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No. Page 
The Life of Louis -Philippe, King of the French, - - 1 
A Tale op Norfolk Island, ------ 2 

Story of Colbert, --------3 

Happy Families of, ------ 314 

The Employer and Employed, ------ 4 

Time Knough : an Irish Tale. By Mrs S. C. Hall, - 5 

My Native Bay : a Poeji, 5 16 

]Manage3ient op Infants, ------- 6 

Picciola, or the Prison-Flower, - - - . - 7 

Life in the Bush, --- 8 

William Tell and Switzerland, ----- 9 

The Two Beggar Boys, ------- 10 

The "Widow's Son, -10 10 

Select Poems of the Domestic Affections — 
The Cotter's Saturday Niqht, &o. - - - - 11 ] 



OUIS-PHILIPPE, the late king- of the 
French, and one of the most remarkable 
men in Europe, was born in Paris, October 
6, 1773. He is the eldest son of Louis- 
Philippe-JoseiDh, Duke of Orleans — better 
known under his revolutionary title of 
Philippe Egalite — and of Marie, only daugh- 
ter and heiress of the wealthy Duke of Penthievi'e. The Orleans 
branch of the Bourbon family, of which Louis-Philippe is now 
the head, originated in Philippe, a younger son of Louis XIII., 
created Due d'Orleans by his elder brother Louis XIV., and of 
whom Louis Philippe is the grandson's great-grandson. Phi- 
lippe, the first Duke of Orleans, was twice married ; his second 
wife being Elizabeth Charlotte of Bohemia, granddaughter of 
James I. of England. From this lady the Orleans family are 
No. 1. I 


descended, and throug-h her trace a direct relationship to the line of 
Stuart, and the present royal family of England. IVhile a child, 
Louis-Philippe was entitled Duke of Valois ; but on his father 
succeeding to the title of Duke of Orleans in 1785, he became 
Duke of Chartres, which title for a number of years he retained. 
AVliatever were the personal and political faults of Citizen Ega- 
lite, he was a kind father, and beloved by his children, five in 
number, one of whom, however, a daughter, died young. Desir- 
ous of imparting to his family a sound education, in which he 
himself had had the misfortune to be deficient, he committed them 
to the superintendence of Madame de Sillery — better known by 
her later adopted title of Countess de Genlis. Notwithstanding 
the subsequent errors of this lady, she was eminently qualified, 
by her talents and dispositions, to be an instructress of youth. 
The principles on which she based her plans of education were 
considerably in advance of the age, and such as are only now 
beginning to be generally understood. She considered that it 
was of the first importance to surround children almost from 
their cradle with happy and cheering influences, to the exclu- 
sion of everything likely to contaminate their minds or feel- 
ings. It was necessary, above all things, to implant in them 
a universal spirit of love — a love of God and his works, the 
consciousness that all was from the hand of an Almighty Creator 
and Preserver, who willed the happiness of his creatures. To 
excite this feeling in her young charge, she took every oppor- 
tunity of arousing the sentiment of wonder with respect to 
natural phenomena, and then of explaining the seeming marvels 
on principles which an awakening intelligence could be led to 
comprehend. The other means adopted to form the character 
of her young pupils — the Duke of Valois, Duke of Montpensier, 
the Count Beaujolais, and their sister the Princess Adelaide — 
were equally to be admired. While receiving instructions in 
difierent branches of polite learning, and in the Christian doc- 
trines and graces, from properly qualified tutors, they learned, 
without labour or pain, to speak English, German, and Italian, 
by being attended by domestics who respectively conversed in 
these languages. Nor was their physical education neglected. 
The boys were trained to endure all kinds of bodily fatigue, and 
taught a variety of useful and amusing industrial exercises. At 
St Leu, a pleasant country residence near Paris, where the 
family resided under the charge of Madame de Genlis, the 
young princes cultivated a small garden under the direction of 
a German gardener, while they were instructed in botany and 
the practice of medicine by a medical gentleman, who was the 
companion of their rambles. They had also ateliers, or work- 
shops, in which they were taught turning, basket-making, weav- 
ing, and carpentry. The young Duke of Valois took pleasure 
in these pursuits — as what boy would not, under proper direc- 
tion, and if allowed scope for his ingenuity? He excelled in 


cabinet-making" ; and, assisted only by his brother, the Duke of 
Montpensier, made a handsome cupboard, and a table with 
drawers, for a poor woman in the village of St Leu. 

At this period of his youth, as well as in more advanced years, 
the subject of our memoir g-ave many tokens of a benevolent and 
noble disposition, sacrificing- on many occasions his pocket-money 
to relieve distress, and exerting" himself to succour the oppressed. 
Speaking" of his progress and character under her tuition, the 
Countess de Genlis observes : " The Duke of Chartres has greatly 
improved in disposition during the past year ; he was born with 
good inclinations, and is now become intelligent and virtuous. 
Possessing none of the frivolities of the age, he disdains the 
puerilities which occupy the thoughts of so many young men of 
rank — such as fashions, dress, trinkets, follies of all kinds, and 
the desire for novelties. He has no passion for money; he is 
disinterested; despises glare; and is consequently truly noble. 
Finally, he has an excellent heart, which is common to his 
brothers and sister, and which, joined to reflection, is capable of 
producing all other good qualities." 

A favourite method of instruction pursued by Madame de 
Genlis consisted in taking her young pupils on a variety of 
holiday excursions. Interesting rural scenes, spots consecrated 
by historical transactions, cabinets of curiosities, manufacturing 
estabhshments, &c. were thus visited, and made the subject of 
useful observation. In the summer of 1787, the Duchess of 
Orleans and her children, accompanied by theu* superintendent, 
visited Spa, the health of the duchess requiring aid from the 
mineral waters of that celebrated place of resort. A pleasing 
anecdote is related of the Orleans family on the occasion of this 
visit. The health of the duchess having* been much improved 
by the waters of the Sauveniere — a spring a few miles from the 
town in the midst of pleasing scenery — the Duke of Chartres 
and his brothers and sister, prompted by their instructress, re- 
solved on giving a gay and commemorative fete. Round the 
spring they formed a beautiful walk, removed the stones and 
rocks which were in the way, and caused it to be ornamented 
with seats, with small bridges placed over the torrents, and 
covered the sui'rounding woods with charming shrubs in flower. 
At the end of the walk conducting to the spring whose waters 
had been so efficacious, was a kind of little wood, which had an 
opening looking out upon a precipice remarkable for its height, 
and for being covered with majestic piles of rock and trees. 
Beyond it was a landscape of great extent and beauty. In the 
wood was raised by the duke and his brothers and sister an 
altar to " Gratitude," of white marble, on which was the 
following inscription : — " The waters of the Sauveniere having* 
restored the health of the Duchess of Orleans, her children have 
embellished the neighbourhood of its springs, and have them, 
selves traced the walks and cleared the woods with more assi- 


cluity than the workmen who lahoured under their orders," On 
the fete day in question, the young- Duke of Chartres expressed 
witii g-race and effect his filial sentiments of devotedness and 
love, but suddenly left the side of his mother, and appeared with 
his brothers and sister, a few seconds afterwards, at the foot of 
the altar, himself holding a chisel in his hand, and appearing" to 
be writing in it the word " Gratitude." The effect was mag-ical ; 
all present were at once charmed and touched ; and many a 
cheek was bedewed with pleasurable tears,* 

The same authority from whom we have the above anecdote, 
relates some interesting* particulars of a journey which the family 
made about this period to Eu, in Normandy, whence they pro- 
ceeded westward by Havre to the bay of Avranches. Here they 
visited the rocky fortress of St Michael, which, standing within 
the margin of the sea, is a conspicuous object for a distance 
of many miles around. Long" celebrated for its shrine of St 
Michael, the convent in this island -fort had for ages been 
visited by thousands of devotees, and probably this species of 
celebrity, as well as the natural features of the place, and its 
historical associations, induced the young princes of Orleans to 
view it with some degree of interest. Till this period, its 
dungeons had been employed as a state-prison ; and these were 
viewed with melancholy feelings hj the young visitors. While 
conducted over these gloomy recesses by the monks, to whose 
charg'e the prison had been committed, the Duke of Chartres 
made some inquiries relative to an i7V?i cage, which had been 
used for the close confinement of prisoners. The monks, in 
reply, told him that the cage was not of iron, but of wood, 
framed of enormous logs, between which were interstices of the 
width of three and four finger -breadths. It was then about 
fifteen years since any prisoners had been wholly confined 
therein, but any who were violent were subject to the punish- 
ment for tAventy-four hours. The Duke of Chartres expressed 
his surprise that so cruel a measure, in so damp a place, should 
be permitted. The prior replied, that it was his intention, at 
some time or other, to destroy this monument of cruelty, since 
the Count d'Artois (afterwards Charles X.) had visited Mount 
St Michael a few months previous, and had positively commanded 
its demolition. " In that case," said the Duke of Chartres, " there 
can be no reason why we should not all be present at its destruc- 
tion, for that will delio-ht us," The next morning was fixed by 
the prior for the good work of demolition, and the Duke of 
Chartres, with the most touching expression, and with a force 
really beyond his years, gave the first blow with his axe to the 
cage, amidst the transports, acclamations, and applauses of the 
prisoners. The Swiss who was appointed to show this monster 
cage, alone looked grave and disappointed, for he made money 

* Reminiscences of Men and Tilings— a series of interesting papers in Fraser'a 
Magazine : 1843. 


ty conducting" strangers to view it. When the Duke of Chartres 
was informed of this circumstance, he presented the Swiss with 
ten louis, and with much wit and g'ood humour observed, " Do 
now, my good Swiss, in future, instead of showing the cage to 
travellers, point out to them the place where it once stood ; and 
surely to hear of its destruction will afford to them all more plea- 
sure than to have seen it." 

One of the means by which Madame de Genlis endeavoured to 
teach her pupils to examine and regulate their own minds and 
conduct, was the keeping of a journal, in which they were 
enjoined to enter every occurrence, great and small, in which they 
were personally concerned. The journal kept by the Duke of 
Chartres, in consequence of this recommendation, has latterly 
been given to the public, and makes us acquainted with some 
interesting particulars of his early life, as well as wuth the senti- 
ments which he then entertained. The latter are such as might 
have been expected from a lad reared within the all-prevailing 
influence of revolutionary doctrines. Of the political move- 
ments of 1789, Madame de Genlis and her husband were warm 
adherents ; and they failed not, with the concurrence of the Duke 
of Orleans, to impress their sentiments on the susceptible mind 
of their charge. Introduced, and entered a member of the Jacobin 
Club, the young' Duke of Chartres appears from his journal to 
have been in almost daily attendance on the sittings of this 
tumultuary body, as well as the National Assembly. What was 
much more creditable to his judgment, he seems to have been 
equally assiduous in acquiring a knowledge of surgery by his 
visits to the Hotel-Dieu, or great public hospital of Paris. A few 
entries in his journal on these and other points, illustrative of his- 
youthful character and pursuits, may here be introduced. 

" Nov. 2 (1790). — I was yesterday admitted a member of the- 
Jacobins, and much applauded. I returned thanks for the kind 
reception which they were so good as to give me, and I assured 
them that I should never deviate from the sacred duties of a 
good patriot and a good citizen. 

Nov. 26. — I went this morning to the Hotel-Dieu. The next 
time I shall dress the patients myself. * * 

Dec. 2. — I went yesterday morning to the Hotel-Dieu. I 
dressed two patients, and gave one six, and the other three 
livres. '^ * 

Dec. 25. — I went yesterday morning to confession. I dined 
at the Palais Royal, and then went to the Philanthropic Society, 
whence I could not get away till eight o'clock. * * I went 
to the midnight mass at St Eustache, returned at two in the 
morning, and got to bed at half-past two. I perfonned my 
devotions at this mass [Christmas]. 

Jan. 7 (1791). — I went this morning to the Hotel-Dieu in a 
hackney-coach, as my carriage was not come, and it rained hard. 
I dressed the patients, and bled three women. * * 


Jan. 8. — In tlie morning to the Assembly ; at six in the even- 
ing to the Jacobins. M. de Noailles presented a work on the 
Revolution, by Mr Joseph Towers, in answer to Mr Burke. He 
praised it highly, and proposed that I should be appointed to 
translate it. This proposition was adopted with great applause, 
and I foolishly consented, but expressing my fear that I should 
not fullil their expectations. I returned home at a quarter 
past seven. At night, my father told me that he did not approve 
of it, and I must excuse myself to the Jacobins on Sunday. [We 
are afterwards informed that he executed the translation, but 
that it was arrang-ed for the press by his sub-governor or tutor, 
M. Pieyre, whose name was prefixed to it.] 

Jan. 28. — [Describes how he caught cold, and became unwell.] 
"Went to Bellechasse [the residence of Madame de Genlis], where, 
notwithstanding my headache, and though I had much fever, I 
wished to remain; but my friend [Madame de G.] sent me 
away, reminding me that I was to be at the Hotel-Dieu in the 
morning." * "" 

The Duke of Chartres appears from his journal to have been 
attached in an extraordinary degree to Madame de Genlis, whose 
admonitions he always regarded as those of a mother. Referring 
to his kind instructress, under the date May 22, he proceeds : — 
" O, my mother, how I bless you for having preserved me from 
all those vices and misfortunes (too often incident to youth), by 
inspiring me with that sense of religion which has been my 
whole support." 

Some years previous to this period, the duke had been ap- 
pointed to the honorary office of colonel in the 14th regiment of 
dragoons. Such offices being now abolished, it became necessary 
for him to assume in his own person the command of his regi- 
ment, and for this purpose he proceeded to Vendome in June 
1791, accompanied by M. Pieyre. At this time considerable 
commotion took place in many parts of France, in consequence 
of the refusal of a numerous body of clergy to take an oath pre- 
scribed by the constitution. The nonjuring clergymen were 
everywhere ejected from their livings, and in some places treated 
with indignity. Wliile the Duke of Chartres was in Vendome, 
a popular ferment took place, in which two of these unfortunate 
men would have been murdered by the mob, but for his humane 
interference. The occurrence is described as follows in his 
journal : — 

" June 27. — [Mentions his attendance with his regiment on a 
religious procession led by a clergyman who had taken the 
appointed oath.] At noon I had brought back the regiment, but 
with orders not to unboot or unsaddle. I asked Messrs Dubois, 
d'Albis, Jacquemin, and Phillippe, to dinner. They brought us 
word that the people had collected in a mob, and were about to 
hang two priests. I ran immediately to the place, followed by 
Pieyre, Dubois, and d'Albis. I came to the door of a tavern, 


where I found ten or twelve national guards, the mayor, the town- 
clerk, and a considerable number of people, crying", ' They have 
broken the law ; they must be hanged — to the lamp-post !' I asked 
the mayor what all this meant, and what it was all about. He 
replied, ' It is a nonjuring priest and his father, who have escaped 
into this house; the people allege that they have insulted M. 
Buisson, a priest, who has taken the civic oath, and who was 
carrying* the holy sacrament, and I can no longer restrain them. 
I have sent for a voiture to convey them away. Have the 
goodness to send for two dragoons to escort them.' I did so 
immediately. The mayor stood motionless before the door, 
not opening his mouth. I therefore addressed some of the most 
violent of the mob, and endeavoured to explain ' how wrong it 
would be to hang men without trial ; that, moreover, they would 
be doing the work of the executioner, which they considered 
infamous ; that there were judges whose duty it was to deal with 
these men.' The mob answered that the judges were aristocrats, 
and that they did not punish the guilty. I rephed, ' That's your 
own fault, as they are elected by yourselves ; but you must not 
take the law into your own hands.' There was now much 
confusion ; at last one voice cried — ' We will spare them for the 
sake of M. de Chartres.' '■ Yes, yes, yes,' cried the people ; ' he 
is a good patriot ; he edified us all this morning. Bring them 
out ; we shall do them no harm.' I went up to the room where 
the unhappy men were, and asked them if they would trust 
themselves to me ; they said yes. I preceded them down stairs, 
and exhorted the people not to forget what they had promised. 
They cried out again, ' Be easy ; they shall receive no harm.' I 
called to the driver to bring up the carriage ; upon which the 
crowd cried out, 'No voiture — on foot, on foot, that we may 
have the satisfaction of hooting them, and expelling them igno- 
miniously from the town.' ' Well,' I said, ' on foot ; be it so ; 
'tis the same thing to me, for you are too honest to forfeit your 
word.' We set out amidst hisses and a torrent of abuse ; I gave 
my arm to one of the men, and the mayor was on the other 
side. The priest walked between Messrs Dubois and d'Albis. Not 
thinking at the moment, I unluckily took the direction towards 
Paris. The mayor asked one of the men where he would wish to 
go ; he answered, ' To Blois.' It was directly the contrary way 
from that which we were taking. The mayor wished to return, 
and to pass across the whole town. I opposed this, and we 
changed our direction, but without going back through the 
streets. We passed a little wooden bridge of a few planks without 
rails ; there the mob cried to throw them into the river, and 
endeavoured, by putting sticks across, to make them fall into the 
water. I again reminded them of their promise, and they became 
quiet. When we were about a mile out of the town, some of 
the country people came running down the hill, and threw them- 
selves upon us, calling out, ' Hang or drown the two rascals ! ' 



One of them seized one of the poor wretches by the coat, and the 
crowd rushing" in, forced away the mayor and M. d'Albis. I 
remained alone with M. Dubois, and we endeavoured to make 
the peasant loose his hold. I held one of the men by one hand, 
and by the other endeavoured to free the coat. At last one of 
the national g'uard arrived to our assistance, and by force cleared 
the man. The crowd was still increasing*. It is but justice to 
the people of Vendome to say that they kept their word, and 
tried to induce the peasants to do no violence to the men. 
Seeing, however, that if I continued my march, some misfor- 
tune must inevitably occur, I cried we must take them to prison, 
and then all the people cried, '■ To prison ! to prison ! ' Some 
voices cried, ' They must ask pardon of God, and thank M. de 
Chartres for their lives.' That was soon done, and we set out for 
the prison. As we went along*, one man came forward with a 
gun, and said to us, ' Stand out of the way while I lire on them.' 
Believing that he was really about to fire, I rushed forward in 
front of my two men, saying', ' You shall kill me first.' As the 
man was well dressed, M. Pieyre said to him, ' But how can you 
act so?' 'I was only joking,' says the man; 'my gun is not 
charged.' We again continued our way, and the two men were 
lodged in the prison." 

The unfortunate priests were afterwards, to the satisfaction of 
the populace, left to be dealt with in terms of law. On the 1st of 
July we find the following entry : — " Several of those who the 
day before had been the most savage, came with tears to ask my 
pardon, and to thank me for having saved them from the com- 
mission of a crime." The feelings of the duke must have been 
enviable at this moment, but not less so on the following occa- 

" August 3. — Happy day ! I have saved a man's life, or rather 
have contributed to save it. This evening, after having read a 
little of Pope, Metastasio, and Emile, I went to bathe. Edward 
and I were dressing ourselves, when I heard cries of ' Help, help, 
I am drowning ! ' I ran immediately to the cry, as did Edward, 
who was farther. I came first, and could only see the tops of 
the person's fing'ers. I laid hold of that hand, which seized mine 
with indescribable strength, and by the way in which he held 
me, would have drowned me, if Edward had not come up and 
seized one of his legs, which deprived him of the power of jump- 
ing on me. We then got him ashore. He could scarcely speak, 
but he nevertheless expressed great gratitude to me as well as to 
Edward. I think with pleasure on the effect this will produce at 
Bellechasse. I am born under a happy star ! Opportunities offer 
themselves in every way : I have only to avail myself of them ! 
The man we saved is one M. Siret, an inhabitant of Vendome, 
sub-engineer in the office of roads and bridges. I go to bed 
happy ! 

August 11. — Another happy day. I had been invited yester- 


day to attend at the Town-House with some non-commissioned 
officers and privates. I went to-day, and was received with an 
address ; there was then read a letter from M. Siret, who pro- 
posed that the municipal body should decree that a civic crown 
should be given to any citizen who should save the life of a 
fellow-creature, and that, in course, one should be presented to 
me. The municipal body adopted the proposition, and I received 
a crown amidst the applause of a numerous assembly of spectators. 
I was very much ashamed. I nevertheless expressed my grati- 
tude as well as I could." 

Besides the numerous entries in the journal referring' to his 
military avocations and his epistolary correspondence, he occa- 
sionally speaks of the studies in which he was engaged. One 
extract will suffice to show his dilig'ence in this respect. 

" Yesterday morning at exercise. On returning, I undressed, 
and read some of Renault, Julius Csesar, Sternheim, and Mably. 
Dined, and after dinner read some of Ipsipyle, Metastasio, 
Heloise, and Po]3e. At tive, to the riding-house ; and afterwards 
read Emile." 

In noticing" the journal from which we have culled these few 
extracts, a writer in an Engiish periodical, not usually favourable 
to Louis-Philippe (the Quarterly Review), sums up his criticism in 
the following candid manner. " There are in it many j)uerile pas- 
sages, and a few which, even under all extenuating circumstances, 
may be called blameable. * * But we think it must be agreed 
that, on the whole, it is creditable to his [the duke's] good sense, 
and even to his good nature. Let it be recollected that it was 
written at the age of seventeen — that his mind, ever since it was 
capable of receiving a political idea, had been imbued with revo- 
lutionary doctrines by the precepts of his instructors, the autho- 
rity and example of a father, and a general popular enthusiasm, 
which had not yet assumed the mad and bloody aspect which it 
soon after bore ; and we think we may truly assert, that few 
young- men of that period — if their conduct were reported with 
equal fidelity and minuteness — Vv' ould appear in so favourable a 
light as Louis-Philippe does in this his journal." 

About the middle of August 1791, the Duke of Chartres quitted 
the garrison of Yendome with his regiment, and went to Yalen- 
ciennes, in the north of France, where he continued his military 
avocations. In April 1792, war was declared against Austria, 
which was observed to be maturing plans for a hostile invasion 
of France, and now the Duke of Chartres made his first campaign. 
At the head of troops confided to him by Kellermann, he fought 
at Yalmy (September 20, 1792) ; and afterwards (November 6), 
under Dumouriez, distinguished himself at the battle of Je- 

Here may be said to terminate the first and happy period of 
the life of Louis-Philippe, and we now have to follow him in the 
misfortunes which attended his family. 

B ^ 


While the Duke of Chartres was engaged in repelling* the 
foreign armies which menaced the tottering fabric of the 
French monarchy, the revolution was hastening to its crisis. 
Monarchy being extinguished, and the king and his family 
placed in confinement, a decree of banishment was hastily 
passed against all other members of the Bourbon-Capet race. 
This act of proscription, which was aimed at the Orleans family 
by its enemies, was as summarily repealed as it had been passed; 
but the circumstance was of too alarming a nature to be disre- 
garded, and the Duke of Chartres earnestly besought his father 
to take advantage of the decree of banishment, and with his 
family seek a retreat in a foreign country. " You will assuredly," 
said he, addressing the Duke of Orleans, " find yourself in an 
appalling situation. Louis XVI. is about to be accused before an 
assembly of which you are a member. You must sit before the 
king as his judge. Reject the ungracious duty, withdraw with 
your family to America, and seek a calm retreat far from the 
enemies of France, and there await the return of happier days." 
To these persuasives the Duke of Orleans lent a deaf ear; he 
either considered it to be inconsistent with his honour and his 
duty to desert his post at the approach of danger ; or, what is as 
probable, he expected that by a turn of affairs he might be 
elevated to the first place in the nation, whatever should be its 
form of government. Nevertheless, moved by the intreaties of 
his son, Orleans desired him to consult an influential member of 
the Assembly on the subject, and let him know the result. The 
deputy, however, declined to express his opinion. " I am in- 
competent," said he, " to give your father any advice. Our 
positions are dissimilar. I myself seek redress for personal in- 
juries; your father, the Duke of Orleans, ought to obey the 
dictates of his conscience as a prince — of his duties as a citizen." 
This undecided answer neither influenced the judgment of the 
Duke of Orleans, nor corroborated the arguments of his son. 
Impressed to the fullest extent with the duties of a citizen, he felt 
that he could not honourably recede; and that a man, whatever 
his rank might be, who intentionally abandoned his country, was 
deserving of the penalties reserved for traitors. Perceiving that 
his father made his determination a point of honour — a case of 
political conscientiousness — he desisted from further solicitation, 
embraced him for the last time, and returned to the army. 

Disastrous events now rapidly followed each other. On the 
21st of January 1793, the unfortunate Louis XVI. was carried 
to the scaffold, and a few months thereafter, the Duke of Orleans 
was seized on the plea of conspiring against the nation. On the 6th 
of November, he was brought before the revolutionary tribunal, 
and, after a mock trial, condemned to death on a series of charges, 
of all which he was notoriously guiltless. Viewing the proceed- 


ings of his judges witli contempt, he begged, as an only favour, 
that the sentence might be executed without delay. The in- 
dulgence was granted, and he was led, at four o'clock, when the 
daylight was about failing, from the court to the guillotine. An 
eye-witness on this tragic occasion mentions, that, prompted by 
barbarous curiosity, he took his station in the Rue St Honore, 
opposite the palace of the duke, in order to observe the effect 
which, at his last moments, these scenes of former splendour and 
enjoyment might have on him. The crowd was immense, and 
aggravated, by its unjust reproaches and insults, the agony of 
the sufferer. The fatal cart advanced at so slow a pace, that it 
seemed as if they were endeavouring to prolong his torments. 
There were many other victims of revolutionary crueltj-- in the 
same vehicle. They were all bent double, pale, and stupified 
with horror. Orleans alone — a striking contrast — with hair 
powdered, and otherwise dressed with care in the fashion of the 
period, stood upright, his head elevated, his countenance full 
of its natural colour, with all the firmness of innocence. The 
cart, for some reason, stopped for a few minutes before the 
gate of the Palais Royal, and the duke ran his eyes over the 
building with the tranquil air of a master, as if examining 
whether it required any additional ornament or repair. The 
courage of this intrepid man faltered not at the place of exe- 
cution. When the executioner took off his coat, he calmly ob- 
served to the assistants who were g'oing to draw off his boots, 
" It is only loss of time ; you will remove them more easily from 
the lifeless limbs." In a few minutes he was no more. Thus 
died, in the prime of life — his forty-sixth year — Philippe Egalite, 
adding, by his death, one to the long list of those who perished 
from the effects of a political whirlwind which they had contri- 
buted to raise. While commiserating' the unhappy fate of the 
Duke of Orleans, it is proper to mention that he was far from 
having been a man of unblemished morals. He was a bad hus- 
band, and it is certain that selfish considerations had led him to 
take a part against Louis XVI. and his family, on whose ruin he 
expected to rise to the throne. 

Seven months previous to the death of his father, the Duke of 
Chartres, along with his friend General Dumouriez, became 
assured that the cause of moderation was lost, and looked with 
apprehension on the reign of terror which had already begun to 
manifest itself. There was little time for deliberation as to their 
course. Being summoned to appear before the Committee of 
Public Safety, and knowing that citations of this nature were 
for the most part equivalent to condemnation, both instantly fled 
towards the French frontier. The fugitives were hotly pursued, 
but were fortunate in making their escape into the Belgian 
Netherlands, at that time belonging to Austria. What were the 
reflections of the Duke of Chartres on this conclusion to his career 
as a friend of liberty, we should vainly endeavour to imagine. 


The duke was courteously received by the Austrian autho- 
rities, wlio invited him to enter their service ; but he declined to 
take up arms ag-ainst France, and preferred to retire for a time 
into private life. He now pursued his way as a traveller by 
Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne, and Coblentz, towards Switzerland, 
depending" on but a small sum of money, and everywhere in 
dang-er ol being- captured. His sister Adelaide — or Mademoiselle 
d'Orleans, as she was now called — fled also to the same country 
in company with Madame de Genlis, and the two parties joining- 
at Schaffhausen, proceeded to Zurich. 

The two younger sons of the Duke of Orleans, Montpensier 
and Beaujolais, were less fortunate than their brother and sister. 
At first, confined along with their father in the tower of St Jean 
at Marseilles, they were in a short time deprived of the con- 
solation of being' near a parent, and finally had to mourn his 
unhappy fate. The two young captives were now exposed to 
greater insults and severities, and in the tumultuary excesses 
of the mob, who contrived to force the prison and massacre 
a large number of its inmates, they were in imminent danger 
of losing their lives. After the fall of Robespierre, besides being 
suffered to take an airing daily in a courtyard, they were per- 
mitted to correspond with their mother, the widowed Duchess 
of Orleans, who, suffering from bad health, was permitted by 
government to reside a prisoner on parole in the house of a 
physician in Paris. Yet these indulgences served little to 
assuage the irksomeness of their situation, and on the 18th 
of November 1795 they attempted to make their escape. Mont- 
pensier, in descending" from the window of his cell, fell to the 
ground ; and on coming to his senses after the shock, he found 
that his leg Vv'-as broken. Beaujolais was more fortunate, and 
could with ease have escaped on board a vessel leaving the 
port, but he preferred to remain with his brother, and returned to 
imprisonment. In consequence of this unfortunate attempt, the 
two princes were exposed to fresh severities from their inhuman 
jailer. By the repeated supplications of their mother, and the 
growing moderation of the governing party, they were finally, 
after a miserable confinement of three years, liberated, on con- 
dition of proceeding to the United States of America, there 
to join their elder brother, Louis-Philippe, an account of whose 
wanderings we shall now resume. 

Arriving in the town of Zurich, it was the intention of the 
Duke of Chartres to take up his abode there with his sister and 
Madame de Genlis ; but to this arrangement there were difficul- 
ties which had not been foreseen. The French royalist emigrants 
in Zurich were by no means friendly to the house of Orleans, 
and the magistrates of the canton, by giving refuge to the 
prince, dreaded embroiling themselves with France. The illus- 
trious exiles needed no explicit order to seek a new retreat. 
They quietly departed from Zurich, and crossing the mountains 



to the town of Zug', procured accommodation in a small house 
near the borders of the adjoining: lake. Their rest in this secluded 
spot was of no long" duration. Their rank and character being* 
discovered, they were once more under the necessity of preparing- 
to seek a place wherein they might be suffered to dwell unob- 
served and in peace. At this crisis, by the intercession of a kind 
friend in Switzerland, M. de Montesquiou, admission into the 
convent of Sainte - Claire, near Bremgarten, was procured for 
Mademoiselle d'Orleans and her instructress. Relieved of anxiety 
on account of his beloved sister, the Duke of Chartres commenced 
a series of wanderings in different countries of Europe, every- 
where gaining- a knowledge of men and things, and acquiring* 
firmness from the adverse circumstances with which it was his 
lot to contend. Deprived of rank and fortune, an outlaw and 
an exile, he now was indebted alone to his own native energies 
and the excellent education which he had acquired. 

The first place visited by the duke was Basle, where he sold 
all his horses but one, for the sum of sixty louis-d'ors, and with 
the remaining horse, along with Baudoin, a humble and faithful 
retainer, who insisted on remaining- in his service, set out in 
prosecution of his journey. The cavalcade was affecting. Bau- 
doin was ill, and could not walk. He was therefore mounted 
by his kind-hearted master on the back of the horse which had 
been reserved for his own use, and leading the animal in his 
hand, the Duke of Chartres issued from the gates of Basle. One 
can easily fancy the interest which must have been raised in the 
minds of the Swiss peasantry on witnessing such a manifesta- 
tion of humane feeling". 

An excursion of several months through some of the most 
picturesque and historically interesting parts of Switzerland, 
while it gratified the love of travel, and enlarged the mind of the 
prince, also diminished his resources ; and a time came when it 
was necessary to part with his remaining horse. From this 
period, with a knapsack on the back of his companion, the ever- 
attached Baudoin, and with staffs in their hands, the pair of 
wanderers pursued their journey on foot, often toil worn, and at 
last nearly penniless. On one occasion, after a toilsome journey, 
when they reached the hospitium of St Gothard, situated on an 
inclement Alpine height,* they were churlishly refused accommo- 

* " How often," says Madame de Genlis, in allusion to the trials and privations to 

which the Duke of Chartres was exposed after his escape from France — " How 

often, since his misfortimes, have I applauded myself for the education I had given 

him— for having taught him the principal modern languages — for having accustomed 

liim to wait on himself — to despise all sorts of eifeminacy — to sleep habitually on a 

•wooden bed, with no covering but a mat — to expose himself to heat, cold, and rain 

—to accustom himself to fatigue by dailj- and violent exercise, and by walking ten 

or fifteen miles with leaden soles to his shoes — and finally, for having given him the 

taste and habit of travelling. He had lost all he had inherited from birth and 

fortune— nothing remained but what he had received from nature and me ! " 



dation for the niglit, and were fain to seek shelter and repose 
beneath the shed of an adjoining inn. Courag-eously contending 
with privations in these mountain regions, the duke was at 
length reduced to the greatest straits, and it became necessary 
for him to think of labouring for his support. Yet, as labour 
is honourable in a prince as well as a peasant, there was not 
to this intrepid young man anything distressing in th.e con- 
sideration that he must toil for his daily bread. While he 
reflected on the best means of employing his talents for his 
support, a letter reached him from his friend M. Montesquiou, 
stating that he had obtained for him the situation of a teacher ia 
the academy of Reichenau — a village at the junction of the two 
upper Rhines, in the south-eastern part of Switzerland. Glad of 
such a prospect of employment, the Duke of Chartres set out on. 
his journey to Reichenau, where he shortly after arrived in the 
humble equipage of a pedestrian, a stick in his hand, and a 
bundle on his back, along with a letter of introduction to M. 
Jost, the head master of the establishment. Being" examined by 
the officers of the institution, he was found fully quahfied for his 
proposed duties, and though only twenty years of age, was 
unanimously admitted. Here, under the feigned name of 
Chabaud-Latour, and without being recognised by any one save 
M. Jost, he taught geography, history, the French and English 
languages, and mathematics, for the space of eight months. In 
this somewhat trying and new situation, he not only gave the 
highest satisfaction to his employers and pupils, but earned the 
esteem and friendship of the inhabitants of Reichenau. 

It was while here filling the post of a schoolmaster that the 
Duke of Chartres learned the tragical fate of his father. Some 
political movements taking place in the Grisons, Mademoiselle 
d'Orleans thought it proper to quit the convent at Bremgarten, 
and to join her aunt, the Princess of Conti, in Hungary. M. 
Montesquiou believed that he might now give an asylum to the 
prince, of whom his enemies had for some time lost all trace. 
The duke consequently resigned his office of teacher at Reichenau, 
receiving the most honourable testimonials of his behaviour and 
abilities, and retired to Bremgarten. Here he remained, under 
the name of Corby, until the end of 1794, when he thought pro- 
per to quit Switzerland, his retreat there being no longer a 

We now find the Duke of Orleans, as he was entitled to be 
called since his father's decease, once more a wanderer, seeking 
for a place of repose free from the persecution of the French 
authorities and their emissaries. He resolved to go to America, 
and Hamburg appeared to him the best place for embarkation. 
He arrived in that city in 1795. Here his expectation of funds 
failed him, and he could not collect sufficient pecuniary means 
to reach the United States ; but being tired of a state of inac- 
tivity, and provided with a letter of credit for a small sum on a 



Copenhag-en banker, he resolved to visit the north of Europe, 
This banker succeeded in obtaining- passports for him fi'om the 
King" of Denmark, not as the Duke of Orleans, but as a Swiss 
traveller, by means of which he was able to proceed in safety. He 
travelled throug-h Norway and Sweden, seeing- everything- worthy 
of curiosity in the way, journeyed on foot with the Laplanders 
along- the mountains, and reached the North Cape in August 
1795,* After stajdng- a few days in this region, at eighteen 
deg-rees from the pole, he returned through Lapland to Torneo, 
at the extremity of the Gulf of Bothnia. From Torneo he went 
to Abo, and traversed Finland ; but dreading- the vengeful 
character of Catherine, he did not enter Russia.f 

It must be acknowledged that Louis-Philippe was now turning 
the misfortunes of his family to the most profitable account. By 
bringing himself into contact mth every variety of hfe, and 
adding the treasures of personal observation to the stores of learn- 
ing with which his mind was fraught, he was preparing himself 
for that com^se of events which has given him such a powerful 
influence over the destinies of his own country and of Europe. 
The bold and rugged scenery of these arctic regions, and the 
simple and unpretending kindness of the inhabitants, must have 
produced a vivid impression upon a young man of his rank and 
previous pursuits, sent forth under such circumstances to com- 
mence his novitiate in the world. 

After completing the examination of these ancient kingdoms, 
and after having' been recognised at Stockholm, he proceeded to 
Denmark, and, under an assumed name, withdrew himself from 
observation. During his expedition, no improvement had taken 

* In the month of June 1844, the following paragraph, relative to the visit of Louis- 
Philippe to Hammerfest, appeared in the Voss Gazette, a Swedish newspaper : — " On 
the 2d, vice-consiil Burk celebrated the 82d anniversary of his birthday. On the 
same day he received a letter from the king of the French, written with his o\vn 
hand, accompanying a gold medal, bearing on one side the profile of his majesty, and 
on the other the following inscription : — ' Given by King Louis-PhUippe to M. C. 
Burk, as a memorial of the hospitality received at Hammerfest in August 1795.' 
The letter, which was dated at Neiiilly, June 6th, is in these terms : — ' It is always 
agreeable to me to find that the traveller Miiller has not been forgotten in a country 
which he visited in simple guise, and unknown ; and I always recall with pleasure 
this journey to my mind. Among my recollections, I give the first place to the 
hospitality so frankly and cordially granted me, a stranger, throughout Norway, and 
particularly in Norland and Finmark : and at this moment, when a lapse of forty- 
nine years since I made this journey into Norway has left me but few of my old 
hosts remaining, it is gratifying to me to be able to express to aU in your person what 
grateful feelings I still entertain.' " 

t For much of the account of Louis-Philippe's wanderings in Eui'ope, and after- 
wards in America, we acknowledge ourselves indebted to " France, its King, Court, 
and Government, by an American ; (New York: Wiley and Putnam, 1840;") and 
professedly a republication of a paper in the North American Review, The work is 
described as being from a distinguished source ; we beUeve a late ambassador of the 

United States to the court of Louis-Philippe. 



place in his pecuniary resources or political prospects ; but no 
reverses could shake the determination he had formed not to bear 
arms against France, and he declined the invitation of Louis 
XVIII. to join the army under the Prince of Conde. 

The wandering- prince had taken his measures with such 
prudence, that the French government had lost all traces of him, 
and the agents of the Directory were instructed to leave no means 
unemployed to discover his place of refuge. Attention was par- 
ticularly directed to Prussia and Poland, in one or other of which 
countries he was thought to be. But these efforts were baffled, 
and were finally succeeded by an attempt of a different character, 
making such an appeal to the feelings of the son and brother, as 
left him no hesitation in accepting the offer of a more distant 
expatriation, which was made to him. A communication was 
opened between the Directory and the Duchess of Orleans ; and 
she was given to understand, that if she would address herself to 
her eldest son, and prevail upon him to repair to the United 
States, her own position should be rendered more tolerable, and 
the sequestration removed from her property ; and that her two 
youngest sons should be released, and permitted to join their 
brother in America. To this proposition the duchess assented, 
and wrote a letter to her son, recommending a compliance with 
the terms proposed, and adding — " May the prospect of relieving 
the suffering of your poor mother, of rendering the situation of 
your brothers less painful, and of contributing- to give quiet to 
your country, recompense your generosity ! " 

The government charged itself with the despatch of this letter 
to the exile, and a new effort was made for his discovery. When 
other means had failed, their charge -d'affaires at Hamburg 
applied to a Mr Westford, a merchant of that city, who, from 
some circumstances, was supposed to be in correspondence with 
the prince. This suspicion was well founded ; but Mr Westford 
received with incredulity the declaration of the charge-d'affaires, 
that his object, in opening a communication with the duke, was 
to convey to him a letter from his mother on the part of the 
government; and disclaimed all knowledge of his actual resi- 
dence. He, however, immediately communicated to the duke 
a statement of what had taken place, and the latter determined 
to risk the exposure, in the hope of receiving a letter directly 
from his mother. He was actually in the neighbourhood of 
Hamburg, though in the Danish states, where he had changed, 
his residence from time to time, as a due regard to secrecy 
required. An interview between the duke and the French 
charge was arranged by Mr Westford at his own house in the 
evening; and there, after the receipt of his mother's letters, 
Louis signified at once his acceptance of the terms proposed, 
and his determination to embark for the United States without 
delay. He immediately wrote a letter to his mother, commenc- 
ing with the declaration — ^^ When my dear mother shall receive 



this letter, her orders will have been executed, and I shall have 
sailed for the United States." 

The ship " American," Captain Ewing, a reg-ular trader 
between Philadelphia and Hamburg*, was then Ijang- in the 
Elbe, preparing' for departure. The duke, passing- for a Dane, 
applied to the captain, and eng-aged his passage for the usual 
amount, at that time thirty-five guineas. He had with him 
his faithful servant Baudoin, who had rejoined him in his 
travels, and whom he was solicitous to take with him across 
the Atlantic. But the captain, for some reason, seemed unwil- 
ling to receive this humble attendant, and told his importunate 
passenger that the services of this man would not only be useless 
to him upon the voyage, but that when he reached America, 
he would, like most servants, desert his master. He was, how- 
ever, finally j^ersuaded to yield, and the servant was received 
for seventeen and a half g'uineas. 

The duke was anxious to escape observation in Hamburg, and 
asked permission of the captain to repair on board his ship, and 
remain a few days before her departure. The captain, with 
some reluctance, consented to this unusual proposition ; though 
it afterwards appeared that this step, and the mystery which 
evidently surrounded his young passenger, had produced an 
unfavourable impression upon his mind. 

Late in the night preceding the departure of the ship from the- 
Elbe, when the duke was in his berth, an elderly French gentle- 
man, destined to be his only fellow cabin passenger, came on 
board. He understood English badly, and spoke it worse ; and 
perceiving the accommodations far inferior to those he had anti- 
cipated, he set himself to find fault with much vehemence, but 
with a garrulity wonderfully checked by the difficulty he encoun- 
tered in giving vent to his excited feelings in English. He 
called for an interpreter; and, not finding one, he gradually 
wore away, if not his discontent, the expression of it, and retired 
to rest. In the morning, seeing' the duke, his first inquiry was 
if he spoke French; and perceiving he did, he expressed his 
gratification, and said, " You speak very well for a Dane, and 
you will be able to get along without my instruction. You are 
a young man, and I am an old one, and you must serve as my 
interpreter." To this the duke assented ; and the old gentle- 
man, who was a planter from St Domingo on his way to his 
native island, commenced the enumeration of his grievances. He 
had no teeth, and the cook no soft bread, and he said it was 
impossible to sail in a vessel not provided with the means of 
baking fresh bread ; that such an arrangement existed on board 
all the French ships ; and that he could not eat the American 
biscuit. The captain coolly told him, " There is my beef, and 
there is my bread ; and if you are not satisfied with my fare, 
you can leave the ship." The impatient planter, unwilling to 
relinquish the chance of revisiting his native country, thought 



it better to risk his teeth rather than disembark, and continued 
on board. There were many steerag:e passengers, Germans and 
Alsatians, emig-rating- to the United States. The ship left the 
Elbe on the 24th of September 1796, and after a pleasant passage 
of twentj-seven days, arrived at Philadelphia. Shortly before 
entering- the Capes of the Delaware, the duke, unwilling that 
the captain should learn his true character from public report 
after reaching his destination, disclosed to him who he was. 
The captain expressed his gratification at the communication, 
and frankly stated, that the circumstances under which he had 
come on board had produced an impression upon his mind unfa- 
vourable to his young passenger ; that in striving to conjectm'B 
what could be his true position, he had come to the conclusion 
that he was a gambler who had committed himself in some 
gambling speculations, and that he was seeking secrecy and 
refuge in the new world. The chances of luck had indeed been 
against his new acquaintance, and he had lost a great prize in 
the lottery of life ; but he had preserved those better prizes — an 
approving conscience, and an unblemished reputation. The other 
passenger, the St Domingo planter, remained in ignorance of 
the name of his cabin companion, till he learned it in Phila- 
delphia, when he called to make known his surprise, and to 
tender his compliments. 


The Duke of Orleans, having arrived in the United States 
in the November following, was joined by his brothers, Mont- 
pensier and Beaujolais, after they had encountered a stormy 
passage of ninety -three days from Marseilles. The reunited 
princes now took up their residence together in Philadelphia, 
and there they passed the winter, mingling in the society of the 
place, and forming many agreeable acquaintances. Philadelphia 
was at that time the seat of the federal government, and General 
Washington was at the head of the administration. The three 
young strangers were presented to him, and were invited to 
visit Mount Vernon after the expiration of his term of service. 
The duke was present at the last address delivered by General 
Washington to Congress, and also at the inauguration of Mr 
Adams, when his venerable predecessor joyfully took his leave 
of public life. 

During the season, the Duke of Orleans and his brothers 
visited Mount Vernon, passing through Baltimore, where he 
renewed an acquaintance previously formed in Philadelphia 
with General Smith ; and crossing the site of the present city of 
Washington, where he was hospitably received by the late Mr 
Law, and where he met the present General INIason of George- 
town. This most respectable man is well remembered by the 
king, who loves to speak of the hospitality of his house, and 


of his personal kindness — evinced, among other circumstances, 
by Ms accompanying" his three young" guests in a visit to the 
falls of the Potomac. From Georgetown the party passed 
through Alexandria, and thence went to Mount Yernon, where 
they were most kindly received, and where they resided some 

While at Mount Vernon, General Washington prepared for 
the exiled princes an itinerary of a journey to the western coun- 
try, and furnished them with some letters of introduction for 
persons upon the route. They made the necessary preparations 
ibr a long tour, which they performed on horseback, each of 
them carrying in a pair of saddle-bags, after the fashion of that 
period, whatever he might require in clothes and other articles 
for his personal comfort. The travelling-map of the three princes 
is still preserved, and furnishes convincing proof that it has 
passed through severe service. The various routes followed by 
the travellers are strongly depicted in red ink; and by their 
extent and direction, they show the great enterprise displayed 
by thi'ee young" strang*ers to acquire a just knowledge of the 
country, at a time when the difficulties of travelling over a great 
part of the route were enough to discourage many a hardy 
American. Louis-Philippe, in not long since showing this map 
to an American gentleman, mentioned that he possessed an accu- 
rate account, showing the expenditure of every dollar he dis- 
bm'sed in the United States. It is an example of business habits 
worthy of all praise and imitation. This attention to the impor- 
tant concern of personal expenditure was one of the character- 
istic features of Washington ; and both of these celebrated men 
were, no doubt, penetrated with the conviction that punctuahty 
is essential to success. 

At the period in which the journey of the princes was per- 
formed, the back settlements of the United States were in a 
comparatively rude condition, and could not be traversed with- 
out undergoing many hardships. The inns, in particular, were 
few and far distant from each other, and their keepers, in many 
cases, chm^islily independent and overbearing. Taking the 
road by Leesburg and Harper's Ferry to Winchester, the duke 
and his brothers dismounted at a house kept by a Mr Bush, 
where they experienced an impleasing instance of incivihty. 
Mr Bush was from Manheim on the Rhine, and the Duke of 
Chartres having recently visited that city, and speaking Ger- 
man fluently, a bond of communication was established between 
them, and the landlord and the traveller were soon engaged 
in an interesting* conversation. This took place while the ne- 
cessary arrangements were making to provide a substantial 
meal for the hungry guests, and probably, also, for others who 
were waiting for the same indispensable attention. One of the 
younger brothers was indisposed, and the elder suggested to liis 
landlord a wish that his party might be permitted to eat by 


themselves. But oh the vanity of human expectations ! Such 
a proposition had never been heard in the whole valley of Shen- 
andoah, and least of all in the mansion of Mr Bush. The rules 
of his house had been attacked, and his professional pride 
wounded; the recollections of Manheim, and the pleasure of 
hearing his native language, and the modest conversation of the 
young strangers, were all thrown to the wind, and the offended 
dignitary exclaimed, " If you are too good to eat at the same 
table with my other guests, you are too good to eat in my house 
■ — begone ! " And notwithstanding the deprecatory'- tone which 
the duke immediately took, his disavowal of any intention to 
offend, and his offer to eat where it would be agreeable to this 
governor of hungry appetites that these should be assuaged, the 
young men were compelled to leave the house, and to seek refuge 

Our adventurers turned their backs on Mr Bush and AVin- 
chester, and proceeded on their journey. When traversing 
a district called the Barrens, in Kentucky, the duke and his 
brothers stopped at a cabin, where was to be found " enter- 
tainment for man and horse," and where the landlord was 
very solicitous to ascertain the business of the travellers — not 
apparently from any idle curiosity, but because he seemed to 
feel a true solicitude for them. It was in vain, however, the 
duke protested they were travelling to look at the country, and 
without any view to purchase or settlement. Such a motive for 
encountering the trouble and expense of a long journey, was 
beyond the circle of the settlers observation or experience. In 
the night, all the travellers were disposed upon the floor of the 
cabin, with their feet towards a prodigious fire, the landlord 
and his wife occupying- a puncheon bedstead, pinned to the 
lo2:s forming the side of the mansion. The duke, in a moment 
of" wakefulness, was amused to overhear the good man express- 
ing to his wife his regret that three such promising young 
men should be running uselessly over the country, and wonder- 
ing they did not purchase land there, and establish themselves 

At Chilocothe the duke found a public-house kept by a Mr 
M'Donald, a name well known to the early settlers of that place; 
and he was a witness of a scene which the progress of morals 
and manners has since rendered a rare one in that place, or, 
indeed, throughout the well-regulated state of Ohio. He saw a 
fight between the landlord and some one who frequented his 
house, in which the former would have suffered, if the duke 
had not interfered to separate the combatants. 

Arriving at Pittsburg, a town rising into importance at the 
head of the Ohio, the travellers rested several days, and formed 
an acquaintance with some of the inhabitants. From Pittsburg 
they travelled to Erie, and thence down the shore of the lake to 
Buffalo. On this journey they lighted on a band of Seneca 



Indians, to whom they were indebted for a night's hospitality ; 
for there were then few habitations but Indian wigwams upon the 
borders of the American lakes, and still fewer vessels, except 
birch canoes, y»'hich sailed over their waves. Among" this band 
was an old woman, taken jDrisoner many a long- year before, and 
now habituated to her fate, and contented with it. She was a 
native of Germany, and yet retained some recollection of her 
native language and country ; and the faint, though still abiding* 
feeling' which connected her present with her past condition, led 
her to take an interest in the three young strangers who talked 
to her in that language and of that country, and she exerted her- 
self to render their short residence among her friends as comfort- 
able as possible. The chief assured the travellers that he would 
be personally responsible for every article they might intrust to 
his care ; but that he would not answer for his people unless this 
precaution was used. Accordingly, everything was deposited 
with the chief, saddles, bridles, blankets, clothes, and money; 
all which being faithfully produced in the morning", the day's 
journey was commenced. But the party had not proceeded far 
upon their route, when they missed a favourite dog', which they 
had not supposed to be included in the list of contraband articles 
requiring a deposit in this aboriginal custom-house, and had 
therefore left it at liberty. He was a singularly beautiful ani- 
mal,- and having been the companion in imprisonment of the 
two young'er brothers at the castle of St Jean, they were much 
attached to him. The duke immediately returned to seek and 
reclaim the dog ; and the chief, without the slightest embarrass- 
ment, said to him, in answer to his representations, " If you had 
intrusted the dog to me last night, he would have been ready for 
you this morning ; but we will find him." And he immediately 
went to a kind of closet, shut in by a board, and on his removing 
this, the faithful animal leaped out upon his masters. 

