbonate of lime acts on the tubercle; there is 
nothing, he says, ' which makes it poeeible to consider 
the constituents as exerting any specific action id 
maladies of the chest' 




Haying given a view of houeekeeping three hmdicd i 
years ago, we readily embrace an opportunitf tint I 
now presents itself of saying a word on the table 
observances of the time, as regarda preoedeoca 
A rare black-letter book, to be found among Biabop 
More's valuable collection in the Cambridge UIliTe^ * 
sity Library, and entitled 2%e BoIcb of Kervpgt | 
[Carving], W. de Worde, 1606-8, affords us so int^ ' 
resting insight into the table etiquette of our sneet- I 
tors of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It givea |{ 
us also an additional pnxtf of the fallacy of the pre- 
valent opinion as to the simple and patriarchal habits 
of our forefathers of 'the good old times.* In point 
of fact, society was hampered with ahsnrd oonveotioD- 
alities and cumbersome ceremonials, which (xAy 
ceased to be In vogue with the reigns of the laUer 

These relics of a quasi-obsolete feudalism, as regards 
the table arrangements, were atill fblly pracHaed in 
the households of Elizabeth and the first James. We 
read that fully half an hour was occupied, after tbe 
table had been laid for the royal repast, In entries m 
exits of court oflicials, ushers, marshals, dhamberiaioj 
and married and single ladies of honour, who eadi 
made a prostration or genufiection in turn on enteriof 
or retiring, either to imaginary miyesty, which vii 
not then present, or literally to the bread or tbe lait* 
&&, as was then, it seems, their duty. 

The present article treats of that portton of toe 
Boks of Kervyngo—tL species of servant's msnnil « 
the tune— which details the daties of the mum 
and usher in a nobleman's house^ and o(»ueq[aeBtI|r 
combines the etiquette of precedence^ ** ^ .^ 
existed. It eren gives us a tabular list of titles 
ranks, and oflioes, which cannot but be found iste- 
resting. . . 

Shenstone, a keen observer of the humsa torn 
says, that there are no persons so punctilious tf t^ 
preservation of rank, as those who have no rsok at 
all, while the querulous assumption of the po'^f"!! 
proverbial; and when we recollect that nobility J^ 
Europe, as an institution, certainly dates no for«^^ 
back than the eleventh century, we can esaSfy^'iOf^ 
for the tenacity witii which the notebles d the u»> 
at the feudal period held to their aristocratic ^^^j^. 
and the importance th^ assigned to its difiere°' 
phases and gradations. ^ 

In our own day, the exclusive order has been ^ 
ventilated ; but we rather believe that the ou»; 
mcroyabk member of the 'Upper Ten Thoo^i 
would be surprised to hear, that in the n"**;J: 
century a duke might not * kepe the hall, but 0«^ 
estatte by themselfe in chambere or in P*^^ v^t 
that is, that he could not eat in the pubUc rooiOi w» 
only in private with his own rank. _^-«r in 

There are a few moie things fully w intenftmg "* 
tbe following extracts : . ^ 

'The marahall and y usher mnft knowe » 

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ettattes of y« lande, and y« highe estotte of j^ kinge 
withe y« bloude lyall, the estatte of a kinge, of a 
kioge's too, a prynee, of a duke, of a marques, of ao 
erle, of a bysshop^ of a Tysecoiuite, of a beron, of y« 
three chiefe jodges, of a mayor of London, of a knighte 
batchelonr, of a knighte, deane, of y« archdeackon. 
Master of ye Bolles, of ye other judges and ye Barons 
of Cfaeker, of ye mayre of Calice [query, Calais], 
of a doctoor devine, of a doctonr of bothe ye 
lawes, of hym that bathe beene mayer of London and 
sargeannte of y« lawes. The estatte of a maister of 
the Chaanoerie (and othere worshypefall prechers), 
and clerkes that be gradoable, and al othere order of 
chast persons and prestos, worshypAill marchaontes 
and gentlemen— all these last may set at the squiers 

It mnst bare been something to hare had 'esquire' 
tacked to one's name in those days. Howeyer, could 
the editor of the quaint old Bote of Kervifnge be 
brought to life, and could be stop one of our modem 
postmen, he would bo as much astonndad as scan- 
dalised. But to proceed : 

'Marques, eries, bysshops, and Tyaooiuitea — al 
these may set togethere at a messe. 

'And beron, and mayer of London, and three chiefe 
judges, and ye Spekere of ye parlyment — all these 
may set, but onlle two or three at a messe. 

* And al other estattes may set, or three or foure 
at a messe. 

'Also, ye marshaUo must onderstand and knowe 
well of the bloude royall — ^for some lorde is of tlie 
bloude ryall, and peradventure of smal liTelyhood. 
And some pore knighte is forsoothe wedded unto a 
ladye of ryall bloude ; but she shall kepe, the estatte 
of lordes blonde, and therefor ye ryaU bloude shall 
haTe y« rererence as before haye I sayde. 

'Also, a marshalle must take grete hede of y« 
byrthe, and next of ye lyne of y« bloude ryall. 

' Also, must be take hede of the king his officers 
— of the chauncelor, steuard, chamberlui» tresurere, 
and comptrouller. 

' Also, ye marshalle must take hede onto al straun- 
gers, and put them onto worshyppe and reverance, 
for minde ; and if that they do have goode cheare, it 
is much to your sorerayne bis honnour. Also ye mar- 
shalle must take goode hede if that the kinge do 
sende your sorerayne anie message ; and if that he 
sende a knighte, receaye him lyke to a beron ; and if 
that he do sende but a yeoman, see ye receaye him 
lyke a squier ; and if he sende but a groome, receaye 
ye him lyke a yeoman. 

' Also marke, it is no rebuke eyen unto a knighte, 
that ye set a groome of ye kinge's at his tabelU 

* Thus endeth the Boke of Senryce and Caryynge 
and Seryinge, and al mannere of oflyces [in his kinde] 
onto a prynce, or anie otter [other] estatte, and al ye 
feeates in ye yeares.' 

It is amusing to remark, that all throughout 
this rare old tract, each seryant-^as in this case 
tlie usher or marshal, in our day known as 
groom of the chambers — inyariably styles his 
employer his ' soyereign.' The master may be a 
nobleman, howeyer, as Uiis quaint relic of the past sets 
forth on its title-page that its information is intended 
' for the seryyce of a prynce or anie otter estatte.' In 
those days, dukes, marquises, and earls were called 
< princes.' This brevet arrangement of titles of 
nobility was preyalent, indeed, for at least two cen- 
turies later ; and We find that the profligate Bucking- 
ham is addressed, in one of the seryile and fulsome 
dedications of the period, aa 'The most High and 
Paisaant Prince, the most Exalted and Noble Duke 
of Buckingham,' Ac. 

That portion of the abore extracts which speaks of 
some 'nore knighte' married to a lady of the 'ryall 
bloude,^ throws us back to the stormy period when 

faction, yiolenoe, or intrigue having disposed of 
British kings in the yery summary way peculiar to 
our early history, set up new occupants of the 
throne^ whose families, and even distant connections, 
must haye been often surprised to haye suddenly 
found themselyes included in the 'ryall bloud.' The 
marshals and ushers' of those days would have found 
such changes particularly perplexing to them occa- 
sionally^ in tlie exercise of their somewhat onerous 
and responsible yocations. 


Thb following truthful narratiye exhibits, we think, 
a degree of devotion in the pursuit of sdenoe under 
difficulties which baa rarely been paralleled. 

There liyes at present in Banff a journeyman shoe- 
maker named Thomas Edwards. Ever since he can 
remember, Mr Edwards has had a strong predilection 
for pursuits connected with natural history; more 
especially, he has deyoted himself to making a col- 
lection of the land-mnimals of the district around 
Ban£( as well as the prodnetions of the neighbouring 
sea. In making this collection, he was engaged for 
eleyen years. During flye particular summers— 
between 1840 and 1846 — when he was from about 
twenty-fiye to thirty years of age, Edwards generally 
passed only part of two nights each week in his own 
hoase— namely, ftom a little before twelve on Satur- 
day night tin late on Sunday morning ; and again on 
Sabbath evening till near dawn on Monday morning. 
But eyen this latter portion of the night he frequently 
passed dozing in a chair, or lying across his bed, 
haying previously donned his working-clothes, so as 
to be prepared to start with the first peep of day. 
All this time Edwards was working from six in the 
morning till between eight and nine at night; his 
wages, with which he maintained a wife and a family 
of five daughters, bemg about tweWe shillings a week. 
The other nights of the week, unless a storm prevented 
him, he spent out of doors in the woods with his gun, 
or by the sea-shore^ or wherever he expected to find 
what he was in search of; but regularly he was at 
home for Ids work by six in the morning. • 

He used to sleep an hour or so during the darkest 
part of the night, whereyer he found himself; if the 
rain was heayy, if possible under a tree, or such-like 
accommodation ; if not, he did without shelter at all. 
By perseyering thus, he made a collection numbering 
two thousand specimena. These, on certain fair-days, 
he used to arrange in the town-hall— filling three 
sides — ^and expose for a small charge. Sometimes 
he made a pound or two thia way. Unfortunately, 
he was advised, some years ago^ to try an exhibition 
in Aberdeen. He paid a pound a week as rent for 
a shop in Union Street, and advertised liberally. 
The consequences were to him ruinous. In six weeks 
he was hopelessly in debt. A party of equestrians 
arriyed in the town, and, to use Edwuds's own words, 
' a few came to him after the performance, and sud 
the birds were nearly as good as the horses'— not so 
the mass. He commenced by charging sixpence, and 
ended by admitting visitors for a penny ; but all was 
in yain. 

Not haying the means to pay the charges he had 
incurred, he adyertised his collection for sale, and, 
after considerable negotiation, got L.20 for it. This 
sum cleared him of Aberdeen, and brought him 
back to Banff, a sadder, if not a wiser man. For a 
while he was sorely discouraged ; but, by and by, his 
old tastes returned, and although pursued now with 
moderated seal— for exposure has not strengthened 
his constitution— Tom has again begun to collect 
specimens, baa been appointed keeper of the local 
museum, which he has aided in bringing to high 
order, and, with two or three able coadjutors, is 

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again eagerly employed in illuatrating the natural 
history of Banff. 

Wliile still a journeyman shoemaker, he corre- 
sponds, on his faTourite subject, with several magazines, 
as the Naturalist and the Zoologist^ and his services 
are recognised by Mr Spence Bate and Mr C. W. 
Peach, well known for their zeal in natural history. 


Db Casaubon, in his work, entitled Of Credulity and 
Incredulity in Things Natural, Civil, and Divine, printed 
in tlie year 1668, speaks of one John Young, a 'horse- 
courser/ as follows : 

* Whilst we were above, in the best room I had, and 
the servantB in the kitchin by the fire ; my son—the only 
I then bad, or since have had ; some twelve or thirteen 
years of age — comes in with his mastiff, which he was 
very fond of, as the mastiff was of him. John Young, to 
make himself and the company sport : " What will you 
say, sir/' saith he, " if I make your dog, without touching 
of him, lie down, that he shall not stir?" Or to that 
effect My son — for it was a mastiff of great strength 
and courage, which he was not a little proud of— defied 
him. He presently to pipe, and the mastiff, at a distance, 
to reel ; which, when the boy saw, astonished and amazed, 
he began to cry out. But the man, fearing some disturb- 
ance in the house^ changed his tune, or forbare further 
piping, I know not which, and tlie dog suddenly became 
as well and as vigorous as before. Of this I knew notliing, 
till the company was gone. Then a maid of the house 
observing that I much wondered at it, and wished I had 
seen it — ** O master,*' said she, " do you wonder at it ? 
This man doth it familiarly, and more than that, the 
fiercest horse or bull that is, if he speak but a word or 
two in their ears, they become presently tame, so that 
they may be led with a string ; and he doth use to ride 
tbem in the sight of all people." * 

Dr Casaubon hears also, upon good authority, that 
' this man was once in company, and being in the mood, 
or to that effect, began to brag what he could do to any 
dog, were he never so great or so fierce. It happened 
that a tanner, who had a very fierce mastiff, who all the 
day was kept in chains or musled, was in the company, 
who presently — not without an oath, perchance, it is too 
usual ; good laws against it, and well executed, would well 
become a Christian commonwealth — offered to lay with 
hhn ten pounds he could not do it to the said dog — that 
was, without any force or use of hands to lay him flat 
upon the ground, take him into his arms, and to lay him 
upon a table. Young happened to be so well fhmished 
at that time, that he presently pulled out of his pocket — 
I think I was told — ten pounds. The tanner accepts; 
the money on both sides laid into the hands of some one 
of the company, and the time set. At which time, to the 
no small admiration, certainly, of them that had not seen 
it before, but to the great astonishment, and greater 
indignation of him that had hiid the wager, with a little 
piping the party did punctually perform wliat he had 
undertaken. But instead of the ten pounds he expected, 
being paid only witli oaths and execrations, as a devil, a 

Our author himself never sees any of these wonders 
performed, but he appears to be well convinced of them, 
and he is greatly impressed with Mr John Youog^s own 
manner, who, 'earnestly looking upon bun, begins a 
discourse, how that all creatures were made by God for 
the use of man, and to be subject unto him ; and that 
if men did use thebr power rightly, any man might do 
what he did.' 


The colour of wine is owing to the fi>liowing causes : 
If the skins of the grapes, or marc, are eotu-ely excluded 
from the fermenting vat, a white wine is always obtained, 
Uie juice of almost all grapes, black and red, as well as 
green, being colourless. Champagne is made from a red 
grape, so deep in colour as to approach to black; and 

sherry is made from a mixture of white and coloured 
grapes. The colour of red wine is derived from per- 
mitting the wine to ferment in contact with some of the 
marc, the colouring matter of the gr^e residing alto. 
gether in the skin, with the exception of the grape calie-J 
tintilla, from which tent- wine is made, in which the juice 
is coloured. This colourmg principle is soluble u 
alcohol ; therefore, when the alcohol is developed by the 
fermentative process, the must becomes colouied in con- 
sequence of the action of the spu-it upon the marc Tlie 
wine is also more deeply coloured from a higher degree 
of pressure given to the husks of the grapes. The colour 
of red wine varies from a light pink to a deep purple 
tint, approaching to black ; the clarets hold the mtemK- 
diate rank between these two extremes. Dr Henderson 
observes that ' on exposing red wine in botUes to the 
action of the sun's rays, the colouring matter is separated 
in large flakes without altering the flavour of the vioei 
The colour derived from the skins of the grapes aiooe 
is not generally very deep ; the high-coloured wines of 
France and Portugal are often rendered so by colouring 
ingredients, particularly by mixture 'with an intensely 
deep red wine, called vino tinio, and sometimes by elder- 
berries and colouring drugs.' — ffousewifi^s Reason Whf. 

Tmk moon is but a crescent white. 
Toward tlie setting of the sun ; 
Through the throbbing of the ni^lit 
Comes a mellow monotone : 
Cuckoo t — cuckoo I 

You may take a crimson dond. 

Bind it with a golden band. 
All its richness were a shroud 

To this o'er the meadow-land : 
Cuckoo ! — cuckoo! 
Glory, might, and mystery. 

Beauty, wonder, and unrest. 
The whole soul of melody. 

In a rolling note exprest : 
Cuckoo T — cuckoo ! 
Gleby fields it overfloats. 

Like a tidal wave upbent. 
Over wheat and yellow oats. 

In the valley falling spent : 
Cuckoo ! — cuckoo ! 

It will touch the soul to tears, 

List*uing in the fiilling dew : 
All thc'Sadness of the years 

Cometh rushing over you : 
Cuckoo !~-cuckoo I 
Tilings of beauty and delight 

You have dreamed of, ovexjoyed. 
Will loom out as though you might 

Beach and clasp them through the void : 
Cuckoo ! — CQckoo ! 
It will touch firom summer woods 

Joyous heart or wo-begone ; 
Melteth music for all moods ' 

From the rapture floating en *. 
Cuckoo t — cuckoo ! 
Balmy airs of autumn nights, 

Any charm or spell that is. 
Windy whispers on the heights 

Know no magic like to this : 
Cuckoo I— cuckoo ! 
fipherM notes of starry belts 

In its airy net are knit ; 
All the heart of nature melts 

On Uie twilight out of it : 
Cuckoo I— cuckoo I 

T. A. 

Printed and Pablishad bv W. ft R. CBAMBsas, 47 r>^bf ' 
Bow, LoitDOH, and 889 Hljrh Street, BDiKSvaea. Auo w»*i 
WiLUAM BoBsaTioir, S8 Upper SaokviUe Street, Dvu^* *^ 
all '*--•—" — 

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No. 240. 


Price 1^. 

There are two things for which I hare a paMion— 
wild-birds and wild-flowers; by which avowal let me 
not be understood to mean that I am insensible to the 
delicious aroma of conservatories, or the gorgeous 
bloom of parterres; much less that I have any rooted 
affection for the harpy-eagle, or entertain a special 
predilection for the serpent-eater. But I fear I must 
confess that I prefer a harebell to a cactus, and 
speedwell and forget-me-not to calceolarias; and no 
T^iuii lory or scarlet macaw need attempt to make 
up to me for the little wildlings that, ' whether heard 
or not,' sing by myriada in the hedgerows, hiding in 
the scented clumps of the milky hawthorn, or shaking 
free its ruddy berries from the new-fallen snow. 
Since the days when I gravely followed sparrows in 
my pinafore, with a handful of salt, the victim of an 
infamous nursery fraud relative to a caudal applica- 
tion thereof, I have been a devout bird-worshipper, 
loving with my whole heart, though perfectly innocent 
of scientific mysteries. My ornithological conclusions 
at that time, however, were chiefly derived from tlie 
curious antediluvian specimens indigenous • to a 
Noah's Ark, and the sparrow-stalking alluded to took 
place in one of those small mural enclosures which 
go in cities by the name of gardens. 

The dove was my undoubted favourite, secretly, I 
believe, owing to its prerogative of olive-branch ; and 
after this, my affections wavered between two chrome- 
yellow canaries and a very remarkable pure scarlet 
species — name unknown. There was no robin that at 
all came up to my preconceived ideas, formed upon 
the dear old ballad that has immortalised the bonny 
bird — no modern version, plastered with prosy inci- 
dent, or hamniercd out into smooth and polished 
rhymes, till its pathos and its raciness are lost, but 
the real lilting lines that are so inexpressibly sweet 
and touching. Children who have read the original, 
scoff at Babeg in the Wood in prose. I suppose I 
may have been six years old, and the book has long 
been dust; but do I not remember the thin octavo, 
precious as an Elzevir, witli its limp, shining cover 
of paly green, and leaves of burniahcd satin ; the 
clear type, speaking from the glossy page ; the soft 
wood-cuts, infrequent, perhaps, but each one honoured 
with a separate leaf, and its own excerpted legend, 
and carefully protected from tlie ravages of the 
unwary by a dainty fllm of pink paper! We are 
not 80 prodigal of margin and letter-press now. 

The Dea/A and Burial of Cock Robin, a legend of a 
very different stamp, unveiled new marvels of bird- 
lore, infusing martiM ardour by the very abruptness 

of its initial question and answer, and the haught 
apparitions of the audacious criminal, bow and arrow 
in hand, on the title-page. The catechetical plan of 
this startling drama is highly original, and the excited 
spectator is introduced to a wide fleld of ornithological 
inquiry, not to mention the edifying episodes of the 
fish and the beetle, and the rather anomaloua intro- 
duction of the bull as bell-ringer. How the fish 
obtained possession of that most terrene-looking dish, 
used to be to me a serious mystery, rousing painftil 
misgivings as to the individu&l honesty of the bene- 
volent blood-catcher, and involving deep speculations 
on the subject of flsh-potteries and their possible 
connection with potted fish. The beetle's undertaking 
capacities were more admissible ; but I always consi- 
dered the owl's feat of sextonship as the nepbu vltra 
of legerdemain. Why the lark so strenuously insisted 
on the obsequies taking place by daylight, I never 
could understand, since she made it a point of honour 
that she was to carry a torch on the occasion ; but I 
rather contemptuously concluded that she must have 
been afraid of ghosts, and suffered the matter to drop. 
Of course, I had not the remotest suspicion of any 
base, underhand doings between rhyme and reason. 
But all honour to these good old nursery classics ! I 
would give a whole wagon-load of modem importa- 
tions for Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, Cock Robin, 
and the History of an Apple-pie— which last, by the 
way, forms tho most admirable system of baby 
mnemonics, and whose most illogical sequences I now 
gratefully acknowledge, for tiiey taught me the 

* One swallow does not make a summer,' says the 
ancient adage ; and yet when we see the beautiful dart- 
ing creature careering swiftly in the pale April skies, we 
are apt to ignore the wary old saw, though the hedges 
are sprouting very timidly, and the morning jfrimroses 
are still cold with frost, and the hoary dew lies white 
upon the dead beech-leaves till the sun is hot, and 
hardly a tree but the larch and the sycamore is green, 
and tlie snow-clouds are perhaps hovering ominously 
upon the sky-line. We cannot, it is true, take up 
the full burden of the quaint old English song— 

Summer is yeomen in, 

Loud sing CQcku ; 
Groweth seed, and bloweth nead, 

And springeth the weed new ; 

but there rise to our lips the words of a yet older 
refrain, that ' the winter is past, and the time of the 
singing of birds is come.' We must, indeed, make up 
our minds to wait for the halcyon days when the life 
of the little lovers is nothing but a gush of song ; 

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when, from dawn to twilight, the ear vainly listens 
for a break or a hush ia the ^fifest thick warble ;' but 
even now, many a winged minnesinger is piping music 
by snatches; and the fiuthful triad of voices tliat 
cheered the long, lonely winter, ia already merged in 
a fuller chorus : the brave sweet robin, the daisy of 
birds; the little wren, chirping softly by her 'ain 
fireside,' as she looked out at the drifting snow ; and 
the stormcock, or missel-thrush, whose cheery whistle 
was heard among the loud bleak winds that swept 
howling through the rowan-trees, and stripped the 
branches of their scarlet fmit. 

The robin and the wren are among the sacred birds 
of England. This is the odd chant current among 
the peasantry of Warwickshire, who make their 
children learn it with all reverence: 

The robin and the wren 

Are God Almighty's cock and hen ; 

The martin and the swallow 

Are God Almighty's bow and arrow. 

Tliia feeling with regard to the redbreast is per- 
haps connected with the pretty legend — one of those 
harmless and suggestive superstitions which extend to 
certain of the dumb creation an indirect interest ia 
the higher mysteries of the universe; and which, 
scattered among the more questionable traditions of 
the Romish Church, certainly tended to humanise the 
masses, by bringing all things that had life witliin the 
limit of a catholic blessing, and casting over the birds 
and the flowers tlie beautiful shadow of Christianity. 
As in the German myth of the crossbill, a place is 
claimed for the robin among the Josephs and the 
Magdalenes, who were not contented with standing 
*aiar off' the day that the sun was darkened. It is 
said the fearless little mourner flew straight against 
the heart that had just been pierced by the soldier's 
spear, and was bidden to wear his ruddy plumes for 

Of course, robin is a ikvourite with the poets. 
Thomson draws him tapping at the frosty window, 
and boldly picking np his morning crumbs; Keats 
hears him ' whistling from a garden crof^' when the 
swallows are gatliering in the autumn skies; Gray's 
robin ' builds and warbles' among the charch- 
yard violets; Wordsworth's chases the crimson but- 
terfly; Collins pictures him still at his legendary 
toil, heaping up moss and flowers in the warm summer 
evenings ; and Cowper, wandering through the silent, 
leafless woods, hears no sound among the powdery 
trees except the loosened icicle that drops in the 
winter noon into the rustling leaves at his feet, and 
the short, broken song of Uie robin, perched in a 
gleam of frosty sunshine among the rimy branches. 
The affectionate and conflding nature of this little 
bird wins him a way everywhere. He is capable of 
strong personal attachment; and one of his most 
winning attributes is a strange rapport^ which he has 
not seldom evinced towards the sick and the inflrm. 
Wordsworth has a pretty sonnet to a wild redbreast 
that pecked confidingly from his lips in Rydal woods ; 
and he tells of another which took up his nightly abode 
in the chamber of one entirely confined to a sick-bed. 
Roosting there upon a picture-nail, he constituted 
himself the delegate of the countless warblers from 
whose songs she was shut out ; and his cheery matins 
broke forth with the returning dawn, sweet and 
clear as if he was nestled beneath the stars in the 
whispering greenwood. We knew a robin which 
displayed a similar instinct, emboldened, it would 
seen, by the presence of sickness ; and which in tlie 
fresh summer mornings would enter unbidden at the 
open window, take his welcome for granted, fly 
without the smallest fear upon tlie bed, and take his 
breakfast under the very eye of the invalid. The 
robin builds a neat and unpretending nest, rather 

brown than green, and generally contrived so as to 
elude observation. An anectete is preserved of one 
who made a little autumn ^yry in the ahxouds of the 
war-sliip which was building at Chatham to ooaioie> 
morate tlte victory of Trafklgnr. The work was saffeied 
to proceed unmolested, and the litUe patriot actosUj 
laid the first of six eggs on the 21st of October, the 
anniversary of the battle — quite unmoved by thr 
presence of the hundred guns, whose sleeping thunder 
was destined to waken across the sea the name of 
England and the memory of Nelson. 

But ' the wren, the wrsn, the king of all birds,' 
bears ofi* the palm in nest-making. Fabulists laj 
that she alone of the whole feathered rsoe bid 
patience to conclude her studies in architecture; td 
she certainly presents the most finished specimen of 
patience and perseverance. The tiny moss-hooie, 
roofed over from the rain, appears hardly lu;^ 
enough to accommodate the diminutive owner; yetU 
afibrds a cradle to near a score of wrenlets ; and u 
during the leafy summer the wren alone can fulfil 
literally the pretty line of the Ameriean poet, 

The little bird sits at his door in the son ; 

so in the darker daya, when the infant brood is fiedgei 
and the leaves are blown from the shlrering boiig)a» 
the parent bird retums with faithful love to its bbid- 
mer home, and, hidden in its mossy porch, flings oat 
its music, a viewless minstrel, to the wintry winds. 

Nor is the wren without his proper legends. Botii 
in Ireland and in Germany, the story goes hov he 
crept unpoceived on to the outstretched wings of the 
eagle^ when the birds were flying hig^ for a kiofdom; 
how he was borne aloft by an impetus %iute independ- 
ent of his own volition ; and how the astute lictis 
politician was thus enabled to outsoar his magnificent 
rival, and had the crown-royal set upon his kesd b; 
the universal sufirage of the over-reached spectators. 
Paddy, however, haii private reasons of his own te I 
paying homage to his little migesty, who is said, 
during the commotions of one of the civil wars, to 
have awakened a sleeping sentinel by taking tbrics 
with his beak upon an Mljacent drum, and by tius 
timely admonition, to Imve saved a party of rojrslut> 
from impending destruction. The Munster boys sbU 
drink to his health and happiness on St Stepb^> 
Day, and think him worthy of being ranked witli w^ 
geese of the Capitol : and so he is. 

But the gem of onr British birds is the regnlus, or 
golden-crested wren. This fliiry 'kinglet'— «» *J®* 
sometimes called>-la not more than three inches lo^ 
in his feathers : but this is only the full-diess stao^ 
ard ; for those who have studied him in pwrU "^'^ 
6iM, aver that his actual longitude is somewhere aboaj 
an inch. He flits with his tiny queen among the ^re» 
oaks and elms, like an autumn leaf, or a '^^'°*^ 
tailed butterfly ; and here, with a slender cordage ot 
moss and down, they sling their nest, something ^ 
sailor-fashion, from a bough, and bring out a aaoitf' 
ous progeny of crested atoms — more like bees ^ 
birds — to swing in turn upon tlie swaying brsodiest 
and creep among the sunny leaves. 

Lower down, upon the same tree, flzed, perbaj^ f 
some young bough that has sprouted from a bole 
the elm, or hidden in the brier-rose that is **^"'?J 
round the roots of the oak, is the beautiful nest of w* 
chaffinch. No one who has not seen a spink's nw. 
knows what a bird can do. The delicate cup, c"**^ 
with lichens, might have been turned on a P*?*l 
wheel. It resembles an exquisite bowl of frosted 8ii'» 
within which lie the fawn-coloured eggs, flec^^'^^rl:^ 
irregular purple stains. The chaffinch, like the v^^ 
Indian humming-bird,, makes use of the cobweb m »^ 
architecture ; for it is with the silken thread of w 
spider that it stitches the mossy thatdi to its tr^roo 
walls. It commonly shuns the lainer fo«e»* ^^^^ 

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and chooses a box, a jmiper, or an apple-tree in the 
garden, a fane-bosh or a bramble by the roadside, to 
shelter the callow nestlings that come blind and help- 
less from the shell. This bird does not sing in winter, 
for its voice breaks entirely, and nothing is left of its 
summer melody but a shrill cry of terror or defiance. 
Yet it does not leave its famitiw haunts ; and its well- 
known form may still be seen, with wings of ashy 
blne^ and a breast paler than the robin's, as it detects 
with quick and sparkling eye a worm or a barley- 
corn in the brovn stubble-field ; or roots out with its 
asure bill the soft gohlen heart of the scarlet dog-hip. 
In Tlmringia, thai ancient home of the troubadoors, 
the chaffinch is so highly esteemed, that a large price 
may be obtained for one by those who make mer- 
chandise of the 'feathered minnesingers;' bat in 
some of the continental coantries, this lovely little 
bird ia the victim of a barbarism so erael and dast- 
ardly as almost to eiceed belief. With the avowed 
parpose of improvmg the wild forest masks that it lias 
of nature's gift, its haael eyes are burned and seared 
away with red-hot iron, and it is condemned to beat 
its pretty wings for ever fai a wooden cage some few 
inclice square. Here, in Hs blind and hopeless cap- 
tivity, it sings, and sings, as if it was mad with joy; 
its wild glad music bursting in piteous frenzy up the 
warm sunbeams that creep through tiie grating of its 
narrow prison, past the raute^ metciftil sky, till it 
rings in the ears of Him who, amid the loud harjMngs 
of heaven, hears the young ravens cry; and who, 
throned among worshipiung angels, numbers the 
sparrows as they ikil. 

Honourable mention must be made of the goldfinch, 
the moet beautiful of all the FrmffUHdtB, and called, 
from the perfect finish of Its small but exquisite nest, 
the * Arachne of the grove.* This gentle and lady- 
like bird ia extremely sociable in its disposition, ready 
not only to be at peace with all the world, but even 
to attach itself to a cage-life with happy docility. It 
has not the slightest objection to practise under a 
stfiging-maeter, and can soon be tanght to echo in its 
soft flute-like tones the louder strains of a professional 
wood-lark or canary. But fascinating as the little 
creature may be in his eivSised slate, go with old 
Chaucer into the Saxon fkhyland; and with feet 
crushing the glittering dew, seek him out among the 
broad brandies of the hushed, sunshiny trees, the 
charm, the silence, the freshness of that goMen 
suramer morning, which, caught by a sunbeam, lives 
for ever in that ancient heliograph, 7%s Floure and the 

And aa I stods^ and oast aside mine eye^ 

I nee ware of the fUrist msdler tre 

That ever yet hi all my life I se. 

As fiill of blosBomis as it might be; 

Therein a goldfinch leptng pretily. 

Fro bough to bough, and, as bin list, he ete 

Here and there of buddis and flouiis swete. 

And at the' last the bird began to sing 
(When he had etin what he etfas wold), 
So passing awetely, that, by many fbld. 
It was more pleasaunt than I couth devise. 

And again, a* evtniiig : 

The gold&Dch, eke, that tro the medler tre 
Was fled, for bete, unto the boshis cold. 
Unto the lady of the floure gan fle. 
And on Mr bond he set him, as he wold. 
And pleasauutly Us wingis gan to fbld. 

The baUfinch, a native of England, but much more 
common in Germany, is quite as fond of * buddis and 
flouris' aa the hero of the medlar-tree. He is, more- 
over, quite as amenable, much more sagacious, and 
will nadily cxshange his wild-wood warble for human 

ditties, which he learns to whistle with a sweetness 
and correctness truly astonishing. The little trrcks 
and devices to which he can be trained add to the 
attractions of the piping bullflnch. He is likewise 
capable of the most ardent personal attachment, and 
the most violent hatred, is easily ruled by his affec- 
tions, and is possessed of a memory wonderfully acute 
and retentive. The following passages are from the 
life of a pet bullfinch, now departed, who, if he had 
been bom a Douglas, might have carved upon his 
scutcheon, * Tender and true.' He had conceived, 
from tlie first, a passionate and instinctive afl^tion 
for his master, which he evinced on all occasions Inr 
the most winning ways, and tokens the most intel- 
ligent and unmistakable. A soft whistle from the 
well-known vokse would bring him fluttering to the 
side of his cage^ where he would lay his little velvety 
liead against the braaen wires, rubbing it caressingly 
on his mast^s cheek, pecking food from his lips 
with his bright ebony beak, and sending forth the 
whole time, from his rosy breast, a low chirrup of 
deep joy. His rooted antipathy to another member 
of the family was equally striking; and aa there was 
no ostensible ground for Bully's determined hostility, 
every endeavour was made to arrive at an under- 
standing; but both emotions stood the test of flat- 
tery, cajolement, and coercion. In vain the enemy 
assumed fHendly tactics, made humiliating advances, 
offered ambrosial sugar, and strove to undermine 
the citadel of honour by a nefiirious system of 
sapping and mining, and then to take the fortress 
by storm. * Unshaken, unsedncgd, unterrifled, his 
loyalty he kept;' and not only never wavered in 
his allegiance, but refused to avert, by the most 
equivocal token, the rising choler of the foe. At last, 
daring the absence of his owner, by a most unjusti* 
fiable travesty of that ancient fraud by which Jacob 
imposed himself upon his blind father, the little hero 
was cheated into a momentary acceptance of the 
hostile advances. Arrayed in stolen raiment, his 
features hidden by a large green shade— the well- 
known signal of the beloved presence— the wify 
masker softly approached his face to the bars ; and 
after enjoying for a few moments the wicked satisfac- 
tion of the fond twitter of recognition that was meant 
for another, suddenly withdrew the visor, and revealed 
his identity to the deluded little Isaac, who nearly 
broke his heart upon the spot with wild and bitter 
rage. But Bully was to have his triumph. It was 
not till a full month had elapsed that the absentee 
returned, and then without any previous intimation ; 
so that nothing could possibly have transpired to 
awaken the expectation of the sagacious little bird. 
He had betaken himself to bed as usual, at sunset, 
after the manner of all well-ordered *foulis,' and was 
roosting peacefully when the parlour clock chimed 
ten, with his little black night-cap under his wing. 
Suddenly the outer bell rang; and roused by the 
sound, the creature started on his perch, and began 
to move his head from side to side with an uncerUdn 
and attentive gesture, which quickly became impa- 
tient and eager. Every moment increased his flutter ; 
his feathers were ruffled, his eyes danced, each motion 
bespoke exfiectation. A step sounded at the door; 
he became more and more excited, and began to cheep 
and whistle. Tlie little faithful thing was not de- 
ceived ; and when his anticipations were realised, and 
his master actually entered the room, he shook his 
pretty wings, struggled against the bar^, and poured 
forth such a flood of joy and welcome as Blondel rang 
from his minstrel harp when he found his minnesinger 
king. Alas for the gallant little hero! Not long 
after, a hatefUl cat, ripe for blood and murder, made 
her way to his defenceless prison; and dashing himself 
in his wild terror against the wires, her cruel claws 
dboked out his innocent life. It is a pitiful consolation 

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to add, tliat his tiny corpse was rescued uoprofaned 
from the clutches of the destroyer. 

Let us hasten away from these poor little unfor- 
tunates, out into the free blue air, where the sky is 
filled witli the warble of swallows, and God's sunliKht 
flashes on their blue glossy wings; where the swifts 
wheel onwards and upwards for ever ; when the 
house-swallow caters, open-mouthed, for her young; 
and the marten hangs with clinging feet to its neat on 
the face of the sea- cliff, and the bank-swallows creep 
into their sandy burrows. Surely tiiere was never a 
captive swallow; for over tiiis beautiful bird there 
rests an almost universal egis, a feeling of yeneration 
sometliing akin to that which is so magically woven 
into the Lime of the Ancient Mariner, Nor can we 
wonder at the innocent superstition that hallows the 
' prophet of the year.' All glad instincts are awak- 
ened by the reappearance of the little Ariel who is 
chasing spring for ever round the world, himself tlie 
living sapphire tiiat girdles earth with flowers. Only 
the lightning itself is more rapid than tliat darting 
wing, which fascinates the eye by its wonderful grace 
and velocity, as it wheels its ceaseless and untiring 
flight from the deep sunrise, when it bathes in the 
dewy purple which is the home of tlie morning-star, 
till the last golden tinge has faded and rippled from 
the edge of the western sky, and it is sheathed in the 
trembling silver of night. One of Shelley's most 
exquisite stanzas to the skylark would apply witli 
even greater felicity to the swallow: 

Ip the golden lightning 

Of the sunken son, 
0*er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. 

Has anybody ever seen a Pre-Raphaelite swallow? 
Would Mr Millais ask this one to sit for its picture 
in the sun ? We hope not. What sort of a hybrid, 
compound reflecting micro- telescope does he use in 
drawing his perspectives ? But get the little ' winged 
sefnph' for one moment into your hands, and observe 
how passingly beautirul he is. Stroke the sheeny 
purple of his slender wings, note the soft scarlet of 
his sobbing throat, feel the warm panting of his snowy 
breast, meet the quick terror of his pleading eye, and 
then let tlie ' musical cherub' away. You will from 
henceforth be able to form your own conclusions on 
the pros and cons, the spirit and the letter, to put 
your own sense, comment, and interpretation on the 
literal, grammatical, possible, and intrinsical philo- 
sophy of at least one old English proverb : ' A bird in 
the hand is worth two in the bush.* 

For house-sparrows, it must be owned, we have 
no especial favour. Tiiey are greedy, and noisy, 
and impudent— In zy withal, when it serves their 
purpose. Still, as we have no desire to lay our- 
selves open to the charge of partiality, we must 
acknowledge that if the sparrow is a thief, so, if all 
tales be true, revenge is bound up in the heart of 
a swallow. We will, however, state the case, without 
pre-judKing either party. It is said that a newly 
married pair of sparrows, thinking it would be more 
eligible and economical to occupy a furnished resi- 
dence than to build one, provided they could sit rent- 
free, established themselves very comfortably and 
unceremoniously in the last year's nest of a couple of 
respectable, elderly swallows, which had not yet 
returned from the continent. The owners, on arriv- 
ing at home, found their desirable family mansion 
taken by the intruders ; but, apparently satisfied that 
possession was nine points of the law, they gracefully 
waived the tenth, and retreated before the reigning 
power. But while the sparrows were laughing in 
their sleeves at the discomfiture of the houseless pair, 
the swallows were laying deep and deadly plans of 

vengeance. Days passed on. The little matron 
sobered down as she. brooded over her eggs, and her 
mate watclied with proud importance for the arrovi 
that were to fill his quiver. At last the young binli 
chippeil the shell, and of course there was immediate 
hunger in the camp. The father of the fsmiij 
departed to procure the initiatory breakfast; and 
the swallows, I am sorry to say, chose this interesting 
moment for their coup de main. Flying pell-mell to 
their desecrated habitation, they gave the poor little 
mother to understand that the hour and the man had 
both come, and having the necesaaxj bricklaying 
apparatui close at band, they walled her up with her 
hapless brood aa sternly as if they had been monks of 
the middle ages. 

The monks, lioweTer, if their own credentials are to 
be taken for gospel, kept their swallows in better 
order. The swallows were mild and gentle under tl« 
regime of Holy Clmrch. St Francis of Paula, accord- 
ing to the Golden Legend, was quite a bird-tamer. 
* A bird sat singing on a fig-tree by the side of his 
cell. He called it to him ; the bird came upon bii 
hand, and he said to it: " Sing, my sister, and praise 
the Lord;" and the bird sat singing till he gave it 
liberty to go away. Going to Venice with hii com- 
panions, and hearing birds singing in a wood, be 
proposed to sing the canonical hours, but the monb 
could not hear themselves for the chanters of the 
grove, wherefore he entreated the feathered choir to 
l>e silent, and they remained so till be gave tliem 
liberty to proceed. At another place when be was 
preaching, he could not be heard for the swallovs 
which were building their nests: he sud to them: 
"Sister swallows, it is time for roe to spesk;ai 
you 've said enough, be quiet." And so they were.' 

We might go on and on for ever; it would still be 
a story without an end. We might tell of the gentle 
hedge-sparrow, which sings so sweetly in the firK 
days of spring, when the roomings are still froitXf 
and a bird*s voice rings on the air like a bolL Befon 
the thorn is green enough to hide its early nest, we 
might look into the leafiess hedge for the bins eggs 
that lie gleaming there like jewels, and not so safp, 
alas I as Alfred's golden bracelets. We might stand 
by the glossy laurel to listen to the merle^s morning- 
hymn, and hear the mavis answer him from tl>0 
orchard, and the skylark, as she drops into her nest 
We might dive into a hollow tree for the eggs of tlie 
blue titmouse, that beautiful and mischievous liitie 
vixen, who will bite if she is at home, but who is 
probably creating a panic at the bee-hive, by tappiof 
mysteriously at the dbor, and eating the bees ^^ 
they come to see what is the matter. We might ptf^ 
on to the great dark moor, where the morning ^ 
still liangs like a veil of steam, and hear the goaa 
domestic linnets singing by hundreds in the avert 
yellow gorse. We might pause in the deeps of tw 
forest, to listen to the dim voice of the stock-do/^ 
among the sweet breath of pines, and the floafirt? 
leaves, in the still presence of autumn. We mifi"' 
steal into some grassy dell when the cowah'P*.*'* 
asleep, and watch for the nightingale's Diidnigi» 

But before taking leave of our feathered mio"^ 
singers, one word must be given to the pleas«J»* 
memory of that good troubadour, Walter of t"« 
Birdmeadow, whose dying bequest to his f^"^^', 
minstrels is the theme of one of those quaint and 
pretty ballads in which the poet Longfellotr expe* 
Walther von der Vogelweide was a minnesinger Ifrp." 
his cradle. He lost his first patron, the son of «» 
Emperor Leopold, in Coenr de Lion's crusade, ^^ 
he was but a child of seven ; and from tliat Uf^ 
forward his life was that of a wanderer. He aaid 
had learned his songs of the birds; and he ^^^ ^JL 
for a device upon his shield. His Jays were geoeraii/ 

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of a grave and gentle cast, and his name calls np the 
•hades of birds and flowers. After a pure and 
peaceful life, he was laid to rest in the cloister of 
Wurzburg Cathedral. In gratitude to the singing- 
birds, which he always regarded as his teachers, he 
left in his last will an order that they should be fed 
daily at noon by the chorister-boys, beneath the tree 
which shadowed his tomb. A niggardly abbot at 
last, it would seem, mulcted the pretty pensioners of 
their dole ; the * Deus istius miserere ' has crumbled 
away witli the rest of the monkish epitaph ; and the 
cliildren of the choir no longer know the spot where 
the voice of the minnesinger sleeps. 

But around the vast cathedral. 

By sweet echoes multiplied. 
Still the birds repeat the legend. 

And the name of Vogelweide. 


SosTB two months ago, I was walking np and down 
the Lime Street station at Liverpool, in company with 
a friend, awaiting the departure of the evening mail, 
by which we were returning home. As it wanted 
but a few minutes to the time, we selected a com- 
partment in a second-class carriage; but before we 
could enter, we had to wait some little time to allow 
of the egress of two or three of the porters, who were 
deep in conversation with two passengers already 
seated, while sundry other porters were clustered 
round the carriage-door, peeping in with looks of 
admiring curiosity. 

Surely, thought I, we are to have distinguished 
fellow-passengers. \Vlio can they be? Are they the 
Siamese ambassadors? — who were then daily expected. 
There were to have been two of them, one from each 
of the kings. No; it is second class; it cannot 
possibly be they. Could it be Spurgeon and one 
of his deacons * doing it cheap?' No; hardly likely. 
So we entered the carriage with doubt and curiosity. 