Scarcely resting at Buifalo, they crossed to Fort Erie on the 
British side, and then repaired to the Falls of Niagara. This 
grand natural object, as may be supposed, engaged the careful 
examination of the princes, and one of them, the Duke of Mont- 
pensier, who excelled in drawing, made a sketch of the cataract 
for his sister. The party then proceeded to Canandaigua, through 
a country almost in a state of nature. In one of the worst 
parts of this worst of roads, they met Mr Alexander Baring, 
the present Lord Ashburton, whom the duke had known m 

Continuing their route to Geneva, they procured a boat, and 
embarked upon the Seneca Lake, which they ascended to its 
head ; and from hence they made their way to Tioga Point, 
upon the Susquehannah — each of the travellers carrying his 
baggage, for the last twenty-five miles, upon his back. From 
Tioga the party descended the river in a boat to Wilkesbarre, 
and thence they crossed the country to Philadelphia. 


Wiile residing in this city, the Duke of Montpensier wrote a 
letter to his sister, Mademoiselle d'Orleans (dated August 14, 
1797), from which the following extract has been published, 
giving an account of the journey which the writer and hi& 
brothers had lately performed : — 

" I hope you received the letter which we wrote you from 
Pittsburg two months since. We were then in the midst of a 
great journey, that we finished fifteen days ago. It took us four 
months. We travelled during that time a thousand leagues, 
and always upon the same horses, except the last hundred leagues, 
which we performed partly by water, partly on foot, partly upon 
hired horses, and partly by the stage or public conveyance. We 
have seen many Indians, and we remained several days in their 
country. They received us with great kindness, and our national 
character contributed not a little to this good reception, for they 
love the French. After them we found the Falls of Niagara, 
which I wrote you from Pittsburg we were about to visit, the 
most interesting object upon our journey. It is the most sur- 
prising and majestic spectacle I have ever seen. It is a hundred 
and thirty-seven (French) feet high ; and the volume of water is 
immense, since it is the whole river St Lawrence which precipi- 
tates itself at this place. I have taken a sketch of it, and I in- 
tend to paint a picture in water colours from it, which my dear 
little sister will certainly see at our tender mother's ; but it is 
not yet commenced, and will take me much time, for truly it is 
no small work. To give you an idea of the agreeable manner 
in which they travel in this country, I will tell you, my dear 
sister, that we passed fourteen nights in the woods, devoured by 
all kinds of insects, after being wet to the bone, without being 
able to dry ourselves ; and eating pork, and sometimes a little 
salt beef, and corn bread." 

During the residence of the Duke of Orleans and his brothers 
in Philadelphia, the city was visited by yellow fever — a fatal 
epidemic, but from which the unfortunate princes found it im- 
possible to fly, on account of a lack of funds. From this un- 
pleasant and perilous dilemma they were happily relieved in the 
course of September, by a remittance from their mother. With a 
purse thus opportunely reinforced, they now undertook another 
excursion, which this time led them to the eastern part of the 
United States, finally arriving in New York. Here the brothers 
learned that a new law had just decreed the expulsion of all the 
members of the Bourbon family yet remaining in France from 
that countiy ; and that their mother had been deported to Spain. 
Their object was now to join her ; but, owing to their peculiar 
circumstances, and to the war between England and Spain, this 
object was not easily attained. To avoid the French cruisers upon 
the coast, they determined to repair to New Orleans, and there to 
find a conveyance for Havana, whence they thoug-ht they could 
reach the mother country. They set out, therefore, for Pitts- 


"burg" on the lOth of December 1797 ; and upon the road, fatigned 
with travelling' on horseback, they purchased a dragon, and, 
harnessing their horses to it, and placing* their lug-g-ag-e withiu;, 
they continued their route more comfortably. They arrived at 
Carlisle on Saturday, when the inhabitants of the neighbour- 
ing" country appeared to have entered the town for some purpose 
of business or pleasure, and drove up to a public-house, near 
which was a trough for the reception of the oats which travellers 
might be disposed to give their horses, without putting' them 
into the stable. A quantity of oats was procured by the party, 
and poured into the trough ; and the bits were taken from the 
horses' mouths, to enable them to eat freely. The duke took 
his position in the wagon, looking round him ; when the horses 
being suddenly frightened, ran away with the wagon, which, 
passing over a stump, was upset and broken. The duke was 
thrown out, and somewhat injured. In early hfe, as we have 
seen, he had learned to perform the operation of bleeding. Im- 
mediately perceiving that his situation required depletion, and 
making' his way, as he best could, to the tavern, he requested 
permission of the landlord to perform the operation in his house, 
and to be furnished with linen and water. The family was kind, 
and supplied him with everything he required ; and he soon 
reheved himself by losing a quantity of blood. The circum- 
stances, however, had attracted general attention, in consequence 
of the accident to the wagon, and of the injury to the traveller, 
and still more from the extraordinary occurrence of self-bleed- 
ing ; and a large crowd had collected in the tavern to watch the 
result of the operation. It is probable the curious spectators 
thought he was a Yankee doctor going to the west to establish 
himself, and to vend medical skill and drugs. Apparently well 
satisfied with the surgical ability which the stranger had just 
displayed, they proposed to him to remain at Carlisle, and to 
commence there his professional career, promising to employ 
him, and assuring him that his prospect of success would be 
much more favoiirable than in the regions beyond the moun- 

AVhen our party reached Pittsburg, they found the Monon- 
gahela frozen, but the Alleghany open. They purchased a keel- 
boat, then lying in the ice, and with much labour and difficulty 
transported it to the point where the two rivers meet and form 
the Ohio. There the party embarked on that river, which they 
descended along with three persons to aid them in the navigation. 
Before arriving at Wheeling, the river became entirely obstructed 
by the ice, and they were compelled to land and remain some 
days. They found Major F., an officer of the United States 
army, charged with despatches for the posts below, detained at 
the same place. On examining the river from the neighbouring 
hills, they ascertained that the region of ice extended only about 
three miles, and kept themselves prepared to take advantage of 


the first opening" wliich should appear. This soon came, and 
they passed throug-h, and continued their voyage ; but Major F., 
who had not been equally alert, missed the opportunity, and 
remained blockaded. He did not reach the lower part of the 
river till three weeks after our travellers. 

At Marietta the party stopped and landed, and a circumstance 
connected with this event shows the extraordinary memory which 
Louis-Philippe possesses. A few years ago he asked an American 
gentleman it he was ever in Marietta. As it happened, this 
gentleman had spent some years in the early part of his life 
there, and was able to answer in the affirmative. " And do you 
know," said the king, "a French baker there named Thierry ? '' 
The gentleman knew him perfectly well, and so answered the 
inquiry. " Well," said the king, " I once ran away with him" 
— and then proceeded to explain, that, in descending the Ohio, he 
had sto23ped at Marietta, and gone into the town in search of 
bread. He was referred to this same Mr Thierry ; and the 
baker not having a stock on hand, set himself to work to heat 
his oven in order to supply the applicant. While this process 
was going on, the prince walked over the town, and visited the 
interesting ancient remains which are to be found in the western 
part of it, near the banks of the Muskingam, and whose history 
and purposes have given rise to such various and unsatisfactory 
speculations. The prince took a sketch of some of these works, 
which are indeed among the most extensive of their class that 
are to be found in the vast basin of the Mississippi. On his 
return he found the ice in the Muskingam on the point of 
breaking up, and Mr Thierry so late in his operations, that he 
had barely time to leap into the boat with his bread, before they 
were compelled to leave the shore, that they might precede the 
mass of ice which was entering the Ohio. The baker thus car- 
ried off bore his misfortune like a philosopher ; and though he 
mourned over the supposed g'rief of his faithful wife, he still 
urged the rowers to exert themselves, in order to place his J^oung 
countrymen beyond the chance of injury. They were finally 
successful; and after some time, Mr Thierry was taken ashore 
by a canoe which they hailed, well satisfied with his expedition. 
The travellers continued their voyage, and met with but one ac- 
cident. By the inattention of the helmsman, the boat struck a 
tree, and stove in her bows. All the crew, princes and hired 
men, went to work ; and after twenty-four hours, the damages 
were repaired, and they reached New Orleans in safety on the 
17th of February 1798. 

From this city they embarked on board an American vessel 
for Havana in the island of Cuba ; and upon their passage they 
were boarded by an English frigate under French colours. Until 
the character of the cruiser was ascertained, the three brothers 
were apprehensive that they might be known and conducted to 
France. However, when it was discovered, on one side, that 



the visitor was an English ship, and, on the other, that the 
three young* passengers were the princes of the house of Orleans, 
confidence was restored, and the captain hastened to receive 
them on board his vessel, where he treated them with distinc- 
tion, and then conducted them to Havana. 

The residence of the wandering* princes in Cuba was of no 
long* duration. By the Spanish authorities they were treated 
with marked disrespect, and ordered to return to New Orleans. 
This, however, they declined to do, and proceeded to the Bahama 
islands, expecting thence to find their way to England. At 
this period the Duke of Kent was in the Bahamas, and kindly 
received the illustrious strang*ers, though he did not feel himself 
authorised to give them a passage to England in a British 
frigate. They were not discouraged, but sailed in a small vessel 
to New York, whence an English packet carried them to Fal- 


The Duke of Orleans and his brothers arrived at Falmouth 
early in February 1800, and readily obtaining the permission of 
government to land in the country, they proceeded to London, 
and shortly afterwards took up their residence on the banks of 
the Thames at Twickenham. Here the exiles had at length an 
opportunity of enjoying some repose in the midst of the best 
English society ; nor was the well-known hospitality of England 
lacking on this, as on all other occasions. The young princes 
were treated with the greatest kindness by all classes, from 
royalty downwards, and, by their unaffected manners, gained 
universal esteem. Neither the polite attentions of the English 
people, nor the splendours of London fashionable life, however, 
could obliterate the recollections of his mother from the heart of 
the Duke of Orleans ; and the English government having 
allowed him and his brothers a free passage in a frigate to 
Minorca, they proceeded thither with the expectation of find- 
ing a means of passing over to Spain, in which country their 
parent was an exile and captive. This troublesome expedi- 
tion, from the convulsed state of Spain at the period, proved 
fruitless, and they returned to England, ag*ain retiring* to 

At their pleasant retreat here, the Duke of Orleans engaged 
with zeal in the study of political economy and the institutions 
of Great Britain ; at times making excursions with his brothers 
to the seats of the nobility and interesting parts of the country, 
and from taste and habit, becoming almost an Englishman. The 
only pressing subject of concern was the infirm health of the 
Duke of Montpensier. With a somewhat weakly constitution, 
deranged by long and cruel confinement in prison, he had, since 
his first arrival in England, experienced a gradual sinking in 
bodily strength. Notwithstanding every effort of medicine to 



save him, this amiable and accomplished prince died, May 18, 
1807. His remains were interred in Westminster Abbey, where 
his tomb is marked by an eleg-ant Latin epitaph, the joint com- 
position of the Duke of Orleans and General Dumouriez. To 
ag-gravate the loss, the health of Count Beaujolais, affected by 
the same treatment as that of his brother, began also to decline. 
Ordered by his physicians to visit a warmer climate, the duke ac- 
<3ompanied him to Malta, and there he died in 1808. His body 
was consigned to the dust in the church of St John at Valetta. 

Bereaved, and almost broken-hearted with his losses, the Duke 
of Orleans passed from Malta to Messina in Sicily, and by a kind 
invitation from King Ferdinand (of Naples), visited the royal 
family at Palermo. The accomplishments and misfortunes of 
the duke did not fail to make a due impression on the Neapolitan, 
family, while he was equally delighted with the manner in 
which he was received by them. During his residence at 
Palermo, he gained the affections of the Princess Amelia, the 
second daughter of the king, and with the consent of Ferdinand 
and the Duchess of Orleans, who fortunately was released from 
her thraldom in Spain, and permitted to come to Sicily, their 
marriage took place in November 1809. Restored to a long-lost 
mother, and at the same time endowed with an estimable wife, 
need we doubt that the happiness of the Duke of Orleans was 
complete. Certainly it deserved to be so. 

In about six months after this event, the Duke of Orleans was 
invited by the regency of Spain to take a military command in 
that country, in order to assist in expelling* the French imperial 
invaders. Desirous of pursuing an active and useful life, he 
obeyed the invitation ; but, to the disgrace of the Cortes, they 
refused to fulfil their deceitful promises, and after spending 
three months in attempting to g*ain redress, the duke returned 
to Palermo, where, on his landing, he had the pleasure to 
learn that the Duchess of Orleans had given birth to a son 
(September 2, 1810). 


We have, in the preceding pages, briefly traced our hero from 
childhood to youth, and from youth to manhood. We have seen 
him in adversity, with scarcely bread to eat, or a house wherein 
to lay his head. We have seen him emerge from this period of 
misfortune, till he arrived in a country where his claims were 
recognised, and he not only found a home, but a companion, 
amiable, accomplished, and in every other way calculated to in- 
sure his happiness. We have now the pleasing duty of following 
this remarkable man from his comparative obscurity in a foreign 
land, to the country and home of his fathers, and of seeing him, 
by the force of uncontrollable circumstances, reach a station the 
highest which any earthly power can confer. 

The domestic tranquillity which the Duke of Orleans was 



enjoying" in Palermo was, in 1814, suddenly-^and unexpectedly 
interrupted by the arrival of intelligence that Napoleon had 
abdicated the throne, and that the Bourbons were to be restored 
to France. Being now enabled to return to the country of his 
birth, and the inheritance of which civil discord had deprived 
him, the duke sailed from Sicily in a vessel placed at his disposal 
by Lord William Bentinck. On the 18th of May he arrived in 
Paris, where in a short time he was in the enjoyment of the 
honours due to his rank and talents. His first visit to the 
Palais Royal, which he had not seen since he parted with his 
father, and now his own by inheritance, is mentioned as having" 
been marked by strong emotion ; nor were his feelings less ex- 
cited on beholding other scenes from which he had been banished 
since childhood. 

The return of Napoleon in 1815 broke up his arrangements 
for settling" in his newly-recovered home. He sent his family 
to England, and was ordered by the king, Louis XVIIL, to take 
command of the army of the north. He remained in this situa- 
tion until the 24th of March 1815, when he g-ave up the com- 
mand to the Duke of Treviso, and went to join his family in 
England, where he again fixed his residence at Twickenham. 
On the return of Louis XVIII. after the Hundred Days, an 
ordinance was issued, authorising, according to the charter as 
it then stood, all the princes of the blood to take their seats in 
the Chamber of Peers; and the duke returned to France in 
September 1815, for the purpose of being present at the session. 
Here he distinguished himself by a display of liberal sentiments, 
which were so little agreeable to the administration, that he 
returned again to England, where he remained till 1817. He 
now returned to France, but was not again summoned to sit in 
the Chamber of Peers, and remained therefore in private life, 
in which he displayed all the virtues of a good father, a good 
husband, and a g*ood citizen. 

The education of his family now deeply engaged his attention. 
His eldest son was instructed, like his ancestor Henry IV., in 
the public institutions of the country, and distinguished him- 
self by the success of his studies. His family has ever been 
a model of union, good morals, and domestic virtues. Per- 
sonally simple in his tastes, order and economy were combined 
with a magnificence becoming his rank and wealth ; for the 
restoration of his patrimony had placed him in a state of opu- 
lence. The protector of the fine arts, and the patron of letters, 
his superb palace in Paris, and his delightful seat at Neuilly, 
were ornamented with the productions of the former, and fre- 
quented by the distinguished men of the age. 

While the Duke of Orleans was thus pursuing a career apart 
from the court, a new and unexpected scene was opened in the 
drama of his singularly changeful life. We here allude to the 
Revolution of 1830, the intelligence of which struck every nation 



in Europe with surprise. Yet such an event was not altogether 
unlooked for. - The elder family of the Bourbons, who had 
been restored by force of foreig:n arms to the throne of their 
ancestors, are allowed by their best friends to have conducted 
themselves in a manner little calculated to insure the attach- 
ment of the French people. The final blow levelled at the con- 
stitution by Charles X., and the Prince de Polig-nac, with the 
rest of his ministers, was unquestionably one of the maddest acts 
of which history presents any account. The facts of the case 
were as follows : — 

The Chamber of Deputies was dissolved in May (1830), and a 
new election ordered to take place in the latter part of June and 
in July. All the returns of the new elections indicated a strong* 
majority against the ministry, who were not by any means 
popular. It is the sound and well-known practice in constitu- 
tional governments, that in such cases as this the king changes 
his ministers, in order to bring the executive into harmony with 
the legislature. Charles X, ventured on reversing this practice. 
Instigated by advisers and followers, who afterwards deserted him, 
he resolved to retain his ministers, and hazard a new election on 
principles of voting different from what the existing law pre- 
scribed, and bj^ which he hoped to gain a majority in the Chamber. 
The newspapers generally having denounced these and other 
projects as a violation of the charter or compact of the king 
with his people, they became an object of attack, and it was re- 
solved to place the press under such laws as would effectually 
prevent all free discussion. Three ordinances were forthwith 
issued by royal authority. One dissolved the Chambers ; another 
arbitrarily prescribed a new law of election ; and the third sus- 
pended the liberty of the periodical press. This daring violation 
of the charter was viewed with consternation by the people. 
When the act became generally knoAvn in Paris on the 26th of 
July, the funds declined, the banks refused to discount bills, and 
the manufacturers discharged their workmen, which of course 
increased the discontent. Several newspapers appeared, in despite 
of the ordinances, on the 27th, and copies were disposed of by hun- 
dreds in the cafes, the reading-rooms, and the restaurants. Jour- 
nalists hurried from place to place, and shop to shop, to read them 
aloud, and comment upon them. The apparatus for printing the 
Temps, one of the most energetic of the liberal papers, was seized 
by an agent of police, aided by a detachment of mounted gen- 
darmerie. This and other acts of aggression served as a signal 
for revolt and revolution. In Great Britain, before such extreme 
measures would be resorted to, the people would assemble peace- 
fully, and petition or remonstrate ; but in France, where public 
meetings of any kind are not tolerated without the consent of a 
chief magistrate, the people are practically denied the power- of 
petitioning ; and hence one cause of their recourse to a violent 
means of redress. 


In the night of the 27th July, the streets and boulevards were 
barricaded, and the pavements were torn up to serve as missiles. 
On the morning of the 28th all Paris was in arms ; the national 
g-uard appeared in their old uniform, and the tri-coloured flag-, 
which had been that of the Republic and Empire, was displayed. 
By a singular infatuation, the government had taken no pre- 
caution to support its measures by a competent armed force. 
There were at most 12,000 soldiers in Paris, the garrison of 
which had just been diminished : the minister of war, instead of 
bringing an army to bear on the capital, was occupied with 
administrative details ; and M. de Polignac was regretting' that 
he had no cash to invest in the public funds. To increase the 
mismanasfement, no proi3er means were adopted to pi'ovide 
rations for the soldiers on duty in the streets. 

On the 28th, the fighting was considerable, the infuriated 
populace firing from behind barricades, from house-tops, and 
from windows : many of the troops were disarmed ; some were 
unwilling to fire on their countrymen, and some went openly 
over to the citizens. On the 29th General Lafayette was ap- 
pointed commander-in-chief of the national guard by the liberal 
deputies, and was received with enthusiasm. The fighting* was 
still greater this day ; and on the 30th, the Parisians gained the 
victory. From 7000 to 8000 persons were killed and wounded. 
It now became necessary to determine what form of government 
should be substituted for that which had been vanquished. The 
cause of the elder branch of the Bourbons was pronounced hope- 
less. The king was in eifect discrowned, and the throne was 
vacant. In this emergency, the provisional government which 
had risen out of the strug'gle, and in which Lafitte, Lafayette, 
Thiers, and other politicians had taken the lead, turned towards 
the Duke of Orleans, whom it was proposed, in the first in- 
stance, to invite to Paris to become lieutenant-general of the 
kingdom, and afterwards, in a more regular manner, to become 
king. The Duke of Orleans, during' the insurrection, had been 
residing' in seclusion at his country seat, and if watching 
the course of events, at least taking' no active part in either 
dethroning' his kinsman, or in contrivances for his own aggran- 

M. Thiers and M. Scheffer were appointed to conduct the 
negotiation with the duke, and visited Neuilly for the purpose. 
The duke was, however, absent, and the interview took place 
with the duchess and the Princess Adelaide, to whom they repre- 
sented the dangers with which the nation was menaced, and that 
anarchy could only be averted by the prompt decision of the 
duke to place himself at the head of a new constitutional mo- 
narchy. M. Thiers expressed his conviction " that nothing was 
left the Duke of Orleans but a choice of dangers, and that, in 
the existing state of things, to recoil from the possible perils of 
royalty, was to run full upon a republic and its inevitable 



violences." The substance of the communication being" made 
known to the duke, on a day's consideration, he acceded to the 
request, and at noon of the 31st came to Paris to accept the office 
which had been assigned him. On the 2d of August the abdica- 
tion of Charles X., and of his son, was placed in the hands of the 
lieutenant-general ; the abdication, however, being in favour of 
the Duke of Bourdeaux. On the 7th the Chamber of Deputies 
declared the throne vacant ; and on the 8th the Chamber went 
in a body to the Duke of Orleans, and offered him the crown, on 
terms of a revised charter. His formal acceptance of the offer 
took place on the 9th. At his inauguration he adopted the style 
and title of Louis-Philippe I., King of the French. The act of 
abdication of Charles X. was unheeded by the Chambers ; and 
with a moderation surprising in the French character, Charles 
and his family, including his young' grandchild, Henry, Duke 
of Bourdeaux, were tranquilly conducted out of the kingdom. 


Louis-Philippe became king of the French on the 9th of 
August 1830, and the happiest consequences to the nation 
were expected from the event. There was an unbounded con- 
fidence in the king's talents for government; and it was 
believed that the extraordinary privations he had endured in 
early life, and his knowledge of the world, would lead him on 
all occasions to sympathise with the people. For some years 
these hopes were not disappointed. Under his steady consti- 
tutional government France found repose, and everywhere might 
be observed evidences of improvement and prosperity. A fault 
laid to the king's charge was parsimony : by family inheritance, 
he was one of the wealthiest men in Europe ; and it was alleged 
that his habits of economy, and schemes as a capitalist, were 
unworthy of his rank. This accusation, however, is to be re- 
ceived with caution ; for it is certain he expended vast sums, 
from his private fortune, in embellishing Versailles and other 
places of public show, as well as in the encouragement of the 
arts. In his domestic relations he was most exemplary; in 
personal intercourse affable ; and, aided by his amiable consort, 
his court was a pattern for royalty. 

Possessing many excellent qualities, and tried in the school of 
adversity, it is to be regretted that Louis-Philippe did not adopt 
means for insuring the affectionate regard of the people over 
whom he was called to reign. The fundamental error in his 
career seems to have been a love of family aggrandisement, to 
the neglect of public interests. Apparently distrustful of his 
position, he endeavoured to fortify it by allying his children 
with the reigning families of Europe. He married his eldest 
son Ferdinand, Duke of Orleans (born 1810), to the Princess 
Helen of Mecklenburg-Schwerin ; his daughter Louisa (bom 

1812) to Leopold, King of the Belgians; his son Louis, Duke of 


Nemours (born 1814), to the Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg*- 
Gotha; his daughter Clementina (born 1817) to Prince Aug-ustus 
of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha; his son Francis, Prince of Joinville (born 
1818), to the Princess Frances-Caroline of Brazil ; his son the 
Duke of Aumale (born 1822) to the Princess Caroline of Salerno; 
and his son Antony, Duke of Montpensier (born 1824), to Louisa, 
sister and heir presumptive of the reigning queen of Spain. 
This latter marriage greatly damaged the reputation of Louis- 
Philippe ; for it obviously aimed at the preponderating influence 
of his dynasty over the Spanish monarchy. With feelings 
bound up in his family, the death of his eldest son, the Duke of 
Orleans, who was killed in leaping from his carriage July 13, 
1842, was a severe blow. The duke possessed an amiable dispo- 
sition and joyous temperament, which endeared him to the 
French, and his death therefore led to distressing anticipations. 
He left two children, Louis-Philippe-Albert, Count of Paris (born 
1838), and Eobert-Philippe, Duke of Chartres (born 1840). The 
Count of Paris was now heir-apparent of the French throne, 
Louis-Philippe's sister, the Princess Adelaide, who had resided 
with his family since his accession, died in December 1847, and 
her loss was acutely felt by her much attached brother, as well 
as by the poor of Paris, to whom she had been a kind benefactor. 

As a king, Louis-Philippe was alleged to interfere unduly in 
state affairs, in place of leaving the executive entirely in the 
hands of his ministry, who were alone responsible under the 
law. Perhaps this offence — supposing it to be well founded — 
would have called forth no very severe remark, had the king 
suited his policy to the awakening principles of constitutional 
freedom. Unfortunately, from whatever cause, and with M. 
Guizot as prime minister, his government took no means to 
redress abuses. An odious law preventing public meetings for 
religious or political discussion, was suffered to remain unre- 
pealed; and the election of members of the Chamber of Deputies 
was carefully kept in the hands of a limited constituency, most 
of whom were officers of government. As Louis-Philippe had 
taken an oath to reign according to the charter, and had got the 
throne on at least an implied promise of favouring constitutional 
freedom, his conduct in withstanding reform is inexcusable : if 
circumstances showed the inexpediency of abiding by his pro- 
mise, it was clearly his duty to resign. Misled in all probability 
by those about him, and relying too confidently on the efficacy 
of a large military force, this unfortunate prince may be said to 
have fallen into errors similar to those of Charles X., and to have 
expiated them by a similar reverse of fortune. 

The remarkable events of February 1848 are too well known 
to require minute recapitulation here. A proposed banquet of 
a large body of reformers in Paris, with a preliminary proces- 
sion through the streets, on Tuesday the 22d of February, was 
denounced by the ministry as illegal, and the banquet was 



-nccording-ly abandoned. Great excitement, however, prevailed, 
-and some disturbances, with cries for '' reform," ensued. In the 
course of "W^ednesday the 23d, the insurrection became more 
menacing', though it as yet aimed only at a change of ministry. 
To appease discontent, Guizot was this day dismissed, and Count 
Mole appointed to form a new administration. On Wednesday 
evening the croAvd was fired on by the soldiers, and various 
persons being killed, a cry arose for vengeance, and during- the 
jiig'ht the people were busily engaged in erecting barricades- 
Mole having been unable to form a ministry, the duty of doing 
-so was assigned to Thiers and Barrot on the morning of Thurs- 
day the 24th. The time, however, was past for concession ; the 
National Guard had already fraternised with the people, and 
from this circumstance, or a wish to save the effusion of blood, 
the army was withdrawn. The palace of the Tuilleries now lies 
at the mercy of an infuriated mob — in the terror of the moment 
the king- abdicates in favour of his grandson, the Count of Paris, 
and takes to flight with his family — the Count of Paris, a child 
in his tenth year (his mother being proposed as regent), is rejected 
■as king by a remnant of the Chamber of the Deputies mmgied 
with an armed rabble — a Republic is proclaimed, and a provisional 
^■overnment appointed. Such were the circumstances of this 
extraordinary aifair. The monarchy was swept away without a 
-struggle, and with scarcely a voice lifted in its favour ; from 
which it is to be inferred that a deep-rooted hatred, or at least 
contempt, of government measures had long prevailed, and only 
waited an opportunity for explosion. Guizot, as chief minister 
of Louis-Philippe, was proscribed by the new authorities, and, 
lacking the courage to face his accusers, fled from the country.* 
Precipitated by a sudden and unforeseen event from the sum- 
mit of human greatness, and fearful of falling into the hands of 
the excited populace, Louis- Philippe found it necessary to assume 
\'arious disguises, and to attempt an escape from France. In this 
he was fortunately successful : adding new adventures to his 
already chequered career, on the third of March he reached 
England, on whose hospitable shores the scattered members of 
his family had already taken refuge : his faithful and sorelj''- 
tried wife was the companion of his flight. AVhatever may be 
thought of his political errors, it is g-ratifying to know that the 
fallen monarch was received in England with the respect which 
is never withheld from misfortune. 

* Francis Peter William Guizot is the son of a Protestant advocate of Nisnies, 
where he was born in 1787- His father having suffered under the guillotine during 
the excesses of the first Revolution (1794), he was taken by his mother to Geneva, 
where he was educated. He commenced life as a lawj'er, hut afterwards devoted 
himself to literature, and finally became a politician of doctrinaire or theoreti- 
eally-liberal principles. Of acknowledged abilities as a writer on philosophic and 
historical subjects, he is I'eserved in manner, imamiable in character, and the 
event has proved his incompetency for practical statesmanship^ 


AR distant from the many other 
islands with which the Southern Pa- 
cific Ocean is studded, one stands alone, 
rich in natural beauty, and with a 
climate almost unrivalled. Constantly 
fanned by cool breezes from the sea, 
its green hills and deep ravines abound 
in graceful pines and shady fern-trees. 
The wild jasmine and convolvuli climb 
the stems, and reach from tree to tree, 
forming bowers and walls of exquisite 
beauty. The rich soil maintains a per- 
petually luxuriant vegetation, and birds 
of brightest plumage rejoice in groves 
of the abundant guava, or amid the 
delicate blossoms of the golden lemon. 
This lovely island was visited by Captain Cook in 1774, and 
named by him Norfolk Island ; it was then uninhabited, and the 
party who landed were probably the first human beings who had 
ever set foot on it. Neither the vegetable nor the animal world 
had been disturbed. For about two hundred yards from the 
shore, the ground was covered so thickly with shrubs and plants 
as scarcely to be penetrable farther inland. The sea-fowl bred 
unmolested on the shores and cliiFs. The account given by Cook 
led to an attempt at settlement on Norfolk Island ; but this was 
attended with difficulty. The island is small, being only about 
six miles in length by four in breadth ; and was therefore un- 
available for a large or increasing population. Lying nine 
hundred miles from Port Jackson, in Australia, it was incon- 
veniently remote from that country ; and, worst of all, its clifiy 
and rocky shores presented serious dangers to mariners attempt- 
ing a landing. There are, indeed, only three places at which 
boats can effect a safe landing, and at these only with certain 
winds, and never in gales, which are frequent in this part of 
the g'lobe. Its g'eneral unsuitableness, however, for ordinary 
colonisation was considered to adapt it as a penal settlement, 
subordinate to New South Wales, and to which convicts could 
be sent who merited fresh punishment while in course of servi- 
tude. Thus, one of the loveliest of earthly paradises was doomed 
to be a receptacle for the very worst — or shall we call them the 
most unfortunate and most wretched — of malefactors. It might 
be imagined that the beauty of Norfolk Island, and the fineness 
of its climate, would greatly tend to soothe the depraved minds 
of its unhappy tenants, and reconcile them, if anything could, 
to compulsory expatriation. That such effects may be produced 
by considerate treatment, is not improbable ; but hitherto, or at 
least till a late period, one sentiment has overruled all others in 
the minds of the Norfolk Island convicts, and that has been a 
No. 2. 1 


desire for restoration to liberty. Impatient of control, and re- 
gardless of all consequences, they eagerly seize upon every oppor- 
tunity of making their escape — with what fatal consequences let 
the following narrative bear witness. Written by a gentleman 
for some time resident in Norfolk Island, and handed to us for 
publication, as a warning to " those who go astray," the whole 
may be relied upon as a true relation of facts. 

" On the northern side of Norfolk Island the cliffs rise high, 
and are crowned by woods, in which the elegant whitewood and 
gigantic pine predominate. A slight indentation of the land 
affords a somewhat sheltered anchorage ground, and an opening 
in the cliffs has supplied a way to the beach by a winding road at 
the foot of the dividing hills. A stream of water, collected from 
many ravines, finds its way by a similar opening to a ledge of 
rock in the neighbourhood, and, falling over in feathery spray, 
has given the name of Cascade to this part of the island. Off 
this bay, on the morning of the 21st of June 1842, the brig 
Governor Philip was sailing, having brought stores for the use 
of the penal establishment. It was one of those bright mornings 
w^hich this hemisphere alone knows, when the air is so elastic 
that its buoyancy is irresistibly communicated to the spirits. At 
the foot of the cliff', near a group of huge fragments of rock 
fallen from the overhanging cliffs, a prisoner was sitting close to 
the sea preparing food for his companions, who had gone off to 
the brig the previous evening with ballast, and who were expected 
to return at daylight with a load of stores. The surface of the sea 
was smooth, and the brig slowly moved on upon its soft blue 
waters. Everything was calm and still, when suddenly a sharp 
but distant sound as of a gun was heard. The man, who was 
stooping over the fire, started on his feet, and looked above and 
around him, unable to distinguish the quarter from whence the 
i-eport came. Almost immediately he heard the sound repeated, 
and then distinctly perceived smoke curling from the vessel's 
side. His fears were at once excited. Again he listened ; but all 
was hushed, and the brig still stood steadily in towards the shore. 
Nearer and nearer she approached ; until, alarmed for her safety, 
the man ran to summon the nearest officer. By the time they 
returned, the vessel had wore, and was standing off from the land ; 
but while they remained in anxious speculation as to the cause of 
ail this, the firing was renewed on board, and it M^as evident that 
some deadly fray was going on. At length a boat was seen to 
put off from the brig, and upon its reaching the shore, the worst 
fears of the party were realised. The misguided prisoners on 
board had attempted to seize the vessel. They were but twelve 
in number, unarmed, and guarded by twelve soldiers and a crew 
of eighteen men ; yet they had succeeded in gaining* possession 
of the vessel, had held it for a time, but had been finally over- 
powered, and immediate help was required for the wounded and 



June 21, 1842.— My duty as a clerg-yman called me to the 
scene of blood. When I arrived on the deck of the brig-, it 
exhibited a frightful spectacle. One man, whose head was 
blown to atoms, was lying* near the forecastle. Close by his 
side a body was stretched, the face of which was covered by a 
cloth, as if a sig"ht too g'hastly to be looked upon ; for the upper 
half of the head had been blown off. Not far from these, a man 
badly wounded was lying- on the deck, with others securely 
handcuffed. Forward, by the companion-hatch, one of the muti- 
neers was placed, bleeding most profusely from a wound which 
had shattered his thigh ; yet his look was more dreadful than all 
— hate, passion, and disappointed rage rioted in his breast, and 
were deeply marked in his countenance. I turned away from 
the wretched man, and my eye shrunk from the sight which 
ag'ain met it. Lying on his back in a pool of blood, the mus- 
cular frame of a man whom I well knew Avas stretched, horribly 
mutilated. A ball had entered his mouth, and passing through 
his skull, had scattered his brains around. My heart sickened 
at the extent of carnage, and I was almost sinking with the 
faintness it produced, when I was roused by a groan so full of 
anguish and pain, that for a long time afterwards its echo 
seemed to reach me. I found that it came from a man lying 
farther forward, on whose face the death-dew was standing, yet 
I could perceive no wound. Upon questioning" him, he moved 
his hand from his breast, and I then perceived that a ball had 
pierced his chest, and could distinctly hear the air rushing 
from his lungs through the orifice it had left. I tore away 
the shirt, and endeavoured to hold together the edges of the 
wound until it was bandaged. I spoke to him of prayer, but 
he soon grew insensible, and within a short time died in frightful 
agony. In every part of the vessel evidences of the attempt 
which had ended so fatally presented themselves, and the pas- 
sions of the combatants were still warm. After attending those 
who required immediate assistance, I received the following 
account of the affair : — 

The prisoners had slept the previous night in a part of the 
vessel appropriated for this purpose ; but it was w^ithout fastening, 
or other means of securing them below. Two sentries were, 
however, placed over the hatchway. The prisoners occasionally 
came on deck during* the night, for their launch was towing 
astern, and the brig was standing* off and on until the morning. 
Between six and seven o'clock in the morning the men were 
called to work. Two of them were up some time before the 
rest. They were struck by the air of negligence which was 
evident on deck, and instantly communicated the fact to one 
or two others. The possibility of capturing the brig had often 
been discussed by the prisoners, among their many other wild 
plans for escaping from the island, and recently had been often 
proposed by them. The thought was told by their looks, and 



soon spread from man to man. A few moments were enough ; 
one or two were roused from sleep, and the intention was hur- 
riedly communicated to them. It was variously received. One 
of them distrusted the leader, and intreated his companions to 
desist from so mad an attempt. It was useless ; the frenzied 
thirst for liberty had seized them, and they were maddened by 
it. Within a few minutes they were all on deck ; and one of 
the leaders rushing" at the sentry nearest to him, endeavoured 
to wrest from him his pistols, one of which had flashed in the 
pan as he rapidly presented it, and threw him overboard ; but 
he was subsequently saved. The arms of the other sentry were 
demanded, and obtained from him without resistance. A scuffle 
now took place with two other soldiers who were also on the 
deck, but not on duty, during which one of them jumped over 
the vessel's side, and remained for some time in the main chains ; 
but upon the launch being brought alongside, he went down into 
it. The other endeavoured to swim ashore (for by this time the 
vessel was within a gun-shot of the rocks) ; but, encumbered by 
his greatcoat, he was seen, when within a few strokes of the rock, 
to raise his hands, and uttering a faint cry to Heaven for mercy, 
he instantly sunk. In the meanwhile, the sergeant in charge 
of the guard hearing the scuffling overhead, ran upon deck, and 
seeing some of the mutineers struggling with the sentry, shot 
the nearest of them dead on the spot. He had no sooner done 
so than he received a blow on the head, which rendered him for 
some time insensible. Little or no resistance was offered by the 
sailors ; they ran into the forecastle, and the vessel was in the 
hands of the mutineers. All the hatches were instantly fastened 
down, and every available thing at hand piled upon them. But 
now, having secured their opponents, the mutineers were unable 
to work the brig ; they therefore summoned two of the sailors 
from below, and placed one of them at the wheel, while the other 
was directed to assist in getting the vessel off. The coxswain, a 
fi*ee man in charge of the prisoners, had at the first onset taken 
to the rigging, and remained in the maintop with one of the 
men who refused to join in the attack. At this moment a 
soldier who had gone overboard, and endeavoured to reach the 
shore, had turned back, and was seen swimming near the vessel. 
Woolfe, one of the convicts, immediately jumped into the boat 
alongside, and saved him. "Whilst this was the state of things 
above, the soldiers had forced their way into the captain's cabin, 
and continued to fire through the gratings overhead as often as 
any of the mutineers passed. In this manner several of them 
received wounds. To prevent a continuance of this, a kettle of 
hot water was poured from above, and shortly afterwards a 
proposal was made to the captain from the prisoners to leave 
the vessel in the launch, provided he handed up to them the 
necessary supplies. This he refused, and then all the sailors 
were ordered from below into the launch, with the intention of 



sending- them ashore. Continuing' to watch for the ringleaders, 
the captain caught a glimpse of one of them standing aft, and, 
as he supposed, out of reach. He mounted the cabin table, and 
almost at a venture fired through the woodwork in the direction 
he supposed the man to be standing. The shot was fatal ; the 
ball struck him in the mouth, and passed through his brain. 
Terrified at the death of their comrades, the remainder were 
panic-struck, and instantly ran below. One of the leaders sprung 
over the tafferel, and eventually reached the launch. The sailor 
at the wheel, now seeing the deck almost cleared, beckoned up 
the captain, and without an effort the vessel was again in their 
possession. In the confusion, a soldier who had been in the 
boat, and was at this moment with the sailors returning on deck, 
was mistaken for one of the mutineers, and shot by the sergeant. 
The prisoners were now summoned from their place of conceal- 
ment. They begged hard for mercy; and upon condition of 
their quietly surrendering, it was promised to them. As the 
first of them, in reliance upon this assurance, was gaining the 
deck, by some unhappy error he received a ball in his thigh, 
and fell back again. The rest refused to stir; but after a few 
moments' hesitation, another of them ventured up, was taken 
aft by the captain, and secured. A third followed, and as he 
came up, he extended his arms, and cried, 'I surrender; spare 
me.' Either this motion was mistaken by the soldiers, or some 
of them were unable to restrain their passion, for at this instant 
the man's head was hterally blown off. The captain hastened 
to the spot and received the others, who were seom^ed without 
further injury. 

When we reached the vessel, the dying, dead, and wounded 
were lying in every direction. In the launch astern, we saw 
the body of one wretched man who had leaped over the tafferel, 
and reached the boat badly wounded ; he was seen lying in it 
when the deck was regained, and was then pierced through with 
many balls. Nothing could be more horrible than his appear- 
ance ; the distortion of every feature, his clenched hands, and 
the limbs which had stiffened in the forms of agony into which 
pain had twisted them, were appalling. The countenance of 
every man on board bore evidence of the nature of the deadly 
conflict in which he had been engaged. In some, suUenness had 
succeeded to reckless daring, and exultation to alarm in others. 

Nothing could have been more desperate than such an attempt 
to seize the vessel. The most culpable neglect could alone have 
encouraged it ; and it is difficult to conceive how it could have 
succeeded, if anything like a proper stand had been made by 
those in charge of her when it commenced. 

The wounded were immediately landed, and conveyed to the 
hospital, and the dead bodies were afterwards brought on shore. 

The burial-ground is close to the beach. A heavy surf rolls 
mournfully over the reef. The moon had just risen, when, iu 



deep and solemn silence, the bodies of these misguided men were 
lowered into the graves prepared for them. Away from home 
and country, they had found a fearful termination of a miserable 
existence. Perhaps ties had still bound them to the world ; 
friends whom they loved were looking- for their return, and, 
prodigals though they had been, would have blessed them, and 
forgiven their offences. Perhaps even at that sad moment 
mothers were praying for their lost ones, whom in all their 
infamy they had still fondly loved. Such thoughts filled my 
mind ; and when a few drops of rain at that moment descended, 
I could not help thinking that they fell as tears from heaven 
over the guilt and misery of its children. 

On the morning following the fatal occurrence, I visited the 
jail in which the mutineers were confined. The cells are small, 
but clean and light. In the first of them I found George 
Beavers, Nicholas Lewis, and Henry Sears. Beavers was 
crouching in one corner of the cell, and looking sullen, and in 
despair. Lewis, who was walking the scanty space of the cell, 
seemed to glory in the rattle of his heavy chains ; while Sears 
was stretched apparently asleep upon a grass mat. They were 
all heavily ironed, and every precaution had evidently been taken 
to prevent escape. 

The jail is small, and by no means a secure one. It was once 
a public-house ; and notwithstanding every effort to adapt it to 
its present purpose, it is not a safe or proper place of confinement. 
It is little calculated to resist any attempt to rescue the men, 
whose daring conduct was the subject of high encomium among 
their fellow-prisoners, by whom any attempt to escape is con- 
sidered a meritorious act. In the other cell I found Woolfe and 
Barry, the latter in much agony from an old wound in the leg, 
the pain of which had been aggravated by the heavy irons which 
galled it. All the prisoners, except Barry and Woolfe, readily 
acknowledged their participation in the attempt to seize the brig ; 
but most solemnly denied any knowledge of a preconcerted plan 
to take her ; or that they, at least, had attempted to throw the 
soldiers overboard. They were unwilling to be interrupted, and 
inveighed in the bitterest manner against some of their com- 
panions who had, they seemed to think, betrayed them, or at 
least had led them on, and at the moment of danger had flinched. 

The names of the surviving mutineers were John Jones, 
Nicholas Lewis, Henry Sears, George Beavers, James Woolfe, 
Thomas Whelan, and Patrick Barry, ^ 

The depositions against them having been taken, all the men 
I have mentioned, with the exception of Jones and Whelan, who 
were wounded, were brought out to hear them read. They 
listened with calm attention, but none of them appeared to be 
much excited. Once only during the reading, Beavers passion- 
ately denied the statements made by one of the witnesses present, 
and was with difficulty silenced. His countenance at that 


moment was terribly ag-itated ; every bad feeling seemed to 
mingle in its passionate expression. They were all young, 
powerful, andj with one or two exceptions, not at all ill-looking 

From the jail I proceeded to the hospital, where the wounded 
men were lying*. They had each received severe wounds in the 
thigh, and were in great agony. The violence of Jones was 
excessive. Weakened in some degree by an immense loss of 
blood, the bitterness of his spirit, nevertheless, exhibited itself in 
passionate bursts of impatience. He was occasionally convTilsed 
with excessive pain ; for the nerves of the thigh had been much 
lacerated, and the bone tembly shattered. His features were 
distorted with pain and anger, and occasionally bitter curses 
broke from his lips ; yet there was something about his appear- 
ance which powerfully arrested my attention — an evident marking 
of intellect and character, repulsive in its present development, 
yet in many respects remarkable. His history had been a 
melancholy one, and, as illustrative of many thousand others, I 
give it as I afterwards received it from his lips. 

At eleven years of age he was employed in a warehouse in 
Liverpool as an errand-boy. While following this occupation, 
from which by good conduct he might have risen to something 
better, he was met in the street one day by the lad whom he had 
succeeded in this employment, and was told by him how he 
might obtain money by robbing the warehouse, and then go 
with him to the theatre. He accordingly took an opportunity of 
stealing some articles which had been pointed out, and gave 
them to his companion, who, in disposing" of them, was detected, 
and of course criminated Jones. After remaining some weeks in 
jail, Jones was tried and acquitted ; but his character being now 
gone, he became reckless, and commenced a regular career of 
depredation. In attempting another warehouse robbery, he was 
detected, and sentenced to twelve months' imprisonment. By 
the time he was released from this, he was well tutored in crime, 
and believed that he could now adroitly perform the same 
robbery in which he had previously failed. He made the 
attempt the very night of his release from jail, and with tem- 
porary success. Subsequently, however, he was detected, and 
received sentence of transportation for seven years. He under- 
went this sentence, and an additional one in Van Diemen's Land, 
chiefly at Port Arthur, the most severe of the penal stations 
there. From this place he, with Lewis, Moss (who was shot on 
board the brig), and Woolfe, having seized a whale-boat, effected 
their escape. During three months they underwent the most 
extreme hardships from hunger and exposure. Once they had 
been without food for several days, and their last hook was over 
the boat's side ; they were anxiously watching for a fish. A 
small blue shark took the bait, and in despair one of them dashed 
over the boat's side to seize the fish ; his leg was caught by one 



of the others, and they succeeded in saving* botli man and hook. 
They eventually reached Twofold Bay, on the coast of New 
South Wales, and were then apprehended, conveyed to Sydney, 
and thence sent back to Van Diemen's Land ; tried, and received 
sentence of death ; but this was subsequently commuted to trans- 
portation for life to Norfolk Island. 

Jones often described to me the intense misery he had under- 
gone during" his career. He had never known what freedom 
was, and yet incessantly longed for it. All alike confessed the 
unhappiness of their career. Having made the first false step 
into crime, they acknowledged that their minds became polluted 
by the associations they formed during imprisonment. Then 
they were further demoralised by thinking of the glo7'y — such 
miserable glory ! — attending a trial ; and the hulks and the 
voyage outgave them a finished criminal training. The extent 
of punishment many of them have undergone during the period 
of transportation is almost incredible. I have known men 
whose original sentence of seven years has been extended over 
three times that period, and who, in addition to other punish- 
ment, have received five thousand or six thousand lashes ! 

After many solemn interviews with the mutineers, I found 
them gradually softening. They became more communicative, 
and extremely anxious to receive instruction. I think I shall 
never forget one of the earliest of these visits to them. I first 
saw Sears, Beavers, and Jones. After a long and . interesting 
conversation with them, we joined in that touching confession 
of sin with which the liturgy of the Churchy of England com- 
mences. As we knelt together, I heard them repeat with great 
earnestness — ' We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like 
lost sheep,' &c. When we arose, I perceived that each of them 
had been shedding tears. It was the first time I had seen them 
betray any such emotion, and I cannot tell how glad I felt ; but 
when I proceeded afterwards to read to them the first chapter of 
Isaiah, I had scarcely uttered that most exquisite passage in the 
second verse — ' I have nourished and brought up children, and 
they have rebelled against me' — when the claims of God, and 
their violation and rejection of them ; His forbearance, and their 
ingratitude, appeared to overwhelm them; they sobbed aloud, 
and were thoroughly overpowered. 

For a considerable time we talked together of the past, the 
wretched years they had endured, the punishments, and the 
crimes which had led to them, until they seemed to feel most 
keenly the folly of their sad career. We passed on to contrast 
the manner in which their lives had been spent, with what God 
and society required from them ; their miserable perversion of 
God's gifts, with the design for which He gave them, until we 
were led on to speak of hope and of faith ; of Him who ' willeth 
not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from 
his wickedness and live;' and then the Saviour's remonstrance 


seemed to arrest them — ' Ye will not come to me that ye might 
have life ;' until at length the influences of the Holy Spirit were 
supplicated with earnestness and solemnity. These instructions, 
and such conversation, were daily repeated ; * and henceforth 
each time I saw them I perceived a gradual but distinct unfold- 
ing' of the aiFections and the understanding. 

August. — The wounded men are much recovered, and the 
whole of the mutineers are now confined together in a large 
ward of the jail. They have long received extreme kindness 
from the commandant, and are literally bewildered at finding 
that even this last act has not diminished the exercise of his 
benevolence. That anybody should care for them, or take such 
pains about them after their violent conduct, excited surprise — 
at first almost amounting to suspicion ; but this at length gave 
place to the warmest gratitude. They were, in fact, subdued 
by it. They read very much, are extremely submissive, and 
carefully avoid the slightest infringement of the prison regu- 
lations. At first, all this was confined to the three men I have 
mentioned ; but their steady consistency of conduct, and the 
strange transformation of character so evident in them, gradu- 
ally arrested the attention of the others, and eventually led to a 
similar result. 

They will be detained here until the case has been decided by 
the authorities in Sydney. They will probably be tried by a 
commission, sent from thence to the island for the purpose. 
Formerly, however, prisoners charged with capital oifences here 
were sent up for trial ; but (it is a horrible fact) this was found 
to lead to so much crime, that, at much inconvenience and 
expense, it was found absolutely necessary to send down a judi- 
cial commission on each important occasion, in order to prevent 
it. The mere excitement of a voyage, with the chances con- 
nected with it, nay, merely a wish to get off the island even for 
a time, led many men to commit crimes of the deepest dye in 
order to be sent to Sydney for trial. 

Two months, therefore, at least must intervene between the 
perpetration of the offence and their trial ; and this interval is 
usually employed in similar cases in arranging a defence but 
too commonly supported by perjury. In the present instance, 
I found not the slightest attempt to follow such a course. They 
declare that they expect death, and will gladly welcome it. Of 
their life, which has been a course of almost constant warfare 
with society, ending in remorseful feelings, they are all th jroug-hly 
weary, although only one of them exceeds thirty years of age. 

In addition to the ordinary services. Captain Maconochie each 
Sunday afternoon has read prayers to them, and has given 
permission to a few of their friends to be present. Singular 
good has resulted from it, both to the men and those who join 
in their devotions. At the conclusion of one of these services 
Sears stood up, and with his heart so full as scarcely to allow 



him utterance, to the surprise of every person there he addressed 
most impressively the men who were present. ' Perhaps/ said 
he, * the words of one of yourselves, unhappily circumstanced 
as I am, may have some weight with you. You all know the 
life I have led ; it has, believe me, been a most unhappy one ; 
and I have, I hope not too late, discovered the cause of this. I 
solemnly tell you that it is because I have broken God's laws. 
I am almost ashamed to speak, but I dare not be silent. I am 
g-oing to tell you a strange thing. I never before was happy ; I 
begin now, for the first time in my life, to Jiope. I am an igno- 
rant man, or at least I was so ; but I thank God I begin to see 
things in their right light now. I have been unhappily placed 
from my childhood, and have endured many hardships. I do 
not mention this to excuse my errors ; yet if I had years since 
received the kindness I have done here, it might have been 
otherwise. My poor fellows, do turn over a new leaf; try to 
serve God, and you, too, will be happier for it.' The eifect was 
most thrilling ; there was a death-like silence ; tears rolled down 
many cheeks, which I verily believe never before felt them ; and 
without a word more, all slowly withdrew. 

This man's story is also a common, but painful one. At fifteen 
years of age he was transported for life as an accomplice in an 
assault and alleg-ed robbery, of which, from circumstances which 
have since transpired, I have little doubt he was entirely inno- 
cent. During a long imprisonment in Horsham jail, he received 
an initiation in crime, which was finished during the outward 
voyage. Upon his arrival in New South Wales, he was assigned 
to a settler in the interior, a notoriously hard and severe man, 
who gave him but a scanty supply of food and clothing, and 
whose aim seemed to be to take the utmost out of him at the 
least possible expense. Driven at length to desperation, he, with 
three fellow-servants, absconded ; and when taken, made a com- 
plaint to the magistrate before whom they were brought almost 
without clothes. Their statements were found to be literally 
correct ; but for absconding they were sent to Newcastle, 
one of the penal stations of New South Wales, where Sears 
remained nearly two years. At the expiration of that time he 
was again assigned, but unfortunately to a man, if possible, 
worse than his former employer, and again absconded. For 
this offence he was sent to Moreton Bay, another penal settle- 
ment, and endured three years of horrible severity, starvation, 
and misery of every kind. His temper was by this time much 
soured ; and, roused by the conduct of the overseers, he became 
brutalised by constant punishment for resisting them. After 
this he was sent to Sydney, as one of the crew in the police-boatj 
of which he was soon made assistant coxswain. For not report- 
ing a theft committed by one of the men under his charge, he 
was sentenced to a road party; and attempting to escape from 
it, he was apprehended, and again ordered to Moreton Bay for 



four years more. There he was ag-ain repeatedly flogged for 
disobedience and resistance of overseers, as well as attempting- 
to escape ; but having most courageously rendered assistance to 
a vessel wrecked off the harbour, he attracted the attention of 
the commandant, who afterwards showed him a little favour. 
This was the first approach to kindness he had known since 
when, years before, he had left his home ; and it had its usual 
influence. He never was again in a scrape there. His good 
conduct induced the commandant to recommend him for a miti- 
gation of sentence, which he received, and he was again employed 
in the police-boat. The free coxswain of the boat was, however, 
a drunkard, and intrusted much to Sears. Oftentimes he roused 
the men by his violence, but Sears contrived to subdue his pas- 
sion. At length, one night returning to the hut drunk, the 
man struck at one of the crew with his cutlass, and the rest 
resisted and disarmed him. But the morning came; the case 
was heard ; their story was disbelieved ; and upon the charge and 
evidence of the aggressor, they were sent to an ironed gang, to 
work on the public roads. When Sears again became eligible 
for assignment, a person whom he had known in Sydney applied 
for him. The man must be removed within a fixed period after 
the authority is given. In this case, application was made a 
day beyond the prescribed time, and churlishly refused. The 
disappointment roused a spirit so untutored as his, and once 
again he absconded ; was of course apprehended, tried, and being 
found with a man who had committed a robbery, and had a 
musket in his possession, was sent to Norfolk Island for life. 
This sentence has, however, for meritorious conduct, been reduced 
to fourteen years ; and his ready assistance during a fire which 
recently broke out in the military garrison here, might possibly 
have helped to obtain a still further reduction. He never, during 
those abscondings, was absent for any long period, and never 
committed any act of violence. His constant attempt seems to 
have been to reach Sydney, in order to effect his escape from the 
scene of so much misery. 

For some time past I have noticed his quiet and orderly 
conduct, and was really sorry when I found him concerned in 
this unhappy affair. His desire for freedom was, however, most 
ardent, and a chance of obtaining it was almost irresistible. He 
has since told me that a few words kindly spoken to himself 
and others by Captain Maconochie when they landed, sounded 
so pleasantly to him — such are his own words — that he deter- 
mined from that moment he would endeavour to do well. He 
assures me that he was perfectly unconscious of a design to take 
the brig, until awoke from his sleep a few minutes before the 
attack commenced ; that he then remonstrated with the men ; 
but finding it useless, he considered it a point of honour not to 
fail them. His anxiety for instruction is intense ; he listens like 
a child ; and his gratitude is most touching. He, together with 


Jones, Woolfe, and Barry, were chosen by the commandant as a 
police-boat's crew ; and had, up to this period, acted with great 
steadiness and fidelity in the discharge of the duties required 
from them. Nor do I think they would even now, tempting as 
the occasion was, have thought of seizing it, had it not been 
currently reported that they were shortly to be placed under a 
system of severity such as they had already suffered so much 

Woolfe's story of himself is most affecting. He entered upon 
evil courses when very young ; was concerned in burglaries when 
only eleven years of age. Yet this was from no natural love of 
crime. Enticed from his home by boys older than himself, he 
soon wearied of the life he led, and longed to return to his home 
and his kind mother. Oftentimes he lingered near the street she 
lived in. Once he had been very unhappy, for he had seen his 
brother and sister that day pass near him, and it had rekindled 
all his love for them. They appeared happy in their innocence ; 
he was miserable in his crime. He now determined to go home 
and pray to be forgiven. The evening was dark and wet, and as 
he entered the court in which his friends lived, his heart failed 
him, and he turned back ; but, unable to resist the impulse, he 
again returned, and stole under the window of the room. A rent 
in the narrow curtain enabled him to see within. His mother 
sat by the fire, and her countenance was so sad, that he was sure 
she thought of him ; but the room looked so comfortable, and 
the whole scene was so unlike the place in which he had lately 
lived, that he could no longer hesitate. He approached the door; 
the latch was almost in his hand, when shame and fear, and a 
thousand other vile and foolish notions, held him back ; and the 
boy who in another moment might have been happy — ivas lost. 
He turned away, and I believe has never seen them since. Going 
on in crime, he in due course of time was transported for robbery. 
His term of seven years expired in Van Diemen's Land. Released 
from forced servitude, he went a whaling* voyage, and was free 
nearly two years. Unhappily, he was then charged with aiding 
in a robbery, and again received a sentence of transportation. 
He was sent to Port Arthur, there employed as one of the boat's 
crew, and crossing the bay one day with a commissariat officer, 
the boat was capsized by a sudden squall. In attempting to save 
the life of the officer, he was seized by his dying grasp, and 
almost perished with him ; but extricating himself, he swam back 
to the boat. Seeing the drowning man exhausted, and sinking, 
he dashed forward again, diving after him, and happily succeeded 
in saving his life. For this honourable act he would have received 
a remission of sentence ; but ere it could arrive, he and five others 
made their escape. He had engaged with these men in the plan 
to seize the boat, and although sure of the success of the appli- 
cation in his favour, he could not now draw back. The result I 
have already shown. There were two more men concerned in 



the mutiny, who, with those I have mentioned, and those killed 
on board the brig, made up the number of the boat's crew. But 
neither of these men came under my charge, being both Roman 

At length the brig, which had been despatched with an account 
of the affair, returned, and brought the decision of the governor 
of New South Wales. He had found it extremely difficult, almost 
impossible, to obtain fitting members for the commission, who 
would be willing to accept the terms proposed by the government, 
or trust themselves in this dreadful place, and therefore he had 
determined that the prisoners should be sent up for trial. The 
men were sadly disappointed at this arrangement. They wished 
much to end their days here, and they dreaded both the voyage 
and the distracting effect of new scenes. They cling, too, with 
grateful attachment to the commandant's family, and the persons 
who, during their long imprisonment, had taken so strong an 
interest in their welfare. I determined to accompany them, and 
watch for their perseverance in well-doing, that I mi^ht counsel 
and strengthen them under the fearful ordeal I could not doubt 
they would have to pass. 

The same steady consistency marked the conduct of these men 
to the moment of their embarkation. There was a total absence 
of all excitement ; one deep serious feeling appeared to possess 
them, and its solemnity was communicated to all of us. They 
spoke and acted as men standing on the confines of the unseen 
world, and who not only thought of its wonders, but, better still, 
who seemed to have caught something of its spirit and purity. 

November. — The voyage up was a weary, and, to the prisoners, 
a very trying one. In a prison on the lower deck of a brig of 
one hundred and eighty-two tons, fifty-two men were confined. 
The place itself was about twenty feet square, of course low, and 
badly ventilated. The men were all ironed, and fastened to a 
heavy chain rove through iron rings let into the deck, so that 
they were unable, for any purpose, to move from the spot they 
occupied ; scarcely, indeed, to he down. The weather was also 
unfavourable. The vessel tossed and pitched most fearfully during 
a succession of violent squalls, accompanied by thunder and 
lightning. I cannot describe the wretchedness of these unhappy 
convicts : sick, and surrounded by filth, they were huddled to- 
gether in the most disgusting manner. The heat was at times 
unbearable. There were men of sixty — quiet and inoffensive old 
men — placed with others who were as accomplished villains as 
the world could produce. These were either proceeding to Sydney, 
their sentences on the island having expired, or as witnesses in 
another case (a bold and wicked murder) sent there also for trial. 
The sailors on board the brig were for the most part the cowardly 
fellows who had so disgracefully allowed the brig to be taken 
from them; and they, as well as the soldiers on guard (some of 
them formed a part of the fonner one), had no very kindly feel- 



ing towards the mutineers. It may be imag-ined, therefore, that 
such feeling's occasioned no alleviation of their condition. In 
truth, although there was no actual cruelty exhibited, they 
suffered many oppressive annoyances; yet I never saw more 
patient endurance. It was hard to bear, but their better prin- 
ciples prevailed. Upon the arrival of the vessel in Sydney, we 
learned that the case had excited an unusual interest. Crowds 
assembled to catch a glimpse of the men as they landed; and 
while some applauded their daring, the great majority very loudly 
expressed their horror at the crime of which they stood accused. 

I do not think it necessary to describe the trial, which took 
place in a few days after landing". All were arraigned except 
Barry. The prisoners' counsel addressed the jurors with powerful 
eloquence; but it was in vain: the crime was substantiated; and 
the jury returned a verdict of g'uilty against all the prisoners, 
recommending Woolfe to mercy. 

During the whole trial, the prisoners' conduct was admirable ; 
so much so, indeed, as to excite the astonishment of the immense 
crowd collected by curiosity to see men who had made so mad 
an attempt for liljerty. They scarcely spoke, except once to 
request that the wounded man, who yet suffered much pain, 
might be allowed to sit down. Judgment was deferred until the 
following" day. When they were then placed at the bar, the 
judge, in the usual manner, asked whether they had any reason 
to urge why sentence should not be pronounced upon them 1 It 
was a moment of deep solemnity; every breath was held; and 
the eyes of the whole court were directed towards the dock. Jones 
spoke in a deep clear voice, and in a deliberate harangue pointed 
out some defects in the evidence, though without the slightest 
hope, he said, of mitigating the sentence now to be pronounced 
on himself and fellows. Three of the others also spoke. Whelan 
said, ' that he was not one of the men properly belonging to 
the boat's crew, but had been called upon to fill the place of 
another man, and had no knowledge of any intention to take the 
vessel, and the part he took on board was forced upon him. He 
was compelled to act as he had done ; he had used no violence, 
nor was he in any way a participator in any that had been 
committed.' At the conclusion of the address to them, Jones, 
amidst the deep silence of the court, pronounced a most em- 
phatic prayer for mercy on his own soul and those of his fellow- 
prisoners, for the judge and jury, and finally for the witnesses. 
Sentence of death was then solemnly pronounced upon them all ; 
but the judge informed Woolfe that he might hold out to him 
expectations that his life would be spared. They were then 
removed from the bar, and sent back to the condemned cells. 

I cannot say how much I dreaded my interview with them 
that day ; for although I had all along endeavoured to prepare 
their minds for the worst result, and they had themselves never 
for a moment appeared to expect any other than this, I feared 



that the realisation of their sad expectation would break them 
down. Hitherto there mig'ht have been some secret hope sus- 
taining them. The convulsive clinging to life, so common to all 
of us, would now perhaps be more palpably exhibited. 

Entering their cells, I found them, as I feared, stunned by the 
blow which had now fallen on them, and almost overpowered 
by mental and bodily exhaustion. A few remarks about the 
trial were at length made by them ; and from that moment I 
never heard them refer to it again. There was no bitterness of 
spirit against the witnesses, no expression of hostility towards 
the soldiers, no equivocation in any explanation they gave. They 
solemnly denied many of the statements made against them ; but. 
nevertheless, the broad fact remained, that they were guilty of 
an attempt to violently seize the vessel, and it was useless debat- 
ing on minor considerations. 

In the meantime, without their knowledge, petitions were 
prepared and forwarded to the judges, the governor, and exe- 
cutive council. In them were stated various mitigatory facts 
in their favour ; and the meliorated character of the criminal code 
at home was also strongly urged. Every attention was paid to 
these addresses, following each other to the last moment. But 
all was in vain. The council sat, and determined that five of 
the men should be hang'ed on the following Tuesday. Whelan, 
who could have no previous knowledge of a plan to seize the 
vessel, together with Woolfe, was spared. The remaining four 
were to suffer. The painful office of communicating- this final 
intelligence to these men was intrusted to me, and they listened 
to the announcement not without deep feeling, but still with 

It would be very painful for me to dwell on the closing scene. 
The unhappy and guilty men were attended by the zealous 
chaplain of the jail, whose earnest exhortations and instructions 
they most gratefully received. The light of truth shone clearly 
on the past, and they felt that their manifold lapses from the 
path of virtue had been the original cause of the complicated 
misery they had endured. They intreated forgiveness of all 
against whom they had offended, and in the last words to their 
friends were uttered grateful remembrances to Captain Maco- 
nochie, his family, and others. At the place of execution, they 
behaved with fortitude and a composure befitting the solemnity 
of the occasion. Having retired from attendance upon them in 
their last moments, I was startled from the painful stupor which 
succeeded in my own mind, by the loud and hea\'y bound of the 
drop as it fell, and told me that their spirits had gone to God 
who gave them." 

Our reverend informant, in closing his narrative, adds some 
reflections on the painful nature of "the tragedy in which he 
was called to lend his professional assistance. He laments the 



general harshness of penal discipline, and attributes the last 
fatal crime of these men to the recent arrival of orders which 
shut out all hope of any improvement being effected in their cir- 
cumstances, however well they might behave. Previously, he 
says, while hope was permitted to them, they had conducted 
themselves well. While agreeing in his humane views, we 
would, at the same time, avoid appearing as the apologists of 
crime under any circumstances. Our main object in laying 
the foregoing narrative before the world in its present shape, 
is to impress those who may be tottering on the verge of crime 
with the danger of their situation — to show them that a course 
of error is a course of misery, ending in consequences the most 

It may be seen from the history of the unhappy men before 
us, that transportation is at the best equivalent to going into 
slavery — that the convict loses, for the time, his civil rights. Torn 
from his family, his home, and his country, he is placed at 
the disposal of the crown and its functionaries ; can be put to 
any kind of labour, however repugnant to his feelings ; dressed 
in the most degrading apparel; chained like a wild beast if 
refractory ; and on the commission of any new offence while 
in this state of servitude, he is liable to fresh punishment by 
transportation to such penal settlements as Norfolk Island. It 
might almost be said that no man in his senses would voluntarily 
commit crimes which would expose him to the risk of so terrible 
an infliction as that of transportation even for the limited period 
of seven years. But, alas ! men who have entered on a course 
of error, forgetful of every duty which they owe to themselves 
and society, can scarcely be said to be in possession of a sound 
mind ; and they go on floundering from one degree of vice to 
another, till brought into the condition of transported and per- 
sonally enslaved convicts. Should the present narrative fall 
accidentally into the hands of individuals who are in danger of 
falling into a course of vice, we would hope that it wiU help to 
restrain them. The unfortunate men whose death has been re- 
corded were once as they are : they went over the golden line of 
honour and duty — and behold the consequences ; a short life of 
hardship, misery, and a violent and ignominious death. 


¥M^^ N the shop of a woollen-draper in Rheims. an ancient 
■^1^ provincial town in France, an apprentice boy, of slim 
personal appearance and handsome intellig-ent fea- 
tures, stood within the counter, poring over the pages 
_ of a well-thumbed volume. His name was Baptiste, or, 
^7^. more properly, Jean Baptiste Colbert. 
"^^ " What day of the month is this 1" asked M. Certain, a 
v^ thin withered old man, the master of the establishment, 
looking out from his green leathern arm-chair, at the farther 
extremity of the shop, and addressing Baptiste. 
" The 30th of October 1632," replied the youth. 
" Not altogether correct," cried the old woollen-draper briskly ; 
"you are right as to the day and month, but wrong as to the year. 
This is 1634, my lad, and that you should know, for you are'now 
fifteen years of age, and should be able to reckon correctly." 

" And so I should, godfather ; and I am sure I am fond 
enough of ciphering. But m}-- mind was a little engaged with 

history ; and at the moment you spoke, I was " 

" Oh, I see ; reading, as usual. I am afraid you will never be 
good for anything. But what kind of a book is it ? What inte- 
rests you so much?" 

" Why, sir, I am reading the trial of the Duke of Mont- 

" The Duke of Montmorency ! What have you to say to 

* This truthful and graphic account of the rise of the distinguished 
Colbert has been translated and partly adapted from the Frenchfor the 
present work. A more suitable gift could not be offered to British vouth. 
No. 3. 1 


him? You think yourself a great man, I suppose, mj httle 
fellow, because you have among* your ancestors the barons of 

" Castlehill, godfather ; the Castlehills are the common ances- 
tors of the Colberts of Scotland and of France ; we have the same 
coat of arms." 

" Bah ! what is that to me ? When your mother, Madame 
Colbert, came to ask me to stand sponsor for you, in compliment 
to my poor sister, with whom she had been educated, do you 
think I asked M^ho were your ancestors ? Here, at the sign of 
the Golden Fleece, we do not mind such things. All we have to 
do with is to sell cloth." 

" I am quite aware of that, sir," modestly answered the young 
man ; " I will do my best, I am sure." 

" Oh, I daresay you will by and by. However, since you are 
reading about the Duke of Montmorency, pray tell me what he 
was tried for?" 

" You know, godfather, when Louis XIII. set out from Paris 
in 1629, and notwithstanding the extreme cold, went in person 
to assist the Duke of Nevers, and defend him against the claims 
which the Duke of Savoy made upon Montferrat " 

" I declare the little fellow is born a statesman ; it is wonderful 
how he strings it all together," said the old woollen-draper, staring 
up at his godson, whose student-like paleness and expression of 
profound thought seemed little suited to the softness of his 
childish features, and the fair silken hair which fell in large curls 
on his shoulders, rivalling in whiteness those of a young girl. 

" Well, godfather," continued Baptiste, his face glowing with 
just indignation, " when the young' king had forced the pass of 
Suze, conquered the army of the Duke of Savoy, pursued the 
Spaniards of Cazal, seized upon Pignerol, and, according to the 
treaty of Querasque, concluded three years before, put the Duke 
of Nevers in possession of the duchy of Mantua; when, with the 
title of Deliverer of Ital?/, which this treaty gave him, he re- 
turned with the Duke of Richelieu to the capital, he found there 
a thousand intrigues. His brother Gaston, Duke of Orleans, had 
revolted; several nobles had joined his party, the principal of 
whom was the Duke of Montmorency, who had stirred up Lower 
Languedoc, of which he was governor; but being taken with 
arms in his hands at the battle of Castlenaudery, he was beheaded 
by order of the Duke of Richelieu, at Toulouse, on the 30th 
October 1632." 

" There was probably in all that a little of the Cardinal de 
Richelieu's intrigues and machinations," * observed the old 

* Cardinal de Richelieu (born 1585 — died 1642) was prime minister of 
Louis XIII., and although a revengeful, cruel, and unprincipled man, has 
been reckoned by historians one of the greatest statesmen of the old 
French monarchy. His successor was Mazarin, who is noticed in the 
present story. 


woollen-draper, who, as you may perceive, my young* readers, 
did not dislike politics, although he appeared as if he did. 

" INIinisters are too arbitrary, too harsh, too despotic," replied 
Baptiste with animation ; " and if ever I am prime minister " 

A roar of laughter from the old woollen-draper, from the 
apprentices, nay, even from the shop-boy, who was sweeping* the 
front part of the shop, interrupted poor little Baptiste, and made 
the blood mount to his temples. 

" There are no longer any children! There are no longer any 
children ! " cried Moline laughing. 

"If — you — were- — a — prime — min — ist — er," repeated the 
master of the Golden Fleece, drawling out each syllable ; " if — 
you — were — a — prime — min — ist — er ! Do me the favour, sir," 
added he, abruptly changing his tone, " first to be useful in your 
godfather's shop, and to learn to be thankful for having got into 
so respectable a means of earning a livelihood." 

" Pardon, my good godfather ; I spoke on the spur of the 
moment, and will endeavour to be all that could be desired of me." 

" Well, well, no more of that. Lay aside your paper, and 
listen to what I am going to say. Here is an invoice, directed, 
you see, to M. Cenani, of the firm Cenani and Mazerani, bankers 
of Paris. Set off now to the banker, and take the invoice to him, 
and at the same time show him those cloths, to make hangings 
for a country house that he has purchased in the environs. 
Come here, sir, and remember the prices of these cloths : No. 1 
is marked three crowns a-yard. No. 2 six crowais. No. 3 eight 
crowns, and No. 4 fifteen crowns. It is dear enough, but it is 
the very finest Saxony." 

"Am I to make any abatement, godfather?" asked Baptiste, 
taking a card to which little patterns of cloth were fastened, 
while Moline the porter loaded himself with several pieces similar 
to the specimens. 

" Abatement ! " cried the woollen-draper ; " not a farthing. 
The full price, and ready money. Not a penny less. Eemember." 

Baptiste, followed by Moline with a large parcel of cloth, 
quickly measured the distance which separated M. Guillaume Cer- 
tain's shop from the hotel where the banker Cenani was staying. 

" You will recollect what your godfather said to you, will you 
not. Master Baptiste? No. 1 three crowns, No. 2 six crowns. 
No. 3 eight crowns, and No. 4 fifteen crowns ; that's your story. 
"VMiy, what is the matter with you ? What are you thinking of, 
with your eyes on the ground? One would think you were 
looking for pins." 

" To tell you the truth, IMoline, I do not think my godfather 
understands me. I wish to be a good shopkeeper, if that is to be 
my destiny ; but surely a man may not be the worse tradesman 
for taking pleasure in a book, when it does not interfere with his 

" Perhaps so, Baptiste, my good lad ; but I am afraid you are 



a little too much given to forgetfulness ; but no douLt you will 
do well in time. Come, cheer up ; here is the hotel." 

"I wish to see M. Cenani," said Baptiste to the person in 

" The first staircase to the left, Nos. 8 and 10," said the waiter. 
And still followed by Moline, the young* woollen-draper knocked 
at the door to which he was directed, and was soon ushered into 
the presence of a very young* man, in a dressing-gown of bright 
green damask, richly flowered with red. 

" I come from M. Certain," said Baptiste, bowing. 

" Here are several pieces of cloth for your honour to choose 
from," added Moline, placing his parcel on a table. 

The young banker merely said, " Let me see," at the same time 
carelessly approaching* the bales, which Moline eagerly opened. 
And scarcely looking at them, as he touched each piece succes- 
sively with the tip of his fingers, he put one aside. " I like this 
best ; what is its price ?" 

" Fifteen crowns a-yard," answered Baptiste. Moline made a 
grimace which neither seller nor buyer remarked. 

" Very well," said the latter ; " it is for making hangings for 
my study in the country. How many yards are in this piece 1" 

" Thirty yards," said Moline, looking at the mark ; " and if 
you wish me to measure it before you, sir-^ — " 

"It is quite unnecessary, my friend; I may trust M, Guil- 
laume. Thirty yards at fifteen crowns makes four hundred and 
fifty crowns ; here they are." And going with the same negli- 
gent air to an open desk, he took out a handful of money, which 
he gave to Baptiste. 

" Do you know how to write, my little friend ?" said he to 

"Yes, sir," said the young apprentice, blushing deeply, so 
mortified was he by the question. 

" Well, give me a receipt." 

Baptiste gave the required receipt, and took the money: 
Moline made up the three other pieces of cloth : both then bowed 
and retired. 

If Baptiste had not been at the time a little absent in mind, 
he might have remarked, when he reached the street, that his 
companion was more than usually jocose, and saying as much as 
that they had had a good day's work. 

"Well?" said the master of the Golden Fleece, perceiving, 
from his station on the step before his door, the approach of his 
godson and his shop-boy — " well ?" 

" Here we are at last," said Moline, throwing his bale upon the 

M. Certain opened it eagerly. " You have made no mistake, 
I hope," said he. 

" I don't think I have," said Baptiste quietly. 

" But I think you have," said Moline with a smothered laugh. 



" Do you think so, Moline 1 do you think so ? " cried the old 
woollen -di'aper, throwing* down the cloth, and examining the 
tickets ; " but indeed I might have exiDected this ; the little rascal 
could not do otherwise. But I warn you, if you have made a 
mistake, you shall go to M. Cenaui to ask from him the surplus 
money, and if he refuse to give it, you shall pay it out of your 
wages. No, 3 is wanting'; No. 3 was worth — it was worth six 
crowns ; no, eight crowns. I am quite puzzled." 

" Eight crowns ! eight crowns ! " cried Baptiste, astoimded ; 
" are you sure of that, godfather ? " 

" Perhaps you would like to make out, you little rascal, that it 
was I who made the mistake. I tell you No. 3 was worth eight 
crowns. I am half dead with fear. 1 will lay a wager that the 
fellow sold it for six." 

" On the contrary, godfather, stupid creature that I am, I have 
sold it for fifteen ; but " 

" Fifteen ! fifteen ! " inteiTupted the woollen-draper, trying to 
disguise the joy which his faltering voice alone would have 
betrayed. " Fifteen ! You are a fine boy, a good boy, Baptiste ; 
you will one day be an honoui* to all your family. Fifteen ! — 
and I, your godfather, congratulate myself on having stood 
sponsor for you. Fifteen! — I could cry with joy! Fifteen 
crowns — fifteen crowns for a piece of cloth not worth six! 
Thirty yards at fifteen crowTis instead of eight — seven crowns 
profit ; thirty yards, two hundred and ten crowns — six hundred 
and thirty francs pix)fit. Oh, happy day ! " 

"How, godfather; would you take advantage?" said BajD- 
tiste, drawing back instead of advancing. 

" Oh, perhaps you want to go shares," said the dishonest 
shopkeeper. " Certainly ; I agree to let you have something." 

"Godfather," interrupted young Colbert in his turn, com- 
posedly taking" up his hat, which he had jjut down on entering, 
" I cannot ag-ree to any such thing " 

" Bravo ! bravo ! my boy. Well, give it all to me." 

" And I will go," continued Baptiste, " to the gentleman whom 
I have treated so badly, to beg of him to excuse me, and to return 
him the money he overpaid me." 

And with these words Baptiste, who had, whUe speaking, been 
gradually approaching the street door, cleared the threshold with 
a single bound, and rushed out. 

The knavish old woollen-draper stood in amazement and wrath 
at this unforeseen occurrence; but we shall leave him for a 
moment, to follow the conscientious lad, who was on his way 
back to the hotel of M. Cenani. 

"Can I see M. Cenani?" asked the breathless Baptiste of the 
valet-de-chambre who had opened the door to him a quarter of 
an hour before. 

" He is not yet gone out ; but I do not think you can see him," 
replied the valet ; " my master is dressing." 


" I beg" of you, sir, to let me see him immediately," said Bap- 
tiste, his looks as urgent as his tones ; " it is absolutely necessary 
I should see him." 

" I will g-o and inquire," said the valet ; and he opened his 
master's door, without perceiving that Baptiste had closely fol- 
lowed him. 

"What is the matter, Comtois?" asked the young banker, 
without turning his head, as, standing before a mirror, he was 
trying to give a becoming fold to the frill of his shirt. 

" It is the young woollen-draper, who was here just now, who 
wants to see you, sir," replied the valet. 

" He cannot see me now," said M. Cenani. " My sword, 

'' Oh ! pray, sir, one word," said the imploring voice of Bap- 

" What brings you here ? What do you want 1 I paid you, 
did I not?" asked the banker, turning angrily to Baptiste. " I 
am engaged. Go." 

With that fearlessness which is given by extreme youth, and 
the consciousness of doing right, Baptiste, instead of retiring, 
advanced a few steps into the room. 

" Sir," said he to the banker, whose astonishment at his bold- 
ness for a moment checked the order already on his lips to turn 
him out, " I have imposed upon you — unintentionally, it is true 
— but that does not make you the less wronged." Then, taking 
advantage of the extreme surprise caused by this preamble, the 
young woollen-draper advanced still farther into the room, and 
emptying his pocket on a table, added, " Here are the four hun- 
dred and fifty crowns that you gave me just now ; be so good as 
to return me the receipt I gave you, and to take your money. 
The cloth that I sold to you, instead of being worth fifteen 
crowns a-yard, is only worth eight. Thirty yards at eight 
crowns makes only two hundred and forty crowns. You are to 
get back two hundred and ten crowns. There they are, sir ; will 
you see if it is right 1 " 

" Are you quite sure of what you say, my friend 1 " said the 
banker, quickly changing his tone ; " are you certain there is no 
mistake ? " 

" You have the piece of cloth still, sir ; is it not marked No. 3 ?" 

" It is," said Comtois, going to examine. " The No. 3 is 
marked at eight crowns, sir; I do not mistake. I beg your 
pardon, sir, for having made my way to you in spite of you ; 
but if you had found out the mistake before I did, I should 
never have forgiven myself. Now, I have the honour of wishing 
you good morning." 

" Stay a moment, one moment ! " cried Cenani to Baptiste, who 
was retiring with a bow, and whom this command brought back 
from the door ; " do you know that I am no judge of cloth 



*' I can assure jow, sir, tliat this piece of cloth is not worth 
more than eight crowns." 

Smiling at his simplicity, the young banker continued, " And 
YOU mig'ht have easily kept this money for yourself." 

" I never thought of that, sir," replied the young apprentice 
with artless simplicity. 

" But if you had thought of it?" again inquired the elegant 

" It was quite impossible, sir, that such an idea could ever 
have come into my head. You might as well ask me if I had 
thought of carrying off all that you have here." And a smile, 
as if at the absurdity of the idea, lighted up the ingenuous 
countenance of the boy. 

" Suppose I were to make you a present of this money that 
you have returned to me with such admirable integrity 1 " 

" What right have I to it, sir '? and why should you give it to 
me ? I would not take it, sir," said Baptiste without hesitation. 

" You are a fine fellow, and an honest fellow," said the young 
banker, going towards Baptiste, and taking him by the hand ; 
■' you are a fine fellow, and an honest fellow," repeated he. 
" What is your name ?" 

" Jean Baptiste Colbert, at your service," replied Baptiste, 
blushing at this condescension. 

" And how old are you, Baptiste?" 

" Fifteen, sir." 

" Colbert, Colbert," repeated M. Cenani, as if endeavouring 
to recall something to his memory ; " is it possible that you are 
a relation of the Colberts of Scotland ? " 

" The barons of Castlehill are the common ancestors of the 
Scotch and French Colberts, sir." 

" And how comes it that your father, a descendant of such 
an illustrious family, is a woollen-draper ? " 

" My father is not a woollen-draper, sir ; but he is very poor ; 
and it is to relieve the family of the burden of my support that 
I became apprentice to my godfather, M. Certain." 

" Poor little fellow ; so much artlessness, integrity, and amia- 
bility, and so unfortunate ! What a pity ! what a pity ! " 

" Your carriage is ready, sir," said the valet-de-chambre, 

The young banker let go the hand of the boy with regret. 
He seemed divided between the wish of making him accept the 
sum still lying upon the table, and the fear of again calling up 
the blush of mortification to that face of such noble, yet child- 
like beauty. The latter feeling* undoubtedly prevailed, for he 
contented himself with saying, " We shall meet again, Baptiste ; 
we shall meet again." And with gestures and looks of kindness 
he dismissed him. 

Baptiste ran down the staircase of the hotel, and was bounding 
into the street, when he was seized by the collar with a powerful 



and threatening- grasp. It was that of his enrag-ed master, who 
liad followed him, and now abused him in a frantic manner for 
having returned the money. All remonstrances from poor 
Baptiste were in vain. M. Certain was, on the whole, not a 
bad man ; but he was greedy, and had a hasty temper, and 
these two evil qualities led him into a momentary and sinful 
forgetfulness of his duty. 

" Get from my sight and from my employment," said he, in 
answer to Baptiste's explanations. " Go, I say, and follow the 
advice that I now give you — it is my last. Never come within 
reach of either my arm or my tongue. There is my blessing 
for you ; take it, and good-by to you." 

Much as Baptiste had expected his godfather's rage, and fully 
as he was prepared for it, the idea of his dismissing him had 
never entered his head ; nevertheless, he did not repent his con- 
duct, feeling that, in the circumstances, he had had no alter- 
native. Bowing his head to his sponsor's unchristianlike farewell, 
Baptiste slowly bent his steps to his father's house. 

It was seven o'clock in the evening, and M. Colbert was already 
seated at supper with his wife and youngest son, a child of six 
years of age, when the parlour door opened and Baptiste appeared. 
A cry of astonishment broke from the lips of both father and 
mother, alarmed by the confused and sorrowful air of the boy. 
" What is the matter ? Why have you left the shop on a week- 
day ? Is your godfather ill ? Or are you — speak — what is the 

These questions from both father and mother followed each 
other so rapidly, that the young apprentice could not find a 
moment to answer them ; but a sigh having followed the last 
word, he took advantage of it. " I have been dismissed by M. 
Certain," said Baptiste. 

" You have been about some folly then, sir?" said M. Colbert, 
for a moment losing the parent in the severe censor. 

" I will leave it to you to decide, father," replied Baptiste 

Madame Colbert's anxiety deprived her of utterance. 

"What do you mean?" demanded M, Colbert. 

" With your permission, my dear father, I will relate to you 
all that occurred to-day, and then you can tell me if I have done 
wrong : but I do not think I have ; for notwithstanding the 
grief that I feel in appearing before you, after being dismissed, 
yet if it were to do over again, I would act as I have done." 

" Go on," said his father, while his mother looked encou- 
ragingly at him, and his little brother blew kisses to him. Bap- 
tiste related all that you already know, my young readers. He 
did so sim^Dly and candidly, without a word of exagg'eration or 
of reproach. Nay, the amiable boy seemed to seek palliations 
for his godfather's conduct, which, though repugnant to his 
every feeling, he endeavoured to excuse. " My godfather is so 



fond of money," said he ; " and then, as a woollen-draper, per- 
haps he did not understand my conduct. To sell a little over 
the value, or a great deal, is the same thing to him perhaps ; if 
one may charge twopence profit on the yard without being- 
called a rogue, and punished as such, why may not one as well 
charge a hundred francs, if one can ? What do you say, father ? 
It is very much to be regretted, but so it is." 

" Come and embrace me, my son," said M. Colbert, extending 
his arms to Baptiste, who threw himself into them ; " come, you 
are indeed my son ; you have behaved well, and have my full 

" Yes, you have indeed behaved well, my beloved Baptiste," 
added Madame Colbert, also holding out her arms to her son ; 
" you have done right. Sit down here near me ; you must be 
hungry ! You shall never return to that man, I promise you." 

" I cannot remain a burden to you, however," observed Baji- 
tiste, seating himself by his mother's side. 

"We will think of that to-morrow," replied M. Colbert; 
" to-day we will only think how we can best entertain the wel- 
come guest that God has ordered that the woollen-draper should 
send us." 

" Sir," said the one solitary seiwant of the house, quietly open- 
ing' the parlour-door, "a gentleman in a post-chaise wants to 
speak to you." 

" His name, Janon ?" 

" He says that as you do not know him, it is useless to tell his 
name ; but he is very anxious to see you." 

" And I have no reason to refuse to receive him, stranger 
thoug'h he be ; let him walk in, Janon," said M. Colbert, risin©- 
from table to meet the visitor. 

At the first glance of the stranger, as he entered with all the 
Parisian air of fashion which distinguished him, Baptiste 
coloured deeply. 

"Sir," said the stranger, bowing to Baptiste's father, and 
stopping to bend almost to the ground before Madame Colbert, 
" I beg a thousand pardons for having thus forced my entrance ; 
but I leave to-morrow, and the business which brings me to jou 
would not admit of delay. I am M. Cenani, of the firm Cenani 
and Mazerani of Paris." 

" In what can I serve you, sir?" asked M. Colbert, oflPerino- a 
chair to the stranger, who seated himself. 

" This youth is your son, is he not, sir ? " inquired he, pointing 
to Baptiste, who blushed still more deeply. 

" Yes, sir, thank God." 

" You have cause to thank God, sir ; this child acted towards 
me this morning in a manner truly noble." 

" Only as he ought, sir ; only as he ought," said Madame Col- 
bert hastily ; fearing, with maternal anxfety, that her son might 
be rendered proud of having done his duty. 



" Nobly, madam. I see that you know the history ; but as 
you have probably heard it from your son, his modesty has un- 
doubtedly left you ignorant of that which has most dehg-hted 
me. I went to M. Guillaume's for a second piece of cloth, and 
was informed of all the details by the shop-boy. Your admirable 
child, madam, refused to divide with his master the overcharge 
on the cloth." 

" Excellent, excellent ! Quite right, quite right ! Oh, my 
dear, dear boy ! " said Madame Colbert with happy pride, em- 
bracing Baptiste, who stammered — 

" It would not have been honest." 

M. Colbert looked upon his son with all a fathers delighted 

" You are aware, sir," said he, addi'essing the banker, " that 
on account of his conduct, a conduct which makes a father's 
heart palpitate with joy, my son has been dismissed from 
M. Guillaume's." 

" I know it, sir ; the shop-boy told me so ; and on that account 
I determined to come here, and to ask you, since you have already 
suffered your child to enter into trade, if it would suit you to 
place him, honest and honourable as he is, in our banking-house, 
where, in a larger sphere, he must make his fortune? I tell you, 
madam, your child will make his fortune." 

" God'bless you, sir," said Madame Colbert with emotion. 

Baptiste, who had hitherto listened in silence, and who now 
only began to understand M. Cenani's intention, cried suddenly, 
" If to make a fortune I am to leave my father and mother, I 
must decline it, sir." 

" But I do not decline it for you, Baptiste," said his father 
tenderly but seriously ; " we are very poor, my son ; and I should 
think myself culpable did I bury a mind like yours in the narrow 
and confined sphere in which I move. Since this gentleman has 
appreciated you so far as to come to seek you here, he deserves 
my fullest confidence. I give him to you, sir ; I intrust to you 
the flower of my family. Oh ! in that great city whither you are 
about to take him, watch over him — I will not say like a father, 
you are too young, but like a brother. And you, Baptiste, go 
with this gentleman ; in all that concerns the business of your 
calling", listen to his advice, and follow it ; but when the prin- 
ciples of integrity, of honour, and of virtue are involved, take 
counsel but of your own heart." 

Baptiste wept while he listened to his father, but he no longer 
made any objection ; the desire to relieve his parents, and to be 
useful to his family, soon dried his tears ] nevertheless, the adieus 
were sorrowful. 

Baptiste's young heart was wrung at the thought of leaving 
that home whose every corner recalled to his mind some sport of 
his childhood, or some fond caress of his parents ; whose every 
article of furniture was connected with some sweet and tender 



association. Even down to old Janon there was nothing- that 
did not bring" with it a regret. 

Soon, however — thanks to the natural buoyancy of his age, and 
also to the change of scene and place — Baptiste felt a new life 
spring up within him, as he was whirled along in a comfortable 
carriage, with a young and cheerful companion. 

Let us follow him to Paris, my young readers, and see in what 
manner the little woollen-draper climbed, step by step, to the 
pinnacle of earthly greatness and glory. 

Having arrived in Paris, young Colbert found himself in a 
new world. All was brilliant and delightful. But though highly 
interested with all that he saw, he had the good sense to remember 
that he must, to enjoy what surrounded him, diligently pursue 
the line of duty chalked out by his kind-hearted employer. 
With ears and eyes open to all he heard and saw, he still closely 
adhered to his occupation as a clerk in the banking-house of 
Messrs Cenani and Mazerani. By this diligence and his general 
skill he speedily rose in estimation. No accounts baffled his 
scrutiny. He mastered the details of his profession while still a 
youth ; and on attaining manhood, he might have been pro- 
nounced a thorough financier. The most important duties were 
now intrusted to him ; and at length he obtained the great object 
of his ambition, the oifice of traveller for the firm. 

The taste for the arts and sciences which he possessed was still 
more developed in his travels. He made the circuit of all the 
French provinces ; and commerce being* his principal study, he 
was ah'eady devising means to render it flourishing. It was 
while on these journeys that he formed those great projects, the 
execution of which, in later years, adorned his ministry. In 
1648, when he was about thirty. Saint Pouage, his near relation, 
placed him with his brother-in-law Letellier, then secretary of 
state, by whom he was introduced to Cardinal Mazarin, prime 
minister of Anne of Austria, regent of France during the minority 
of Louis XIV. At this period commenced the factious intrigues 
which marked the regency of Anne. Mazarin, who had more 
penetration into character than any other man of his time, under- 
stood and appreciated the young and studious Colbert. He 
begged him of Letellier, who yielded him to him. Mazarin 
created him privy-counsellor, and associated him with himself in 
all public business. Having proved his zeal in the wars of the 
Fronde in 1649 and 1650, he soon admitted him into his full con- 
fidence. At this epoch Mazarin, pursued by public hatred, and 
an object of distrust and dishke to the highest in the kingdom, 
was obliged to retire to Cologne. Colbert was about to marry 
Marie, the daughter of Jacques Charron, Baron de Menars. He 
remained at Paris as comptroller of the cardinal's household, and 
the secret agent of his correspondence with the queen regent. 
He it was who was the bearer of the minister's despatches to that 
princess, and who received hers in return for the minister. He 



acquitted himself of this delicate commission in a manner which 
did equal honour to his head and heart, his prudence being" only 
equalled by his zeal ; and when Mazarin returned to France, he 
enabled him to be useful to his family. 

Colbert's father was not forgotten by his son ; he was created a 
baron, and placed in a situation suitable to his abilities. His 
mother's father, Henri Passort, was made privy-counsellor. The 
latter afterwards drew up that famous civil code known under 
the name of the code of 1667. To one of his brothers he gave 
several appointments ; procured a lieutenancy in the regiment of 
Navarre for the second ; caused the third to be appointed director 
of sea prizes ; and for his fourth brother, who was an abbe, he 
obtained a benefice worth 6000 livres. Thus Colbert, now a 
great man at court, showed himself not unmindful of his relatives, 
and these were worthy of his esteem. The following extract 
from a letter written by Colbert to his patron the cardinal, proves 
also that he had not obliged one who was ungrateful for his 
favours : — 

" I intreat," he says, " that your highness will not think me 
insensible to the many favours that you have lavished on me and 
my family, and that, by your permitting a public acknowledg- 
ment of them, I may be allowed to offer the only kind of retm^n 
for them it is in my power to make." 

Colbert, created Marquis de Croissy, continued to give such 
proofs of rare merit and conscientiousness in all affairs confided 
to him by the cardinal, that the latter, when dying, said to 
Louis XIV., " I owe everything to you, sire ; but I think that I 
acquit myself in some degree to your majesty in g'iving you 

Louis XIV. appreciated Colbert's merits so highly, that in 1661 
he created him comptroller-general of finance. At this era 
France carried on no regular trade but that of some of its pro- 
vinces with the capital, and even this trade was confined to the 
produce of the soil. France was still ignorant of her own re- 
sources and the mine of wealth that national industry can open. 
The principal roads were impassable ; Colbert had them repaired, 
and also opened new ones. The junction of the two seas by 
which France is bounded had before been proposed under 
Louis XIII, ; Colbert had it put into execution by Riquet. He 
projected the Canal de Bourgoyne, and established a general in- 
surance office for the benefit of maritime towns. He founded a 
chamber of commerce, where the most skilful merchants were 
called upon to discuss the sources of national prosperity ; and not 
trusting to his own judgment, he addressed himself to eveiy 
European court for information, not merely as to the branches of 
commerce, but as to the means of making that commerce flourish- 
ing. By a skilful stroke of policy he taught the nobility that 
trade might be engaged in -without losing caste. Nantes, St 
Malo, and Bourdeaux, are still inhabited by merchants who 



belong to the noblest families of their respective provinces. At 
this period the Eng-lish and Dutch divided between them the 
empire of the sea. Colbert, who had learned how much power 
lay in the trade between the two worlds, disputed this empire with 
them. Dunkirk was in the possession of the Eng-lish; he re- 
deemed it in 1662 from Charles II. at an expense of live millions. 
The two India companies were established; a colony was sent 
out from Rochelle to people Cayenne ; a second took possession 
of Canada, and laid the foundation of Quebec ; a third settled in 
Madagascar ; the same month sixty-five large ships sailed from 
St Malo. The seas were infested by the corsairs of Alg-iers, of 
Tunis, and of Tripoli ; the French vessels pui'sued the pirates, 
and stormed their strongholds, so that they could never after- 
wards see the French flag without terror. The harbours of Brest, 
Toulon, and Rochefort, were opened, and those of Havre and 
Dunkirk fortified. Naval schools were estabhshed ; and more 
than a hundred ships of the line, with sixty thousand sailors, 
commanded by D'Estree, Tourville, Jean-Bart, and Forbin, gave 
to the French flag, hitherto unknown upon the seas, a brilliant 

It was this able minister who established glass-works in the 
Faubourg St Antoine, which article had previously been pur- 
chased in Venice at enormous prices. In 1667 he founded, in 
another part of Paris, the celebrated Gobelin manufactory — an 
establishment in which was produced the most beautiful tapes- 
tries, and which remains till this day as one of the gTeatest 
wonders in the French metropolis. 

In short, you cannot g-o a small distance in Paris with- 
out finding a trace of the great Colbert. The observatory, 
the beautiful garden of the Tuileries, laid out by Le Notre, 
the triumphal arch of St Martin's Gate, that of the Rue 
St Denis, that benevolent and noble institution, the Hotel of 
the Invalids, many of the quays and boulevards, and sevei'al 
other things which I forget, attest the g'enius which shed such 
brilliancy and glory upon the age of Louis XIV. ; and it is only 
unfortunate that that monarch, by his desire for military con- 
quest, failed to realise for France the solid benefits of Colbert's 
peaceful policy. Nothing was beyond the range of this great 
and noble intellect — not even agTiculture. Remembering the 
axiom of Sully, the friend and minister of Henri IV. — "■ Pas- 
turage and tillag'e are the two nurses of the state" — he encou- 
raged the breeding of cattle, and rendered land more easy of 

In the midst of so many labours, the fine arts, the fair dream 
of his early years, were not forgotten. In 1664 he founded the 
Academy of Painting, Architectm'e, and Sculpture, and the 
French Academy at Rome ; and was also gTeatly instrumental in 
the establishment of the Academy of Science ; and that of In- 
scriptions took its rise fi'om an assemblv held in his own house, 



for the purpose of furnishing" designs and devices for the king's 

It was not until the 6th September 1683 that Colbert, who 
might have said with Corneille, " I owe all my renown to 
myself," terminated, at the age of sixty-four, a career no less 
useful than brilliant. He left nine children, six sons and three 
daughters. His three daughters married the dukes of Chevereux, 
Aignau, and Mortemar. Such was the end of the illustrious 
Colbert, once a woollen-draper's apprentice, and whose first step, 
to distinction was an act of honour and honesty. 


In walking through London, we may occasionally observe a 
crowd of persons collected round a large cage, containing a variety 
of animals usually considered as opposite and irreconcilable in 
their natures — such as cats, pigeons, mice, guinea-pigs, rabbits, 
owls, canary birds, and other small creatures. The men who 
exhibit these collections of animals call them Hapj)y Families, 
from the perfectly good temper and joyous happiness in which 
they appear to dwell together. 

What is it that produces such a harmony among different 
natures ? Kindness. The animals, individually, are treated with 
great kindness by their proprietors, and trained, by the prospect 
of little rewards, to conduct themselves meekly towards each 
other. By this mode of treatment, birds may be trained to per- 
form very remarkable feats ; and we shall mention a case in 
which a boy was enabled to excite in a strong degree the affec- 
tions of these animals. 

Francesco Michelo was the only son of a carpenter, who re- 
sided at Tempio, a town in the island of Sardinia 5 he had two 
sisters younger than himself, and had only attained his tenth 
year, when a fire, which broke out in the house of his father, 
reduced it to ashes, and consumed the unfortunate carpenter in 
the ruins. Totally ruined by this frightful event, the whole 
family were left destitute, and forced to implore the charity of 
strangers, in order to supply the urgent necessities of each suc- 
ceeding day. 