At the further end of the carriage, with his back to 
the engine, sat a man, whose closely clipped hair, 
bullet head, and broken nose, plainly told me what 
his profession was. Facing me, on the opposite side, 
sut his companion, a person of much more prepos- 
sessing appearance and manners. A glance convinced 
me that they were both prize-fighters. 

To say that the first-mentioned individuars head 
was bullet-shaped, is very much to malign that pro- 
jectile ; for surely no piece of metal shaped as that 
head was could, by any possibility, be got down a 
gun-barrel; or even supposing it to be once down, 
could any known means ever get it up again. No 
geometrical term with which I am acquainted could 
possibly convey any idea of that head. It was not 
a decahedron, and it was not a dnodecahcdron ; and 
its only claim to the title of an * oblate spheroid' 
would arise from the fact of its being flattened at 
the pole. 

My friend glanced at me, and I at him. 

They were literally, and figuratively, *ugly cus- 
tomers;' and I secretly hoped that they would not 
attempt to ' improve the shining hour' by practising 
their art upon us. However, I soon found that there 
was no cause for alarm on this head, for the * spheroid' 
was very soon in a slumbering, passive state ; and as 
I am naturally rather partial to eliciting information 
from peculiar characters, such as one does not meet 
with in the daily walks of life, I very soon got into 
conversation with my opposite neighbour, whom, 
despite his profession, I found to be a very polite, 
I had almost said gentlemanlike man. He spoke in 
that peculiar tone of assumption common to most 
I«ondoner8, and I soon learned that his name was 
say, Jones; that he was a prize-fighter; that 

he had fought seven prize-battles, and had never yet 
been beaten ; that he held himself liable to be chal- 
lenged by any man alive, no matter who, or what the 
amount of the stakes ; that, at that moment, he was 
acting as * trainer,' or professional tutor, to his com- 
panion 'George,' as he called him; that they were 
just returning firom 'George's' first prize-fight, which 
had come off^ three days before in the neighbourhood 
of Liverpool ; that his adversary's title to the honours 
of victory was open to dispute, there being reason to 
suspect foul-play and bribery, and that it had there- 
fore been decided that the battle should be fought 
over again. 

All this information led on, of course, to further 
conversation ; and on my making some remarks as to 
* George's ' present personal appearance, he assured me 
that he was very decent-looking now, compared with 
what he had been two days previously ; for then his 
head was just double its present size, and that he had 
brought it down to its present dimensions by the 
copious external application of castor-oil, and that in 
a few days' time he would look quite respectable. 

I thought to myself that his ideas of respectability 
must certainly dififer very much from my own ; for, 
as I glanced at the physiognomy in question, I was 
much inclined to doubt whether all the castor-oil in 
creation, let it be ever so *cold drawn,' could possibly 
impress the stamp of respectability upon it. But 
as I considered that tastes differ, and that it was 
not for roe to set up my own as a standard, I did 
not dispute his statement, but led him on to further 

He informed me that in early life he had been a 
carter or drayman in London, and that he had never 
but once come into collision with the municipal autho- 
rities, and that occurred when he was pursuing the 
comparatively peaceful calling before named. It 
appears that he had a difficuUg^ as brother Jonathan 
would express it, with a turnpike-man, relative to 
an alleged act of extortion on the i>art of the latter. 

In writing the biography of all great men, it is 
customary to relate anecdotes of their early life, to 
serve as a foreshadowing of what their future develop- 
ments were expected to be. So in the case in question, 
the latent fire of that genius which in after years 
was to shine forth so brilliantly, flashed out gloriously 
on this occasion. In his own expressive language, 
< he jumped off his cart, squared at the man, and gave 
him one for his knob.' 

He was about to resume his seat, with the pleasing 
consciousness of having resisted oppression, and done 
his duty like an Englishman, when he was suddenly 
seized by two myrmidons of the law, was brought up 
on a charge of assault and battery, for which he got 
certain days in durance vile, and then returned to 
the bosom of that society he was afterwards so much 
to adom~a wiser and a sadder man. 

This appears to have been the turning-point in his 
life: disgusted with commercial pursuits, for which 
he felt that he was in no way adapted, he entered 
into his present profession, which he appeared to have 
followed with that success which invariably attends 
perseverance and assiduity. 

His conversation and remarks being of a somewhat 
desultory nature, I found great difficulty in getting 
at anything like a consecutive account of his life; 
but from his various remarks, I gathered that he had 
worked very hard at his profession. 

His first introduction to his companion, George, 
struck me as having some claims to the credit of 
originality, to say the very least of it He said that 
George was brought to his house by a mutual friend, 
with a request that he (Jones) would take him in 
hand. ' I rather liked his looks, so I up with my fist 
and hit him a blow on his nose ; upon this, George 
began to **to shew fight" in good style; 80> seeing 

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him to be *'gainoy,'' I undertook to train him, and 
make the best I coold of him.' 

On my making some remarki about Geoig^ and 
what his future prospects were^ he replied that he 
Gould hardly make up his mind as to how he would 
be likely to turn out Tapping his own forehead, he 
remarked that * George was rather soft there '— < that 
he had no head/ and that a fighting-man should have 
a ' good head/ so as to know when to take a ' libeity ' 
— that the success of a fight often depended as much 
upon the head as the./£ito; and that though George 
was the *gameyist' fellow going, he was fearful that 
want of head, and fondness for drink, would prevent 
his rising to the dazzling height attained by tome 
others of his profession. 

For himself, he furnished a strong argument in 
favour of teetotalism, by saying that although he kept 
a public-house in London, he never drank anything 
when going through the fatiguing operation of train- 
ing, and very little upon any other occasion, eicept 
now and then when on an oaf of the present kind; 
and he instanced it as a proof of the great goodness 
of their Liverpool friends, that he had been bept in a 
state of partial inebriation for nearly six days without 
its costing him a penny. 

This was their first viait to Liverpool, and he 
expressed himself mudi pleased with the kindness 
they had received, and likewise widi the general 
urbanity of the police authorities in that town, who 
had never once molested them during the engagement. 

I asked him whether men in th^ profesuon ever 
saved money. He replied that it was quite impossible. 
When a man bad been fortunate, he was made a good 
deal of by his companions, who kept him in a constant 
whirl of drunken excitement until his money was all 
gone^ and then he had to get up another fight to make 
more; while if he was beaten, tlie whole of the 
expenses fell upon him, besides the lost stakes, and 
then he got into debt; and he advised me-— paren* 
thetically and in confidence— never to make a match 
for so low a sum as L.25, as it could not possibly pay, 
for the trade expenses alone amounted to over L.80 ; 
the principal items of which he enumerated, one of 
them, I remember, consisting of a * trauier at L.8 a 
week and his keep, for seven weeks at least' 
Only fam^ letting one'e self out to be punched and 
hammered at by a prize-fighter day by day for seven 
long weeks! For the tramer^e ofiice consists of a 
series of daily encounters with the trainee, so that 
he may be in good practice when he cornea before the 

He intimated to me that, however much I might be 
fitfcinated by the outward show and glitter of their 
kind of life^ it was in reality a very hard one^ at 
least until a man had obtained a position; and that 
nothing but the excitement of popular applause, and 
having a public reputation to keep unsullied, could 
possibly cany them through it 

I have often remarked, in all public professions, the 
great amount of brotherly feeling that pervades the 
whole body. See with what generosity and willingness 
authors, actors, and musicians oome forward to the 
aid of a needy brother — by benefits at theatres, by 
public readings, by conceits, and similar means. And 
the same feeling extends, strange as it may seem, 
even to the profession in question, as the following 
instance will shew; and in spite of the liorrid and 
revolting circumstances attending the afiair, it yet 
shines like a streak of sunlight througli the awful 
moral darkness-— a proof to my mind that, let a man 
debase and brutalise himself to the lowest possible 
point, he cannot entirely eradicate his manhooid ; that 
now and then it wHl fiash up and reclaim its lost 
throne, let the r^gn be ever eo short 

My companion caaually inquired whether I was 
acquainted with Sde. I replied that I had not that 

pleasure, and, moreover, that I wns never at a pri»^• 
fight m my life. At first, he eeenied noi disposed 
to believe me ; but en my assuring liim that such wti 
really the case, he loolnd at me oaore in pit)r than 
in anger, but still seemed hardly i^le to conceire 
how in this enlightened nineteenth oentiiry any cm 
could possibly have gone so far on life's journey u 
I had without having at least heard of the hero in 
question. He therefore endeavcnired to recmll hioa to 
my mind by enumerating some of his more cele- 
brated acts of personal prowess. *Toa surely moit 
remember Ede^ he who killed ^ Jack " Somebody in 
his last fight' 

' Killed his man I ' I replied with horror. 

*Yes,' he said, Mt was a bad joh, poor fellow,' and 
then he told me all about how the man received i 
hit on the jaw after four howrs^ fyhting ; how be was 
carried off the field ; how he never spoke a word after 
the fatal blow ; and how by six next morning lie 
was dead. 

'But how about his poor wife and children?' 

* Ah, poor woman !' he replied, * it was a bad job; 
but we all did the best we conld for her. We got \m 
up a benefit, and managed to raise about three hundred 
pounds^ which put her into a good pnblic-honse; and | 
we all do our best to make it pay. But what,' he 
added, *is all that, compared with the loss of such a 
husband as she had ? For my part, I would not \o» 
my wife for three millions of pounda. She is eveiy- 
thing to me ; and I have my old mother to keep, and 
I have brought up my two little brothers without its 
costing anybody else a penny ;' and then he west on 
to say that there was nothing like civility and Idoii- 
ness^it cost but little, and he had always fiMsd 
that they made him friends wherever he went 

Bravo ! thought I ; there is a green spot yet left 
even in this rough debased heart— one little thrB«d 
yet remaining to connect it with human nstnre* 
Imagine for a moment that son tending his H^ 
mother, a mother to whom, perhaps, he owed no debt 
for early lessons of love and kindness ; of whom, in 
the recollections of his early days,* he can recall fer 
pleasing memories, few early admonitions from btf 
lips, which might have stood him in good stead 
through life as his counselor and gnidew 

Even the poor brutalised George, who all this tine 
had been dozing away in a state of battered stupiditf 
—even he had some one who loved him, and whom 
he loved in return. 

Of Kero it was said, that over his tomb sooe 
loving hand was seen each day to drop a flower; to 
^^fxit George found it impossible to keep away fi^ 
a girl in London whom he loved, and who felt lone^ 
without him, although he had to return to Liveipi^ 
in a few days to have another mauling, for his fHendi 
were going to get him up another fight for his own 
peculiar benefit, to reimburse him lor enndiy ktf"^ 
sustained during his last engagement ^^ 

And so I drew near home ; and on leavfaig ^ 
train, my companion shook me warmly by the liaod, 
and expressed a hope that when I moA came to 
London I would give him a call. . 

So he went on his way, and I oo mine; and sfi 
walked, I thought ; and the more I thought, the ok^ 
I became confused. Wrong seemed to be gettiof 
right, and right seemed to have no merit «t^"^j 
to it My conscience told me that I ought to b^ 
that man and his profession in utter and snpreiB« 
abhorrence ; but wlien I thought of the littls iitr«J" 
of sunlight which ever and anon broke throogb to 
dark and heavy cloud, I was fain, though ^^^^ 
demning all fighting on general grounds, ^ ff^ 
certain angry feelings, and to take shelter w»°*'.*?J 
Master's ksson, 'that if I was without sin, 1 1^ 
then cast the stone.' And I asked myself a qosfcx^ 

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which I could not uiBwer — why am not I tAie flghtor, 
and he in mj place, wrapping himself np in hie phari* 
Mdcal cloak of spiritual pride, and thanking Heaven 
that he is not sneh as I ? Who can answer me that ? 
No, I do not leel quite comfortable In sitting in judg- 
ment on tiiis nnfortnnate person, as I mnst consider 
him to be, withont first ascertaining whether the fire 
talents committed to my care, with a clearer knowledge 
as to their uses, have been made to produce other Hve 
also? If it h9$ turned out that I have learned a 
lesson in charity, my half-hour's ride waa not in Toin. 

Wbbh food first enten the stomach, it ii not, as our 
readers know, in a condition to be absorbed at once 
into the blood, for the purpose of renorating the eifete 
tissues of the system. It must first undergo the 
process of digestion, so as to be reduced to a soluble 
state, or, generally speaking, to such a condition as 
to be capable of absorption and assimilation. The 
digestibility of various kinds of food, and the exact 
character oi the digestive process, have been tested in 
yarious ways. Schultz experimente4 on dogs and 
cats, which he killed at succesrire stages of the 
process ; Beaumont on a patient whose stomach had, 
by a giushot wound, been made tolerably accessible 
to observation ; and Gosse — who possessed the strange 
power of vomiting at will, and was so enabled to 
recover portions of food which had been for a tinse 
exposed to the action of the gaatric finid^experi- 
mented on himself. The results of these various 
attempts to elucidate the digestiTe pfoeess were in 
many points conflicting; and but little less satisfactory, 
so far as concerned the comparative digestibility of 
difiTerent alimentary substances, were the phenomena 
which resulted firom the dissolution of food In fistulss 
by artificial means. The modus operandi alone was 
established with any accuiaoy. Under the generic 
name of catalysis, chemists are accustomed to group 
those mysterious processes hi which a substance is 
converted into what they call an isomeric variety of 
itself by means of seme other body or bodies which 
are in thenudoes incapable of being afibcted by the 
operation. Of these processes, that of digestion 
proved to be ooa It was ibnnd that, by the action 
of the gastric fluid, the food is converted Into a 
substance chemieally identical with tiie original body, 
bat, nevertbriess, possesshug very distinct and peculiar 
properties ; and that the gastric fluid is a combination 
of a anbstance called p^sln, or the cooking principle, 
with an acid which is now generally supposed to be 
that which, under the name of lactic acid, gives to 
sour milk its pungent and peculiar flavour. It may 
be that other aoids^ such as acetic, phosphoric, and 
hydrochloric, are also present in smaller quantities ; 
but on this point the greatest chemists are still at 

Whether pepshi is secreted in a neutral atate^ and 
generates the acid by acting as a ferment on the 
amylaceous substances of the food, or wliether the 
acid is a primary constituent of the active natural 
juice, is also still disputed. The prevalent opinion 
would seem to be that pepsin is a neutral secretion. 
It certainly possesses the inherent property of causing 
fermentation, although, without the acid, it has no 
digestive power. The question altogether is an 
imporUnt one; 'for, if It be a neutral secretion, the 
part played by the saliva in the whde machineiy of 
digestion assumes additional importance, as we must 

then conclude that one of its constituents — dSastate 

is employed in the stomach to convert the starchy 
matter of the food into grape-sugar,' which is in its 
turn ^oonvertedby the p^shi into Uctic add, witiiout 

the aid of which pepsin could not petfocm its natural 

In any view, pepsin must ba lagarded as the chief 
and indispensable element in producing the change 
necessary to the absorption and assimilation of food. 
Without it, all the rest are powerless ; and heoice the 
importance which its recent introduction upon a large 
scale into medical practice by Drs Corvisart of Paris, 
and Ballard of London, has acquired for it as a 
curative agent in cases of dyspepsy. 

Dr Landerer of Athens is said to have been the 
flxst who employed artificial gastric juice in medical 
practice. This juice he is understood to have elimi- 
nated from the stomach of a wolf; bat even as early 
as the year 1884 it had been discovered that the 
gastric secretion retained its power if removed fh)m 
the body shortly after a meal; while the rennet, or 
fourth stomach of the ruminants, had even been used 
in cases similar to those treated by Dr Landerer to 
replace and represent the natural p^tic principle. 

The quantity of pepsin contained in the gastric 
juice was about the same time discovered by Eberle 
to be in the proportion of 1*25 to 97 parts of water, 
and neariy 1-75 parts of salts; and by Schwann, to 
be capable of precipitation only from the fluid con- 
tained in the glandular structure of the stomach. 
The metliod of preparing it adopted by li. Boudault, 
the distingulslied Parisian pharmaceutist, as stated in 
his Report to the Imperial Academy of Medicine, is as 
followa : From a number of rennet-baga, turned out- 
aide in, and carefully washed, the mucous membrane^ 
which contains the seoretory Tessels, is scraped ofl^ 
and, alter being reduced to pulp^ is steeped for twelve 
hoars in cold distilled water. A small quantity of 
acetate, or sugar, of lead is then added, which preci- 
pitataa the pepsin. This precipitate, after being in 
its torn treated with sulphuretted hydrogen, which 
separates the lead as a sulphuret, is filtered, and left 
to evaporate either to a sirup or a powder, as may be 
wished. Care, however, must be taken that the degree 
of heat to which it is exposed during the evaporating 
process shall not exceed 120" of Fahrenheit, as, S 
suffered to evaporate under a higher temperature, the 
pepsin loses its digestive properties. It has also been 
found that, from its excessive deliquescence, exposure 
to the air tends to its speedy decomposition whether 
as a powder or a sirup: its smell becomes very 
oflensive, and its taste extremely nauseous. M. 
Boudault, therefore, mixes the surup with starch, so 
that the mixture, on being carefully dried, forms a 
gray powder resembling coarse wheaten flour. It can 
thus, when required for use, be brought, by the addi- 
tion of starch or pepsin, as the case may b^ to a 
uniform standard of strength, and may, if necessary, 
be mixed with equal ease with muriate of morphia, 
salts of iron, strychnia, or other chemical reagents 
which do not affect its digestive properties. 

The pleasantest way, perhaps, of administering the 
preparation, is either in water or between two slices of 
bread ; but, taken in any way, it has been found, in a 
great mi^'ority of cases, to cope aucoessfuUy with the 
most serious derangements of the gaatric organs, not 
only by its immediate action on the food, but by 
restoring to the organs themselves their lost activity. 

Dr Ballard, in his book on ArtifieialDigestum, notes 
one case among many which would seem to preclude 
all notion of the cure being attributable to fortuitous 
causes. We quote it as we flnd it abridged in the 
same number of tlie Saberday Beviewj to which we 
have already referred. A lady, sixty-four years of 
age, had, during four years, * sufiered pain, which slie 

* aaturdof Seolew, Ko. 74, p. S89. To th« artie1« bere quoted 
wo are IndeMed for nrach that maj bo doomed volublo In the 
preeeni popor. But the roader maj bo roTonod for further 
information to Dr Ballard'e Art(/lcial DigtMOm and the BriUA 
and FonlOH Mtiieo-Chirwyieal BevUm for 1807, poBHm. 

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had " no words to deicribe," for three or four hours 
after eyery meal. The natural consequences were 
excessire prostration and complete disgust for food ; 
and she had for many weeks limited herself to four 
rusks and a little milk and heef-tea per diem. The 
first day pepsin was used, she ate with ease and 
enjoyment a mutton chop, although, on the day 
hefore, she had endured intense agony for no less 
than five hours after her ordinary meal. In a few 
days, she ate pretty freely, and gradually improved, 
and at length was able to give up the pepsin entirely, 
to eat without pain, and walk some miles without 

Kow, when we consider how common a disease 
dyspepsy is, and how immense, in spite of tlie 
systematic opposition from many quarters to every- 
thing like a rational interpretation of the connection 
between physical and moral phenomena, the influence 
of the physical condition on the mental condition is — 
producing suicides in cases where, with a different 
state of health, only depression or grief would have 
followed — the importance of such a discovery as that 
of Drs Landerer and Corvisart cannot be over- 
estimated. In comparison with unhealthy secretions 
in confluence with untoward circumstances, all other 
causes, except insanity — disgust of life^ poverty, 
thwarted love, shame, remorse, grief, the agonies of 
despair and jealousy—- exercise but a very small 
suicidal influence. Nor, when it is considered that 
the juices whidi flow into the intestinal canal during 
the twenty-four hours amount to about one-seventh 
of a man's whole weight, need our readers wonder at 
the stetement. A man weighing ten stones will secrete 
during that time about three pounds seven ounces of 
saliva, which shall contain about half an ounce of 
solid matter ; of bile, he will secrete as much ; of 
gastric juice, which shall contain about six ounces 
and a half of solid matter, he will secrete thirteen 
pounds ; of pancreatic juice, seven ounces ; and nearly 
the same quantity of intestinal juice. With these 
facts before us, can it be doubted that the physician 
might often avert a catastrophe agiunst which the 
moralist would preach in vain ? 


A STORT OF 1768. 

My grandfather was appointed rector of a little village 
in Nottinghamshire in the year 1758. I am myself an 
old man, having memories of more or less importance 
attached to every year of this century ; and I could 
box, wrestle, play cricket, and had even made speeches 
against the Jacobins, before eighteen hundred was bom 
or thought of. 

A clergyman's life was not quite so strict a matter 
a hundred years ago as it is to-day. The priests 
neither cared to rule themselves by so high a standard 
as our modern clergy do, nor was it expected of them 
by their flocks. Mr Hume's Essays had a great influ- 
ence among those younger clergy who thought, and 
the customs and laws of *the town,' among those 
who did not think. Though this was an evil of a 
tremendous kind, there was one benefit in it which we 
are apt now-a-days to overlook — the clergy had more 
sympathy with those persons who would not come 
immediately under their inflaence than they have 
under the . present system. It is thought very shock- 
ing now for a priest to be seen in the theatre, and 
scarcely less so at the opera-house ; while, if he were 
to visit Cremorne or Rosherville Gardens, or Highbury 
Barn, it is most likely his congregation would take 
suuh offence that they would move away in a flock as 
multitudinous and final as a migration of swallows. 
Bat in ray grandfather's time, priests and actors were 
found in doily communion; indeed, such men as 

Bishop Warburton and David Garrick were friends; 
even Mr Whitfield desired his people to go to the 
comical Ned Shuter's benefit, as that oelefanted 
actor was a* gracious soul;'* and tlie sons of other | 
clergymen than Dr Primrose went upon the stage u 
a means of livelihood; while every country rector 
who came up to town made a point of seeing Mr 
Mossop and Mr Garrick in Shakspeare's plays, and 
of visiting Vauxhall and Ronelagh. 

Just such a time of visiting London had come to 
my grandfather in the spring of 1758. He was then is 
the twenty-fifth year of his age, and resolved to enjojr , 
himself for a time on the strength of his recent present- 
ation. He had never been in town before; the i 
nearest approach he had made to nietropolitaa I 
pleasures were such as his restricted allowance hid 
afforded him during his studentoliip at Cambridge, i 
Hence it was he was resolved not merely to hsTe i | 
dip, but a thorough plunge, into the amusements of . 
London. | 

Accordingly, he went to Drury Lane, and saw Mr , 
Mossop in Hamlet^ and Mr Garrick in a whole series ^ 
of characters. He saw Mr Barry in Richard III tt 
Covent Garden. He was present vrhen Mr Garrick | 
and Mrs Clivq appeared in the new play of Tk 
Upholsterer, or what News f and saw the quidnunc of 
the day ruining himself by trembling for the rain of ', 
the nation. He was at Mr Shuter'a benefit in the i 
Bold Stroke for a Wife, which had not been acted for 
so long. He went to the entertainment at Moryboae 
Gardens, and the wire-rope dancing, and concerts on 
the Jew's-harp at Sadler's Wells. He drank tiie 
waters with the genteel company at Islington Spa. 
He heard Handel's Acts and Galatea at Ranelagh, | 
visited the Camel and Dromedary, saw the moTiog i 
figure of the great king of Prussia, and every other ! 
rarity with which tlie town was amusing itself. 

There was one thing which was a matter of per- 'i 
petual unrest to my grandfather ; namely, that be 
was unmarried. He had those manners which are | 
pleasant to ladies, or, as it would have been expressed i| 
in his days, to the sex; he was well made in lim^ ' 
and somewhat handsome in feature ; of a very affsble ^ 
disposition ; not given to drinking, gaming, or atteDO* m 
ing the cockpit; only a little partial to ^^^^,^^' ' 
ready always either for cards or for dancing ; indeed, |, 
the sort of young gentleman ladies were supposed io 
like. Yet he could find no lady answering to that 
standard his eyes and his heart set up. He wi^ed 
for one of a gay and pleasant disposition, yet free 
from those vices which the ladies of the plays, ooyels, 
essays, and memoirs of the age possess and exhibit so i 
sadIy~<one, in fact, who did not make the town her 
rule of life ; who would find more delight in va .i 
society of a loving husband than in the roeeting-plice^ i^ 
of the beaux ; who yet would pay some attention to h 
fashion and to personal graces; who would be sgree- {) 
able, if not a beauty : last, and I fancy far from \e»^ ' 
he wished her to have some nice little sum st her , 
own disposal. All this we have seen set down m | 
private records which the old gentleman has left ^ \\ 
Indeed, my motlier has told me that she believes » , 
once worked up these requisitions into an adrertii^ l| 
ment, and inserted them in the PubHc Adcertiaer. *J \ 
so, it brought liim no wife, although, through i^ I 
medium of another advertisement, he becaine bc* 
quainted with that estimable lady to whom in ^ 
second degree I owe my existence. Advertising »'' |( 
wives, and even for husbands, was not unusttw 
century ago, as every one who has had o^'***]®"^^ 
search newspapers of that date well knowa ^^^ 
odd and pleasant collection might be formed troi» 
their columns. .^ 

Like many other young gentlemen of the ^ 

* Though onlj for onoe. See Laekingto&*s!ir«0*0i'^ 

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who came up from the proTlnces to spend a little 
time and money in London, my grandfather the 
rector thought it not improbable that in so plenti- 
fa\\y stocked a society, he might perchance mn 
across a wife. The wish was entered in his diary the 
night before he started. , Now the custom is reversed. 
Our city-clerk, with the air and talk of a capitalist, 
and the costume of a beau, rushes into the country at 
Easter, Whitsuntide, or Christmas ; finds his way 
into the simple susceptible heart of a country maiden, 
woos lier, adds visit to visit, and condescends to wed 
lier; for she believes it a condescension, until the 
slow process of marriage-troubles reveals to her the 
painful sight and sense of her own superiority. 
Gentlemen were bolder in my grandfather's days than 
they are in mine ; and ladies also. If either saw a 
person of opposite sex at church, at the theatre, 
Ranelagh, or elsewhere, they very often made signal 
of admiration or invitation too plain to be doubted. 
This was indeed one of tlie things which aided young 
men of property and title in their frightful * affairs of 
gallantry,' and is the pivot and turning-point in all 
the memoirs, comedies, novels, and magazine-stories 
of that time. 

One evening, in the summer of 1768, my grand- 
father betook himself to Vauxhall. He had seen 
very many young demoiselles during his stay in 
town; but he had as yet received no wound which 
the spear of Telephus alone could heal. He had been 
also to Vauxhall two or three evenings previously, 
and had glanced and ogled with all the earnestness 
and pertinacity of an unengaged man ; but this fateful 
evening put a close to all these wanderings and uncer- 
tainties. While he was looking backwards and for- 
wards with his customary inquisitiveness, a young 
lady entered between two gentlemen, who suddenly 
drew his roving eyes to herself, and unwittingly kept 
them fixed there during the whole performance. 
Before he looked for it, my poor grandfather was 

As soon ns the songs were over, he followed her 
from the orchestra to the banqueting-room, and 
through the long leafy colonnades, with their myriads 
of little lamps. He stopped when she stopped. When 
the company were rushing to see the water-works, he 
kept close to her ; and every time she looked at him 
— and she did so frequently, by choice or chance — he 
assumed a most serious, speaking, and melancholy 

It was a great sorrow to him when he saw the young 
Indy take her departure, and marked her into her coach. 
However, he resolved to assure himself of her dwell- 
ing-place, and began to picture himself asking the 
consent of a father or a guardian, or opposing a rival, 
wealthier and more favoured than himself. He jumped 
into a coach, and bade the driver follow that in which 
the young lady had seated herself. But he was not 
to succeed so easily. The night was foggy when they 
started; it gradually grew denser; and before they 
had reached Westminster, my grandfather's coachman 
turned round and called out that he had quite lost 
sight of the chase. So he was ordered by my hurt 
and disconsolate relative to drive to the coffee-house 
at which he was staying. 

This was by no means the first young lady whose 
bright eyes had stricken my grandfather in public 
places. Other young ladies he forgot, after a good 
supper, or at the sight of a fresh face, or at the 
thought how impossible it would be to know them, or 
by consideration of the difference there is between 
looking a beauty and being good. But he could not 
forget the maiden of Vauxhall. He lost his appetite, 
not only for town delicacies, but also for town amuse- 
ments. At last, after three days of suflbring, during 
which, it must be confessed, he neither wislied nor 
tried to heal himself, he sought consolation, and kept 

hope from starving, by inserting the following in the 
Pubiie Advertiser: 

* A young lady who was at Vauxhall last Tuesday 
night, in company with two elderly gentlemen, could 
not but observe a young clergyman, who, being near 
her at the orchestra during the performance, and 
especially at the last song, gazed upon her with the 
utmost attention. He earnestly hopes, if unmarried, 
she will favour him with a line, directed to V. V., at 
the bar of Uie Temple-exchange Coffee-house, to 
inform him whether fortune, family, character, and 
profession, may not entitle him, upon further know- 
ledge, to hope an interest in her heart. He begs she 
will pardon the method he has taken to let her know 
the situation of his mind, as, being a stranger, he 
despaired of doing it in any other way, or even of 
seeing her more. As his views are founded on the 
most honourable principles, he presumes to hope the 
occasion will justify, if she generously breaks through 
this trifling formality of the sex, rather than, by a 
cruel silence, render unhappy one who must ever 
expect to continue so, if debarred from a nearer 
acquaintance with her, in whose power alone it is to 
complete his felicity.' 

Unluckily, this advertisement was either not seen 
by the young lady, or, if seen, the young gentleman 
had been unnoticed, or, If noticed, she had not found 
in herself any corresponding desire towards him. My ' 
grandfather was so solemnised by this sudden love, 
and the hopeless issue of it, that he could find no 
pleasure in theatres, gardens, or ibuts, and actually 
sought his excitement for the next fortnight in 
attending daily prayers at the Abbey, the Temple 
Church, St Andrew's on Holbom Hill, or St Paul's. 
After that time, he began to reason with himself that 
she might go often to the places whither the town 
resorted, and that another chance meeting at the 
theatres, or at Ranelagh, if not very likely, was still 
not quite impossible. This was the last straw in 
sight of his rapidly sinking hope. 

Accordingly he went ; at first, blind and dumb, to 
whatever was played or sung before him, unmoved 
alike by Garrick and Mrs Clive in the merriest farces, 
and by the compositions of Handel and Dr Arne; but, 
by degrees, these reinterested him; next, he glanced at 
the bright faces with their mighty capriofeSf their 
* post-chaise and horses, chair and chairmen' on their 
heads, in the boxes ; he began to find himself curable; 
and he returned to Nottinghamshire, though a slightly 
altered, still a very merry man ; he amused himself 
reading, on his road, the two new volumes of Tristram 
Shandtf by his brother in orders, the Rev. Laurence 

My grandfather had been absent from his cure 
exactly two months, during which time his very light 
and easy duties were taken by an unbeneficed friend, 
a schoolmaster in Nottingham, and man of high repute 
at Cambridge. These consisted in riding over on 
Sunday morning, putting on a clerical wig kept in 
the sacristy, and a surplice much more like a smock- 
frock than that habiliment recognised by ecclesiolo- 
gists as the officiating costume of an English priest, 
and reading a sermon of Dr Sherlock's on the evi- 
dences of Christianity, to a few old women, a dozen 
framework knitters, and a number of children, who, 
as they perceived neither the drift nor the need of it, 
thought it mightily learned. Pastoral visitation was 
an exercise my grandfather, at this polite period of 
his life, conceived quite unnecessary; and frequent 
non-residence was not only not a sin, but a laudable 
and gentlemanlike habit in the town season ; and, if 
funds permitted, in the Bath and Matlock season 

To these not onerous duties my grandfather 
returned with a heart almost whole. There was just 
a scratch in that organ — ^I can scarcely call it a 

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wvmnd-^which guve him a little RDart at ere and 
in solitude, in all such idle times and -conditiont as 
oourt memory. To get rid of this he made twilight 
lively by inviting an old coUe^ friend, a county 
captain, or one of the pupils of the Nottingham tutor, 
to stay with him ; and, when no yisitor was to be had, 
by smoking his pipe at the Lord Ligonier Arms. He 
also Added to his light clerical tasks the heavier 
avocation of an angler; and often, wlien Ills per- 
ish ioners were taking their dogs ratting along tlie 
Trent-side on summer-evenings, they came .upon their 
solitary priest with his fisiiing-rod, who, although he 
looked upon apostolical suooession in that sense in 
which Uie non-jurors and the Bomanists held it, as 
qaite beneath the notice of a man of taste and ton, 
very frequently found himself their successor in the 
piscatorial act of toiling all day and catching nothing. 

Just at this time some leading political persons in 
the county were using great ^orts to start a new 
diurch and anti-gallican iwwspaper for the midland 
district — I forget its name. Like so many of modem 
date, it was just got to move, strutted a little way, 
bragged of its power and vitality, and suddenly 
dropped down dead. The promoters mainly depended 
en tlie support of the squirearchy and clergy; letters 
were addressed to all these persons ; amongst others, 
consequently, to my grsodfkther. He was delighted 
-*it came to him in the light of that deliverance from 
ennui which he had long been looking for. He not 
only promised to use his utmost efforts to further its 
drcukition amongst his derical brethren, but also 
volunteered iiis services as contributor. 

I have in my possession a book of printed slips 
from this newspaper, being the entire series of my 
grandfather^ contributions to it. They consist 
mainly of panegyrics on Frederick the Great, at that 
time the most popular man in England. These are 
a specimen of their titles: A Sketch of the lafe of 
that Ghrand Character who is the Hope of Europe (the 
king of Prussia); the Protestant Hero (the king of 
Prussia) ; an Essay on the Literary Labours of the 
Great Philosophical Monarch (the king of Prussia) ; 
the Scourge of Superstition: an Ode to the King of 
Prussia; Tribulator Gallia: an Ode to the Great 
Frederick; Caesar Outdone, or a History of the 
Battles of our Magnanimous Ally (the king of 

To these are appended a series of pftpers, some ui 
print, and some only in manuscript, imagined by my 
well-meaning grandfather to be in the style of the 
Tatier and Spectator; but th^ aie not of that use 
for the illustration of the middle of the eighteenth 
century which those inimitable papers are for that 
of its oommencement, or I should dtfaer have pub- 
lished them, or presented them to our national library 
at the Museum. 

Every Thursday morning, if my grandfather had 
not started very much earlier to fetch it, a lad came 
over from the printer's at Nottingham with this paper. 
In February 1759, the twentieth week after its birth, 
and seventh before its death, the boy brought the 
small quarto, as the young rector was dressing 
himself for a day's shooting in Lord Byron's park 
at Newstead, the noble owner* of which, six years 
afterwards, killed bis neighbour, Mr Chaworth, in a 
dueL With him in his bedroom, making saroastie 
remarks on every article of dress as he put it on, at 
every glance he gave towards his l^s, or in the 
mirror, were his friends, Captain Clayton, that 
renowned marksman, and the Nottingham tutor, 
who had been confessor and adviser in that delicate 
matter of the heart which occurred to my relative 
when in London. He lengthened the already too- 
extended and too-intermpt^ dressing-time, by occa- 


sional gkaces at the newspaper; a pacagrapli, and 
then a turn at tlie toilet; another paragraph, and 
then the toilet again. New% however, was the 
smallest matter in tliose daya. 'Our own cons- 
spondent' was not yet allowed the honour of having 
his entire communication appear in print ; the editor 
skimmed the cream off it, which be presented to the 
readers after his own confection. Hence it was tlut 
the rector liad soea finished the • news, and begim 
upon the advertisements. There was not that number 
which appeared in the London papera, and what there 
was was a puddle compared with the ocean we are 
used to in this day ; but the advertisers in this mid- 
land print aversged from three to six. Prominent!/, 
amid these few, stood forth the ibllowing : 

* If any young clergyman, somewhat agreeable in 
person, and who has a small independent fortune, can 
be well recommended as to strictness of life and good 
temper, firmly attached to this present happy esub- 
lishment, and is willing to engage in the matrimoniil 
estate, wkh an agreeable young lady, in whose power 
it is to bestow L.100 per annum — any person wbooi 
this may suit, may call at the second honee in 
Berkeley Street within four days of this advertiie- 
ment, having previously left a Uno directed toAZ. 
at the same house.' 

This smote my grandfather with each a saddes, 
peculiar, and visible effiKt, that both his frieoda 
inquired if there was any very astounding neve in 
the paper. He laughed, and said there wae «& 
advertisement for himself. He tossed it over to 
them, telling them to read the second from the to^ 
While they were doing so, he himself was the cbaooel 
of a whole flood of unexpected thonghrts and reeola- 
tions. Here was the perpetual cure for tlie unavoidable 
eaaaa of village-life, the longed-for talisman to make 
the rectory-house endurabk^ nay, even sunnj vA 
gladsome. A London lady, too ; not like •ome rich 
Nottinghamshire damsels he had been introduced 
to, who had twice been to the county town, and 
who thought themaelves the <^ynosHre (^ all eyee in 
their grandmother's seldom worn pinner. Tme, i( 
was a lottery ; and among so many he was likely to 
lose after aU. He folt disinclined for the rook- 

The captain began immediately to rally him on 
this advertisement, saying he was evidently fore- 
appointed to fit ito standard. He spake the v^ 
thoughts that were in my relative's own mind. Be 
advised him to set off for town to-monow, and be lo 
the field before any hungry London curate had snspped 
her up. * You wiU be a fool* if you don't try,' oaid ^' 
* it will but be an adventure if you lose. But' (wiU^ 
a military and fashionable expletive)^ he added, 'yoa 
are sure to win, old boy.' 

My grandfatlier appealed to his clerical friend. 

'I will ssy nothing,' said he. 'Ton ought to 
remember what fine things you have told me over 
and over agahi about a certain young lad|y ; uadyml 
love, and so on.' 

The captain informed the yoonger clergyiDfti> tlw 
the elder, ^tike all other schodmasten, "^^^^ 
and always remembered his tiade was to teach, to^ 
spoke to men as if they were lads.' A cooiro«f J 
ensued between the priest and the soldier; in ^^^ 
(my grandfather's inclination being on that side, an 
his opponent aim doggedly dumb as to reasooe rar 
not going) the man of the sword got the best ^ 
said he would excuse the young psrson from ^ 
shooting, and so give him time to make '•■"^ ' - 
starting by to-morrow's coach. The elder pj^r 
said he shouU fulfil a promised call en tlie ftti^ 
of one of his pupils, and should go into Bedford*^ 
by to-day's coach, if he could get hack to Nottin«n"J 
in time. Accordingly, the captain and my 9<^°? iji 
sat down to breakfost, and the tutor nooD^ '^ 

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horse, si^iog, m he rode ofl( *he wn •ore hie frteod 
would sleep off his Qoizotio notion of rmhing after 
an unknown lady ef vntold, and, therelbte, of pretty 
adranoed tkgB,* 

My auxiona relatiTe, however, airived in town by the 
next coaoh, bought a new wig and auit, and having left 
a letter proclaiming his hopes, called at the address 
mentioned in the advertisement. He was sliewn into 
a room handsomely furnished, and hung with Mr 
Hogarth's new prints of the Election, which had only 
been published a few weeks. Here he aat down in 
great trepidation, and waited for above twenty 
minutes, during which time he first gave cool con- 
sideration to some of the less pleasant possibilities of 
his adventure— the chanoe of the lady being much 
older tlian himself, or marked with the small-pox, or 
stammering, or lame, or possibly squinting hideously. 

At last the door-handle sounded, and tlie door flew 
open. Guess his surprise when his friend the tutor 
from Nottingham marched in. My 'grandfather at 
first Mushed up to his eyes. * What I we were to 
appear as rivals, then ? ' he stammered out — perceiving 
at the same time la&y his friend, if he miglit any 
longer call him so^ had dissuaded him, and stolen a 
march to London under feint of Bedfordshire. In a 
moment, however, he consoled himself by a comparison 
of his own person and age with that of his treacherous 
brother in orders. These thoughts made him rilent, 
and, for a minute or two, also forgetful of his awkward 
position. Should they see the 3ronng lady alone, or 
togetlier ? Had they no other rivals ? Possibly, she 
was desirous of a Nottlngiiamshire husband, and had 
advertised in no other newspaper. 

The elder clergyman burst out laughing. At this 
my grand&ther was aroused, and laughed also— more, 
however, to take off his nervouaness than firom spon- 
taneous sympathy. 

'My dear Jack,' said the tutor, * I see I must give 
in; I shall stand no chance against a brisk young 
fellow like yon.' And he sprang up and abruptly 
left; the room. My grandfather heard his laugh on 
the stairs. He began to see that he was being hoaxed, 
and felt bewildeied. How the squires, captains^ and 
parsons woukl laugh at him I 

A moment after, the tutor nappeared, leading in a 
young lady. How shall I tell my grandfather's aniw 
prise? It was that very same maiden whom he had 
watched and Ibllowed at Vauxhall, and sighed after 
so many times since. To this first happy perception 
soon followed the second* 

' Armida, my love— «ay detiest friend, the fieverend 
John Grantley.' 

' Jack, my lad— my dear little niece.' 

The explanation is very short The merry old 
clergyman had peroeiv«d from Onmtley's clear descrip- 
tion, at his very first confession, that the young Udy 
by whom he had been smitten was his own niece, a 
native of 27ottingham, at that time stoying in London 
with his two brothers the lawyers, and with them 
going the round of town amuaements. She had 
returned to Nottingham before my grandfttther. The 
further he thought himself from heit, the nearer he 

really waa—a conrideration which often filled his 
confiassor vrith inward laughter. She had fk^quently 
seen him from her father's window; had heard him 
preach in 8t Peter's, though hidden from him by the 
Christmas bushes and the deep wooden walls. She 
had even been in her uncle's house one day when the 
young rector called there, and was bent upon seeing 
and speaking with him ; but her determined tehuive 
•ent her faome^ promising to axnmge an introduo- 
tion befeie the month wns out She confessed she 
liked the look and constancy of her admiier, and 
entered heartily into her undoes meny scheme of the 
advertisement. Tlie eaptain was taken into counsel 
at aooomplioe, and agreed to wge my gmndiather to 

the departing point. There was no fear of any other 
cjeigyman answerii^ the advertisement; fbr the 
circulation was too lamentably small, and the con- 
triver knew the habita and property of every other 
dencal subscriber. ^ 

Two graceful and charming Tolumes are lying before 
us, to which we would iuTite our readers' attention.* 
The author's design is to give a popular history of 
German poetry, with sketches of the lives of the 
poets ; and this is executed in such a manner that we 
rise from the perusal with a wonderfully clear view of 
so extensive a field ; while the career «^ many of the 
personages is so artistically delineated as to give the 
narrative aM the interest of a romance. We cannot, 
however, include the verse in Mb warm commenda- 
tion, for the volumes, to use a favourite phrase 
of our ancestors, are * interspersed with poetry'— 
consisting of translated specimens of the German 
works referred to. If those translations are faithful, 
the specimens roust be ill chosen, since they do not 
bear out our author's criticism ; but the moat cour- 
teous, and probably the most correct, supposition is, 
that, as usually happens, the subtle spirit of poetry 
has escaped in the process of transfusion from one 
language into another. 

In the first volume, the history is brought down to 
the period when in Germany—devastated by the 
Peasant War, then by the atrocities of Anabaptiam, 
and the more dreadful atrocities in which it was 
wrtinguished, then by the Thirty Years' War, which 

cut off two-thirds of the population of the countiy 

the lamp of poetry, and indeed of literature generally, 
after one or two fitful flickers, was wholly extin- 
guished. It was later and more slowly le-illumed at 
the Revival than in any other country in Europe; 
but gradually, at length, the spirit of German poetry 
arose from its ashes, though atreamhig no longer in 
the national gushes of a homogeneous character 
which had before distinguished it. Acted upon by 
new influences, it was divided into numerous schools, 
all insignificant when viewed from the column of 
history, but each appearing great in the eyes of ita 
contemporariea. In the eighteenth century, the 
proaaic hymns of Gellert, and the hu^:adaisical Idyia 
of Geasner, procured for their authors unbounded 
reputatmn; but, at the same epoch, Klopstock came 
forth, and achieved a lame that even now, though 
dimmed, is not altogether extinguished. Tlien, as 
time flowed on, Lessmg, Herder, Burger, Wieland, 
Schiller, and Goethe rose above the brightening 
boriaon. It is not with the genius of individual 
poets, however, we have anything to do for the 
present: we wisli to uquire into their status in the 
aggregate as a portion of the literary body ; and 
while obtaining some idea of this, an instrootive 
comparison will unconsciously suggest itself between 
them and their brethren of our own country. 