At length, tired of his vain attempts to support his indigent 
parent by the extorted kindness of others, and grieved at seeing 
her and his sisters pining in want before his eyes, necessity and 
tenderness conspired to urge him to exertion and ingenuity. 
He made with laths, and with some little difficulty, a cage of 
considerable dimensions, and furnished it with every requisite for 
the reception of birds ; and when spring returned,- he proceeded to 
the woods in the vicinity of Tempio, and set himself industriously 



to secure their nests of young. As lie was skilful at the task, and 
of great activity, it was not long- before he became tolerably 
successful : he climbed from tree to tree, and seldom returned 
without his cage being* well stored with chaffinches, linnets, 
blackbirds, wrens, ring'-doves, and pigeons. Every week Fran- 
cesco and his sisters carried their little favourites to the market 
of Sussari, and generally disposed of those which were most at- 
tractive and beautiful. 

The object of their desires was to be able to support their help- 
less parent ; but still, all the assistance they were able to procure 
for her was far fi'om being adequate to supply her numerous 
wants. In this dilemma Francesco conceived a new and original 
method of increasing his gains ; necessity is the mother of inven- 
tion, and he meditated no less a project than to train a yonng 
Angora cat to live harmlessly in the midst of his favourite song- 
sters. Such is the force of habit, such the power of education, 
that, by slow degrees, he taiight the mortal enemy of his winged 
pets to live, to drink, to eat, and to sleep in the midst of his little 
charges, without once attempting* to devour or injure them. The 
cat, whom he called Bianca, suffered the little birds to play all 
manner of tricks with her ; and never did she extend her talons, 
or offer to hurt her companions. 

He went even farther; for, not content with teaching them 
merely to live in peace and happiness together, he instructed the 
cat and the little birds to play a kind of game, in which each had 
to learn its own part ; and after some little trouble in training, 
each performed with readiness the particular duty assigned to it. 
Puss was instructed to curl herself into a circle, with her head 
between her paws, and appear buried in sleep : the cage was then 
opened, and the little tricksy birds rushed out upon her, and 
endeavoured to awaken her by repeated strokes of their beaks ; 
then dividing into two parties, they attacked her head and her 
whiskers, without the gentle animal once appearing* to take the 
least notice of their gambols. At other times she would seat 
herself in the middle of the cage, and begin to smooth her fur, 
and purr with great gentleness and satisfaction ; the birds would 
sometimes even settle on her back, or sit like a crown upon her 
head, chirruping and singing* as if in all the security of a shady 

The sight of a sleek and beautiful cat seated calmly in the 
midst of a cage of birds, was so new and unexpected, that when 
Francesco produced them at the fair of Sussari, he was sur- 
rounded instantly by a crowd of admiring spectators. Their 
astonishment scarcely knew any bound when they heard him 
call each feathered favourite by its name, and saw it fly towards 
him with alacrity, till all were perched contentedly on his head, 
his arms, and his fingers. 

Delighted with his ingenuity, the spectators rewarded him 
liberally ; and Francesco returned in the evening with his httle 



heart swelling" with joy, to lay before his mother a sum of money 
which would suffice to support her for many months. 

This ingenious boy next trained some young" partridges, one of 
which became exceedingly attached to him. This partridge, 
which he called Rosoletta, on one occasion brought back to him 
a beautiful goldfinch, that had escaped from its cage, and was 
lost in an adjoining g'arden. Francesco was in despair at the 
loss, because it was a good performer, and he had promised him 
to the daughter of a lady from whom he had received much 
kindness. On the sixth morning after the goldfinch had escaped, 
Rosoletta, the tame and intelligent partridge, was seen chasing 
the truant bird before her, along the top of the linden trees 
towards home. Rosoletta led the way by little and little before 
him, and at length getting him home, seated him in apparent 
disgrace in a corner of the aviary, whilst she flew from side to 
side in triumph for her success. 

Francesco was now happy and contented, since by his own 
industry and exertions he was enabled to support his mother 
and sisters. Unfortunately, however, in the midst of all his 
happiness, he was suddenly torn from them by a very grievous 
accident. He was one evening engaged in gathering a species 
of mushroom very common in the southern countries of Europe ; 
but not having sufficient discrimination to separate those which 
are nutritious from those that are poisonous, he ate . of them to 
excess, and died in a few days, along with his youngest sister, 
in spite of every remedy which skill could apply. During the 
three days of Francesco's illness, his birds flew incessantly 
round and round his bed! some lying sadly upon his pillow, 
others flitting backwards and forwards above his head, a few 
uttering brief but plaintive cries, and all taking scarcely any 

The death of Francesco showed in a remarkable manner what 
affections may be excited in animals by a course of gentle treat- 
ment. Francesco's birds appeared to be sensible of the loss of a 
benefactor ; but none of his feathered favourites manifested on 
his decease such real and disconsolate grief as Rosoletta. When 
poor Francesco was placed in his coffin, she flew round and round 
it, and at last perched upon the lid. In vain they several times 
removed her ; she still returned, and even persisted in accom- 
panying the funeral procession to the place of graves. During 
his interment she sat upon an adjoining cypress, to watch where 
they laid the remains of her friend ; and when the crowd had 
departed, she forsook the spot no more, except to return to the 
cottage of his mother for her accustomed food. While she lived, 
she came daily to perch and to sleep upon the turret of an ad- 
joining chapel which looked upon his grave ; and here she lived, 
and here she died, about four months after the death of her be- 
loved master. 




Speakers. — Mb James Smith, a factory mill-owner, and Mr Richard 
Jackson, a cotton-spinner. 

Smith. — I am glad to see yon, Mr Jackson; step into my 
house, and let us have a little conversation on the present 
unhappy differences on the subject of wages. Perhaps I may 
show you that the ideas entertained respecting employers are 
not, by any means, just. At all events, let us hear what each 
has got to say — you on the part of the operative class generally, 
and I on the part of the mill-owners, and others, who are in the 
habit of giving emplojTnent. 

Jackson. — Thank you, sir ; I am a plain-spoken man, and have 
no objections to say what I and others think about our condition 
as workmen, so I very willingly accept your invitation. 

Smith. — Now, Mr JTackson, sit down ; and if you please, begin 
by telling me exactly what the workmen want. 

Jackson. — ^^Vhy, sir, the great matter is this — our condition 
is much less comfortable than we think, in justice, it should be. 
We are poor, and not getting any richer. Few among' us can 
get more than 22s. a-week for our labour. The average wage 
is about 14s. or 15s., and we do think it a hard case that a man, 
with a Avife and family, should have to live on any sum of that 
kind, when we see the masters so well off, and they, as one 
may say, living by our hard and continued labour. What we 
want is " a fair day's wage for a fair day's work." 

Smith. — The statement apparently is — that the employers give 
lower wages generally than they ought to give. Is not that the 
substance of your charge ? 

Jackson. — -Yes ; we think you should give at least 25 per cent, 
more. If a man now gets 20s., he should get 25s., and so on. 

Smith. — Very well. Now, be so good as tell me on what 
ground you rest this demand. 

Jackson. — Because you are making large profits, and can afford 
to pay more than you do. The profits should be more equally 

Smith. — Now, I believe, we understand each other. I like 
your candour ; and I think I shall answer you. You claim more 
wages on the score of your contributing* to the production of 
profits. Let us take my own establishment as an example, and 
let us suppose you are a workman in it. I wish to loiow how 
much you put into the concern. 

Jackson. — Me! why, I give you my labour from Monday 
morning till Saturday night. 

No. 4. 1 


Smith. — This labour, then, is your contribution of means. You 
receive 20s. for the week's labour ; and therefore it is just the 
same thing as if you were to give me 20s. every week, so that I 
might lay it out in hiring somebody to do your work. 

Jackson. — I think much the same thing. 

Smith. — It is then allowed that you contribute to the extent of 
20s. weekly to my concern. May I now ask if you think every 
one should be paid according to the extent of his input and 

Jackson. — That certainly would be fair. 

Smith.' — I shall then explain to you what I have put in, and 
how I have been enabled to do so. The cost of the buildings, the 
ground, the machinery, and other things required to begin the 
manufactory, was £80,000 ; and the money necessary for buying 
raw material, and giving credit till sales could be effected, and 
also for paying wages, came to £10,000 more. You understand 
I did not start till I had £90,000 ready to be laid out and risked 
on the undertaking. If I had begun with less, the concern would 
have been unsuccessful. It could not have gone on. To raise 
this large sum of £90,000 was a very serious matter. My father 
was a working-man, like yourself. His wages were never above 
18s. a-week. On this sum he brought up his family, for my 
mother was very economical. I got a little schooling; was 
taught to read, write, and cipher. At fourteen years of age I 
was sent into a cotton factory, where for several years I had no 
higher wage than 5s. a-week. I afterwards, by dint of some 
degree of skill and perseverance, rose to be a spinner, and received 
25s. a-week ; but off this I had to pay a boy-assistant 5s. ; and 
therefore my real wage was only 20s. a-week. I was at this em- 
ployment four years and a half, during which time I saved 
£30, which I deposited in a bank for security. One day, when I 
was at work, a party of foreigners visited the factory ; they were 
in want of a few steady and skilful hands to go to St Petersburg, 
to work in a factory there. I volunteered for one, and being 
chosen, I went to that distant city, which you know is in Russia, 
and there I received for a time about double my former wages. 
In three years the overseer died ; I was promoted to his situation, 
and now received as much as £250 yearly. I still made a point 
of economising my gains ; and on reckoning up, found that when 
I was twenty-eight years of age I had saved £700. At the re- 
commendation of a friend, I laid out this money on a mercantile 
speculation — in short, I risked its entire loss. I was successful, 
and made my £700 as much as £1000. Again I risked this sum, 
for it seemed a sure trade ; and so on I went for several years, 
increasing my capital both by profits and savings. When I 
married, which was not till thirty-five years of age, I had realised 
one way and another £20,000. I now returned to England, was 
for several years a partner in a concern where I again risked my 
earnings, and at the end of fifteen years retired with £90,000. 



With tMs lar^e sum I built my present factory, and entered 
into the hazardous business in which I am now eng-aged. I 
ask any man if I did not earn my money by hard industry, 
by self-denial, by serious risks, by a long' course of pains and 
anxieties. For, having" done all this, I consider I am entitled 
jeaivly—^/irst, to an interest on my money equal to what I could 
have obtained by lending* it ; second, to a profit that will cover 
any losses which I may incur by bad debts ; third, a per-centag"e 
to pay the tear and wear of machinery and deterioration of 
property ; and, fourth, to a salary for my personal trouble — in 
other words, my wag"es ; and all this over and above the ordi- 
nary expenses of the concern. You, Richard Jackson, as a 
straig-htforward man, answer me, if I, by these risks and obli- 
gations and personal attentions, be not justly entitled to take a 
vast deal more out of the business than you, who put in only 
20s. in the shape of weekly labour ? 

Jackson. — Why, nobody doubts that, sir. But still it seems 
somehow as if the working-classes did not get their due. You 
and others, no doubt, risk your money ; but we give our time, 
health, strength, our all, to assist in your undertakings. We 
may not be the bees who build the hive, but we have some 
reason to say that we are the bees who make the honey. And 
the great question is, do we get our fair share of the proceeds ? 

Smith. — My friend, you appear to be labouring under some 
kind of delusion. You speak of dividing proceeds as if manu- 
facturers had entered into a partnership with their men. Now, 
they have done no such thing. The employer is the individual 
who plans, risks, manages. If his plans do not succeed, he alone 
is accountable, and alone pays the penalty of his miscalculations. 
To carry out his intentions, he offers a wage to this one, and a 
wag'e to that one, and it is volimtary on his part to do so or not. 
This wage is the equivalent for which the operative sells his 
labour ; and when he gets the full value of the commodity he 
has disposed of, he has surely no farther claim. To admit that 
he is to be a sharer of his master's profits, would be to constitute 
him a partner of a very extraordinary kind ; because, without 
risking anything himself, he would be entitled to participate 
in the gains, and yet be exempt from the losses, of trade. This 
is a principle of partnership that neither law nor reason recog- 
nises ; in fact, is at variance with common sense. Besides, the 
workman is really better off with having nothing to do with 
his master's risks. In all circumstances, he is certain to receive 
his wages. When ruin follows the speciilations of the employer, 
the operative is unscathed, and has only to carry his services to 
a new and more fortunate master. Are you now satisfied that 
the workman receives his full dues in the mutual arrangements 
of employer and employed ? 

Jackson. — I cannot exactly say that I am. I may admit that 
the workman has no claim of partnership in his employer's con- 



cern : still, he must be acknowledg-ed to be indispensable as an 
agent of labour, and on tliat ground lie feels — though perhaps 
he cannot put his feelings into words — that he should be hand- 
somely paid for his services. 

Smith. — Mr Jackson, you speak almost as if emploj^ers 
generally were a set of wretches who tried to rob workmen of 
their labour. I will not say that there are not shabby employers, 
who would resort to mean tricks for the purpose of screwing 
down wages, and for these I beg to express my contempt. But 
we are now talking of universal principles, not of paltry and 
special cases of injustice. Let me, then, assure you, that nothing 
is more certain than that, taking the working-classes in the 
entire mass, they get a fair share of the proceeds of the national 
industry. We may take a few facts. To begin with my own 
mill. I spent, as I have said, £80,000 on the building and 
the apparatus. Now, nearly the whole of this was dispersed 
in wages to working-people. The clay from which the bricks 
were made ; the limestone rock from which the lime was pre- 
pared by burning ; the timber growing in its native forest ; the 
iron in its condition of ore in the mines — all were of small value 
till labour was employed upon them, and that labour paid for 
in money. See what a number of men must have been employed 
in fashioning the raw materials into the house and its machi- 
nery — brickmakers, limeburners, coal-miners, wagoners, wood- 
cutters, sailors, carpenters, builders, slaters, plasterers, glass- 
makers, glaziers, iron-smelters, engineers ; and not only these, 
but the persons who supplied them with food and clothing. In 
short, if we were to go into a minute calculation, we should 
probably discover, that out of my £80,000 as much as £75,000 
went to the working-classes, the remaining £5000 going to the 
proprietors of the raw materials, and to intermediate dealers. 
If people would reflect a little on such matters, they would 
perceive what an enormous share of the cost of almost every 
article goes to operatives. It is ascertained by careful calcu- 
lations, that out of £100 worth of fine scissors, the workmen 
have £96 as wages ; of £100 worth of razors, they have £90 ; 
of £100 worth of table-knives and forks, they have £65 ; of £100 
worth of fine woollen cloth, they have £60 ; of £100 worth of 
linen yarn, they have £48 ; of £100 worth of ordinary earthen- 
ware, they have £40 ; and so on with most articles of manu- 
facture. In the making of needles, pins, trinkets, watches, and 
other delicate articles in metal, the proportion of wages rises to 
within a trifle of the price of 'the article. In the working 
of collieries, the expenses are almost entirely resolvable into 
labour ; there being few cases in which the coal-miners receive 
less than £90 out of every £100 of the current expenditure. I 
trust it is not necessary to dwell longer on the notion, that 
working-men do not get their fair share of the proceeds of the 
labour on which they are engaged. They get by far the largest 



share of all the money laid out on the fabrication of raw mate- 
rials. Are you still unsatisfied ? 

Jaclisou. — The facts you have stated are certainly very re- 
markable ; yet the broad truth remains, that we are hard wrought, 
and have little to cheer us in our lot, while employers take thing's 
very easily. 

Smith. — Easily, you say ; you are forgetting what sort of a hfe 
I led to make my money. When other young men were enjoy- 
ing* themselves of an evening, or at a wake, or a race, I was at 
home, and always keeping little company. I gave up my native 
country for a number of years, and lived among a half-barbarous 
people. Once I was very nearly being shot, and twice I was 
nearly drowned. You married, as I am told, and had the 
comforts of a wife and family when you were twenty years of 
age. I did not marry till I was thirty-five. Suppose you had 
done all that I had done, would you not consider yourself entitled 
to have dressed better and lived better in the end of your days 1 

Jackson. — Surely I should ; but you are only one. There are 
hundreds of employers, and all cannot have gone thi'ough such a 
deal of troubles. 

Smith. — I am not acquainted with the history of all the manu- 
facturers in Britain ; but this I know, that a large proportion 
of the manufacturing and mercantile classes — ordinarily called 
the middle classes — were originally working or poor men, who, 
by savings, dilig-ence, and skill, have come to be what they are. 
The bulk of this wealthy order of individuals, then, are nothing 
more than working-men who have shot ahead of their fellows, 
and now give employment instead of receiving it. A higher 
compliment could not be paid the working-classes of Engiand 
than to tell them, that from their body the higher classes are 
constantly recruited, and that nothing prevents their children 
from taking a place alongside the most honoured in the realm. 
Let such explanations disabuse your mind of any enmity to the 
middle class capitalists. Their capital, whatever it may amount 
to, has not been got without labour, and very hard and thought- 
ful, ay, and honourable labour too. 

Jackson. — There you have got on that plaguy subject capital. 
But it is always so. When the workmen make any sort of com- 
plaints, they are always told about capital, and capital, and what 
are the rights of capital. 

Smith. — Since you imagine that there is some kind of mystery 
under this term capital, I will explain the meaning of it in a very 
few words. Capital is anything which is of value. It may con- 
sist of labour, of houses and lands so far as they are productive, 
of machinery, manufactured goods, or money. Everything is 
capital which possesses an exchangeable value, and can be made 
directly available either to the support of human existence, or to 
the facilitating of production. All these things are possessed as 
property ; they belong either to the individuals who have made 


or produced them, or to the representatives of these individuals. 
You can perceive that capital, or property, is a sheer result of 
lahour, if not labour itself; and that it is the accumulated savings 
of years, najr, in some cases, of centuries. Had mankind never 
saved anything— every man from the beginning of the world 
consuming daily what he laboured for daily — there would have 
been scarcely anything like capital or savings at all. By a course 
of saving, however, a wonderful amount of capital in cultivated 
lands, houses, roads, money, and other things, have been stored 
up. The stores of capital are not lost. They are alike the grand 
results and the grand causes of industry. He who possesses 
capital in the form of a large sum of money, for instance, can 
give employment to others. You know quite well that, before 
I planted my factory here, there was little work in the town. 
Now, see how many workmen and their families are supported. 
I was not, mark you, obliged to come here to set up a factory. 
I could have gone somewhere else. Then look at the sum 
which I distribute weekly in wages. I give employment to 100 
men, 146 women and girls, and 70 boys — altogether, 316 indivi- 
duals ; and the entire sum paid on an average weekly for wages 
amounts to £290. I say I pay £290 to my workpeople weekly 
in exchange for their labour. Surely you must now see that 
capital is a good thing ; good for the working-classes. It is 
capital which hires and employs them ; it is capital which pays 
their wages ; it is capital which keeps them busy when often 
the market is glutted with goods ; it gives them work till better 
times. Why has England larger and more numerous manufac- 
tories than any other country ? Because it possesses a greater 
amount of capital — greater accumulations of savings — than any 
other country. What is one of the main causes of so much 
poverty in Ireland ? The smallness of its capital in proportion to 
its population. There are few wealthy men in it who will risk their 
money to set up factories ; and the people, increasing beyond the 
means of subsistence, are in a state ot deplorable wretchedness. 
The bulk of the people in England would be as badly off, if the 
capitalists were to withdraw their support. And yet there are 
workmen so short-sighted as to wage war on the very thing 
which supports them. They attack capital as an enemy. It is 
their best friend. 

Jackson. — I must allow there is reason in what you say. I 
know very well that if you did not give employment, and that 
others, also, did not give employment, the working-classes would 
be poorly off. I am obliged to you for your explanations, so fai' 
as they have gone. I see that the working-classes, in the mass, 
receive a large share of all ordinary outlays in manufactiu'es ; 
but I am still at a loss to discover why employers, taking them 
in the mass also, give the present rate of wages, and no more. 

Smith. — Have a little patience. I am coming to that point. 
You know what the article is I produce ? 



Jackson. — ^Yes ; it is cotton twist. 

Smith. — Right. This article, produced by a course of manu- 
facture from raw cotton, I send abroad. You have seen the bales 
going off, I daresay. They are sent to foreign countries, chiefly 
Germany, where the twist is made into cloth. There are cotton- 
spinning estabUshments in these countries as well as in England, 
but they cannot produce the yarn so cheaply. We beat them by 
our superior skill and machinery ; but this may not always be 
the case, and at present there is a great competition in the trade 
of supplying them. Besides myself, perhaps five hundred English 
and Scotch manufacturers are making cotton twist for the foreign 
market. Each is struggling to have as much of the trade to 
himself as possible, by offering his goods at a low price. Some 
persons have said — why not combine to keep up the prices to the 
foreigner 1 But this is impossible, for two reasons. First, each 
manufacturer is impelled by his necessities to secure as much of 
the trade as he can ; he has bills and accounts to pay, and he 
must tiy to get returns at all hazards. There may be a few 
who coiild unite to refuse selling their goods unless at a higher 
price ; but there are many others, less scrupulous or more neces- 
sitous, who would break through all such regulations. In every 
trade there are undersellers. Second, if, by any contrivance, the 
whole cotton -yam manufacturers of Great Britain could be 
brought to unite to keep up prices, it would be useless, for our 
foreign customers would immediately draw their supplies from 
Switzerland, the United States of America, or perhaps be able to 
supply themselves. You see we are placed in a very ticklish 
position. We are all, both in England and abroad, competing 
against each other. And this is not true alone of the cotton trade : 
it is the same in every branch of business. The iron trade, the 
silk trade, and all other large trades, are each pushed to their 
utmost in competing with the same trades abroad. And so much 
have foreigners improved lately in their manufactures, that they 
are now ordy a shade behind us in certain articles. The cutlery 
of Belgium, for example, is gradually taking the place of the 
cutleiy of Sheffield in the continental market. 

Jackson. — Well, I see there is a competition among you, and 
all fair too. Allien I wish to buy a pair of shoes, of course I 
get them where they are cheapest; and let every man do the 
same. But you have not shown what the competition among 
you masters has to do with the rate of wages. 

Smith. — I will come to that. What I have wished to show 
you is, that there is a vast competition to produce goods cheaply ; 
that this competition cannot, in the present state of things, 
be avoided ; and that, therefore, it is every man's interest to 
manufacture at the lowest possible cost. Now, a manufacturer 
can only do so by buying on advantageous terms, by using 
the best kinds of machinery, and by giving his workmen the 
common rate of wages. Upon the whole, the manufacturer's 



chief reliance is on his machinery and his labourers. Let us 
first speak of machinery. As long- as all factory owners have 
much the same kind of machiner}'', they may be said to be on. 
a level ; but if one gets machines which will do more work at 
less expense, he has a g-reat advantag-e over his neighbours, and 
in self-defence they must all get machines like his. Improve- 
ments are thus constantly going on, and therefore the buying* 
of new machines causes a great outlay. You formerly spoke 
of manufacturers leading an easy life ; you see only the outside ; 
if you could look into their minds, you would observe anxieties 
without number. Next as to wages. The obligation to keep 
his place in the market, causes the manufacturer to give as little 
as he can. His feelings probably would induce him to give 
every one a high wage; but this is a matter of business, not 
of feelino*. He can only give the wages which his neighbours — 
that is, his competitors — give. If all other manufacturers oiFer 
a workman, such as yourself, 20s. a-week, then I cannot give 
more. If I were to give you more, and another more, and S9 
on, I could not manufacture so cheaply. My profits, and pro- 
bably more than my profits, would be all given away. No man 
in his senses will do such a thing. 

Jackson. — But why may not all masters give more 1 

Smith. — Don't you see they are all competing' against each 
other. They try to save off every item of expenditure, and wages 
among the rest. 

Jackson. — And how have they all come to an understanding 
on the subject ? What is it that regulates their offer to me of 
20s. weekly? 

Smith. — The thing which governs them is the general supply 
of hands — the supply according to the demand. There is a 
certain quantity of work to be done here and elsewhere, and a 
certain quantity of hands to do it. If there be much work, aiid 
comparatively few hands, wages will rise ; if little work, and an 
excess of hands, wages will fall. Without any mutual arrange- 
ment, the manufacturers come to a uniformity of wages. Indeed, 
it is not the masters, but the labourers, who settle the rate of 
wages. They settle it by competing against each other. In the 
same way that manufacturers compete against one another, so 
do the labouring* classes compete against one another. All find 
it necessary to work, in order to live; and to get work, they 
accept of what wages ai*e to be had. If they, however, hear that 
higher wages are going elsewhere, they carry their labour 
thither. They there compete with those who are already settled^ 
and perhaps bring- down wages to a lower level. Thus, without 
any mutual understanding among either masters or men, but 
just by a universal competition, wages get settled down at 
particular rates. 

Jackson. — But is it not dreadful that in many instances wages 
should be so low that people cannot live on them ? 



Smith. — That wages should ever be so low that they cannot 
procure the ordinary necessaries of life, is truly deplorable ; but 
I have already told you that the payment of wages by employers 
is not a matter of feeling, but of business ; they can give no more 
ihan others are giving, and that which is given is regulated by 
the number of hands in proportion to the demand for their ser- 
vices. Let me, if possible, bring this home to your own case. 
As far as I am aware, neither you nor your fellow-workmen ever 
g-ive wages or prices merely on the score of compassion, when 
employing people to do jobs for you or when purchasing articles 
— to use your own words, in- the case of buying shoes, you 
always go to the cheapest market. Now, have you ever seriously 
reflected, that by doing so you are helping to press down the 
wages of labour — the shoemaker in this instance being the em- 
ployed, and you the employer — just like all ordinary purchasers 
or wage-payers. First, the public, workmen included, press on 
the shopkeepers to give their things cheap, then the shopkeepers 
press in the same way on the manufacturers, and lastly, the 
manufacturers press on the means of preparation, the wages of 
their workmen included. You see it all goes in a circle, one 
pressing on another throughout society ; everybody trying to 
get everything as cheap as they can. If there be any evil in 
this, the factory or large employers are not the only parties to 
be blamed. Like you, in making your purchases, or paying 
for the services you receive, they go to the cheapest market, and 
only give what is soug-ht ; and what that is, is determined, as I 
have said before, by the competition for employment in propor- 
tion to the demand. In a word, it is the iinem'ployed who deter- 
mine the rate of wages. Whether these unemployed be men 
dismissed in consequence of a slackness of trade, or be new 
hands, the same result follows. Suppose, for example, in a body 
of 1000 workmen, there are fifty, equally good with the rest, who 
cannot find employment ; in this instance the rate of wages will 
not be determined by the 950 employed, but by the fifty unem- 
ployed. As a matter of course, masters will employ those whom 
they can hire at the lowest wages : if the fifty unemployed oifer 
to work for 20s. in place of 25s., they will discharge that number 
of their present workmen to make room for them. But the 
surplus of labourers continuing undiminished, the workmen dis- 
charged, urged by necessity, gladly oiFer to work for 20s. a-week 
also, and thereby supplant fifty more who are getting- 25s. In 
this manner the reduction of wages will extend through the 
entire trade ; the trifling redundancy of fifty workmen, like a 
trifling excess of commodities in the market, reducing the wages 
of the entire body of operatives.* 

Jackson. — I think you are forgetting the power of combi- 
nation among workmen to keep up or to raise wages. We can 

* Wade's History of the Working-Classes. 


associate in trades' unions — each trade its own union — and all 
helping- and encouraging" each other to stand out for a higher 
rate of wages. 

Smith. — You can do so undoubtedly, hut, as everybody knows, 
with no good to yourselves. The history of every trades' union 
is a history of folly, ending in repentance or misery. Got up, 
for the most part, by a few designing individuals, they are a 
vain effort to browbeat employers into the terms which they 
dictate, and, in doing so, tyrannise over the multitudes wha 
would willingly take the current rate of wages. If you will 
permit me, I will read from a pamphlet in my hand* the 
particulars of two of the most powerful strikes for wages on 
record ; the first, that at Preston, in Lancashire, in the winter 
of 1836-7 : and the second a few months later at Glasgow, in 

" The strike at Preston began by the workmen employed in 
the cotton manufacture of the place becoming discontented with 
the rate of wages allowed, which averaged for each man, after 
all deductions, 22s. 6d. per week. The main reason for the dis- 
content was, that the spinners of Bolton had higher wages ; but 
this higher rate, it seems, was more ideal than real, for the 
Bolton prices rose and fell with the times, whereas the Preston 
prices were fixed, and were in the aggregate, or long-run, as 
advantageous for the regular workman. Be this as it may, a 
union, which had formerly existed, commenced operations for 
raising the wages of the spinners. 

Great excitement was produced, and nearly the whole of the 
spinners, not previously members of the union, were induced, 
or coerced by threats and intimidating means, to join the union ; 
and under this semblance of strength, they, on the 13th of 
October, appointed a council, which commenced sitting at a 
public-house in the town. 

The first act of the council was to wait on one of the most 
extensive houses in the town, who were known to be very strict 
in requiring from their hands an engagement not to belong to 
any trades' union, and demand an advance in the spinners' 
wages; to which request the house refused to accede. Imme- 
diately after this, six spinners in the employment of this house 
became insubordinate, and were discharged, the remaining spin- 
ners threatening thereupon to leave their work, unless the six 
men were restored to work. The house then ascertained from 
their hands that they were in reality seeking, by advice of the 
spinners' council, to obtain the Bolton list of prices for spinning, 
the like demands being made simultaneously by the spinners 
of all the other masters in the town. The masters showed no 
disposition to give way to these demands made on them ; and 
the result was, that all the spinners throughout the town united 

* A paper read before the British Association at Liverpool, and printed 
in the Working Man's Companion for 1838. , 



in giving' notice to their masters of their intention to quit their 

The masters now held a meeting, at which it was determined 
to offer the spinners an advance of ten per cent, on their gross 
earnings, or about 3s. 4d. per week, on the condition that they 
would detach themselves from the union. This offer was in 
many instances accepted by individual spinners 5 but the council 
of the union assuming the right to retui'n an answer in the name 
of the whole body, rejected the offer of the masters, and renewed 
their demand of the ' Bolton List of Prices,' unaccompanied by 
any condition relative to the union. 

To these terms the masters refused to accede, and on Monday 
morning, the 7th November, the spinners discontinued their 
attendance, and the factories were closed. At this time the 
operatives amounted to 8500 persons. 

Of these 660 were spinners. 

1320 were pieeers, children employed by the spinners. 
6100 were card-room hands, reelers, and power- loom wea-vers. 
420 were overlookers, packers, engineers, &c. 

Making 8500 persons. 

Of this number, it may be said that only 660 (that is, the whole 
of the spinners) voluntarily left their work, the greater part of 
the remaining 7840 being thereby thrown out of employment. 

During the first fortnight of the turn-out, no change was 
apparent in the condition of the workpeople; some meetings 
were held both by masters and men, but nothing resulted from 
them. At the commencement of the second fortnight, complaints 
began to be heard from the card-room hands, and from the shop- 
keepers of the town. 

Early in December, when the mills had been closed for a 
month, the streets began to be crowded with beggars, and the 
offices of the overseer were besieged with applicants for relief. 
The inmates of the workhouse began to increase rapidly, and 
scenes of the greatest misery and wretchedness were of constant 
occurrence. At this period the spinners were receiving from 
the funds of the union five shillings a-week each, and the 
pieeers, some two, and others three shillings a-week ; the card- 
room hands and power-loom weavers [forming, be it observed, 
nearly three-fourths of the whole number out of employment] 
were destitute of all means of support, receiving no assistance 
except such as the masters afforded them, which (except in the 
cases of eighteen or twenty individuals who had not joined the 
union) extended only to one meal a-day for each person. 

In December, £100 was granted by the corporation towards 
relieving the general distress, and a meeting was convened for 
the purpose of raising a further sum, and of considering the most 
effectual nieans of putting an end to the turn-out ; but nothing 
resulted from it. Towards the middle of December, when the 



turn-out had lasted six weeks, it was evident tliat the funds of 
the union were nearly exhausted. 

By the end of December the distress had become universal and 
intense, and the masters came to the resolution of opening their 
mills, in order to give those who wished for it an opportunity of 
resuming their work. In doing so, they announced their deter- 
mination to abide by their former offer of an increase of ten per 
cent, on the rate of wages ; but to require from all those who 
should enter the mills a written declaration to the effect, that they 
would not, at any future time, whilst in their service, become 
members of any union or combination of workmen. 

Immediately on the re-opening of the mills, which took place 
on the 9th of January, all the card-room hands rushed anxiously 
to their work ; but the continued absence of the spinners rendered 
it impossible to give them employment. 

At the end of the first week after the mills had been opened, 
forty spinners were at work, of whom eighteen were those who, as 
before stated, had not joined the union, and the remaining twenty- 
two had never before been regularly employed in that kind of work. 

In the course of the second week the number had increased to 
100, of whom some were entirely new to the work, and three 
were seceders from the union ; and at the end of the third week 
there were 140 spinners at work, some of the additional forty 
having been procured from neighbouring towns. Besides this, in 
two of the factories a few self-acting mules, or spinning-machines, 
were substituted for common mules, thereby dispensing with the 
services of the spinners. As the number of the spinners increased, 
of course a corresponding increase took place in the number of 
persons employed in the other departments. 

Towards the middle of the fourth week the supplies from the 
funds of the union suddenly stopped, and those who had depended 
on this resource had no alternative left but to endeavour to obtain 
readmission to the factories. On the 5th of February, exactly 
three months from the day on which the mills were first closed, 
work was resumed in all the mills to its usual extent ; but about 
200 of the spinners who had been most active in the turn-out, 
were replaced by new hands, and have since either left the town, 
or remain there without employment. No systematic acts of 
violence, or violations of the law, took place during the turn-out. 
Detachments of military were stationed in the town to preserve 
order, but their services were not required. Some inflammatory 
handbills appeared on the walls, but without creating much sen- 

While the turn-out lasted, the operatives generally wandered 
about the streets without any definite object : seventy-five persons 
were brought before the magistrates, and convicted of drunken- 
ness and disorderly conduct ; twelve were imprisoned or held to 
bail for assaults or intimidation; about twenty youno- females 
became prostitutes, of whom more than one-half are still so, and 



of whom two have since been transported for theft ; three persons 
are believed to have died of starvation ; and not less than 5000 
must have suffered long and severely from hunger and cold. In 
almost every family the greater part of the wearing apparel and 
household furniture was pawned. In nine houses out of ten, 
considerable arrears of rent were due ; and out of the sum of £1600 
deposited in the Savings' Bank by about sixty spinners or over- 
lookers, £900 was withdrawn in the course of the three months ; 
most of those who could obtain credit got into debt with the shop- 
keepers. The trade of the town suffered severely ; many of the 
small shopkeepers were nearly ruined, and a few completely so. 

The following estimate may be made of the direct pecuniary 
loss to all classes of operatives in consequence of the turn-out : — 

The wages of the 660 spinners for 13 weeks at 22s. 6d. 
1320 pieeers for 13 weeks, at 5s. 6d. 
6520 weavers, card-room hands, over- 

lookers, engineers, &c. &c. for 13 

8500 weeks, averaging 9s. 
Estimated loss sustained by hand-loom weavers in con- 
sequence of the turn-out, .... 
Estimated loss sustained by clerks, wagoners, carters, 
mechanics, dressers, sizers, &c. in consequence of the 
turn-out, ...... 

Total, ... 

From which must be deducted — 
Estimated amount of wages earned during the partial 
resumption of work between the 9th January and 
the 5th February, ..... 
Estimated value of relief given by the masters, 
Otlier private charity and parish relief. 
Allowance to the spinners and pieeers from the funds of 
the union, ...... 

Leaving a net pecuniary loss to the whole body of the 

Preston operatives of, ... . £57,210 10 

(But to the tovra at large it may be said the loss was that of the whole 
sum of £70,013, 10s., as the amount of the deductions are mostly of a 
charitable nature.) 

Loss to the Preston operatives, . . . £57,210 10 

The loss to the masters being three months' interest of 

£800,000, some of which being sunk capital was not 

only unproductive, but was taking harm from being 

rendered useless, has been estimated at, . . 45,000 

And the loss sustained by the shopkeepers from loss of 

business, bad debts, &c. &c. . , . . 4,986 

Making the total loss to the town and trade of Preston, 
in this unavailing struggle, .... £107,196 10 

The strike of the Glasgow cotton-spinners, Vv'hich took place in 
the summer of 1837, lasted from the 8th of April till the 1st of 
August, being a period of seventeen weeks and five days. The 


£9,652 10 




£70,013 10 




following' is the statement of the loss to the operatives alone, 
independent of the loss of the masters, merchants, tradesmen, 
shopkeepers, and others : — 

700 spinners struck work ; their average wages were 32s. per week ; they 
had sometimes been higher ; this makes, . . ^619,040 

2100 piecers, and 2100 card and picking-room hands, 
employed at the factories under the spinners, were, 
in consequence of that strike, thrown out of employ- 
ment ; their average wage was 8s. per week, . 28,560 

Loss to the operatives themselves by wages, , » £47,600 

From a speech made by Mr Alison, sheriff of Lanarkshire, at 
a late trial of a cotton-spinner for violent intimidation, it appears 
that this amount of loss is by far the least part of the injury sus- 
tained. Speaking of the strike, he says, ' Its ruinous consequences 
upon the industry and prosperity of the manufacturing classes 
are already frightfully apparent. The return of the commitments 
for the county of Lanark exhibits a melancholy increase of crime 
during the last year, and which will forcibly attract the attention 
of the legislature. At the Christmas jail delivery last year, only 
seven prisoners remained in custody for trial in Glasgow. By 
the schedule I hold in my hand, there are at this moment sixty- 
eight, almost all committed during the last two months ! Nor is 
this result surprising. During' the disastrous strikes of the last 
summer, twenty or thirty thousand young persons of both sexes 
were thrown idle for many months in Glasgow and its immediate 
neighbourhood, almost all accustomed to high wages, and too 
often to habitual intemperance. Nine-and-twenty thousand per- 
sons in Glasgow are directly or indirectly employed in the manu- 
facture of cotton goods, the great majority of whom were thrown 
idle by the spinners' strike ; and this calamitous event took place 
at a period of unexampled distress from the general commercial 
embarrassments of the country, and hardly any means of ab- 
sorbing the helpless multitudes in other trades existed. Por the 
skilled workmen who arranged their strikes, the cotton-spinners, 
iron-moulders, colliers, or sawyers, funds were provided from the 
resources of the associations to which they severally belonged ; 
but for the unhappy persons whom they employed in their labour, 
the piecers, pickers, drawers, &c. no provision whatever existed, 
and they were thrown, in vast and appalling numbers, far beyond 
the reach either of public or private charity, on the streets, or 
into public-houses, to while away the weary hours of compulsory 
idleness. The results may easily be anticipated. The wretched 
victims of this tyranny all got deeply into debt if they had any 
credit, and if they had none, sunk into such habits of idleness, 
profligacy, and intemperance, that great numbers of them have 
been permanently rendered mere nuisances and burdens to society. 
The cotton-spinners' strike alone instantly threw six or seven 
thousand women and children out of employment for a long 



period ; eight thousand human being-s were retained in a state of 
destitution and wretchedness for four months, merely at the 
pleasure of fifteen men. 

Nor have the effects of this unhappy and imnatural system 
upon society been less disastrous. The cotton-spinners' strike 
cost the persons who were employed in that trade — spinners, 
piecers, and others — above £50,000 ! The loss to the masters was 
at least as great : that to the persons whom they employed or 
dealt with for provisions or other articles probably still greater. 
£200,000 were lost to Glasgow and its vicinity in four months, 
without a shilling being gained by any human being, by the 
strike of this trade alone ! The total loss sustained by Lanark- 
shire between the strikes of the colhers, the iron-moulders, 
sawyers, and spinners, last year, was at least £500,000. Society 
cannot long go on under a repetition of such shocks : capital 
will migrate from the country where it is subject to such cala- 
mities. And what is most remarkable, these grievous blows were 
inflicted by the working-classes on themselves at the very time 
when commercial credit was reeling under the effects of the con- 
vulsion of last year, and the most respectable establishments with 
difficulty sustained themselves against the accumulated pressure 
of diminished orders and increased embarrassments. The prin- 
ciple of the operatives has too often been by combination and 
violence to force up their wages during prosperity, and by com- 
bination and violence to prevent them from falling in adversity ; 
hoping thus to avert from themselves the law of nature, and 
build up on the foundation of intimidation a durable prosperity 
amidst the fleeting changes of human affairs.' " 

Jackson. — These were certainly very badly managed affairs; 
but trades' unions are not always so unsuccessful. There are 
many instances of then* keeping up wages without loss, stoppage, 
or violence. 

Smith. — I do not doubt they may sometimes cause a feverish 
rise of wages; but in the main, they are productive of great 
misery to the working-classes themselves. Supposing them to 
be successful, they defeat their own ends. Trade is a most deli- 
cate plant ; it cannot endm^e being tampered with — 

" You seize the flower, its bloom is shed." 

The raising of wages at one place to an unnatural level sends 
the trade to another place, or quenches the trade altogether. 
Combinations, when of frequent occurrence, or when the demands 
of the workmen are exorbitant, cause the removal of factories to 
other situations where the proprietors may be free from the 
improper control of their men. Of this it would be easy to give 
many instances. The combinations in Nottinghamshu'e of per- 
sons under the name of Luddites, drove a great number of lace 
frames from that district, and caused establishments to be formed 
in Devonshire. The increase of the silk trade at Manchester is 



partly owing- to its migration from Macclesfield, which for som« 
time suffered considerably from the restrictions placed on lahour 
by the unions. Norwich has suffered the same evil. "The 
business of calico-printing," says a gentleman conversant with 
the subject, "which had been long carried on in Belfast, was 
taken from it in consequence of the combination of the men 
engaged in it. The party who had embarked his capital in 
the trade sold off his materials ; and the result was, that one 
hundred and seven families were thrown out of bread. In 
the town of Bandon, a cotton factory was established, which 
was like to give employment to many persons in that neigh- 
bourhood. The proprietor fitted up his machinery, and had 
received several orders ; when that was known to the work- 
men, they turned out for higher wages. The proprietor re- 
mained long enough to complete the orders he had got, but then 
gave up the business; and thus that neighbourhood lost an 
outlay in wages of £11,000 or £12,000. With respect to the 
city of Dublin, he was sure he did not overstate the matter, 
when he said that wages to the amount of £500,000 a-year were 
withdrawn from it in the manufacture of almost every article of 
consumption. In the foundry trade alone, not less than £10,000 
a-year was sent out of Dublin, which would have been retained 
if the system of combination did not exist. Not very long ago 
there were four ship-builders in extensive business in Dublin; 
there was at present not one — the trade had been removed to 
Drogheda and to Belfast ; and if a vessel coming into the port 
required repairs, she was cobbled up in such a way as to enable 
her to get across the Channel, or to get down to Belfast, where 
she could be thoroughly repaired. What was the cause of this ? 
It was, that, when there was any business, so as to give employ- 
ment to the workmen, they at once turned out for higher wages." 
Other instances have occurred where still greater injury has been 
produced by the removal of a portion of the skill and capital of 
the country to a foreign land. Such was the case at Glasgow, 
as stated in the Fourth Parliamentary Report respecting artisans 
and machinery. One of the partners in an extensive cotton 
factory, fettered and annoyed by the constant interference of his 
workmen, removed to the state of New York, where he re-esta- 
blished his machinery, and thus afforded to a rival community, 
already formidable to our trade, at once a pattern of our best 
machinery, and an example of the best methods of using" it.* 

Strikes also lead to the superseding of hand labour by machines. 
In 1831, on the occasion of a strike at Manchester, several of the 
capitalists, afraid of their business being driven to other countries, 
had recourse to the celebrated machinists, Messrs Sharp and Co. 
of Manchester, requesting them to direct the inventive talents of 
their partner, Mr Roberts, to the construction of a self-acting 

* Babbnge on Maclilncvv and ^Manufactures. 


mule, in order to emancipate the trade from galling" slavery and 
impending ruin. Under assurances of the most liberal encourao-e- 
ment in the adoption of his invention, Mr Roberts suspended his 
professional pursuits as an engineer, and set his fertile genius to 
construct a spinning automaton. In the course of a few months 
he produced a machine, called the " Self-acting Mule," which, in 
1834, was in operation in upwards of sixty factories ; doing the 
work of the head spinners so much better than they could do it 
themselves, as to leave them no chance against it. 

In his work, the " Philosophy of Manufactures," Dr Ure 
observes on the same subject — '• The elegant art of calico-print- 
ing, which embodies in its operations the most elegant problems 
of chemistiy, as well as mechanics, had been for a long period 
the sport of foolish journeymen, who turned the liberal means of 
comfort it furnished them into weapons of warfare against their 
employers and the trade itself. They were, in fact, by their 
delirious combinations, plotting to kill the goose which laid the 
golden eggs of their industry, or to force it to fly off to a foreign 
land, where it might live without molestation. In the spirit of 
Egyptian task-masters, the operative printers dictated to the 
manufactui'ers the number and quality of the apprentices to be 
admitted into the trade, the hours of their own labour, and the 
wages to be paid them. At length capitalists sought deliverance 
fi'om this intolerable bondage in the resources of science, and 
were speedily reinstated in their legitimate dominion of the head 
over the inferior members. The four-colour and five-colour 
machines, which now render calico-printing an unerring and 
expeditious process, are mounted in all great establishments. It 
was under the high-pressure of the same despotic confederacies 
that self-acting apparatus for executing the dyeing and rinsing 
operations has been devised." 

The croppers of the West Riding of Yorkshire, and the hecklers 
or flax-dressers, can unfold " a tale of wo" on this subject. Their 
earnings exceeded those of most mechanics ; but the frequency of 
strikes among them, and the irregularities in their hours and 
times of working, compelled masters to substitute machinery for 
their manual labour. Their trades, in consequence, have been in 
a great measure superseded.* I might easily multiply examples 
of the injuries suffered by unionists from strikes, for they are 
very numerous ; but I think I have said enough to convince any 
reasonable man that trades' unions, as generally conducted, have 
a most pernicious result. They are got up for the most part 
with a singular disregard of justice and benevolence. Their pro- 
moters too frequently forget that others less fortunate and skilful 
require to live beside themselves. Working-men in full employ- 
ment, for instance, sometimes combine to deter masters from 
recjeiving more than a certain number of apprentices. This may 

* "U'ade's History of the "Working- Classes. 



serve tlie purpose of combinators at tlie time, but it is clearly 
oppressive to tbe young- persons who wish to be employed. It is 
equivalent to saying to these persons—" We shall keep all the 
work to ourselves, on our own terms ; you shall have none of it, 
even although you should starve." I have heard instances of 
journeymen tailors combining to prevent women from being em- 
ployed in their profession, and what was this but condemning 
women to idleness and starvation, in order that the tailor-unionists 
might maintain their prices ? It is somewhat remarkable that 
working-men, who manifest so keen a sense of injury on their 
own persons, should care so little for oppressing and grievously 
injui'ing others. In all the strikes which I have heard of, the 
welfare of the head workers seems alone to be consulted ; no one 
appears to care for throwing idle and starving the many thou- 
sands of inferior workers, such as boys, women, and girls. Your 
own common sense must perceive that such conduct is dictated 
by a spirit of selfishness, and has for its aim the most complete 
monopoly. I need say no more on trades' unions as they have 
been too commonly managed. Many a well-meaning man has 
lived to lament he ever had anything to do with them. 

Jackso?i—S>ir, I have listened patiently to your account of 
trades' unions. I think, with you, that they may be carried 
much too far. Still, it does not seem unreasonable for men to 
unite to make the most of their labour— to prevent the oppression 
of masters disposed to do them injustice. 

Smith.— It is certainly quite reasonable for men to sell their 
labour at as high a rate as possible, whether as individuals or as 
masses ; but they commit a prodigious error, and also a crime 
punishable by law, when they proceed the length of preventing 
others from underselling them— when they threaten, bully, and 
actually inflict bodily injuries on those who are inclined or 
necessitated to work at wages somewhat lower than what the 
union dictates. You talk of oppression. There is no oppression 
on the face of the earth so great as this. 

Jackson. — But surely there is nothing criminal in a union 
laying down rules for a uniform rate of wages ; I mean, that a 
master shall not pay some one wage and some another ? 

Smith.— -Nothmg criminal, but something very wrong and 
very foolish. Combinations to enforce a uniform rate of wages 
is an evil most detrimental to the workmen themselves. Such 
rules can mean only— that the least skilful shall be paid as high 
wages as the most skilful ; the idle and dull as much as the most 
expert. According to this preposterous arrangement — concocted, 
no doubt, by the dunces of the profession— no inducement is 
held out to a man to distinguish himself. If such a system had 
prevailed forty years ago, we should never have heard of Telford, 
or Rennie, or a hundred other men who raised themselves above 
their fellows. I wonder such a shrewd fellow as you, Jackson, 
should not see this. 



Jaclison. — ^Why, I confess I never saw it in that lig-ht before. 
There is such a deal of stuff talked, that it is long- before one g-ets 
at the truth. One thing, however, stiU seems a little puzzling*. 
How is it that men are paid so differently? Some persons, 
who live a very g'enteel and easy sort of life, get large pay- 
ments, while we working-men are pushed off with a pound 
a-week or so. 

Smith. — That is a very reasonable question, and I will 
answer it, I hope, to your satisfaction. The recompense of 
labour depends on what the labour is. If the labour is of a 
simple kind, which any able-bodied man may perform with 
little training, so many wiU resort to it in comparison to the 
demand, that their wages will be comparatively small. The 
labour may be dangerous, or it may be painful, but these cir- 
cumstances do not affect the rate of payment. An abundance 
of men can always be obtained to fight and run the risk of being 
shot, for a shilling a-day; and plenty of men can always be 
procm-ed to work in a ditch at about the same recompense. It 
is different with professions requii'ing long and expensive study, 
as that of medical men. No person can be fully educated as a 
practising surgeon at a less cost than £800, independently of 
six or seven years of study. Comparatively few men, therefore, 
follow this profession ; and, their services being in demand, they 
receive correspondingly high payments. An unthinking person 
would perhaps consider that, as a medical man gives only a word 
or two of advice when called upon in a case of iUness, he should 
be paid only an insignificant fee ; but a moment's thought wiH 
show you, that before he was able to give this advice, he 
expended years in study, as weU as large sums of money ; and 
that, therefore, he is entitled to be paid accordingly. Society 
might indeed refuse to make such payments to men belonging 
to the learned professions ; but the consequence would be, that 
no one would consider it worth his while to follow them. We 
should have no physicians or surgeons, for example ; and when 
any person became affected with disease, or met with an accident, 
such as a fractured Hmb, he would be left to his fate, or com- 
mitted to the charge of ignorant pretenders. Thus, all things 
considered, it is better to pay such men a fitting sum for their 
labours than to treat them indifferently. Another thing very 
materially affects the rate of remuneration — the precariousness of 
employment. Porters, hackney-coachmen, and others who are 
employed only by fits and starts, must be paid accordingly. A 
porter may consider a shilling little enough for going an errand, 
because, perhaps, he may have only one such job in the day. 
Attorneys, whose employment is very ii'regular, are usually paid 
on this principle. You will give one of them 6s. 8d. for writing 
a letter, which seems a high payment ; but, laying the expense of 
his preliminary education out of the question, he has not perhaps 
more than one or two such letters to write per day ; therefore he . 



must charge for his idle as well as his employed time. The pay- 
ments in some businesses are governed by the disreputability of 
the employment ; while, on the other hand, you will find men 
of education, ability, and leisure, engaging in pursuits attended 
with vast trouble, merely for the sake of doing what is held in 
popular estimation. You know, I daresay, many men who 
eagerly seek to be members of parliament, members of town- 
councils, and of other public bodies, without any pecuniary 
remuneration at all. They are willing to put themselves to a 
vast deal of trouble for the mere honour of the office. 