In England, there is no such thing as a r^nblic of 
letters ; there, each literary man stands alone, and he 
does not obtain even the personal acquaintance of his 
fellows in virtue of his calling. It is different in 
Germany, where literature is a apecies of freemasoniy, 
in which the members of the craft look upon them- 
selves as brethren, and where these memben are 

• Poets and Pottry 'if Oermanv, Btognphia»l sad CMUosl 
Koticefl. By Hadame L. Day^slte de Pontes. 2 toIs. London: 
Chftpmsa ft HSU. IStt. 

Digitized by 




recognifled by the rest of the people as belonging to 
a distinct profession. When the young and poor 
Klopstock, for instance, the Yictim of love and 
poetry, was indulging his dreams and his sorrows 
by the Lake of Zurich, he suddenly received a letter 
from the king of Denmark, inviting him to his court, 
and offering him a trifling annuity in the meantime, 
and the reversion of some post worthy of his accept- 
ance. When Leasing published his drama, the Xoo- 
coon^ he was at once invited, as much to his surprise 
as delight, to remove from Berlin, and undertake the 
superintendence of a new national theatre just 
opened at Hamburg; and when his salary ceased 
here, and he was reduced to desperation, being in 
want of the rery necessaries of life, the Duke of 
Brunswick, who knew him only by his works, tendered 
him the post of librarian at Wolfenbiittel. When the 
Elector of Mainz wanted a director for the university 
of Erfurt, he applied at once to Wieland, as a roan 
whose fitness for the post was proved by his published 
books. The poet did not And the situation an agree- 
able one ; but he was soon invited by the Duchess of 
Weimar to become tutor to the young duke; and 
various unsolicited compliments were paid to his 
genius by other princes and nobles. Nor were other 
classes of the community less discriminating. German 
authors have usually had a resource in tuition ; for 
the people considered that they who shewed them- 
selves capable of turning to good advantage their 
own education, must be well fitted to educate others. 

Let us not imagine, howerer, that literature in 
Germany was, or is now, a flourishing profession in 
the pecuniary sense of the term. The nobles, although 
indeed shorn of their beams, were still the dominant 
party, and they alone were eligible for either civil or 
military posts of any consequence. Tliey were no 
longer, it is true, the rivals or masters of the 
sovereign, who now kept them in their places by 
means of a standing army; but the very hopelessness 
of their subjection to the crown rendered them the 
more tenacious of their tyrannical hold upon the 
people. They still kept up their heritable jurisdic- 
tions, by means of which they fined, scourged, and 
put to death the peasant tenants ; and many of those 
ancestral privileges remained intact till the revolution 
of 1848. The emoluments, therefore, even of those 
literary men who basked in the sunshine of royalty, 
were not great. Wieland, for instance, when invited 
to be tutor to the young Duke of Weimar, was offered 
L.90 a year for his three years of service, and after 
that, a pension of L.23 for life. But let us not 
smile at tliis princely generosity in a country and at 
a time when beef was seven farthings a pound, veal 
less than three-halfpence, and house-rent, fuel, &c., in 
proportion. A thorough maid-servant thouglit herself 
well oflT with less than L.8 a year; a first-rate cook 
had L.4, 3s. ; and a maid-of-iUl-work not quite L.2. 
This was at Frankfort, Berlin, or Vienna; in the 
country, the remuneration of domestic labour was not 
lo extravagant. When Voss contributed to the Musen- 
Almanack^ his precarious income was about L.60 a 
year — a sum which Schiller declared he could live on 
charmingly with his wife and family— but when he 
was appointed director of that publication, with a 
fixed salary of L.70 a year, he at once married his 
Ernestine, with her anxious mother's approbation, 
which she had hitherto withheld. 

Poverty, however, was, and is, no crime and no 
shame in Germany. It was never there inconsistent 
with the highest refinement and the most genial 
iociality. Look at this picture of the menace of the 
author we have last mentioned : ' In May 1 778, Voss 
became the husband of her whom he so fondly loved, 
and bore her back to his humble home at Wandsbcck. 
As, however, the single chamber with which he had 
been contented during his bachelor-life was now 

insttfiicient, he hired a little garden-pavilion, and here 
they established themselves as well as the nsrrov 
space allowed. A clear and sparkling rill flowed tt 
the foot of their abode ; and the treea and flowers tbst 
surrounded it gave it an air of cheerfulness and gaiety 
which, in the eyes of the young lovers, atoned for the 
absence of everything but the most simple necessarki 
The evening after their arrival, they visited Clanditn, 
and many a happy evening did they spend in bii 
garden, where a chosen few were wont to meet three 
or four times a week. Every description of luxorr 
was banished as unsuited to the means of the enter- 
tainers; neither tea nor coffee was allowed; beer. 
home-brewed, with bread and cheese, and sometime! 
a little cold ham, or bacon, were the only refreBbmen& 
permitted ; but the mirth and good-humour of the 
party required no stimulants; they were as happy i^ 
youth, health, friendship, and congenial society coaH 
make them. One evening, it was discovered tint the 
provision of home-brewed beer was exhausted, xii 
even that of cheese was waxing low. Some potatoes. 
however, and a little rice-soup remained from dinner, 
and with these, Ernestine tells us, they were as happy 
as princes. **When Claudius come to spend (be 
evening with us, he always bound his little dautrhter 
to his back ; she was then laid in our bed till bis 
return home." Campe and Lessing were fraqneotlj 
of the party, and joined in all their innocent gaietv. 

* We have lingered on this picture of rural enjoy- 
ment, because it proves how possible it is to unite ^ 
highest literary culture with the simplest mode of 
existence, the most perfect refinement of mind a»<j 
manners with the total absence of wealth or splendoar/ 

This is delicious ; but to complete tlie idea it 
conveys, we must give a glimpse of a very differeBt 
interior, that of Wieland, in which refined comfort '^ 
heightened by the same genial warmth ; * Tlie home 
of my friend is at once elegant and rural. It bat a 
fine kitchen-garden extending to a beautiful voci 
which, in its turn, stretches to the banks of the riffr* 
I dine every day with the patriarch and his fo«? 
charming daughters in the library, which command! 
a view of an extensive and verdant mesdow. I 
inquired who was that robust and handsome yooth. 
mowing the grass around a thicket of roses. It *f^ 
his son. I for my part assist the mother and daoft- 
ters in their household duties. Country-life reigns 
here in all its charming simplicity. Goethe came i^ 
dine with us the other day ; nothing could be v^^ 
simple than his manners. It was delightful to '^ 
these two poets seated side by side, without jealosy, 
pretension, or affectation, calling each other by w»*i' 
Christian names, as they did in their youth, rese™; 
Ming much less two beaux esprit than two ^ 
merchants of Groningen, united by the ties of »ff«^ 
tion and relationship. The daughters of the ff^^ 
Herder shortly after joined us. Beauty, g^^^^ 
wit, genius, and sincere affection— all united io ^^ 
little room.' 

The minnesingers passed away, with the tw[^ 
teenth century, and the meistersiingers were pn^' 
cally extinct at the close of the seventeentB, 
but the poets of Germany seem gregarious nj 
nature; and in the latter part of the eight^"^ 
century another national association arose J>' 
similar kind, called the Hainbund. The ^^ 
Almanachj already mentioned, was established 7 
them as their poetical organ; and the association' 
the course of lime included the names of ""*"^. 
tinguished authors, such as the 8tolbergs, Schiegw*j 
and Biirger. The earlier members raeX e»*^ 
Saturday *at each other's houses, and ^^Jl^ 
and criticised their own productions and those of nj^^ 
of more established fame. At times ^^^\^^ 
assemble in some romantic spot " under the ■J'*^^ 
lofty oaks, in the glimmering moonlight, by tb« ^ 

Digitized by 



of murmuring streami or in grassy meads," nnd there 
gire full vent to tliat passionate and somewhat exag- 
gerated love of romance and nature which form the 
principal characteristics of their poetry.* On one 
occasion they went out to a neighbouring village. 
' Tlie weather was most lovely/ says Voss; ' the moon 
full ; we gave ourselves up completely to the enjoy- 
ments of nature, drank some milk in a peasant's 
cottage, and then hastened to the open meadows. 
Here we found a little oak-wood, and at the same 
moment it occurred to us all to swear the holy oath 
of friendship, under the shadow of these sacred trees. 
We crowned our hats with ivy, laid them beneath the 
spreading branches of the oaks, and clasping each 
other*8 hands, danced round the massive trunk. We 
called on the moon and stars to witness our union, 
and swore eternal friendship. We pledged ourselves 
to repeat this ceremony in a still more solemn manner 
on the first occasion. I was chosen by lot as the 
head of the Bund.' 

Among the ooropensationsof that tribe whose badge 
is poverty, we find love the most remarkable. Else- 
where, love is usually an episode: here, it is an 
important part of the history, its golden threads 
interwoven throughout the whole web. We have 
seen literary men introduced by their works alone to 
such offices as they were supposed to be capable of 
filling with advantage; but the same works gave 
them entrance — sometimes personally unseen and 
unknown — into the hearts of women. Klopstock 
affords an example of this. A friend one day read 
to him from a letter some criticisms on the Messiah^ 
which struck the gratified poet by their depth of 
thought and poetical feeling. He learned that the 
critic was a maiden; and although at the moment 
smarting under a love disappointment, called on her 
with a letter of introduction. 'Margaretba MoUer 
was one of the most enthusiastic of Elopstock's 
admirers. Ardent and imaginative, endowed with 
talents of no common order, with a heart as warm as 
her intellect was cultivated, tlie author of the Meuiah 
was in her eyes the ideal of all that was great and 
good in human nature. To see him, to know him, 
seemed to her a privilege which would gratify her 
utmost wishes, but which she could scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy. Her delight and astonishment may 
be conceived when she actually heard his name 
announced. Meta was at that moment engaged in 
some domestic occupation — no other, we believe, than 
that of sorting out the household linen — and the room 
was consequently in no little disorder. Her sister 
proposed declining the visit for that morning; but 
the fair enthusiast would not hear of such a sugges- 
tion. The linen was quickly concealed, and Klopstock 
introduced.' In this first interview, at which he 
found the young lady ' at once so gifted, so amiable, 
and so charming, that he could hardly avoid giving 
her the name dearest to him in the world,' a corre- 
spondence was agreed upon. He found that she 
wrote ss naturally as she spoke, and that, besides 
French, she was well acquainted with English, Italian, 
Latin, and— adds Klopstock — * perhaps Greek, for 
aught I know.' 

Meta never thought of concealing her love — a love 
which marriage had only the effect of increasing. 
^ *' Since Klopstock and I have met," writes she to 
her correspondent Gleim, '* I firmly believe that all 
those who are formed for each other are sure to meet 
sooner or later. How could I ever dream, when I 
knew Klopstock only by his Messiah and his odes, 
and so fondly wished for a lieart like his, that very 
heart would one day be mine ? . . . . Even in my 
tliirteenth year, I thought seriously how I should 
arrange my life, whether I married or remained single. 
In the first case, I settled how I should manage my 
household, educate my children, and above ^ all, 

conduct myself towards my husband. I formed the 
beau ideal of the consort I should desire, and Provi- 
dence has given me precisely him whom I had pictured 
to myself as the type, the model of human perfection." 
. • . . "I must tell you a new happiness," she 
writes to another, ** which increases the number of 
my calm enjoyments. Klopstock, who had hitherto 
written out his compositions himself, begins to dictate 
them to me ! This is indeed a delight 1 Klopstock's 
first manuscript is always written by my hand, and 
thus I am the first to read his beautiful verses! 
Kejoice in the advent of the second volume of the 
Messiah. Abbadona appears more frequently in the 
ninth song. Do I love Klopstock particularly as the 
author of the Messiah 9 Ah, for how many causes do 
I particularly love him ! But on this account more 
than any other. And what a love is this! How pure, 
how tender, how full of veneration! I am most 
anxious he should finish the Messiah, not so much on 
account of the honour which will redound to him 
in consequence, as of the benefit it will confer on 
mankind. He never works at it without my praying 
that God may bless his labours. My Klopstock 
always writes with tears in his eyes !" ' 

The irritable and melancholy Lessing obtained a 
wife whose admirable qualities acted like heavenly 
balm upon the spirit of every one who came near her. 
'The spell which Madame Lessing threw over those 
around her could not fail to exercise a potent influence 
on a mind like that of her husband's, so keenly alive 
to all that was good and noble. His irritability 
decreased ; his whole nature seemed tranquillised and 
softened, and the very spirit of love and concord 
reigned over the little household.' Wieland's first love 
was unfortunate^ although he was beloved in return. 
His second was so also ; and we mention it because 
the description of the lady shews, what one is inclined 
to suspect throughout, that the attachment of the 
German literary heart is determined by qualities differ- 
ent from physical beauty. 'A greater contrast to 
Sophia could scarcely be conceived. Julia was plain 
even to ugliness ; somewhat pedantic withal, fond of 
talking with a loud voice and dictatorial manner, not 
unlike the picture drawn of the gillted and unfortunate 
Margaret Fuller. Like her, too, she contrived to 
make all these imperfections forgotten by her intel- 
lectual charms, and exercised on every one who came 
within her sphere an influence absolutely magical. 
** There is nothing in the world I would not do — 
nothing that ought to be done, I mean," Wieland 
writes to Zimmermann, *' to win the hand of Julia ; 
but I fear this is impossible." So it proved. Julia 
was resolved to live and die in single blessedness, 
and, strange to say, fulfilled her resolution.' Notwith- 
standing later attachments, however, his early love 
was never forgotten. At the ripe age of fifty-five, lie 
once more met Sophia. * Wieland had inquired after 
her with some impatience, and seemed most anxious 
to see her. All at once he perceived her. I saw him 
tremble ; he stepped aside, threw his hat down with a 
movement at once hasty and tremulous, and hastened 
towards her. Sophia approached him with extended 
arms; but instead of accepting her embrace, he 
seized her hand, and stooped down to conceal his 
features. Sophia, with a heavenly look, bent over 
him, and said, in a tone which neither clarion nor 
hautboys could imitate : '* Wieland, Wieland ! Yes, 
it is you — ^you are ever my dear good Wieland !" 
Bous«i by this touching voice, Wieland lifted up his 
head, looked in the weeping eyes of the friend of his 
youth, and let his fsce sink into her arms.' 

But the loves of the poets is too extensive a theme 
for our space, and we shall conclude by citing the case 
of Biirger after the death of his second wife^ to whom 
he was even madly attached. ' Biirger*s poems were 
peculiar favourites among the fair sex, and one of their 


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warmeil admirers wm a Snabiaii maiden, called Elisa 
H— *. Toong, ardent, and romantie to exoeaa, the 
had hnog with rapture over B1irger*t poems ; she had 
listened with pitying sympatliy to the recital of his 
love and his sorrows, and her imagination had pictured 
him under the most attractive form. Wayward and 
passionate, thoughtless and anreflective, now gladsome 
as a child, now plunged into the depths of sadness*- 
** everything by turns, and nothing long" — EHsa was 
the most charming and the most provoking of her 
sex. Though far from wealthy, her position was at 
least independent, and her wit and beauty attracted 
numerous admirers. As none of her adorers had yet 
found favour in her eyes, probably because they fell 
short of the standard of excellence her imagination 
had formed, she was still unmarried and fancy-free, 
when the tidings of Molly's [the wife's] death reached 
her, and awakened feelings which at first she herself 
scarcely dared to analyse. Biirger, he whose poems 
had been so long the delight of her heart, now thrill- 
ing her with terror, now moving her to tears, was 
free 1 That being whom he had so passionately loved 
was torn from him by the cruel hand of death ; and, 
as Elisa pictured his wild despair, his hopeless 
anguish, his utter loneliness, her enthusiastic soul 
warmed with mingled tendeness and pity. To see 
him, to know him, to console him, this was at first 
the sole end and aim of all her wishes. Oradnally 
others arose— might she not by her love and caro 
reconcile him to that world which was now become 
a desert to him, and replace his lost Molly in his 
heart? She did not pause to consider whether a 
union with a man double her age, who had already 
twice entered the bonds of matrimony, would be 
likely to insuro her happiness. She trusted to her 
charms, to her influence, to efliKe all remembraaoe 
of bis beloved Molly, and to mould him to her wishes 
-^a delusion which has blasted the peace of many 
a fond heavt' 

Among the names mentioned by oor author are 
not thoee of Goethe or Schiller, or of the writers who 
have flouridied in oor own generation ; but these will 
form the subject of a future work. In the meantime, 
we have thought that it might not be considered an 
uninteresting or unsaggestive service to deduce from 
the present volumes some slight account of the 
compensations of literary life in Germany. 



A iBnioniAf« from the Early-elosing Association has 
been lidd before the governor and directon of the 
Bank of Enghmd, with a request that they would 
sanction the movement by closing the Bank at two 
o'clock on Saturdays, and thereby 'confer an important 
privilege on those engaged in that establishment, 
fodiitale the adoption of the practice in the London 
banks generally, and at the same time give a powerful 
impetus to the cause in otlier quarters.' 

Upwards of eleven hundred of the leading city 
firms have given their hearty concurrence to this 
proposition, 'believing that no inconvenience can 
arise to tlie public from such alteration being imme- 
diately eftcted,' and their names are affixed to the 
memorial. It sets forth that this generous concession 
will not only * enable many thousands of the mercan- 
tile and industrial classes, with their famil]es>*withoot 
infringing on the Sunday — ^to participate in those 
interchanges of friendship, and to take that healtliAil 
relaxation, which constitute some of the chief enjoy- 
ments, and even necessities of life;' bat also that an 
indirect result of great importance will arise from it, 
in the more general payment of wages on tlie Friday 
histead of the Saturday. 

It is almost impossible to over-estimate the sdrant- 
ages of such a diange. 'When a working instesd d 
a leisure day,' says a committee of the Hooie (rf 
Commons, appointed to consider tiiis snlject, 'saooMdi 
the receipt of wages, the workman encounten few 
temptations to dissipate his earnings at the gin-ihnp. 
instead of employing them in the purohase of neoH- 
saries for his family. If gentlemen-manufsctiirm, 
master^tndesmen, and farmen were aware of the 
benefits which must result to the labonriag-dM 
from paying their wages on an earlier day thiB 
Saturday, especially if that day precede a mirkel- 
day, your committee entertain no doubt that fedia^ 
of kindness, as well as duty, would soon caote tk» 
practioe to become general.* 

And again : ' If the labourer does not recnvie \m 
wages in proper time on the Saturday to allovhiB 
Sunday as a day of rest or recreatk», he is manifeair 
injured by being deprived of that portion of tiiM 
which it has been the design of laws, both Inuna 
and divine, to seomre to him. If, on the other hud, 
he receives Ins wages in time to enable him to niitt 
his purohases on the Saturday evening, he is ooa- 
mitting an injustice on the shopkeeper by caaiii^ 
him to sacrifice his day of rest by delaying his pr- 
chases to the Sunday.' 

Nevertheless, we roust remember that the abiolote 
and universal stoppage of Sunday trading is impoisible 
so long as tlie poor are so infamously lodged u they 
are at present. When seven or eight perMmi ooni? 
the same room, eating and sleeping, the pretenoe, ia 
addition, of a leg of mutton hanging firom the calmg 
— whicMisthehronly • safe *~U far from whotewKO" 
the Saturday niglit, nor is the morsel itself rendned 
more savoury by the process for the ensoiof dij; 
but with respect to conmoditiea which us ^ 
perishsble, they need never be bought npon tke 
Sunday by persons who receive their wages before the 
preceding evening. All the weekly Uboaren is thi 
Queen's employment are paid on Friday, tad m 
those in tiie government establishmenU either od that 
day or before Saturday afternoon ; whUe the sane ii 
the case with the Metropolitan and City police fofcei. 
Moreover, all the Friday-paying firms sgree that 
tlieir men do not keep worse time, and are not i«> 
fitted for their duties on Saturday by ressoa of the j 
change. i 

The Association, as might have been expected 
have indeed been far more successful in eil^ti<iir tbs | 
alteration of pay-day than In procuring a dtfniRotiA> | 
of the hours of toil. It is hard to persuade the ctn- I 
merdal mind that a few houre given is not s »^' > 
houre /of<, nor does it quite eee the neoeafitrj] 
*refipeshing the machine' at all— in the case of ol^ , 
people. ^ 

Still, there is a very large minority ofli^ 
minded merehanta, manufacturers, and ^'^^'''^Sl 
have sympathised with the early-closing <"<'*^^ 
and adopted more or less entirely the ^^^^J^' 
holiday, including the Slock Exchange; ^^^ 
the Baltic Coffee-houee; a large majority of |°^ 
insurance companies ; the General Post-ofllce in f^ 
departments ; the railway companies in certain * 
sions ; the distillers ; many of the brewers ; ^^j^^ 
factore ; the leatlier-factora ; several ot ^ ,^ 
printen; the wholesale fruiterere; the ^^'^ 
sUtionera; the wholesale booksellers; i>^^ 
merohanu and brokers ; with all the great ^"''^^ 
men to the north and south of CheapsMe, ^"S^f^ 
the Manchester, Bradford, Leeds, Coventi7>I^<^ 
Nottingham, and Scotch trades. While, f**!^ 
example of the progress of the cause, *ber *»*^^j^ 
jndgea, and sabseqoently the lord chancell^t " 
established new rulee touching the service ^^^ 
ings, notices, summonses, Ac, to fheiKtate^the carrj ^ 
out of the movement in the legal 

Digitized by 




raadily mTailiii9 themielves of these new rules, upwards 
of seven hitndred ef the leading London solicitocB now 
close their offiose on Saturday at two o'clock. 

* The bankers, in some of the principal cities in the 
north of England, including Liverpool and Manchester, 
as also in Scotland, have for some years past carried 
out the halMioliday moTsmenk' 

The teatimoiues of many of the more important 
firms who have long adoptsd Early Closing, are very 
gratifying. It in reality appears that, * whilst they 
have thus conferred an important boon on those in 
their emploj, for which the latter are most grateful, 
they geoerally get as much work done in the shorter 
time as tliey fonneriy did in the more lengthened 
hours of bnsiness. Happily for the cause, this is no 
mere tlieory, which may or may not be correct, but 
tiie actual ezperienoe of b«sinese»men whose namea 
stamp their statements with truth, and who, moreover, 
could have no motive to mislead the public in (he 
matter. This pleasing result is, no doubt, partly 
owing to the greater heart, and more thorough con- 
centration of purpose with which workmen naturally 
apply themselves to their calling when cheered by the 
prospect of a few hours of extra relaxation at the end 
of the week ; and partly to the augmented restora^e 
influence exercised by that prolonged cessation from 

The employers somotines require an extra half* 
hour per diem^ in order to make up in the Satorday 
half-holiday, and their labourers an very ready to gifve 
it. Without this exaction, however, such a firm as 
Barclay and Perkins are able to assert that 'they 
have closed business entirely on Saturday, at two 
o^clock, for the last eighteen months, and the plan 
has occasioned no inconvenience or obstacle to the 
due execution of our regular work ; on the contrary, it 
has resulted in greater convenience to all coneemed.' 

Chubb and Son ^bave closed at 1 r.M. on Saturday, 
for the last eighteen months, and find the system 
answers very satisfifictorily in both their manufactories 
(London and Wolverhampton).' 

Alexander Grant and Brothers^ vrbo dose at two 
o'clock on Saturday, declare that it 'has been very 
beneficial to ourselves, as well as to our people for 
whose advantage it was adopted. We gtt quite as 
much, if not more, work done, and a better class of 
men offer themselves for employmeat.' 

The Patent Galvanising and Corrugating Iron Com- 
pany has closed at two in the summer months, and 
four in the winter, and tlie proprietors * have found 
no inconvenience whatever in their arrangement, but 
quite the reveras^ as their men have done precisely aa 
much work since shortening the hours of labour.' 

The firm of Truman* Hanbnry, Buxton, and Co., 
whose men leavo work so early aa at half-past twelve, 
assert this : ' Three years ago, we adopted the pfam of 
giving the men in onr employ a half-holiday on 
Satu^ays. .... We m>w coiwpleie in five daye and a 
haif that ivhkk fermeritf oeevpied tix days to do, and 
this without any inconvenience; and in the long-run 
we believe we are gainers rather than otherwise 
by so doing. Our men are decidedly improved ; we 
get better servants, and the work is done more 
l»eartily. . . . We pay all onr men at eight o'clock 
each Saturday morning.' 

We have no room for further quotations ; but 
notliing can be more gratifying to those who wish 
well to humanity than such testimonies from practical 
men to the commercial benefits which ensue firom 
putting our own fingers to lighten the heavy burdens 
upon the shoulders of our labouring bretiiren. Of 
the moral advantages of such alleviation from toil, 
no man can doubt who reads the evidence here placed 
before him. 

l*lie physical necessity for some such change is 
obvious to all who are acquainted with the business 

streeta of London and our manuftcturing towns, and 
have marked the frames and faces of the passers-by. 
In Scotland, or rather^as we fear we must restrict 
ourselves to sUting~in Edinburgh, there is no such 
conflict for the bare life; no such penning in un- 
wholesome atmospheres the whole day long ; no such 
ceaseless oflfering up of human health at the desk 
and counter altars, as in many other places. The 
hours of toil are certainly not so numerous as in 
English towns; and the Early Closing Movement— 
the Saturday Half-holiday— is, in addition, generally 

The Times correspondent and such-like literary 
locusts would appear to have exhausted the Green 
Isle and the Irish utterly ; but the author of Balty- 
tubber, or a Scotch Settler in Ireland^* proves to u» 
that tiiere is something to be said upon the subject 
still. It really is a remarkable book for some reasons ; 
and not the less that we have in it the Thistle 
reproaching the Shamrock with its unomamental 
appearance ; the pot contemning the kettle upon the 
ground of its being black underneath ; in plain terms, 
one who is familiar with Edinburgh Old Town and 
the Cowgate, giving the rough side of his tongue to 
the city of Belfast and the sister-land, upon the 
score, forsooth, of its being overcrowded and not 

Mr VirgiMus Penman) as the author calls himself, 
is certainly not inclined to be complimentary; but 
there is such an air of truth about what he goes 
on to say concerning Irish fivm-letting, as proves it 
to be a personal experience. He is himself a Scotch 
settler in want of a fkrm. Such excellent de- 
mesnee are oflbred to him (upon paper) in the Irish 
advertisements^ that he scarcely Imows which t& 
choose ; all 4n most quiet and respectable localities; * 
alt * in sporting counties ; ' all * in the neighbourhood 
of Protestant churches, good schools, and market- 
towns.' Some of these turn out to be such as the 
thriving city of Eden, in the United States, appeared, 
in reality, to Martin Chuazlewit and Company ; some 
are only ' put into the newspapers in order to meet 
the landlord's eye, while, all the time, they are 
engaged to some one at a certain rent, or intended to^ 
be retained in the agent's own hands ;' and some * are 
advertised solely for the purpose of aseertaming from 
applicants their marketable value, in order to ndse or 
fix a rent fbr their present tenants; whereby strangers 
are often induced to incur long and expensive 
journeys fmttlessly.' 

Let it be granted, however, that the unfbrtunate 
settler gets his stock and tillage-farm at last, con- 
sisting of 300 acres, and situated in that most 
civiliMd of Irish counties, Dublin; and suppose 
that his horses, cattle, sheep^ are all that could be 
wished, and tliat he is fortunate in his husband- 
men; even with these advantages, he is not, it 
seems, an enviable agriculturist. His weddert are 
slauglitered nightly, and the skins alone left to tell the 
tale, while the shepherd who narrates the misfortune 
is himself privy to the crime; or the sheep again 
suffer, and this time by a reverse of the felony, their 
wool being taken and their bodies left torn and 
bruised, and perished with the cold; or the manes 
and tails of the plougli-horses are found shorn to the- 
skin, and even the tails of the milch-cows laid under 

The settler's most diiBcnlt taak, however, seems t» 
be the management of some twenty farm-labourers : 
five of whom, being men, are appointed to the horses ; 

« HimbtMi and Wriglit. Londoa. 1891. 

Digitized by 




tnd 'fifteen women, ten of whom without siioes of" 
stockings, in short, with one-third of their fair 
superficies in puris naturalibua — their heads, in most 
instances, uncovered^their vestments consist chiefiy 
of the cast-off attire of both sexes, tacked together 
by pins and tlircads, and their hair smeared into 
cakes by ham-grease, and folded up under a ribbon ; 
others have it hanging in slattern folds about their 
ears, or twisted like snakes around their temples.* 
At six o'clock ▲. u., the work of these farm-labourers 
is (supposed) to begin ; and at the same hour, allowing 
an interval of two hours from eleven to one, they 
(very readily) retire. The wages for women are 8d. 
per diem ; and for men, from IGd. to 18d. liOt the 
unfortunate farmer relate his own experience of day 
the first: 

* Day the FirsL—Wiili the sound of the morning- 
bell, precisely at the hour of six, our illustrious 
husbandman enters the field. One only of his plough- 
men is up to time; one has forgotten his hame-sticks, 
and has left his horses grazing by the way until he 
*' just go fetch them ;" another has let slip out of his 
hand one of his spirited mares, and is pursuing her 
about tlie farm ; the fourth has slept in *' because his 
wife was sick;" and the fifth has gone to the forge, 
having neglected to go on the preceding evening. . . . 
Of the number of females engaged, two only are for- 
ward at the hour appointed, and these are a 8oldier*s 
widow and daughter. About an hour henoe, a noisy 
band, singing and frolicking on their way, is seen 
advancing on the field ; and at every hour or half- 
hour from this till past noon are stragglers coming in. 
The morning, it it true, has afforded a sorry start ; 
but patience is a virtue, and hopes are entertained of 
a full muster for the afternoon. At the hour of one 
the roll is called. Twelve tell up; for though tlie 
complement has now appeared on tlie ground, three 
of the number are missing— gone off to meet their 
little boy or little girl, tlieir brotlier or sister, who 
was to fetch their '* bit o' bread and tup o* tay." ' 

Day the second is not much better, and day the 
third is worse ; so that, if we are to believe the author 
of DaUiftubber^ the Scotch emigrant in search of a 
farm, who is not gifted with the patience of Job and 
the purse of Fortunatus^ had better go further afield 
than into the sister-island. Nevertheless, as Mr 
Penman does stay in tlie place after all, one may 
conclude that things get better in time. Here is a 
description of one of the best contrivances, perhaps, 
for making them better that has yet been hit upon 
by those interested in Ireland's welfare— namely, the 
Court of Encumbered Estates. Its importance causes 
us— in true Irish fashion—to end our notice of Mr 
Penman's experiences with an account of that institu- 
tion, without which they would never have began. 
The court is held in Henrietta Street, and the aaction 
generally commences about noon. 

*You approach from this street tlirough a goodly 
dwelling-house, now converted into offices in con- 
nection with the business of the court ; thence by a 
long and narrow passage in the rear of this building 
to the court-room itself. On entering the disen- 
clianting hall, you will naturally uncover, unmindful 
of the counter-example of some gentlemen you will 
see there — they are up from the wild countries where 

a new hat is a novelty, and Baron R ds is a man 

of feeling. Taking your stand or seat as accommo- 
dation will afford, and running your eyes over the 
interior of the chamber, you will see a vast number 
of men seated on the different rows of benches; 
some with sharp, lively, trickish looks; others with 
sad and sorrowful countenances; and some, again, 
complacently watching at their ease the progress of 
the business. Titese three divisions of the company 
are the lawyers, nominal owners, and intended pur- 
chasers ; and each order may readily be distinguished 

by the various expressions and emotions impressed 
upon their features. Some, you will perceive, sre 
following the biddings with a nenrous and visible 
anxiety ; others engaged in the perusal of and pencil- 
ling on the margin of Rentals ; whilst m third order 
are making notes, and conning over legal documeDta 
The scene, viewed apart from its merits, has some- 
thing grave and impressive in moral effect ; relation 
perhaps, as it may, to some once noble patrimonjr, 
some once hospitable but now deserted habitation, 
where festivity and mirtli seemed to promise endor- 
ance with the nsing and setting sun, mboat to deptrt 
for ever from one whose name haa been identified 
with the soil, whose lease or manorial tenure^ once 
ooanted by centuries, is now within a few minntei 
of its eventful end— the glory of an illastriom 
ancestry about to be for ever severed from the terzi- 
tory which some noble founder had *' called after hit 
own name I'" 



Sweet June, I greet thee on thy birthday morn 
With song and gladness ; now my heart grows yooag, 
As many blisses on its chords are strung 
As bright-eyed flowers thy new-wove robe adorn. 
Hail to thy eomlng o'er yon eastern hills. 
Treading on gorgeous clouds whose humid locks 
Are steeped in heaven's own purple ; the high rocks 
Gleam on thy path like gold ; thy glory fills 
Mountain and vale, the meadows and their strcami ; 
The sweet birds in the forest are awake. 
And of a new-bom joy like mine partake — 
The whole earth of its primal Sabbath dreams, 
While fragrant airs in wooing whispers oome 
Kisshig the opening flowers to brighter bloom. 



When whisky was first introduced into Scotland, it 
appears to have been used only as a medicine, aod to 
have been kept strictly under the lock and key of the 
medical practitioners, as it now is withm those -Amen^ 
towns where the Maine Law Is rigorously cnforwd, 
backed by the sympathy and support of the people. A 
portion of the medical practitioners of Edinbnrgb— no' 
the Royal College of Surgeons— in 1605 united hi tbnr 
own persons the rather incongruous duties of sTffgeo"* 
and barbers, and, in that capacity, applied to the to««- 
council, in accordance with the customs of the age, to w 
formed into a separate incorporation. The town-coaocu 
granted the prayer of ' thair bill and supplicationn, oj 
issuing the ' seill of cause, granted be the towne-coonseij 
of Eduihurgh, to the craftis of Snrregeury and Barboai«r 
dated July 1, 1605. In the spWt of the thne^ IW 
document — amongst other exclusive privilegoi ^'^ f'^j 
on the newly incorporated body— provided »n^.****'**T 
'Uiat na persoun, man nor woman, wiUiin this burtr^ 
mak nor sell ony aquavUe within the samyn, except tbe 
saidis maisteris, brether and freemen of the cra»* 
under paine of the escheit of the samyn, but l^'^^^H 
favours.' This cliarter was ratified and confirm^ 
by an act of the parliament of Scotland, passed m tft« 
reign of Charles I.. November 17, 1641. The whisKJ- 
bottle had thus been in tlie exclusive keeping w ^^' 
medical profession for nearly a century and a hair, m 
by this act, it appeared to be irrecoverably pla^** !° 
their hands.— jRw« and Progress of Whisky Vrin^ 
Scotland, by D. Maclaren. Edinburgh : Oliphant. 

Printed and Pnbliahed by W, 

- ^ Hifii 

ft R. CHAMBKB5, At W^^t 

Row, LoKDOK, and 389 Aiffh Street, EDtKBOKOH. Alw *? ^^ 
Wii.MAJi RoDXKTsoir, n upper SaokvUto Street, Dwii»» 

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No. 241. 


Price Hd. 

An elaborate monograph on the omnibus-drirera of 
London, and their interesting congeners the con- 
ductors, would prove an invalunble contribution to 
the natural history of mankind. Philosophers arc 
much to blame for having allowed the habits of this 
important class of beings to escape their observation ; 
and unless they make an early attempt to fill up 
Cfie deplorable hiatus that exists in our knowledge, 
we shall cease to regard them with anything like 
respect. My own researches have led me to place the 
omnibus- driver between the fossil stage-coachman and 
the modern railway-guard, as I am convinced that he 
partakes of the nature of each of these distinct types. 
M3' endeavours to assign a true position in the chain 
of being to the conductor have unfortunately been 
less successful. Tlie peculiarities of the driver are 
not well marked, owing to his transitional character. 
Now, his thick shawl wrappings, his countless capes, 
and his purple visage, recall the old stager ; and now, 
his trim figure and jaunty air remind us of his con- 
nection with the railway official. The conductor is 
subject to still greater variation, his forms being truly 
Protean. Now he seems a groom, now a curate; 
sometimes one might mistake him for a decayed 
tradesman, a man about town, a ticket- of-leave holder, 
nnd sometimes, wonderful to relate, for a gentleman. 
My local habitation is situated at a nice inconvenient 
distance from Charing Cross, and my frequent jour- 
neys to and from town afibrd me many opportunities 
for studying the physical and mental characteristics 
of buss-men. 

The Brown omnibuses pass my door every quarter 
of an hour. From nine o'clock till eleven, these 
celebrated vehicles are crowded with government 
officials, West-end banking-clerks, wealthy tradesmen, 
and all those varieties of the human race comprised 
under the head of men of business. I have an indes- 
cribable dread of these early passengers, and seldom 
venture to accompany tiiem. They converse in a 
language I do not understand, and make free use of 
those mysterious words consols, dividend, percentage, 
stock, and discount, the true import of which I have 
never been able to master. All these early commercial 
birds look as if they had picked up the golden worm, 
and they all bear the mint-mark of respectability. 
The old gentlemen who ride inside, and sit staring at 
each other in grim silence, are unquestionably respect- 
able ; so are the severe fathers of families who discuss 
the state of the money-market on the front-seats ; 
and so, indeed, are those pale-faced boys in long coats 
and tight collars, who smoke huge meerschaums and 

fat cigars on the roof. Nevertheless, I would rather 
not ride in such good company. I would rather wait 
till noon, when the mothers and daughters of our 
suburb begin to besiege the Brown busses, when the 
driver is being continually requested to pull up for 
another lady, and when the conductor hears nothing 
but a rustle of silk dresses and a clanking of iron 
hoops. The fair ones are bent on shopping, and will 
return in a few hours loaded with ducks of bonnets 
and divine mantles. Of course they ride inside, and 
I have seldom anybody to dispute with me my right 
to the box-seat. 

My favourite driver is young Webb, a stripling 
over whose head some sixty summers may have 
flown. I do not know how the veteran came by the 
prefix of young, but young Webb he is, and young 
Webb he will remain, until his turn comes to take a 
trip in that dismal black omnibus which carries 
only one inside. His youthful spirits may have 
procured him the title; but I am inclined to 
believe that there is an old Webb hanging about 
the stables, and that my young friend is bis son. 
This opinion is not without foundation, as mysterious 
allusions to the *old party' are not uncommon in the 
driver's speeches. Young Webb looks out of place 
on an omnibus, and feels his degraded position 
acutely. He drove four horses in former timea on 
the broad Oxford Road — a fact which he takes care 
to mention every time he sees me. He dresses in a 
costume approaching that worn by bim in happier 
days, when, as he says, ' nobody thought them rail- 
ways would answer, and when coachmen was almost 
as well cared for as bishops.' A light drab-coat 
ornamented with large pearl buttons covers his portly 
person ; gaiters of the same colour protect his well- 
shod feet, and an ancient beaver-hat with a broad 
turned-up brim shades his rubicund face. The hot 
weather does not seem to affect him in the least, and 
he holds blouses and straw-hats in great contempt. 
Plenty of beef and an extra allowance of porter, he 
assures me, keep his head cool in the 'blazingest' 
weather. Young Webb is very communicative ; but 
it is rather difficult to get at the meaning of his 
enigmatic sentences. I will endeavour to report a 
conversation we held together a few days since ; but 
his speeches want a running accompaniment of 
winks, elbow-nudges, and flourishes of the whip, 
which cannot appear on paper. We were passing the 
establishment known as Mr De FIuke*s Homceopathie 
Institute, when I ventured to address Young Webb 
on the subject of that medical man's capabilities. 

'Oh, you want to know something about the 
doctor, do you? Wery likely. Perhaps this ain't the 

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right ifiop though ; perhaps yon 'd better apply over 
the way, witli which ettablithment there ain't no 

* Do you know the gentleman?' I aiked as mildly 
at potBihle. 

*Do / know him? Ah, now, I lee what you're 
driving at. I know liim fmt enough. If he wasn't 
a hawful vagabond, he 'd perhaps be a roost respect- 
able msn ; bat wliat might be, and what is, is two 
wery different horses.' 

I assented to the truth of his last proposition, and 
requested to be furnished with farther particulars. 

* My opinion don't stand for much, sir,' continued 
the mysterioas driver ; * but I generally knows what 
o'clock it is at dinner-time; and it's my private 
opinion that Dr D'e Fluke is m cure. Now, I '11 just 
give an idea of the man as he is, leaving what he 
might be out of the question. This is him to the life. 
He's got a long white calico blind always drawed 
down to the werv bottom of the window, and a gold- 
headed cane, and all the rest of it When the shutters 
is shut. Heaven only knows— but I suppose it 's after 
everybody 's abed ; and when they 're opened, I can't 
•ay, I'm snre^ but wery likely afore everybody's up. 
Oh, he 's a peculiar party, tliat he is I ' 

Not exactly seeing the connection between tlie 
doctor's shutters and his private character, I asked 
my friend to ei^lain the hidden meaning contained in 
his words. 

' There 's nothing to explain,' said he ; * the calico 
blind speaks for itself. But that ain't all. There 's his 
advertisements in the penny papers about his in wis • 
able pills which ain't feasible. (Webb is very proud 
of tliis acUeotive.) I *ta sure I h<^ them pins' heads 
may do the folks as takes them as much good as they 
does liim ; but what I hopes, and what I believes, is 
also diffbrent horses. Bat that's not all, sir. Look 
here — he's actially got a gallows-great letter-box in 
his fh>nt-door, with a hundred and forty-nine letters 
in it— all of them stuffM full of postage-stamps. Tliis 
is merely a houtline of Dr De Fluke. If you want 
to know mere about him, you go over to the Markis 
of Oranby and have a drop of something waruK— 
'ginger-brandy, with a little bit of sugar, is wery good; 
but rum-shrub has its merits. If you light a Hawan- 
nnh afterwards, I 'm not the one to find fault with you. 
When you've taken your drop of comfort, just go to 
the bar and ask for Crissy the postman, and they 11 
bring him out to 3'ou. Then take him wery quietly 
aside, and whisper in his ear that you want to know 
something about the doctor; and tell him that young 
Webb sent yoo. Oh, lie '11 give you full partienlars, 
he will 1 Oh, he just is a cure, and no mistake I ' 

At this moment, Mr Webb pulled up for a passen- 
ger, who had scarcely seated himself when my friend 
asked him whether he knew anything of Dr De Fluke 
— * a most respectable party, sir— most respectable I ' 
The mythical personage alluded to as Crissy the 
postman, is Webb's authority for everything. It was 
only yesterday that he refused to give me any opinion 
as to tlie probability of having wet weather until be 
had * reckoned it over' with Crissy. 

Mr Higgins is a scholar and a gentleman, though 
he condescends to drive the one o'clock omnibus. His 
tastes are literary ; and he passes much of his time in 
* putting together some verses on a coachman's life.' 
Start not, reader I there are *mute inglorious Miltons' 
on tlie box-seat, as well as elsewhere ; nay, improb- 
able as it rosy seem, I can bear witness to the artistic 
powers of a conductor I Mr Higgins is a severe critic, 
and does not spare the highest reputations. He will 
tell you that such a writer isn't of much account; 
that another is going to the dogs, and that a third 
had better shut up shop. He makes up, however, for 
the abuse lie so freely bestows on some writers, by 
the lavish praises he awards to his favourites. He 

almost worships Eliza Cook, and is for ever qaotio; 
her poems, introducing each recitation as Hhat prettv 
little verse by Miss Eliza,' or 'one of Miss Eliza's 
best.' He invariably asks me whether there is anr. 
thing new in the book-line ; and is extremely ingrj 
when I reply in the negative. When he hears t oev 
song, he makes a note of it for my especial edificatioL 
' I heard a pretty little thing laat night, sir,' he vili 
say. * I gave a little musical supper to some frieods 
from the country ; and one of the j^oung womeo- 
my wife's cousin, in fact— sang a song I think yooii 
like to have a copy of. I 'm sure I forget the name cf 
it ; but it begins : ** Alone on the desert, sione, d 
alone — Alone on the desert am I." Then I think H 
goes: **My good steed haa fallen, my pathway ii 
flown"— tlien— I forget how the laat line comei io; 
but it's something about being *Meft here to die."* It'i 
a sweet pretty thing, if I could only remember it 
Ton see, sir, it describes how a poor fellow wandcn 
away from the caravan which contains his wife ui 
family, and is overcome by the heat and the do-O 
roads. However, just aa he is at the veiy last g«^ 
the bells of the camels are heard tinkling in ^ 
distance, and he and hia animal are saved by the 
proprietor of the caravan. It nearly made me mais 
a fool of myself, I can assure yoo, air; and I felt qaift 
relieved when Mary Anne (tliat 'a my wife's cooiis] 
began jingling a bunch of keya in imitation of tee 
camels* bells.' Mr Higgins has promised to frtm 
me with a sight of his own composition, which I sa 
convinced must be a literary curiosity. 

Jones is a sporting driver. His face is Usvn^ 
thin like a hosse'ii ; the brim of hia hat is perftc^y 
flat ; hia coat is short ; bis waistcoat is long, sod kii 
trousers fit so tightly to his legs, that I have oook ^ 
the conclusion that he must sleep in tliem. I thioi 
he has a notion that I am a horse-watcher, as be » 
always asking me to put him up to a good thing for 
the Ascot cup. He divides time not by the Orefo- 
rian, but by the Raoing Calendar, and talks of ^ 
Fhfwg Dmtchmtm year, the Teddrngton year, and so «, 
as if all tlie world oould understand him. Jones s 
not so Interesting person, nevertheless he basbs ; 
admirers, and more than one of the condactors sw I 
by him. 

Omnibus-driving has an acidifying effect upon torn 

dispositions, at least I should judge so from t..e i 

chronic peevishness of old Baxter, with whom r''||^ [ 

often a little skirmishing-match. ' He labonn vxiAei 
the delusion that he is a victim of continual pentn- 
tion. When he is not at enmity with his pssseogfl^ 
he will inform them of the cruelty of bis masters, «w 
expect him to work night and day for a palti7 *^^ 
bit of durt which is scarcely worth pocketing. ^ 
times he will rave at the other omnibus compan)^ 
and point to the miserable condition of their <»^»^ 
or animsdvert upon the upstart incapables ^^^ 
intrusted with the reins. Stoppages in t^* /^Jj 
work him up to a pitch of frenzy, and will, I ^ 
some day bring on a flt of apoplejqr. Whenewr » 
is at a loss for a topic to grumble at, he ftlu''*;^ | 
upon his conductor, who appeara to be a very o^ ' 
youth, but who, according to the driver, is liw« ^^ 
than a fiend in more or less human shape. 

These are a few of the varieties of the genu* ^^^^^_^ 
whiidi have fallen under my immediate notice; co^^j 
less others equally interesting await the coming ot^" 
monographer who shall classify and name them. 

The oad or conductor has been mnch cal"*""!*?). 
He is considered to be the embodiment of sU ^ 
low and brutaL Even Bon GaulUer speaks disp*^ 
ingly of him in that celebrated line : 
I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Cbristisn c*<^| 

which Is equal to saying, that the cad i« ^^ ^ 
degraded type of civilised man. For my o*^ ^ 

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I have geneTall7 found the cad to be a tpnglitly 
good-natured creature, rather too fond of indulging 
in 'chafl^' but capable of displaying considerable 
attachment to his regular custoroers. It would be 
impotaible, within the narrow limita of this article, to 
do justice to my favourite conductors, but I cannot 
resist a temptation to lay before the reader a charac- 
teristic anecdote of Mr Edward Brown, or, as he is 
sometimes called, Smart Ned. 

My friend Bilberry sometimes accompanies me to 
town ; and as he has a strong objection to mount the 
box, I sacrifice my own comfort on the altar of friend- 
ship by riding inside. Bilberry is a popular lecturer 
of considerable fame, and what is more to the point, 
a rery charming companion. He is a huge man, 
with a jolly round face, which is slightly tinted by 
the best of clarets. He dresses in a yeiy clerical style ; 
and his tnmed-up hat, gold spectacles, and black suit, 
gave him the outward semblance of some high- church 
dignitary. A few mornings ago, we met at tiie comer 
of the road, and waited for our omnibus, which 
happened to be the one to which Mr Brown is 
attached. On our way to town, I could not help 
noticing that worthy's fi«quent glances at my portly 
friend. Ef ery now and then he would peep cautiously 
into the vehicle, and look at Bilberry's hat, his shoes, 
or his spectacles. At last he dismounted from his 
elevHted post, and Ux^ up a position on the step, so 
that he might enjoy an uninterrupted view of the 
lecturer. He seemed completely fascinated with the 
massive gold spectacles, and never averted his gaze 
for a moment. At Charing Gross I got out^ and 
Bilberry followed. Brown touched bis hat to him 
with a reverential air. 

* Beg your pardon, sir,' tidd he ; ' may I speak with 
you a minute ?* 

'What is it, my man— what is it?' asked my 

' I *m afraid, sir, you 11 think me wery rude, but the 
fact is, me and the driver has a bet on about you.* 

'A bet about me, man? What do yon mean?' 
Bilberry it rather irascible^ and will not be trifled 

' Well, sir, it H rather a ticklish question to |nit to 
you, but ain't you Gardhial Wiseman ?* 

'Cardinal Wiseman!' roared Bilberry, flourishing 
his cane. ' Do you mean to insult me, you imperti- 
nent rascal. I have a very good mind to ' 

My excited friend could not finish his sentence 
before Smart Ned had slammed the door, mounted 
his perch, and shouted out at the top of his voice : 
« All right, BUI I Drive on ! Itig ki$ Hemmenee ! ' 


Sou yeart ago, the present generation witnessed 
what we may probably regard as the last expiring 
elTorts of a school of political and social reformers, 
whose name is perhaps more unpopular and less 
respected than that of any other sect of philosophy. 
The extreme section of the Republican party in France, 
and some of the most earnest and liberal members of 
the clergy end laity of the Church of England, were each 
engaged in their respective coontrtes in endeavour- 
ing to lay tiie foundation of a new system of society, 
by which all the worst evils of the present phase of 
human aflliirs were to be avoided, and which was to 
eflect, sooner or later, a complete moral revolution 
throughout the civilised world. The failure of the 
political Socialists of France, and of the Christian 
Socialists in England, was complete and decisive; 
and it is not likely that we shall, during the lifetime 
of the present generation, see another attempt made 

to carry out in practical experiment the principles of 
the economical system vaguely denominated Socialism. 
This being the case, it is possible to inquire into the 
nature and abstract merits of its doctrines at more 
leisure, and with more impartiality, than oonld be 
expected at a time when the questions at issue wera 
presented in a practical shape, and appeared as sub- 
jects of political contention rather than of philosophic 
discussion. And, though such an inquiry may savour 
somewhat too much of a 'warring with the dead,* 
which is at once unprofitable and undignified, it has 
its value both for those whose minds have been 
attracted by the brilliant promises of the Socialistic 
writers and speakers, and for those who have rejected 
their system as a monstrous and palpable absurdity, 
without any very clear idea of its character, or of the 
definite objections which have been conclusively 
urged against it There are thousands of the working- 
classes, and among them often the most intelligent 
and estimable, who have neither forgotten nor wholly 
lost fiiith in the doctrines which tliey or their 
fathers first learned some quarter of a oentary ago. 
They cling to the idea that existing evils, and the 
inequalities of human conditions, are the fruit, not of 
any causes within the control of the sufferers, or 
beyond all human control whatever, but of an 
abnormal state of society, which might be cured 
and rectified, but for the obtuaeneas of tliose who are 
not stung into reflection, and the selflshnesa of those 
to whose lot have fallen the priies of finrtane. Hold- 
ing this belief, they are aatorally and rightfully 
discontented with their fiite, and disposed to murmur 
against all who are more happily situated, as against 
those who keep them out of their due. 

These are men who deserve attentive and respeotfnl 
sympathy; and the social theories on which they 
rest their hopes of a good time coming are entitled to 
be heard with patience, to be elucidated with fiumesi, 
and to be refuted with care and in good feeling. 
The horror with which the name of Socialism is 
still regarded in the spheres of sober and common- 
place conservatism, had its origin in the associations 
attached to it by tlie earlier and less-considerate pro- 
fessors of the doctrine. The idea which tlie term 
ia intended to convey is simple enough. As generally 
used and understood, Socialism implies the association 
of labour, while Communism infers the association of 
property. The Socialist advocates the extinction of all 
competition for employment or for custom, for profit 
or for wages. He would organise the industry of the 
country after a republican fashion, dividing among 
the labourers tlie produce of their toil, instead of 
a stipulated sum in wages from the master-ctflpitalist, 
to whom that produce now belongs. He would have the 
labourer to work not for a master, as in our factories, 
nor for himself, as on the small farms of France, or in 
the small workshops of Britain, but jointly for him- 
self and his fellow-workmen. The Communist pro- 
poses, in addition, that the produce. Instead of being 
divided, shall be held in common property by all. 
Tliese theories are put forward, not as plans to be 
forthwith carried into effect by a sudden and violent 
revolution in the whole frame of society, but as the 
natural and most hopeful development towards which 
civilisation should tend. 

The unhealthiness, folly, and mischievous nature of 
competition is the idea that lies at the root of the 
idea. Competition is regarded as the master-evil 
of society ; nor— unreasonable though it be—is this 
view unnatural. It is not surprising that men, seeing 

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only the mechanism throagh which an effect is pro- 
duced, should mistake that meclianism for the cause. 
It is but as if some one, not seeing tlie en>rine at work, 
should attribute the motion of the wheels and shafts 
to the revolving fly-wlieel. It is natural tliat men of 
sensitive benevolence should be pained and outraged as 
they witness the censeless jar, and jostle, and struggle 
of life. It is terrible, in very truth, to see how, in 
every business, in every rank and grade of existence, 
men are crowding one another out of the comforts and 
decencies of life— sometimes actually elbowing one 
another out of life itself—merely in the effort to 
make their own way, or even to maintain their 
own ground. It is not wonderful thnt men more 
philanthropic than philosophical should regard this 
scramble and strife as wanton and needless, and 
attribute to it the sufferings of which it is the 
instrument ; forgetting that, if it were to cease, while 
the want of room continued to impede progress, stag- 
nation and suff<M!ati(m must be the result. 

The great object was to discover some system of 
social arrangements by which the present evils and 
inequalities of human life might be avoided or 
redressed. Believing that these misfortunes sprang 
principally or wholly from the competitive principle 
which underlies all existing social institutions, and 
from the selfishness which it engenders, something 
to supersede this mainspring of society was sought 
for. Association and organisation from without, 
instead of organisation naturally arising from com- 
petition among the individual members of the social 
body, were expected to remodel the world. By this 
means the socialists hoped to insnre that every 
man should have a sufficiency of leisure, and an 
adequate share of the produce of the common labour. 
By this means they hoped so to adjust the supply 
of all articles of desire to the wants of the com- 
munity, as that neither scarcity nor repletion sliould 
ever afflict them. It was their intention so to 
distribute Inbour among different occupations, as 
that none should ever \ye unemployed because his 
particular trade was overstocked, or should be forced 
to labour day and night for a remuneration which 
liardly suffices to save him from dying of hunger. 
It was their endeavour, moreover, to pave the way 
for a juster and more equal distribution of the 
produce of human labour and abstinence, than at 
present exists. Pure Socialism, as the word is un<1cr- 
stood in this country, would achieve this simply by a 
more equitable method of partition, and by such a 
general diff'usion of education as would preserve and 
elevate the classes now poor by reason of ignorance 
and vice. Communism, with less patience and more 
audacity, would sweep away at once nil inequalities 
of fortune, by destroying at one blow the institution 
of private property. The writers and preachers of 
this doctrine propose to return to that which may 
not improbably have been the first condition of 
human society, and which is not unlike the form of 
proprietary rights subsisting among the nomad tribes 
of the east. The community, state or family, is to 
be the sole proprietor; distributing to all, not accord- 
ing to their deserts, but according to their neetls. All 
labour is to be employed and directed by the state ; 
the produce is to belong to the state ; and the state 
is to he responsible for the comfortable maintenance 
of each individual citizen. Now, there is the widest 
passible difference between these two theories. The 
former proposes simply a different organisation of 
industry from that at present subsisting ; the latter 
demands a complete reconstruction of human society, 
hardly to be accomplished without a radical change 
in human nature. The objections to the schemes of 
the Socialist lie in matters of practice and of detail, 
and amount on tlie whole to this: that the plan could 
not be made to work, aud that if it wero set in action, 

its working would produce results of very questioa- 
able benefit to society. Communism is liable to 
objections far more vital and fundamental; ai i 
theory which could only be carried out by the annihil- 
ation of all existing rights, which would be an enomioas 
retrogression in civilisation, and could hardly fai 
to prove most fatal both to the material aud the moral 
wellbeing of mankind. It seems exceedingly improb- 
able that, under a system which should rentier it 
impossible to dismiss a labourer for idleness, wiiich 
should deprive him of the stimulus to industrr 
afforded by the stern necessity of earning his bresd, 
and under which he would derive only an almott 
inappreciable individual advantage from the \mvit 
diate results of his toil, men would labour as diligemij 
and heartily aa when their present and their fatuR 
comfort, if not their very existence, depend on ihti: 
own exertions. One great economist, who is inclined to 
look with favour upon the communistic scheme cf 
society, expresses a strong belief that the influence « 
public opinion would be sufficient to prevent any nm |, 
from shirking the task assigned to him. Tliat i m^ 
influence, in a community so constituted as to {rive it 
the fullest possible efl*ect, would be very powerful, vt 
can hardly doubt ; but it is by no means certain thit 
it would obtain labour half as eflTectual as that of i , 
workman at present paid by the piece ; and it if not ! 
likely that many men will be found to labour u . 
assiduously for the community as they would if work- 
ing on their own account and for their own sole profit 

In thus speaking of Communism, we are compsriog . 
it of course with the best developed portions of the i 
actual fabric of industrial organisation, and vith the | 
still more healthy forms towards which it msy seem | 
to tend. Tried by this test, compared with tlie con- 
dition of the intelligent and well-paid mechanic, cr ^ 
that of such a peasant-proprietary as exists is j 
Flanders, Switzerland, and the western provinces d 
America, the Communistic state of society will not . 
appear to most minds enviable, beneficial, or sttra^ I 
tive. But to the Dorsetshire peasant, whose fsniilr | 
have to be supported on eight or ten shillings a week, j 
or to the London seamstress who earns some sixpence , 
a day at most by sixteen hours* constant toil, the 
position of the member of a community in vhich ; 
there should be no squalid poverty, and no grindiof . 
overwork, roust seem an object of fervent desire. It ' 
appears, then, that a social system b«sed on the | 
institution of private property may be made far mor? 
desirable than that of Communism : it is equally cer- 
tain, that there are phases of our present systen 
which amply justify those who believe them to be 
irremediable under that system in sighing alter om 
in which there should be no poor. 

It must not be forgotten, however, tliat under a 
Communistic rSgimet aU those restraints which ate 
at present mechanically effe(;ted by the necesiarj 
operation of our social institutions — restraints on 
indolence and indulgence, coercion to industry td 
to economy, checks on an increase of populAtion 
more rapid than that of food, and the like—mQst 
be artificially imposed by the legislation of the 
community, and enforced by penal statutes. Num* 
berless matters which now are regelated by the 
necessities inherent in what may be called the 
individualistic organisation of society, or safely ^^ 
to individual discretion under the inevitable control 
of those necessities, must under Communism be 
ordered and settled by law. What scope there vonid 
be left for individuality of thought and action- 
what degree of personal freedom could subsist vith 
such a system — cannot be accurately determined', hut 
we can hardly doubt that a tendency towanls the 
tyranny of a most oppressive uniformity would be one 
of the very worst perils involved in the theory of tlie 
Communist. In this respect, his doctrine contrsaU 


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most unfavourably with tho work of the practical 
Socialist, whose Mabour-partnerships/ at least to far 
as they Iiave yet been actually tried, have done much 
to develop individual character and personal dignity 
on the part of their members. That tho tyranny of a 
Socialist orfranisation which should embrace the whole 
industry of a country, leaving all trades and work- 
men at the mercy of a vast centralised administration, 
would be intolerably severe, no clear-Righted person 
can well doubt. But the habit of working together 
with others in a self-governed association, with the 
feeling of strong personal interest in the work done, 
and in the dignity of independence which is so highly 
prized by the educated British workman, is a train- 
ing, moral and industrial, than which it would not be 
easy to devise a better. 

A few such associations are still flourishing, of 
which we need only advert to the most successful — 
the Rochdale Co-operative Store — which does infinite 
credit to the working-men who founded and managed 
it, and which has l^n the best possible school, in 
every sense, for all connected with it. Institutions 
of this kind may, and generally do fail, either 
iVom want of capital or from want of the necessary 
qualities of patience, prudence, resolution, and 
mutual confidence and forbearance on the part of 
their members. But there is no reason whatsoever 
why, if these requisites be found, they should not 
achieve success; and there is every reason to wish 
that they should do so, as much for the sake of the 
virtues they call forth, and the valuable lessons Incul- 
cated by their difficult struggles towards security and 
prosperity, as for the material benefits conferred on 
those who belong to them. When organised by the 
working-classes tliemselves, and kept in their own 
Iiand?, they mny be made most, valuable instruments 
for the elevation of their members both in moral 
worth and temporal wealth, and for the material and 
o<bicational improvement of their neighbourhood. 
And perhaps not least among their advantages, we 
may reckon the insight they can afford to the work- 
ing-class into the prnctical truths of political economy; 
into the hard necessities of commerce, of which they 
nre not the only victims ; and into the true nature of 
those laws which; when their operation is severely 
felt, they are inclined to break, as mere excuses for the 
selfishness of masters or the avarice of landlords; 
into the possibilities of their own future, and the 
means by which the highest and happiest of those 
possibilities may be realised; as well as into the 
practical value of those exalted ideas of a coming 
industrial regeneration, and a triumph of Socialistic 
principles which perhaps inspired them at the outset. 
Those who have talked with the working-men who 
have had experience of the management of these con- 
cerns, cannot fail to be struck with their superiority 
to their fellows in soundness of thought upon econo- 
mical matters, and by their more rational views on 
the questions peculiarly interesting to their class. 
Were such institutions more commonly successful, 
and such knowledge and judgment therefore more 
generally diffused, it is probable that much of the 
money and time wasted, and good feeling destroyed, 
by fruitless and irrational strikes, might have been 
spared. Wliatever might be the views of the original 
teachers of Socialism, it is quite certain that the only 
portion of their work which has taken practical root 
in this country, is so far from being hostile to the 
wcllbeing of society as at present constituted, that no 
better etlucation could be found for the working- 
classes than the establishment in every large town of 
8u;!h co-operative associations as the Rochdale Store 
and the Leeds Corn-mill. The test of practice has 
been applied, and has eflfectually separated the really 
valuable principles from the mass of error and 
extravagance in which the preachers of Socialism had 

buried them; and in doing so, it has shewn how 
mnch of sound sense lay at the bottom of a theory 
which had been pushed to such irrational extremities. 


The old man who for upwards of thirty years had 
been organist of Waldon Cathedral, was not foith« 
coming one spring morning: being sought for, he 
was found dead in his bed. 

When at Waldon— this was never for very long at 
a time, though not exactly young, I was still in my 
Wanderjchr; I had often officiated for old Jackson; 
and now, at the bishop's desire, I took upon myself the 
trouble and responsibility of appointing a new organist. 

Waldon— for reasons of my own, I do not speak of 
my native town by its right name— is a very behind- 
the-time, out-of-the-world place; my gazetteer says 
that it is * chiefly noted for its cathedral, a magnificent, 
cruciform structure; and its palace, the residence of 
the lord-bishop of the diocese;' but I do not think 
that it is ' noted' at all. Nevertheless, though I have 
travelled much, I have never seen any building that 
appeared to me so imposing and grandly suggestive 
as Waldon Cathedral ; but then I have that familiarity 
with it which breeds, not contempt, but truest rever- 
ence for what is truly admirable. I own a house in 
the cathedral-yard, in which I was born, in which I 
hope to die. 

For some months after the death of our old organist, 
I was a reluctant occupant of this house of mine. As 
spring gave place to summer, my impatience to escape 
from the drowsy heat that settled down on Waldon 
was great. The two or three ignorant and self-com- 
placent young men who alone applied for the vacant 
situation, received questionably courteous dismissal. 

One sultry midsummer evening, my thoughts turned 
with especial longing to Norwegian fjelds and fiords. 
I rose from my organ practice abruptly, and left the 
cathedral by a small, low side-door, of which I always 
made use. The bishop was absent. I went to stroll 
in the palace-grounds, and, remembering that in the 
morning I had needed a work of reference, which 
I knew to be among the ancient volumes in the 
library above the cloisters, I obtained the key of 
the library from the bishop's housekeeper. After- 
wards I sauntered beneath the ancient trees on the 
close-shaven lawns, the while denouncing the stifling 
heat, a good time; then I paced the wall above 
the moat dividing the palace-grounds ftom the 
cathedral precincts. Presently I fancied that I heard 
the tones of the organ. I had left the door ajar, 
tlie organ and my music-book open. Rather indig- 
nant that any one should intrude into my domain, 
the organ-lofc, I left the palace-grounds immediately. 
As I passed into the cathedral-yard by the heavy 
arehed-way, from which an avenue of glorious old 
limes leads to the principal entrance, I was startled 
by a full burst of rich harmony ; it died away as I 
reached my little door. Just within it, I paused and 
listened : I was not disappointed ; the organ again 
sounded. Open upon my desk I^iad left a collection 
of intricate fugues; these the unknown musician 
began to play. I detected signs of diffidence, and of 
ignorance of the resources of the instrument in the 
style of the player; but I also detected the presence 
of feeling, refinement, enthusiasm. 

•This man will do/ I thought, as I listened. *He 
needs confidence and practice, but he has genius. 
Ah, ye Waldonites, ye shall slumber through your 
services no longer ! The power of music shall stir ye.' 

Twillyht was gathering; Arte full chords melted 
into silence ; the instrument was not touched again. 
I proceeded to mount the stairs of the organ-loft. It 
chanced that I still had in my hand the key of the 
library ; unfortunately, I dropped it, and the consequent 

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noise, echoing from arch to arcli» no doubt alarmed the 
musician. Having reached the organ, I drew back 
the curtain, prepared to address the anknown. I 
found there — no one. Of course, the player had 
descended one stair as I mounted the other. I 
leaned over the loft, gesed doim into the dimness of 
the rast building) and listened intenfcl j for the sound 
of a footfall. I heard no soondf and was inclined to 
doubt if iraman fingers had pressed the keys that 
night. But there was my book of fugnes» not open 
where I had left it — a spirit-musician would haidly 
make nse of letters. ' 

I peremptorily called apon the vnknown to come 
forth, unless he desired to be locked in for the night : 
only the echoing of ray own voice replied to me. I 
shook op tlie clownish boy who had blown the bellows 
for me^ and still slumbered in his niche. He could 
give me no information ; bad * drowsed' from the time 
I left off playing till the pliQring began again, and had 
seen 'naught nor nobody.' 

No one was now lingering in the. building; I felt 
convinced; so I departed, locking the door behind 
me; but I sauntered a long time beneath the limes 
before I could persuade myself to go home. 

Next evening I practised again, playing with 
revived enthusiasm, perhaps in unconscious emulation 
of the unknown, who might probably be listening. 
From time to time I peered between the curtains ; I 
saw no one save an old man hobbling about emmining 
the monnm^its, and a child or young girl whom I had, 
as it were; noticed, without remarking, for several 
afternoons, occupying a dim comer during the service. 
Both had disappeared when I next looked. 

I left Moaart's Twelfth Service open on the desk 
and departed. I took up my station behind a tree, 
and watched the temptingly open door unflinchingly. 
I had bidden the boy remain in his niche, ready to 
blow for any performer. No one passed in at that 
door; yet by and by the playing commenced. It 
drew me on into the building. The choicest passages 
of the service were exquisitely played by more assured 
fingers than those of yesterday; this was evidently 
familiar raoaic When daylight entirely failed, the 
performer began to extemporise, trying the full powers 
of the instmraent, of which I was justly proud. Strains 
of what seemed to me unearthly sweetness, and weird 
strangeness, rooted me to the spot. Sometimes I 
gaxed into the mysteriously stirred duskness of the 
building, sometimes fixed my eyes upon a star glim- 
mering above tlie piney top of one of the solemn 
phalanx of ancient trees, so unwaveringly still, so 
perl^tly defined against the delicions clear tone of 
the summer night-sky. I giUrded the only exit ; the 

musician could not escape me, unless indeed But 

I did not consider myself to be superstitious, yet I 
vividly recalled aa unexplained mystery of bygone 

I and my chum of that period lived for some time 
up among the queer gables of a quaint German town, 
in the house of a profossor of music. At that period, 
I was studying musical science. One day I sat at 
the piano in an inner room, poring over a blotted 
manuscript score, while my chum smoked and read 
metaphysics in the outer chamber! My brain was 
perplexed, and the diflSculties at which I stuck seemed 
insurmountable. In desperation, I ran down to the 
professor's library, and rummaged among musty tomes 
for any passages that might throw light upon my 
perplexity. I found what I needed in a mass of 
Alessandro Scarletti's. I mounted the steep stair 
slowly, reading as I went. Suddenly I heard my 
instrument struck, and paused, rather surprised. My 
chum was ignorant of the simplest rule of my art 

'The old professor,' I thought, as I listened to a 
passage which was a perfect and exquisite illustration 
of the point which I had needed to have illustrated. 

I waited till the music oeased, that I might not loce 
a note, then rushed up stairs, and buret in upoa mj 
haxy friend. He removed his pipe from his lips, and 
opened his dreamy eyes widely. ' Hollo 1 I thooght 
you were in the other room,* he exclaimed. 

'Who tt there?— the old profeaaor, or— the old — V 
My chum rose ; we entered the inner room together, 
and found no one. Everything waa aa I hsd left it 
Dusky sunshine firom the begrimed lattice checkered 
my music-paper. We looked round, then at each 
other. My chum shrugged his ahoulders. My mtny 
eager questions produced this answer: 'I doo't 
understand it, any more than I undentand tht«'~ 
tappuig his book with his pipe. *I saw you leave 
that door '—pointing to that of the outer room : 'won 
after heard a grand strike-up ; thought you had per- 
haps returned while t dozed ; saw you appear, looking 
as if you were slightly demented. That 'a all ; doo't 
pretend to explain. If it were a ghost who played,! 
fear I have been mighty disrespectful, for I cried oai: 
"Well done, old boy."' 

We knocked about the furniture^ rattled a secuieiy 
fastened-up door, which evidently had not been qpeo 
for ages, and led only to an unsafe wing of the moald- 
ering habitation, till it threatened to come to pieca 
under our treatment ; but we obtained no due to the 
mystery, and again looked blankly into each other's 
faces. We never did obtain the alightest due to thii 
mystery. As I leaned in the porch of the catliednl 
that night, I twisted the inddent I have recorded 
all ways, striving to account for it iu what we call 
a rational manner. In vain. 

Something passed by me, stirring the air, mskiog no 
noise. I started up, stood erect ; the laat vibrationa 
of sound were dying out. Wbai had pasNd me? 
Was I thwarted? Had the musician escaped me? I 
locked the door behind me, locking in the unfortanate 
boy, and hurried after a something that flitted aloofit 
close to the wall of the building. Obliged to leave that 
shelter, it kept close to the treea in the avenue, and 
proceeded rery rapidly. I ran. 

An oiUlamp flared under the arched way; i^ 
there I overtook the form I had pursued. Bah ! it «» 
only tlie child I had noticed lingering while I pn^ 
tised. Then my musician was, I flattered myt^h 
safely locked up. But the child muat have seen him, 
as she had lingered ever since the service Tiie 
musician must, too, have lingered, no one biTtog 
passed in since I had kept watdi. 

When I overtook the young girl, I found she vM 
not quite a child ; she paused, and turned upon f^ 
a small sickly face. I felt foolish before the mild 
questioning of her eyes, and the meek dignity of ^ 
manner. I muttered some excuse for frightening b^* 

' Ton did not frighten me,' she anawerad. 

< You have just left the cathedral— yon have heard 
the playing. Do you know who tlie musidsa tf? 
Did any one pass you aa you came away ? ' 

*You were in the porch. X passed you. I osv« 
seen no one else.' 

<No one elsel Tet yon must haTe been in <oe 
cathedral ever since service, or I should have seen y^ 
later. I want to speak to the person who p\»)'^ 
Surely you can help me to find him.' . 

Her eyes fell, and she seemed to me to hold deDa» 
within herself. Just then, an elderly woman slippf^ 
under the aroh from the street without; she put flj^ 
girl's arm under her own, and led her away, scolduv 
her for not having come home earlier. . 

As I returned to the cathedral, my mind '"'•SJJ! 
me; I reproached myself for having let *^* *^ 
escape me, feeling convinced that she »^^*^. ."^,! 
aided to solve the mystery. She had not said f(> 
could not help me, but had evidently hesitatsd. 1 ^'^ 
now little hope of securing the unknown i^""?.!] 
to-night ; bat I opened the door cautiously, v^^ <^^ 

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the boy. He came whimpering; he had beUeved 
himself m prisoner tUl morning. Begardleaa of his 
distrese» I demanded if he had seen the organist 

* She give me tliis (shewing a sliilling), and went 
away t)ie very minute she'd adone playing/ 

^Shel' It flashed upon me. 

I had spoken to the musician thenl that slight, 
plain young girl. She wonid surely come again— I 
ufottld secure her. That night I had strange dreams 
of musical mysteries, and of a wonderful cliild- 
organist, wliose playing made the solemn limes 
perform a stately minuet in the cathedral -yard. 

Next evening I set my tn^;)— the open door and 
instrument—and watclied. She had not been at the 
service; I had searched every hiding-place; I watched 
in vain— in vain for many successive evenings. Tet 
I felt sure that it was but a question of time and 
patience; that the attiaotions of the place would 
prove irreustible. 

I was very observant of the Sunday congregation, 
and of the few pezaons who collected to listen to the 
afternoon services. Once I believed that I saw the 
wished-for face; but a beflowered bonnet, lifted up 
determinately after having been bowed down in 
drowsiness, interposed. I gave up lingering about in 
the yard of an evening, and ensconced myself instead 
beiiind the screening jasmine at my window. An 
evening came on which my patience was rewarded. I 
had left upon the organ-desk the Stabai MaUf of 
Pergolesi, that Domenichino of music Well, just 
after the cathedral- bell had tolled seven, a slight 
figure flitted through the arched' way, and paased 
swiftly up the avenn^ then took the path branching 
off* to the small door ; here it hesitated a moment, 
then disappeared within the building. 

I sprang up and clapped my hands, crying: 'There 
is no mercy, no hope dT escape for you.' I leaped from 
my window, and crossed tlie yard bare-headed; before 
a note had sounded, I had stealthily ascended the 
orgnn-loil. I did not mean to shew myseir at once ; 
I would assure myself that this was my very miracle. 

I peered through the curtain : the young girl was 
eagerly pulling off her gloves— firom such slight, 
childlike hands 1 She looked at the music before her 
discontentedly ; evidently site did not know it. She 
tYirned the leaves^ softly trying one passage and 
another; her face brightened with intelligence and 

Tiie girl-musidan was not pretty; till she played, 
her face wore a dejected expression; when you did 
not see her ejeS) it was lustreless and insignificant. 
By instinct, she seemed to select the finest passages 
of the music before her ; and as she proceeded, joy 
irradiated her mien ; scintillations of light shot from 
beneath the lashes of the absorbed eyes; lines of 
thought snd power appeared on the young brow, and 
a smile of satisfaction made the mouth very sweet. 
She had forgotten all but the music I could have 
sworn then that the sickly girl was perfectly beauti- 
ful^no mere girl either, but a woman with an angel's 
face. By and by she paused, and covered that ijEioe 
with her hands. 

Wiien she removed the hands, and looked up, I 
stood beside her. She did not start; she rose and 
stood before me, steadily meeting my eyes^ varying 
expressions gatliering into hers; at last she slightly 
smiled. I had meant to be peremptory, to reprove 
her for the trouble she had given me, and to eommand 
her to become our organist. I found myself speaking 
with the utmost gentleness; there was nothing of 
pride or triumph in her smUe^ it was infinitely sad— 
a smile of resignation. 

* If you wish, tiiis shall always be your plaoe. 
Nobody but you and myself (I would not abnegate my 
right) shall touch these keys.' 

A shy, startled joy came into her UiM^ 

'Our organist died in the spring We haxra been 
without one since: you must fiU his piano in this 

* Axe you not the organist ? ' 

*Ko; I only play for love of it, and whan no one 
else ie here to do it.' 

' Are you the bishop, then ?' 

'No.' I laughed. 'But I am a friend of his. I 
appoint you the organist of Waldon Cathedral.' 

Slie looked at me to ascertain if I were mocking 
her, if I were to be trusted ; her face grew veiy brighti 
but she shook her head. 

'I am too young; I should get frightened. I 
slionld not play su^ music aa ought to be plajwd 

* I am the best judge of that: I will tty yoa« I 
will call at your home, and amnge with your 

*I have not any relations; but I have a friend 
whom I must consult I will aend her to yon with 
her aoawor to-morrow.' 

' Tour answer must be "Tes;" and I will do all in 
my power to make your duty easy and pleaaanL Will 
yon play no more to-niglit?' 

She shook her head ; so^ aa it w«a getting dnsk, I 
closed the oigan. 

'Fromiae me that, in aoy cawb I ahaU htar yon 
play again,' I said. 


' You have not asked my name, or where I live.' I 
gave her mj card, having followed her to the door. 
She panaed tliere^ looked back into the buUding, and 
then out at the noble limee. 

< It would be beautiful to live here alwi^ya* Good- 
night, you have made me happy; I was afraid you 
would tell me I might not come here again.' 

I said 'Good night,* but followed her still: it looked 
such a sphrit-like little form gliding before me in the 
twilight, that I felt reluctant to lose sight of it. I 
hinted as much; but under the arched w^ she 
paused to dismisa me. If she were a child in years, 
she had a woman's impressive, becanae meek dignity. 
I was impatient for the morrow. 

As I sat at breakfast^ a book open before roe, but 
my eyes watching the sunlight slanting on the gro- 
tesquely carved fignres and rich tracery of the facade 
of the cathedral immediately opposite me (sometimes 
my idle days were alniost wholly passed in this intent 
watching^ till I could liave believed my life to have 
passed into tlie shadow I saw stealing more and more 
of the building flrom the open sunlight)— as I sat 
thus, Margaret, my housekeeper, informed me that 
a 'middle-aged female' wished to see roe. I desired 
she should be introduced directly, and recogniaed tlie 
woman who had joined the young musician under 
the gateway the night she had tarried in the cathedral 

' I 've agreed that the young lady ahall play ; it's 
pleasure to her, and we are but poor,' was the answer 
to my eager inquiry. 

The business part of the matter was soon arranged. 
Our good bishop caused the organist of Waldon 
Cathedral to receive a handsome salary, and tlie 
woman became eager that the child's duties should 
begin at once 

'I have yet to learn the young lady's name^' I 
reminded her. 

'Alice HalL She's an orphan. I was a house- 
keeper in her mother's family. They 're all gone, and 
left Alice nothing; and her father was only a music- 
teacher. We're but lately come from Jersey, and 
know no one in this town.' 

< Miss Hall haa friends in Jersey, then?* 
' She has no friend in the world but me.' 
Mrs Smith— that was her name ahe told i 

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buck from the door to inquire of me if I knew of any 
smiiU house out of the town and near tlie cathedrd 
likely to suit her young lady. I was glad to be able 
to point out to her a pretty cottage on a slight 
elevation in a meadow behind the cathedral, which 
was at tliHt time to let. I despatched Margaret 
with Mrs Smith to look over the Mead cottage, and to 
introduce the stranger to its landlord. 

I had appointed to meet my little friend in the 
cathedral at eleven — ^she was punctnal to a minute. 
Her guardian accompanied her, and settled herself 
with her knitting on a wooden bench just at the foot 
of the organ-loft stairs. 

This morning, I was teacher. I shewed Miss 
Hall all the peculiarities of the instrument, and heard 
her play through some of the last organist^s favourite 
services, telling her that, by and by, when she was at 
home iiere, she should play anything she chose. 

* It is a misfortune for a mnsiciaa to have auch 
hands as yours,' I remarked. 

*I try all I can to stretch them,' was answered 

I should have liked to take the tiny, supple things 
into my own, to feel if they had any bone at all. Of 
course, I did no such thing ; their accidental contact 
affected me strangely. I did not yet feel so very 
certain that our little organist was made of merely 
ordinar}' flesh and blood. 

I made her pay me for my trifling assistance by 
playing for me Scarletti's Requiem. She knew it well, 
and rendered it exquisitely. Exquisite it the word for 
her playing; it was so finished and perfect, though not 
wanting in power and passion. 

When her guardian summoned her, several hours 
had elapsed, yet I was reluctant to let her go. 

I did not praise her; but she pleased me greatly — 
she was different from any woman I had ever known— 
in a high degree grateful and intelligent. Already I 
wondered that I could ever have thought her plain. 

For a few days yet I was to play the services. Each 
afternoon she sat beside me. One would have thouuht 
that I was some great master, and she a simple 
ignorant, so closely and admiringly she watched me. 
Siio had the unconsciousness and modesty of genius 
in an eminent degree. She always looked pained, as 
if she thought I mocked her, if I descended from the 
eminence on which she had placed me, and hinted that 
my gift was less perfect than hers. She bad also, as 
I soon found, the inexhaustible industry and patience 
of genius— morning and evening found her practising 
in the cathedral. 

*You have had a thorough musical education,' I 
observed to her one day. 

* My father lived for music, and devoted himself to 
teaching me. It is two years since he died, and I 
have been starved for music, and his love, since.' 
There was a thrill of passion in her voice, and the 
tears started to her eyes. ' Here I shall be happy,' 
she added calmly. <I felt sure of it the first time 
X entered the cathedral.' 

* You must have been very young when' 

'When papa died? I was nineteen; now I am 

twenty-one. I am often taken for a mere child.' 

' Alice, Alice ! It is time to go home,' Mrs Smith 

Miss Hall was to ofBciate first on a Sunday, because 
I planned it so. On the Saturday evening I found 
her nervous, tearful, and deadly pale. I repented my 
tyranny, offered to play for her, that she might, as 
she had wished, accustom herself to her duty by first 
playing the afternoon services to a small audience. 

* No. You are very kind, but I ought to play 
to-morrow — it is my duty. Shall you be very vexed 
if I make some great mistake?' She looked at me 

'I will take care that you do not do that.' 

•Will you be near me?' 

* Where I am now— ready to turn the pages.* 
•That makes it all diff*erent,' said the child. <I 

thought you would be down among the people, lad 
that I should be quite alone. I do not mind now.' 

Her words touched me — my eyes grew moist. * God 
bless thee, dear child,' I murmured as I looked afur 
her retreating form that evening. 

Kext morning I went early to the catliedrai to 
arrange things as I thought Miss Hall would best 
like. She, too, came early, looking pale, but quite 

I watched her throughout the service. She pUrei 
perfectly. Yes ; she was quite to be relied upon, iiiii 
child ; yet how she loved to rely upon others. Wliea 
all was over — the cathedral empty, and her beaaUfni 
voluntary finished— she lifted her eyes to my face u 
I bent down, removing her books. 

* How good you are to me ! I coold not have boroe 
it all if you had not been by me ! ' she said. 

' I think you could. I think any way you voald 
have managed to do your duty welL Never mm 
that, however ; it is time you went home to rest* 

In the evening, she was no longer pale; her eres dU 
not seek courage from mine : she had no thought bat 
for her music, and played with intense fervoar. I 
did not tell her how the congregation lingered in the 
building after the service, bow many glances vere 
upturned to the curUined gallery where she sat, oor 
did I afterwards repeat to her Uie admiration I hesrd 
expressed of her performance. Why not? I luinlly 
knew; certainly not because I feared to mile Ixr 
vain — ^she was far too pure and simple. I faocf I v«s 
jealous that she should hear from others vam^er 
praise than I had ever conceded, and chose to beliere 
her quite content with my content. 

Our new organist continued to practise with ontir- 
ing diligence. I saw her at least once, often twice 
each day. Each day she looked brighter and Imppitf 
— music was healing her of inward sorrow, remoriog 
the sad sense of desolation. Truly she bad beeo 
starved : now she could satisfy her soid with mosic 
As for love— was I as a father to her? 

There came an evening when I was allowed to vnik 
home with Mrs Smith and Miss Hall. Before paniflg 
through the arched way out of the cathedral-yM 
Alice looked back lovingly : 

* Would it be possible for me ever, anywhere, to 
forget this place,' she said musingly. * It seems so 
holy. I am so happy. It is like a dream. Wii^o 
I die, aunt (so she called Mrs Smith), I should m 
to be buried very near the cathedral.' 

* No need to speak to me of such things* Alic^i 
please God, yon '11 live many a year after I am under- 

* I do not wish to die,' she answered. 
Pressing her hand, which lay upon my arm, ^^^ 

my heart, I longed to gather her dear self to oy 
bosom— the gifted heavenly-minded child I 

That night I was invited to sup at the Mead cot- 
tage. I had opportunity of observing the eW*^^ 
neatness—sign of dainty household ways— v'"*^" 
pervaded Alice's home. I perceived how the »*«** 
refinement that characterised her as an artist, wform^ 
the humble details of her daily life. When I »«" 
home, many things in the arrangement of my ^^. 
house displeased me — there were faults of commit 
sion, yet more of omission : evidently, a central sofo^ 
what was wanting. 

The bishop returned to Waldon. I introduced our 
young organist to him, and he soon began to ni«*e 
pet of her ; fruit and flowers from the palace-gar^^^ 
frequently found their way to the Mead ctiltfi^j i 
Everything was satisfactory ; there was '*<'^''*'*^_-q 
detain me in Waldon ; still I deUyed to »lar^ ^^ 
my long-planned tour. 

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Cliarmed weeks flew by. A cathedral quiet and 
OTcrednees was over iny whole life. A longer stay 
tlian usual in Wahlon liad often before intulerably 
irritated me ; the ceaseless, silent preacliing of the 
solemn cathedral seeming to tempt me, in some way, 
to desecrate its holiness ; its unvarying, unregarding 
calm making me doubly conscious of the turbulent 
pass ion ateness so successfully concealed under my 
old-fashioned aspect. Now, all was different. My 
being seemed in harmony with all things lovely, 
calm, and pure. 

I was invited to spend a musical evening at the 
palnce; our young organist was to be there. On her 
account, the ancient and handsomely inlaid piano, 
which had long stood in the mulUoned window of the 
episcopal drawing-room, had given way to a splendid 
instrument of modern construction. By the by, I 
hail long seen that the Wnldon young ladies were 
jealous of Miss Hall. They treated her contemptu- 
ously ; and it was beautiful to see how to their 
haughty reserve she opposed a perfectly simple and 
self-respecting humility. After a primitively early 
tea^the cathedral chimes told five as we sat down to 
the table— we all strolled among the brilliant flower- 
beds upon the close-shaven lawns. The good old 
bishop kept Alice by his side, because she was friend- 
less^no one else noticing her. I contented myself 
with looking at her. 

Alice had now been three months at Waldon, and 
by this time I did not doubt her perfect moral and 
pliysit^al loveliness. She certAtuly had altered since 
she first came ; the sickly hue of her skin had changed 
to a clear, pure pallor ; the look of dejection had given 
place to one of deep-seated content ; her large gray 
eyes shone lustrous, and seemed to well over with 
feeling and genius. I was familiar with each subtle 
charm — each droop and natural wave of her soft, 
brown hair; the course of each vein meandering 
beneath the snowy skin on her fair temples; the 
graceful line of her bending neck ; the rarely beautiful 
outline But, O Heaven ! I must stop myself. 

On this evening, Alice was dressed as simply as 
usual : her gown was of lilac muslin, to the hue of 
which the evening sunlight gave a lovely bloom. 
She glided along by the bisliop*s side, now and then 
lifting glad artless glances to his kindly face. Sweet 
child ! she was happy ; he loved her. She was always 
happy with those who loved her. 