Jackson. — I confess it is rather strange I never heard such 
explanations before. Another question occurs to me. I wish 
to know if the amount of wages does not depend on the price of 
the common necessaries and luxuries of life ? I have heard it 
confidently asserted that they do. 

Smith. — That is a department of the wage-question on which 
there have been great diflFerences of opinion. My own convic- 
tion is, that the lowering of prices would not make the slightest 
difference in the rate of wages, as long as the number of hands 
seeking employment remained the same, and there was the same 
amount of labour to give them. Some persons have argued, that 
if bread and beef, and some other articles, were to fall in price, 
the working-man, by being able to buy his usual quantity of 
provisions for less money, would accept a wage proportionally 
lower. This seems to me a fallacy, unless we can suppose a 
very material change taking place in the tastes, habits, and 
desires of the labouring classes. The working-man, as you 
know, always tries to get as high a price as possible for his 
labour, without regard to what he can buy with the money. 
"When an operative applies for work at a factory, and seeks 3s. 
a-day, the employer does not say to him, " Bread has now fallen, 
and you must take only 2s. 9d. a-day." If he said so foolish 
a thing, the man would reply, "What does it signify to you 
what I can buy with my money? I seek 3s. a-day for my 
labour, because that is what everybody else is paying ; and if 
you will not give so much, I will hire myself to some other 
master. If the employer, therefore, wanted hands, he would 
be compelled to take the man at his own terms of 3s. daily. I 
have supposed this case, but it admits of proof by comparing 
the wages of operatives, domestic servants, and others, during 
the last thirty years, with the average price of grain in each 
jrear. The weekly wages of stone masons, carpenters, and 
similar artisans, have generally, during the past thirty years, 
varied from 14s. to 22s., while the average price of a quarter of 
wheat, barley, and oats, has varied from 84s. 6d. to 178s. ; the 
highest wages, in some instances, being given in the cheapest 
years. In some parts of Lancashire, weavers and spinners 
received 20s. per week in 1826-7, and 14s. in 1839-40. In 
18] 5. the average daily wage of a slubber [operative who 


attends a spinnino:-machine] was 2s. 6cl. or 2s. 8d. ; it is now 
3s. 4d. to 3s. 8d. The daily wag-e of a carder in 1815 was Is. 2d. ; 
it is now Is. 6d. Piecers, who are joung boys or girls, g*ot 
7d. a-day in 1815, and they now have 9d. It is needless to 
multiply examples. From all evidence, it appears that prices of 
food are no way concerned in the payment of wag-es. 

Jackson. — Well, you have said enoug-h on that point ; and I 
now come to a question more intimately concerning the subject 
of wages. Would it not serve a good purpose to settle the rate 
of wages by law ? You have said that workmen cannot force 
wages up, nor employers force them down, by combinations. 
Now, might not a law be made to compel certain wages to be 
paid according to the work done '? 

Smith: — No such law could ever be founded in justice. Wag-es 
are paid out of the profits of trade, and as these profits are con- 
stantly fluctuating, it might happen that a manufacturer would 
be called on to pay more than he could afford, or what was 
warranted by the state of the labour market. If more than he 
could afford, manufacturers would of course cease giving employ- 
ment, and many of them would probably go to other countries. 
If the wages were hig"her than were warranted by the state of 
the labour market, then the obligation to pay them would be to 
tyi'annise not only over the employers, but over a large number 
of unemployed working-people, who would g'ladly labour for wag-es 
of lower amount. I will not deny that in some very steady trades 
a fixed tariff of wages, as, for example, that each man should 
receive 5s. a-day, would perhaps for a time answer pretty well ; 
but, unless you could insure that the quantity of labour would 
keep pace with the number of hands, a time would come when the 
system would be deranged ; in short, the time would arrive when 
one portion of workmen would be employed at the standard 
wages, and another portion would be left unemployed, and re- 
duced to beggary. 

Jackson. — You are reasoning, I think, on a supposition that all 
should be paid 5s. a-day. But suppose the law to enforce a much 
lower rate ? 

Smith. — That would produce an evil of a different kind. It 
might be giving less than ought to be given, and that would be 
a tyranny over the workmen. Besides, by wages being fixed 
unalterably at a low rate, all who were employed would be on a 
dead level. The most idle and most industrious, the most stupid 
and the most skilful, would be paid alike. I have already pointed 
out the evil of such a regulation. 

Jackson. — As far as I can understand your doctrines, you 
mean to establish, that if wages be left to themselves, they will 
find their level. How, then, does it occur that one employer will 
sometimes be found paying higher wages than another? 

Smith. — No rule is without exceptions. As a general rule, 
employers seldom speak to each other about their affairs. The 



spirit of rivalry keeps them apart. Each tries to have the hest 
machinery and the best men. For the most part, employers are 
anxious to keep good hands whom they have had for some time, 
and in whom they can repose confidence. Some, however, are 
much more considerate than others on this point, and will make 
a sacrifice in order to keep men to whom they are attached. I 
have myself often kept my hands on when I was really working" 
at a loss ; not only from motives of personal esteem, but because, 
if I had paid off these men, it might have been difficult to re- 
engage them : they would have dispersed themselves to seek 
employment elsewhere. In this way steady men may be said at 
all times to command the support of their employers, and will 
in many cases receive wages considerably higher than what are 
paid generally in the trade. Good character, in short, always 
commands its price ; and to reach this stamp of superiority ought 
to be every working-man's aim. 

Jackson. — Well, although I agree in the truth of many of your 
remarks, I remain satisfied that the labouring-classes have much 
to complain of. Their condition does not seem to be improving, 
or keeping pace with the increasing wealth of the country. Can 
you suggest no means for its practical improvement 1 

Smith. — ^That is a question different from that on which we 
started. The object of our conversation was to clear up differences 
between employers and employed, and I have done my best to 
show you that if the working-classes are badly off, it is not "the 
employers as a class who are to blame. When you ask if no means 
can be suggested to improve the condition of operatives, we get 
into a quite new question ; we get into a discussion, I apprehend, 
on the general condition of society — a subject of a very difficult 
kind, on which there are a variety of opinions. However, since 
you have asked the question, I will try to answer it. I acknow- 
ledge, with great pain, there is a considerable amount of desti- 
tution demanding compassion and alleviation. By a concurrence 
of causes, general and particular, large numbers of the labouring 
population have got into a condition of considerable embarrass- 
ment and suffering — from want of education, abandonment to 
bad habits, and loss of self-respect, perhaps natural incapacity to 
compete with more skilful neighbours, also by fluctuations con- 
stantly increasing the mass of destitution in our large towns. 
The misfortunes and imprudences of the higher order of work- 
men and the mercantile classes also cause much destitution, and 
swell the numbers of the unemployed. 

Jackson. — ^You are describing what seems an incurable evil. 
Surely there must be some remedy for this state of things ? 

Smith. — Of course there is ; but time is required to digest and 
point out what shall be the proper remedy. In the meanwhile, 
viewing the destitute with compassion for their poverty and 
misfortunes, it is the duty of the more fortunate clas'ses to 
relieve them by every means in their power ; and the wish to do 



SO is amply testified in the establishment of hospitals, infir« 
maries, charitable institutions, and poor laws. I am not with- 
out hopes, also, that education — that is, a more perfect fitting* 
of the poorer classes for the difficulties they have to encounter — 
would considerably assuage the evil ; but this must be a matter 
of time and consideration. Passing therefore from the condition 
of the actually pauperised classes, let us turn to the state and 
prospects of the working-man. I would divide plans for his im- 
provement in circumstances into two kinds — 1. Those which he 
may carry out himself; and, 2. Those which may be executed by 
the state. 

Beginning with the former kind, I should say that the work- 
ing-man should avoid an early and imprudent marriage. Many 
of the manual labouring-classes seem to entertain loose notions 
on this subject ; they generally marry when young — some even 
before they are out of their apprenticeships, at all events before 
they are able to maintain a wife and family comfortably. A 
man of honourable feelings should be startled at the idea of 
marrying and bringing children into the world to drag out a 
half-starved existence, or be cut down in their early years by 
the effects of misery. He will not multiply competitors for his 
own and his neighbour's labour, or do that which will subdivide 
a morsel already too small, and make all, himself included, the 
more wretched. He will not do this if he have good feelings and 
just views ; but he wiU do it if he want these great distinctive 
features of an estimable character. 

Jackson. — These be hard words on poor men, sir. Surely it i& 
natural and right to marry when one has a mind to it ; and I am 
strongly of opinion that a country must be in a very bad state 
when men and women are prevented from marrying in their 
young days ; because, if they have to wait till they are up in 
years, they cannot expect to live to rear and look after a family. 
A pretty pass things have come to when the working-classes are 
told not to marry till they are old men ! 

Smith. — I think you are stating the case too strongly, Mr 
Jackson. I do not advocate the postponement of marriage till 
old age. What I want to recommend is, prudence in, waiting 
for a few years, till the man has saved a tittle money, and the 
woman perhaps saved something also. Then they may marry 
prudently. Marriage is a sacred and proper institution. No 
other state of life is so productive of happiness, or length of days, 
provided the parties are well matched, and desirous of assisting- 
and comforting each other. I am well aware that it might be 
better if marriage could be entered upon earlier than it is ; and I 
fully agree with you in saying that things cannot be in a good 
state when marriage, at a reasonable age, is reckoned imprudent. 
But you know in this, as in many other matters, we must take 
things as we find them. "We must temporise till means be 
devised for improving our existing* situation. I therefore assert 



-that, according" to all principles of justice, propriety, and expe- 
■diency, a man oug-ht to pause before he rushes into matrimony, 
and not only plunges a confiding* female into irretrievable ruin, 
but bring-s being's into the world whom he has not the means of 

Jackson. — I certainly don't think any well-meaning" man would 
do so. 

Smith. — Well-meaning"! He must be something" more than 
well-meaning". Half the errors in society are done by well- 
meaning* people. I say a man oug-ht to think seriously, and with 
foresig"ht, when he undertakes to maintain a family ; but let 
me continue my observations as to what means the working- 
classes should adopt for their own benefit. I have said that one 
great cause of distress in circumstances is early or imjjrudeni 
marriage. A second cause of misery is the general want of 
economy, along with intemperance. You complain of low wages. I 
have told you they cannot at present be raised. May you, then, 
not try to economise what you actually receive ? My belief is, 
that, properly expended, wages, as now paid, are not insuificient 
to the respectable support of the employed in towns. Taking, 
for instance, the skilled operatives occupied in the building and 
furnishing of houses, in making clothing, and in working in 
mines and manufactories, I should think their average incomes, 
in good and bad times, afford the means of comfortable subsis- 
tence. But the misfortune is, that their earnings in brisk times 
are often wastefully expended. I could produce numberless in- 
stances of working-men realising from £2, 10s. to £2, 18s. 
weekly, for years, and yet they are always as poor as ever — 
poorer than many who do not realise above 16s. weekly. I 
shall give you a iew examples. Some time ago I visited a large 
manufacturing establishment in London, where as many as three 
hundred persons are employed. Of these a hundred men receive 
€ach on an average £1, 15s. for working five days in the week. 
They decline coming to labour on Monday, which they habi- 
tually make a holiday, and, I was told, thus regularly lose 7s. 
each weekly. Besides this loss, I was informed that each expends 
not less than 7s. weekly for beer. The establishment, in fact, sup- 
ports a public-house. Now, are not such facts deplorable ? Here 
are a hundred men voluntarily losing 7s. every week by leav- 
ing off work on Monday, and losing 7s. by intemperance — 
making a loss of 14s. weekly, or £36 per annum. Among the 
whole himdred, as much as £3600 are annually wasted, or worse 
than wasted ; for the expenditure leads to loss of health, and 
lasting degradation of habits. Not one of them saves a penny. 
When any slackness of trade takes place, and they are paid off, 
they actually beg ; for what is going round with subscription 
papers but begging ? Such men ought not only to be comfort- 
able in circumstances, but to have money saved. But the truth 
is, the working-classes know little about saving. Few of them, 



in comparison to their numbers, put money into savings' banks-. 
For example, it was lately found that out of 14,937 deposit ac- 
counts in the saving's' bank in the g-reat manufacturing* town of 
Manchester, only 4181 were the deposits of working-people. A 
similar result is shown by returns from the saving:s' banks of 
Edinburg-h, Glasgow, and Dundee ; and it may now be taken as 
a well-ascertained fact, that the working-classes do not save 
money according to their means. So common, indeed, is it to 
see men with moderate wages saving, and men with large wages 
extravag'ant, that many persons have come to the conclusion, that 
hig'h wages prove a curse more than a blessing. The curse, how- 
ever, is brought on the workmen entirely by themselves. 

I observe from a pamphlet lately issued in Manchester, that 
the foreman of a cotton factory had been employed to inquire 
into the condition of the workmen in the mill in relation to 
their earnings, and he discloses the following facts : — " Carder and 
manager, with £1, 15s. a-week, ten years in work — extremely 
poor. Carder, with family earnings, £3 a-week, seven years in 
work — in great poverty. Dresser, with family earnings, £3, 10s. 
a-week, ten years in work — in great poverty. Mule-spinner, with 
family earnings, £1, 15s, a-week, five years in work — in poverty. 
Another mule-spinner, with family earnings, £1, 18s. a-week, 
five years in work — in poverty. Spinner and manager, with 
family earnings, £2, 10s. a-week, twelve years in work — died in 
great poverty. Mechanic, with family earnings, £2, 5s. a-week, 
seven years in work — in poverty. Overlooker, with family earn- 
ings, £3, 10s, a-week, seven years in work — in poverty." The 
reasons given for these deplorable exhibitions of poverty are — 
" extravagance, improvidence, want of domestic management, 
intemperance, immorality," 

The writer of the account goes on to say, " It is not unusual 
for the week's earnings of many operatives to be consumed in 
luxury and drunkenness on the evening of Saturday and on 
Sunday. The consequence is, their families drag* out the re- 
mainder of the week amidst privations extending even to the 
common necessaries of life. To obtain food, an article of furni- 
ture or of dress is taken to the pawnbroker, and a few shillings 
are borrowed on its security. This money has to be so minutely 
subdivided, that domestic articles are necessarily purchased in 
almost the smallest possible quantities ; consequently, 30 and 
even 60 per cent, are not unfrequently paid over and above the 
prices for which these articles might have been procured. Im- 
providence is by no means confined to the labouring* popula- 
tion of the manufacturing districts. A friend informs us that a 
similar social evil prevails amongst the fishermen on the coast of 
Yorkshire. Three men and a boy have been known to take in 
one night, under favourable circumstances, fish which they sold 
the following morning- for £20. Instead of carefully husbanding- 
their respective shares of this sum, they with their families 



immediately resorted to over-feeding* and drinking* ; and, between 
waste and extravag"ance, contrived to spend every farthing' of the 
money before the end of the week. Where such improvidence 
prevails, home soon presents no attraction for its inmates. 
Within its walls mutual recriminations are chiefly heard. Des- 
titute of comfort, it is shunned. The beer-house, the gin-shop, 
debating' clubs, infidel meeting-houses, or seditious assemblies, 
are the places frequented in its stead."* 

On the want of economy among" the working-classes gene- 
rally, I have observed some striking particulai's in a " Report on 
the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring Population of Eng- 
land," which was laid before parUament in 1842. Be so good 
as peruse the following passages, including a contrast in the 
economy of families. "It is unquestionably true that the de- 
plorable state of destitution and wretchedness, the existence of 
which is too notorious to be denied, might in most cases have 
been averted by common prudence and economy. The disgusting 
habits of self-indulgence, in both males and females, at the beer 
and spirit-shops, with their want of economy in expending their 
weekly income, keeps them in a continued state of destitution and 
filth, and explains the reason why some families of the labom'ing- 
classes support themselves in cleanliness and comparative com- 
fort with limited means, whilst others, with the largest amount 
of income, are always to be found in a state of want and 
"svretchedness. The following cases will serve as examples : — 

1. 1. 

Cellar in Wellington-Court, Chorlton- In a dwelling-house in Chorlton union, 

upon - Medlock ; a man, his wife, and containing one sitting-room and two bed- 

«even children ; income per week £1, lis.; rooms; a man, his wife, and three chU- 

rent Is. 6d. per week ; three beds for dren ; rent 2s. 6d. per week ; income per 

seven, in a dark unventilated back-room, week 12s. 6d., being an average of 2s. 6d. 

bed covering of the meanest and scan- per week for each person. Here, mth a 

tiest kind — the man and wife occupying sickly man, the house presented an ap- 

the front-room as a sleeping-room for pearance of comfort in every part, as 

themselves, in which the whole family also the bedding was in good order, 
take their food and spend their leisure 
time. Here the family is in a iilthy des- 
titute state, with an income averaging 
3s. S^d. each per week, four being chil- 
dren under 11 years of age. 

2. 2. 

Cellar in York Street, Chorlton-upon- In a dwelling-house, Stove Street, one 
Medlock ; a man, a hand-loom weaver, sitting-room, one kitchen, and two bed- 
his wife and family (one daughter mar- rooms ; rent 4s. per week ; a poor widow. 
Tied, with her husband, forms part of with a daughter also a widow, with ten 
the family), comprising altogether seven children, making together tliirteen in 
persons; income £2, 7s., or 6s. 8Jd. per family; income £1, 6s. per week, ave- 
head; rent 2s. Here, with the largest raging 2s. per head per week. Here there 
amount of income, the family occupy is every appearance of cleanliness and 
two filthy, damp, unwholesome cellars, comfort. 
«ne of Avhich is a back place without 
pavement or flooring of any kind, occu- 
pied by the loom of the family, and used 
as a sleeping-room for the married couple 
and single daughter. 

* Pamphlet published by Benjamin Love. Manchester : 1843. 



John Salt, of Carr Bank (labourer) ; 
wages 12s. per week; a wife, and one 
child aged 15 ; he is a drunken disorderly 
fellow, and very much in debt. 

WilUam Hajnoes, of Oakamoore (wire- 
drawer); wages £l per week; he has a 
Avife and five children; he is in debt, 
and his famUy is shamefully neglected. 

George Locket, of Kingsley (boatman); 
wages 18s. per week, with a wife and 
seven children ; his family is in a miser- 
able condition. 

John Banks, of Cheadle (collier); wages 
18s. per week ; wife and three children ; 
his house is in a filthy state, and the 
furniture not worth 10s. 

William Weaver, of Kingsley (boat- 
man); wages 18s. per week; wife and 
three children; he is a drunken disor- 
derly fellow, and his family entirely 

Richard Barlow, of Cheadle (laboiu-er); 
wages 12s. per week ; vnfe and five chil- 
dren ; in miserable circumstances ; not a 
bed to lie on. 

George Hall, of Carr Bank (labourer); 
wages 10s. per week; has reared tea 
children; he is in comfortable circimi- 


John Hammonds, of Woodhead (col- 
lier); wages IBs. per week ; has six chil- 
dren to support ; he is a steady man, and 
saving money. 


George Mosley, of Kingsley (collier) ; 
wages 18s. per week ; he has a wife and 
seven children ; he is saving money. 

William Faulkner, of Tean (tape- 
weaver); wages 18s. per week; suppoi'ts 
his wife and seven children without 


Charles Rushton, of Lightwood-fields ; 
wages 14s. per week; he supports his 
wife and five children in credit. 


William Sargeant, of Lightwood-fields 
(labourer); wages 13s. per week ; he has 
a wife and six children, whom he sup- 
ports comfortablj'." 

So much for a g-eneral want of economy, arising, I believe, 
from a sheer heedlessness of consequences. With respect to intem- 
perance as a cause in itself for depressed circumstances, a very 
fearful tale can be told. A few facts on this subject will be 
sufficient to give you an idea of the enormous expenditure on 
liquors of an intoxicating nature. According to returns issued 
by the Excise, the following quantity of spirits was entered for 
home consumption in 1843 : — British spirits, 20,642,333 gallons ; 
foreign spirits, 3,464,074 gallons ; total, 24,106,407 gallons, which 
would cost the public at least £30,000,000. So much for spirits ; 
now for malt liquor. It appears that the brewers in 1841 used 
3,686,063 quarters of malt, which, I learn from a person skilled in 
those matters, would produce 10,765,352 barrels of porter, stout, 
ale, and beer. Taking these at an average price, they would alto- 
gether cost the public not less a sum than £25,000,000. Of wines, 
it is calculated that about 7,000,000 gallons are consumed an- 
nually, costing the public about £10,000,000. Altogether, the 
sums spent in the United Kingdom on intoxicating liquors of one 
kind or another amount to sixty-five millions of pounds sterling 
annually, or considerably more than the whole revenue of the 
country. In all probability, thirty out of the sixty-five millions 
are spent by the working', at all events the struggling, classes. 

We have here a very fearful picture of intemperance. The 
money spent, the time lost, the health deranged, the morals dete- 
riorated, and the universal poverty and misery created, are not 



all the evils produced. We must take into account what social 
benefits are forfeited. The breadth of land devoted to the g-rowing- 
of grain to be employed in making porter, ale, beer, and spirits, is 
incalculable ; and if it were employed in producing food, we 
should most likely have bread at half its present price. As much 
grain is made into malt as the whole annual importation of 
foreign grain. In short, without going farther into this monster 
evil, we may be well assured that intemjmrance alone, indepen- 
dently of everything else, is a grand cause of general distress, 
and that if we could remove that, the condition of the working- 
classes would rise under every difficulty, and they would enjoy 
a degree of comfort of which they have as yet had no experience. 
It is very generally allowed, and with much truth, that a great 
, cause of the want of economy, the intemperance, and the heed- 
lessness of the working-classes, is that state of contented igno- 
rance in wliich the hulk of them continue to remain. A more 
general system of education would, of course, do much to 
remedy this evil ; but, after all, on people^ s own exertions depend 
their becoming more wise and prudent. Of late years, a great 
advance has taken place in almost every art and science, but 
the lower classes generally have not kept pace with the progress 
made by others. Intelligent and benevolent men have exerted 
themselves to establish mechanics' institutions, public libraries, 
and other means for improving the minds of the people ; but, on 
the whole, the working-classes have looked on such efforts with 
indifference, and institutions specially for their benefit have been 
attended chiefly by other parties. In short, it is only the tliink- 

mg and steady few — the honourable aristocracy of workmen 

who habitually attend such estabhshments, who read during 
their spare hours, or who have any real care for acquiring useful 
knowledge. The consequence of this apathy is, that Avhile the 
instructed part of society has been shooting ahead, a large pro- 
portion of uninstructed has fallen behind, and is getting into a 
situation more and more hopeless. 

^ Jackson.Siv, you talk as if the working-classes had plenty of 
time on their hands to do these things. You seem to forget that 
they must labour hard for subsistence. What can a man do who 
has to work at a fatiguing employment ten hours a-day ? 

Smith.— I am not forgetting that working-men have little time 
to spare. Still they could, for the most part, do something useful 
with that little. Some, indeed, spend every Monday in sheer 
idleness ; and if all the hours which are generally lost by lounging 
m the streets and beer-shops were put together, they would come 
to a great deal at the end of every year. Your class seem to enter- 
tain the notion that the odd times not employed at work are of no 
value. This is a serious mistake. Even with a clear half-hour 
a-day, something useful may be done. The most distinguished 
men in ancient and modern times are known to have raised 
themselves in the world by dint of self-improvement during 


small snatches of time, through a series of years. There are 
instances even of slaves studying- during- short intervals of their 
tasks, and fitting" themselves for posts of honour. But the chance 
of rising- in the world is an inferior motive for self-cultivation. 
Supposing' a workman to be steady, and in regular employment, 
his situation may confer as much happiness as if he occupied a 
higher station, I know of nothing- so well calculated to assuage 
the hardships of one's lot as a habit of reading instructive and 
entertaining books. The mind is expanded ; a world formerly sup- 
posed to be dull and miserable is seen to abound in beauties, and a 
new relish is given to existence, however drudging be the occupa- 
tion. Besides, I cannot sympathise in the idea that working-men 
are to be pitied because they labour. Labour is not an evil, but a 
positive blessing ; it is only injurious when carried to excess. All 
the comforts that render life agreeable have been prepared by some 
kind of labour. Nor is labour dishonourable. The operative in 
his working attire, and at his duties, is an object of resj)ect, while , 
the mere idler merits only our compassion. Labour never fails 
to produce cheerfulness and good health, and is so essential for 
the due enjoyment of existence, that persons who do not require 
to labour for subsistence, almost, without exception, labour for 
pleasure. The condition of the operative is not perhaps what it 
may be rendered in a more enlightened state of society ; never- 
theless, he commits an error when he thinks he is the only hard- 
wrought man. His duties are plain before him ; and when these 
are performed, he is at his ease. The employer, on the other 
hand, is consumed with cankering cares and anxieties. He has 
to contrive what will be most answerable — how his capital or 
hard-won earnings may be risked with the least chance of loss. 
Xor are persons belonging to the higher professions free fi'om the 
most grinding harassments. Their minds are worn down with 
thought, and they often sink beneath the burden of their labours. 
I mention such things for the purpose of reconciling you to labour 
— to show you that, in moderation, it is a blessing ; and that at all 
events others work as painfully as those who, by use and wont, 
are called the working-classes. Labour, I say, is only to be 
condemned in excess, when it injures health, and leaves no time 
for a fair share of enjoyments. Every individual ought to possess 
at least two or three hours daily, independently of the hours for 
meals and for sleep, to be used in recreative, mental, or out-door 
exercises. At present, I am glad to see there is a g-eneral im- 
pression that the hours of labour in many businesses are too long, 
and are likely to be shortened. 

We now come to the plans which should be adopted by the 
state. I will not plunge into the great sea of politics to discuss 
projects afPecting the position of the working-classes; neither 
will I mix up vv^th the present question any inquiry as to how 
far improvements in the commercial and fiscal policj^ of the 
country would tend to meliorate their condition ; although I may 



briefly say, that any plan hj which we could greath, increase m- 

classes. I shall therefore, m the meanwhile, confine myse f fo 
measures which, no bemg the subject of any party dSerences 
might easily be earned into eifect ^ ^^inerences^ 

First, I would mention emigration as a means of relievino- th^ 

f r dl'oTrmf : bitTtSlcT '' *'r."^^ consider'^ a pL^^^^^ 
lor ail our Ills , but 1 think it a g-ood thins- in itself sinrpit tPn^=. 
to spread population into the waste places^ol^the eS'trand so ff^^ 
extends human happiness; and I believe that wbpr; i> «oT 
that a nian finds hffelf ^t a loss for empb^^^^^^^ ^^^^J^ 

If a suitable person for the purpose, go elsewCe with advLS 
to himself, and also to the benefit of those who stay beWnd ^ 
J^okson.~.We generally regard it as a hardship fo^- the wkin^< 

Imt^^^l I' TF^*^ ^'" *^' '^^^ ^f ^ livelihood. ^ 

,-c T rZ^ hardship it may certainly be considered- and so \f 

ultimate advantages. I tell you, however, I do m,t p^^^^^^^ 

.^i^- t*-r r/e^ :^^^^^^^^^ 

the contain^ nfP ™' o^f^^Uj peopled by emi^-ants from 

femihes, and which would insure that eySyindivWua? shall 
dZ ?f ^» .''^.^'™'=^d bein^-instructed not^on?y?n the prin- 

scSnce as ,SF"t/ V '"""""'y' "?? '" ™'=h *partmen£ of 
science as will give him a proper idea of external nature an,J 

iieecuewoiif, and the rearing of children. To brin^ un childvpn 
orfuf:?ttS^;rJ.'^^'^ ' -^«- demandiy^-'J 
Tr,n!l?.i''.°' ^' ^ prevention of much disease, family distress and 

Z'tTAZ'sToTZ^ fTF"^^ intempeiance/and o/2rS' 
iff. .• f^^SjQ^^ of moral deterioration, I would advocafP nn 

refutations, especially m large towns and manufacturing' dis- 


tricts : for example, ventilation, sewerag-e, drainage, and a plen- 
teous supply of pure water. The advantages of some such law 
would be immense. All would to a certain extent benefit by it ; 
but none so much as the working-man. I am afraid, however, 
you scarcely see how this can be ? 

Jackson. — No ; but I will listen to your explanations. 

Smith. — I have not time now to enter into a regular explana- 
tion of the principles of ventilation, but shall confine myself to the 
remark, that, for want of it, as well as from the want of cleanliness, 
many thousands of deaths occur every year. It is calculated that 
as many persons die annually in Great Britain fr'om fevers and 
other diseases which could be prevented by prudent foresight, as 
were killed at the battle of Waterloo. The poor are the principal 
sufferers. Keeping their windows shut, they breathe impure air- 
in their dwellings, and by the over-crowding of close workshops,, 
they may be said to be constantly drawing an invisible poison 
into the lungs. Want of drainage produces equally hideous 
ravages. Husbands and fathers of families, mothers, and chil- 
dren, are carried off, without knowing what it is that kills them. 
The deaths in themselves are lamentable, but not less so is the 
misery caused among the surviving families. Wives become 
widows, and cannot support their young children. They struggle 
on amidst poverty and privations, and perhaps at length sink 
under their complicated affliction. And to think that all this 
miseiy might have been averted by an attention to certain well- 
known rules for preserving health! The thought is most dis- 

Jackson. — No doubt it is, but the poor are not alone to blame. 
They must generally rent any house they can get, and they must 
labour in any workshop where they can find employment. 

Smith. — There is much truth in your remark ; but it is not all 
the truth. Many possess no means of procuring better houses 
than they now have ; but a vast number who are more fortunate 
might combine to build comfortable and cheap dwellings. Why 
do the working'-classes not become their own capitalists ? 

Jackson. — Their own capitalists ! You mean that they should 
lay out money on buildings ? 

Smith. — Yes. 

Jackson. — You must excuse my laug'hing' at such an idea.' 
Where is the money to come from ? 

Smith. — From savings, to be sure. Instead of constantly 
throwing away money on intoxicating drinks, let every sixpence 
be saved for what is absolutely useful. The operatives of Man- 
chester or Glasgow could find little difficulty in saving £20,000 
annually in this way, and under proper direction they might 
soon have an enormous capital at disposal. I have already no- 
ticed what immense sums are now thrown away in strikes, with- 
out doing the least good ; all which sums at least might be saved. 
Had we time to spare, I could perhaps show you how the work- 



ing-classes, by economising- their ordinary means, might in no 
long- period of time rise prodigiously in the social scale. At 
present, they have too little consideration of what accumulated 
savings might amount to at the end of a 5^ear. They look only 
at their wage as a weekly small sum, instead of what it woul^ 
amount to yearly. They will speak of having only 25s. weekly ; 
whereas, if this be regularly paid, they should consider that they 
command a salary of £65 a-year, and save from it accordingly. 
Thus, taking it by the year, many workmen enjoy a salary of 
from £75 to £100, this last being as large as that of many gen- 
tlemen who contrive to maintain a highly creditable appearance, 
and give their families an excellent education. But whether 
workmen speak of wages as a weekly or yearly remuneration for 
labour, the amount, if at all reasonable, is of inferior moment. 
I mean, that whether a man has a shilling more or a shilling 
less per week, is positively of no consequence in comparison to 
tlie proper disposal of his wages, or in comparison to the preser- 
vation of life or health. We hear of strikes from differences 
wdth employers as to shillings and pence, but I cannot remember 
of any g'eneral remonstrance from workmen against being killed 
by the foulness of the atmosphere in which they are put to labour. 

JacJiSon. — That may be true; but are not employers much more 
Mameable for not taking a little more care of their men ? 

Smith. — Too often blameable, I allow. Employers are, gene- 
rally speaking, too little regardful of either the health or lives, 
not to speak of the morals, of those to whom they give employ- 
ment ; and there, I own with sorrow, a great sin may be said to 
lie at their door. But I begin, I think, to see the dawn of a 
better state of things. Employers have been roused by example 
to do more for the comfort of their men than formerly. There 
is a spirit of improvement abroad, likely to lead to the best re- 
sults. Workmen are beginning- to inquire into the means jfor 
improving their moral and physical condition ; to attach them- 
selves to benefit and temperance societies ; to wish for improved 
dwelling's. All such movements are cheering ; they are in the 
right direction. I consider them the turning-point for the work- 
ing-classes. Carried out in their fullest extent, they would soon 
put a new face on society. Thousands of valuable lives would be 
saved annually : with an airy and clean dwelling, home would 
become more attractive — the physical energies, no longer de- 
pressed by contact with impurity, would not require the stimulus 
of intoxication, and temperance would be the result. Attracted 
to open playgrounds, gardens, and rural scenes at leisure hours, 
the general health would be improved, and the growth of mean 
habits and indulgences materially prevented. 

JacJtsoji. — I am glad to hear you speak so cheeringly of what 
may be done for our clasG. I thank you, sir, for'your good 
wishes, and will think of what you have mentioned. [They shake 
hands, and Jackson retires.] 






0^'E of the most amusing* and acute persons I remember — and 
in my very early days I knew him well — was a white-headed 
lame old man, known in the neighbourhood of Kilbagg-in by the 
name of Burnt Eagle, or, as the Irish peasants called him, 
" Burnt Aigle." His accent proclaimed him an Irishman, but 
some of his habits were not characteristic of the country, for he 
understood the value of money, and that which makes money — 
TIME. He certainly was not of the neighbourhood in which he 
resided, for he had no "peojDle," no uncles, aunts, or cousins. 
What his real name was I never heard ; but I remember him 
since I was a very little girl, just old enough to be placed by my 
nurse on the back of Burnt Eagle's donkey. At that time he 
lived in a neat pretty little cottage, about a mile from our house : 
it contained two rooms ; they were not only clean but well 
famished ; that is to say, well furnished for an Irish cottage. 
During the latter years of his life, these rooms were kept in 
order by two sisters 5 what relationship they bore to my old 
friend, t will tell at the conclusion of my tale. They, too, always 
called him Burnt Aigle ; all his neighbours knew about them 
— and the old man would not be questioned — ^was, that he once 
left home suddenly, and, after a prolonged absence, returned, 
sitting as usual between the panniers on a gray pony, which was 
young' then, and, instead of his usual merchandise, the panniers 
contained these two little girls, one of wHom could walk, the 
other could not : he called them Bess and Bell j and till they 

No. 5. 1 


were in a great degree able to take care of tliemselves, Burnt 
Eagle remained entirely at home, paying great attention to his 
young charges, and exciting a great deal of astonishment as to 
" how he managed to keep so comfortable, and rear the children : "^ 
his neighbours had no idea what a valuable freehold the old man 
possessed — in his time. When Burnt Eagle first came to Kil- 
baggin, he came with a load of fresh heather-brooms, in a little 
cart di'awn by a donkey ; but besides the brooms, he carried a 
store of sally switches, a good many short planks of wood, hoops 
large and small, bee-hives, and the tools which are used by 
coopers and carpenters : these were few, and of the commonest 
kind, yet Burnt Eagle would sit on a sort of driving-box, which 
raised him a great deal above the level of the car, into which he 
elevated himself by the aid of a long crutch that always rested on 
his knees : there he would sit ; and as the donkey jogged quietly, 
as donkeys always do, through the wild and picturesque scenery 
of hill and dale, the old man's hands were busily employed either 
in weaving kishes or baskets, or forming noggins, or little tubs, 
and his voice would at times break into snatches of songs, half- 
English, half-Irish ; for though sharp-mannered, and of a sallow 
complexion that tells of melancholy, he was cheerful-hearted ; 
and his voice, strong and clear, woke the echoes of the hills, 
though his melodies were generally sad or serious. 

I never heard what attached him to our particular neighbour- 
hood, but I have since thought he chose it for its seclusion. He 
took a fancy to a cottage, which, seated between two sand-hills 
covered by soft green grass and moss, was well sheltered from 
the sea-breeze that swept along the cockle-strand, and had been 
the habitation of Corney the crab-catcher, who, poor fellow, was 
overtaken by a spring-tide one windy evening in March, and 
drowned. For a long time " Crab Hall," as it was jestingly 
called, was untenanted, and when Burnt Eagle fell in love with 
it, it was nearly in ruins. Some said it was not safe to live in 
it ; but mj old friend entered the dwelling, together with the 
donkey and a gray cat, and certainly were never disturbed by any- 
thing worse than their neighbours, or a high storm. It did not, 
however, suit Burnt Eagle's ideas of propriety to suffer the 
donkey to inhabit any portion of his cottage dwelling ; and 
accordingly, after repairing it, he built him a stable, and wove a 
door for it out of the sally switches. His neighbours looked upon 
this as a work of supererogation, and wondered what Burnt 
Eagle could be thinking of, to go on slaving himself for nothing. 
"What would ail a lone man to live in our town 1 — wasn't that 
enough for him? It would be " time enough" to be building a 
house when he had some one to live in it. But he went on his 
own way, replying to their remonstrances with a low chuckling 
laugh, and darting one glance of his keen piercing eyes upon 
them, in return for the stare of lazy astonishment with which 
they regarded his proceedings, 




Burnt Eagle was, as I have said, an admirable economist of 
time ; when he took his little car about the neighbourhood with 
brooms, or noggins, or baskets, or cockles, or anything else, in 
fact, that might be wanted, he never brought it home empty ; 
when he had disposed of all his small merchandise, he would fill 
it with manure or straw, which the gentry or farmers gave him, 
or he gathered on the roads. If he could bring nothing else, he 
would bring- earth or weeds ; suffering the latter to decay, pre- 
paratory to the formation of a garden, with which he proposed 
to beautify his dwelling ; the neighbours said it would be " time 
enough " to think of getting the enrichment for the ground when 
the place was laid out for it. But Burnt Eagle would not be 
stayed in his progress by want of materials. So, not until he had 
everything ready, even a stye built for the pig, and a fence 
placed round the stye to prevent the pi^ from destroying his bit 
of land when it was made and cropped, not until then did he 
commence : and though the neighbours again said " it would be 
*time enough' to deprive the pig, the craythur, of his liberty 
when the garden was to the fore," Burnt Eagle went on his own 
way, and then every one in the parish was astonished at what he 
had accomphshed. 

The little patch of ground this industrious old man had, after 
incredible labour, succeeded in forming over the coat of sward 
that covered the sand, was in front of Crab Hall. The donkey 
had done his best to assist a master who had never given him an 
imjust blow : the fence was formed round the little enclosure of 
gray granite, which some convulsion of nature had strewn 
abundantly on the strand ; these stones the donkey drew up 
when his day's work was ended, three or four at a time. Even 
this enclosure was perfected, and a very neat gate of basket-work, 
with a latch outside and a bolt in, hung opposite the cottage 
door, before Burnt Eagle had laid down either the earth or 
manure on his plot of ground. 

" Why, thin. Burnt Aigle dear," said Mrs Radford, the net- 
maker's wife, as, followed by seven lazy, dirty, healthy children, 
she strolled over the sand-hills one evening to see what the poor 
bocher* was doing at the place, "that was good enough for 
Comey the crab-catcher without alteration, dacent man ! for 
twenty years. Why, thin. Burnt Aigle dear, what are ye slaving 
and fencing at ? " 

" Why, I thought I tould ye, Mrs Radford, whin I taught ye 
the tight stitch for a shrimp-net, that I meant to make a garden 
here ; I understand flowers, and the gentry's ready to buy them ; 
and sure, when once the flowers are set, they'll grow of them- 
selves while I'm doing something else. Isn't it a beautiful thing 
to think of that ! — how the Lord helps us to a great deal if we 
only do a little towai'ds it ! " 

* A lame man. 


" How do you make that out?" inquired the net-maker. 

Burnt Eag'le pulled a seed-pod from a tuft of beautiful sea- 
pink. " All that's wanted of us," he said, " is to put such as 
this in the earth at first, and doesn't God's goodness do all the 

" But it would be ' time enough,' sure, to make the fence whin 
the g-round was ready," said his neighbour, reverting to the first 
part of her conversation. 

" And have all the neighbours' pigs right through it the next 
morning?" retorted the old man, laughing; "no, no, that's not 
my way, Mrs Radford." 

" Fair and aisy goes far in a day, Masther Aigle," said the 
gossip, lounging against the fence, and taking her pipe out of 
her pocket. 

" Do you want a coal for your pipe, ma'am ? " inquired Burnt 

"' No, I thank ye kindly ; it's not out I see," she replied, 
stirring it up with a bit of stick previous to commencing the 
smoking with which she solaced her laziness. 

" That's a bad plan," observed our friend, who continued his 
labour as diligently as if the sun was rising instead of setting. 

"What is, Aigle dear?" 

" Keeping the pipe a-light in yer pocket, ma'am ; it might 
chance to biu^n ye, and it's sure to waste the tobacco." 

" Augh ! " exclaimed the wife, " what long heads some people 
have ! God grant we may never want the bit o' tobacco ! Sure 
it would be hard if we did'; we're bad enough off without that." 

" But if ye did, ye know, ma'am, ye'd be sorry ye wasted it ; 
wouldn't ye ? " 

" Och, Aigle dear, the poverty is bad enough whin it comes, 
not to be looking- out for it." 

"If you expected an inimy to come and burn yer house" 
("Lord defend us!" ejaculated the woman), "what would you 
do?" ^ / 

" Is it what would I do ? bedad, that's a quare question. I'd 
pervint him, to be sure." 

"And thath what I want to do with the poverty," he answered, 
sticking his spade firmly into the earth ; and, leaning on it with 
folded arms, he rested for a moment on his perfect limb, and 
looked earnestly in her face. "Ye see every one on the sod — 
green though it is, God bless it — is somehow or other born to 
some sort of poverty. Now, the thing is to go past it, or under- 
mine it, or get rid of it, or prevent it." 

"Ah, thin, how?" said Mrs Radford. 

" By forethought, prudence ; never to let a farthing's worth go 
to waste, or spend a penny if ye can do with a halfpenny. Time 
makes the most of us — we ought to make the most of him ; so 
I'll go on with my work, ma'am, if you please ; I can work and 
talk at the same time." 



Mrs Radford looked a little affronted ; but she thought better 
of it, and repeated her favourite maxim, " Fair and aisy g'oes far 
in a daj^." 

" So it does, ma'am ; nothing like it ; it's wonderful what a 
dale can be got on with by it, keeping on, on, and on, always at 
something. When I'm tired at the baskets, I take a turn at the 
tubs : and when I'm wearied with them, I tie up the heath — and- 
sweet it is, sure enough ; it makes one envy the bees to smell the 
heather ! And when I've had enough of that, I get on with the 
garden, or knock bits of furniture out of the timber the sea drifts 
up after those terrible storms." 

" We burn that," said Mrs Radford. 

" There's plenty of turf and furze to be had for the cutting ; 
it's a sin, where there's so much furniture wanting', to burn any 
timber — barring chips," replied Eagle. 

" Bedad, I don't know what ill luck sea-timber might bring," 
said the woman. 

" Augh ! augh ! the worst luck that ever came into a house is 
idleness, except, maybe, extravagance." 

"Well, thin, Aigie dear!" exclaimed Mrs Radford, "what's 
come to ye to talk of extravagance 1 — what in the world have 
poor craythurs like us to be extravagant with?" 

" Yer time," replied Burnt Eagle with particular emphasis; 
" yer time." 

" Ah, thin, man, sure it's ' time enough ' for us to be thinking 
of that whin we can r/et anything for it." 

" Make anytliing of it, ye mean, ma'am : the only work it 'ilL 
ever do of itself, if it's let alone, will be destruction." 

" Well ! " exclaimed Mrs Radford indignantly, " it's a purty 
pass we're come to, if what we do in our own place is to be corned 
over by a stranger who has no call to the country. I'd like to 
know who you are, upsetting the ways of the place, and making 
something out of nothing like a fairy man ! If my husband did 
go to the whisky shop, I'll pay him off for it myself; it's no 
business of yours ; and maybe we'll be as well off in the long-run 
as them that are so mean and thoughtful, and turning their'hand 
to every man's trade, and making gentlemen's houses out of mud 
cabins, and fine gardens in the sand-hills ; doing what nobody 
ever did before ! It won't have a blessing — mark my words ! 
Ye're an unfriendly man, so ye are. After my wearing out my 
bones, and bringing the children to see ye, never to notice them, 
or ask a poor woman to sit down, or offer her a bit of tobacco, 
when it's rolls upon rolls of it ye might have u7iknownst, without 
duty, if ye liked, and ye here on the sea-coast." 

" I have nothing that doesn't pay duty," replied Burnt Eagle, 
smihng at her bitterness. " I don't go to deny that the excise is 
hard upon a man, but I can get my bit of bread without break- 
ing the law, and I'd rather have no call to what I don't rightly 
understand. I am sure ye're heartily welcome to anything I 



have to give. I oiFered to make a g-ate for yer stye, to keep yer 
pig out of the cabbages, and I'm sure " 

Again Mrs Radford, who was none of the gentlest, interrupted 

" We are ould residenters in the place, and don't want any of 
your improvements, Misther Burnt Aigle, thank you, sir," she 
said, drawing herself up Avith great dignity, thrusting her pipe 
into her pocket, and summoning her stray flock, some of whom 
had entered Crab Hall without any ceremony, while others 
wandered at their " own sweet will" in places of dirt and danger 
— " I daresay we shall get on very well without improvement. 
We're not for setting ourselves above our neighbours ; we're not 
giving up every bit of innocent divarsion for slavery, and thin 
having no one to lave for what we make — no chick nor 

" Woman ! " exclaimed Burnt Eagle fiercely, and he shook his 
crutch at the virago, who, astonished at the generally placid 
man's change, drew back in terror ; " go home to yer own 
piggery, follow yer own plan, waste the time the Almighty gives 
to the poorest in the land, gossip and complain, and make mis- 
chief; what advice and help I had to give, I gave to ye and to 
others ever since I came in the place ; follow yer own way, but 
lave me to follow mine — time will tell who's right and who's 

^ "Well, I'm sure!" said Mrs Radford, quailing beneath his 
bright and flashing eye, " to think of that now ! how he turns 
on us like a wild baste out of his sand-hole, and we in all fi'ind- 
ship ! Well, to be sure — sure there was ' time enough ' " 

"Mammy, mammy!" shouted one of the seven "hopes" of 
the Radford family, "ye're smoking behind, ye're smoking 
behind ! " 

" Oh, the marcy of Heaven about me ! " she exclaimed, " Burnt 
Aigle's a witch ; it's he has set fire to me with a wink of his eye, 
to make his words good about the coal and the pipe in my 
pocket. Oh, thin, to see how I'm murdered intirely through the 
likes of him ! I've carried a live-coal in my pocket many's the 
day, and it never sarved me so before ! Oh, it's thrue, I'm 
afeared, what's said of ye, that ye gave the use of one of yer legs 
to the devil — mother of marcy purtect me! — to the devil for 
knowledge and luck ; and me that always denied it to be sarved 
so. Don't come near me — I'll put it out meself ; oh, to think of 
the beautiful gomnd, bran new it was last Christmas was a year ! 
Am I out now, children dear 1 Oh, it's yer mother's made a 
show of before the country to plase him ! What would come 
over the coal to do me such a turn as that now, and never to 
think of it afore ! Oh, sorra was in me to come near yer im- 
provements ! " 

" Mammy," interrupted the eldest boy, " don't be hard upon 
Burnt Aigle ; there's the coal that dropt out of the pipe, red hot 



still — see, here where ye stood — and the priest tould ye the 
danger of it long" ago." 

" Oh, sure it's not going to put the holy man's advice ye are 
on a level with Burnt Aigle's ! Come, we'll be off. I meant to 
take off my beautiful gownd before I came out, but thought it 
would be ' time enough' whin I'd go back. And to see what a 
hocher has brought ye to, Judith Eadford." And away she went, 
fuming and fretting over the sand-hills, stopping every moment 
to look back at the devastation which her own carelessness had 
occasioned her solitary dress. Burnt Eagle imagined he was 
alone, and kept his eyes fixed upon the foohsh woman as she 
departed, but his attention was arrested by Mrs Radford's second 
daughter, who stole round'the lame man, and touched his hard 
hand with her httle fingers. 

" Ye're not a witch, are ye, daddy ? '"' she said, while looking 
up smihngly, but with an expression of awe, in his face. 
" No, darlint." 

" 'Twas the coal done it — ^wasn't it X " 
"It was." 

" Well, good night. Burnt Aigle ; kiss little Alley — there. 
Mother will forget it all, or have it all out — the same thing, you 
know. I havn't forgot the purty nogging you gave me ; only it 
hm'ts mother to see how you get on with a little, and father 
blames her, and gets tipsy ; so just go on yer own way, and don't 
heed us. Mother wants that the sun should shine only on one side 
of the blackberries ; but I'll lam of ye, Daddy Aigle, if ye'll 
tache me ; only don't bother the mother with what she has no 
heart to, and sets the back of her hand aginst." And after 
asking for another kiss, the little barefooted pretty girl — whose 
heart was warm, and who would have been a credit to any 
country if she had been well managed — darted over the banks 
like a fawn, her small lissom figure graceful as a Greek statue, 
her matted yellow hair streaming behind her, and her voice 
raised to the tone of " Peggy Bawn." 

"It's truth she says — God's truth, anyway," said Burnt 
Eagle, as he turned to enter his cottage. " It's truth ; they 
set the back of their hand and the back of their mind against 
improvement ; they'd be ready to tear my eyes out if I tould 
them what keeps them back. Why, their own dishke to im- 
provement, part; and the carelessness of their landlords, part; 
the want of sufficient employment, a great part; and, above 
all, their being satisfied with what they get, and not trying to 
get better. As long as they're content with salt and potato, 
they try for nothing else. Set John Bull down to salt and 
potato, and see how he'll look ; and why shouldn't you get as 
good, Paddy agrah ! But no ; you wont ; a Httle more method, 
a httle more capital employed amongst you, and plenty of steadi- 
ness, would make you equal to anything the world produced 
since it was a world. But no : ye keep on at yer ould ways, and 



yer ould sayings, and all things ould, and ye let others that 
haven't the quarter of yer brains get the start of ye. Yet where, 
Paddy, upon the face of the earth, is a finer man or a brighter 
head than your own ? " The old man shut his door, and lit his 
lamp, which was made of a larg'e scallop-shell, the wick floating 
in oil he had extracted from the blubber of a grampus that other- 
wise would have decayed unnoticed on the shore. 