I had lived in a dream so long, that it was difilcult 
for me to throw off its influence. I did not join 
myself to any of the groups around me ; by and by, 
I stood quite alone on a little mound, a screen of 
shrubs between me and the strollers. I stood still 
to watch the sunset light glide up the sculptured 
cathedral stones — higher and higher, touching face, 
flower, foliage ; up and up till it failed from off tlie 

I heard my own name uttered by a vok» behind 
me— a voice I knew, a hateful, purring, treacherous 
voice — then I heard these words : 

' She is shockingly affected ; a dreadful flirt ! It is 
disgusting to see how she has got on the old bishop's 
blind side. I wonder if the chit fancies she might be 
a bishop's lady!' 

*She flies rather lower than that,' said a kindred 

voice. * She and Mr (never mind my name) go 

on in a way that is quite shocking— in the cathetlral 
too. Of course, they call it practising— a very pretty 
kind of practice ! ' 

Of course the tabbies spoke of Alice. My blood 

I pushed through the drooping branches and con- 
fronted the creatures. 

* A charming time for sweet and charitable 
discourse, fair ladies/ I remarked; then passed on 
towards the house. 

A pair of soft eyes questioned me wistfully when 
I entered the drawing-room ; they met a new expres- 
sion in my answering look, perhaps; they drooped^ 
and a rosy flush crept up to the veiling lashes. 

My cathedral calm was desecrated; her eyes had 
never before so drooped before mine. When I went 
home, I found a letter awaiting me. It summoned 
me north, to the death-bed of the only relative 1 had 
in the world. Alice and I were alike in our friend- 
lessncss. I immediately went to tho coach-oflice to 
secure a place by the morning mail. Even now there 
is no railway within many miles of Waldon. I 
occupied the night in packing, and in selecting music, 
and writing most minute directions for the organist. 
This done, I hesitated. Should I write to Alice 
anything beyond these instructions— anything per- 
sonal, private? I decided that to do so would be 
to deprive myself of somewhat of my measure of pure 
delight: I did not wish to lose one glance, blush, 
smile, or tear. I did not expect that my absence 
would be a long one. In the hurry of departure, I 
forgot to tell Margaret to send the parcel I had 
prepared for Miss Hall ; but as it was addressed to 
her, she would surely receive it, I thought. My 
relative lingered. £Uich day might be his last, they 
said ; yet lie lingered a month. Tlien business 
detained me ; then, perhaps owing to my anxiety to 
return to Waldon, I was attacked by nervous fever, 
a complaint I had suffered from before. 

It was on a grim December night that I at last 
re-entered Waldon. Leaving my luggage at the 
coach-office, I proceeded homewanls. I was so 
cramped by cold, and exhausted by fasting, that I 
could hardly drag my limbs along, and my brain was 
in a state of feverish excitement. Alice liad been 
present in most of my sick visions— her face always 
of deadly pallor and reproachful expression. It 
haunted me; and, as I had re-entered Waldon, 
vague apprehension stole over me drearily. 

Midnight began to strike as I passed through the 
arched way into the cathedral-yard. The wind 
became very high, sobbing and soughing about eerily; 
it parte<l the clouds, and let through a half gleam of 
moonlight to make luminous the moving low-tianging 
mists. At the further end of the lime-avenue I 
believed that I descried a human figure : it branched 
off towards my little door of the crathedral. I tried 
to overtake it: it vanished, passing in at the low 
porch. The clanging of the clock had ceased, and 
I imagined that I detected the sound of the organ. 
I paused. Yes; low wailing notes deepened to a 
full gush of minor harmony; then melancholy 
cadences sobbed away into silence. Chilled to the 
heart — conscious of icy fingers among tho roots of 
my hair— I opened that door, which I found fast 
locked. I groped my way into the cathedral, believ- 
ing nothing so little as that it was earthly music to 
which I had listened. In the building, all was now 
silent. I crept on, with a tremulous voice calling on 
Alice's name. My open arms embraced a cold form ; 
my senses left me. 

When the ghastly wintry dawn crept down upon 
me, I found myself lying at the foot of a sculptured 
female form. * Alice is dead * was my firm convic- 
tion. I managed to rise, and creep to my house. I 
did not understand how I came to be in the cathedral. 

My aspect frightened Margaret. The first thing 
my eyes fell upon on entering my room, was the 
packet I had prepared for Alice. * Returned after her 
death,' I inwardly commented. I was too miserable 
to he fully conscious of my misery. I brooded 
stupidly over a newly kindled fire, while Margaret 
bustled in and out on hospitable thoughts intent. 

• When did she die ? ' I asked stolidly, by and by. 

• Nigh a month since, sir.' 
A long pause. 

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* Who plays the organ now ?' 

* Fleaie, sic, take your hot cofl^ and get to bed. 
Time enoagh to bother about organa vhen yon look 
less like a corpse,' was added totio voce* 

I repeated my question doggedly. 

*Well, she does it all the same»* was the weird- 
eoanding reply. I htd swallowed one cup of 
Margaret's hot, strong coffee, and Ufe was rekindling 
wltiiin me. 

' Are yon mocking me» woman ?' I cried. 

She stared at me, and then gave some soothing 
answer. Evidently she feared I was deranged. I 
made a mighty effort to appear composed. 

'Margaret^ tell me immediately the name of the 
person who now plays the cathedral organ.' 

' Alice Hall, sir ; the same who has played for six 
months now. She went off sudden, and it made no 
difference to Miss Hall, as it might have done to 
aome, sir: she has not missed a service.' 

Again Margaret appeared to find cause for alarm 
in my face. 

'Do you mean to aay that for the last month, 
since her death, the cathedral organ has been played 
aa it used to be in her life?' 

*Ye8, sir; it has, sur.' Margaiet backed towards 
the door as I rose. 

* Played bv a departed, a disembodied spirit; and 
you take it all as a matter of coarse.' 

'Law I Good gracious, air, I never said anything 
of the kind. Some say BCisa Hall hx)ks like a ghost ; 
but she isn't one yet' 

* Margaret I who then died a month ainoe ? * I put 
the question solemnly. 

< Mrs Smith, sir, who used to live with Miss Hall, 
went off in a fit, quite sudden, as I told yon plainly, 

'Leave the room,' I commanded. 

I cannot say what I did or how I felt when left 

By and by, I rang for Margaret. I explained to her 
iny recent illness, and as much as I could remember 
of the incidents of the night Having taken some 
trouble to convince her of my sanity, I again dismissed 
her. Poor, poor Alice! dear, desolate child! I 
reproached myself bitterly for having selfishly thought 
of my own delight, not of her peace ; and I tormented 
myself by imagining what she could possibly think of 
me — of my having left her without one word of leave- 
taking^ or one sign of remembrance. The parcel she 
had not received. 

I went to the cathedral early. I found that Alice 
was already there. Unseen, I watched her a while. 
She looked faded and worn, and was dressed in mourn- 
ing ; she had lost her only friend—for I had no riglit 
to hope she still considered me as such — and must feel 
herself indeed alone. Tet angelic peace and steadfast 
faith stole over her weary aapect as alie played. Oh, 
well I remember the sweet upturned face, the droop 
of the soft hair down the thin cheek. My darling ! 

By and by, she paused, and took her hands from 
the keys to draw her shawl closer, with a pale 
shudder. I stepped near her. Bfcauae I hardly dared 
speak to her at all, I spoke as if we had parted but 
yesterday: 'You should not be here on such a 

'And you are come home at last?' She held out 
to me the hand I had not offered to take. On seeing 
me, she had grown paler than ever; but when I 
spoke, gladness beamed from her eyes, to be soon 
quench^ in tears aa ahe aaw me look at her mourning- 

There was a ailence of some moments. 

'You have missed me ?' I asked humbly. 

'Yes, yes.' 

'And can you ever forgive me?' 

' Forgive you ! ' she echoed. 

I held her hand firmly, and over mine came tremb- 
ling her free hanc^ thrilling me hy its vohintu;, 
undeserved careaa. 

'You have been iU^I fear yon have been joj 31,' 
ahe aaid gazing at me compassionately. 

I waa glad to make the worst of my case. 

'I have been very ilL I have much to plead ia 
excuse of my silence and neglect ; but not enoazh, 
not half enough, if it haa given you pain. Tot 
tremble. I frightened you by my audden return.' 

' No, no : you never frighten me ; you never pia 
me. I have been sad and lonely ; but I knew yoi 
would return, if you could^if yon ought Yoa hire 
always been good to me: it would have been wrong 
of me to think of you unkindly.' 

• Why did you shudder but now f* 

' I remembered a dream, a dreadful dream I hidhit 

'Tell it me.* 

'I had rather not' 

'I have a reason for wishing to know it' 

'I dreamed that you were dead — that I sat at tk 
organ at midnight and played your requiem.' 

Again she turned very pale. I think I roast hare 
done so toa A queer thrill went through roe, as, for 
the first time, I fully recalled the evenu of the put 

' You must let me take you home,' I said. I relea*d 
her hands, and folded her shawl closely round her. 

Looking straight into my face with ber des; 
innocent eyea, ahe said : 

'You roust not spoil me so; if yon hsd n^ 1 
should not have found it so hard to do withoot job- 

This was just too much for me. I gaUiered the 
little thing into my arms, kissed her sweet brow again 
and again, and cried : 

< Allee^ you must let me keep you alwsyi'jn 
must be my wife!' f 

She disengaged herself; she drew a little away too .; 
me. ^ f 

' 1 know that yon are very good. Ia this because 
my aunt is dead, and I am alone?' she aikeo I 
earnestly. | 

' It is because I love you.* j 

My eyes confirmed my words ; hers droopedi aw j 
hdr face looked as if the sun were faintly sUiDiog<»> I 
it through a ruby pane in the window. j 

The Mead cottage was so desolate that I f^ 

took Alice (not Hall) home to my house in ^« 

cathedral-yard. It was on New-year's Day that tne 
good old bishop married us ; and ever since my ItspPJ 
home haa been perfectly ordered, and, so she telU ntf» 
my perfect wife has been entirely happy. | 

New-year's Day- 
marriage. To-day 

-the tenth anniversary rf «"? 
I have been looking over aj 

papers, an^ have read through this, written five y^ 
since. Alice, Alice! my wife, my wife! ",'? 
couldet tliou not visibly tarry with me unto the enaif 
I never leave WaWon now. No fingers but tm 
must ever touch those kevs hers used lovingly topr«* 
She was to me as child, wife, all of kin, my fj 
darling! I am having built a new organ, a glor«>« 
one; it is to be my gift to Waldon CathednU, J 
condition that the old one ia taken down fi****I\; 
twenty hours after my death, and destroyed; aiw t» 
during those five-and-twenty hours no '"o'^V^J^ntf 
touch its keys. I say five-and-twenty hours, becaa 
on the midnight after my death— and I might die J ^ 
after midnight— Alice will play my requiem, w ^ 
heard her so long ago. The organ must never io' 
again after that There is a rumour in Waldon "« ^ 
the organiat has been mad since his wife's '^'JJ ^ p,* 
am not mad, because, for my comfort I know *"" ,^. 
love was selfish, my guardianship careless, toj ^ 

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nes0 nngentlQ^ mgr sympathy imperfeot, coupued 
with tliat my darling experienoet in Tby keeping 
Lord, my God and her God. 

Such it the paper that lately came into oor hands. 
We have learned that at the cathedral,- here called 
Waldon, the -congregation, of ahoat half-a-dozen 
persons, assembled one grim December afternoon, 
were detained after service by the powerful beauty of 
the Yoluntary performed by their long feeble organist. 
It came to an abrupt conclusion —tiie organist was 
found with his arms folded on the kej's, his cheek 
rested on them— dead. His wishes wiiii respect to the 
old organ had long been known : they were atucUy 

Thb Bass is a solltaiy, precipitous rock in the Firth 
of Forth, rising to the height of 420 feet sheer out 
of the sea. An easy jonrney of a couple of hoars 
takes yon tram Edinburgh^ and lands yon at Canty 
Bay, a small secluded fishing-station on the cosat of 
East Lothian, immediately opposite the took itself, 
which being only two miles from shore, is here readily 
accessible by a boat 

Within such close proximity to the smiling, richly 
coltiTaled lands of East Iiothian and Berwick, and at 
a distance of but three-and-twenty miles from the 
northern metropolis, it is strange indeed to think 
of the scene of wild animal fife presented by this 
solitary rock, the annual retreat of thousands of 
sea-birds, which wing thither their weary flight from 
the eastern shores of America, and the far-off rocky 
coasts of Greenland and Labrador. Viewed from 
Canty Bay, the island presents nothing irery striking 
with regard to its external aspect, sanring its abrupt 
elevation firom the sea, and, in sunny weather, a certain 
white glimmering appearance. But upon neartng it 
in a boat, it gradually and steadily rises in majestic 
grandeur npon the Tiew, till its lofty cliffs seem to 
tower to a dizzying height overhead, impressing the 
beholder with a feeling of awe. 

Like mai^ other rocks on the Britidi coasts, and 
indeed alt over the world, tliis has yielded to the 
constant wearing of the winds and waves, and has 
been gradually broken away in rectangular fracture, 
leaving a system of ragged shelving nooks on those 
sides most exposed to the violence of the elements ; 
namely, the east, west, and north. Thus- the Bass 
presents to those points a high range of perpen* 
dicolar, and in many places, overhanging cliffs, and is 
accessible only from the south. This peculiar confor- 
mation seems to have been taken advantage of when 
state-prisons were more in vogue than now; for to 
this day may be seen the remains of fortifications, 
barracks, cells, and dungeons, once tenanted by many 
an unhappy captive, and zealously guarded by a go- 
vernor and troops at that time stationed permanently 
on the island. History has handed down an inter- 
eating account of those state-prisoners, together 
with the proceedings which led to their incarceration; 
and I may as well here state, that not only have 
ample details of the roartyrology been furnished 
in a volume called The Boss 22odk,* but likewise 
treatises on the civil and ecclesiastical history, 

' Ifondon : HanUton, Adsnu, & Go. 

geology, zoology, and botany, severally— 486 pages 
having been written by authors of the highest 
repute on a lonely sea-girt rock of but one mile in 
circumference! Were it solely on account of ito 
relics of bygone times, the Bass would be well 
worth a visit, especially fbr the antiquary and artist, 
as the cell in which worthy covenanting John 
Blackadder, and others were confined, the governor's 
house, and the fortifications generally, s re in a state 
of tolerable preservation. My tastes, however, are 
fbr the natural history of this singular island, more 
especially the multitudes of sear-birds which make 
it their home. 

Several species of birds breed on the Bass, but by 
far the most numerous is the solan goose or gannet. 
Tills is one of the few stations in Qreat Britain 
selected by it for breeding purposes: the other 
places principally resorted to are Lundy Isle, off 
tlie coast of Devonshire; Ailsa Craig, on the 
Ayrsliira coast; St Ktlda, in the Hebrides; and 
Suliskerry, between the Orkneys and the Butt of 
Lewis. A few other places of minor note are some- 
times chosen by straggling members, but those are 
exceptions, and as such, are not worth mentioning. 

On my first visit to the Bass, I was mnch struck 
by the novelty of the whole scene. As the little 
sailing-boat neared the rock, I descried consider- 
able numbers of geese sailing on poised wings round 
and round it; bnt at the first discharge of a gun, 
the air became partially darkened by the multi- 
tude of birds that quitted their ledges and launched 
forth into the ahr. Whole tribes of kittiwakes— a 
bird of the gull genus— fiew screaming from their 
nspts, and kept up their deafening shrieks for many 
minutes ; while parties of guillemots and razor-bills 
quitted their retreats silently, and fiew far out to sea. 
But the greatest sight of all was the extraordinary 
number of solan geese that filled the air, sailing 
round and round the rock in long graceful sweeps. 
Looking up from a boat towards the cliffs, one is 
surprised that so many birds should find room on 
such apparently narrow ledges, to construct their 
nesta and rear theur young in safety; but doubtless 
the great height creates a deception as to the size of 

Tiie habita of the solan goose are somewhat pecu- 
liar. These birds are, strictly speaking, gregarious ; 
they arrive at the Bass in the beginning of February^- 
a few birds heralding the approach of tiie main body— 
and remain there till October, for the purpose of 
hatehing and rearing theur young. By far the greater 
number then depart for the American coRsts, soma 
going southward to the Mexican Gulf,' and others 
northward to the shores of Greenland. A few birds 
remain on the British cossta all the year round, but 
these are always very much scattered. The number 
of geese that annually conies to the Bass is estimated 
at about ten thousand. On their arrival, they at 
once set about tiie weary process of constructing 
their nesta: a wesry process indeed, from the time, 
required to accomplish it, and the long distances 
frequently travelled in search of materials. The nest 
is composed almost entirely of sea- weed, to procure 
which the bird files many miles from home, returning 
with the material in ito mouth. Sticks are not 
altogether rejWsted, though sea-weed is preferred. 
Tlie nest requires constant repairs during the 
season, as great heat slirivels its proportions, while 
moisture decomposes and enlarges it It is about 
fifteen inches in diameter across the top, and several 
inches deep ; and in it is deposited one egg about the 
size of that of an ordinary goose, but longer and 
harder. From the exceedingly awkward motions of 
the gannet, while quitting or returning to her nest, 
the egg would in all probability be soon broken, were 
it not coated with a hard calcareous substance, to 

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protect it from rough UMge. On rare occarions, two 
eggs are laid in one nest, and I have been told that in 
these cases one of tlie yonng is much smaller than the 
other. Tiiough the solan is an extremely awkward bird 
on land, and slinffles clumsily ofT Iier nest when scared 
by intruders, tlie instant she launches fortli from the 
clifT into the air, her motions are graceful and easy. 
Her wings measure six feet from tip to tip, and her 
flight consists of a few regularly timed beats, followed 
by a long elegant sweep of several hundred yards: 
these sweeps are usually in a direction towards the 
sea, and continue till the bird arrives within a few 
feet of the water, when with an elegant curve she 
ascends till the impetus is exhausted, and then has 
to beat her way upwards ogain. At other times, the 
solan goose will sail round her sea-girt home for 
hours at a time, apparently enjoying the exercise: 
multitudes are to be seen thus engaged, crossing and 
re-crossing, and following each other in long gliding 
downward flights, or winging their way homewards 
after having been many miles away. 

To procure food for the young one, the solan will 
sometimes wander thirty, fif^y, or even ninety miles 
from home. Young herrings form the chief sustenance, 
and these are carried home in the old bird's gullet, and 
disgorged for the benefit of the hungry little one. The 
method of obtaining flsh is very remarkable: Nature 
has gifted tlie bird with keen organs of vision, and 
with these she keeps a constant look-out when on a 
foraging excursion ; if a fish is seen, the gannet stops 
her flight instantly, and gliding perpendicularly down 
like a shot into the sea, secures her finny prey with 
usually unerring certainty ; the middle claw and the 
sides of the bill are serrated, which enables the solan 
goose to retain a firm grasp of flsh with either the 
foot or mouth. It is a beautiful sight to see those 
birds hovering over, and diving at a shoal of herrings ; 
scarcely an instant elapses before one of their number 
makes its rapid descent into the waves, throwing up a 
torrent of spray, and leaving a white mark in the 
sea, discernible at the distance of a mile ; and one 
after another swoops in rapid succession, playing as it 
were a game at follow the leader, and driving an 
immense herring-trade the while. The solan will 
sometimes dive from the height of six feet from the 
surface of the sea, and at other times from elevations 
ranging from twenty to fifty feet. I have never seen 
the bird dive from apparently greater altitudes, 
nor have I ever seen one stop, as if balked of its prey, 
while on the swoop. The swoop is similar to that of 
the falcon or sky -lark, the wings being folded close to 
the body. When emerging from the sea, the gannet 
rests for a few moments, and then flaps lazily out of 
the water. She seldom if ever swims continuously, 
and never dives from the surface. If over-gorged 
with flsh, she will rest on the water for several 
hours at a time, and in this state these birds are 
frequently caught by flshermen and others. 

The food is disgorged sometimes into the mouth of 
the young solan, and sometimes into the mouth of the 
parent bird, fur the young one to help itself, but more 
frequently by the former method. The young is at first 
of a leaden-blnck colour; it is totally helpless, and 
very meek and submissive in appearance, as may be 
seen from the manner in which it receives occasional 
spiteful usage from its neighbours, during the absence 
of its parents. This, however, is compensated by the 
tender solicitude of the mother while feeding and 
rearing it. I am not aware that the male bird assists 
in rearing the young one, though, I believe, he acts 
his part in foraging for food, and laying it before the 
female while she is on the nest, for I have seen 
<^l9gorged pellets so placed. 

On the Bass, there are several distinct colonies of 
geese, apart from those that breed on the cliffs, and 
the stranger may approach within a very few feet of 

them while they are sitting. Tfiis allows of cloie 
observation being made. The bird is nearly as h\g as 
the common goose, and is pure white all over, except- 
ing on the pinion feathers of the wings, which are 
black, and the neck, which is aandy gray. The nmie 
and female are precisely similar In appearance. The 
head is large, the bill long and pointed, and the month 
capable of opening wide enoogh to admit a mnns 
foot ; this may be proved by placing your foot close to 
the bird, but take care at the same time that your kot 
is strong and thick. The head of the solan goose is 
perfectly destitute of nostrils, no opening being visible 
where they usually occur in otiier birds ; nor do tlse 
middle claw and beak become serrated till the yomg 
bir<1 is able to fly — two strange facts In connection < 
with this bird. Tlie young do not arrive at their full 
plumage till the expiration of several years; tiro 
stages of colouring intervening — namely, black and 
piebald ; neither do they pair until the adult plamage ' 
is attained. 

The solan seldom utters a cry while on the wiog, 
but just before lighting on her nest, she gives oat a 
harsh guttural note, which is usnally responded to br 
the neighbouring sitting birds ; the responses, ho\rerer, ' 
I suspect to be the result of jealousy, as they arc 
accompanied by menacing gestures towards the irew- 
comer. Again, when intruded upon, she utters ber 
hoarse cr}', resembling the words Xrtrro, latra, or era, 
era, and this cry is taken up hy those nearest lier. 
These are the only occasions I have heard the 
gannet*s voice, excepting when two were quarrelling 
together. |, 

Where so many birds are grouped together witliin ,i 
such ciroumscribed limits, one would naturally suppose ^ 
the noise to be terrific, and yet it la not so. The , 
comparative freedom from noise la what has ilvayi ^ 
struck me as being a very remarkable circumattnce. 
A single roused kittiwake will, it is true, make more | 
noise than a score of solan geese ; but if these siDall 
fry are inclined to rest, the noises created by the other ,, 
feathered tenants of the rock are not sufficient to , 
drown ordinary conversation. I have even noticea ^ 
certain intervals of almost total cessation, with hun- ,' 
dreds of geese flying around at the time, but those 
must, of course, be rare. Geese breed all over the , 
faces of the rock ; kitti wakes usually at an elevation 
of about two-thirds of the entire height of the preci- , 
pice; they, in fact, occupy a zone to themsekef. ii 
The guillemot breeds at nearly a similar elevation . 
with the kittiwake; and the razor-bill in holes in the , 
fortification. The puflSns, I believe, breed in deserted 
rabbit-holes, though I never saw any there. Bcsidw , 
those, a few pair of herring-gulls, black-backed g^% |i 
and cormorants, breed upon the rock ; the Isst ire- ,1 
quenting the penetralia of the cave — which perforata , 
the island like a tunnel— and emitting at times m ,| 
most unearthly sounds, or rather howls. These single | [ 
sounds are rarely heard on any other portion of theBtfJt 

and have always associated this gloomy cavern 


feelings of mysterious awe. Boatmen have attribnt^ 
these gloomy cries to the guillemot tribe, a '^^^, 
members of which do certainly frequent * the ca^^J 
but I am inclined rather to impute them to J ' 
cormorant, as I have never heard the voice of tft 
guillemot, or * marrat,' as the sailors call it, °"^^r"!i 
circumstances whatever, saving the low sharp cr^ 
emitted during their dying struggles after a guos^o 
A solitary pair of eider-ducks may sometimes vento 
to rear their progetiy of 'brattocks' on the roc^Rf 
several pair of jackdaws ; and a single pair ?^ ^'' 
grine falcons: these, together with rock-plp'^*» * 
up the species known to me ; but there niay,oFcoji • » 
be others which have escaped my observation, i '^'* ^^ 
a common wren from some long nettles close to 
fortifications, and, by the tame way in ^^^"*^^y!p 
settled close by, waiting, doubtless, for my depa^*"^' 

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I inferred that she must have had her nest there ; but 
I fniled in finding it, though I searched diligently. 

Tlie Bass is let at a considerable sum annually by 
its owner, Sir Hew Dalrymple, to a person termed 
* the keeper.' The rent is made up first and chiefly 
by the money obtained for the young geese, whicli, 
vlien cooked, are sold at from 6d. to Is. apiece ; 
and second, by the charge exacted from strangers 
for the privilego of visiting the rock. The number 
of young geese slaughtered annually is about two 
thousand; and these are first skinned, then soaked, 
nnd baked slowly, after which the greater number 
arc packed and forwarded to various parts of Great 
Britain, while others are reserved for home-use. The 
young of the solan goose, when properly prepared, is 
a daintier morsel than many might suppose, especially 
when eaten cold ; and I believe her Majesty has an 
annual treat of solan-geese eggs. These should be 
boiled for twenty minutes — the albumen coagulating 
merely to the consistency of jelly— and eaten with 
pepper, mustard, and vinegar; and for breakfast, I 
know of no greater dainty. 

At three different times in the year do the cliff-men 
essay their dangerous task— 1st, when the eggs of the 
kittiwake, &c., are ready for harrying; 2d, when tlie 
peregrine falcon's brood is fit to be carried off; and 
3(1, when the young geese are sufilcicutly matured for 

The eggs of the first are sought after by collectors, 
and are always kept in store at Canty Bay, ready 
blown, price Gd. A supply of the herring-gull, pufiin, 
guillemot, and razor-bill or Tammie Norie*s eggs, is 
also kept, though in much lesser quantity than the 
kitti wake's; and sometimes the eggs of the greater 
black-backed gull and cormorant may be had. 

On the second descent, the cliff-man brings away 
the falcon's brood in a basket slung round his 
shoulder for the purpose. He ii let down to tlie 
spot by means of a rope tied round his waist, and 
another loose in bis hand; the rope is previously 
made fast round a rock, and further held by a man 
above. The cliff-man signals to his companion by 
the rope he holds in his hand, and so is let down, 
steadied, or hauled up at pleasure. Toung peregrines 
require to be dexterously handled, or they may 
inflict severe wounds with their talons. When the 
cliff-man reaches the eyrie, they instantly begin to 
screech vociferously, far outvying in their piercing 
shrieks the cries of the other denizens of the cliff. 
They always turn upon their backs, and strike 
viciously with their feet, so that the operation of 
bearing them away used to be somewhat tedious. 
Tlie men, however, now generally wear gloves, and 
are thus enabled to lift their screaming captives 
at once from the nest. The female falcon usually 
sails close by all the time, and often lights on a piece 
of rock at hand, a sorrowing spectator of the scene. 
This has been a blank year lor falcons on the Bass. 

On the third and last occasion of descents, which 
last from the middle of August till the middle of 
September, the cliff-man is let down three times a 
week by a rope round the waist, with a steadying or 
signaling rope in the left hand, and a stout cudgel in 
the right. From cliff to cliff he gropes his dangerous 
way, sometimes dangling in mid-air, and then regain- 
ing a footing. He knocks a young goose on the head, 
which kills it at a single blow; he then places the 
cudgel in his rope-hand, and seizing the dead bird, 
})eRves it clear of the rocks into the sea. A boat is 
waiting below to gather the slain birds; and I 
may here remark, that it has to give them a wide 
berth, as one falling into it might stave it. The 
art of heaving the dead birds into the sea is one not 
learned all at once, as it requires both strength to 
pitch far enough outwards, and an eye accustomed to 
judge of distances at great elevations, to calculate 

the net-essary force to be employed. Sometimes the 
man is let down into the boat, and at other times he 
is hoisted up again by the rope; the whole proceeding, 
too, is considered most dangerous in wet weather, 
and is on tliat acoount rarely attempted except upon 
fine days.* Accidents to cliff-men are very rare on 
the Bass. 

I will now take leave of the Bass and its tenants, 
though I have not noticed the rabbiu which abound 
on it, nor the sixteen sheep its somewhat scanty 
pasturage maintains. The view from the fortifications 
is truly magnificent, and of itself well repays the 
trouble of ascending thither. The associations con- 
nected with the ruinous cells and dungeons are 
deeply interesting ; and the fair marks presented by 
two geese, which hold as their own two ledges of 
rock 180 yards from the fortifications, and are termed 
Baird's and Elcho's geese respectively, are amply 
sufficient to test the skill of the rifieman. These are 
considered legitimate targets by the keeper, who 
permits any amount of practice at them gratis; 
but five shillings a head is charged by him for old 
geese killed in cold blood; so, novice, beware, and 
when directing thine unerring rifie at either of the 
above solans, see tliat thou dost not riddle another 
instead I 

Whsx first anything new happens to us, it is an 
event, not only for the time being, but for the future. 
Thoughts, feelings, and intelligences unknown before, 
spring up and give birth to others which never again 
seem to leave us, and which indirectly, but certainly, 
influence our future actions and sentiments, although 
we may not take the trouble of tracing to their sources 
the ' little things ' which gave the first tiny tinge of 
colour to what forms our present and permanent bent 
of character. I hod never seen a play of any kind, 
and had heard marvellously little alx)ut plays or 
scenic representations in general. To be snre, my 
nursery-maid, Mary, talknl occasionally about the 
* theay ter,' and had even told me a long story con- 
cerning one Jane Shore, and a wicked king, whose 
wickedness, I concluded, consisted in making the said 
Jane Shore cry water-cresses, as it was apropos to 
hearing that beautiful, melancholy, but now obsolete 
cry of * Buy my water-cresses,' that she for the first 
time related the pathetic tale— assuring me that such 
was undoubtedly both the mode and the tune by which 
the lovely and unfortunate prototype of the dirty 
draggle-tailed drab then passing us, used to call the 
attention of the Londoners, two or three thousand years 
ago, to the fresh leaves she had been forced to gather 
for them, to eat with their bread and butter, early 
in the morning, at the cold brook-side, before the 
wicked tyrant himself, or the sun, or the birds were 

Mary, being somewhat romantically and senti- 
mentally disposed, dealt chiefly in tragedies where 
ladies died for love of handsome young gentlemen, 
who stamped about and stabbed each other in 
measured time, which she practically demonstrated, 
by making a ferocious attack on a pillow with 
the poker ; which pillow, after having performed the 
part of a rival lover, was rendered available in 
smothering Desdemnna— that is, the unconscious cat, 
which never toould lie quiet and allow itself to be 
kilietl as that exemplary wife did, but ran mewing 
and spitting under the bed. She was not, it must be 
confessed, particularly clear in her descriptions; and 
there was a strange jumble of kings and queens in 
crowns, poisoned cups, bloody daggers, gold waist- 
coats, purple and crimson robes, ermine and suits of 
armour, helmets, battle-axes, and clashing swords, 

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wiiiling, woe, dentil, and diBmay, dancing in con- 
fusion through my childish brain, and filling me 
alternattly with cariosity, terror, delight, and a 
strong desire to witness myself the wondera she 
dilnt^ npon. 

One Monday morning, when snow lay tliick on 
the ground, frost in the yery air of the house, I 
sat with purple nose and red fingers at the school- 
room piano, picking out a new music-lesson, my 
lather unexpectedly entered—a Tery unusual event 
with him. He hoped I was a good girl ; and then, in 
case my prim governess should insinuate an3rthing to 
the disadvantage of my character, quickly added : * We 
have secured a box on Thursday at Coven t Qarden, 
and mean to take you, Lilian, where I hope Miss Birch* 
—turning to the governess — * will also do us the favour 
to accompany us.' Whereupon Miss Birch's counten- 
ance, hitherto anything but smiling, brightened ; she 
graciously signified her assent to the proposal, saying : 
*I was a very good girl, and deserved indulgence.' 
Although this was in direct contradiction to the 
opinion she had expressed to myself some ten minutes 
before, I was not disposed to be critical, but jumped 
up in a fever of joy, kissed fint my father, and 
then Miss Birch, my blood circulating so rapidly, 
that before the former had well closed the door, 
neitlier purple note nor red fingera remained. 

Wliat was it to me now that tlie fire burnt low, or 
that the streets were covered with snow ; was I not 
going to the play ? I bustled through my lessons with 
vnosual energy; and the moment the clock struck 
twelve, bounded off to the nursery, where my little 
sister Susan always stayed till she joined me at two 
to commence her lessons also. The joyful news had 
already been imparted there, and Susan was longing for 
my arrival to talk over our anticipated treat with Mary, 
who entered into our feelings most good-huniouredly, 
but told us she did not think we should see Jane Shortj 
inasmuch aa that was an entertainment of too lofty a 
nature to take children to; but she daresayed we 
should see 'harleyqueen and colnmbind '—more amus- 
ing, and better suited to our intelligence ; and then she, 
nothing loath, tried to enlighten us in the same con- 
fbaed manner she had before attempted to describe 
her favourite tragedies ; leaving our little minds in a 
tangled mace, which only still more whetted our 
curiosity. How Tuesday and Wednesday passed, it is 
equally impossible to recollect as imagine. Going 
to the play was ever present ; and the time seemed 
to far off, we feared it never would come. Thursday, 
I remember, was a rapid thaw. I suppose it had 
begun before, for by the middle of the day, no snow 
was to be seen or frost felt; the sun shone on our 
anticipated treat; no lessons were thought of, for Miss 
Birch, who had her 'frock to trim,' most gener- 
ously gave us a holiday. We were to dine late, and 
our parents early— all together! because we were 
going to the play, as we duly informed every person 
we saw, and to have a cup of cafe d la crime^ to keep 
US awake; not that there was the slightest danger, we 
felt rare, of our ever wishing to sleep ; but we wisely 
kept that conviction to ourselves, lett tlie cafi^ thould 
be struck out as unnecessaxy. 

Every one knows the particular rumble of his own 
carriage; that evening, however, we made several 
mistakes. ' There it is,' was said a dozen times before 
there it really was ; but at last it did positively come, 
just at l^e very minute it was ordered, old John 
Gemmel, the coachman, knowing full well where we 
were going, and who was going. So jumping, bustling, 
laughing, squeezing each other*s hands, and pinching 
our mamma's till she wisely bethought herself M* 
elevating them out of our reach, we allowed our little 
white satin tippets, edged with twandown, to be tied 
on, smelling of cedar-drawers, lavender, and dried 
toses— a mixed odour which, when inhaled, even at 

this day, restores to me the feelings of that happy 
hour. A happy hour it was ; for 

All things please when life itsslf Is new. 

Although it was yet the days of oil-lampa — never 
having been out in an evening before^to our unac- 
customed eyes, the streets seemed brightly illuminated. 
The shops were one blaze of light ; and we shoated 
with glee as we rolled on past mercers and millinen, 
perfumen and chemists, dazzling the eyes with a 
rapid succession of the brightest coloura ; grocera and 
green-grocers, with their shows of figs and chestnuti, 
almonds, raisins, apples, pears, and all sorts of good 
cheer; pastry-cooks* shops, resplendent witli snow- 
capped twelfth-cakes; toy-shops, with dolls and 
drums and baby -houses, in every Tariety ! — all 
looking twice as tempting as by day; but yet we 
pitied the poor people behind the countera and their 
customers, for they were evidently not going to the 
play. Much we wondered to see grown persons, who^ 
of conne, could always do just ss they pleased, com- 
posedly walking away from the goal of our desires ; 
and felt certain every one going in the right directioa 
along the glistening pavement, wet with a recent 
shower, must be Agoing to the play* It seemed a long 
way off; and so many new sights and feelings were 
succeeding each other, that to us it appeared at least 
ten miles. At length, carriages increased ; cries met 
our ears, of * Bill of the play,' ' Oranges,' and so forth ; 
link-boys flashed their torches ; coachmen cat in and 
cut out, and lashed and swore — we stopped — we went 
on — we stopped again — we were come to the playhoose 
door at last ! Lifted out by the footman, my father took 
my little sister by the hand, whilst I followed between 
my mother and Miss Birch. We now talked no more, 
and jumped no more, for a sort of overwhelming 
feeling of mixed joy and fear kept us still as we 
walked along the lobbies. Tlie box-door suddenly 
opened; and the lights, *the sea of heads,' the 
uproar the gods were making at that particular 
moment, heard amidst the tuning of the orchestra, 
the cry of 'Music,' 'O-PV 'Turn him out,* 'Tlirow 
him over,' had such an effect upon my excited 
feelings, that I really think, for a moment, I lost 
consciousness. When I came to myself, I found ws 
were all, except my fi^ther, seated in the front row, 
and the oTcrture about to begin. Passionately fond 
of music, and knowing every popular air, of course 
this overture, where many were introduced, was a 
great treat, and one I had not counted upon. It 
was short; for at Christmas, children form tlie 
greatest part of the audience, and what is likely to 
please them is then more attended to than at other 

I cannot now remember what the name of the piece 
firat acted was ; but although I knew it was make- 
believe, I still could not help fancying it real : the 
scenery was so like nature ; for we saw it from the 
centre-boxes, which favour the illusion; only the 
ladies were slmost too beautiful for flesh and blood, or 
anything but wax ; however, they sang and danced in 
a haymaking scene, which, but for these beautiful wax- 
doll ladies, would haye been just like the real country, 
as I had seen it at my uncle's the summer before, 
where clodhopping clowns and rosy-cheeked ragged 
rustics figured instead. And there were alao warrion 
in plum^ helmets, such as I read of in my story- 
books ; but I could hear with difBcnlty so far oflf^ and 
could not comprehend what the gentlemen ranted, and 
the ladies kept whining al)Out. At last it came to an 
end ; and although we entertained some feara that all 
was over, our patience was helped by an orange and a 
bun; and, after an overture, even prettier than the 
last, came the pantomime. 

Ah, these were the palmy days of pantomimes! 
Grimaldi was clown ; Bologna, harlequin ; and 

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iind niece find t)ie detcription so pleasant, that they 
have had it read over to them three times, which 
makes me hope it may meet with the approbatioa 
of other young readers of Chambers, and so I send it. 

Mrs Parker, who, though sixty, the age of my 
venerable grandmamma, looked as yoang and as 
blooming, and danced far better than any of the 
aforesaid haymakers— Mrs Parker, who never grew 
old, was colambine. Perhaps I confuse, perhaps I 
may be introducing parts of another pantomime, or 
perhaps there were three pieces played; but a live 
elephant ani horses appeared on the stage in Blue- 
beard; and, along with my reminiscences of that 
tragedy, tlie cabbage-man is intimately connected. 
A pumpkin formed the head ; a cabbage, the body ; 
carrots, the arme; radishes, the fingers; rolls of 
Epping butter, the legs ; and Bnteh cheeses, the feet. 
Whilst I WB« wondering what Grimaldi could mean, 
after making his marketings, disguised as a farmer, 
and laying them together with such care, up jumped 
this vegetable man, and pursued him round the stage. 
Certainly a foreshadowing of Frankenstein ; perhaps 
the origin of that remarkable book. Then harleqain 
entered an apothecary's shop, struck with his wand 
three large drug-bottles, and out jumped three little 
devils, with horn* and tails, instead of the medicine 
ihey were supposed to contain. *19bthing is new 
under the sun ;* this was undoubtedly a homoeopathic 
hint, whilst yet homoeopathy was in embryo ; but, I 
suppose, I must have been rather below par as to 
intelligence, for one of these poor little imps got 
hurt in some way, and emitted most doleful cries 
before he was extricated from his drug-bottle ; and— 
in recording the fact, I almost awaken the feelings of 
shame of that moment— I, I alone, of all the immense 
audience, in that immense Coven t Garden Theatre, 
laughed. I heard my own laugh ; I saw every eye 
in our Ticinity turn upon me, and then I understood 
it all, and felt myself a fool ; for it was not ' part of 
the play,* as I, in my ignorant simplicity, thought. 
The unfortunate child woe hurt and frightened both. 
How utterly miserable I felt it more than words can 
convey. I did not dare look up for long ; but when 
at last I ventured to do so, to my great surprise, and 
greater relief, no one appeared to be mware of my 
existence; all eyes were directed towaids tlie stage; 
so, with the happy insoudatice of childhood, I soon 
forgot my humiliation ; I was as much engrossed with 
tlie moving scene as before. 

The greatest of pains and the greatest of pleasures 
come to an end some time or other, and although 
our kind parents, stifling their yawns, remained until 
the curtain fell, that we might see tlie whole, we 
both declared we should like it all to begin over 
again. Once in the carriage, however, nature 
resumed her sway, and we fell so fast esleep, that we 
were undressed and put to bed without awakening, 
and our slumbers were dreamless; but early next 
morning we were alive again, calling to each other 
from our little beds^ humming the ain, singing the 
songs, acting tlie scenes we bad witnessed the night 
before. For many successive nights, however, clowns 
and columbines, harlequins and helmeted heroes, 
chased each other through our midnight visions ; and 
my imitation of Mrs Parker was so successful, that 
Monsieur Ricochet declared I must have practised in 
my sleepy so astonishingly had I improved since the 
preceding? week. My sister attempted to read with 
the emphasis the actors recited, and although it must 
have been most intensely ludicrous, this new fancy 
certainly laid the foundation of a better style of 
reading than tlie unchanging sing-song she was 
before remarkable for. The happiness of this our 
first play did not terminate when the curtain fell, fur 
even now, as I write the above description of what 
occurred so long, long ago, I seem to live it over 
again ; the tunes start up in my mind, the perfume of 
my white satin tippet in my nose ; for a moment, all 
the innoeent imaginiogs of that period of life are mine 
once more ; and not only mine, but my little daughter 


Of all the afllbctations — and their name is Legion — 
with which Society encumbers itself, that of the 
fashionable necessity of 'going abroad' is perhaps 
the most inane. Society does not really like It, and 
would, if it dared, quite willingly stay upon this 
side the Channel. It gets so sea-sick in that short 
passage, so crushed as to its crinoline, so limp as ta 
its shirt-collars, that it can be scarcely recognised as 
Society at all. It is annoyed by government oflSeials 
to an extent that would at home have put it in 
revolution; it degrades itself by the driving of 
bargains against knavish foreigners, by whom, never- 
theless, it is on all sides shamefully plundered; it 
endures the worst of food, the most acid of drinks^ 
heat such as throws it into the vulgarest and most 
profuse perspirations, and filth, almost everywhere, 
unutterable, which it characteristically attempts to 
ignore. Society on its foreign travels is made to 
rise in the morning at about the same hour at which 
it retires to rest at home, is driven rapidly over 
infamous roads for many hours, staring at the 
surrounding objects as long as it can stare ; it nod% 
yawns, quarrels with its fellow-traTellers, grows faint 
with hunger, overeats itself on omelets and fruit, 
and goes to bed upon a sofa, with a pillow upon the 
top of it by way of coverlet : all this time it strives 
to admire With a perseverance which it never uses 
in Britain, and acquires by the total experience the 
fashion of underrating the beauties of its native land. 

We do not speak of invalids, who among a new 
people, alien customs, and a more temperate climate^ 
are seeking for health in change ; of those who, after 
making themselves acquainted with the wonders of 
their own country, set out to extend the sphere of 
their observations. in foreign lands ; or of tlie genuine 
lovers of painting, architecture, or antiquities, the 
best examples of which they are naturally anxious 
to behold with their own eyes. We refer only to 
Society proper, which seeks in its summer exoduses 
mere novelty and the beauties of nature ; which last 
it makes a very great point of admiring — in the 
presence of those who have not visited the same 
localities. Alas I it is not alone fashionable folks 
who neglect the pleasures which lie close at hand,, 
the flowers that grow within reach, for those further 
afield, to which distance has lent its charm; but 
certainly this weakness of theirs is especially obvious 
in the matter of ' going abroad.' 

Why, within a few days' journey of Society's town- 
house— if Society did but know it— and on English 
land, there He whole tracts of country as beautiful 
as soul can desire, as wild as brain can bear, and 
whole tribes of its own countrymen whose dialect 
would be as strange to its ears as Tyrolean or 
Swedish: mountains, whose summits eye cannot 
reach from below any more than it can Mont Blanc's f 
lakes, which yield in beauty to no inland waters even 
in gorgeous Italy, and which reflect a cloud-canopy 
such as the sheeny South can never behold ; rivers, 
winding in slumbrous valleys so deep-hidden that one 
might think the water-gods still haunt them, and 
the old regime prevails ; and, above all, such shores 
by the stormful sea— shattered crag, and sheerest 
steep, and silver-sanded bay— as all the coast-lines 
in the world cannot excel fbr glorious contrast. 

But, as one never looks among our own relativee 
for any person of genius— except one's self— so It 
would seem that fashion had determined not to see 
anything new and fahr at home. We thank Mr 

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WrUct White and men like him, therefore, for 
puttinpr in tlieir protest ngainst this blindness in a 
very eflTectual wny — namely, by exploring their own 
beautiful country for themselves, and giving us an 
account of it in a manner which combines the liveli- 
ness of travelling adventure with the accuracy of a 
guide-book. Almost every summer, as it seems, this 
Londoner, who hns walked to the Land's End, spends 
his one month of summer holiday in this or that 
English county, seeing it thoroughly, and taking 
copious notes of what he sees; the result of which 
is a new book 'tasting of Flora and the country 
green,' as surely as spring comes round. His Tolume 
for this year is A Month in Yorkshire^ — the same 
period which Society often allows itself for seeing 
Germany, Switzerland, the Tyrol, Italy, the south of 
France, and Spain— nor do those thirty days seem to 
have been at all too long a time for exploring that 
most interesting county. 

Mr White seems to have met during that ramble 
individuals quite as singular and to the full as foreign, 
in dialect, manners, and occupation, as he would have 
come across had he taken the grand tour; while, in 
nature, he witnessed scarcely less variety of pastoral 
beauty and mnrine grandeur; scenes of history, and 
haunts of poet; romantic ruin, and wonders of modern 
engineering. He met too, we are sorry to add, some 
dwellers among all these striking scenes as careless 
of the beauties which lay around them as any 
double-reflncd worshipper of fashion itself. Two 
Torkshiremen, whom he overtakes near Malham, 
are bent solely upon seeing there a certain horse 
which one of them has sent thither ' to grass ' a few 
weeks previously. 

*They were as much amused at my admiration of 
the scenery as I was at their taking so long a journey 
to look at a quadruped. They would not go out of 
their way to see Malham Cove, or Gordale Scar, not 
they ; a horse was worth more than all the scenery. 
And yet, judging by their dress and general con- 
versation, they were men in respectable circumstances. 
Presently, as we passed a rocky cone springing all 
yellow and gray from a bright green eminence, I 
stopped and tried to make them understand why it 
was admirable, pointing out its form, the contrasts 
of colour, and its relation to surrounding objects. 
** Well!** said one, "I never thought of that. It do 
make a difference when you look at it that way.*' 
Neither of them had ever been to London, and what 
pleased them most was to hear something about the 
great city. They were as full of wonder, and as 
rendy to express it, as children; and not one of us 
found the way wearisome 

'**£h! that's Maum Cove, is it?" he said, as a 
turn In the road shewed us the head of the valley — 
" that's what we've heard so much talk about. Well, 
it's a grand scar." He seemed to repent of even this 
morfel of admiration, and helped his neighbour with 
strong resolutions not to turn aside and look up at 
the cliff from its base 

'Although Gordale Scar is not more than a mile 
from Malham, they refused to go and see it. How- 
ever, when we came to the grazier's house, and they 
heard that the Scar lay in the way to the pasture 
where the horse was turned out, they thought they 
wouldn't mind taking a look, just, as they went. 
The goo<l wife brought out bread, cheese, butter, and 
a jug of beer, and would have me sit down and par- 
take with the others ; regarding my plea that I was 
a stranger, and had just taken a drink, as worthless. 
A few minutes sufBced, and then her son accompanied 
us, for without him the horse would never be found. 
We followed a road running along the base of the 
precipitous bills which cross the head of the valley. 

* Londoa : Chapman and Hall. 

to a rustic tenement, dignified with the name cf 
Gordale House; and there turned towards the diSi 
by the side of a brook. At first, there is nothing U> 
indicate your approach to anything extraordinary; 
you enter a great chasm, where the crags rise h<£h 
and singularly rugged, sprinkled here and tliere «i;h 
a small fir or graceful ash, where the bright greei 
turf^ sloping up into all the ins and outs of tlte daii- 
gray cliff, and the little brook babbling oat towa.-di 
the sunshine, between great masses of rock fal^ea 
from above, enliven the otherwise gloomy scese. 
You might fancy yourself in a great roofless csTt; 
but ascending to the rear, you find an outlet, a saddci 
bend in the chasm— narrower, and more rocky asi 
gloomy than the entrance. The cliffs rise higlier mi 
overhang fearfully above, appearing to meet indeed 
at the upper end ; and there, from that grim crerici. 
rushes a waterfall. The water makes a Ixrand, strika 
the top of a rock, and rushing down on each lidc 
forms an inverted a of splash and foam. And nor 
you feel that Gordale Scar deserves all the adnuratia 
lavished upon it. 

*'' Weill" exclaimed one of the Torkshirems. 
"who'd ha' thought to see anything like this? Aad 
we living all our life within twenty mile of it! Tl« 
a wonderful place." 

*"So, you do believe, at last," I rejoined, **thi* 
scenery is worth looking at, as well as a hozse?" 

'"That I do. I don't wonder now that you cooe 
all the way from London to see our hills." ' 


Thou earnest hither with the crescent moon. 
And now his light is scarcely on the wane ; 

Sad is it thou must go away so soon. 
And not retom again* 

So very sweet a friendship has been knit. 
So very brief its harvesWtime has been ! 

Take heart ! take heart! we may not think of it 
As all in vah), I ween. 

For as a traveller in desert lands 
Rideth day after day from mom till night. 

Weary with the hot sun and endless sands 
And gleaming, hazy light ; 

With thick, incrusted throat and parched toogne, 
Straining his leathern bottle, hard and dry, 

Gasping and faint and sickly borne along. 
And wishing half to die, 

Cometh at once upon a sudden well 
And pleasant grass and little grove of palm, 

Stoopeth delighted all his thu^t to quell 
With water cool and calm ; 

And is refi-eshed and goeth in its strength 
Many days more across the desert waste. 

And comcth to his journey's close at length, 
In freshness and no haste; 

So in the desert of this life for us 

Friendship has made a cool and pleasant spot; 
We shall go onward to the journey's close 

With strength that faileth not. 

T. A. 

Printed and Published by W. & R. CnAMnKB^ 47 PBteni«t(r 
now, LownoN, and 889 Hirh Street, Enntavaon. Abo m'A cj 
WiTxiAM Roanmov, S3 Upper SaekviUe Street, VnuWt t» 
aU BookaeUera. 

Digitized by 


Sicitntt uni ^aris. 


No. 242. 


Prick l^d. 



I AK a dead author. 

What I wrote, or how, is unimportant now: I 
dwell *in the land where all things are forgotten.' 
The reason why I am permitted ' again in complete 
steel* — hoth as to pen and heart— to renppear in the 
mundane sphere, through the medium of this Journal, 
will be obvious in the following communication. How 
communicated, by tapping, table-moving, or spirit- 
writing, befits not me to say, and is irrelevant to the 
subject under consideration. I will only solemnly 
attest that the sole devil which has had any hand in 
the matter is the printer's. 

I am dead. For me, no more the delays of pub- 
lishers, the stupidity or ill-nature of reviewers, the 
praise, blame, or curiosity of the public. Into * the 
ailent land' my works, whether 4tOy 8vo, or 12mo, 
happily do not follow me ; I shuffled them all off with 
this mortal coil; left them to take their chance of 
surviving me ; and may their faults lie on them as 
gently as library dust ! 

For my dust, that also is a secondary consider- 
ation to me now ; yet I have a kindly feeling for the 
relics of what often hampered me most terribly during 
life. Occasionally, I wander airily round a certain 
suburban cemetery, to take an amused observation of 
a certain elegant vase with a marble laurel-wreath at 
top, and underneath an inscription attesting my great 
literary merit, and the irreparable loss which I am to 

Yet that inconsolable society is gradually ceasing 
to name me, even as * Alas, poor Torick 1 ' and shortly 
I shall only be remembered by a faithful household or 
two aa ' Our poor dear John.' I am not now ashamed 
of being 'John,' and should be well content to see on 
the aforesaid picturesque vase only that name and my 
sumanae, with the date of my birth' and death— the 
sole facts of moment to me now — or perhaps some 
modem version of the familiar old epitaph : 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To digg )•• dust encloased here : 
Blest be y* man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Query, had Shakspeare any foreboding of, or did 
he mean any occult reference to, a certain race of 
literary ghouls, which, in later ages, delight in exhum- 
ing, not the bodies, but the souls of dead authors, 
who, unlike himself, are hapless enough to leave 
behind them any materials for biography? Fortu- 
nate Willi whose 'second-best bed,' left to thy wife 

Anne, is the sole clue to thy matrimonial history — 
whoso few scribbled signatures are thy only auto- 
graphs extant->wbo tookest no steps whatever to 
make thy life known to posterity, but wast content 
to lie down and sleep by Avon side, leaving only that 
sacred dust, and a few unconsidered trifles of chiefly 
manuscript plays, which have made for thee an earthly 
immortality I 

It was reserved for the resurrectionists of modem 
times to do worse than Shakspeare's curse deprecates 
— to dig up, not the bones, but the memories of the 
departed great ; exposing them like mummies under 
a glass-case, sixpence a peep (namely, three vols. 8vo, 
charged twopence each for perusal ; may be had at 
any circulating library). After which, all the critics 
in all the reviews and newspapers place them on a sort 
of intellectual dissecting- table, where they aro lec- 
tured upon learnedly, and anatomised limb by limb, 
muscle by muscle^not at all out of mere curiosity, 
oh, dear no ! — but simply for the good of science and 
the benefit of mankind. A proceeding vastly interest- 
ing and quite unobjectionable— except for any who 
may chance to find — as has been found — some near 
relative or beloved friend in the inanimate ' subject' 
of Surgeon's Hall. 

I am incited to express myself thus, by being the 
elected spokesman of a committee of ghosts, who, in so 
far as spirits can suffer wrong, save from the sorrow- 
ful beholding of it, have been wronged in this fashion 
since they left the mortal sphere. Although to us, in 
our celestial Hades, all this clatter about us 

No more disturbs our calm repose 
Than summer evening's latest sigh 
That shuts the rose ; 

still, we deem it right, for truth's sake, that a voice 
from the other world should convey our opinion on 
the matter. 

We abide— where, it matters not; as space, like 
time, belongs only to the flesh. We are often drawn 
together, as congenial spirits are, in life and after; 
and we converse sometimes of earthly matters, which 
we are aware of; for to be spirit alone implies to know. 
How, or how much we know, I shall not explain, as 
you will all find it out for yourselves at no distant 
day. We rarely speak of our own books — we have 
said our say, and done with it — but we sometimes 
note the books that have been written upon us since 
our departure. 

These are of every sort: from the humble one- 
volume /ZemaiTU— compiled by some affectionate heart 
which deemed the loss as fatal for the world as for 
Itself— to the large and boastful Memoir of somebody 

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who wae never heiird of till he became a biogrNphee, 
solely, it would appev, for ilie gloriUcation of Uia 
biofnrapher : from the ^liiin, honest life^ wifch nothing 
in it to dironide ezosfit useful deetls, or suieBtific 
researches : and the patlietic Fimal Memoriab, throw- 
iiiK Ught upon long-seeret irriefB and ended labours, 
do«rD to tlie heiips of Reminuetaeta, ReeoBtctioM^ 
JoumaUy and Correspondence*^ piled up like a cairn 
over some unfortunate — of whom, after all, the utmost 
that can be said, is included in a verse by one~ whose 
hint hi* biographer had much better have taken— 

Once in the flight of ages past 
There lived a man. And who was he ? 

Mortal, howe'er thy lot he cast* 
That man resembled thee. 

And an that need be told of him — which he has not 
told of himself, by writings or actions— the bard goes 
on to say — 

Is this— There Hved a man. 

Bat these ghouls have no respect to the image of 
man, either spintually or corporeally. They have 
.dragged into tlie open daylight all our mental end 
phyeical defects ; described minutely onr personality, 
living, and in one or two instances, the appearanoe 
of our poor corpses after we were dead. Our vkes, 
follies, tufferings^ our family secrets and domestic 
wrongs, have been alike paraded before the world. 
Truths, half-truths, or two truths so put together at 
to form a whole falsehood, having been grubbed up 
in all direuttons, and either dovetailed into a ground- 
work purely imaginary, or arranged into a mosaic of 
most charming pattern — with the alight drawback 
tluit tlie design of it and of our history is entirely 
owing to our ingenious biograplier. 

All this harms us not ; but we regard the matter 
as something sad and strange, which may be harmful 
to authors now living, who, one day, will in their 
tnni become ghosts and biographical subjects. 

Tims, suppose we, who most of us passed our sub- 
lunary existence like ordinary men and women, wrote 
our books and published tliem; but for ourselves 
courted peace, privacy, and the mediutive life whioh 
all true autiiors love— suppose we luid been aware 
that on us, defunct, a greedy biographer would seize 
—rake up all our doings, undoings, and misdoings ; 
record how we dressed, and walked, and ate our din- 
ners ; jot down, in various incorrect forms, which we 
have no power to set right, every careless or foolish 
word we said, with our motive for saying it ; lure from 
weak, faithless, or indifferent friends our most private 
letters, written, perhaps, as others beside the luckless 
genu* irritabik do write letters, on the impulse of the 
moment, or under the influence of some accidenul 
mood ; call upon all onr kindred and aquaintauue — 
one half of whom knew little of us, and the other half 
never understood us at all — for every possible reminis- 
cence concerning us. Alack, alack 1 had we suspected 
this, what a living death of apprehension, annoyance, 
and mistrust would have been ours! And for the 
xesult? We tliould eitlier have doubted our nearest 
and dearest, and retired in disgust from the imperti- 
nent world, to leave our bones mouldering unmolested 
in some African desert or American cave; or we 
should have carefully arranged our whole life with a 
view to posthumous publication. We sitould never 
have made a remark without considering how it would 
look in Smith- iana. We should have combed our hair, 
tied onr neckcloth, selected onr gowns and gloves, 
strictly fur the benefit of posterity. Our very ledgers, 
bouse- acconnts, and washing-books, would have been 
penned with an eye to autographs. We should have 
eaten, drank, and slept, like flies under a tumbler- 
glass, waiting to be put iii amber; or like strange 
beasts, conscious that their destiny is from the Zoolo- 
gical Gardens to the British Museum. Nay, those 

of us whom a beneficent providence removed fna 
the world before tlie develofNuent of tlie present bio- 
gcaphy mania, would have tnmbled ket even on tlie 
ilender data attainable ooneaniing them, some litervf 
Professor Owen might pat them togetlier, mn^ lectoie 
on titem in tlM character of extinct animala. 

lliis last case is the least reprehensible. Wl» 
his own generation has died out, and no living haa^ 
can be wounded by any revelations concerning bin; 
when an after- sge has decided his permanent potUts 
in letters, and b^me at once less prcijudiced, and man 
just with regard to both his faolu and his Tirtiwt- 
then the world has some right to know tlie main futi 
of an anthor*s personal history ; at least oo far a* ti 
discover whetlmr his life corresponded with bis voda 
which makes tlie works themselves donbly valosUe. 
But that one whose whole or chief intercoarae vit^ 
the public has been by the pen — who has never ^ 
himself forward as soldier, politician, or desired for 
of those positions which necessarily make a dob 
public property, should be seized upon as soeh» tb 
minute the breatk lesves bim, for the entertajswis 
of the world— is a prooeeding the justice of wIbca 
is certainly debatable. 

On the otiier hand, let us suppose a case in wfaiti 
the writings are the one valuable residuum of s voj 
worthless life, during whicli the unhappy author hM 

Known the right, and yet the wrong 

weakness, wkskedness, or folly, tii 
a man fumislras no possible esample tD 
posterity, exoept to wonder how be evsr esnU iisw 
written as beautifully as he did. 

Take, for instance, Hermion, whose woridlr name, 
did I give it, would be recognised as one for yean 
incensed with most odorous idolatry. What vu 
Hermion? A wild, handsome young aristocnt, 
stufied full with that passionate egotism and mar- 
dinate love of approbstfon which is the bane of wsaj 
seeund-rate, ef a few even first-rate geninsea Cos- 
sequently obnoxious to most men — tlm^h, bseias 
they only beheld the fair side of his cbancler, adond 
by numerous women; till, whipped on one dieek, 
and caressed on the other, and maddened withio bf 
all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and tbe 
devil — this poet, this demigod, wlio lived not lav 
enough to know himself a fool, ay, and somewliat d 
a wretch to boot, was found out after hb desth teb 

And bow t Beosnae there was no emt to siy : *Be 

is dead, he shall be buried ; buried altogether, leavias 
to posterity only the best and noblest part of hia- 
his writings.' Therefore, over his corpse biograpiien 
began to swarm like flies. A fashionable friend, for 
fear of other fashionable friends, suppressing ia 
autobiography, which the man himself had careAnlf 
written, and which miglit have had one vsloe— vs^ 
— pi»U fsrth a garbled life. A sentimental, kiodij, 
ehallow lady-acquaintance detaila bis Convsriiliont; 
other acquaintance, denominated 'friends* — bot ^ 
could not have had one real friend in the world, tliis 
wretched Hermion, who loved only himaelf — they too, 
in successive years, throng the press, dilating on h\i 
private history and manner of life — how he surved 
for fear of obesity, how be wrote noble poetry of 
nights, and talked slang and ribaldry by day; Iw^ 
the worshipped bard of half tlie century was, is 
reality, when you came to be intimate with him, 
a selfish, conceited, partimonions, narrow-DiiBded, 
vacillating, irritable fop. 

Whidi, in degree, he was, and yet a poet ; for poeti 
are but men ; yet was it fur tlie friends, on pretence 
of elevating his memory, to hang up tlili voor 
battered scarecrow of humanity on a kind of gltnifi^l 
gibbet for every crow to peck at, and eveiy piu«er-bf 
to abudder or sneer ? And will their doing » 

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advMnUge any haman being ? Will it not, in thoae wlio 
liaye not attained tlie large vision of na immorula, 
create a belief tliat all poett mast be weak, puppyiah, 
ejTOttsticalf becaoae this undoubtedly great poet was 
ao? Will they not be led to tliink that poetry itaelf 
niiiat be a beautiful lie, becaoae a man could ait in 
tlie qpiet dead of night, writing out of the inmost 
depths of his nature his best, truest self, things 
worthy of it and him — ^yet rise up next day, pat on 
his weak, foul, conceited self, and persuade short- 
sighted people that that was the real Hermion after 
all ? Alas 1 that for tliis man, who, like many another 
man, was tormented witli two warring natures in his 
heart — ^there was no infltiance strong enough to make 

Throw away the worser half of it, 
And live the purer with the other halt 

And ao lie died ; and a Use csniaii-feast has he made 
for biographers ever since. 

So has hia contemporary, who, among na ghoiti, 
stnuBgely 0iirpriaed to find himaelf immortal, 

Came wandering by, 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Babbled hi blood— 

and salt sea-brine. 

A sapient journal, whose oommtnta oo na departed 
of^en amuse us mightily in the upper sphere, asserts, 
noticing the laat of the nameroaa memorials of 
Spiridion, 'that it snppUea leaaons why a complete 
life of him never can be, perhaps never onght to be, 

I put it to the conscience of UKHtals, whetlier <a 
eomj^ete life' of any human being can be written, 
except bj the pen of the recording angd P 

If it be 80 diiBcult for a biographer to get at the 
simplest, moat patent facts in hia antlior's career, 
how ahall he discover the life in full, inner and outer, 
and paint it jclearly, honestly, capably— cramped by 
no prejndioea, hesiuting at no reveUtions, both able 
and willing to ahew forth nndisgnisedly the whole 
man ? How, even if he wished, can he do this, unless 
he were the man's alUr mfo^ sufficiently understanding 
all his peeuliaritiee to pUoe hia chanicter la iu true 
light before the world ? 

And waa there ever, in hia lifetime, aaj aker mo 
who thus tliorooghly understood Spiridion ? 

Unaocounuble as it may be, it ia no leas tme, that 
most poeta are all their days more or less children, 
and want taking care of like diildren. The susm 
dwmior seems to unfit them partially for the hard 
neceaaitiea of life, unless, aa ia sometime*— would it 
were oftener 1 — the case, their moral cooacientiontness 
is strong enough to force them to acquire qualities 
not innate or coexistent with what ia termed *the 
poetic temperament'— namely, prudence, forethought, 
common-sense; that solid wisdom which, in the sum 
of life, ontwelidia All genius. 

This, Spiridion never had. How the buty world, 
deep in counter and merchandise, houses and lands, 
tlirasts its hands into its pockets, and laughs over 
the picture of the beardless youth and his baby-wife, 
running from place to place, intending at each charm- 
ing spot to stay * for ever.' How afterwarda, when he 
had broken laws, creeda, and women's hearts, it turns 
disgusted from the poor poet— living contentedly a 
life as idle and fickle as that of a meadow butterfly ; 
yet, with one or two aad exceptions, almost aa harmlesa. 
Utterly incomprehensible, to any respectable gentle^ 
man coming home at six p.m. precisely to his tliree 
courses, is the portrait drawn of our Spiridion, standing 
rearling a whole day long with his untested cold meat 
beside him— then starting, with a girlish bluah : * Bless 
me, I must have forgotten my dinner I' 

And worse than incomprehensible— altogether hate- 
ful, and anathema maranatha— ia the daring bUaphemy 

of indignant youth, when, blindly confounding the 
Christianity of a formalist and aemi-rotten Churdi 
with the Christianity of the Lord Jesus, he dubbed 
himself atheist, to shew his abliorrenoe of both. Poor 
Spiridion !— yet any one atudying his life, which, with 
all ita faults, was so pure, unselfish, generous— so 
essentially the Christlike life of love— making even 
his enemies love him as soon as they came to know 
him— cannot but acknowledge tliat many a sahitly 
bishop has been, practically, less of a Christian than he. 

But why write hia life at all? Whjr expoae the 
roiaerable arcana of a luckless marriage — a disorderly 
home?— which many a man has to siifier, thongh he 
is fortunately not written about. Why unfold every 
writhing of the diseaaed reatleasness and melancholy, 
that constitute a phase of mental development^ 
which almost every sensitive nature ia doomed to 
pass through during youth; until the fevers and 
ilespairs gradually wear tliemaelvea out, and the 
individual looka back on hie old self— whidi, having 
happily been outlived, has never been chronicled — 
with a curioiie mixture of wonder and pity, that 
makes him tolerant and hopeful for all otliers going 
through tlie same ordeal. But, ia tlie midat of those 
red-hot plough-sliares, Spiridion died. 

Tet understand us. We ghosts do not wish to lay 
an embargo on all biographiea : tliereby annihilating 
the natural wish of tlie hnmap heart to be remem- 
bered after death a little, and cauaing the worth and 
beauty of good men's histories to be indeed 

Interrsd with their bonea 

Not so. Everything that is great and noble, virtuous 
and heroic in any author's life— in the life of any 
man or woman — ^by all means, after a decent time has 
elapsed, let it be faithfully related, for the comfort, 
instruction, and example of later generations. 11» 
world haa a right to hear and exact such chronicles of 
its generations gone by. 

But let us be chronicled not as authors, becaoae 
we have written a book or ao wortlt reading, but 
because we have live<l a life worth remembering — 
the story of whicli will have a beneficial infiuence oa 
lives yet to come. If any incense poured upon or 
saintly odoura arising from our mortal duat can 
reach and delight us in our immortality, it must be 
thus to know that neither our doings nor our 
sufferings have been altogether in vain. And for aU 
that concerning ua waa purely personal, in noways 
differing from the rest of our species— which cau 
neither 'point a moral ' nor 'adorn a tale,' but only 
minister to an idle and prnrient curiosity — in charity's 
name, let it be buried with ua. 

Here, in thia abode of calm, where the strongnat 
puff* of fame cannot send a single ripple across the sea 
of eternity, we ghosts wish it were better understood, 
that, however great our writinga, we ourselves were 
but human, and no more was to be expected of us than 
struggling humanity can achieve; that our genius 
was an accidental quality, In noways exempting ua 
from the temptations, any more than exonerating ua 
from the duties, of our kind ; that, if we erred, it 
was not our genius, but our miserable human nature 
that overcame ua, as it does other men. We claim 
for our memories neither more nor less than the 
immunities granted to others— not authors— namely, 
that, except for some great benefit to the human race, 
you have no more right to drag a man's history, fair 
or foul, out of the merciful shadows of the tomb^ than 
you have to dig up and sell his dead bo<ly, to be 
exhibited in a penny peep-show at Bartholomew Fair. 
The true manner ^f dealing with the dead at all times 
Sliakspeare seems to indicate when he makes Queen 
Katlierine aay of Wolaey : 

Tet thua fkr, GriflUha^ fioame iaaes to i 
And yet with charity. 

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Siie would not criticise her bitterest enemy, after he 
was no more, witlioiit tlie apology, ' Give me Iwive.' 
It would be well if some biographers I could name 
had been as tender and womanly. 

And this brings me to speak a word on the part of 
some gentle ghosts among us, who, inasmuch as 
women naturally shrink from publicity more tlian 
men, hare been tlie more sorely aggrieved. I refer 
not to those who, conscious of living always in the 
public eye, designedly left their Dian'ei, &c., behind 
them, elegantly and artistically arranged — a little 
couleur de rote may be — on the principle that 

One would not look quite frightful when one's dead, 

but still vastly amusing; and no doubt an appre- 
ciative public made itself very merry over these dead 
women, whose life was a perpetual po»e vlasttque, and 
who took care to die in the most graceful of attitudes. 
Tliey have had their desire; though everyone of them 
may be wise enough to be ashamed of it now. 

But for others who lived naturally, painfully, finding 
the burden of existence quite haixl enough of itself, 
without taking heed as to how it would appear as a 
picture for future biogrnphers — who arranged no 
materials, kept no intentional records, and evidently 
had not tlie slightest notion of ever being made into a 
book — the case is widely different. 

The generality of female authors do not desire, 
living or dead, to be made into a public spectacle. 
Something in womanhood instinctively revolts from 
it— as it would from caressing its dearest friends at a 
railway station, or performing its toilet in the open 
air. Womon*s domestic ways, actions, and emotions 
are so much more demonstrative, and, at the same 
time, more reticent than men's, that to tear the veil 
ftom their lives seems a far more cruel wrong. 

And in mnny instances even to do it^ is most 
difficult Tlie true key to feminine nature is so 
delicate, so hidden, that it is all but impossible to find 
it. Thus, in nearly all female biographies current 
of later years, we feel by instinct that not one half of 
the life is unfolded—that much which would reconcile 
jarring mysteries, and harmonise the whole, has either 
never been discovered, or if discovered, is necessarily 
suppressed. Whether or not it be so with men— 
there probably never is written an absolutely true 
life of any woman; for the simple reason, that the 
intricacies of female nature are incomprehensible 
except to a woman; and any biographer of real 
womanly feeling, if even she found them out, would 
never dream of publishing them. 

Take, for example, one of the most touching 
memoirs of modem times— the subject of which was a 
shy, timid, sufi*ering being, utterly unknown, except 
through her books, until she died. Death— waiting 
but for the crowning of a long-sad life with one drop 
of happiness— took her suddenly away in the prime of 
her years. Now, the public thirsts with curiosity 
about her; now publishers foresee that any fragment 
concerning her is sure to sell; now her few friends 
and fewer acquaintance discover that they had 
entertained an angel unawares, and eagerly rack their 
memories for all possible memorials of her. 

So, a Life is written— carefully, delicately, and 
honestly, with due regard to the feelings of the 
living and the cherished memory of the dead ; written 
as tenderly and wisely as such a Life could possibly 
have been written ; but — it ought never to have been 
written at alL For what is the result of it ? 

A creature, so reserved by nature that the ordinary 
attention of society to a 'celebrated author' was abhor- 
rent to her, making her shrink with actual pain, is, 
after death, exposed openly to the werld ; her innermost 
thoughts, words, and actions displayed ; her letters, 
written in the anguish of religious doubt, or family 
affliction, or intolerable bodily pain, printed and 

published, for the amusement of every careless or 
sarcastic eye ; her books analysed, in order to appor- 
tion fictitious characters among r^ originala, and tn 
to extract from the imagination the history of tl^ 
heart. Every misfortune, error, and disgrace of ber 
kindred, which you feel sure the woman lieneif 
would have concealed to the last extremity of uaH 
endurance, is trumpeted out to a harali, cyniol, 
or indilTerent world— of which the tender-beart«d 
portion can but feel instinctively one emotion: 'Fcr 
charity's sake— for the dead woman'a sake— leave tbe 
whole history untold. Cover it up I let her name tui 
her books live, but let her life and its sorrowi ti 
heard of no more.' 

For, after all, what moral if gained from it?-i 
chronicle so sad, so incomplete, that apparentlj ri 
does not 'justify the ways of God to man.' To 
mortals, on whom its page closed with that last pitifsl 
sigh of hers—' Am I going to die, when we have bees 
so happy?' — ^it can administer no poaaible lesaa 
except of tacit, hopeless endurance. Many similr 
lives there are — of which we on the other side the 
grave are alone permitted to see the bmding np of tbe 
broken web — the solution of all dark myateries in tjs 
clear light of eternity : but such lives ought nem ta 
be written. It is impossible tltat any human beint 
can write them, fairly and fully; and to attaif^ 
doing so incompletely, is profanity towarda ghosts scJ 
men, aa well as towards the Father of both. 

'I would not have used any living creatare as sqok 
of my dear friends have used me,' said, in the foft 
utterance of the unknown world, this gentle ghost of 
whom I am speaking; 'I would not, even had my cor- 
respondent been so foolish as to put her heart in ber 
letters, have after her death put it also into print. 1 
would have done with all her intimate correspoDdoice 
as a friend of mine, estranged, yet soon to be regaiDed 
— is wise and tender enough to do with hers— bara«)i 
it. All the publishers and public in tbe worid 
hammering at my doors should never have torn nr 
friend's secrets out of my heart I would have luii 
all things done for her, dead, exactly as would bin 
been done by her, living. Not one breath of tbe 
idle curiosity which she hated during life, sboald 
have been allowed to expend itself over her tomb. 
But it harms not me,' said the silver voice, speaking 
calmly, as if of another person — and brealcing up tje 
circle from which, I, the appointed delegate, gi^ 
this communication. 'My body sleeps in petoe 
among my moorlands, and I live here — and in tbe 
one true heart that loved me.' 

And then— as one of your poets, still in the flab, 
tries to describe, painting tbe world which he knovs 
not yet, but shall know — 

Her face 
Glowed as I looked at her. 
She locked her lips— she left me where I stood 
' Gloiy to God,' she sang, and passed afar, 
Tbridding the sombre boskage of the wood 
Towards the moming-atar. 

[We print the foregoing article— to say nothinf? of I 
our esteem for the accomplished author — on sccount I 
of its soggestiveness, and the germ of truth it coO' 
tains ; but we would not be supposed to endorse its 
opinions in their whole extent To do so would be to 
condemn utterly a P9pular and important departmeot 
of literature, to cut off the sources of biography and 
history, and bury in the grave the materials that in the 
hands of the skilful are used for developing the science 
of human nature. Authors do not belong less to the 
world than kings ; their influence is more exteanrc 
and more lasting, and they are entitled to no v^ 
munity from the interest or curiosity of men. Oar 
inquiries into their lives may, of course, somelimei 
involve mistakes, or give currency to calumnies; but 
that if all the more reason why inquiry should sot 

Digitized by 




rest. In the eod, it will be laccessful where success 
is of any general importance; and the individual 
risk, or the ponsible delay, should not be grudged by 
tliose fine spirits that address themselves to man- 
kind. At anyrate, whatever errors may arise, what- 
ever private feelings may be outraged, whatever 
eloquent remonstrances may be published, the thing 
will still go on, for it depends on a principle in 
human nature : our Boswells will still be read with 
a luxurious feeling of enjoyment and admiration, and 
our Gaskells will still command our interest and our 
tears.— Ed. C7. X] 


Stranob and fantastical superstitions are confined 
to no part of the world; they flourish within the 
tropics, they locate themselves in the arctic and 
antarctic circles, and they are perfectly familiar to 
all the inhabitants of the temperate zone. If, liow- 
ever, tliey have any favourite residence, it is 
assuredly in Africa, where, from time immemorial, 
they have reigned paramount over all classes of the 
population. In other parts of the world, especially 
where men affect to be civilised, they who have 
enjoyed the advantages of education laugh when 
they meet together at everything denominated 
superstitious; but when they lay aside their mul- 
titudinous existence, become individuals again, walk 
home along tree-arched lanes, traverse midnight 
churchyards, and retire to bed alone, by one dim 
rushlight, in a room high up in some ancient build- 
ing, rocked and shaken by tlie all-haunting winds, 
they often glide back into timorous infancy, and 
shiver as they pull the sheets over their faces. 

This I say by way of apology for the two unphilo- 
sophical individuals who figure in the adventure 
described in the following narrative. Tliey belong 
to a tribe of Arabs who encamped many years ago 
on the banks of the Upper Nile. The country in the 
whole neighbourhood is almost beyond imagination 
wild. Rocks naked, splintered, and precipitous rise 
on one side of the river to a great height, and are 
penetrated here and there by gorges so narrow and 
tortuous, that in some places the sun's rays never, 
during the whole da^', illuminate their depths. On 
the stream's other bank, golden sand in billowy 
eminences stretches away interminably. Close to 
the water on both sides there is a strip of vegetation 
green as a prc-Kaphaelite picture, and broken and 
diversified with singular beauty. On one particular 
point, the Libyan bank projects a little into the 
stream ; and as you stand on this projection about 
tiie middle of the afternoon, and look directly south- 
ward, your eye catches a glimpse of a landscape 
which you have some difficulty in persuading your- 
self belongs to this world. Through a gap in the 
mountains, which appears much narrower than it is, 
Bince it permits the passage of the vast Nile, you 
behold a valley warm with sunlight, beautified with 
a broad expanse of water, looking like a fairy lake 
with patches of green-sward, here flat, there sloping 
and undulating, dotted with copses of mimosas, 
tamarisks, henna, rhododendrons, silk-trees, palma 
diristi, and an abundance of nameless flowering 
shrubs ; and overhead, the majestic date-palm flutter- 
ing its lent; leaves as a tall maiden flutters her veil in 
tiie soft breeze. Here and there, cresting small 
eminences, the airy cupolas of the tombs of holy men 
are seen between tlie foliage ; and tlie whole stands 
relieved, like a landscape on canvas, against a chain 
of rose-coloured mountains, throwing up confusedly 
their jagged pinnacles into the blue. 

Tlie Arabs from the desert never encamp in the 
cultivated country, but on tlie sandy edge close to it. 
At the time I speak of, the tents were many, and 

stood pitched in an immense semicircle facing the 
east, and projecting its horns on either side to the 
very verge of the palm-groves. The chief of this 
encampment— a man with green turban, to mark his 
descent from the Prophet— had a daughter named 
Selima (I wish the Arabs had more variety in their 
names) ; and among the youth of the tribe there was 
one wlio rejoiced in the name of Ibn Saffar. It was 
the misfortune of this young man that he had no 
relatives. How he found his way into the tribe, the 
chief only knew, if, indeed, he did. Tet Ibn Safiar 
was generally respected, because, as some believed, he 
was descended from the people of the Jinn, or, as 
others thought, came far away from Persia, where — 
in the mountains especially — there are people with 
blue eyes, and hair of the colour of gold. This was 
Ibn Siaffar's case; and instead of shaving his head 
like the children of the Arabs, he suffered his long 
locks to escape from beneath a light embroidered cap, 
and to descend in waving masses over his shoulders. 
Abou Bernak, the chief, though friendly towards this 
young man— who possessed neither sheep nor camels, 
but went forth with his spear into the desert, where 
he hunted lions and hyenas, and often came back 
laden with their skins to the camp— was still very 
anxious that no intimacy should grow up between 
him and his daughter Selima. For this he had 
doubtless his own reasons ; but the girl hod eyes, 
and looked with admiration on the beauty of 
Ibn Saffar. It is true he was not gentle. His 
fierce eyes flashed habitually with an expression of 
cruelty; his short upper lip curled with disdain; 
and he appeared to be always eager to engage in 
conflict. Tet, as often as he came into the presence 
of the daughter of Abou Bernak, all his fierceness 
forsook him, and he sat at her feet as gentle as a 
gazelle. All his countenance wore a serene aspect, and 
his eyes were tinted like the light of the evening-star. 
He talked to her often of regions lying beyond the Bahr 
el Kolzun and the Sliat el Arab, where the mountains 
are clothed with trees, where bright rivers rush down 
impetuously from the rocks, and where the believers 
in £1 Islam inhabit magnificent cities like those 
which the unbelievers of old times have left in ruins 
on the banks of the Lower Nile. Selima's imagina- 
tion was infiamed by these accounts ; so that she 
often wished to take a fleet dromedary and journey 
towards the rising sun, either alone or in company 
with Ibn SaflTar, whom she loved with a trembling 
love, because he seemed to her a man of another race, 
of other beliefs and other feelings, who sympathised 
with nothing in the valley but her. 

Often and often as they sat together, Ibn Saffar's 
face appeared to be transfigured, but whether by 
good or evil emotions, she could not tell. Some 
violent struggle appeared to be going on in his mind. 
Paleness, accompanied by big drops of sweat, came 
over him ; his eyelids drooped, and his whole figure 
appeared to bo bent with premature old a^e. Then, 
tlie fit being over, his face flushed, his eyes grew 
doubly bright, and tears as of rapture stood in them. 
These appearances, however, were painful as they 
were mysterious to Selima ; but she feared to question 
him respecting them, for there was a loftiness in his 
manner, and a tone of authority in Ms voice, whicli 
entirely overawed her. 

Once in the broad daylight, when the sun was a 
full hour from the summit of the arch of noon, they 
walked together to the banks of the river. Why did 
Selima start? why did she seize Ibn Saffar's arm? 
why did she look so fearfully into his face ? why did 
her own become so deadly pale ? why did her limbs 
tremble, and almost refuse to support her weight? 
There, high up on the bank, was the cause. 

' Look at it r she exclaimed to Ibn Saffkr ; < we are 
haunted, or the place is haunted. See, there are two 

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shadows, wliich appear like mine and yours, moving 
high np tliere upon the banic ! They must proceed 
from individoals moving invisibly aUove our heads. 
Oh, Ibn SAfTar, explain to me this mystery, for yon 
belong to the people of the Jinn, and there ia nothing 
that is hidden from you !' 

For a moment the young man coald make no reply ; 
but tlie expression of his countenance waa terrible, 
and he appeared to be labouring to suppreaa some 
emotion too violent to be detcrih^ by woi^s. 

' Wlio has whispered to you, Selinia,' he at lengtli 
inquired, with as much calmness as lie could command, 
* the falsehood that I belong to the people of the Jinn ? ' 

*I know not,* answered the maiden; *but I have 
beard among the women of the tribe many things 
respecting you ; and among others, the suspicion that 
you are not one of tlie descendants of Adam.' 

* Selima,* he said, * you are not sincere with me. It 
is Abou Bemak, it is your father who lias poured 
this calumny like poison into your mind.* 

'Tott wrong my father,' exclaimed Selima, the 
spirit of the Arabs rising in her breaat — * you wrong 
my father. He is incapable of calumny, aa he is 
incapable of everything base. Tlie blood of the 
Prophet is in his veins, and in my veins, too, Ibn 
Saffiir. No man« therefore, shall speak to me of 
anything like falsehood in the chief of my house; 
and if you have no connection with Afreets, or 
the people of the Jinn, explain to me why we are 
haunted, and why yonder shadows pursue us, and 
hover over us, while our own rest here beside ua on 
the sunny bank.' 

'Is it for me,' inquired her lover, 'to explain the 
mysteries of the creation of God? I am agitated, 
like you, by those sliadows ; but I do not say to you, 
Selima, account for that appearance, or I would 
•ospect yott of being an Afreet or a Jioneyet. If the 
place is haunted, let us meet here no more ; there are 
other walks as beautiful, and the migestic Nile flows 
to the north and to the soutii, and we can come down 
to it anywhere, and speak together, and be happy.* 

* Nay,' answered Selima, ' I will meet you nowhere 
but liere, and you must tell me why we are followed 
hy shadows other than our own.' 

*I cannot,' answered Ibn SafTar. 

*It mast be so,' observed Selima moodily. *I am 
disturbed by the fear that yon belong to the people of 
the Jinn, and I swear to you by the Prophet' 

Ibn Saffar put his hand on her moutli. * Do not 
swear, Selima, I conjure yoa ! I am not acquainted 
with the secrets of Qod.' 

Selima retreated a step or two, and then said : * I 
swear by the Prophet I will never be your wife until 
you explain to me the mystery of the two shadows.' 

They then separated, Selinia to her father's tent, 
and Ibn Saffar to wander in the desert. They met 
no more for many days, because Selima avoided her 
lover, whom she began to regard with superstitious 
dread. Meanwhile, he was plunged in deep alBictton, 
because he loved her with unbounded love, and would 
have sacrificed his life to render her liappy. He 
therefore took an instrument of music, and went at 
the &11 of night to the river's side, and, sitting down 
among the rocks, sang to himself a melanchiily song, 
while his tears fell on tlie instrument aa lie toucli^ 
ita strings. He compared his life to the mists which 
hang upon tlie mounuins of Kurdistan, which are 
touched and rendered beautiful by the snn*s first rays, 
but speedily melt and disappear, and leave no trace of 
tlieir existence on the blue ether — to a fountain which 
springs up in the desert, and bubbles and SfMirkles for 
a while in the morning liglit, but is overwhelmed 
by the firdt sand-storm, and concealed from mankind 
for ever — to a shooting-star which emerges from the 
depths of the sky, and descrilies a bright track through 
the heavens, but, just as it begins to attract the gaze 

of men, is extinguished by the breath of Eblii, and 
forgotten by all l^holders. The moon had risen u be 
sang. Presently, he laid aside his instrument tsd 
smote upon his bfeast, and aaid aloud : 

'Woe ia me — tlie light that had begun to divo 
upon my soul is changed into darkneaa. The daaghter 
of Abou Bemak is devoured by suspicions, and iiatfa 
ceased to love me. Verily the days of my exile ire 
drawing towards a close and I ahall return wbeoce I 
came, unloved and unblessed. What then? It ii 
written, and I must be numbered among those who 
are unfortunate.' 

' Nay, Ibn Saffar,' murmured a sweet voice Imde 
him ; * you accuse me unjustly. God is my witnMi, I 
love you like my own soul, but fears, the nstoreo^ 
which I need not speak of, oppress and overwhelm in«.' 

The young man arose and bowed before her, ud 

' This is the action of one whose nature is leat- 
fioent Let us walk together along the lirer.' 

' Yes,' she replied, ' let us go to our own place of 
meeting. It may be there will be no shadows then 
to-night ; the moon is at the full, and floods the «l»le 
earth with beauty.' 

They repaired to their favourite walk; but Selimi'i 
eye, inatead of resting as it was wont on the face of lier 
lover, sought among the shrubs, and the gniM, vA 
tlie sands, the fearful ahadows which were nerer sbieiit 
from her mind. Did her eyea deceive her? No- 
there they were, fainter, more indefinite, sod ind\^ 
tinct; but yet, there they were, moving ai th^ 
moved, standing still when they stopped, mimicking 
all their gestures, and appearing to put on ererf 
moment a more threatening aspect I What «•• to be 
done? Selima's soul was petrified with tenor, and , 
Ibn Saffar in the greatest perplexity found no «ordi | 
in which to express his affliction and aatonisbment > 

« Verily,' be said, ' two individuals from among w 
people of the Jinn are walking over our beadi, tiw- 
ing invisibly the soft air, but casting shadows neter- 
theless, which prove them to be solid substanuei, v«jct 
the rays of neither sun nor moon can pass throogh. 