I have told all I heard as to Burnt Eagle's first settlement in 
what I still call " my neighbourhood." I will now tell what I 
know, and what occurred some time after. I very well remem- 
ber being' taken by my mother, who was a sort of domestic 
doctor to the poor, to see Judy Radford, who, plunged into the 
depths of Irish misery, was mourning the loss of her husband, 
drowned because of the practice of the principle that it was 
" time enough " to mend the boat ; " it had taken the boys often, 
and why not now?" But the boat went down, and the poor, 
overworked, good-natured father and his eldest son were lost ! 
We could hardly get to the door for the slough and abominations 
that surrounded it. " Judy," said my mother, " if this was col- 
lected and put at the back of the house, you need not have come 
begging to the steward for manure." 

" Och, ma'am, wont it be ' time enough ' to gather it when we 
have the seed-potatoes ? — sure it was alvmys there, and the young 
ducks would he lost without it." 

" Such a heap of impurity must be unhealthy." 

" We has the health finely, thank God ! if we had everything 
else ; " and then followed a string of petitions, and lamentations, 
and complaints of her neighbours, all uttered with the whine of 
discontent which those who deserve poverty indulge in, while 
those who are struggling against it seek to conceal, from a spirit 
of decency, the extent of their wants. " Indeed, ma'am," she 
continued, " the ill-luck is after us : my second boy has, as all the 
country knows, the best of characters, and would have got the 
half acre at the Well corner if he had gone to his honour in time 
for it, and that would have been the help to us sure enough ; but 
we thought there was ' time enough,' and Bill Deasy, who's put 
up to all sorts of sharpness by Burnt Aigle, got the promise." 

" Well, did Alley get the flax-wheel I told her she could have 
from Lucy Green until she was able to buy one?" 

" Oh, ma'am, there it is again ; I kep her at home just that o?ie 
day on account of a hurt I got in my thumb, and thought it 
would be ' time enough ' to be throubling yer honour for a plaster 
if it got worse — which it did, praise be to God ! — and never did 
a hand's turn with it since ; and whin she went after it. Miss 
Lucy had lint it, and was stiffer about it than was needful. My 
girl tould her she thought she^d be ' time enough,' and she hurt 
ner feelings, saying, ' she thought we'd had enough of " time 
enough" among us before.' It was very sharp of her ; people 
can't help their throubles, though that ould thriving hocheVj 



that's made all lie has out of the gentry, never scruples to tell 
me that I brought them on myself."' 

" I must say a word for Burnt Eagle," said my mother ; " he 
has made all he has out of himself, not out of the gentry ; all 
•\ve did was to buy what we wanted from him — one of his prin- 
ciples being, never to take a penny he did not earn." 

"And very impudent of him to say that, whin the gentry 
war so kind as to offer him money — setting himself up to do 
without help ! "' said Mrs Radford, whom we were fain to leave 
in the midst of her querulous complainings. 

We now proceeded along the cliffs to the hocher's dwelling : to 
visit him was always a treat to me ; but childhood's ready tears 
had been some time previously excited by the detail of his 
sorrow for his companion and friend ; for such the poor donkey 
had been to him. 

The struggle which took place between his habit of making 
the best and most of everything, was in this particular instance 
at war with the affection he had borne his dead favourite ; he 
knew her skin was valuable, and he did not see why he ought 
not to use it : one of our friends had called accidentally at the 
cottage, and found Burnt Eagle standing beside a deep pit he 
had excavated in the sand-hill, intended for the donkey's grave ; 
he had a knife in his hand, and had attempted the first incision 
in its skin. 

" It can't be any hurt to a dead animal, sir," he said, " and 
yet I can't do it ! It seems like taring off my own flesh : the 
poor baste had such a knowledge of me — such a feeling for me 
— up hill and down dale — it hierv all my poverty, and was through 
the world with me, in throiiMe that was harder to hear than 
poverty — and if ever I struck it a hasty blow, it would look in 
my face like a Christian. It was neither giddy, nor greedy, 
nor wilful, though it was a she ; and the low whining it would 
give me of a morning was like the voice of a dear friend. I 
know the skin would be useful ; and the times are hard ; but I 
can't, sir, I can't ; it would he like skinning a hlood relation ;" 
and he threw the knife from him. The finest sea-pinks of the 
banks grow on the donkey's grave ! 

We found our humble friend surrounded by business, and 
indeed we jested with Mrs Radford's daughter, Ailey, who met 
us at the gate, for visiting her old sweetheart. The yellow- 
headed child had grown into a fine young woman; the old 
man's precept and example had been of use to her ; whatever 
she had learnt of good, she had learnt from him. She had been 
tying up some flowers for her friend, and hastened to tell us 
that Burnt Eagle had been making her a flax-wheel, and she 
was to knit out the money for it in stockings ; but her mother 
knew nothing of it, and we mustn't tell. I was lifted, for the 
first time, on the gray pony, the poor donkey's successor, and 
galloped it, to Burnt Eagle's delight, over a sand-hill. There 



was something' to love and respect in the old man's countenance : 
I remember him so well that day, leaning on the top of his staff 
•at the gate of his little garden, which had become celebrated 
for beautiful flowers : there he stood — I can close my eyes and 
^ee him now ! — ^his small figure bent over his stick ; his thick, 
long, gray hair curling on the white collar of his shirt ; his eyes 
rendered more brilliant by the healthy complexion that glowed 
upon his cheeks ; his jacket of gray frieze girded with a leathern 
belt, that was garnished by such tools as he was constantly 
requiring ; the outline of his form, thrown forward by the clear 
sky ; the roll of the distant waves, the scream of the sea-gull ; 
the cottage, so picturesque, its white smoke curling up, up, up, 
till it mingled with the air : I can hear the warning voice of 
my dear mother intreating me not to canter ; the admonishing 
yet pleased tone in which the old man spoke to his new pur- 
chase ; the sleepy look of his dog Blarney, as he half wagged 
his tail and opened one eye to observe what passed : — in the 
distance, the old ruined church of Kilbaggin, standing so bravely 
against sea and land storms ; my own heart echoing the music 
of the pony's feet, as, despite all warning, he cantered right 
merrily over the sward ; happy, happy was I then as any 
crowned queen! how fresh the breeze! — how clear the air!-— 
faster, good pony ; don't lag on my account — well done ! — there's 

mettle in you, that there is ! Oh, memory ! 1 open my eyes. 

It was indeed but memory, for here is my desk, and there my 
books and town-bred flowers, and my pretty quiet greyhound ; 
^nd the sea, the ruins, the cottage, those lofty hills and toppling 
cliffs, are now far, far from me, yet near my heart as ever. 

And poor Burnt Eagle ! But I must not anticipate, and will 

only say, that if we endeavour to improve our generation with 
as much zeal and sincerity as did that old man, we shall owe 
Time nothing. 

I have seen lately in Ireland as well-built and as well-kept 
cottages as I ever saw in England: they are not common — 
would to God they were! — ^yet I have seen them, and in my 
own county too, where, I trust, they will increase. But when 
I was a very little girl, they were far less numerous, and 
Burnt Eagle's was visited as a curiosity; the old man was so 
neat and particular : the windows — there were two — looked out, 
one on his little garden, the other commanded the vista that 
opened between the sand-hills ; and when the tide was in, the 
cockle-strand presented a sheet of silver water; the rafters of 
the kitchen were hung with kishes and baskets, lobster -pots, 
bird-cages, strings of noggins, bunches of skewers, little stools, 
aU his own workmanship; and the cabbage and shrimp -nets 
seemed beyond number; then brooms were piled in a corner, 
and the handles of spades and rude articles of husbandry were 
ready for use ; there was a grinding'-stone, and some attempt at 
a lathe ; and the dresser, upon which were placed a few articles 



of earthenwarej was white and clean : a cat, whom Burnt Eagle 
had not only removed, but, in defiance of an old Irish super- 
stition, carried over water, was seated on the hearthstone, and 
the old man amused us with many anecdotes of her sag-acity. 
One beautiful trait in his character was, that he never spoke 
ill of any one ; he had his own ideas, his own opinions, his own 
rules of rig-ht, but he never indulged in gossip or backbiting. 
*' As to Mrs Radford," he said, when complimented on the supe- 
rior appearance of his own cottage, '" the hand of the Lord has 
been heavy on her to point out the folly of her ways, and that 
ought to tache her : those who cast the grace of God from them 
are very much to be pitied ; for if it's a grace to the rich, it is 
surely a grace to the poor. But the people are greatly improved, 
madam, even in my time : the Agricultural Societies do good, 
and the Loan Societies do good, and there's a dale of good done 
up and down through the counthry, particularly here, where 
the landlords — God bless them ! — stick to the sod ; and the cot- 
tages are whitewashed, and ye can walk dry and clane into 
many of the doors ; and some that used to turn me into ridicule, 
come to me for advice ; and I'm welcome to high and low ; not 
looked on, as when I came first, with suspicion : indeed, there 
are not many now like poor Mrs Radford : but Alley will do 
well, poor girleen ! — she always took to dacency." 

" You certainly worked wonders, both for yourself and others ; 
I think you might do me a great deal of good. Burnt Eagle, by 
telling me how you managed," said my mother. 

" Thank you, my lady, for the compliment ; but, indeed, the 
principal rule I had was, ' Never to think there was time 


great respect for time, madam; it's a wonderful thing to say 
it was before the world, and yet every day of our lives is both 
new and ould — ould in its grateness, yet new to thousands ; it's 
God's natural riches to the world ; it never has done with us, 
till it turns us over to eternity; it's the only true tacher of 
wisdom — it's the Interpreter of all things — it's the miracle of 
life — it's flying in God's face to ill-use it, or abuse it ; it's too 
precious to waste, too dear to buy it ; it can make a poor man 
rich, and a rich one richer ! Oh, my lady, time is a fine thing, 
and I hope httle miss will think so too : do, dear, remember poor 
Burnt Aigle's words, never to think it ' time enough to do 


" I wish," said my mother, " that you had a child to whom 
to teach so valuable a precept." The old man's lips (they were 
always colourless) grew whiter, and he grasped the top of his 
crutch more firmly ; his eyes were rivetted as by a spell ; they 
looked on nothing, yet remained fixed ; his mouth twitched as 
by a sudden bitter pain ; and by degrees tears swam round his 
eyelids. I could not help gazing on him ; and yet, child though 
I was, I felt that his emotion was sacred ; that he should be 



alone ; and though I continued to gaze, I moved towards the 
door, awe-struck, stepping- back, yet looking' still. 

" Stay, stay, miss," he muttered. 

" Sit down ; you are not well," said my mother. 

" Look at that child," he continued, without heeding her 
observation ; " she is your only one, the only darlint ye have ; 
pray to the Lord this night, lady, this very night, on yer bended 
knees, to strike her with death by the morning, before she 
should be to you what mine has been to me." He staggered 
into his bedroom without saying another word. My mother 
laid upon the table a parcel containing some biscuits I had 
brought him, and we left the cottage, I clinging' closely to 
her side, and she regretting she had touched a string which 
jarred so painfully. I remember I wept bitterly ; I had been 
so happy with the pony, which I fancied worth all the horses 
at our house ; and the revulsion was so sudden, that my little 
heart ached with sorrow; I wanted to know if Burnt Eagle's 
daughter had been " very naughty," but my mother had never 
heard of his daughter before. 

What I have now to tell has little to do with the character of 
my story, but is remarkable as one of the romances of real life, 
which distance all the eiforts of invention, and was well calcu- 
lated to make an impression on a youthful mind. The next 
morning, soon after breakfast, my cousin came to my mother 
to inquire if she knew anything of the destruction of a provincial 
paper, the half of which he held in his hand. " I wanted it,'' 
he said, " to see the termination of the trial of that desperate 
villain Ralph Blundel at the Cork assizes." " I think I wrapt 
it round the biscuits Maria took to Burnt Eagle," said mamma, 
" but I can tell you the termination of the tragedy. Blundel 
is executed by this time ; but the sad part of the story is, that 
a young' woman, who is supposed to have been his wire, visited 
him in prison, accompanied by two children ; he would not 
speak to her, and the miserable creature flung herself into the 
river the same night." 

" And the two children ?" 

" They were both girls, one a mere baby ; there was nothing 
more said about them." 

Tales of sorrow seldom make a lasting impression even on the 
most sensitive, unless they know something of the parties. We 
thought little, and talked less of Ralph Blundel ; but we were 
much astonished to hear the next morning that Burnt Eagle had 
set off without anything in his creels. This was in itself remark- 
able ; and it was added, that he appeared almost in a state of 
distraction, yet gave his cottage and all things contained therein 
in charge to his friend Alley. Time passed on, and no tidings 
arrived of the old man, though we were all anxious about him. 
Some said one thing, some another, Mrs Radford hinted, " the 
good people had got him at last," and began to speculate on the 



chance of his never returning", in which case she hoped Ailey 
would keep Crab Hall. He had been absent nearly six weeks, 
but was not forg-otten, at all events by me. I was playing" one 
summer evening* at the end of the avenue with om* g-reat dog-, 
when I saw Burnt Eag-le jogg-ing* along" on his pony. The ani- 
mal seemed very weary. I ran to him with childish g'lee, for- 
getting our last interview in the joy of the present. I thought 
he looked very old and very sad, but I was delighted to see him 
notwithstanding. " Oh, Burnt Eagle ! " I exclaimed, " Gray 
Fan staved in Peggy's best milk-pail, and cook wants some new 
cabbag-e-nets ; and I've got two young* mag'pies, and want a 
cage ; and grandmamma wants a netting-pin ; and — but what 
have you got in your panniers?" and I stood on tiptoe to peep 
in ; but instead of nets or nogg'ins, or cockles, or wooden ware, 
there was a pretty rosy child as fast asleep in the sweet hay, as 
if she had been pillowed on down. 

I was just going to say, "Is that your little girl?" but I 
remembered our last meeting*. 

" That's little Bell, miss," he said, and his voice was low and 
mournful. " Now, look in the other, and you wiU see little 
Bess," and his smile was as sad as any other person's tears 
would have been. 

I did look, and there was another ! How astonished I was ! — 
I did not know what to say. That child was awake — wide 
awake — looking up at my face with eyes as bright, as blue, as 
deep, as Burnt Eagle's own. He wished me g'ood-by, and 
jogged on. I watched him a long way, and then returned, full 
of all the importance which the first knowledge of a singular 
event bestows. The circumstance created a great sensation in 
the country. The gentry came from far to visit Burnt Eagle's 
cottage. Civil he always was, but nothing could be extracted 
from him relative to the history of his little protegees : the priest 
knew, of course, but that availed nothing to the curious ; and at 
last, even in our quiet nook, where an event was worn threadbare 
before it was done with, the excitement passed away, and my 
mother and myself were the only two Avho remembered the 
coincidence of the old man's emotion, the torn newspaper, and 
Burnt Eagle's sudden disappearance. 

Bess and Bell grew in beauty and in favour with the country. 
They were called by various names — "Bess and Bell of Crab 
Hall," or " Bess and Bell Burnt Aigle," or " Bess and Bell of the 

For a long time after the old man's return, he was more retired 
than he had been. He was melancholy, too, at times, and his 
prime favourite Ailey declared "there was no plasing him." 
By degrees, however, that moroseness softened down into his old, 
gentle, and kindly habits. He would not accept gifts of money 
or food from any of us, thanking us, but declining* such favours 
firmly. " I can work for the girleens still," he would say ; " and 



by the time I can't, plase God they'U be able to work for tbem- 
selves ; there's many wants help worse than me." It was a 
beautiful example to the country to see how those children were 
brought up ; they would net, and spin, and weave baskets, and 
peel osiers, and sing- like larks, and weed flowers, and tie up 
nosegays, and milk the goats, and gather shell-fish, and knit 
gloves and stockings, emulating the very bees (of which their 
protector had grown a large proprietor) in industry ; and in the 
evenings the old man would teach them to read, and the nearest 
schoolmaster would come in and set them a copy, for which 
Burnt Eagle, scrupulously exact, would pay night by night, 
although the teacher always said "it would be 'time enough' 
another time ;" and the old man would reply, while taking the 
pence out of his stocking-purse, "that there was no time like the' 
present ; and that if folks could not pay a halfpenny to-day, they 
would not be likely to be able to pay a penny to-morrow." The 
neighbours laughed at his oddity. But prosperity excites curio- 
sity and imitation ; and his simple road to distinction was fre- 
quently traversed. Solitary as were his habits, his advice and 
humble assistance were often asked, and always given. 

When we left our old home, we went to bid him farewell. He 
was full of a project for establishing a fishery, and said, " Some 
one had told him that the Irish seas were as productive as the 
Irish soil; that there was a new harvest every season, free of 
rent, tithe, or taxes, and needing only boats, nets, and hardy 
hands, to reap the ocean-crop which Providence had sown. I've 
spoke to the gentry about it," he said, " but they say ' they'll 
see about it,' and it 'ill be ' time enough.' If my grave could, 
overlook a little set of boats,'' he added, " going out from our own 
place, I'd rest as comfortable in it as on a bed of down ; but if 
they stick to ' time enough,' the time will never come ! " 

" Burnt Aigle," said Bell, who was growing a very tall girl — 
girls do grow so fast! — "you said 'time enough' to Bess yerself 

" When, avoumeen ?" 

" When she asked you when she might begin to think about — 
about — oh, you know what." 

" I can't think of anything but the fishery — what was it, a 

" Oh, thin, it was a sweetheart," said the merry maid, covering 
her blushing face with her hands, and running away. 

" See that now, how they ttirn on me /" he exclaimed, while his 
eyes followed her. " Well, Miss Bell, maybe I won't be even 
with you ' time enough.' God bless her, the gay light-hearted 
girleen ! — the life is in her heart and the joy in her eye ! — only 
she's too like them that's gone ! But, sure, out of the deep pit of 
throuble rose up the joy and pace to me in the end, though at 
first it drove me for ever from my own people ; and I've done my 
best for her that's gone : and poor Ailey is married to a dacent 



boy, and will do well. An empty hearts a lonely thing in a marvs 
iosom — but the countbry and the girls has filled mine — God be 
praised for bis g-oodness ! I knew ye mistrusted bow it was — 
on account — ^but it's all over, my lady ; and for a poor ould sinner 
like me, Tve had a dale of happiness ! I never ill-treated Time, 
and be bas never ill-treated me. Maybe I'll never see eitber of 
you again ; but ob, miss dear, don't forget yer countbry, and 
don't tbink there'll be ^time enough' to do it a good turn, but do- 
it at onct — do — and God bless you ! It's to manage time rightly 
— ^that's a fine knowledge — it's a grate knowledge, and would 
make a poor man's fortune, and tache a rich one to keep it. 
You'll do a good turn for the countbry, and think always there's 
no time like the present." 

I saw the old man no more ; but the last time I visited Kil- 
baggin I stood by his grave. It was a fine moonlight evening' 
in July; and Bess and Bell, the former being not only a wife^ 
but a mother, had come to show me his last resting-place : they 
had profited well by his example, and Bess made her little boy 
kneel upon the green sward that covered his remains. " He died 
beloved and respected by rich and poor," said Bell (Bess could 
not speak for weeping), " and had as grand a funeral as if he was 
a born gentleman, and the priest and minister both at it ; and 
the KiUbarries and Mulvaneys met it without wheeling one 
shillala, and they sworn foes, only out of regard to bis memory, 
for the fine example be set the countbry, and the love he bore it." 

The old ruined church of Kilbaggin overlooks the entrance to- 
its pretty silver-sanded bay, and the voices of the fishermen, who 
were at that time putting out to sea, availing themselves of the 
beauty and stillness of the night, arose to where we stood. I 
shall never forget the feelings that crowded on me ; the ocean 
was so calm, the moonlight so bright : the picture of the good 
old man who lay beneath, where the innocent baby was still 
kneeling, came before me : I remembered the useful and virtuous 
tenor of his life, the heroism with which be withstood envy, and 
persevered in the right way : the white sails of the fishing-boats 
glimmered in the moonlight ; it was Burnt Eagle who had 
stirred up the hearts of the people to the enterprise, which now 
brought plenty from the teeming ocean to many a cottage home. 

" I mind, when you war going to England first," said Bell, 
" his saying*, that if bis grave could overlook a little fleet of boats 
going out from our own bay, he'd be happy as on down : sure he 
may be happy now ! — his good thoughts, and quiet good actions, 
blossom over his grave. I remember how delighted he was with 
the first regular boat that went ; it was built by Bess's husband. 
What a happy man he was, to be sure ! and how he sat on the 
clifP, shading his eyes with his hand from the sun, though be 
had lost sight of the sail long before ; and then he knelt down 
and raised his ould hands to heaven and blessed us both." 

" That's enough," said Bess ; " sure the lady knew the good 



that was in the ould j>cithriot, who asked her — if ever she could 
— never to think it Hime enough' to do a good turn for the 
country, but to believe there's no time like the present for doing 
tiiat and everything else." 


My native bay is calm and bright, 

As ere it was of yore 
When, in the days of hope and love, 

I stood upon its shore ; 
The sky is glowing, soft, and blue. 

As once in youth it smiled. 
When summer seas and summer skies 

Were always bright and mild. 

The sky — how oft hath darkness dwelt 

Since then upon its breast ; 
The sea — ^how oft have tempests broke 

Its gentle dream of rest ! 
So oft hath darker wo come o'er 

Calm self-enjoying thought; 
And passion's storms a wilder scene 

Within my bosom wrought. 

Now, after years of absence, passed 

In wretchedness and pain, 
I come and find those seas and skies 

All calm and bright again. 
The darkness and the storm from both 

Have trackless passed away ; 
And gentle as in youth, once more 

Thou seem'st, my native bay ! 

Oh that, like thee, when toil is o'er, 

And all my griefs are past. 
This ravaged bosom might subside 

To peace and joy at last ! 
And while it lay all calm like thee, 

In pure unruffled sleep, 
Oh might a heaven as bright as this 

Be mirrored in its deep ! 

E. 0. 


It is found by careful inquiries that one half of all the children 
horn 171 England and Wales die before they reach their fifth year. 
In some towns and districts the proportion of deaths is not more 
than a third ; but the general average of infant mortahty is as 
here stated. The greatest proportion is in the large manufactur- 
ing towns. In Birmingham, for example, from June 1838 to 
July 1839, the total number of deaths of all ages was 3305, of 
which number 1658 were under five years of age ; and of this 
last number more than one half died in their first year ! Such 
a universally large mortality of infants must unquestionably 
arise chiefly from some species of mismanagement — most likely 
ignorance of the proper means to be employed for rearing chil- 
dren. Besides the loss of so many infants, society suiFers 
seriously from the injuries inflicted on those who survive. The 
health of many individuals is irremediably injured, temper 
spoiled, and vicious habits created, while they are still infants. 
Whatever, indeed, be the orig'inal or constitutional diiferences in 
the mental character of children, it is consistent with observa- 
tion, that no small proportion of the errors and vices of mankind 
have their source in injudicious nursery management. As igno- 
rance is clearly at the root of this monstrous evil, we propose to 
ofler a few short and easily comprehended directions to mothers 
and nurses regarding the proper treatment of the children under 
their charge. 


To preserve the infant's life, to enable it to grow in bulk and 
strength, and to perform without pain all its functions, is the 
first consideration. The child, however, may be rendered weakly 
and ailing, and even depraved in disposition, by causes operating 
on the mother before its birth ; and therefore, during this critical 
period, the expectant mother should avoid, as far as possible, all 
distress or anxiety of mind, severe bodily fatigue, or any species 
of intemperance. Neither, on the other hand, should she pamper 
herself with unaccustomed indulgences. A plain and nourishing- 
diet, and moderate exercise in and out of doors, along with 
serenity of mind, are alone desirable. 

There are many old-fashioned and not very intelligible rules 
about the first feeding and suckling of an infant. The best rule 
of all is, to put the child to the breast as soon as it will suck, and 
as soon as the mother is able to receive it. The law of nature is, 
that the mother should nurse her own child, by which means the 
proper affectionate relation is maintained between them. A wet- 
nurse should only be employed in cases of urgent necessity ; she 
should be healthy, near in age to the mother, nearly the same 
time confined, and of good habits and dispositions. 

No. 6. 1 


The child should he accustomed from the first to regularity of 
suckling or taking food, though there may he times when it is 
necessary to depart from the strictness of this rule. During the 
first month it should be suckled once in every two hours, and 
afterwards every three or four hours. Foment the breasts with 
warm water if the milk does not flow ; avoid rubbing the breasts 
with spirits. If there be too much milk, di'ink little, and take 
opening medicine. Let the dress about the bosom and chest be 
loose and easy. 

The diet of a person engaged in nursing should be nutritious, 
but not heavy. A person of full habit will require less nutriment 
than one who is less robust. Generally, women will suckle best 
on a plain diet, with diluting drinks — such as tea, toast and water, 
or gruel. Porter, ale, beer, spirits, wine, or any other stimulat- 
ing drink, should not be taken, unless by the recommendation of 
a medical attendant. 

The digestive organs of infants being adapted for milk, no 
other kind of food should be given, unless when neither a 
mother's nor nurse's milk can be obtained. When it is absolutely 
necessary to bring up the child by spoon, feed it sparingly and 
slowly with a thin gruel made from well-boiled grits, sweetened 
with a little sugar. If a suckling-bottle is employed, keep it very 
clean. The least sourness will disorder the infant. 

Weaning may take place when the child is from six to nine 
months old, according to the strength and health of the mother 
or nurse, the health of the child, and the season of the year. The 
early appearance of teeth may likewise influence this important 
step. The weaning should not be in cold weather. 

At whatever age or season, the weaning should be gradual. 
Begin by giving a little grit-gruel, and, after a time, give thin 
pap, made from finely-brayed stale bread or biscuits, and warm 
water, with a little sugar. Remember that sugar turns acid in 
the stomach, and must be used very sparingly. 

The first change of food sometimes disorders the system. Two 
or three days should be allowed for the experiment, and if the 
diet does not agree, food from arrowroot may be tried, as likely 
to prove more suitable. Should all be found equally improper, 
weak chicken, veal, or calf 's-foot broth, beef-tea freed from fat, 
and thickened with soft-boiled rice or arrowroot, may be tried. 
The great point is to begin by slow degrees, giving a small quan- 
tity of the thickened food once in the twenty-four hours, and 
that in the forenoon, in order that its effects may be observed, 
and the night's rest remain undisturbed. Food should always 
be given about the warmth of the milk as it comes from the 

When infants are fed by the spoon, it is not unusual for the 
nurse to ascertain the warmth by putting every spoonful to her 
own mouth, a habit equally disagreeable and unnecessary. After 
feeding, the child should be raised up, when it will more easily 



2^et rid of the air which, is generally introduced into the stomach 
during- eating. Where there is much disposition to flatulency, 
an infant should he carefully watched, the accumulation of air 
occasioning what are called stoppages. If these occur in sleep, 
they may prove fatal to life ; and even when the child is awake 
they are dangerous, as, when affected by them, it cannot cry out, 
and its breath is for the time stopped. 

Over-feeding and improper diet are the main causes of the ail- 
ments of children. During the first few weeks of life, infants 
endure none but physical evils ; they are exempt from anxieties, 
from disappointments, from hopes and fears ; but unfortunately, 
their sorrows, pains, or anger, are always traced to hunger, and 
eating is adopted as the universal cure. This goes on till the 
child is of an age to comprehend and believe that to eat and 
drink is the greatest happiness and the greatest good. There is 
no doubt that the easiest method of stopping crying is to stop 
the mouth, especially where the senses are not active enough to 
find pleasure from observation. The means of relief are then, 
necessarily limited ; yet change of position, loosening the dress, 
giving the legs and thighs entire liberty, chafing them, gentle 
exercise by the nurse moving her knees from side to side while 
the child lies across them, or walking about the room and press- 
ing it to the bosom, are all of them expedients which may be 
easily resorted to, and which often have the desired effect. 

Some mothers and nurses, to save themselves trouble, endea- 
vour to keep children quiet, or make them sleep, by administerino: 
various kinds of cordials, spirits, and drugs ; all of which are 
decidedly pernicious, and the practice of giving them such things 
cannot be spoken of without the severest reprobation. We warn 
parents and nurses against a practice so dangerous to their youn^ 
charge. The articles given irritate the tender stomach, and 
though they may lull and stupify for the moment, they greatly 
injure the health of the child, if they do not very speedily cause 
its death. 

For several months after birth, a child, if in health, eats 
and sleeps alternately ; and its occupations for the day may be 
as follows : — Suppose it wake at seven in the morning, it then 
takes the breast ; after washing and dressing, it will take another 
meal and a long sleep, bringing it to noon, when it is again 
refreshed, and, if the weather be warm, carried abroad; sleep 
usually follows upon going into the air, and three o'clock may 
have arrived before it again requires the breast. From this time 
until undressed for the night, it should not be lulled to sleep; 
but if the child be much inclined for repose, it should not be 
prevented. It is desirable to give a child the habit of sleeping 
throughout the night. At six, preparations are made for bed ; 
the undressing and washing produce a certain fatigTie ; and when 
the child has again sucked, it will probably fall asleep, and re- 
main in that condition for hours. It is a good plan to accustom 


an infant to suck just before the mother goes to bed, and this 
it will do, even if asleep. It should also at the same time be 
cleaned. If it wake up, allow it to stretch its limbs before the 
fire- rub its loins, thighs, legs, and feet, to give exercise and 
refreshment, and prepare for another long sleep. Between this 
and seven, it will wake once or twice again, and require nourish- 


It is very desirable, for the convenience of a mother and her 
assistants, that her infant should fall asleep without rocking or 
hushing, and repose in a bed instead of a cradle. As far, there- 
fore, as possible, it should be trained to these habits. For its 
falling asleep and going quietly to bed, warmth is the main 
requisite. See, therefore, before laying an infant down, that the 
feet, hands, and face are comfortably warm ; that every part of 
the body is supported, and the limbs uncramped ; the head and 
shoulders being raised a little by the pillow sloping gradually to 
the bed. Blankets are better than sheets. The covering should 
be so arranged, that while there is sufficient space to breathe 
freely, the face is kept warm. It is better not to take up a child 
the instant it wakes (particularly if it have not been long asleep), 
nor if it cries after being laid down : change of posture, or slight 
patting on the back, should be tried. If these fail, it should be 
taken out of bed and quieted in the arms. Change of linen 
may be necessary: in short, patience, perseverance, and inge- 
nuity, should be put in practice, with a view to produce comfort 
without leading to bad habits. 


An infant should be kept warm and comfortable, but should 
not be made hot either by clothing or when in bed. 

The dress should be simple, light, and easy. A fine linen 
or cotton shirt next the skin is desirable, and over that light 
flannel, with a frock of linen or cotton. 

Looseness is another requisite in an infant's dress : there should 
be a free circulation of air between the skin and the clothes, as 
well as a slight friction upon the surface. All confinement dis- 
tresses, and, when it amounts to tightness, it may occasion defor- 
mity before the evil is suspected. Full room should be allowed 
for the growth which is continually and rapidly going on. For 
this reason every part of the dress should fasten with strings ; 
and in tying these strings, the greatest care should be taken not 
to draw them too tight. Employ pins as little as possible. 

Formerly, there was a very absurd and vicious custom of 
swaddling up children tightly in a mass of clothes, and covering 
their heads with double and even triple caps. In some parts of 
France the heads of infants are still confined in this manner, and 
their bodies being swathed up like little mummies, they are 



carried occasionally on the back or under the arm of the mother ; 
a custom which is known to have a most prejudicial effect upon 
the growth and strength of the population. In most cases in 
our own country, from a mistaken tenderness, infants are over- 
clothed, and both their bodies and heads are consequently kept in 
a too highly heated condition. 

We repeat, let the general dress be light and loose ; and let the 
head, if well covered with hair, and if the season be warm, be 
left bare, at least within doors. At the utmost, cover the head 
with only one light cap, except when going into the open or cold 
air, when it may be sheltered by a loose hood or additional cap. 
A light shawl laid round the child when walking out with it is 
also required. 

The practice of making very long dresses is in the course of 
being given up. The frock should only be so long as will cover 
the child's feet, and enable the nurse to balance it on her arm. 
The feet may be covered with light woollen shoes. 

In some cases it may be necessary to wrap the middle of the 
body in a cloth or band ; but this should be done with care. 
With some children the band is necessary for many months : 
when it is discontinued, the stay or waistcoat is usually worn 
as a sort of support to the rest of the clothing. 

There is little doubt that the eruptions to which the infants of 
the poor are subject, chiefly arise from want of cleanliness and 
warmth. In this country, where changes of temperature are 
sudden and continual, judicious clothing is the only safeguard ; 
summer apparel cannot be safely adopted and laid aside at a 
given period, nor can the same dress be always worn at noon and 
in the evening. However warm the clothing, infants should not 
be carried abroad in very cold weather : their lungs cannot bear 
a low temperature, and there is no exercise to keep the blood 
equally distributed. 


For the health and comfort of an infant, it should be washed 
every morning and evening, and not in a slovenly, but in a com- 
plete though gentle manner. The reasons for such frequent 
ablutions are these : — The pores of the skin convey useless matter 
from the system ; and that matter is apt to remain upon the 
skin, so as to clog up the pores, and prevent them from perform- 
ing their functions, unless it be washed off. 

The washing should be performed in warm water, with soap 
and fine flannel, or sponge. Do not employ cold water, for it 
may produce serious illness, if not death. Formerly, there was 
a notion that bathing infants in cold water made them hardy ; this 
is now proved to be absurd. Great care should also be taken to 
prevent draughts of cold air from coming upon them. They can 
only be safely undressed beside a fire for the first four months. 

On preparing for dressing and washing, every necessary article 



should be near at hand ; it is a sign of mismanagement when a 
nurse has to rise to fetch anything : the liorse or screen, with 
the clean linen conveniently placed, will keep off draughts ; the 
basket, basin, soap, sponge, and towel, should be laid within 
reach, and in such order that there can be no confusion, and 
that the clothes shall not fall into the water, nor the wet sponge 
and towel find their way into the basket. The nurse, being thus 
prepared, with the addition of a flannel apron and a low chair, 
strips the infant, and having washed its head with soap, rubs it 
dry, and puts on a cap. The face, throat, chest, arms, and hands, 
are then successively sponged as plentifully as the child can 
bear (soap is not always required), and tenderly but thoroughly 
wiped. The infant is turned over, and the back, loins, and legs 
are abundantly covered with water ; the left hand holding the 
child, its legs hanging over the knee, so that the water flows 
from them into the basin. The thighs, groins, &c. require great 
attention both in washing and wiping. The corner of the apron 
should then be turned up, so that there is a dry surface for the 
child to rest on while it is carefully wiped. The creases in the 
neck, arms, and thighs, the bend of the arms, legs, and the 
ears, must be thoroughly washed and dried. As the friction 
between the parts increases the perspiration and the Habihty to 
fraying the skin, they should, after wiping, be slightly powdered 
with unscented hair-powder or pounded starch. All fresh cloth- 
ing should be aired before a fire previous to putting on. 

It is by no means uncommon to rub a new-born babe with 
spirits, to prevent its taking cold after washing ; but the stimulus 
thus given to the skin is injurious, and must be painful, while 
the rapid evaporation occasioned by the application of spirits, 
tends to produce instead of to prevent cold. Never allow spirits 
to touch an infant. After washing and drying, rub the skin with 
the hand or a flannel glove ; this restores the circulation to the 
surface, and is agreeable and soothing. Morning and night, 
this washing, from head to foot, must be repeated, while every 
impurity, from whatever cause, should be immediately removed 
from the skin during the day. If a child vomit its food, or 
there is much flow of the saliva from teething, the face and 
throat should be washed once or twice during the day. Before 
the clothes are put on, the child should be allowed to kick and 
stretch its limbs upon the lap; this affords an opportunity of 
ascertaining its healthy condition. At no period of childhood 
should this attention be omitted : any little defect in walking, 
running, or even sitting, should be inquired into, and the cause 

An infant may cry considerably while being washed and dressed. 
"When not violent and continuous, crying is serviceable : it gives 
the only exercise to the lungs, voice, and respiration, that infants 
can bear or take. As they grow older, and acquire other powers, 
crying is diminished. Tenderness and dexterity are nevertheless 



in all cases needful; when roughly handled, the sight of the 
hasin and the sound of the water are the signals of suffering and 
sorrow, and it may be years before a child can regard washing 
as a soui'ce of comlort. This it is, and ought to be : every pains 
should therefore be taken to soften its discomforts to the young 
and tender. "WTien the child is old enough to be amused, a 
playful gentle manner on the part of the nurse will render the 
operation so pleasurable, that all painful recollections will fade 
away, and agreeable ones only remain. 

A mother or nurse will save herself much trouble, and also 
benefit the child, by implanting habits of cleanliness. It may 
be observed, that every animal teaches its young to be cleanly, 
and so also should a human being be taught. Teach it, there- 
fore, to make signs and utter sounds significant of its wants, and 
attend to it accordingly. It may be safely averred, that no 
child was ever dirty in habits who did not owe it to its nurse. 


Infants, as weU as people of advanced life, ought to breathe 
pure air. If they draw into the lungs impure or confined air, 
they become sallow, and pine, and die. Beds and sleeping-rooms 
should be airy and well ventilated. The door of the room should 
be left open during the day, and also the window for a few hours, 
unless in extremely cold weather. 

With pm'e air, a child will not only be healthy, and ruddy in 
complexion, but be kept in good temper, although its food should 
be scanty and poor. The enjoyment of fresh air, indeed, com- 
pensates many disadvantages of condition. 

A young infant should be allowed much repose. As it advances 
in strength and powers of observation, it may be moved about, 
and taught to sit up and notice objects. In carrying, it should 
first recline, and afterwards sit on one of the arms of the nurse, 
but held also by the hand of the other aim. It should not be 
dandled, or heaved up and down, or otherwise moved quickly, 
till at least six months old, and able to take pleasure in motion. 

AVhen it has gained strength, and can be trusted by itself, it 
may be laid on the carpet, or on a cloth upon the floor, and 
allowed to roll and sprawl. This kind of indulgence is better 
than continually holding it on the knee or in arms, and will be 
very acceptable to the child if it be able to notice objects, and 
can play with toys, or little articles placed before it. In lifting 
or setting it down, place the hands round the waist ; never hang 
it by the arms, even for a moment. 

The best way to teach a child to walk is to leave it to itself. 
When it has attained the proper strength, it will raise itself to 
its feet, holding by chairs or anything else in its way. 

In fiiie weather, carry out the child regularly in arms. Do not, 
however, place it on the ground or the grass till it be able to 


walk and move about. It may be suffered to roll about upon a 
cloth spread on the grass on a fine day. 

We have observed that many women in the humbler ranks of 
life spend the g-reater part of their time lolling- about doors with 
a child in their arms. The keeping* of a child seems, indeed, to 
be an excuse to some women for all kinds of slovenliness in dress 
and household disorder. By accustoming a child to amuse itself 
on a cloth on the floor, or in any other manner within reach, 
much of this valuable time might be saved, and the child be also 
greatly benefited. 


A child with a good constitution, and properly fed and treated, 
will escape many disorders. If it become ill, it has not most 
likely had fair play. The most common illness is from pains 
caused by improper feeding. If not of a serious nature, requiring 
medical treatment, the use of the warm -bath -v^dll frequently 
remove infantile ailments. The water should be warmed to 96 
degrees of the thermometer ; that is, blood heat. A very young 
infant should not remain in the bath more than six or eight 
minutes. The head and loins should be supported by the hands 
of the nurse, so that the whole person may be at ease, and 
entirely covered, except the head and face. Never bathe a child 
for eruptive complaints, for the chill afterwards may drive the 
eruption inwards. 

Boys are much more difficult to rear than girls. A fit of crying 
that would throw a boy into convulsions, will seldom do so with 
a girl. Greater care must therefore be employed in nursing boys 
than girls. The hot-bath is one of the readiest and best remedies 
for a convulsion. 

The small-pox was formerly the most fatal disorder known in 
this country. It may now, however, be prevented by imparting 
a small quantity of matter from the udder of a cow to a wound 
made in the arm of a child. This is called vaccination, and should 
be perfonmed either at a vaccine institution, or by a skilled medi- 
cal attendant who has the command of fresh matter. 

We beg to impress upon all parents that it is their bounden 
duty to save their children from death, disease, and disfigure- 
ment, by a means so simple, safe, and free from suffering, as 
vaccination. We would only caution them not to be deterred 
by the objections raised by ignorance and prejudice against 
what may be justly pronounced as one of the most beneficial 
discoveries of modern times. Our explicit direction is, let the 
child he vaccinated from six weeks to two months after Mrth. 

The cutting of the teeth is generally more or less trying to 
children. One of the first symptoms of teething* is a heat in the 
mouth, perceptible while sucking. Other symptoms are a flow- 
ing of the saliva, eagerness in the child to convey everything to 
the mouth, and biting and grinding the gums together. The 


flow of the saliva is very advantageous ; it diminishes the iu' 
flammation and irritability of the gums, which are generally 
excited by the process of teething. 

It has long been customary to give an infant a coral or an 
ivory ring to bite ; but hard substances tend to bruise and inflame 
the gums : the best article is a small ring of India-rubber. A 
crust of bread is agreeable and serviceable, but requires care ; 
when it has been sucked for some time, it is apt to break, and 
lumps may be swallowed, or stick in the throat. A moderately 
relaxed state of bowels is advantageous. The medical attendant 
will give directions in case of the appearance of illness. Lancing 
the gums is often of great utility. 


The deformities and malformations found at birth are not so 
frequent as those which occur afterwards. These are either the 
consequences of predisposition to disease, inherited from parents, 
and increased by bad nursing, or are altogether the result of 
accidents, neglect, or injudicious management. Parents are 
obviously bound to take every reasonable precaution in order to 
guard their children from the occurrence of these inflictions, and 
should they occur, to endeavour to repair or subdue them. 

One of the most distressing forms of bodily infirmity in chil- 
dren is contortion of the s]3ine, which arises in most instances 
from the child receiving a fall or some other external injury, 
neglected at the time of its occurrence. Weakness and deformity 
of the legs have often a similar origin, though constitutional 
disease and imperfect nursing- are likewise predisposing causes. 

When children are undressed at nig'ht, it is advisable to en- 
courage them to run about the room, stoop, kneel, sit down, 
and rise again, &c. The mother may then observe the action 
of the muscles and joints, and so be enabled to detect the first 
symptoms of any injury, the marks of any hurt, or the evidences 
of any contractions or distortions, whether they arise from weak- 
ness or bad habits of muscular action. If the cause can be traced, 
a remedy may be more easily applied. In some cases surgical 
aid may be necessary, and it should be obtained without delay. 

Some children are born tongue-tied, the tongue being too much 
bridled to the bottom of their mouth, by which they are pre- 
vented from sucking" properly. If not remedied, this peculiarity 
will impede their utterance in after-life. It is the duty of the 
nurse to mention to the medical attendant that there is such a 
defect, and he will remove it by a slight cut with a pair of 
scissors. Some mothers are so heedless as to see their childi'en 
suflering for weeks and months, and even languishing, from 
this easily remedied evil, without taking the trouble to correct it. 

In the event of children being born with a hare-lip, as it is 
called, or any similar malformation, or with a redundancy in the 
number of fingers or toeSj the medical attendant must be per^ 



mitted to remedy the defect at the time he thinks proper ; but, 
generally speaking, the more early that all such peculiarities are 
removed the better. 

Stammering and lisping arise generally from contracting a 
bad habit, and may easily be prevented by careful nurses. From 
the first symptoms of speech, the child should be accustomed to 
.speak slowly and correctly. 

The weakness of the organs of vision has a tendency to pro- 
duce squinting. Light shining always from one side, or the 
placing of a knot of ribbon over one eye, will lead to a habit of 
looking obliquely, and therefore all such causes of derangement 
should as far as possible be avoided. The infant must be guided 
in its efforts to look as well as to speak. It should be held fairly 
towards the light, or towards any bright object, and at such a 
distance as will accommodate the focus of its vision, and cause 
it to use both eyes alike. The habit of looking obhquely either 
with one eye or both, is that which has to be chiefly guarded 
against, and corrected when it occurs. Obliquity of vision may 
arise from natural defects, but that is seldom the case ; in almost 
€very instance squinting is a result of sheer carelessness of the 
mother or nurse. 


The first care of a mother, we have said, is to rear her child in 
sound bodily health ; her second is to rear it in such a manner 
that it will grow up sweet-tempered and amiable, possessing" 
good habits and dispositions — all which is comprehended in the 
term moral training. It is of the greatest importance that she, 
or the nurse on whom the duty devolves, should attend to the 
necessary rules on this subject. 

Let it be thoroughly understood that the human being, at the 
very dawn of intelligence, possesses various tendencies or desires, 
some requiring to be encouraged and rendered habitual, and 
others which, for his own comfort and that of his fellow-crea- 
tui'es, must be kept in subjection. The latter seem by far the 
most ready to manifest themselves. The infant will show a dis- 
position to beat and rob his neighbour, will be insolent, greedy, 
cruel, and violent, before he will manifest any of the better 
dispositions, with the exception, perhaps, of an affectionateness 
towards those from whom he is accustomed to receive benefits. 
The fii'st business, then, of education, is to check and put imder 
habitual subjection all the former dispositions, and to draw forth 
and put into habitual exercise all that are opposite, such as kind- 
ness, justice, and self-denial. 

Parents who are fuUy impressed with these considerations 
should take the greatest possible care not to put the nursing and 
training of their children into the hands of ignorant or unprin- 
cipled domestics. One week's misusage by these persons will 
ruin the best-laid plans of a mother ; the mind of the infant will 



receive an injury wliicli not all the education of after-years will 
be able to remedy. 

The following- points oug-bt to be universally attended to by 
nursing' mothers and servants : — 

Crying- is usually the means employed by a child to get what 
he wants. Do not yield to this bad practice ; if you do, he will 
gTow up wilful and cunning, and you will have inflicted an 
injury on his moral qualities. 

By the exercise of great patience and g-ood temper, by kind- 
ness of manner, kind looks, and kind words, make the child 
know, by repeated experience, that he is not to obey every first 
impulse ; and that sell-control, a thing which even an infant can 
comprehend, is necessary to his own comfort. 

Whether the defects of character in a child be hereditary or 
acquired, they should be treated with consideration, and eveiy 
means short of severity adopted for their removal. Parents 
commit a dreadful error when they attempt to govern their 
childi'en by fear, by thi'eats of punishment, blows, violent lan- 
guage, and angry gestures. A child should never hear an 
angiy word, and never receive a blow. He must be governed 
by love, not by fear ; by example and quiet admonition, not by 
harsh words and precepts. Some parents may perhaps say that, 
unless they chastise their children, they could not govern them. 
They are, however, themselves to blame ; for, in the first place, 
not checking with all gentleness the earliest acts of disobedience, 
they first spoil their children, and then punish them for being 

Love, then, should be the impelling reason, the directing 
power of education. "WTiere love influences the parent, the 
children of a family will be actuated by the same spii'it — a spirit 
subversive of selfishness. Dissimilar as all characters are, diffe- 
rent as all intellects are, and different as all situations are, the 
^'eat duty of life is the same — the promotion of the welfare and 
happiness of our fellow-men. There are few errors, perhaps 
none, which do not affect the happiness of others as well as 
of oui'selves ; each individual who improves himself, improves 
society ; and every mother who rears her child aright, aids the 
universal progress towards excellence. 

Mutual confidence should be a governing principle in the 
commimion between parent and child. This cannot exist where 
the former acts only as a judg*e and lawgiver, who acknowledges 
no compassion, no sorrow, who cannot weep and hope with the 
offender. The few words, " I am sorry that you are angry" 
'' try to be good, a?id I will help you," " wipe away your tears, and 
let me hear what vexes you,'' are more likely to overcome error, 
or turn away wrath, than stern commands or cold disapproba- 
tion ; for this treatment does not conceal that there is error, or 
disguise its evils, while it differs totally from the compassion 
which fondles or coaxes, and bribes a child to soften its violence or 



withdraw its opposition. Nothing can be more heautiful than the 
conduct of a child reared under the influence of love. He enters 
among strangers unabashed and undismayed, ready to welcome 
and be welcomed, seeking happiness, and prepared to find it in 
everything', and with everybody ; so willing to be pleased that 
every gratification, however trifling, is prized and enjoyed ; 
habituated to cheerfulness, yet so full of the sympathy he has 
so largely enjoyed, that he does not lose sight of the comfort or 
sorrows of others ; there is no selfishness in his enjoyments ; the 
mind is active and energetic, and the whole character beaming 
with intelligence and happiness. 

Reverse this picture, and see the child who has been governed 
by fear — a suspicious timid glance, an endeavour to escape ob- 
servation, no spontaneous prattle, no words or actions pouring 
out the unrestrained thoughts and feelings ; nothing truly en- 
joyed, because there is an undefined fear of doing or saying 
something which may provoke rebuke ; or if there be enjoy- 
ments, they are received in silence, and in that solitude of heart 
which leads to selfishness. Candour is a quality to be encouraged 
in children; indeed it is natural to them; their helpless dependant 
nature leads them to seek and bestow confidence ; they have no 
reasons for concealment but such as fear induces. 

The greatest and most common error in the training of chil- 
dren is allowed to be irregularity of behaviour towards them. 
At one time they are coaxed, petted, and indulged in every fancy, 
and at another they are scolded, abused, and cruelly chastised. 
One moment a mother will be seen fondling her child, and the 
next pouring out her wrath upon him. Impetuous in temper, 
she will, for a trifling fault, inflict personal 23unishment on her 
infant, and then, moved by compassion or remorse, seize him 
up in her arms, and cover him with caresses. All this is de- 
cidedly improper, and ruinous to the dispositions of children. 
Let it be remembered that example will go a great way in com- 
municating both good and bad habits to children ; and it is 
required of those who imdertake the duty of infant education, 
that they should learn to know themselves, and command them- 
selves. Another common error is favouritism in families. One 
child, because he happened to be first born, or is called by a 
particular name, or from some other equally absurd cause, or 
perhaps from mere caprice, is idolised and advanced, while all 
his brothers and sisters are treated with indifference. Much 
dispeace and petty misery have arisen from this system of 
favouritism, which, wherever it occurs, is discreditable to the 
parental relation. All the children in a family, whatever be 
their capacities, and whether male or female, should be treated 
with equal consideration and kindness. On no account prefer 
one to another. 

Children are naturally truthful. Nature does not lie. Let 
nothing be done to alter this happy disposition. Cultivate in 


them the lore of truth, candour, and the confession of error. It 
is lamentable to think what fearful falsehoods are uttered to 
deter children, to keep them quiet, or to make them obedient. 
Threats of being taken by old men, and black men, and other 
like terrors, are resorted to by ignorant and foolish servants to 
frig-hten them, and make them lie still in bed. It is ascertained 
that death, Jits, idiocy, or insanity, have been the consequences 
of such inhumanity. But, setting aside the probable chance of 
such calamities, there are other certain results : if the child 
discover the falsehoods practised upon him, he becomes boldly 
indifferent to the threats, is more disobedient and wilful than 
ever, disbelieves all that is said to him, and, finding no respect 
for truth in others, has no regard for it himself. 

Firmness in adhering to promises, or any particular line of 
discipHne in relation to children, is of first importance. If the 
mother allow her child to transgress her orders and set her at 
defiance, she is clearly unfit for the performance of her duties. 
Prevent disobedience with temper and decision. 

Some childi'en early evince a love of cruelty : they tortm-e 
insects ; they destroy wantonly, and pull in pieces, break, crush, 
and tear everything that comes in their way. To cultivate the 
opposite feeling is the mother's part : she must prevent every 
circumstance that can encourag-e the propensity, manifesting* 
dislike at its exhibition. No better check can be found than 
occupation, g'iving a child something- to do that will employ its 
energies harmlessly. She ought to show it how animals should 
be treated, first making use of a toy, teaching the child to feed, 
and caress, and protect the representation of the dog or horse, 
and taking it away on the first exhibition of unkindness. No 
child should be allowed to witness the death of trapped mice, 
rats, the drowning of puppies and kittens, &c. ; they cannot be 
made sensible of the reasons for their destruction ; they do not 
know the nature of suffering and death, but only derive amuse- 
ment from the spectacle, and learn to look upon pain as matter 
for sport and pastime. 

Children not unfrequently acquire habits of violence from 
their mother, who in this, as in many other points, errs from 
ignorance. Should the child accidentally knock his head against 
the table, the fond and foolish parent will tell him " to beat the 
table." This inculcates the passion of revenge ; and afterwards 
thi'ough life, the child, become a man, furiously resents all real 
or imaginary injuries. A child should on no account be told to 
box or beat anybody or anything. Neither should he be taught 
to scold or abuse what has hurt him. On the contrary, he 
should be taught to forgive injuries, to endure sufierings with 
fortitude, and to entertain kindly feelings towards all. 

All children require amusement. From the time they are able 
to notice objects, they take a delight in toys, pictures, music, and 
other attractions of the eye and ear. Playing with toys may be 



said to "be not only an amusement, but the proper occupation of 
children. Let them, therefore, have what toys you can afford to 
purchase. Such things as a box of wooden bricks, wherewith to 
build houses, or a slate and pencil, are inexhaustible sources of 
recreation. " Books of prints, of birds, or animals in general, 
may be employed with great advantage, because they excite 
questions, afford the parent opportunities of giving much valu- 
able oral instruction, and induce that love of inquiiy, which is 
the parent of knowledge. Those who possess a garden have 
fewer difficulties to encounter in providing amusement for their 
children. The spade, the wheel-barrow or wagon, the hoop^ 
kite, and ball, are too excellent and too well known to need 
recommendation here ; neither need we name the doll for girls^ 
which affords constant and varied amusement and occupation, 
and may be made the means of inculcating much that will be 
subsequently useful and admirable in a female. 

These toys may also be made useful in teaching order, careful- 
ness, and steadfastness. The seeds of perseverance may be sown, 
by insisting on a child's remaining satisfied with one plaything 
for a reasonable space of time. Such a habit would also prevent 
envy or discontent. A child who is early accustomed to be 
satisfied with its own allotment, will scarcely be discontented at 
a later period. A love of order may be encouraged by the habit 
of putting the various toys in their respective places after use ; 
and such a habit eventually leads to systematic carefulness and 

Girls possess a desire for nursing dolls ; it arises from an ori- 
ginal propensity of the mind — the love of children. Provide 
dolls, therefore, for infant girls. Besides amusing them, the 
making and putting off and on of the dolls' clothes, teaches 
lessons of neatness, and cultivates sentiments of affection. 

"While on this subject, it may be proper to caution parents 
against giving their children toys of a kind likely to encourage 
warlike or savage propensities ; such as mimic guns, swords, or 
other military accoutrements. We have remarked that toys of 
this kind are commonly given to children in France, a practice 
which perhaps tends to nourish a love of war in our neighbom'S. 
We hope English parents will avoid this folly, and impart toys 
only of a simply amusing or improving* tendency. 

The propriety of inculcating habits of cleanliness has already 
been spoken of. Let children be taught to be not only cleanly 
in person, but cleanly and delicate in manner. As soon as they 
can assist themselves, give them a place at table, and accustom 
them to the use of the spoon, fork, and knife, and also to arrange 
the food on the plate, so that it may be eaten with attention to 
the method usually observed ; the meat, vegetable, and bread 
following each other in regular succession, with a proper pro- 

* Quarterly Journal of Education. 


portion of salt. Drinking" or speaking- with the mouth fall^ 
putting" the fingers into the plate and mingling" the food, should 
be checked at first. 

Children cannot be taught what is termed manners without 
rendering them affected. But they may be taught to practise 
politeness, gentleness, courtesy, and a regard for the rights of 
others. This is best done by a good example, and by the exer- 
cise of the quahties recommended. Vagne admonitions to " behave- 
themselves" are next to useless. If brought up properly, they 
will not probably have a disposition to behave ill. 

A child's moral and intellectual faculties will be advanta- 
geously brought out by mixing with other childi'en of the same 
age. The child is to be pitied who has no playmates or com- 
panions. Hence the exceeding usefulness ot infant schools, to 
which all young children should, if possible, be sent, especially 
when systematic training cannot be carried on at home. The 
principles upon which infant schools are established may be 
explained as follows : — 

Exercise, confirmed into habit, is the true means of establishing 
the virtuous character, as far as it can be established by human 
means. This may be realised to a certain extent in well-regu- 
lated families; but home -training is for the most part badly 
conducted, and hence the necessity for gathering children toge- 
ther into a place fitted up for the purpose, under the eye of 
well-trained instructors. In conducting an infant school, it is 
advantageous to have a large number of pupils, so as to pre- 
sent a variety of dispositions — an actual world into which a 
child may be introduced ; a world of infant business and infant 
intercourse ; a miniature of the adult world itself. This inter- 
coui'se, however, is not carried on at random, each infant only 
bringing its stock of selfish animalism to aggravate that of its 
playmates. It is correctly systematised, and carefully superin- 
tended. The infants are permitted to play together out of doors 
in unrestrained freedom, both for the sake of health and recrea- 
tion ; a watchful eye being all the while kept upon the nature 
and manner of their intercoui'se. "Watching over their actions 
towards each other, the best opportunity is afforded for enforcing 
the practice of generosity, gentleness, mercy, kindness, honesty, 
truth, and cleanliness in personal habits ; and all occasions of 
quarrel, cruelty, fraud, or falsehood, are minutely and patiently 
examined into ; -v^^hile, on the other hand, all indehcacy, filthi- 
ness, greediness, covetousness, unfairness, dishonesty, violence^ 
tyranny, cruelty, insolence, vanity, cowardice, and obstinacy, 
are repressed by the moral police o± the community. The teasing 
of idiots or animals is also held in just reprobation. A taste for 
refinement, and a regard for the beautiful in nature and art, are 
carefully inculcated. The assembled children are shown how 
beautiful are the flowers of the fields and gardens ; how beautiful 
and interesting are the animals which minister to man's wants j 



how splendid is the sky with its multitude of stars ; and ho^v 
great and g-ood and kind is the God who made them all. 

Besides the moral habitudes and refinements of feeling- pro- 
duced by three or four years' practice in an infant school, the 
whole carefully identified with relig-ious oblig-ation, the child's 
intellectual or knowing faculties are also beneficially trained. 
The stimulus of numbers works wonders on the child, and brings 
out his observing and remembering intellect in a manner that 
will surprise his family at home. Everything which he sees 
fills him with wonder, delig'ht, and ardour. Instead of his early 
education being confined to words, he is made acquainted with 
the real tangible world, and is prepared not only for instruction 
in schools of an advanced kind, but for acting his part as a useful 
and intelligent member of society. 

We are aware that objections have been made to infant edu- 
cation in schools, but on no proper grounds. It is unsuspected 
by the objectors that man is a moral as well as an intellectual 
being ; that he lias feeli7iyjs which require education, and that on 
the right training of these depend the happiness of the indivi- 
dual and the welfare of society, infinitely more than on the 
highest attainments merely intellectual. Now, the education of 
the feelings has been shown to be the primary and permanent 
object of the infant school system. It has, moreover, been dis- 
tinctly laid down, that these feelings are incomparably more easily 
bent and moulded to good in infancy than in after-years ; that 
after six years of age, their effectual culture is, in many cases, 
nearly hopeless ; hence to delay it till this age (two to six being- 
the proper period of infant schooling) would be to leave it out of 
education altogether ; and this, to the heavy cost of society, has 
been hitherto the ignorantly adopted alternative. 

The advantages of training in infant schools are now so gene- 
rally recognised, that these institutions may be considered to 
rank among the accredited means of national instruction. We 
therefore conclude by earnestly recommending their universal esta- 
blishment ; and shall rejoice to know that parents, not possessing 
approved means of home-training, send their children to them. 

As in a succeeding paper we shall treat of the management of 
children of an advanced age, or what may be termed the Fireside 
Education of a Family, we need not here extend our observations 
on infant management. With regard to the directions already 
given, we feel assured that, if followed out by a nurse or mother 
capable of realising them in their letter and their spirit, they 
would have the best effects on children, and be productive of the 
greatest benefit to society.* 

* For a full exposition of infant management, we refer to the works 
entitled " Infant Treatment, under Two Years of Age," and " Infant 
Education, jBrom Two to Six Years of Age," both issued in connexion 
with Chambers's Educational Course. 


T the beginning' of tlie j^resent centmy, and during 
;the consulate of BonaiDarte, few yoimg men of fortune 
made so brilliant an appearance amidst the learned 
and accomplished society of Paris as Charles Yera- 
^mont Count de Charney. Tliis gentleman, a ty]3e of many 
)0f his class, possessed natural powers of mind of no mean 
order ; he spoke and wrote various languag*es, and was ac- 
quainted with most of the ordinary branches of knowledge. 
So far, his talents mig'ht be called enviable ; while his fortune 
and station afforded him the most favoui'able opportunity of 
surrounding himself with all that could gi'atify his taste or 
desires. AVhat, then, was wanting to render Charney happy 
in himself and with the world? His moral perceptions had 
been deadened. To a coarse mind, forgetful of everything 
but transitory indulgences, this would perhaps have been no 
source of immediate disquietude ; but Charney's was not a coarse 
mind. He was fond of reasoning with the subtlety of a scholar 
on subjects of an aspiring kind — on the meaning of the universe 
of which he formed an atom — on creation and providence ; and, 
blinded by prejudice, all his reasonings ended in difficulty, 
doubt, scepticism. He saw not, because his heart was untouched, 
that, reason as we will, all thing-s — all design, order, beauty, 
wisdom, goodness — ^must ultimately be traced to one great First 

* This simple narrative is an abridgment and adaptation from the 
French of X. B. Saintine. The original, in the compass of a volume, has 
been exceedingly popular in France, where it is considered by the -well- 
disposed as a valuable auxiliary in the cause of religion and morals, and, 
from its style, likely to influence minds who would turn away from formal 
treatises of natural theoiogy. 

No. 7. ' 1 


Cause — that all moral attributes and excellences are dependent 
from the throne of God. 

With a mind groping in the wrong direction for something 
whereon to repose, it is not wonderful that Charney was dis- 
satisfied. There was nothing on which his affections could be 
satisfactorily placed. The world was to him a sort of wilderness, 
in which he discovered nothing to love, admire, or venerate. 
"Wrapped up in his own self-sufficiency, he esteemed no one. 
Heaven spread her bounties around : they were enjoyed, but not 
with a thankful heart. 

Incapable of making private friends, Chamey affected to take 
an interest in the welfare of an entire people — so much easier is 
it for a man to be a patriot than a philanthropist. Under the 
impression that the system of government at the time was detri- 
mental to public welfare, he enrolled himself as a member of a 
secret society, whose object was to subvert the existing order 
of things. The particulars of the conspiracy are of little conse- 
quence ; it is enough that the projects of the association occupied 
Charney during the greater part of the years 1803 and 1804, 
and were finally discovered by the police, who extinguished 
them with little difficulty. These were times when no great 
ceremony was employed in seizing and confining persons accused 
of pohtical offences. Bonaparte was not a man to be trifled 
with. The leaders of the conspiracy were quietly removed from 
their homes, condemned almost without a trial, and separated 
from each other. In the eighty-six departments of France there 
were many prisons. 

It was in the fortress of Fenestrelle that Charles Veramont 
Count de Charney was incarcerated, being accused of an attempt 
to overthrow the government, and substitute anarchy and dis- 
order. Let us behold him the tenant of one rude chamber, with 
no attendant but his jailer, instead of the luxurious master of a 
princely mansion ! Yet he was supplied with all necessaries. It 
was the weight of his own thoughts which appeared insupportable. 
However, there was no escape from them, for all correspondence 
with the world was forbidden ; and he was not allowed to retain 
books, pens, or paper. The chamber which he occupied was 
situated at the back of the citadel, in a little building raised upon 
the ruins of the old fortifications, now rendered useless by mo- 
dern inventions. The four walls, newly whitewashed, left not 
even a trace of any former occupant ; a table of just sufficient 
size for him to eat from ; one chair, which, standing singly, 
seemed to warn him that he must not hope for a companion ; a 
chest, that contained his linen and clothes ; a little cupboard 
of worm-eaten wood, painted white, with which contrasted 
strangely a costly mahogany dressing-case inlaid with silver, 
and which was the only remnant of his past splendour ; a narrow 
but clean bed; and a pair of blue linen curtains, that seemed 
hung at his window in mockery, for through its thick bars, or 



from the high wall which rose about ten feet beyond it, he 
neither feared the impertinence of curious eyes, nor the over- 
powering- rays of the sun. Such was the furniture of his prison- 
chamber. The rest of his world was confined to a short stone 
staii'case, which, turning* sharply round, led to a little paved 
yard, that had formerly been one of the outworks of the citadel. 
And here it was that for two hours a-day he was permitted to 
walk. This even was a privilege ; for, from this little enclosure, 
he could behold the summits of the Alps, which lay behind his 
prison, though not the rocks and forests with which they were 
studded. Alas ! once returned to his chamber, his horizon was 
bounded by the dull wall of masonry that separated him from 
the sublime and picturesque scenery which might have relieved 
the tedium of the day. At the extremity of the wall was a little 
window, breaking alone its unifonnity ; and here, from time to 
time, Charney fancied that he recognised a melancholy figure. 

This was lus world — ^where his demon of thought still pos- 
sessed him ; and here, by its dictation, he wrote the most terrible 
sentences on the wall, near to the sacred keepsakes of his mother 
and sister ! By turns he directed his mind to the merest trifles 
— ^manufactured whistles, boxes, and little open baskets of fruit 
stones — made miniature ships of walnut shells, and plaited straw 
for amusement. To vary his occupations, he engraved a thou- 
sand fantastic designs upon his table ; houses upon houses, fish 
upon the trees, men taller than the steeples, boats upon the roofs, 
carriages in the middle of the water, and dwarf pyramids by 
the side of gigantic flies ! Perhaps, however, the greatest inte- 
rest this victim of ennui experienced, was the, curiosity he felt 
concfeming the fignire he sometimes saw at the little window to 
which we before alluded. At first he took the stranger for a 
spy, placed there to watch his movements ; and then he fancied 
he was one of his enemies enjoying the sight of his degradation 
— for Charney was the most suspicious of mortals. When at last 
he questioned the jailer, the poor man only deceived him, though 

" He is one of my own countrymen, an Italian," said he ; "a 
good Christian, for I find him often at prayers." 

Charney asked, " Why is he imprisoned ?" 

" Because he tried to assassinate General Bonaparte," returned 
the jailer. 

" Is he, then, a patriot ?" 

" Oh no ; but he lost his son in the war in Germany, and that 
maddened him. He has but one child left. — his daughter." 

" Oh, then it was in a transport of passion and selfishness ?" 
replied Charney. And then he continued, "Pray, how does this 
bold conspirator amuse himself here ?" 

" He catches insects," said Ludovic the jailer with a smile. 

Charney could no longer detest, he only despised him, as he 
answered, " What a fool he must be 1" 



"Why, count, is he a fool? He has been long-er a prisoner 
than you have, yet ah^eady you have become a master in the 
art of carving on wood." 

Notwithstanding- the irony of this expression, Charney betook 
himself to his old occupations ; and in such wearying puerilities 
passed an entire winter. Happily for him a new source of interest 
was opening. 

It was a beautiful morning in spring, when Charney, as usual, 
paced the little courtyard. He walked slowly, as if thus he 
could increase the actual space which lay before him. He 
counted the paving stones one by one, doubtless to prove if his 
former calculations of this important matter were correct. With 
eyes bent to the ground, he perceived an unusual appearance 
between two of the stones. It was but a very little hillock of 
earth open at the top. Stooping down, he lightly raised some 
of the particles of soil, and now saw a little blade of vegetation 
which had scarcely yet escaped from a seed, which had been 
dropped probably by a bird, or wafted thither by the wind. He 
would have crushed it with his foot, but at that instant a soft 
breeze brought to him the odour of honeysuckle and seringa, 
as if to ask -pitj for the poor plant, and whisper that it also 
would perhaps some day have fragrance to bestow! Another 
idea also_ stayed his movement. How had this tender blade, so 
fragile that a touch would break it — how had this tender blade 
been able to raise itself, and throw from it the hard dry earth 
almost cemented to the stones by the pressure of his own feet ? 
Interested by the circumstance, again he stooped to examine the 
infant plant. 

He perceived a sort of soft coating, which, folding itself over 
the young' leaves, preserved them from injury, while they pierced 
the crust of earth and burst into the air and sunshine. Ah ! said 
he to himself, this is the secret. It derives from nature this 
principle of strength, just as birds, before they are hatched, are 
provided with beaks to break the egg-shell. Poor prisoner ! thou 
at least in thy captivity dost possess an instrument for thine own. 
liberation. He looked at it for a few moments, but thought no 
more of crushing it. 

The next afternoon, while walking, again, from sheer absence 
of mind, he nearly stepped upon the little plant. Yet he paused 
instinctively, surprised himself at the interest it awakened. He 
found that it had grown in the four-and-twenty hours, and that, 
having basked in the sunshine, it had lost the sickly paleness he 
had noticed the j)revious day. He reflected on the strange power 
this feeble stem possessed of nourishing itself, and acquiring the 
various colours assigned to its different parts. " Yes," thought 
he, "its leaves will of course be of a different shade from the 
stem ; and its flowers, I wonder what colour they will be ? How 
is it that, fed from the same source, one imbibes blue, and 
anotber scarlet ? They will so show themselves, however ; for, 




notwithstanding" the confusion and disorder there is in the world^ 
matter certainly obeys reg"ular, thoiig-h blind laws. Very blind," 
he repeated to himself; " if I needed another proof, here is one. 
These great lobes, which helped the plant to burst through the 
earth, are now quite useless ; but still they hang- heavily upon 
it; and exhaust its sap ! '"' 

While the count thus reasoned, the evening- drew on ; and 
though it was spring'-time, the nights were cold. As the sun 
sank, the lobes he had been watching rose slowly before his eyes, 
and as if to justify themselves in his opinion, drew nearer to 
each other, enclosing the tender leaves, folding their soft wings 
over the plant, and thus protecting it from cold, or the attack 
of insects ! Charney understood this silent answer all the better 
from perceiving that the outer coating had been eaten the pre- 
ceding night by the slugs, whose silver trail still remained upon 
the surface. 

This strange dialogue, carried on by thought on one side, and 
action on the other, could not rest here ; for Charney was too 
much accustomed to dispute, to yield his opinion at once to a 
good reason. " It is all very well/' said he to himself ; " as it 
often happens, several fortunate accidents have combined to 
favour this little plant. Armed at jSrst with a lever to raise up 
the earth, and a shield to defend it from injury, there was a 
double chance of its existence; but for these, the germ would 
have been stifled, as doubtless myriads of the same species are, 
which nature having imperfectly formed, are unable to preserve 
themselves, or perpetuate their kind. Who can know the num- 
ber of these unhnished productions ? Bah ! there is nothing in 
all I have noticed but a lucky chance." 

Count Charney, nature has still an answer to all your argu- 
ments. Be patient, and perhaps you will discover that this frail 
production was providentially placed in the courtyard of your 
prison for a useful purpose. You are rig'ht in thinking* that 
these protecting wings will soon be insufficient for the purpose ; 
but then they will wither and fall, no longer wanted. For when 
the north wind shall blow from the Alps damp fogs and flakes 
of snow, the new leaves still in the bud shall find there a safe 
asylum, a dwelling* prepared for them, impervious to the air, 
cemented with gum and resin, which, increasing according to 
their growth, will only open in genial weather ; and when 
returning* sunshine calls them forth, they press together, thus 
borrowing and lending* fraternal support, and find themselves 
provided with a downy covering to protect them from atmo- 
spheric changes. Be sure, wherever danger increases, the care 
of Providence is redoubled. 

The prisoner still watched the changes of the plant. Again 
he argued, and again it had a ready answer. '•' Of what use 
is this down upon the stem ? " said Charney. 

The next morning he saw that the down was covered with, a 



light hoar-frost, which had thus been held at a distance from the 
tender bark ! 

" At all events, it will not be wanted in the summer," continued 
the count ; and when warm weather came, behold the plant was 
stripped of its first mantle, and its fresh branches were free from 
a covering- no longer necessary. "But a storm may come, 
and the wind will scatter, and the hail will tear thy tender 

The wind blew, and the young plant, too weak to wrestle with 
it, bent to the earth, and so found safety. It hailed ; and now, 
by a new manoeuvre, the leaves arose, and pressing together for 
mutual protection around the stem, presented a solid mass to the 
blows of the enemy : in union they found strength ; and though 
the plant sustained some slight injury, it came out of the conflict 
still strong, and ready to open to the sunbeams, which soon healed 
its wounds ! 

"Has Chance intelligence?" asked Charney ; "can it join 
spirit to matter?" From attempting to discover some of the 
properties of this humble plant, and watching' over its prog'ress 
towards maturity, he unconsciously learned to love it ; and it 
was thejirst thing ivhich he loved, for his heart was at length 
touched. One day he had watched it longer even than usual, 
and surprised himself in a reverie beside it. His thoughts were 
calmer and sweeter than any he had experienced for a long time. 
Presently, on raising his head, he perceived at the window we 
before noticed the stranger, who evidently was watching him, 
and whom Charney had called in derision the Jiy-catcher. At 
first he blushed, as if the other had known his thoughts ; and then 
he smiled, for he no longer despised him. What room was there 
for contempt ? Was not his own mind absorbed in a very similar 
manner ? " Who knows," said he, " this Italian may have dis- 
covered in a fly things as worthy of being examined as I have 
in my plant." 

On re-entering his chamber, the first object which struck him 
was a sentence he had written on his wall about two months 
before — ^it ran thus : — 

" Chance is the parent of creation." 

He took a piece of charcoal, and wrote beneath it — " Perhaps ! " 

Charney chalked no more upon the wall, and only carved upon 
his table representations of flowers and leaves. His hours of 
exercise he passed almost entirely by the side of his plant, watch- 
ing its growth, and studying its changes ; and often, when returned 
to his chamber, he continued to gaze on it through the grated 
window. It had now, indeed, become his favourite occupation — 
the only resource of a prisoner ! Will he tire of it as he had done 
of every other amusement ? We shall see. 

One morning, while looking at the plant from his window, he 
saw, or fancied, that the jailer, in crossing the courtyard with 
hurried strides, brushed so close to the stem that he almost 



cnislied it. Charney trembled from head to foot. When Ludo- 
vic brought him his breakfast, he set about offering his petition, 
which was, that he would have the goodness to walk carefull j, and 
spare the only ornament of the yard. But simple as the request 
may appear, he scarcely knew how to begin. PerhajDS the regu- 
lations for cleaning the prison might be so rigid, that destruction 
must await the little thing ; and if so, how great was the favour 
lie had to ask ! At last, however, mustering up courage to speak 
of such a trifle, he begged Ludovic — who, though the warden of 
a prison, and sometimes rough in manner, was not by any means 
a hai'd-hearted man — to spare the plant in which he had begun 
to take such a friendly interest. 

" Why, as for your wallflower " began Ludovic. 

" Is it then a wallflower ? " interrupted the count. 

" Oh, I don't know I am sure ; but all such things seem to 
me more or less wallflowers. But this I will say, that you are 
rather late in recommending it to my care. Why, I should have 
put my foot upon it long ago, had I not seen that you were in- 
terested in it." 

" Yes, I do feel an interest," said Charney in a confused manner. 

" Hush, hush," returned the other, winking his eye with a 
comical expression ; " people must have something to care about, 
and prisoners have no choice. ^VTiy, I have known great people, 
clever people — for they don't send fools here — amuse themselves 
at little cost. One catches flies — no great harm in that; another" 
— and here he winked again — " carves with his penknife aU sorts 
of monstrous thing-s upon his table, without remembering that I 
am responsible for the furniture. Some make friends of birds, 
and some of mice. Now, so much do I respect these fancies, that 
I have sent away our cat, though my wife doted on her, for fear 
of her killing them. Perhaps she might not have injured them, 
but I would not run any risk ; I should have been a villain if f 
had : for all the cats in the world are not worth the bird or mouse 
of a prisoner." 

" It was very good of you," replied Charney, feehng himself 
humbled at being- thought capable of such childish tastes. " But 
this plant is for me something* more than an amusement." 

" Well, what matters it ? If it reminds you of the tree under 
which you prattled to your mother in your childhood, so much 
the better. The superintendent has not spoken about it, and as 
for me, I shut my eyes to things I don't wish to see. If it should 
grow to be a tree, and so be able to help you over the wall, it will 
be another affair ; but we have no need to think of that yet 
a while," he added with a laugh ; " though, I am sui'e, I wish you 
the free use of your legs with aU my heart ; but this must happen 
according to order. If you were to try to escape " 

" What would you do ?" 

" Do ! Why, it should be over my body ; I would shoot you 
myself, or tell the sentinel to fii'e, with as little remorse as if you 



were a rabbit. But touch a leaf of your wallflower! No, !• 
have not a heart for that. I have always considered that man 
unworthy of the dignity of being a jailer, who would crush a 
STDider that a prisoner had become attached to ; it is a wicked 
action — a crime. Talking of spiders," continued Ludovic, " I'll 
tell you a story about a prisoner who was let out at last by the 
help of the spiders." 

" By the help of the spiders ! " exclaimed Charney with asto- 

"Yes," replied the jailer ; " it is about ten years a'go ; Quatre- 
mer Disjonval was his name. He was a Frenchman, like you, 
thoug-h he had employment in Holland, and sided with the Dutch 
when they revolted. For this he was put into prison, where he 
stayed eight years, without having even then a prospect of being 
released — for I heard all about him, count, from a prisoner we 
had here before you came — and who formed an acquaintance 
with the spiders ; though, luckily, Bonaparte gave him the use of 
his legs again, without waiting so long for it as his friend had 
done. Well, this poor Disjonval having nothing to amuse him- 
self with during these eight long years, took to watching- the 
spiders ; and at last, from their actions, he could tell what the 
weather would be for ten, twelve, or fourteen days to come. 
Above all, he noticed that they only spun their large wheel- 
like webs in fine weather, or when fine clear weather was 
setting in ; whereas, when wet and cold were coming, they 
retreated clean out of sight. Now, when the troops of the 
Republic were in Holland, in December 1794, a sudden and 
unexpected thaw so altered the plans of the generals, that they 
seriously thought of withdrawing the army, and accepting the 
money that the Dutch would have willingly paid to be free of 
them. But Disjonval, who thought any masters would be better 
than his present ones, hoped, beyond all things, that the French 
would be victorious ; and knowing that only the weather was 
against them, watched his friendly spiders with redoubled inte- 
rest. To his joy, he discovered that a frost was coming; a 
frost which would render the rivers and canals able to bear the 
weight of the baggage and artillery. He contrived to have a 
letter conveyed to the commander-in-chief, assuring him that a 
frost would set in within fourteen days ; he, either believing 
what he wished, or really putting faith in a prisoner's experience, 
maintained his ground; and when, at the end of twelve days, every 
river was frozen over, Disjonval no doubt felt that, if the French 
gained the day, he deserved his freedom at their hands. And 
he had it too ; for when they entered Utrecht in triumph, one 
of the first orders issued was for the liberation of Quatremer 
Disjonval. This is a fact, count ; though I heard it said that 
afterwards he continued his affection for the spiders, and wrote 
about them too. Ah, it is a curious thing how much such insects 
know, or at least how much they do, that we can't at all 


understand ! They must be Heaven-taught too, for they do not 
even seem to teach one another." 

Charney was touched by this recital^ for well could he enter 
into every feeling of Disjonval ; and his heart was softened 
by Ludovic's attention to his plant. Yet, now that he began to 
respect his jailer, his vanity urged him the more to give some 
reason for the interest he took in such a trifle. " My dear good 
Ludovic," said he, " I thank you for your kind consideration ; 
but I must repeat to you that this little plant is to me more 
than an amusement. I am studying* its physiology ; " and as 
he saw that the man listened without understanding, he added, 
" besides, the species to which it belongs possesses, I think, 
medicinal properties which are most valuable in certain at- 
tacks of illness to which I am subject!" He had descended 
to a species of falsehood. But, alas ! this had seemed to him 
less humihating than to acknovv^ledge himself pleased with a 

" Well, count," said Ludovic, preparing- to leave the room, " if 
your plant, or its kind, has rendered you so much service, I 
think you might have shown your gratitude by watering* it 
sometimes. Poor Picciola ! '"' poor little thing ! it would have 
perished of thirst if I had not taken care of it. But adieu, 

" One instant, my kind Ludovic," exclaimed Charney, more 
and more surjDrised at discovering the character of the man ; " is 
it possible that you have been thus thoughtful of my pleasures, 
and yet never mentioned your goodness to me 1 I intreat you 
accept this little present as an earnest of my gratitude, thoug'h it 
is impossible I can ever repay you ; " and he presented a little 
silver-g'ilt cup which belonged to his dressing-case. Ludovic 
took it in his hand, examining it with some curiosity. 

" Repay me for what. Signer Count 1 Flowers only ask a 
little water, so we can let them drink without being ruined at a 
tavern." And he replaced the cup in the dressing-case. 

The count moved nearer, and extended his hand ; but Ludovic 
drew back in a respectful manner, exclaiming*, " No, no ; a man 
only gives his hand to a friend and an equal." 

" Then, Ludovic, be you my friend." 

" No, no ; that would not do," replied the jailer ; " one should 
have a little foresight in this world. If we were to be friends, 
and you were to try to escape, how should I have the heart to 
cry 'fire !' to the soldiers? No; I am your keeper, your jailer, 
and most humble servant." 

And now that Charney has learned another lesson — the lesson 
that good as well as evil is woven in that strangle tangled texture, 
human nature — we must hurry over some of the succeeding* 
events, and relate but briefly how he was attacked by illness, and 

* Picciola — pronounced Pitchiola — is an Italian word signifying poor 
little thing. 

D 9 


how his rough friend Ludovic tended him through it. The 
reader must, however, remember, that in making his urgent, but, 
as it proved, most unnecessary supplications for his plant, the 
count had even descended to something like a falsehood ; for he 
had said that he thought the plant possessed medicinal properties, 
a declaration which the honest jailer called to mind when he 
beheld his charge suffering from the delirium of fever. It is true 
the medical attendant of the prison had been called in ; but what- 
ever his judgment might be, his skill seemed unavailing. Charney 
was apparently in extreme danger, when, amidst the wildest rav- 
ings, he passionately exclaimed, " Picciola — Picciola ! " In an 
instant Ludovic concluded that it was for curing this disorder 
the plant was famed ; but how to apply it was the question. Yet 
the thing must be tried ; so, after a consultation with his wife, 
it was determined to cut some of the leaves, and make a decoc- 
tion of them. Bitter — nauseous was the draught (probably a 
great recommendation in Ludovic's opinion) ; but, administered 
at the crisis by means of which nature was working her cure, it 
had all the credit. Yet to describe Charney's horror at the dis- 
covery of the mutilation to which his Picciola had been subjected, 
is impossible ; but he felt it was the punishment of his falsehood ; 
and so, as a medicine, it worked a moral change, if not a physical 
one ! Neither may we describe very accurately how, before his 
attack of illness, Charney erected what he called " the palace of 
his mistress." He had been frightened one day by beholding 
the house-dog pass through the yard, for he feared that a lash of 
his tail might injure the beloved Picciola. Yes, Picciola was 
now her name, the title bestowed on her by the kind-hearted 
Ludovic, who was called her godfather. Although the nights 
were cold, and his allowance of firewood at all times insufficient, 
yet Charney cheerfully robbed himself day by day of some por- 
tion of his little store, till, with the aid of cords which he care- 
fully spun from his linen, he erected a defence around the plant. 

By the physician's orders the count had now permission to 
walk in the courtyard whenever he pleased, though he was still 
too weak to take much advantage of the favour. Perhaps, how- 
ever, there was something in his convalescent state favourable to 
contemplation ; certain it is that he revelled in it more than ever. 
There was little to break in upon his reveries ; the only event 
the solitary could bring to mind was, that he had once seen a 
second figure at the window where he had before noticed the 
entomologist. As for Ludovic, he might be a little more com- 
municative ; but he was in no degree more complying than his 
office lawfully permitted. Charney was anxious to procure pens 
and paper, that he might note down the observations he was 
daily making on his plant ; but these were obstinately refused, as 
against orders. 

" Why not write to the superintendent for permission ? " said 
Ludovic. " I dare not, and will not give them you." 



" Never/' exclaimed the count, " will I ask him to grant me a 

" As you please," returned Ludovic coldly, singing* one of his 
native Italian airs as he left the chamber of his prisoner. 

Too proud to humble himself to the g"ovemor, Charney was 
still unwilling" to abandon his design. With the aid of his razor, 
he formed a pen of a tooth-pick ; his ink was made from soot 
dissolved in water, and mixed in a g:ilt scent-bottle ; and instead 
of paper, he wrote on his cambric handkerchief. Picciola was 
now in flower, and among the phenomena she revealed to him, 
he observed that the flower turned towards the sun, following" 
the orb in its course, the better to absorb its rays ; or when, 
veiled by clouds which threatened rain, the sun was no longer 
visible, Picciola bent down her petals, as mariners fold their 
sails, to prepare for the coming storm. " Is heat so necessary 
to her?" thought Charney ; " and why? Does she fear even the 
passing shadow which seems so refreshing ? But why do I ask t 
I know she will explain her reasons." He who had almost 
denied a God began to have faith in a flower ! 

Picciola had already proved a physician ; and on an emergency 
she might serve for a barometer. Now she fulfilled the uses of a 
watch ! 

By dint of watching and observing, Charney remarked that 
her perfume varied at diflerent periods of the day. At first he 
thought that such a notion must be a delusion of the imagina- 
tion ; but repeated trials proved to him its reality. At last he 
could declare the hour of the day with certainty, simply from 
inhaling the odour of his plant. Picciola was now in full blossom ; 
and, thanks to Ludovic, who assisted the prisoner to construct 
a seat in the courtyard, the invalid could enjoy the society of his 
favourite for hours at a time. It sometimes happened that, to- 
wards the close of day, he sunk into a waking dream — a reverie — 
in which the imagination, triumphing over the body, carried him 
to distant and most diflerent scenes. Once he thought himself 
in his old mansion ; it was the night of a festival — the noise of a 
hundred carriages rattled in his ear, and the gleam of torches 
flashed in his eye. Presently the orchestra sounded, and the fete 
began. The brilliant light of chandeliers flooded the ball-room, 
where jewels gleamed and feathers waved upon the fairest forms. 
There was the haughty Tallien and the beautiful Recamier ; and 
Josephine the consul's wife, who, from her goodness and grace, 
often passed for the loveliest of the three. Others were, beside 
them, adorned with every aid which taste and dress could lend to 
youth and beauty. But it was not one of these that, in Charney's 
reverie, riveted his attention. He distinguished a young gu'l 
simply attu'ed in white ; her native grace and faint blush were 
her only ornaments ; and as he gazed upon her the other figures 
faded from his view. Presently they were alone, and as in 
thought he approached her more nearly, he observed that in her 



dark hair she wore a flower — the flower of his prison ! Invo- 
luntarily he extended his arms to clasp her, but in an instant she 
faded from his view — the flower and the g'irl losing themselves in 
one another. The walls of his mansion grew dim ; the lights 
■w^ere gradually extinguished ; till, reason dethroning fancy, the 
.prisoner opened his eyes ! Behold, he was still on his bench, the 
•»sun was setting, and Picciola before him. 

Often he dreamed thus ; but always the young girl with the 
flower — Picciola personified — was the prominent figure of his 
charming* vision. He knew it was no memory of the past ; could 
it be a revelation of the future 1 He cared not to inquire ; he only 
felt that it was happiness to cherish the beloved image. It was 
something to occupy his heart as well as his mind ; a being- to 
understand and answer him, to smile with and love him, to exist 
but in the breath of his life — his love. He spoke to her in ima- 
gination, and closed his eyes to behold her. The two were one — 
the one was double ! 

Thus the captive of Fenestrelle, after his graver studies, tasted 
the richest elixir ; entering more and more into that region of 
poesy, from which man returns, like the bee from the bosom of 
flowers, perfumed and loaded with honey. He had now a double 
existence, the real and the ideal, the one the remainder of the 
other ; without which, man tastes but half the blessings lavished 
on him by the Creator ! Now Charney's time was divided be- 
tween Picciola the flower and Picciola the fair girl. After reason 
and labour came joy and love ! 

Charney became daily more and more absorbed in the contem- 
plation of his flower, his silent teacher and companion. But 
his eyes were unable to follow the regular but minute and mys- 
terious changes of its nature. He was one day more than com- 
monly depressed in spirits, and at the same time angry with 
himself for yielding to his feelings, when Ludovic brought him 
•a powerful microscope, the loan of the stranger at the window, 
with which the latter had been accustomed to examine his in- 
sects, and by the aid of which he had numbered eight thousand 
divisions in the cornea of a fly ! Charney trembled with joy. 
The most minute particles of his plant were now revealed to his 
sight, magnified a hundredfold. Now did he believe himself 
on the high road to the most wonderful discoveries. He had 
before examined the outer covering of his flower, and he is pre- 
pared to find that the brilliant colour of the petals, their graceful 
form and purple spots, and the bands, as soft to the eye as velvet, 
which complete the outline, are not there only to gladden the 
sight with their beauty, but that they also serve to collect or 
disperse the sun's rays according to the wants of the flower. 
Now he perceives that these bright and glossy particles are un- 
questionably a glandulous mass of the absorbing vessels, endowed 
with a mysterious power to respire air, light, and moisture for 
the nourishment of the seed ; for without light there would be no 



colour ; without air and heat, no life ! Moisture, heat, and light ! 
of these the vegetable world is composed, and to these must its 
atoms return when they die ! 

During these hours of study and delight, Chamey, unknown 
to himself, had two spectators of his actions ; these were Girhardi 
and his daughter, who watched him with intense and kindly 

The daughter was one of those rare beings presented now and 
then to the world, as if to show that nature can surpass a poet's 
dreams. Educated entirely by her father, the motherless girl 
was devoted to him ; for though her beauty, her virtue, and her 
acquirements, had won for her many lovers, her heart, however 
tender, had never been deeply touched. She seemed to have no 
thought, but her one grief — her father's imprisonment. She 
felt that her place was not among the happy, but where she 
could dry a tear or call up a smile ; and to do this was her pride 
and triumph. Until recently, such had been her only thoughts ; 
but since she had seen Charney, she had learned to take an in- 
terest in, and feel comjDassion for him. Like her father, he was a 
prisoner, which alone was enough to awaken her sympathy ; but 
the love he bore to his plant — the only thing to which his heart 
clung — gave birth to feelings of the deepest pity. It is true that 
the commanding person of the count might have had some 
weight in prepossessing her in his favour ; though assuredly, had 
she met him in the hour of his prosperity, she would not have 
distinguished him for such qualities. In her ignorance of human 
life, she classed misfortune among the virtues ; and this was the 
charm which had kindled her heart's warm sympathy. 

One morning Girhardi, not content with waving his hand 
from the window by way of salutation, beckoned Charney to 
approach as near as possible, and modulating his voice, as if in 
great fear that some one else would hear him, exclaimed, "I 
have good news for you, sir." " And I," replied Charney, " have 
my best thanks to offer for your goodness in lending me the 
microscope;" and, perhaps, in his life Charney had never before 
felt so deep a sense of obligation. 

" Do not give me any thanks," returned Girhardi ; " the 
thought was Teresa's, my daughter's." 

" You have a daug-hter, then; and they permit you to see her?" 

" Yes ; and I thank God that they do, for my poor child is an 
angel of goodness. Do you know, my dear sir, she has taken a 
great interest in you ; first when you were ill, and ever since in 
watching the attention you bestow on your flower. Surely you 
must have seen her sometimes at the window ? " 

" Is it possible ; was it your daughter?" 

" Yes indeed ; but in speaking of her I forget the news I have 
to give you. The emperor is going to Milan, where he will be 
crowned king of Italy." 

"What emperor?" 



" Why, General Bonaparte to be sure. Did you not know 
tliat the first consul has assumed the title of emperor — the 
Emperor Napoleon — and having conquered Italy, he is going to 
Milan to be crowned king of that country ?" 

"King of Italy!" exclaimed Charney; "but what then; he 
will be more than ever your master and mine. As for the 
microscope," continued Charney, who thought much more of his 
Picciola than this great event, and who knew not what was to 
follow — " as for the microscope, I am afraid I have already kept 
it too long ; you are depriving yourself of it. Perhaps at some 
future time you will lend it to me again?" 

" I can do without it ; I have others," replied the kind old 
man, guessing from Charney's tone how unwilling he was to part 
with it. " Keep it, keep it as a remembrancer of your fellow- 
captive, who, believe me, feels a deep interest in you." 

Charney strove for words to express his gratitude; but the 
other interrupted him, saying, " Let me finish what I had to 
tell. They say that at the approaching coronation many par- 
dons will be granted. Have you any friends who now can speak 
for you?" 

Charney shook his head mournfully as he replied, " I have no 

" No friends ! " echoed the old man with a look of compassion ; 
" have you, then, doubted and suspected your fellow-creatures, 
for friendship surely exists for those who believe in it ? Well, 
well, if you have not, I have friends whom adversity even has 
not shaken; and perhaps they may succeed for you, though 
they have failed for me." 

" I will ask nothing of General Bonaparte," replied the count 
in a tone which betrayed his rooted hate and rancour. 

" Hush ! — speak lower — I think some one is coming — ^but no ;" 
and after a moment's silence, the Italian continued in a manner 
so touching, that reproach was softened as if falling from the lips 
of a father. " Dear friend, you are still angry, though I should 
have thought that the studies you have now for months pursued, 
would have extinguished in your heart the hatred which God 
condemns, and which causes so much misery in the world. The 
perfume of your flower should have taught you charity. I have 
more cause to complain of Bonaparte than you have, for my son 
died in his service." 

" And it was his death you strove to revenge?" replied Charney. 

" I see that you, too, have heard that falsehood," said the old 
man, raising his eyes to heaven, as if appeahng to the Almighty. 
" It is true that in my first moments of agony, when the people 
were rending the air with their acclamations of joy for victory, 
my 9ries of despair were heard in an interval. I was arrested, 
and unfortunately a knife was found upon me. Informers, who 
lived by perjury, made it appear that I had designs on the life 
of Bonaparte ; and he who was only a bereaved father, mourning 



in his first agony, they treated as an assassin. I can believe that 
the emperor was deceived ; and were he so very had a man, re- 
member he mig-ht have put us both to death. Should he restore 
me to liberty, he will but repair an error, though I shall bless 
him for his mercy. For myself, I can endure captivity, for I 
have faith in Providence, and resign myself to the will of God ; 
but my misfortune weighs heavily on Teresa — though we both 
suffer less from being together — and for her sake I would indeed 
wish to be free. Surely you, too, have some being' who loves 
you, who suffers for you, and for whose happiness, if not for your 
o%vn, you will sacrifice this false pride ? Come, let my friends do 
what they can for you." 

Charney smiled bitterly. " No wife, nor daughter, nor friend 
weeps for me!" said he; " no human being sighs for my return, 
for I have no longer gold to bestow. What should I do in the 
world, where really I was no happier than I am here? But 
could I find there friends and happiness, and recover fortune, 
I would still repeat 'No' a thousand times, if I must fii'st 
humble myself to the power I struggled to overthrow!" 

« Think again." 

" I never will address as emperor him who was my equal." 

" I implore you not to sacrifice the future to this false pride, 
which is vanity, not patriotism. But hark! now some one is 
indeed coming — adieu ! " and Girhardi moved from the window. 

" Thanks, thanks for the microscope ! " cried Chamey, before 
the other had quite disappeared. 

At that moment the hinges of the gate creaked, and Ludovic 
entered the courtyard. He brought with him the provisions 
for the day ; but perceiving that Charney was deep in thought, 
he did not address him, though he slightly rattled the plates, as 
if to remind him that dinner was ready; while he silently 
saluted my lord and my lady, as he was accustomed to call the 
man and the plant ! 

" The microscope is mine!" thought Charney; " but how have 
I deserved the kindness of this benevolent stranger?" Then 
seeing Ludovic cross the yard, his thoughts turned to him, as 
he mentally exclaimed, "Even this man has won my esteem; 
under his rough exterior, what a noble and generous heart there 
beats!" But, while he pondered, he thought another voice 
replied, "It is misfortune which has taught you to estimate 
a kindness. What have these two men done ? One has watered 
your plant unknown to you; the other has procured you the 
means of examining it more narrowly." "But," returned 
Charney, still arguing with himself, " the dictates of the heart 
are more true than those of the reason ; and my heart tells me 
that theu's has been no common generosity." " Yes," replied 
the voice, "but it is because this generosity has been exer- 
cised towards you, that you do it justice. If Picciola had 
not existed, these two men would still have been despised. One 


would have remained in your eyes an old fool, given up to 
the most contemptible trifling-; and the other a coarse, and 
sordid, and vulgar creature. Encased in your own selfishness, 
you never loved before ; and now it is because you love Picciola 
that you understand the love of others ; it is through her they 
' have been drawn to you ! " 

And Charney looked by turns at his plant and his microscope. 
Napoleon, emperor of France, and king of Italy ! The one-half 
of this terrible title had formerly induced him to become a 
furious conspirator, but now its magnificence scarcely dwelt in 
his mind for a moment. He thought less of the triumphs of 
an emperor and a king, than of an insect which wheeled with 
threatening buzz around his flower ! 

Provided with the microscope, now his own, Charney pursued 
his examinations with avidity ; and were we writing' a botanical 
work, instead of a narrative, we should be tempted to follow his 
discoveries step by step. But this may not be ; though our story 
illustrates a truth. It is enough that, like one who stumbles 
in the dark, and consequently has often to retrace his steps, one 
theory was often overthrown by another in the mind of Count 
Charney. Yet nature was his teacher — the plant, and the bird, 
and the bee; the sun, and the wind, and the shower! His 
present enthusiasm compensated for his past ignorance ; and, 
though he called to mind but vaguely the system of Linnseus, 
it was after the careful and soul-thrilling examinations which 
revealed to him the nuptials of the flowers, that he first perceived, 
however dimly, the chain which binds the universe. His eyes 
wandered, the microscope was laid aside, and the philosopher 
sunk on his rustic bench overpowered by his emotions. 

" Picciola," he exclaimed, " I had once the whole world in 
which to wander ; I had friends without number, or at least 
such as usurped that title ; and, above all, I was surrounded by 
men of science in every department; but none of these in- 
structed me as thou hast done; and none of the self-styled 
friends conferred on me the good offices which I have received 
from thee; and in this narrow courtyard, studying only thee, 
I have thought, and felt, and observed more than in all my 
previous life. Thou hast been a light in the darkness, a com- 
panion to relieve my solitude, a book which has seemed to me 
more wondrous than every other, for it has convinced me of 
my ignorance, and humbled my pride : it has convinced me that 
science, like virtue, can only be acquired by humility; and that 
to rise, we must first descend : it has shown me that the first 
rail of this mighty ladder is buried in the earth, and that by 
this we must begin to climb. It is a book written in characters 
of light, though in a language so mysterious, that we should 
be lost in awe and wonder were not every word a consolation. 
The world thou hast opened to my view is that of thought— of 
the Creator, of Heaven, of the Etexnal. It is the law of love 



wliicli rules the universe ; which regulates the attraction of an 
atom, and the path of the planets ; which links a flower to the 
stars, and binds in one chain the insect which burrows in the 
earth, to haughty man who raises his brow to heaven, seeking 
there — his Creator!" The agitation of Charney increased as 
the struggle in his heart continued ; but he murmured again, 
" Oh God ! oh God ! prejudice has dulled my reason, and sophistry 
has hardened my heart ! I cannot hear thee yet, but I will call 
upon THEE ; I cannot see, but I will seek thee !" 

Returned to his chamber, he read upon the wall, " God is but 
a word." He added, " Is not this word the one which explains 
the enigma of the universe ? " 

Alas ! there was still doubt in the expression ; but for this 
proud spirit to doubt, was to know itself half-conquered ; and to 
Picciola he still turned to teach him a creed, and convince him 
of a God ! 

In contemj^lating and questioning the page of nature which 
was opened to him, time passed quickly away; and when ex- 
hausted by deep thought, he indulged in those reveries in which 
the fair g'irl floated before his eyes, linked in a mysterious man- 
ner with his beloved Picciola. Not only the outward events, the 
changes and progress of his plant, were chronicled on the cam- 
bric, but the inner world of poesy, the life of his day-dreams^ 
was interpreted there, though perchance vaguely ; for language 
has its limits, and cannot always reach to thought. 