Selima made no reply, but gaxing witli •i'^ 
apprehension at her lover for a few moments, <l>rtn 
away towards the encampment, leaving him io ^^ 
whether he should quit the valley for ever, or bory 
his sorrows in the mighty river before him. ^ 
degrees, wiser thougtits came over his mind, o* 
pondered on his situation, on the causes which nv 
brought him thither, on Selima's character and on bn 
own. It has been said by travellers that there a 
a mystic music in the Nile, which, as yoa «t *J* 
liaten to it, enters your soul, and diffhses it« o^ 
tranquillity over your whole mind. There ""^ ,, 
fact, be a supeawtural power in that ancient snd^<'.| 
fabulous stream. It rises no one knows *"" 

wlieffr ? 

is augmented no one knows how, it fi*'^ lj"?|i| 
deserts without fertilising them, through a ^^^^j 
own creation, without apparently losing a P*'''**^ 
its volume, ami as it descends with soft ^'^^ 
towards tlie sea, it appears to be conscious that 
bears the primitive legends of a whole continent <»* 
surface. .^ ^ 

Ibn Saffar gazed at it with feelings Httlemit^^^ 
a believer in £1 Islam. It is one of the properties « 
the Nile to act irresistibly upon the imagiii*t«>"' 
those who behold it, and to infuse into them *»^ 
thing like the snperstition of the ancient mojn% 
mnkers. Ibn Saffar was young, with * '^^ 
fancy, and fierce, ungovernable P««'5<*"'»T J-trf 
jects thronged his brain; he formed "J^TSAjng 
many resolutions, and his tlioughts weie "■ .^j^ui 
him towards a desperate, and perhaps "j?^ j^m 
enterprise, when he beheld a dervis appwadiwK 
from the south. ^^^ 

•Verily, O dervis,' exclaimed the y<»n» 

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*you Are foine to deliver me from extreme perplexity. 
I will reUte to you my adventure!!, and describe to 
you my case, and t}ie wisdom you have acquired by 
WH Iking to Mnd fro over tlie earth, vrill enable you to 
disiK*! tlie doubu and suapicions of one who is dear 
to Mie.' 
The dervts seated himself upon a stone and replied: 

* Say on, my scm ; I am attentive.' 

The lover then related all that had befallen him 
among the tribes of the Arabs, and the relation in 
which he stood towards the daughter of Abou 

' Young man,' observed the dervis^ ' you have not 
laid l)efore me the wiuile truth.' 

*I have told you all that bears upon the present 

* You are mistaken. It is of consequraoe to know 
what happened in Diarbekir before you fled from 
your fathers house; it is of still greater consequence 
to know what accimnt you have given of yourself to 
Abou Bernak and his daughter ; it is of yet greater 
moment to ancertaln whether an attachment to the 
creed of the SuflSa qualifies you to become the husband 
of a Sooni maiden.' 

Ibn Ssffkr stood abashed before the dervis; his 
tongue clung to the roof of his mouth; has hearty 
which had never yet quailed in the presence of man, 
sank as he cast his eyes upon the earth, and he was 
sorely troubled. 

'What I have ui^' observed the dervis, *was 
only designed to reprove you for your half-confldence. 
Had you been frank, I also should have been frank. 
I will be so now. Know, then, that I too am a 
SuflS ; but what I must do in this matter must depend 
upon an interview which I shall have this night with 
Abou Bernak.' 

Ibn Sitfi&r turned his eyes flercdy on the holy man. 
'Do yon tlien iutend' 

'If I interrupt you,' observed the dervis mildly, 
'it is only to give you the assurance that I will do 
what is best. Now lead the way to the encampment, 
and, please God, wo shall see what will happen 

ExHctly an hour before noon on the following day, 
Selima stood with Ibn Saflar and the dervis in the 
middle of the favourite walk on the banka of the 
Nile. She perceived that the number of the shadows 
had been multiplied. 

* Take this clod,' said the dervis, addressing hlm- 
aelf to Selima, 'and cast it into the river, exactly ia 
the spot from wliich the sun*s image is reflected.' 

Slie did so, and large ripples arose and moved in 
ciroles on all sides, and the sun's disk disappeared on 
tlie mirror of the waiters. 

* Now turn round, daughter,' he said. 

She turned round and looked, and behold, their 
own shadows fell beside them upon the pathway, but 
thero warn no others. 

* Praise be to Allah!' exclaimed Ibn Saflkr, 'the 
people of the Jinn are put to flight' 

* Bismillalil* murmured Selima, 'it is aa yon say, 
O beloved of my soul.' 

'Wait a while,' observed the dervis. 

Tiiey WMited. The waters of the Nile again 
be<rAme tranquil, and brilliant along their surface nB 
polished steel. Tlie glowing disk of the sun again 
bet-anie gr'Assctl in the stream, and sending up rays 
aliiKMit an bright as those which streamed from the 
burning orb in the sky, threw high upon tlie bank 
shMdowK almoHt as opaque and definite as those 
prcxliiced by the sun itself. 

*Yuu see, daughter,' observed the dervis, 'what 
ha« cMX'Rsiuned your perplexity. You stand, as it 
were. Iietween two suns, one below, another above, 
ami their Iteains f»lling upon you proiduce the pheno- 
mena of the double shadow.' 

'Blessed be God!' exclaimed Selima, 'who has 
made such wonders and marvels upon the earth; 
and bless you, my father, since your wisdom has 
removed an obstacle' 

With the modesty of an Arab maiden, she left tlie 
sentence unfinished. Ibn Saffar completed it. 

'Yes, O dervis,' he said, 'you have indeed 
removed an obstacle to the union and happiness of 
two hearta, which nothing on earth shall keep 
asunder. Selima is mine ; and with this broadsword,' 
he added, drawing his scimiur, ' I will vindicate my 
right to her against the whole world.' 

'Be content,' said the dervis. 'Abou Bernak 
will not refuse her to you when he knows ' 

'But he shall give her to me, dervis, before he 
knows anything but that I love her, snd will have 
her, though all the tribes of the Muslhoas should say 

They returned to the camp, where Abou Bernak, 
upon hearing all that had happened, consented, 
without any explanation, to bestow his daughter 
upon Ibn Saffar, who then acknowledged he was a 
prince of the Persians, who^ returning after a while 
to Ills own country, distinguished himself in battle, 
and, under tfie name of Ahmed ^lah, founded the 
Durani empire. 

In his harem, when, in the evening, he sai down 
upon the carpet of repose with Selima, he took the 
very instrument upon which he had playe«l among 
the rocks of the Upper Nile, and laughed and joked 
about the people of the Jinn and 'the Man of Two 


Phtstolooioallt considered, there appears to be no 
essential difference between the hair and the skin, 
between the skin and horn, between horn and scales, 
and between scales and feathers; all five are mere 
modifications of the same thing. Hence, the most 
charming of our lady-readers, when she disentangles 
her luxuriant tresses with a comb^ is acting on the 
same chemically composed material with the same 
chemically composed instrument as the bird when 
he sets right some erring feather with hia beak. 
Anatomically viewed, again, the hair is made up of 
a vast number of homy laminse filled witli a pigment 
which shews through its cortical integument in the 
same manner as it does through the epidermis of & 
negra The bulb or root of the hair reste upon a 
reticulated bed of capillary vessels, into which the 
colouring matter passes directly fh>m the blood, 
while the horny matter is secreted by the capilhuies 
themselves. This colouring matter haa been analysed 
by Liebig, firom whose researohes it would appear 
that it is to an excess of carbon and a deficiency of 
sulphur and oxygen on the one hand, and to a defici- 
ency of carbon and an excess of sulphur and oxygen 
on the other, that the blue-black locks of the North 
American squaw, and the beautiful golden tresses of 
the Saxon giri reqiectively owe their jetty aspect 
and their brightness. An oxide of iron has also been 
traced by Vauquelin in the pigment-oella of the 
dark-haired races. 

The astounding labour of counting the nvmher of 
hairs in heads of four difiTerent colours — blond, brown, 
black, and red — has been successfully performed by 
another German aavant, who thus tahul arises the 
results: blond, 140,400; brown, 109,440; black, 
102,962; red, 88J40. The scalps he found to be 
pretty nearly equal in weight; and the deficiency 
in the number of hairs in the brown, the black, and 
the red heads to be fully counterbalanced by a 
corresponding increase of bulk in the individual 

Few things in nature are less perishable fSbmi htdx 

Digitized by 




after its removal from the body. Hair elmt up for a 
thootand years has been taken out of Egyptian tombs, 
in perfect preservation, as regards both strength and 
colour. It is not, however, so durable daring life. 
* It is generally stated,' says Mr Hassell, * as an 
undoubted fact, that the hair may become white, or 
turn colourless, under the influence of strong depress- 
ing mental emotions, in the course of a single night 
This singular change, if it does ever occur in the short 
space of time referred to, can only be t)ie result of the 
transmission of a fluid possessing strong bleaching 
properties along the entire length of the hair, and 
wliich is secreted in certain peculiar states of the 

Amongst other ethnological peculiarities, the colour 
and the texture of the liair are determined by race : 
latitude and climate aflect them little, if at all. Dr 
Prichard, our best authority on this subject^ appor- 
tions the greater part of the habitable globe to the 
melanic or dark-haired races. The xantho-comic, or 
fair-haired tribes, are almost, on the other hand, con- 
fined to the limits of Europe, and, within those limits, 
to certain degrees of north latitude. 

Tlie forty-eighth parallel, which cuts off England, 
Belgium, Northern Germany, Scandinavia, and the 
greater part of Russia from the ethnological map of 
Europe, may be taken, with considerable accuracy, as 
the great southern boundary of the fair-haired races. 
Between the forty-eighth and the forty-fifth parallels, 
again, there is a sort of debatable land of brown hair, 
in which France, Switzerland, part of Piedmont, 
Bohemia, and part of Austria Proper, nearly the whole 
of Hungary, and the Asiatic dominions of the czar to 
the north of the Circassian line, fall to be included. 
Spain, Naples, and Turkey are the seats of the 
genuine dark-haired races; *so that, in fact, takmg 
Europe broadly from north to south, its peoples pre- 
sent in the colour of their hair a perfect gradation — 
the light-flaxen of the colder latitudes deepening by 
imperceptible degrees into the blue-black of the 
Mediterranean shores.'* Not but there are many 
exceptions to these limits. The Celtic and Cymric 
races of Ireland and the Welsh and Scottish ntoun- 
tains, have black hair in spite of their northern posi- 
tion. The Normans, too, in whatever proportion they 
were oriKinally dark, now rank decidedly amongst 
the black-haired races; while the Venetian donne 
still glory in those luxuriant locks whose golden 
beauty has been immortalised by Titian. Neverthe- 
less, tlie general rule, as we shall presently see, is 
sufficiently exact to have a practical significance in 
the eyes of the hair-dealer. 

Few persons are probably aware of the extent to 
which the traffic in human hair is carried. It has 
been ascertained that the London hair-merchants 
alone import annually no less a quantity than flve 
tons. But the market would be very inadequately 
supplied if dependence were solely placed on chance 
dippings. There must be a regular harvest, which 
can be looked forward to at a particular time ; and 
as there are different markets for black tea and green 
tea, for pale brandy and brown brandy, so is there a 
light-halred market distinct from the dark-haired. 

Tlie light hair is exclusively a German product. It 
is collected by the agents of a Dutch company who 
visit England yearly for orders. Until about fifty 
years ago, light hair was esteemed above all others. 
One peculiar golden tint wm so supremely prized, 
that dealers only produced it to favourite customers, 
to whom it was sold at eight shillings an ounce, or 
nearly double the price of silver. Tlie rich and 
silk-like texture of this treasured article had its 

•Quarteriif SevieWf No. IBl, p. 307 : an interettbig and eom- 
prebencive article to which we are indebted for aome of the 
fiicU here brought forward. 

attractions for poets and artists as well as traders. 
' Shakspeare especially,' says one of our authoritiei, 
* seems to have delighted in golden hair. " Her sannj 
locks hung on her temples like the golden fleece;" w 
Bassanio describes Portia In the Merchant of Vnkt. 
Again, in the I'wo Genffemen of Verona^ Julia says of 
Sylvia and herself: '* Her hair is auburn, mine is per- 
fect yellow." .... Black hair he only mentions twice 
throughout his entire plays, clearly shewing that he 
imagined light hair to be the peculiar attribute of toft 
and delicate woman. A similar partiality for this 
colour, touched with the sun, runs, however, tlirou{?fa 
the great majority of the poets, old Homer himself 
for one; and the best painters have seized, with 
the same instinct, upon golden tresses. A walk 
through any gallery of old masters will instant); 
settle this point. There is not a single female head in 
the National Gallery, beginning with those gloriofli 
studies of heads, the highest ideal of female beaaty b? 
such an idealist as Correggio, and ending with the 
full-blown blondes of the prodigal Bubens— there is 
not a single black-haired female head amongst them.' 

But all this has passed away : the dark-brown htir 
of France now rules tlie market. It is the opinion of 
those who have the best right to ofibr one on sach s 
subject, that the colour of the hair of the English 
people lias deepened in tint within the last fifty yesrs, 
and that this change is owing to the more frequent 
intermarriages, sinc« the Napoleonic wars, with 
nations nearer to the sunny south. Whether darlc 
or light, however, the hair purchased by the desJer 
is so closely scrutinised, that he can dlscrioinste 
between the German and the French article by the 
smell alone ; nay, he even claims the power, ' when 
his nose is. in,' of distinguishing accurately between 
the English, the Welsh, the Irisl^ and the Scotch 
commodities. The French dealers are said to be able 
to detect the difference between the hair * raised' in 
two districts of Central France, not many miles apart, 
by tokens so slight as would baf&e the most learned 
of our naturalists and physiologists. 

Black hair is imported chiefly from Brittany sod 
the south of France, where it is annually collected by 
the agents of a few wholesale Parisian houses. The 
average crops— we scorn the imputation of a pnn- 
harvested by these firms, amount yearly to upwards of 
two hundred thousand pounds' weight. The price ptid 
for each head of hair ranges from one to fire francs, 
according to its weight and beauty ; the former seldom 
rising above a pound, and seldom falling below twelve 
ounces. The itinerant dealers are always provided 
with an extensive assortment of ribbons, silks, Iscei, 
haberdashery, and cheap jewellery of various kind*, 
with which they make their purchases as frequently 
as with money. They attend all the fairs and merry- 
makings within their circuit, and the singulirity sod 
novelty of their operations are wont to strike tra- 
vellers more than anything else which meets their 
notice. • In various parts of the motley crowd,' say* 
one who had stopped to stare his fill at one of the 
Breton fairs, • there were three or four different pnr- 
chasers of this commodity, who travel the country wr 
the purpose of attending the fairs and buying the 
tresses of the peasant-girls,' who seem, indeed, ^^ 
bring the article to market as regularly as pew ^ 
cabbages. *They have particularly fine hair,' he con- 
tinues, *and frequently in the greatest abundance, 
should have thought that female vanity would hare 
effectually prevented such a traffic as this bew? 
carried to any extent. But there seemed to ^ "" 
difficulty in finding possessors of beautiful heads oi 
hair perfectly willing to sell. We saw several girtf 
sheared, one after the other, like sheep, and as rosnj 
more standing ready for the shears, with their cap» •" 
their hands, and their long hair combed out sno 
hanging down to their waists. Some of tlie open^n 

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wore men, and some women. By the side of the 
denier was placed a large basket, into which eTery 
successive crop of hair, tied up into a wisp by itself, 
was thrown.' ♦ As far as personal beanty is con- 
cerned, the girls do not lose much by losing their 
hnir ; for it is the fashion in Brittany to wear a close 
cap, which entirely prevents any part of the ehevelure 
from being seen, and of course as totally conceals the 
want of it. The hair thus obtained is transmitted to 
the wholesale houses, by whom it is dressed, sorted, 
and sold to the hair-workers in the chief towns, at 
about ten francs per pound. The portion of the crop 
most suitable for perukes is purchased by a particu- 
lar class of persons, by whom it is cleaned, curled, 
prepared to a certain sUge, and sold to the perukeiers 
at a greatly advanced price— it may be forty, or it 
may be eighty francs per pound. Choice heads of 
hair, like choice old pictures, or choice old china, 
have, howcTcr, no limit to the price they may occa- 
sionally command. 

Tlie peruke itself is at least as old as the Pharaohs. 
A wig found in the temple of Isis at Thebes, is one of 
the Egyptian trophies of our national Museum. Nor, 
to judge from the bewigged busts and statues of the 
Vatican, would this triumph of the tonsor's art seem 
to have been unknown to the luxurious Romans of 
the Empire. But before tracing its after-history, we 
may turn aside a little to glance at the coiffures of 
generations somewhat less sophisticated than those 
which anticipated the greatest glory of the reign of 
the Grand Monarque. 

The Assyrians, as might have been expected from 
the eloquent denunciations of the Hebrew prophets, 
were dandles of the first-water. A single glance at 
the engravings in Mr Layard's Tolumes will shew 
how exquisite were the bossings, the plai tings, and 
the curlin^crs which they lavished on their hair and 
beards, and how unmistakably they 'exceeded in 
dyed attire upon their heads.' The Greek's innate 
love of beauty saved him from such ostentatious 
devices. The Greek lady allowed her hair to fall 
from the forehead in a graceful sweep round that 
part of the cheek where it melts into the neck, 
gathering it up behind into a bow-like ornament 
called the xi^vfiCdg. A somewhat similar fashion 
prevailed amongst the men ; but their gods the}' 
distlnguinhed by characteristic variations of the coif- 
fure. *Tlms the hair of the Phidian Jove in the 
Vatican, which rises in spouts as it were from the 
forehead, and then falls in wavy curls, is like the 
mane of the lion, most majestic and imperial in 
appearance. The crisp curls of Hercules, again, 
remind us of the short locks between the horns of 
llie indomitable bull ; whilst the hair of Neptune falls 
down wet and dank like his own sea-weed. The 
bc.iutiful flowing locks of Apollo, full and free, 
represent perpetual youth; and the gentle, vagrant, 
bewitching tresses of Venus, denote most clearly her 
peculiar characteristics and claims as a divinity of 
Olympus.' t 

The hair of the Roman men was worn short and 
crisp nntil the decadence of the Empire, when Com- 
moilus set the fashion of wearing it long, and 
powdering it with gold or mica dust. In the pro- 
vinces, it was worn long by all but slaves at least 
as early as the time of Csesar. The head-dress of the 
Ilonian women was only exceeded in elaborate 
absurdity by that of the queen, Marie Antoinette, 
who invented a coiffure in which were represented 
'hills and enamelled meadows' — we translate the 
description for the edification of our lady-readers — 
* si I very rills and foaming torrents, the well- trimmed 
garden and the English park I ' Long hair continued 

* A Summer in Brittany, By Francis Trollops. 
t Qrtorterly Bnkw, ul supriL 

to be the fashion throughout the middle ages, in spite 
of the denunciations of the clergy. Serlo^ a Norman 
prelate of the reign of Henry II., seems, however, to 
have been wiser in his generation than the rest of his 
brethren. He could act as well as talk. Having on 
one occasion brought the king and his court to a due 
sense of the iniquity of wearing long locks, the crafty 
churchman secured his victory on the spot by pulling 
a pair of shears out of his sleeve, and clearing the 
royal head in a twinkling. Still, the 'abomination' 
continued so much the mode, that, in the reign of 
Richard II., the hair of both sexes was confined over 
the brow by a fillet. Accident at length effected 
what threats of excommunication had failed to bring 
about A wound in the head received at a tournament 
compelled Francis I. to have his hair cropped. The 
king's example was followed by his courtiers, and 
soon extended itself to England. Close cropping 
became the rage; and, rb Holbein's portraits shew, 
was adopted by women as well as men. 

But as the hair was shortened, the beard was 
suffered to grow long. The end of the sixteenth and 
beginning of the seventeenth centuries, indeed, com- 
prise par erceilence the period of magnificent beards. 
Henry's own was so large and profuse that it has 
been celebrated in song;^ and who does not remember 
* the great round beard like a glover's paring-knife,' 
and the debate on the attire of Bottom ? 

Tlie hair, as we all know, played an important 
symbolic part in the Civil Wars. The cavaliers of 
the reign of Charles I. reintroduced love-locks ; whilst 
the Puritans, to mark their sense of the Moathsomenesse 
of long hair,' polled even closer than before. But as 
the hair lengthened, the beard in its turn was shortened. 
Peaked beards and moustaches became common, and 
continued popular with all save the straitest sectaries 
till tlie Restoration gave a blow to the cause, from 
which it never recovered. 

This was the era of the reinvention of the peruke. 
Louis XIII. had ascended the throne of his ancestors 
without a beard, but with hair which had never been 
polled from his childhood. Every one concluded 
immediately that the courtiers, seeing their young 
king's long locks, would look upon their own as. too 
short; and the conjecture proved correct. Nature 
could be imitated if it could not be forced, and the 
manipulations of the barber became a science. For 
a time the people refused to follow the dangerous 
example; but the peruke-fever at length became so 
universal that, in 1663, we find it raging in full fury 
in England. An entry in Pepys's Diary marks the 
date when the epidemic had spread to the middle 
classes of society: 'November 8 [16C3]. Home, and 
by and by comes Chapman the periwigg-maker, and 
upon my liking it (the wig), without more ado I went 
up, and then he cut off my haire, which went a little 
to my heart at present to part with it ; but it being 
over and my periwigg on, I paid him L.3, and away 
went he with my own haire to make up another of; 
and I by and by went abroad after I had caused all 
my maids to look upon it, and then concluded it do 
become me, though Jane was mightily troubled for 
my parting with my own haire, and so was Besse.' 

Perukes grew so large during the reign of Louis. 
XIV., and so numerous in size and form, that ' the 
face appeared only as a small pimple in the midst of 
a vast sea of hair,' and a technical vocabulary was 
framed to guide the uninitiated in their choicer The 
most erudite of modem coiffeurs m\%\\t well be puzzled 
by such items as these : 'Perukes great and little ; in 
folio, in quarto, in thirty-twos ; round, square, and 
pointed perukes; pudding perukes; butterfly per- 
ukes; perukes a deux et troia marteaux* &c. Even 

• See Fuirholt*!! Satirical Songs and Poem» on Coiiume^ edited 
for the Percy Society. 

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children were not exempted from the infliction of 
wearing these nuknifoU) monstrcisitiet. 

If tiie iRdies wereloatli to follow the men*e example, 
and exchange tiieir natnral ibr artificial tretaet, they 
at all events suueeeded, hy metns of frizzing and 
piles of laue and riUbona, in building np a coiffure of 
such prodtgiona altitude as to intercept the view of 
spectators at tlie opera, and compel the manager to 
refase adraittanoe to all who wore soch immoderate 
head-gear. So intricate, too, were its details, that 
ladies of quality were often under tlie hands of the 
artteie the entire day ; and, when engaged to attend 
rid<Atos on succeeding evenings, were forced to sleep 
in arm-chfiirs for fear of endangering its finish I 

Pigtails SBCceeded perukes in the early part of tlie 
reign of George III., but fell, in the UMt decade of the 
century, before the Gallo-mania and Pitt's tax on 
hair-powder. They eontkmed, however, to be the 
bnirbear of the soldier till 1808, when an order for 
their extermination was issu«fd. The very next day, 
indeed, it was oountermanfled ; but, to tlie great joy 
of the rank and file, it was then too late. The anthtv 
of the Cottume of the British Soldier relates that, on one 
occasion aft Gibraltar, while this absurd fasliion was at 
its height, a field-day was ordered, and there not 
being sufficient barbers in the garrison to attend all 
tlie ^cers in the morning, the juniors were compelled 
to have their heads dressed overniglit, and, so poma- 
tumed, powdered, curled, and clubbed, to sleep as 
well as they could on their faces! 'Such was the 
rigidity with which certain wwdet were enfon^ed in 
tl^ army abont this period, that there was kept in the 
adjutant's offios of each regiment a pattern of the 
correct curls, to which the barber conld refer.' 

The white peruke of the early Georgian em lias 
now «!ompletely vairished even from the right reverend 
bench, and is only to be seen in our courts of law. 
Hair-powder has been banished to the servants-ball ; 
tlie alpine elevation of the ladies' h<!ad- dress has 
dwindled into 'bands;' and the thick and flowing 
locks of Lawrence's early portraits have shrunk, in 
'the man, to a coiffure, whose simplicity, if not exai^ly 
after the model of 'the curled Antony,' stands at least 
in advantageous contrast to the hideous devioes even 
of sixty years since. 


Wn parted, dear reader, at the campagna of the 
Marchese, wliere I left yea comfortably enjoying your 
siesta;* and now suddenly you are transported to 
CagUflJri, the capital of the Capo di Sotto, or southern 
portion of the island of Sanlinia, and the seat t^ 
government. Ton were no doubt fatigued, after your 
jolting and jogging over rough roads, and rougher 
mountain-paths; so yon were in no mood to find 
fault with tlie accommodation at the one hotel of 
Cagliari, which even you might iiave been tempted 
to do, had you come straight from one of tlie palace 
hotels of superb Genoa. Neitlier did the partie quarrSe 
of fleas excite your sensibilities so mucJi as they 
would have done heretofore; you have become used 
to tliem, or they to you, which is about the same 
tiling; for it is a well-known fact connected with 
their idiosyncraay, tliat they are capable of sudden 
attachments to strangers, which, like many other 
sodden afttadiments, weaken materially on better 
acquaintance. Then, as for the gnata, why, positively 
their humming and buzxing has bet-ome your lullaby! 
Neither have you any serious fault to find with the 
caatms,* verily, the roasteti wild boar and tlie ragout of 
quails with which you were regaled last night, were 
delicious, despite tlie little ail mixtures I gently 
alluded to. But this morning — I sincerely regret to 

• Journal, No. S34. 

sa/ it— you were not quite so well pleased. Tltlnk- 
ing to have a treat, and without asking or reflecting 
yon most incautiously, nay, most unwisely, onlmd 
a simple hreakfitst of eayfi au hit and bread and 
butter. Oh, inadvertent traveller, this land of tbe Hg 
and the vine does not overflow with milk, altUfioi'fa, 
indeed, it abounds in honey. Tlius your treat ended 
in a grimace at sight of tlie thick sheep^s milk with 
whicli you spoiled your coffee; and the larri-like 
sheep's-milk abomination with whicrh yon woiild not 
spoil your bread. The dairy business is carried oo, 
on somewhat peculiar principles hefe. But yon uk 
imploringly, is there no cow's milk? Is there do 
Christian-like cow's-milk butter to be had? Wlien 
are the cows ? Wliere, indeed f 

Cows are myths in Sardinia, and so sre csTtn, 
though oxen are to be seen every hour. SoWe thii 
how you will, I never could. But %vhile yos tie 
having some addition made to your meagre breik- 
fast, let me tell you something about tlie plsoe. b 
the first place, Cagliari is almost of sufflcieot aoti- 
quity to satisfy Jonathan Oldbuck himself, as it vii 
founded by a colony from ancient Greece. It ii|M 
you may perceive, built on acooicuil hUl, oommnadin; 
a moat lovely and spnciotis bay. Tlie part of tlie tovB 
on tlie summit of the hill—where you now srMi 
called the Castello, and is at once the most sncifiit 
and the most aristocratic portion of it. Dnrinir ibe 
middle ages, the Castello comprised the whole citf; 
but subsequently, the part called the Marina, stretdi- 
ing downward to the sea; and the suburbs, Sunipft<«i 
on the western, and Villanuova on the eastern tid^ 
have been successively subjoined. Those three l«ryB 
square towers, wliich are so conspicuously litottcd, 
are conaidered to be fine specimens of Pissn art, and 
form enduring monuments of the Pisan occupation of 
the island. But do you hear that clank, clank ? Ah, 
*tis the poor galley-slave sweeping away yesterdaj'i 
accumulations, positively heaped up at each door- 
way. The narrow ill-{>aved streets become, io ^«7 
truth, a general receptacle. Witness the \oAf*-muA 
at the opposite balcony coolly shaking tlie lineiii aod 
generously adding her quota to tlie commonweslth of 

Nice custom, certainly; but you are early thn 
morning; it is like having a peep behind 8cenei,ana 
by and by you will get used to all and eferytitiiiR- 
Especially, tlie English reader admires by and ^ 
the plan of swinging cortis from balcony to bnicon; 
right across the street, for the purpose of ainng 
motley woollen garments, or drying linen ones. Hov- 
ever, it is ^/esla to-day, so tliey will soon be w»w- 
drawn. Sardiniii, you must know, boasu more aaiats 
and more festaa than any otlier country. So now tM 
flags are flying from the forts and sliipping, cannoat 
are firing, and bells are ringing, Italians aaj tlie 
English know how to make bells, but don't know bov 
to ring tliem. This is a matter of taste; yos ">*/ 
admire your own way best. At anyrate, it is a taerrj 
jumble of sounds ; and the streets are bntf ing ^" 
soldiers and people, looking so blitlie that their gai^f 
is positively infectious : even you foiget yoa^ ^ 
English stiflhess, and are betrayed into a whiiue or 
the fag-end ofsome dear old English carol. I^."?^ 
at tlie pretty paanetiira; how exquisitely trim v >^ 
gay but modest toilet, liow glossy tlie braids of "^ 
raven hair— par parentheae, they don't know how i 
dress hair in England. And there comes forUi n^ 
yonder portal a stately dame, a veritable ^^^^ 
doQa, lier delicate rosary twisted round her nio" 
delicate and well-gloved fingers, whicli likewuecwj 
tain her miasal and fan ; and such a ftft * ^r;. 
Qoliah of the fan-tribe! Her dress is elegant; va^ 
much it surprises you that it should be an ©""'T,.- 
tlie veiy same Parisian fashion-book we ^J^V^J^ 
study in our colder nortli; it is so exqaisitely •»»? 

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Id its elefrance. Shall we follow her to cbureU ? She 
is goinK with a stream of others to the cathedraL The 
catiiedral is a fine baildia^u mtieli like other cathe- 
drals, aiid the music is endianiing; bat tlie soldiery; 
the varioesly handsome auiforms of the Piedmeotese 
offii*ers; the elegaatly dressed ladies, intermiofcled 
with the rich wild rustic oistumes of tlie diiferent 
villafres and the diffeient crafts; the black yvlvet 
mantle of tlie regent, cootrasting with the costumes of 
tlie YHriotts government otDcials; the foreign consuls; 
the RKMiks, priests^ and acoljrtep, form a totU emembU 
only to be seen here, and wortii travelling hither to 
see. It Is impossible to appear even decently devo- 
tional, one is so much attracted by the de^ devotion 
of everybody else. 

Ah I now I see tlie use of mamsMKh fans, besides 
making a current of air stifllcient almost to turn a 
mill. I joat now detected from behind one of tliem 
the furtive glance of a roost glorious pair of rauinighc- 
looking eyes ; the shot was directed towards a very 
liandsome young cavalry-oflicer, who evidently wm on 
the look-out for it, while the duenna-like personage on 
the otiier side ef the faa was calmly and anoonsciuosly 
telling her rosary. 

But the high-mass is over; the stream moves tiff, 
and you and I go with it. It is far t«io hot to go 
furtlier now ; we wend our way back ; tlie stones, so 
pointed and uneven, are burning and torturing our 
feet. We are gUd to get back to our hotel. 

And now the streets are vacant, and so quiet, tliat, 
but for an occasional little burst of dog-diakigue, one 
might dream of being at Herculaneum. The fact is, 
Cagli«ri dines at tlus hour, and, after dinner, Cagliari 
always sleeps ; doors are shut and bolted ; you may 
as welt rob a Cagliiritano of his purse, as invnde the 
sacredness of this his darling dinnor-bottr. I think I 
delicately hinted to you before tliat my belove*! Sards 
had just a little dash of the gourmand ; sad now, whiie 
you are tossing oo that very hard couch— sofas are all 
hard here — and getting up a very sharp appetite, spite 
of tlie heat, for a very good dinner~I will jjist tell 
you somethinir about tlie Cagliari dogs — not tlie 
Cagliari puppies — these are too tsiIous in their 

The dogs in Cagliari are stationed at the doors of 
their respective masters. These tliey sit, basking in 
the sun, and in general lead a very easy, gentlemnnly 
dog-life. They never think of going into aootlier 
street, or intruding on another dog's territories, 
«zc«pting it may he for sociability's sake. Their 
numbers are restricted, and these have collars round 
their necks. They are aristocratie dogs ; they know 
it, and feel it, and sliew it, teov for there is a conse- 
quential wag of tlie tail, and an erect carriage of tlie 
liead, which plainly bespeaks it. Besides tliew town- 
bred« gentlemanly dogs, there ate lower-bred fellows 
living in adjacent villages. These enter tlie town 
regularly every morning in a troop, go to the market, 
make a round of the streets, and dev«iur all the refuse 
of the town : tliey are canine scnven^rs, and thereby 
render a roost iroportant service; after which tliey 
retire as they came, en 6ioivm— never associating in 
any way with tlie dog aristocracy, who, liowever, 
condescend to permit them to proved on their oBia- 
sion anmtilested. 

The aun is lower in the horizon now, and Cagliari m 
waking np and stretching and gaping. Hark ! there is 
music Let us go to the Terrapieno, and see tlie Aeoa- 
moncfe ; halt first at the gate of tlie city, just to sdmire 
that wild, dark, barelegged, stilettoed, extraordinary 
figure sitting cross-legaed besitle a very mountain ci 
gorgeous melons. How earnestly is lie gesticulating 
with an equally picturesque and equally earnest cno- 
tomer. How their eyes flash ! — how veliement they are I 
There, lie has paid a trifle rooce, and got the melon: 
nor dues he lose any time in prying into its juky 

contents. The very sight is ai^tisin^; so periups 
you incline to take an ice at yonder iraf4 — yea will 
get delicioos watf r-iees. Alh>w me, before you enter, 
to introdace you to the dark- eyed, fine-luc^iag nan 
in the very handsome uniform lounging before the 
door. His name is De Caadia ; his fatlier ia a eertain 
General De Candia, though possibly his brother may 
be better known to yon by the adopted name of 
* Mario.' I hope you have no very striking peculiarity 
of person, dress, or msnner ; if so, be sure it will be 
placarded to-morrow in the cafe. He has the knack c^ 
ilWstraling these things witli— it may be in some cases 
unpleasant—accuracy and piquancy; ami, in slmrt, 
though I never heard of his being ill-natured, his 
talents lie quite as much in guiding his pencil, as those 
of his brotlier in guiding his organ of sweet sound. 
Tlie corpulent gentleman to whom he is speaking is a 
judge. There is a goodly supply of judgi>s here, and, 
some say, a smidl supply of justice. Be that as it 
may, we pass oo, and go inside. Tlie thin taper 
dandy ^-one of the puppies of the plai*e^ by the way — 
with large moustaches, ambmsial locks, supremely 
white hands, and ring-laden flngers, is tlie Duca di 

C , just come from terra- jirma. Sards call tlie 

mainland terra firnia invariably. Turin is the place 
fnim whence he Iihs lately returned, and he is telling 
the latest conrt-news to a small aM<irtment of other 
notables, chiefly government officials and young 
Piedmontese officers, who form a very interesting 
group, for thsy are fliie-looking, gentlemanly young 
men, quiet and refined in their manners; and their 
uniforms are peculiarly tasteful and becoming. 

After enjoying the scene am! the icf*s, you inquire 
how mnch you have to pay. You receive a low bow, 

with tlie inffyrniation tliat tlie Banm has had tlie 

distinguished honour of entertaining you. Tlie baron, 
meanwhile, lias departed ; you Itave no opportunity of 
thanking him for Ills civility, for you do not know him 
from Adam. Yon are perlwps a little confused by 
so much politeness; but it is the way of the place. 
Beaiember, you are in liospilable Sardinia. Yon 
receive more bows, and withdraw. You are a troe^ 
warm-hearted Englislimau ; j'ou return tlieir polite- 
ness with bland courtesy. Will yon not Uoah to 
hear that some from our dear country— and some of 
noble birth too — have sadly failed in this respect, 
-from a ridienlous notion of tlieur own superiority; 
and must I add, that this rudeness was set down 
merely to want of culture and knowledge of the 

Bat here we are on the beautiful pnWie walk ealled 
Terrapiemi. The maaie is a magntfioeat military 
band performing a selection from various operas. It 
is very deiiglitfal, for a breeie is conaag from the se% 
gently fanning the heated eheek. 

What a gloriotts view is liere! the beautiful bay, 
with its two grand promontories, Pula and Carbonara; 
the floe harbour, tlie magniflcent mountaia-ridge in 
the blue horiaon, and then titat rieli teeming Campi- 
dano lying between : all Imturiant in vineyards, 
olive groimds, orange-groves, and gardens— with its 
wondrous csctus liedges, whidi look so grand, and 
give such an eaatem took to the whole 1 Then yonder 
salt-lake, all alive with tlie feathered tribes, ia daring 
winter the mort alao of whole flocks of brilliant 
flammgoes. It ia a lovely seene; but we will pass 
through the pretty garden, at tlie end of the walk, 
called 'The English Garden,' very complimealary to 
our Enirlish taste for flowers 1 

We hsve rounded tite cone-like hill, and now 
anotlier scene awaits ns; how wild and soniethinir 
desolate wHhal is the panorama liere! Thoas grand 
giant rocka, what do tliey mean? There can be no 
Bruid remains here. Then tliose wondrous ezeavsp 
tions in the sides of the hill ; ay, they have poszled 
mora brains tbsn ouis; Them th 

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of tlie Roman amphitheatre, in sttcli excellent 
preseryation too, and tlie deep yawning caves, 
underneath. All is very beautiful and wonderful; 
but we mast leave it to go to commonplace-life again. 
It is dusk, tlie evening-drum is beating, candles 
lighting, the binidizione pealing. It is twenty-foar 
o'clock. You wonder — ^not at all; the sun has set; 
he will not set again for twenty-four hours. 

Lovers are dragging canes heavily along the pave- 
ment, to attract the quick ears and light footsteps of 
their hdlas to the balconies. Serenades, some any- 
thing bat melodious, are progressing ; so perhaps, as 
the theatre is closed now until the return of the 
autumn season, you will proceed, either to the con- 
sulate, to spend n quiet evening witlt the best and 
kindest of England's representatii'es ; or otherwise, if 
you incline, to a little foreign society, in the house 

of the Contessa C , or the Marchesa D ^ or 

Madame G (the ladies, you know, receive)^ or 

half-a-dozen other places, where you may spend a 
pleasant evening, have lemonade and biscuits, perhaps 
brilliant conversation, and, in any case, a kind recep- 
tion ; only take care that your toilet is soignee^ and 
that you retire early. 

Many years have passed away since it was the custom 
in the south of Ireland to live in barracks. Not in 
the military quarters, usually so named, but among 
a set of merry boys and girls, and good-humoured 
men and women, in some wide, rambling, hospitable 
country-house. The rebels, or Whitcboys, banded 
themselves together to destroy, without exception, 
every Protestant man and grown boy in the country ; 
but they usually, except in rare instances, respected 
the lives of women and children. The gentlemen, gay, 
gallant, well mounted and well armed, formed them- 
selves into yeomanry corps for the defence of their 
lives and properties ; and in order to concentrate their 
forces and protect their families, a large mansion in 
each district was selected, into which as many of the 
neighbours as the rooms would accommodate congre- 
gated. Despite of the burnings, pikings, murders, 
and cruelties of the most atrocious description which 
were going on around, the party inside usually 
contrived to amnse themselves with eating, drinking, 
laughing, dancing, and love-making, in a highly 
satisfactory and thoroughly Irish manner. 

The old house of Carrigbawn, situated some miles 
disUnt from the town of Killyshaughlin, was selected 
for this purpose ; its roaster and mistress being a kind 
and hospitable pair, never so happy as when ever)* 
closet and cranny-hole was crammed full of guests. 
The mansion itself was as curious and comfortable a 
specimen of the in-and-out style of architecture as 
ever was seen. It and the fine old estate that lay 
around it are now gone — ^the one into ruins, tlie other 
into the Encumbered Estates Court But some sixty 
years ago, both were filled with life and merriment. 
Family after family had arrived, and had been hospitably 
welcomed, and comfortably accommodated by Mr and 
Mrs Synge. Every available corner, including a dark 
recess, known as * the-cat's closet,' had been converted 
for the nonce into a sleeping-room. Dinner-time 
arrived, the whole company were assembled in the 
drawing-room, and the lady of the house was mentally 
congratulating herself on the admirable cubicular 
arrangements which enabled her to accommodate 
every one, when a loud ringing was heard at the 
hall-door. Bolts and bars and iron grating were 
cautiously and creakingly withdrawn, and presently 
the servNut announced: *The Reverend AUianasius 

Angels and ministers of grace ! he was the lai:gest» 

the most imcouth, and the worst-dressed man in the 

His presence at dinner made no difference; the 
viands provided would have sufficed for a dozen gaesti 
in addition. But the sleeping-room ! And Athanasius 
smilingly informed his hostess, that he had brought 
his carpet-bag, and meant to partake of her hospitality 
for some days, he having received a threatening ootioe, 
which rendered it expedient for him to quit bis gIeb^ 
house. Of course, under the circumstances, a len 
hospitable person than worthy Mrs Synge would hare 
made him welcome ; but what was to be done? At 
last it occurred to her that she would throw herself 
on the kindness of the gay, good-tempered rector of 
the parish, a Mr Skottowe, who had been inducted 
into one of the best bed-rooms, containing a larg^ 
sized bed. In the course of the evening she took sn 
opportunity of candidly stating her difficulty to this 
gentleman, and appealing to his kindness to bestov a 
share of his couch on the Reverend Athanasius. Mr 
Skottowe, of course, could do nothing but utter oo 
apparently cheerful compliance ; but in his secret wml 
he registered a vow, that wherever, and with whom- 
soever Mr Welbore might sleep that night, it should 
not be with him. 

One little fact illustrating the personal habiti of 
Athanasius may perhaps be regarded as justify- 
ing Mr Skottowe's repugnance to his company. He 
was accustomed to use, and display somewhat 
ostentatiously, certain very large and stiff-looking 
white pocket-handkerchiefs. Some curious obaerrers 
remarked that these articles were invariably marked 
with a series of brown diagonal lines ; and by woe 
skilful cross-questioning, the fact was elicited that 
the soi'disant pocket-handkerchiefs were doomed a 
double debt to pay, each one figuring first for a week 
as a cravat, and then doing duty for a second in the 
parson's pocket 

With this pleasing circumstance and other similar 
peculiarities full in his memory, the astute Mr 
Skottowe took care to be the first to retire to hia 
room, and was snugly ensconced in bed vhen 
Athanasius, who remained up the very last of the 
company, made his appearance. While he was 
leisurely proceeding to disrobe, and talking compla- 
cently of the pleasant evening he had passed, Mr 
Skottowe began to scratch his own wrists and arou 
in a most ostentatiously noisy manner. 

• What 's the matter with you, man ? ' said Wdboie 
at lost, looking at him curiously. 

' Oh, nothing. I 'm nearly well now.' 
«Why, what ailed you?' 

• Not much ; but you know I *m one of the agents 
appointed to travel through the country, and examine 
the poor people who are learning to read Irish ; and 
unfortunately some time ago, from handling their 
books, or coming somehow in contact with them,l 
caught that very unpleasant and infections complain* 
— the Caledonian Cremona— you know.' 

• Speak plain, man 1 ' thundered Athanasius. * I> *' 

•Just so.' replied his friend coolly. *Bat I !»**« 
given up for some time past instructing the ^ 
people who have it, and I hope soon to be q»'*'^ 
well. Indeed, it is only at night that my ^^^' 
annoy me.' . 

Vociferating a specially unclerical exclamation, «nj 
I fear consigning his intended bed-fellow to a localuy 
abounding in the specific remedy for his cutaneo«« 
malady, Athanasius, now arrayed solely i" 'J^ 
nocturnal garment, seized his candle and rusnw 
wildly down stairs. Mr Skottowe, with a qwy 
chuckle, bolted the door, and calmly betook hmi^^ 
to repose. The unlucky fugitive, meantime, •P^*".]! 
the drawing-room, the only apartment ''**'*.,:. 
found open, every one in the house having by t" 

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time retired ; and seizing two sheepskin mats, 
together with the hearth-rugr and tlie table-cover, 
he lay down on the sofa, and having covered liimself 
up very comfortably, soon Ml fast asleep. 

Now, it happened that Mrs Synge was always an 
early riser, and at this particular time, with such an 
additional weight of housekeeping on her hands, it 
especially behoved her to be up betimes, and look 
after the regulation of her household ; so about six 
o'clock the following morning, she entered her draw- 
ing-room, and proceeded to open the shutters. The 
early daylight streamed in, and the first thing that 
caught the lady's orderly eye was the * mingled heap' 
on her best sofa. 

* Bear me,' she thought, ' that careless Kitty ! she 
has gone and heaped the mats and hearth-rug on the 
sofa, instead of taking them out to be shaken.' 

And with one energetic pull, she dragged off the 
offending articles. What was her amazement to behold 
start up tlie awakened Athanasius, who in his wrath, 
utterly oblivious of the very scanty nature of his 
clothing, began to pour out his indignation at the 
manner in which his hostess had treated lilm in send- 
ing him to sleep with such a companion. She, poor 
lady, naturally thought he was stark mad— very 
particularly stark indeed he looked — and she ran off 
as fast as she could to summon her husband to the 
rescue. When Mr Synge reached the scene of action, 
he was very much inclined to think that his wife's 
Bupposition was correct. For there was Athanasius, 
still in a boiling rage, stalking up and down the 
drawing-room, with a nondescript sort of night-cap 
perched on his head, while a crimson and gold table- 
-cover, wrapped round him shawl-fashion, picturesquely 
surmounted his sole calico garment. The master of 
the house discreetly retreated, and sought an explan- 
ation from Mr Skottowe, which that gentleman 
prudently gave him through the key-hole of his 
bolted door. At length, however, a truce was con- 
cluded between the two beligerents, and Athanasius 
admitted to resume his garments. We will leave 
our readers to imagine Uie scene at the breakfast- 
table. Poor Athanasius gulping down cup after 
cup of tea, and half choking himself with enormous 
slices of ham and cold beef, in order to conceal 
his confusion ; while the bland Mr Skottowe, with an 
Air of mock penitence, sadly contradicted by the 
amused expression visible at the corners of his 
mouth, busied himself in eating a new-laid egg. 

The genuine good-nature of the whole party, how- 
£Ter, soon laughed off everything unpleasant ; and in 
the course of the day the inventive genius of old Mrs 
Mahoney, a jewel of an upper servant, found out and 
arranged a separate sleeping-room for the Reverend 

It was a dull drizzling day in autumn, such as is 
▼ery common in the south of Ireland, when there is 
no cold in the air, and yet you have such a feeling of 
thorough and diffused dampness, that you involun- 
tarily hang over the fire, as if to air not only your 
garments, but your hands and face. After breakfast, 
the gentlemen as usual went out in a party to patrol, 
and the ladies amused themselves, as they best might, 
with needle-work and gentle gossiping. 

' How- I wish,' said Mrs Synge, laying down her 
embroidery, and politely trying to suppress a yawn, 
' that Hugh Lawrence were here I He is the very life 
and soul of a party, and so good-natured— there is 
nothing he would not do to oblige a friend.' 

' Yes,' said Mrs Warren, 'and children are so fond 
of him. My little ElUe, who is so shy to every one 
else, actually flies into Hugh Lawrence's arms, and 
will not leave him for nurse or any one else.' 

In addition to the grown people, there were about 
a dozen children collected in Carrigbawn House ; and 
« sort of pro ien^Mr^ tutor and care-taker had been 

elected for them in the person of one of the second- 
class refugees, a tithe-proctor named Dick Harris. 
A sad time he had of it, poor man I Obnoxious as 
his ordinary occupation rendered him to the rebels 
out of doors, his new calling made him by no means 
more acceptable to the juvenile mutineers within. 
They put crackers into his boots, and incited the 
cat to stick her claws in his wig. They placed 
a chair with three broken legs for him to sit upon, 
and managed — accidentally on purpose — to upset an 
ink-bottle over his new trousers. This last outrage 
wss too much for the poor proctor. Apostrophising 
the whole crew as a set of young imps, and declaring 
that the girls were worse than the boys, he fairly 
abandoned them to their own devices, and took 
refuge by the kitchen fire. It was at this juncture, 
when the ladies in their quiet drawing-n)om were 
threatened with an invasion of their collective Willies 
and Lizzies, that Mr Lawrence's presence was 
especially longed for. 

* He paid a morning visit here a few days ago,' said 
Mrs Synge, * and we urged him strongly to leave his 
lonely thatched cottage, where he has no companions 
but his dogs, and come into barracks like every one 
else. "Why, my dear lady," said he, "who would 
hurt me? Thank God, I don't think I have an 
enemy in the country among rich or poor ; and then 
I have my steward, that faithful fellow, Hennessey, 
who would give his life for me, living at the lodge."' 

The conversation then took another turn, and the 
afternoon passed somewhat wearily away ; its mono- 
tony now and then enlivened by the unavailing efforts 
of the matrons to preserve order amongst the juve- 
niles, each lady protesting that her boys and girls 
were the quietest creatures imaginable when at 
home, and that it was only company that excited 
them to rebel. 

The gentlemen returned in good spirits to a late 
dinner, and reported that they had seen or heard 
nothing alarming. About ten o'clock the house was 
disturbed by a loud ringing at the hall-door. It was 
^no light matter to open at that hour, so the visitor 
was challenged by the master of the house. 

'Who's there?' 

* A friend — Hugh Lawrence ; let me in ! ' 

At the sound of that well-known voice, bolts and 
bars were speedily withdrawn, and the whole party 
crowded into the hall to receive the welcome guest, 
who looked pale and agitated. 

* Synge,' he said, * I have a dreadful thing to tell 
you. My house was set on fire this evening, and 
everything in it burned. I don't care for the furni- 
ture, but my poor little dog, Minny, that was licking 
my hand an hour before — she perished I ' And the 
tears stood in his kind, honest eyes. 

It appeared that, while sitting after dinner, he per- 
ceived a strong smell of smoke, and, rushing to the 
window, he saw the dark figures who had put the live 
sod of turf to the thatch, moving in front of the house. 
He had been out shooting that day, and his gun stood 
loaded in a corner of the room. 

* I seized it,' he said, * and fired off both barrels at 
the fellows, but I could not tell in the twilight whether 
I hit any of them or not. I saw one man, whose face 
was blackened, take .deliberate aim at me, and I heard 
an explosion as if his gun had burst in his hand. 
Thsy rushed to the door, forced it in, and in another 
moment would have murdered me, when by God's 
providence a party of soldiers who were passing saw 
the flames, and came galloping up the avenue. The 
fellows, of course, made off, and the soldiers tried in 
vain to catch them. I escaped, just as the roof was 
falling in, and came on here, as I knew you would 
not turn me out.' 

A warm pressure of the hand was Mr Synge's 
reply. ' Where were your servants, Hugh ?' he said. 

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* They were out/ was the reply. * The old eook and 
the houteniMi«l had asked leave to go to a wake in the 
neighbourhood ; and Leary, my man-of-all-work, had 
gone out to the stHble to feed the honea.' 

Mr Synge and the other gentlemen looked grave. 
'Where was Hennessey, your steward?' asked Mr 

* Oh, poor fellow, he has been sick these two days,' 
replied Mr Lnwrence. ' I sent for him this morning, 
and heard that he was confined to hed with a heavy 
cold ; and there I found him with his head tied up, 
wiien I went down to see him and take hira a few 
things thnt I thoiigiit wonid do liim good. If he had 
been with me, lte*d have shed his last drop of blood 
for me: you know he's my foster-hrotlier.' 

Tliere WHS no difficulty that night in finding a bed 
for Hugh Lawrence. Poor Athanasius was the first 
to propose to resign his dormitory, and betake him- 
self once more to the sofa. Mr Skottowe followed 
suit by offering, with a hypocritical twinkle of his 
eye, half hM bed, if Mr Lawrence had no objection to 

' Why, then, yon've a deal of brass, that's all I can 
■ay for you, Skottowe/ said Athanasius, shaking his 
fist at him good-humouredly. ' If you don't <he a 
bishop, it won't be for want of asking.' 

Next morning, at breakfast, the delight of the 
children at meeting tlieir friend was Tociferoos. He 
was not so much inclined to play with them as uinal, 
for tiie loss of his favourite little terrier lay heavy at 
his heart. And tlie bright^ round, young eyes that 
were fixed on him soon filled with tears, when they 
heard of the fate of Miony, who had been as well 
known, and almost as mucli liked, as her master. 

After breakfast) all the gentlemen accompanied 
Hugh Lawrence to his cottage, now a heap of smoking 
ruins. The police were also in attendance, with a 
view to making every possible investigation. Of 
course, there was no chance of eliciting any informa- 
tion from the servants or the peasantry. They had 
seen nothing, known nothing; and the party were on 
the point of going away, when one of tlie police picked 
up on the lawn a gun witli the barrel bnrst, and three 
fingers of a man's hand, which had evidently been 
blown off by the explosion. Here was a clue. The 
party immediately set off, and visited every house for 
miles round, withont finding any man with a disabled 
hand ; but as they were returning from their fruitless 
•eareh, they passed by the cottage of Hennessey, the 

'There's no occasion, my friends,' said Mr Law- 
rence, *for any of you to come in here; but I'll jnst 
step in for a moment to ask how poor Tom ia to-day.' 

* If you liave no objection, Hugli,' said Mr Synge, 
'I'll go in with you.' 

They entered the house, where Hennessey*! wife 
was ready to receive them, and to pour forth most 
voluble expressions of sorrow for 'the poor darling 
master's misfortune.' 

'But how is Tom?' asked Mr Lawrence, moving 
towards the door of the inner room. ' I suppose I can 
see him.' 

'Indeed, your honour had better not,* said the 
woman earnestly. 'He's very bad in his head 
to-day, and I'm afeard of my life 'tis the sickness* 
he's getting; and maybe your honour might catch it 
from him.' 

'Oh, I'm not in the least afraid.' And gently 
putting the woman aside, he went in, followed by Mr 

The room was nearly dark, and they could discern 
only the outline of Hennessey's figure in the bed. 
He seemed scarcely able to answer his master's kind 
inquiries, and spoke in a hoarse, tremulous whisper. 

" Tjphns fbvsr. 

' Well, T<mi, my poor fellow, I ni aend Dr Taylor to 
see yoQ before night. Good-bye.' ji 

' No, sir, thank ye, no doctor ; 1 11 be quite wHl i 
to-morrow !' exclaime<i the sick man, in a clear, | 
strong voice, whose changed tone atruck even the j| 
onsnspeirting Lawrence. '. 

Mr Synge immediately flung the shatters open, and |l 
walked up to the bedside. 

' Shew me your hands,' he said. No answer. 1 1 

He pulled down the bed-clotbea, and Hennessey'i |' 
right hand appeared bound up. The next momest '< 
tlie police were called in, tlie bandage was ^mored, I 
and the tliree fingen exactly corresponding to thoie ' 
picked up on the lawn were found wanting to tbe '| 
ghastly bloody hand. || 

The hardened traitor said nothing; hia kind msstff , 
burst into tears. 

The sequel of this tree tale mny be told in a few 
words. Hennessey was lodged in jail, fully oonvictfil ! 
at the next assizes, and most deservedly expiated lii» ' 
crime on the scjtffold. ' 

Tliere was one gleam of comfort for Hngh Lawrenoe, j 
afrer witnessing Hennessey's arreat ; while getting | 
off his horse at Mr Syntre's gate, he thought he heard i' 
a faint whine, and looking down, he aaw a miserable ' 
little animal, with its hair singed of^ lying exhsuted | 
on the ground. r 

This waa his little favourite terrier, which bad 
somehow crept out of the burning ruins, and, vttb 
the wonderful instinct of her race^ had paiofoil; 
tracked her master's Ibntsteps. 

He took her tenderiy in his srma. ' Miony h '[ 
fbnnd! Minny is safe I* was the cry through the ' 
hoQse. And if Minny had been the daugliter and , 
heiress of a nohle family, more care could not have >i 
been bestowed on her comfort and restoration. | 

The little animal was soon well enough to accompany i 
her master to England, whither some of his kind friendi | ' 
took him on a tour, until tlie terrible scene of Heo- 
nessey'a execution was over. 

Maht and great have dready been the vfetstitsdei 
of the town of Aden. In remote times csHed 
'Eomaimore' or the Prosperous, it continued to pm- 
per as the principal emporium of trsde between 
Earope and the east, till the adventurous Portogneie 
opened out a new and more convenient ocean-roote 
for the merchandise of India and China. The tide 
of trefilc thus diverted from Aden, its prosperitT 
gradually declined. The Turks got possession (H 
it in an underiiand way, just forty years after V««co 
de Gama had ronnded the 'Cape of Storms,' »wl 
they seem to have done a good deal to fortiff 
and improve the town. At the beginning rf "•* 
eighteenth century, however, Aden was governed by 
a native prince. By this time Mocha had >°<^^ 
fnlly rivalled it as the seat of the coffee- trade ;iu» 
when the East India Company took possession of n 
in 1889, it was a poverty-stricken, decayed pl«c^ 
having only a lingering remnant of traflic in gum>< 
with about six hundred squalid Arabs for inhabitant, 
and with no foreign ships to rock securely within iw 
noble harbour. 

However, the tide has now turned hi iti ftj»Jf' 
and British rule and the overland route to In«'* 
combined, bid fair to raise the place to f*r more tWJ 
its ancient importance. It can now boast » hosj 
population of 25,000, gathered out of almoft every 
nation under Heaven ; Uie annual value of its >™P^ i 
and exports is little sliort of a million steHioR, ftfi° 
its port is crowded with shipping. It is a ^*P^^ 
steamers, and a pri ncipal c -oa li ng-station. Here wW 
voysgere gladly disembark before or after ^^^^^ 
what anxious threading of the coral-reeff in the it^ 

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Sea, to * toko tbetr eue in their inn,' iind explore — 
as we are now about to do — t)ie miirveiloaa reservoirs 
with which we rejoioe to be told that the district 
abounds. For m tlitrsty distrtet indeed it is, without 
trees to shade it, witlioat running streams to freshen, 
its l««fty semicirele of -barren limestone and iiiva rocks 
^but for the relief of the sea-breeie — reflecting in- 
tol<*rablj the fierce glere of tlie tropical sun. Tlie one 
seri<»ns dmwbaitk to the permanent importance and 
prosperitj of Aden threatened to be the inadequate 
supply of fresh water: experiment after experiment 
WHS made, new weHs were dog with no other result 
than that of drying up old ones, and vast snms laid 
out, all in virin. 

It would seem, therefore, that the nineteenth century 
must be constant to take a lesson in practical science 
from tlie wisdom i]/f the past ; and tliat having dis- 
covered a magnificent series of ancient reservoirs for 
tlie collecting and storing of rain-water, it can do 
nothing so well as persevere in their restoration, or, 
if need be, undertake the constructimi of others. 

It appears th^t this plan of collecting water m 
reservoirs is of extreme antiquity in Araby tlie Blest. 
Tlie CHBriiest and most gigantic work of the kind 
we know anytliing about is the great dam of Mareb, 
built, some historians aver, about 1750 B.C. — the 
time when Jacob in his love for Rachel was tending 
her father^s flocks, * while in the day the drought 
consumed him and the frost by night.* M. Arnaiid, 
a French traveller, who reached Mareb in 1843, 
describes the rains of this wonderfot dam as situated 
between two hill% which, when joined by the em- 
bankments, formed the reservoir. So vast was the 
space thus enclosed, that even in that desert still- 
ness, no shout, however shrill, could reach from one 
end of it to tlie other; and tlie massive fragments of 
masonry that yet remain bear witness to the former 
solidity of the whole. Probably tliia was the great 
original of other reservoirs in tliis and otlter parts of 
Arabia, as well as of those which the &&racens 
introduced into Spain during tlieir period of trium- 
phant sway. None of these, however, in any way 
equals the magnifioent aeries of reservoirs lately dis- 
covered at Aden, which appear capai>le, if duly 
resUired, of containing not less than 90,000,000 
imperial gallons of water. 

But w1m> built these colossal tanks? we ask, and ask 
in vain. Even the natives shake their heads, and 
liAve no certain tmdition to offer. Ancient, very 
ancient, no doubt, their walls have long survived the 
names of those who reared them ; but the impretsiun 
of Mr Playfair, tlie political resident at Aden, to 
whom vre are indebted for our information respecting 
tliein, is, that they were begun after the second 
Peraian invasion of Yemen, about the year of our 
L(>nl 600. Possibly, many owe their origin to indi- 
vidual piety and patriotism ; possibly, some were 
intended as monuments to perpetuate the fame of 
the ctead, as well as to promote the welfare of the 
living, for under the diimed entrance to one of them 
a titmb has been discovered, and it is said that an 
inscription was removed from the tank which might 
have given some clue to its history. 

According to looil tradition, it was about the year 
1500 of our era that Uiese reservoirs be^an to fall 
into disuse, the governors of Aden having persevered 
in digging wells with sufficient success to meet the 
wants of the already declining city. We read also 
in a Latin tract, written in 1530, of anotlier expedient: 
' The water wns daily brought in on camels, whose 
number sometimes amounted to 1500, 1600, or even 
2000.' If this gaunt and clumsy procession arrived 
in the daytime, the water was circulated through the 
city ; if in the evening, it was deposited ta a large 
dat^rm mar <As wMtar-Aoiiss. This large cistern was 
seen by Mr Salt in 1809. We proceed to give hU 

description : * Among the ruins, some fine remains of 
ancient splendour are to be met with. The most 
remarkable of these remains consist of a line of 
cisterns situated on the north-west side of the town, 
three of which are fully eighty feet square, and pro- 
portionahly deep, all excavated out of the solid rook, 
and lined with a thick coat of fine stucco, which 
externally bears a strong resemblance to marble. A 
broad aqueduct may still be traced which formerly 
conducted the water to these cisterns, from a deep 
ravine in the mountain above. Higher up is another, 
still entire, which, at the time we visited it (November), 
was partly filled with water. In front of it extends 
a handsome terrace, formerly covered with stucco; and 
behind it rise some immense masses of granite, which, 
being in some places perpendicular, and in others 
overhanging the reservoirs, formed, during the hot 
weather, a most delightful retreat. Some Arab 
children, who followed us, were highly pleased when 
we arrived at the spot, and plunging headlong into 
the water, much amused us by their sportive tricks.' 

Abont thirty years later, Captain Haines, visiting 
Aden, found several of these reservoirs still in tolerable 
preservation. Besides the hanging tanks, as those 
built high up on the rugged mountain-sides are 
called, there were otlier large ones still to be traced 
around the town. We are sorry to be obliged to 
record the fact tliat, since the occupation of Aden by 
the Enirlish, the tanks have been not only neglected, 
but injured. The hanging tanks, fortunately, were 
pretty much out of reach; but the stcmes of those 
that lay ready to hand, were ruthlessly carried away 
for building purposes — the hollows filled up with the 
d^ris washed down from the mountains, and the 
whole believed to be ruined beyond the possibility of 

Meanwhile, more than half the population of Aden 
was drinking water brackish beyond what Is usually 
considered endurable; and many thousand tuns of 
rain-water were annually lost from want of means to 
retain it. And now, let us gladly learn how efficient 
an apparatus for so doing had been all tlie while 
buried out of sight, to be restored by the energy <^ 
the political resident 

Four years ago, government sanctioned the repair 
of the three tanks known to be in tolerable pre- 
servation; the superintendence of the work being 
intrusted to Mr Playfair, who, at first, was obliged to 
content himself with convict-labour, and such assist- 
ance from free labour as the small surplus of the 
town-funds, and the sale of the rain-water collected 
in the cisterns, enabled him to obtain. At that time, 
he had no idea that the tank-system was so widely 
extended, and he expected to carry out the under- 
taking on the inexpensive plan above mentioned. 

But day by day, new discoveries were made; and 
government came forward liberally to insure the 
successful completion of an enterprise, which we shall 
he better able to understand when we have read Mr 
Playfntr's description of the environs of Aden : 

* The range of hills which forms the boundary of 
the crater of Aden is nearly circular ; on the outer 
side, the hills are very precipitous, and the rain-water 
rushing rapidly down them by means of long narrow 
ravines separate from each other. On the inner side, 
the hills are qnite as abrupt; but their descent is 
broken about half-way down by a large table-land, 
intersected by numerous deep ravines, nearly all con- 
verging from tlie principal range of hills into the 
Tawela Valley, which thus receives about a quarter of 
the drainage of the peninsula. Tliis valley is 700 feet 
in length from the point where it leaves the table-land 
to its actual junction with the level plain of the 
crater. The hills throughout are perpendicular ; and 
at the head of the gor^e they meet, leaving barely 
room for one man to pass through them I The valley 

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then ^adually opens out to a breadth of a hundred 
and fifty feet, and the hills circling to the right and 
left form part of the walls of the crater of Aden.' 

Tlie steepness of the ravines, the exceeding hardness 
of the rocks, and their scarcity of soil, all combine to 
prevent any considerable amount of absorption. Thus 
even a moderate fall of rain will send a raging torrent 
down the Tawela Valley, which, ere it reach the sea, 
not unfrequently swells to an unfordable river. Much 
damage has thus been frequently done. Beed- houses, 
animals, nay, human beings, have been swept along 
into the sea; and during a December fall of rain in 
1842, such was the fearful rush of water through the 
gorge, that two hundred animals were carried away ; 
and when the morning broke on the scene of devasta- 
tion, nine men were missing, and only three of their 
bodies were ever found. 

Thus, then, we see there is not only a great good to 
be gained, but a great evil to be aToided. The water- 
sprites have to be subdued into a blessing, or sub- 
mitted to as a scourge. The wisdom of earlier ages 
bad taken the first course— their gigantic reservoirs 
chiefly occurring in and near this main water- course. 
These have been described by most travellers as 
excavated out of the solid rock ; but Mr Playfair's 
account differs from theirs in this particular: he 
describes those at the foot of the hills as generally 
built at same re-entering angle of the rock which 
promises a copious flow of water ; there the soil has 
been carefully cleared away, and a salient angle or 
curve of masonry built across it, while every feature 
of the adjacent rocks has been taken advantage of, 
and connected by small aqueducts, to insure no water 
being lost. 

The overflow of one tank is conducted into another, 
and thus a complete chain once existed into the very 
centre of the town. Their construction is extremely 
fantastic, the only principle which seems to have 
been adhered to being an avoidance of straight lines ; 
and the correctness of this principle has been proved 
in the recent excavations, as in almost every instance 
where straight lines existed, they were forced in by 
the rush of water. The tanks are generally of stone 
and mud-masonry, roughly plastered on the outside, 
and beautifully coated with plaster within ; flights of 
steps, gradients, platforms, are heaped together, and 
give an exceedingly grotesque appearance to the 
whole. Each large tank has a smaller one in front of 
it, built for the purpose of retaining all the earth and 
stones carried down by the torrent, and permitting 
a pure stream of water to flow into the reservoir 
beyond. And now for what has been already done : 
* Thirteen reservoirs, having an aggregate capacity of 
8,500,000 gallons, have been cleared out and restored ; 
thirty -six more discovered, but not as yet excavated. 
Up to September last, the expense incurred amounted 
to 1100 rupees; and in the same month, a moderate 
fall of rain, lasting only three hours, sufficed to 
fill the restored tanks to the brim. The water thus 
collected realised, up to the following February, 2200 
rupees, or double the expenditure incurred— water 
having a ready sale in Aden at one rupee per hundred 
gallons; nor is this all, for over and above the 
quantity disposed of, there remained a surplus of 
about 600,000 gallons.* A pleasant sight this filling 
of the restored reservoirs must have been to all, 
especially to those whose energy had been instru- 
mental in the work— a pleasant sight to see the 
mountain-torrent, no longer wandering at its own 
wild will, but led from tank to tank, gurgling over 
the lip of the highest, running along the skilfully 
constructed aqueducts, getting filtered in the smallest 
reservoirs, and gradually filling those lowest down in 
the valley. Thousands of all classes and ages flocked 
to the refreshing sight— how refreshing we, in our 
cloudy and temperate climate, can little know; and 

the noise of tlie rushing water was fairly drowned by 
tlie acclamations of the crowd. 

It is calculated that even in the most unfaTonrable 
season not less than 6,000,000 gallons will be col- 
lected ; and thus a minimum annual value of 60,0(1) 
rupees (L.6000) produced, while the restoration of iD 
the tanks would insure an annual supply of froo 
twenty to thirty million gallons. We therefore tnA 
that the Indian government will not stop short d 
this great result. Rendered independent of iL 
external sources for its water-supply, it is difficult to 
place any bounds to the possible importance sad 
prosperity of Aden. Should the projected sea-caml 
from Suez to Felusium be ever carried out— and th 
equilibrium of the Mediterranean and the Bed So 
being now established, affords a strong hope that h 
will — a direct passage to the east would be affocdsi 
to ships of the largest size. The great Indian tnk 
would probably take this route, and the importuoe 
of Aden as a coal-depot and mercantile station bonf 
proportionably increased, it would no longer look 
back to the past for its palmy days, when conqueriag , 
Rome bestowed on it the title of Romanum Emporion, 
but forward to the future, with commerce ftod 
civilisation ever increasing, and under Britbh swij. 



(IM MBMoaiAic: Notsxbse 1897.) 

*Th(m wilt call, and I shall answer Thee: Thou wtit bsrc 
reapeet to the work of Thino own haada.' 

With steady march, along the daisy meadov 
And by the churchyard wall we go ; 

But leave behind, under the linden shadow 
One, who no more will rise and go : 

Farewell, our brother, left sleeping in dnst. 

Till thou shalt wake again— wake with t^ie jnsL 

Adown the street, where neighbour laughs to neh^ 

Adown the busy street we throng; 
In noisy mirth to live, to love, to labour — 

But he will be remembered long. 
Sleep well, our brother I though sleeping in dost : 
Shalt thou not rise again— rise with the jost? 

Farewell, farewell, true heart, warm hand, left Ijio^ 
Beneath the Imden branches calm ; 

'Tis his to live, and ours to wait for dying— 
To win, while he has won, the palm. 

Farewell, our brother t *But one day, we trost, 

Call—he shall answer Thee — God of the just ! 


A gold medal of the value of 1200 francs has been 
offered by the Imperial Academy of Sciences, Lettos. 
and Arts, of Lyon, for the best essay on the means m 
improving the moral and economical position of iromen: 
shewing first, how the remuneration of women maybe 
raised to an equality with that of men, where there is sa 
equality in usefulness and work; and second, poinlios 
out new careers for the sex, and distinguishing new khiiU 
of work to replace those of which they are and may b« 
successively deprived by the competition of men, and iIm 
changes of customs and manners. Competitors arc to 
send their works fi-ce to the secr^taire-gtfn^ral of the 
Academy, each manuscript to be distinguished onlr by 
a motto, and the same motto to be repeated in a sealed 
note containing tlie name and address of the author. 

Printed and Pnblished by W. & R. CRASiBna, 47 Paternoster 
Row, LomwN, and SS9 Hlfrh Street, Edinbueoh. Also aoid I? 
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Si titntt nni ^rtf. 


No. 243. 


Price 1^. 

Althouob, in tlie eyes of the world, I may seem 
to be middle-aged, and of limited income ; to have a 
tendency to baldness, and to possess a profosion of 
small children; to be in a state unprosperoos and 
unpromising in a very high degree — I am still, in tlie 
opinion of the faculty, a rising young man with rery 
excellent prospects. In the medical profession, no 
man is old until he is superannuated, and Hope — by 
means, as it would appear, of some curious chemical 
preparation — is made to flourish as an evergreen, 
whether it ever bear fruit or not. Let the weather be 
ever so favourably unhealtliy, let tlie street-accidents 
be ever so interestingly serious, no case ever comes 
to my door — that is to say, no case witli anything in 
it. There are, of course, however, candidates for my 
gratuitous attentions, enough and to spare. And 
here are three of my best patients, selected out of a 
ten years* diary. 

Case I, — A. B. Female. Age 49. Profession, 
sick-nurse. Habit, plethoric. A. B. came upon my 
hands not at all before it was necessary. She had 
been seriously ill — the effect of venrs of indulgence 
in spirituous liquors—for weeks, and during that 
time she had been taking hairs of the dog that had 
bitten her, by way of cure. Wlien I told her, as I 
felt it my duty to tell her, of her immediate danger, 
and of the almost certain result of her complaint, 
ahe was exceedingly affected and alarmed. Used as 
she had been to contemplate death in all its phases 
when it occurred to other persons, slie was terrified 
to the last degree at its approaching herself. She 
shuddered to think of that cold shadow creeping over 
her, which she had often watched, unfeelingly enough, 
and even with impatience, darken the features of bar 
fellow-beings, when its delay chanced to interrupt 
some trifling scheme of business or pleasure of her 
own. Her countenance, with the exception of her 
nose, whose colour circumstances had long rendered 
quite independent of the action of lier feelings, 
blanched at the few serions sentences which I 
addressed to her, as though they had been veritable 
thrusts from the javelin of the grisly King. Her 
respectable, I might almost write her colossal legs, 
trembled beneath her while she listened. It was 
evident that A. B. had some very particular reasons 
of her own for living a little longer. This feeling, as 
far as my experience goes, is not peculiar to A. B., 
but the intensity of it was. Horror at the thought 
of dissolution is seldom exiiibited, if even folt by this 
class of persons ; abject fear such as hers could, I 
knew, be scarcely the consequence of other tlian 

deep-dyed guilt. I was not much surprised when I 
was sent for to her lodgings for the second time upon 
that same night. She had been revolving in her 
mind what I had said to her, and it had disturbed her 
greatly. She felt more unhopeful than in the morn- 
ing, and thought herself shaking. *T{ie worst,' as the 
nurse in attendance upon her rather unpleasantly 
remarked, upon my entrance, * liad come to the worst,' 
and I was required, she hinted, less as a doctor than 
as a father-confessor. 

'Send that woman away,' said the patient in 
a hoarse whisper, and pointing to the attendant ; 'all 
nnsses is bad uns. I was a nuss myself.' 

I motioned the obnoxious witness out of the room. 

*I'm dying, doctor; I feel it. You're sure I am 
dying, ain't you?' interrupted she, changing her 
solemn tones for very shrill ones, and sufiering her 
mask of forced repentance to drop momentarily 
aside, and disclose an expression of suspicious cunning 
— * you *re quite sure ? ' 

* We are sure of notliing,' said I gravely : 'you are 
very seriously ill,' 

* I know,' exclaimed she bitterly, relapsing into her 
melancholy phase again ; * that is what all you doctors 
say ; but it means death. O, sir, I have been a very, 
very wicked woman indeed. I have something— I have 
three things on my mmd, which it will do me good, 
I think, to get disburdened of: they will kill me else, 
I feel, of their own selves. And, sir, I have not got 
a soul in the world to tell them to^ only you.' 

So this dreadful old person had indeed dragged me 
out of my warm bed for the purpose of reposing in 
me a dangerous confidence, which my own good- 
uature invited. I should like to have seen A. B. 
venturing to make a confidant of Dr Crossus in the 
next street after this same fashion. Bat it was just 
like my luck. 

'Do you remember the very stout gentleman, 
doctor— him with the appleplexy in Ward No. 2— at 

'446. Pleurisy. Left convalescent?' inquired I, 
from memory. 

'Tlie same, sir. I bled him to death, doctor, at his 
own house within the week. His friends paid me by 
the job, you see, and I was overanxious to get it over.* 

'Good heavens!' cried I; 'and to save yourself a 
little trouble, you committed, then, a cruel murder?' 

'He went off like a lamb,' cried the wretched 
creature apologetically. ' But there's worse than that. 
I once gave a young gent, four doses of laudannm in 
one, and yon wouldn't a known when he was dead from 
when he slep. But them was murders for all that, I 
, know.' . . 

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'They certainly were, miserable woman/ cried I 
indignantly. 'Have you tnytlUng yet more upon 
your mind?' 

<Huah I' whispered she, pointing towards the door; 
* she's listening; they always does it, bless you— I 
knows 'em so well. Once— only once, as I'm a 
sinfUl woman— I smothered a sick man with his 
pillow ; that was for his money ; he would have died 
any way, because he had the lock-jaw. Now,' added 
she, with a long-drawn sigh, and after a pause, 'I 
feel somehow better and more comfortable like, 
thanks to you, sir.' 

The patient had sunk back from her sitting- 
posture, as if exhausted with this terrible narration ; 
but I read in her yet anxious eyes that she had still 
something more to say. Presently she again broke 
silence, and this time the emphasis with which she 
spoke was mingled with a tone of gratitude. She 
desired to recompense me, I suppose, for my prompt 
attention and interest, and delivered herself of this 
advice instead of a fee : 

'When your time comes, doctor, and your friends 
send for the nuss, doiCt let them pay her by the job,* 

The revelation of these crimes, which had been, 
without doubt, in reality committed, filled me with 
horror ; and the reflection that she who had executed 
them would, in a few days at furthest, be out of the 
world, and no longer harmful, alone comforted me. 
My feelings, therefore, may be imagined by the 
sensitive, when, upwards of a fortnight after I had 
received the above confession, A. B., whom I had 
supposed to be far 'otherwhere,' as the poets say, 
called one morning at my private residence, in toler- 
able health, and also slightly in liquor. She had 
been priming herself to act rather a diflicult part. 

' I am come,' said she, ' to thank you, doctor, for 
your care and trouble about me when I was ill. I 
was very ill indeed, was I not, doctor?' 

'You thought you were going to die,' remarked I 
with meaning. 

'Yes,' answered she ingenuously, and without 
heeding the slight discrepancy between her two state- 
ments, 'and that is what I am come about to you, 
doctor. You knows as well as me what a parcel of 
nonsense folks do talk when they are delirious, and 
thinks they are in particular notice. [I afterwards 
discovered this expression to be A. B.'s rendering of 
the phrase m articulo mortia.'] You must not be hard 
upon what a party says who has got the trembles. 
You must let bygones be bygones, doctor.' 

I don't know whether it was weak of me, or 
whether it was strong-minded — whether X thought a 
confession upon a death-bed ought to be sacred, or 
whether it was to save myself trouble ; but I let the 
old woman go, with a caution to the effect that she 
had better not let me hear of her attending any sick 
folks in ftiture, which she took in exceedingly good 

Cau //.—I became acquainted with H. M. in the 
wards of St Barnabas, a young man who was by 
profession a prize-fighter, and who had come into the 
hospital with a dislocated knee, the consequence of 
kicking, violently and without due calculation of 
distance, at a personal friend with whom he had had 
a disagreement at a public-house. His habits had 
been very much the reverse of temperate, and the 
case whidi at first seemed simple enough, soon 
assumed a serious aspect: after many weeks of 
almost incessant suffering, it became necessary that 
the poor fellow should lose his leg by amputation, if 
he would preserve his life. The lopping of this limb 
was to liim an especial grief, inasmuch as, next to the 
loss of one of his 'mauleys,' it was the saddest thing 
that, to one of his calling, could possibly happen. 
His oocupaUon as ' a favourite of the public,' ' a pet 
of the fancy,' would, of coarse, be gone for ever, and 

no other line was open to him, since the talents of a 
price-fighter, however rare and valuable in them- 
selves so far f^om being of universal application, are 
an absolute hinderance to success iu almost everj 
other walk of life. There was, indeed, about as bad 
a look-out for poor H. M., when he was carried into 
St Barnabas' Uieatre to be acted trpon, one April 
morning, as can be conceived. Still, the brave yonag 
fellow never winced or grumbled ; he made his bov 
to the great semicircle of students — ^the rows of un- 
familiar faces reaching from floor to roof— as though 
they were his ancient patrons of tlie ring. There vii 
no chloroform in those days ; but he looked on at all 
the proceedings which concerned him without ose 
twite!) of the mouth or knitting of the brows; and 
when the thing was over, and that limb, whidi he 
had been so long accustomed to consider his own, 
became the property of the scientific gentlemen 
around him, he said: 'I thank you, gentlemen,' in a 
cheery voice, and wislied them joy of their acquis Itkn. 

I confess that, in spite of his disrespectable csUiof, 
I had a sincere likuig for H. M., and pity for his mil- 
fortune ; and as one of the dressers in his ward at 
that time, I had opportunities of doing him, occs- 
sionaUy, a little kindness, and speaking an eDcoong- 
ing word. We struck up quite a friendship, founded 
upon the basis of mutual respect, but, I feel boaod to 
admit, without any great mixture of sentiment. He 
confided to me several particulars concerning the 
fancy and its patrons, which are not geoenlif 
known, but which the same honourable ieeliogs that 
kept me alien t with regard to the delinquencies of 
A. B., prevent me from here disclosing. When the 
day came for the young prize-fighter to depsrt— vitb 
the exception of his left log— from St Bsrasbaa, he 
addressed me in these terms : 

' Doctor, you have been a regular stunner to me 
all along since I have been here, and no mistime; I 
should be sorry to leave this hero hospital irithoat 
letting you know what I think about it. Most Uke, 
you imagined that a poor chap such as me had nofchisg 
to give you in return — which only makes it the mote 
brickish— but I am not so bad ofiT as I seem, doctor, 
by no manner of means.' 

This was exceedingly gratifying to me, and eren 
very exciting. I was trying to recall to xbj inind 
some of those instances which I had heard or read 
of concerning millionaires in the guise of scaveogers. 
angels under tlie eartlily toitm of crossing-sweepa<^ 
who have been, as Mr Lamb says, 'entertained 
unawares' by benevolent surgeons and others «w 
pondering whether H. M.'s fortune was more ukV 
to be in the funds or in railway-shares, when that 
grateful young man resumed as follows : , 

* Here,' cried he, drawing a coin or medal, ^PP^ 
up in whity-brown paper, from his breast-pockety 
'here is, if not money, at least money's worth: » 
one in your station and with your opportunitiei, w 
a matter of— ah — a pound a week for life, i^*"* 
very least. Even in my humble wslk, it hss been 
pretty penny to me already.' - 

'Why, my good man,' cried I, in ^^^^^y^. 
appointment at the discovery, • this is only s nai • 

' Only a half-penny! ' repeated H.M. with a dehghtf 
chuckle, as he hobbled away on his c"*^"?'^^. 
order to preclude any thanks for his generous o^ 
vlour. 'That's what you'll be trying to per«»»r 
other folk's to believe before the day's out- *V 
only a lialf-p^nny ^ hu it is a haff-peMny wiA a co^r 
of tails upon it/' , ^ ..i^ 

H. M. opined— so Uttle does one-half of the ^^' 
guess how the other half lives— that the ^^T^ 
profession of medicine demeaned itself like nil , 
by the practkse of tossing for htlf-esownt;* 
seriously, if thmgt oontinna aa they are 000° '^'^ 

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with me, I think I shall try mj luck with that head- 
leBS half-penoj, the only pecuniary fee I have erer 

Case ///.—Once— and that day will not easily he 
forgotten— I waa tent for to attend a lady at a fashion- 
able hotel, and that lady a memher of the aristocracy. 
She was a woman of strong force of will, and had 
made a point of having the nearest doctor summoned, 
or else they would have sent for Dr Croesus to a 
moral certainty. For my part, I wish from the 
bottom of my heart — but I am anticipating. 

The Lady Letitia Beebonnet was Scotch, and 'a 
wee bit crackit.' She was yiolent and impetuous upon 
all subjects — * a monomaniac,' as was said of a greater 
lady, 'about eyerything;' but inflexibility of purpose 
and contempt for couTentional practices and opinions 
were her forte. Her present idea was, that so long as 
she chose to remain in any hotel, no matter for what 
term of months or years, she never need settle the bill 
till she went away. She had come to the Fkur de Lis 
without any intention of staying beyond ten days or 
bo; but as her ladyship's account bad been sent in 
somewhat peremptorily at the week's end, she was 
now ;itaying on, out of spite^ and for the express 
purpose of declining to settle it^ Under ordinary 
circumstances, a person of Lady Letitia's rank might 
of course have resided in an inn for half her natural 
life without being troubled by tlie host ; but in this 
particular case^ the hotel belonged to a company, 
whose accounts were audited every week, and to 
whom the manager was responsible. He also, plebeian 
though he was, had that quality in superabundance 
upon which her ladyship so justly prided herself— 
pigheadedness. Upon the reiterated refusal of his 
aristocratic lodger to loosen her purse-strings, he had 
given to her some pieces of his mind which were not 
only unpalatable^ but had disagreed with her to the 
extent df sending her to her bed ; she was ill, and very 
ill, absolutely through sheer rage and obstinacy, and 
threatened to become worse with opposition. The 
manager had sworn that, upon the morrow, which 
was the end of her third week's sojourn with him, 
the Lady Letitia Beebonnet should settle her bill 
or leave the house; and her ladyship prepared for 
battle by sending for the nearest doctor. 

I gathered these particulars from herself at the 
first interview, namUed with a garrulity such as I 
never heard equalled, and with an amount of accom- 
panying action sucli as I had only seen examples of 
in establishments devoted to the insane. 

' What I stand for,' concluded she, with vehemence, 
* is the law — the law. I have plenty of money, hundreds 
of pounds, in that ilressing-case yonder, but he shall 
never have one farthing of it upon compulsion, nor 
until I choose.' 

As soon as I had recovered her ladyship out of the 
hysterics uito which she had gradually worked herself 
durinsr this recital, I took my leave. On my arrival 
the next afternoon, I found that the exasperated 
manager had refused to let her ladyship's bell be 
answered, or to supply her with food. 

She had comforted herself for some time by pulling 
at the rope at her bedside, under the idea that 
she was at least creating a disturbance, although 
nobody came; but the domestics had placed a worsted 
stocking orer the clapper. She was very unwell, 
indeed, by this time, and her complaint was not 
improred by the fact of her having had nothing to 
eat since the preceding afternoon ; but she was 
considerably more obstinate than before, and quite 
prepared to starve rather than surrender what she 
imagined to be her legal rights. 

Upon my remonstrating with the manager, he 
protested that she might starve, and welcome, but 
that he would put up with her nonsense^ and be 
accountable for her expenses to the company, not an 

hour longer. The company was of more consequence 
to him, he irreverently observed, than all the Bee- 
bonnets over the border. 

' But,' urged I, * if the Lady Letitia dies in your 
hotel, it will hurt the company seriously; and she 
will die, if she does not have sustenance shortly.' 

Upon that view of the matter, some very weak 
gruel — ^with a cinder or two accidentally dropped into 
it — and a few slices of burned toast, were sent up to 
her ladyship's room. 

The next day, I found my noble patient much 
better ; invigorated by her food, but especially invi- 
gorated by her victory in having obtainwl it, and by 
an unlooked-for success of another kind. She had 
detected, as she lay in her bed, with nothing to do 
except to watch, like Robert the Bruce, the spider- 
webs that began to adorn the cornices, a second 
bell-wire running round her apartment and had 
established a communication with it by combining 
her own useless rope and the handle of her paras^. 
As I entered, unannounced — ^for attendance was rigidly 
denied her — and she had, singularly enough, no maid 
of her own, she was sitting up in bed, engaged in 
tolling solemnly at this wire, which, indeed, exceeded 
her most sanguine expectations, for with every jerk 
she gave, she rang the alarm-bell. It waa placed at 
the top of the house, so not easily accessible, and the 
wire, which pervaded the hotel, being of too great 
importance to be cut^ she was mistress of the 

' I have been tolling,' observed she with satisfaction, 
< ever since daybreak, as though for morning-prayers.' 

The Lady Letitia was only at last induced to pay 
her bill by a pious fraud. She was informed that one 
of the directors of the company had ofl^red to take 
the risk on his shoulders, and understanding thereby 
that she could annoy her foe^ the manager, no 
longer by stopping, but would rather benefit him 
than otherwise, she left the hotel immediately, although 
in a very unfit state to be moved. 

When she recovered, she wrote me a pretty little 
note, with a coronet on the top of it, expressing her 
grateful sense of my attentions; my services had 
been, she was good enough to say, above all pricey 
but she should nevertheless decline to pay me any- 
thing, upon principle. According to law, she had 
been led to understand that a medical man could not 
exact remuneration for the performance of his duties : 
she might be right or she might be wrong ; but at all 
events she preferred, she said, to have the matter 
tried in court, before running into any unnecessary 


At a time like this, when our armies are struggling 
against terrible odds in one of the fiercest contests 
that ever shook India lo its centre, it is by no means 
out of place to inquire more closely tlian we have 
been wont to do, into the actual condition of that 
country and its people ; and as a means of doing so, 
we cannot turn our attention to a more fitting 
subject than their schools. 

From official inquiries into the state of education 
amongst the masses of the population of the Bengal 
presidency, it would appear that in five districts in 
which the state of indigenous ed