Once, however, his vision was painful ; for suddenly the young 
girl became pale, as if by the finger of death. She stretched her 
arms towards him, but he was chained to the spot 5 an unseea 
obstacle interposed, and the dreamer awoke with a cry of agony. 
Strange, that another cry echoed his own, and that in the voice 
of a woman ! Happy was he to find his anguish but a dream ; 
himself upon the rustic bench, and Picciola blooming beside him ; 
yet he felt that the shadow of evil was upon him. Honest Ludo- 
vic came running to the spot. " Oh, count," said he, " you are 
taken ill again, I fear ; but never mind, Madame Picciola and I 
will cure you." 

" I am not ill," replied Charney, scarcely yet recovered from 
his emotion. " Who told you so ? " 

" Why, Mademoiselle Teresa, the fly-catcher's daughter ; she 
saw you from the window, heard you scream, and ran to send 
me to your assistance." 

Charney was touched ; he remembered the interest the young 
Italian had taken in his illness, and it was to her thoughtMness 
he was indebted for the precious microscope. He felt himself 
all at once overpowered with gratitude ; and strangely mingling 
the ideal of his dream with the figure he had once or twice seen 
at the window, he remembered that the latter had no flower 
in her hair. Not without some self-reproach, not without a 
trembhng hesitation, did he gather one of the flowers from 



Picciola. " Formerly," murmured he, " I lavished gold and 
jewels on worthless women and false friends, without a feeling 
of regret ; but oh, if a gift be valued in proportion as the giver 
prizes it, never, I swear, have I bestowed anything so precious 
as the flower which I borrow from thee, Picciola ! " Placing 
it in Ludovic's hand, he continued, " Give this from me to the 
old man's daughter. Tell her that I thank her from my heart 
for the interest she takes in me, and that the poor and impri- 
soned Count de Charney possesses nothing of more value to offer 
for her acceptance." 

Ludovic took the flower with an air of stupefaction; for he 
had been so accustomed to consider the prisoner's love for his 
plant as all-engi"Ossing, that he could not understand how Made- 
moiselle Teresa's slight service had deserved what he knew was 
the most munificent return. " Well," said he, after a moment, 
*' they can now judge from this specimen what a sweet thing 
my god-daughter is ! " 

Charney pursued his examinations, and every day some new 
wonders were developed. Picciola was in the height of her 
beauty ; not less than thirty flowers graced her stem, and nume- 
rous buds had still to open, when, one morning approaching her 
with the joy of a lover, and yet with the gravity of a man about 
seriously to study, he started on perceiving that his beloved 
Picciola was beginning to droop. He supplied water to the 
plant with his most tender care ; still she drooped the next day 
also. Something was wrong. On examining minutely into the 
cause of the illness, he learned, what he ought to have abeady 
looked for, that the stem, pressed between the edges of the two 
stones through which it had struggled into existence, was too 
slender to maintain the circulation in the plant. The stem must 
be set free from this tightening pressure, or death will be the 
consequence. Charney saw all this, and knew but one means 
to save the companion of his imprisonment. Alas I how could 
he save her ? The stones must be broken or removed, and dare 
he hope that this indulgence would be granted? He waited 
impatiently for the next appearance of Ludovic, and communi- 
cated to him the disaster, with a humble request that he would 
furnish him with tools to release the plant from its bondage. 

"Impossible," answered the jailer; "you must apply to the 

" Never," cried Charney impetuously. 

" As you like ; but I think this pride is somewhat out of place. 
I shall speak to him about it I tell you." 

" I forbid you," replied the count. 

" You forbid me — how amusing ! Do you suppose I am to 
be ordered by you ? But never mind ; let her die if you like ; it 
is nothing to me. Good morning." 

" Stay," returned the count ; " would the superintendent under- 
stand this favour — the only one I will ever ask ? " 



** Understand ! Why not ? Isn't lie a man ? Cannot lie under- 
stand, like me, that you love your plant 1 Besides, I'll tell him 
that it's g-ood for fever — for all sorts of sickness ; and he's not 
strong- ; he suffers teiTibly from rheumatism. Well, well, you're 
a scholar ; now prove it ; write him a letter, not too long — pretty 

Charney still hesitated, but Ludovic made a sign of Picciola 
dying". The other gave a faint token of assent, and Ludovic 
went away. 

In a few minutes afterwards, an official, half-civil half-military, 
appeared with pen and ink, and a single sheet of paper bearing 
the superintendent's stamp. He remained present while Charney 
wrote his request ; then reading it, he sealed and took the letter 

Reader, do you rejoice at the changed heart, or do you despise 
our noble count for thus conquering his pride to save a drooping 
flower ? If the latter, you understand not the crushing influence 
of captivity on the haughtiest spirit; you imagine not the one 
strong love of a desolate heart, which perhaps saved the mind 
from madness or idiocy. The weakness of which you accuse 
him, was the very necessity of his mind, impelled by love and 
gratitude. Would that such holy springs were always near to 
bend the proud spirit ! 

Three hours dragged slowly away, and no answer came to the 
petition. Charney's agitation and anxiety were extreme. He 
could not eat. He tried to persuade himself that a favourable 
answer must arrive; that it would be impossible to refuse so 
simple a request. Yet, alas ! concession might be too late ; 
Picciola was dying ! Evening came, and no relief to his anxiety ; 
night, and Charney could not close his eyes. 

The next morning broug'ht the brief answer, that "the 
pavement of a prison-yard was one of its walls, and must be 
inviolable ! " 

And so Picciola must die? Her odours no longer proclaim 
the hour truly ; she is like a watch whose springs are disordered ; 
she cannot entirely turn to the sun, but droops her flowers, as a 
young girl would close her dying eyes, rather than meet the 
gaze of the lover she pai-ts from with an^sh ! And Charney 
is in his chamber writing* with care and diligence on one of his 
finest handkerchiefs ! 

His task completed, the handkerchief was carefidly folded ; 
then returning to the courtyard, and passing Picciola with the 
murmm'ed exclamation, " I will save thee ! " he attached the 
little packet to a cord which he found suspended from Girhardi's 
window. In an instant it was drawn up. 

Yes ! Charney had humbled his pride yet more : to save 
Picciola he had addressed a petition to Napoleon ! And Teresa 
Girhardi, the voluntary denizen of a prison, had undertaken to 
be the bearer, although Charney knew not at the time who was 



the messeng'er her father had promised to find. Few were her 
preparations, for every minute was precious ] and, mounted on 
horseback, accompanied by a g-uide, in less than an hour she 
had left the walls of Fenestrelle. It was evening* when they 
arrived at Turin ; but, alas ! the first news which g-reeted her was, 
that the emperor had set out for Alessandria. His visit had 
made a fete-day, and the people were too busy and elated to 
answer her anxious questions very readily; yet her resolution 
was instantly taken to follow at all hazards. Here, however, 
the g-uide learning that the distance to Alessandria was at least 
equal to double that which they had already traversed, refused 
to accompany her a step farther ; and leaving her, as he said, 
to a night's repose at a little inn, he coolly bade her g-ood 
evening, as he should set out on his return the first thing- in 
the morning. Although, for a moment, almost paralysed with 
the sense of her desolation, the noble-hearted Teresa faltered 
not in her resolution. She could hear of no conveyance till 
the morrow, but it was torture to think of losing- the night in 

Seated in the chimney-corner enjoying their supper were a 
couple, man and wife, who were evidently travelling with mer- 
chandise. It is true Teresa had just heard the order given to 
feed their mules, which were sent to the stable ; it is true she 
heard their expressions of delight at being housed after their 
journey ; yet on their assistance she built all her hopes. 

" Pardon my question," said she in a trembling voice to the 
woman ; " but what road do you take when you leave Turin 1 " 

" The road to Alessandria, my dear ! " 

"To Alessandria! It is my good angel which has led you 

"Your good angel, then," replied the woman, "has led us 
through a very bad road." 

" What is it you mean 1 " said the man, addressing Teresa. 

" Most urgent business calls me to Alessandria. Will you 
take me?" 

" It is impossible," said the woman. 

" I will pay you well," continued Teresa ; " I will give you 
ten francs." 

" I don't know how we can do it," re23lied the man ; " the seat 
is so narrow, it will hardly hold three ; though you are not very 
large to be sure. But we are only going to Revigano, which 
is but half way to Alessandria." 

" Well, well, take me so far ; but we must set out this instant." 

" This instant ! What an idea : we cannot start till the 

" I will pay you double the sum." 

The husband looked at his wife, but she shook her head, 
exclaiming, " The poor beasts ; it would kill them ! " 

" But the twenty francs," murmured he. 


And the tlioug-lit of twenty francs had so much weight, that 
before the clock struck eleven, Teresa found herself in the cart 
seated between the worthy pair. 

In her impatience, winged horses would scarcely have con- 
tented her; but the slow pace of the mules, with their bells 
jingling- in measured time at every step, seemed insupportable. 
" My good man, make them go a little faster," said she. 

" My dear child," replied he, " I do not like spending the 
night in counting the stars any more than you ; but I am 
carrying- earthenware to Revigano, and if the mules trot, they 
will break it all to pieces." 

" Earthenware ! oh ! " groaned Teresa, while the tears streamed 
down her cheeks ; " but at least you can make them go a little 
quicker ? " 

" Not much." 

And so was performed the half of her journey. The seller of 
earthenware put her down on the roadside at the break of day, 
wishing her safe at her jom'ney's end. 

" Tell me, sir," said Teresa to the first person she met, " how 
I can 23rocure a conveyance to Alessandria ?" 

" I do not think jon will find one," replied the stranger ; 
" the emperor reviews the troops at Marengo to-day, and every 
carriage, every place, has been engaged these three days." 

To another she put the same question. " You love the French, 
do you ? that accursed race !" was the answer he gave between, 
his set teeth. 

At last she got a ride for a mile or two, till one whose place 
had been engaged was taken up. And so, by degrees, she found 
herself on foot among the crowd of sight-seekers who thronged 
to Marengo. 

A magnificent throne, surrounded with tricoloured flags, had 
been erected on a hill which overlooked almost the spot where, 
five years before, the battle of Marengo had been fought ; and 
here the conqueror had determined to review his victorious 
troops. The aides-de-camp, covered with their glittering orders, 
passed rapidly to and fro ; the trumpet and the drum sounded ; 
banners floated in the breeze, and the plumes in the helmets 
waved. Napoleon was at the head of his guards; Josephme, 
surrounded by her ladies, was seated on the throne, with an 
officer by her side, deputed to explain to her the military evolu- 
tions. Interested as the empress was, she yet observed some 
slight disturbance near her ; and on inquiring the cause, was 
told that a young* woman, at the risk of being trampled down by 
the horses, had, under cover of the smoke, made her way across 
the line, and was earnestly beseeching' permission to present a 
petition to her majesty. 

What was the result of the interview will by and by be seen. 

Over the dreary prison of Fenestrelle a yet darker cloud 
seemed to hover. Charney counted the minutes, and, unconscious 



who the messenger really was, sometimes blamed his tardiness, 
sometimes his own folly in daring- to hope. The fourth day ar- 
rived ; Picciola was at the point of death ; and Girhardi came 
no more to the window, though from his room could be heard 
mingled prayers and sobs. The proud Charney hung despair- 
ingly over his plant. For her he had humbled himself to the 
dust, and yet was he to lose the charm of his life, the sole object 
of his love ! Ludovic crossed the courtyard. Since the prisoner's 
affliction, the jailer had resumed his harsh deportment ; for, as 
he dared not act, he would not speak kindly. 

" Ludovic, what have I done to you ? " exclaimed Charney in 
his wretchedness. 

" Done ! nothing at all," replied the other. 

" Well, then," continued the count, seizing his hand, " save her 
now. Yes, the superintendent has no need to know it. Bring 
me some earth in a box — but for a moment wiU the stones be 
removed. We will transplant her." 

" Don't touch me," replied Ludovic roughly, drawing away 
his hand. " Deuce take your flower, she has worked nothing 
but mischief. To begin with yourself, you're going to fall ill 
again I know. You had better boil her down into drink, and 
have done with her." 

Charney looked unutterable indignation. 

" However," pursued Ludovic, " if it only affected yourself, it 
would be but your own affair; but the poor fly-catcher, he'll 
never see his daughter again, that is certain." 

" His daughter !" exclaimed Charney in astonishment. 

" Yes, his daughter. You may whip the horses, but who can 
tell where the carriage will roll ? You may fling a dagger, but 
who can teU whom it shall wound ? They've found out that you 
have written to the emperor — through the guide, I suppose." 

" His daughter," repeated Charney, deaf to all else. 

"Why, did you suppose your message would go by telegraph?" 

Charney buried his face in his hands. 

"Well, they've found it out," repeated the jailer; " and it is a 
good thing I had no suspicion. But she is not to be admitted to 
see her father again : they told him so yesterday. But your 
dinner is getting cold." 

The count threw himself on his bench. For a moment he 
thought of at once destroying Picciola, instead of watching her 
lingering death ; but his heart failed him ; and he dwelt on the 
generous girl who had devoted herself to his cause, and whose 
punishment, and that of her good father, would be so heavy. 
" Oh," he exclaimed, " if they would but open again to thee these 
prison gates, how wilKngly would I purchase the favour by 
sacrificing the half of my hfe ! Blessings on you, ye noble pair!" 

In less than half an hour two officers presented themselves in 
the courtyard, accompanied by the superintendent of the prison, 
who requested Charney to return with them to his chamber, 



The superintendent "was a bald-headed man, with thick gray 
mustachios. A scar, which divided his left eyebrow, and de- 
scended to his lip, did not greatly improve his countenance ; but 
in his own estimation he was a person of great consequence, and 
on the present occasion he assumed more than an ordinary 
degree of dignity and severity. He beg-an the conversation by 
requesting to know if Charney had any complaint to make with 
reg-ard to his treatment in the fortress of Fenestrelle. The 
prisoner repHed in the negative. "You know, sir," continued 
the great man, " that in your illness every attention was paid 
to you. If you did not choose to follow the doctor's advice, it 
was not his fault, nor mine ; and since then, I have accorded you 
the unusual favour of walking when you pleased in the court- 

Charney bowed and thanked him. 

" However," said the superintendent, with the air of a man 
whose feelings had been wounded, " you have infringed the rules 
of the fortress; you have injured me in the opinion of the 
governor of Piedmont, who doubts my vigilance, since you have 
succeeded in sending a petition to the emperor." 
" He has received it then?" interrupted Charney. 
"Yes, sir.'* 

" What says he ? " and the prisoner trembled with hope. 
"What says he! Why, that for thus transgressing orders, 
you are to be conveyed to a room in the old bastion, which you 
are not to quit for a month." 

" But the emperor," exclaimed Charney, striving to wrestle 
with the cruel reality which thus dispelled his hopes — "what 
says his majesty?" 

" The emperor does not concern himself with such trifles," re- 
plied the superintendent, seating himself as he spoke in the only 
chair. " But this is not all ; your means of communication dis- 
covered, it is natural to suppose your correspondence has extended 
further. Have you written to any one besides his majesty?" 
Charney deigned not to answer. 

" This visit has been ordered," continued the superintendent ; 
" but before my officers commence their examinations, have you 
any confession to make ? It may be to your advantage afterwards." 
The prisoner was still silent. 
" Do your duty, gentlemen." 

The officers first looked up the chimney, and then proceeded 
to rip open the mattress of the bed ; then they examined the person 
of the count, and the lining of his clothes, while the superinten- 
dent walked up and dovm the room, striking every plank with 
his cane, to discover, if he could, a receptacle for important docu- 
ments, or the means of escape. But nothing could they find 
except a little bottle containing a dark liquid ; this was, of course, 
the prisoner's ink. There remained the dressing-case to be exa- 
mined, and when they asked for the key, he dropped rather 


than gave it. The rage of the superintendent had now conquered 
all his politeness ; and when, after opening the dressing-case, the 
officers exclaimed, " We have got them, we have got them," his 
delight was evident. From the false hottom they drew the 
cambric handkerchiefs, closely written over ; and of course they 
were considered as the most important proofs of a conspiracy. 
When Charney heheld his precious archives thus profaned, he 
rose from the chair into which he had sunk, and extended his 
arm to seize them ; but though his mouth was open, words he 
had none. These signs of emotion only convinced the superin- 
tendent of the importance of their prize, and by his orders the 
handkerchiefs, bottle, and tooth-pick, were packed up. A report 
of their proceedings was drawn out, and Charney was requested 
to sign it : by a gesture he refused, and his refusal was added to 
the list of his transgressions. Only a lover who is losing the 
portrait and letters of an adored mistress whom he has lost for 
ever, can understand Charney's deep anguish. To save Picciola 
he had compromised his pride, almost his honour ; he had broken 
the heart of an old man, and blighted the existence of his 
daughter; and that which alone could reconcile him to life is 
ruthlessly snatched away with all its fond memorials. 

Yet deeper agony was reserved for him. In following the 
superintendent and his satellites across the courtyard, on their 
way to the old bastion, they approached the dying Picciola; 
and the ire of the great man, already at fever-heat from Char- 
ney's contemptuous silence, was yet increased by the sight of the 
props and defence placed round the plant. 

" What is all this ? " said he to Ludovic, who came at his call. 
" Is this the way you watch your prisoners ? " 

" That, captain," replied the jailer with hesitation, drawing his 
pipe from his mouth with one hand, while with the other he 
made a military salutation — "that is the plant I told you of, 
which is good for gout and other illness." 

" Don't talk such trash to me," returned the superintendent ; 
^' if these gentlemen had their will, I suppose they would turn 
the fortress into a garden or menagerie. But come, tear it up, 
and sweep all this away." 

Ludovic looked at the plant, at Charney, and then at the 
captain, and murmured some words of excuse. 

" Hold your tongue, and do as I order you," thundered the 

Ludovic took oiF his coat, his cap, and rubbed his hands, as if 
thus to gain courage. Then he took away the matting, and made 
himself very busy in tearing it up and scattering it about the 
yard. One by one he plucked up the sticks and palings which 
supported the stem, and broke them singly across his knee. A 
stranger would have thought that his love for Picciola was 
changed to hatred, and that thus he was executing vengeance. 
V Meanwhile Charney stood motionless, gazing at Picciola as if 



to protect her with his eyes. The day had been cool, and the 
plant was refreshed ; it seemed as if she had gained strength but 
to die the harder. And what now should till the void in the- 
prisoner's heart? what now should chase the evil spirits that had 
possessed him 1 who now should teach him holy lessons of wis- 
dom, and instruct him to look up " throug-h nature to nature's 
God ?" Must his sweet day-dreams never return ? must he live 
his old life of apathy and disbelief? No ; death at once would 
be preferable. At that moment the old man approached the 
window, and Charney almost expected that, maddened at being- 
deprived of his daughter, he came to triumph at the misery of 
him who had been the cause. But when he looked up, and their 
eyes met ; when he beheld the trembling- hands of Girhardi 
stretched through the bars of his prison, as if imploring mercy 
for the plant, Charney's heart smote him bitterly for his evil 
thought, and, rising at the wand of sympathy, a tear rolled down 
his cheek — the first he had shed since childhood ! 

" Take away this bench," cried the superintendent to the 
loitering* Ludovic ; and sloAvly as he worked, its supports were at 
last removed. Nothing now remained but Picciola in the midst 
of the ruins. 

" Why kill it ? it is dying," exclaimed Ludovic, once more 
risking the captain's anger by his supplication. 

The great man only answered by a smile of irony. 

" Let 77ie do it," cried Charney passionately, on whose brow 
large drops of agony had gathered. 

"I forbid it;" and the captain stretched his cane between Count 
Charney and the jailer. 

At that moment two strangers entered the courtyard. At the 
noise of their footsteps, Ludovic turned his head and relinquished 
his hold of Picciola. Charney and he showed emotions of surprise. 
The strangers were an aid-de-camp of General Menon and a page 
of the empress ! The former presented a letter from the governor 
of Turin to the superintendent, who, as he read, testified every 
sign of astonishment. After a third perusal of the paper, and 
with a suddenly-assumed air of courteousness, he approached 
Charney, and placed it in his hands. With a trembling voice 
the prisoner read as follows : — 

'•'His majesty, the emperor -king*, commands me to make 
known his consent to the petition of Monsieur Charney relative 
to the plant which grows in the courtyard of Fe'nestrelle. The 
stones which incommode it are to be removed. You will be 
pleased to see that this order is executed, and will communicate 
with the prisoner on the subject." 

" Long live the emperor !" cried Ludovic. 

"Long live the emperor!" murmured another voice, which 
seemed to come from the wall. 

" There is a postscript from the empress," whispered the page : 
and Charney read on the margin — 



^^ I recommend Monsieur de Charney especially to your kind 
offices. I shall be obliged by your doing- all you can to render 
the position of the prisoner as little painful as possible. 

(Signed) Josephine." 

" Long live the empress !" shouted Ludovic. 

Charney kissed the signature, and remained some moments 
gazing on the paper mute and motionless. 

Although Charney was permitted to retain his accustomed 
chamber, and the superintendent was even so far calmed as to 
send very often his complimentary inquiries after Picciola, he 
still thought himself justified in transmitting the handkerchiefs 
he had seized to the nearest authorities ; who, however, not 
being able, as they said, " to obtain the key of the correspond- 
ence," despatched them to the minister of police at Paris, to be 
by him examined and deciphered. Charney, meanwhile, was 
supplied with writing materials, and resumed his studies with 
avidity. But, alas ! Girhardi was no longer to be seen at the 
window ; for the superintendent, not daring to act harshly by 
Charney, had vented his spite on Girhardi for the share he had 
taken in the transaction, by removing him to a distant part of 
the fortress. Charney would really have been happy could he 
have forgotten that this tried friend was suflPering for him. 

Events, however, were hurrying on Charney ventured to 
solicit the favour of a work on botany ; and the next day came 
a package of books on the subject, with a note from the governor, 
observing that, " as her majesty was a great botanist, she would 
probably be pleased to learn the name of the flower in which she 
was so greatly interested." 

" And must I study all these," exclaimed Charney with a smile, 
^^ to compel my flower to tell me her name ?" 

But with what exquisite sensations did he once more tm^n the 
leaves of a book, and gaze on printed characters ? Nevertheless, 
the authors differed so greatly in their systems of classification, 
that after a week's laborious research, he gave up his task in 
despair. Nor was this the worst ; for, in questioning the very 
last flower that Picciola bore, examining it petal by petal, it fell 
to pieces in his hand, thus destroying his hope of preserving the 

"Her name is Picciola!" exclaimed Charney in grief and 
anger; "and she shall have no other — Picciola, the prisoner's 
friend, companion, and teacher." As he spoke, there fell from 
one of the books a slip of paper, which contained these words — 
" Hope, and tell your neighbour to hope, for God does not forget 

The writing was that of a woman, and Charney could not 
doubt it was placed there by Teresa. " Tell your neighbour to 
hope." "Poor girl!" thought he, "she dare not name her father, 
and is unconscious that we no longer meet." 

The very next morning Ludovic entered his chamber with 



a countenance radiant with joy, and informed him that the 
apartment next to his was to be occupied by Girhardi, and that 
they were to share the courtyard between them ! And the next 
moment his friend stood before him. For an instant they 
looked at each other, as if doubting the reality of their meeting-, 
till Charney exclaimed, " Who has done this ? " 

" My daughter, undoubtedly," repHed the old man ; " every 
happiness I derive throug'h her." 

Charney again pressed Girhardi's hand, and drawing forth 
the slip of paper, presented it to him. 

" It is hers, it is hers ; and behold the hope is realised ! " 

Charney involuntarily stretched forth his hand to recover 
the paper 5 but he saw that the old man trembled with emotion, 
that he read it letter by letter, and covered it with kisses. He 
felt that, precious as it was, it no longer belonged to himself. 
Our egotist was learning gratitude and generosity ! 

Their first thoughts, their first discourse, were of Teresa ; but 
they were lost in conjecture as to where she could be, and how 
she had obtained such influence. After a while, the old man 
looked up, and read the sentences which the philosopher had 
inscribed on his wall. Two of them had already been modified j 
a third ran thus : — " Men exist on the earth near to each other, 
but without a connecting link. For the body, this world is a 
crowded arena, where one is battled with and bruised on all 
sides ; but for the heart, it is a desert ! " 

Girhardi added — " If one is without a friend ! " 

The captives were indeed friends, and they had no secrets 
from each other. Girhardi confessed his early errors, which 
had been the opposite extreme to those of his companion. Yes, 
the benevolent old man had once been the morose superstitious 
bigot ; but this is not the place for his story ; nor may we repeat 
those holy conferences which completed the change Picciola had 
begun. But she was stiU the book, Charney the pupil, and 
Girhardi the teacher. 

" My friend," said Charney to the old man as they were 
seated on the bench together, " you who have made insects your 
study, tell me, do they present as many wonders to your view 
as I have found in Picciola ? " 

" Perhaps yet more," replied Girhardi ; " for methinks you are 
only half acquainted with your plant, unless you know the nature 
of the little beings which so often visit her, and fly and buzz 
around her. By the examination of these creatures, we discover 
some of the hidden springs, the secret laws, which connect the 
insect and the flower, as they are bound to the rest of the uni- 
verse." While he spoke, a butterfly of gorgeous colours, as if to 
verify his words, alighted on a sprig of Picciola, shaking its 
wings in a peculiar manner. Girhardi paused. 

" Of what are you thinking ? " said Charney. 

^' I am thinking," returned the other, " that Picciola herself 



•will help to answer your former question. Behold this butterfly, 
she has just deposited the hope of her posterity on one of the 

Charney gazed with attention, and beheld the gay insect fly 
away, after having hardened the eggs with a sort of gummy 
juice, which caused them to adhere firmly to the tender bark. 

" Think you," continued Girhardi, " that all this happens by 
chance? Believe it not. Nature, which is God, provides a diffe- 
rent sort of plant for every different sort of insect. Every vege- 
table thing has its guests to lodge and to feed ! This butterfly^ 
you know, was itself at first a caterpillar, and in that state was 
nourished by the juices of such a plant as this ; but though, since 
her transformation, in her winged state she has roved from flower 
to flower, now that the hour of maternity approaches, she forgets 
her wandering habits, and returns to the plant which nourished 
herself in a former state. And yet she cannot remember her 
parent, and will never see her offspring ; for the butterfly's pur- 
pose is accomplished — it will shortly die. It cannot be a recollec- 
tion of the plant which prompts the action, for its appearance is 
very different from that it bore in the spring. Who has given 
the insect this knowledge 1 Observe, too, the branch which it 
has chosen ; it is one of the oldest and strongest — one not likely 
to be destroyed by the frost of winter, nor broken by the wind." 

" But," said Charney, " is this always so 1 Are you sure that 
it is not your imagination which sees order in mere chance ? " 

" Silence, sceptic," replied Girhardi with a faint smile ; " have 
patience, and Picciola herself shall instruct you. When the 
spring comes, and the first young leaves begin to open, the insect 
will burst from its shell ; then, but not till then, not till the proper 
food is within its reach. Of course you know that different trees 
burst mto foliage at different periods ; and in the same manner 
the eggs of different insects open at different times. Were it 
otherwise, there would indeed be distress and confusion. Were 
the insects to arrive first, there would be no food ; and were the 
leaves full grown before the arrival of the caterpillars, they would 
be too hard to be separated by their tender jaws. But Nature 
provides all things aright — the plant to the insect, the insect to 
the plant." 

'' Picciola ! Picciola ! " murmured Charney, " W'hat new won- 
ders hast thou to show me 1 " 

" They are infinite," continued the old man ; " imagination 
is exhausted in attempting to conceive the variety, yet exact- 
ness, of the means employed to continue the existence of different 
creatures. The telescope conveys to us an idea — faint and im- 
perfect though it be — of the vastness of creation ; the microscope 
shows us that the particles of matter are, in their minuteness, 
equally incomprehensible. Think of the cable of a spider — let 
us call it so — being composed of a hundred threads ; and these, 
doubtless, are again as divisible. Look at others of the insect 



tribe, hoTV curiously their bodies are provided and protected — 
some with a scaly armour to protect them from injury ; a net- 
work to defend their eyes — so line, that neither a thorn, nor the 
sting- of an enemy, could deprive them of sig'ht : creatures of 
prey have nimble feet to chase their victims, and strong* jaws 
to devour them, or to hollow out the earth for a dwelling", in 
which they place their booty or deposit their egg's. Again, how 
many are provided with a poisoned sting- with which to defend 
themselves from their enemies. Ah, the more close our exami- 
nations, the more clearly do we perceive that every living thing 
is formed according- to its wants and circumstances ; so won- 
drously perfect, that man — supposing, for an instant, he had the 
power of creation — must injure, did he dare to alter, the merest 
trifle ; so wondrously perfect, that man is awed by the very thought 
and contemplation of such infinite wisdom. Man, who is sent 
naked into the world, incapable of fl^ang like the bird, of running 
like the stag, of creeping- like the serpent ; without the means 
of defence among enemies armed with claws and stings ; without 
protection from the inclemency of the seasons among animals 
clothed in wool, or scales, or furs ; without shelter, when each 
has its nest, or its shell, its den, or its hole. Yet to him the lion 
gives up its dwelling-, and he robs the bear of its skin to make 
his first garments ; he plucks the horn from the bull, and this 
is his first weapon ; and he digs the ground beneath his feet to 
seek instruments of future power. Already, with the sinew of 
an animal and the bough of a tree, he makes a bow ; and the 
eagle which, seeing- his feebleness, thinks him at first a sure and 
easy prey, is struck to the earth only to furnish him with a 
plume for his head-dress. Among- the animal creation, it is 
man alone who could exist on such conditions. But man has 
the spiritual gift of intelligence, which enables him to do these 
things ; to take a lesson from the nautilus, ere he constructs his 
first frail bark ; or to find that science only reveals the g'eometri- 
cal precision with which the bees work." 

" But, my teacher," interrupted Charney, " it seems to me 
that the inferior animals are more j)erfect than we, and ought 
to excite our envy." 

" No ; for man alone is endowed with memory, foresight, the 
knowledge of right and wrong-, the power of contemplation ; and 
for him alone is there the provision of a future state. Such as 
the lower animals are, they have ever been ; if they are created 
perfect, it is because for them there is no higher destiny. From 
the beginning of the world, the beavers have built their dwell- 
ings on the same plan ; caterpillars and spiders have spun their 
webs in the same fashion ; and the ant-lions have traced, without 
compasses, circles and arches. One universal law has governed 
all ; man alone is permitted to exercise free-will, and therefore 
for man alone can virtue or vice exist. The world, too, is his 
to traverse from pole to pole j he pitches his tent in the desert, 



or builds a city on the banks of a fertilising- river ; lie can dwell 
among- the snows of the Alps, or beneath the sun of the tropics ; 
he bends the material laws to his purpose, yet receives a lesson 
from the insect or the flower. Oh yes," he cried; "believe 
what Newton says — ' The universe is one perfect whole ; all is 
harmony ; all the evidence of one Almig-hty Will. Our feeble 
minds cannot g-rasp it at once, but we know from the perfection 
of parts that it is so ! ' Oh that proud man would learn from 
the flower, and the bee, and the butterfly ! " 

At that moment a letter was broug-ht to Girhardi. It was 
from Teresa, and ran thus : — " Is it not a happiness that they 
permit us to correspond ? Kiss this letter a thousand times, for 
I have done so, and thus transmit my kisses to you. Will it 
not be delightful to exchange our thoughts 1 But if they should 
permit me to see you again ! Oh, pause here, my father ; pause, 
and bless General Menon, to whom we owe so much. Father, I 
come to you soon, in a day or two; and — and — oh, pray for 
fortitude to bear the good tidings — I come to lead you to yom' 
home — to take you from captivity!" 

Yet his joy was moderated by the thought that Charney would 
again be solitary. 

She came. Charney heard her step in the next room; he 
conjectured what her person could be — he could not picture it. 
Yet he trembled with apprehension : the polished courtier grew 
bashful and awkward as a schoolboy. The introduction was 
appointed to take place in the presence of Picciola, and the 
father and daughter were seated on the bench when Charney 
approached. Notwithstanding the exciting scenes with which 
they had been mutually connected, there was restraint in their 
meeting ; and in the beautiful face of the young Italian, Charney 
at flLrst persuaded himself there was nothing but indifference to 
be read. Her noble conduct had only proceeded from a love of 
adventure and obedience to her father's commands. He half 
regretted that he had seen her, since her presence dispelled the 
dim and shadowy thoughts he so long had nourished. But 
whilst they were seated on the bench, Girhardi gazing at his 
daughter, and Charney uttering some cold and immeaning 
phrases, Teresa turned suddenly to her father, by which means 
there escaped from the folds of her di'ess a locket, which she 
wore suspended round her neck, Charney perceived at a glance 
that a lock of her father's white hair was on one side, and on 
the other, carefully preserved beneath the crystal, a withered 
flower. It was that he had sent her by Ludovic ! 

A cloud seemed to pass away from before the eyes of Charney. 
In Teresa he recognised Picciola, the fair girl of his dreams, 
with the flower resting on her heart, not in her hair. He could 
but murmur some words of rejoicing ; but the ice was broken, 
and they understood how much they had mutually thought of 
each other. She listened to his history from his own lips ; and 



when he came to the recital of all he endured when Picciola was 
about to be sacrificed, Teresa exclaimed with tenderness, " Dear 
Picciola, thou belongest to me also, for I have contributed to thy 
deliverance ! " And Charney thanked her in his heart for this 
adoption ; for he felt it established more than ever a holy com- 
munion between them. 

Willing'ly would Charney have sacrificed for ever liberty^ 
fortmie, and the world, could he have prolonged the happi- 
ness he experienced during the three days which passed before 
the necessary forms for Girhardi's liberation were completed. 
But, in proportion to this happiness, must be the pang" of sepa- 
ration; and now he dared to ask himself the bold question, 
"Was it possible that Teresa loved him?" No; he would not 
dare so to misinterpret her tenderness, her pity, her generosity ; 
and he tried to believe that he rejoiced ; that it would have been 
an additional pang- to think he had ruffled the serenity of her 
heart. " But I," he exclaimed — " I will love her for ever, and 
substitute this exquisite reality for all my unsatisfying dreams." 
This love, however, must be cherished in secret ; for it would 
be a crime to impart it. They were about to be separated for 
ever ; she to return to the world, doubtless to marry ; and he to 
remain in his prison alone with Picciola, and her memory. He 
tried to assume coldness of manner, but his hag'gard countenance 
betrayed him; while Teresa, equally conscious and equally 
generous, willing to endure all, so that his peace of mind were 
not injured, assumed a gaiety of manner that ill accorded with 
the scene. Modesty and timidity, also, conspired to make her 
conceal her emotions. Yet there are moments when the heart 
will speak its language without control ; and that of their part- 
ing was one. But few and broken ejaculations were heard, 
though Teresa's last words were, stretching out her arms to 
the plant, " I call Picciola for my witness ! " 

Happiness must be tasted and lost to be appreciated ; and so 
Charney felt. Never had he so appreciated the father's wisdom 
and the daughter's excellence, as now that they were no longer 
beside him. Yet memory was sweet, and his former demon of 
thought was exorcised for ever. 

One day, when Charney least expected it, the doors of his 
prison were thrown open. The persons who had been appointed 
to examine the handkerchiefs had carried them to the emperor. 
After looking at them for a while, he exclaimed scornfully, 
" This Charney is a fool, but no longer a dangerous one ; he 
may make an excellent botanist, but I have no fear of another 
conspiracy." At Josephine's intreaty his pardon was granted. 

And now it was Charney's turn to quit the gloomy fortress 
of Fenestrelle, but not alone. No ; Picciola, transplanted into 
a large box, was earned away in triumph. Picciola, to whom 
he owed every happiness ; Picciola, who had saved him from 
madness, who had taught him the consolations of belief; Picciola, 



to whom lie was indebted for fr-iendsliiiD and love ; Picciola, who 
had restored him to liberty ! 

Now, too, Ludovic, stifling his emotion, extended his roug-h 
Jiand to the comit, his friend] for he was no longer the jailer. 
Charney shook it with emotion, exclaiming, "We shall meet 
again.'" " God bless you ! Adieu, Count ! adieu, Picciola !" 

Six months afterwards, a splendid carriage stoj)ped at the state- 
prison of Fe'nestrelle. A traveller descended, and asked for 
Ludovic Ritti. A lady leant upon his arm ; they were the Count 
and Countess Charney. Once ag-ain they visited the prison- 
chamber. Of all the sentences of despair and unbelief which 
had soiled its white walls, only one remained. It ran thus : — . 
" Science, wit, beauty, youth, and fortune, cannot confer happi- 
ness !" Teresa added — " Without love !" 

Charney came to request Ludovic to attend a fete which he 
■desig-ned to give at the christening of his first child, whose birth 
was expected towards the close of that year ; and to beseech that 
he would quit Fenestrelle for ever, and take up his abode with 
him. The jailer inquired after Picciola, and learned that she 
was placed close to the count's private study, that he watered 
and tended her himself, and forbade a servant to touch her. 

Ludovic arrived at the count's splendid chateau a few days 
before the christening. Almost the first thought of the honest 
fellow was to visit his old friend the prison-flower ; but, alas ! amid 
the emotions of love and happiness M^hich had ushered the yet 
more dearly loved one into the world, Picciola had been forgotten, 
and was now fadino- to decay. Her mission had been, happily 
fulfilled. - -y ii J' 




^HE wilds of Australia present at this time some strange 
I scenes. Persons of all characters, and every variety 
of previous hahits, are there planting themseNes as 

sheep-farmers, each family heing generally placed in 

l^some rude hut in the centre of its " run," or sheep-walk, 
rarely at less than five miles' distance from another. Thus 
'transferred all at once from parlour life in this country, per- 
/ haps from some learned or elegant profession, into a primeval 
solitude, and left to their own resources, a change of life and 
occupation is induced such as we have no experience of in civi- 
lised climes. Young men who once figured here in quadrille 
parties, are there seen driving cars and drays, or milking cows ; 
while ladies, who once presided over a refined hospitality in 
some hetter part of a British city, are, in " the bush," fain to 
cook victuals for their husband and his shepherds. Occasional 
adventures with the savag-e aborigines streak the homeliness 
of the picture with something like the hues of romance. But 
all is not hardship and vexation. Labour and exposure in that 
country are attended with an excitement which prevents any- 
thing like low spirits, and, joined to the fine climate, tend to 
keep up a tone of health which few in civilised life ever enjoy. 
Then there is no eye of fashionable neighbour to look pityingly 
or quizzingly on the mean details of the mud-house and the life 
which passes v/ithin it. Above all, the star of hope is present, 
instructing how to bear with the present for the sake of the 
future. It is readily to be supposed that a picture of this strange 
Ho. 8, I 


kind of life, drawn on the spot, must possess some interest, and 
such Ave have now to introduce to the notice of our readers. A 
married pair of our acquaintance, in the bloom of life, emig-rated 
a few years ago to Australia, taking" with them their infant 
daughter, a shepherd, his wife, and a female servant. They were 
accompanied by two brothers of the lady, who were associated 
with the husband in his proposed new course of life. They were 
upwards of two years upon a " run " in the inland parts of the 
Port Philip settlement, where they realised, without mitigation 
of any kind, the whole hardships, difficulties, and troubles, and 
also the whole of the pleasm^es, of bush life. The lady lately 
returned to her native country, and has communicated to us a 
journal, in which we find a remarkably interesting account of 
this wild kind of existence. In presenting" some portions of it to 
our readers, we only deem it necessary to remark, that the name 
is, for obvious reasons, fictitious ; and that, from our recollections 
of the amiable writer, we could scarcely suppose any one of her 
sex less prepared by education and habits for bush life than she 
must have been at the time when her husband emig-rated. 

The family arrived at Hobart Town in October 1 838, and her 
husband and brother soon after proceeded to Port Philip, in order 
to secure a sheep-farm. They obtained one which was considered 
of a highly advantageous nature, except that it was a hundred 
and twenty miles back from the settlement. Meanwhile, at a 
farm near Launceston, Mrs Thomson gained some insight into 
dairy management and other branches of rural economy. Having 
purchased at Launceston a dray and bullocks, also some horses, 
goats, pigs, geese, ducks, hens, rabbits, tubs, buckets, and a num- 
ber of small tin utensils of various kinds, together with some 
flour and other provisions, they sailed for Port Philip, which they 
were eleven days in reaching. It is pleasant to hear of neigh- 
bourly kindnesses exercised in that remote part of the world. 
Mrs Thomson mentions that, at her departure from Launceston, 
she had presents of poultry from various persons ; and one lady, 
whom she had only seen once, made her several large jars of 
preserves. While lying oflP George Town, a lady, hearing that 
one of her own sex with a young child was on board, sent her a 
box of eggs for the child — a very useful present. " I was fortu- 
nate," says Mrs T., " in meeting with kind friends wherever I 
went." It may here be mentioned, that Mrs T. left her female 
servant at Hobart ToAvn, so that the only female now with her 
was the shepherd's wife. 

We landed [January 1839] at Point Henry, about eight 
miles from Corio, which is intended to be a tov/n some future 
day. I did not go on shore the first day, as my husband, as soon 
as possible, got the mare and bullocks landed, which he took to 
Mr Fisher's station, near Geelong. The poor bullocks looked 
miserably thin, but the mare looked very well, and we were glad 
they were alive. It took a long time to land all the stock in the 


vessel. Some of the bullocks made a great noise ; but no wonder ; 
they were all down in the hold dui^ing" the voyage, and when 
about to be landed, a broad belt was passed round their body, and 
they were hoisted up high in the air by a pulley, so as to clear 
the vessel. They were then lowered into the water near a small 
boat, in which some men were waiting" to catch the animal by the 
horns, and the others rowed quickly to shore, singing" as they 
went. The poor sheep were not so troublesome ; they were just 
thrown overboard, and allowed to make the best of their way to 
shore. '^\Tiile my husband was away with the large animals, I 
remained to look after the small stock. Next morning he came 
back to the vessel, and my brother James with him, also Mr 
Yuille, who had left home only a few months before us ; but, 
indeed, I scarcely recognised him, he was such a strange figure. 
He had allowed his beard to grow to a great length ; he wore 
very roug'h-looking clothes, and a broad black leather belt round 
his waist, with a brace of pistols stuck in it. I afterwards found 
out that the settlers pride themselves in dressing and looking as 
rough as possible. Our vessel could not get nearer the land than 
a quarter of a mile, consequently we went out in a small boat ; 
but even in that we could not get near the shore, on account of 
the water being so shallow. I was carried out by my husband, 
and all our goods had to be brought ashore in the same way ; 
but every one helped, and we seemed rather to hke the ploy. 

When landed, we looked like a party thrown on a desert island, 
the shore was so barren, and not a trace of human habitation to 
be seen, or any of the works of man. All was in a state of nature ; 
and I kept looking round, expecting every moment to see some 
of the dreaded savages rushing" upon us. I did not feel comfort- 
able on account of the natives, I had heard such accounts of them 
in Van Diemen's Land. 

When all om' luggage and animals were landed, we began to 
pack our own and Messrs Donald and Hamilton's dray. This 
took us a long time. The Messrs Baillie were also with us with 
their di'ays, so we made up a strong party. AYhen all were 
ready to start, I got into a spring"-cart which Mr Thomson had 
borrowed from Mr Fisher for me ; but indeed my share of it was 
very small. It was already so well filled that I could scarcely 
find a seat. Our shepherd's wife, who was no lig-ht Vv^eight, took 
up more than her share of the seat; she carried Ag-nes [the 
infant] on her knee. I took possession of the other seat. At my 
feet were four little dogs of Mr Baillie's, also three cats, some 
cocks and hens, and a pair of rabbits ; at our back were three 
pigs, and some geese and ducks. We were a noisy party ; for at 
times our road was very rough, and some of our animals were 
rather inclined to be quarrelsome. The spring-cart went first, 
then came the five drays, and all the gentlemen walking along- 
side, with the dogs running beside them. Most of the gentlemen 
had either pistols at their sides or a gun in their hands. Little 



Nanny followed behind, accompanied by old Billy, who had a 
wonderfully long' beard. The country seemed very scrubby and 
barren, and the trees so dark and ug-ly, that I was disappointed 
in the appearance of them. I expected to see beautiful large 
trees, but I saw none to compare with the trees of my own coun- 
try. My husband told me to have patience till I went farther 
up the country ; but, after being- three years in it, I am still of 
the same opinion. 

We got to Mrs Fisher's about seven o'clock ; she received us 
very cordially. We found tea awaiting- us, and I there tasted 
dcwiper for the first time. I liked it very much : it is like bread, 
but closer and heavier. I said to Mrs Fisher that she must think 
we had taken a great liberty in coming- in such force upon her ; 
but she did not at all seem to think so. She said she was quite 
accustomed to have many gentlemen visitors, but she never had 
had a lady before. I could not at all fancy how she would 
manage in regard to giving- us beds ; however, she soon disposed 
of us very easily. A bed was made up for me, little Ag-nes, and 
her maid, on the parlour floor, and all the gentlemen were sent 
to the wool-shed, to sleep as they best could : fifteen slept in it 
that night. A few of them had blankets or rug-s, but most of 
them had nothing. 

In the morning- I asked my husband how he had slept ; he 
said, never better. We remained a week here. Next day we 
saw some of the natives ; they are very ug-ly and dirty. Some 
of them wore skins sewed together, and thrown over their 
shoulders ; a few of them had some old clothes given them by 
the settlers ; and some were naked. They kept peeping* in at the 
windows to see us, and were always hanging- about the huts. 
Mrs Fisher called them civilised natives, and said they were 
always about the place. One day I went out to walk with little 
Agnes in the bush. I was keeping a good look-out for snakes, 
and was just stepping- over what I fancied, by a slight glance, to 
be a burnt log of wood, but a second look showed me my mistake ; 
it was a native lying* on the grass, grinning in my face with his 
large white teeth. I was rather afraid, but he looked very good- 
tempered, and laughed. He seemed too lazy to move, so I gave 
him a nod, and walked on, well pleased he did not think it 
necessary to accompany me home. My servant Mary was veiy 
much afraid of the natives. She would scarcely move out of the 
hut, and was always crying and wishing* herself at home. She 
said she was determined to make her husband send her home 
with the first money he made. She wondered why I did not 
think as she did. She would take comfort from no one, and was 
quite sure she would be killed by the wild natives when she got 
up the country. 

The township of Geelong consisted of three buildings, all of 
them stores, where everything was sold at a most extravagant 
profit. On Sunday, we went to church in Mr Fisher's wool- 


shed, and had a sermon from a Wesleyan missionary. His v/ife 
commenced the psalm tunes. 

We had fixed to begin our journey up the country, and the 
g-entlemen had gone to Geelong to load the drays. I waited for 
them in ]Mr Fisher's hut, when in a moment it got quite dark, and 
the wind roared most tremendously. It was the most awful sight 
I ever witnessed : we were afraid to move. The storm passed 
over in about ten minutes ; but many a tree had been torn up by 
the roots during that time. "When the gentlemen came with the 
drays, they were so covered with dust, that I could scarcely tell 
one from the other. Some of them had been knocked down by 
the tornado, and one of the drays blown over. It was now too 
late for us to begin our journey, so we remained another night at 
Mr Fisher's, and started early in the morning. On this occasion 
we had much difficulty in getting' the horses to start : they were 
ill broken in, and many times they stopped on the road, so that 
we had often to take some of the bullocks out of the other drays 
to pull them on again. We travelled the first day thirty miles, 
quartering for the night at Mr Sutherland's hut, which he kindly 
gave up for our accommodation. Next day we had to rest the 
bullocks, so we walked over to Mr Russell's station, about three 
miles distant, and remained there a nig"ht. In the evening we 
went to see a meeting of the natives, or a corohery, as they call 
it. About a hundred natives were assembled. They had about 
twenty large fires lighted, around which were seated the women 
and children. The men had painted themselves, according" to 
their own fancy, with red and white earth. They had bones, 
and bits of stones, and emu's feathers, tied on their hair, and 
branches of trees tied on their ankles, which made a rushing 
noise when they danced. Their appearance was very wild, and 
when they danced, their gestures and attitudes were equally so.. 
One old man stood before the dancers, and kept repeating some 
words very fast in a kind of time, whilst he beat together two 
sticks. The women never dance ; their employment is to keep 
the fires burning bright ; and some of them were beating sticks, 
and declaiming in concert with the old man. The natives, when 
done with their corobery, were very anxious that we white people 
would show them how we coroberied ; so we persuaded Mr Yuille 
to dance for them, which he did, and also recited a piece of poetry, 
using* a great many gestures. The natives watched him most 
attentively, and seemed highly pleased. After g-iving the natives 
some white money, and bidding them good night, we returned to 
Mr Russell's hut. 

Next morning our bullocks were lost — a very common occur- 
rence, it being impossible to tie them, as in that case they would 
not feed ; and unless one has a very good bullock-driver who will 
watch them, it generally takes several hours to find them in the 
morning. Numbers of natives came this forenoon to see us. They 
examined my dress very attentively, and asked the name of 


everything', which they tried to repeat after me. They were 
much amused with my little Ag-nes, and she was as much pleased 
with them. I wondered what her g-randmamma would have 
thought, could she have seen her in the midst of a group of 
savag-es, and the life of the party. Whenever Agnes spoke, they 
all laughed aloud, and tried to imitate her voice ; and the picka- 
ninny leubra^s dress was well examined. I put a little night- 
cap on a native baby, with which its mother was much 
pleased, and many a little black head was thrust out for one 

I now began to be a little disgusted and astonished at the dirty 
and uncomfortable way in which the settlers lived. They 
seemed quite at the mercy of their hut-keepers, eating* what was 
placed before them out of dirty tin plates, and using a knife and 
fork if one could be found. Sometimes the hut-keepers would 
cook the mutton in no way but as chops ; some of them would 
only boil it, and some roast it, just as they liked ; and although 
the masters were constantly complaining of the sameness, still it 
never seemed to enter their heads to make their servants change 
the manner of cooking ; but the truth was, they were afraid to 
speak, in case the hut-keeper would be offended and run away. 
The principal drink of the settlers is tea, which they take at every 
meal, and indeed all the day. In many huts the tea-pot is always 
at the fire ; and if a stranger come in, the first thing he does is 
to help himself to a panikin of tea. We had neither milk nor 
butter at any station we were at ; nothing but mutton, tea, and 
damper, three times a-day. Every meal was alike from one week 
to another, and from year's end to year's end. I was so sick of 
it, I could scarcely eat anything. 

Next day we had our bullocks ready in good time, as we had 
a long journey before us ; at least we hoped to get on a good way. 
The heat this day was very intense, and we had no shade. I 
could scarcely bear it ; and before evening we had drunk all the 
water we had brought with us. I thought I should have died of 
thirst ; and we were all suffering alike. Poor little Agnes cried 
much ; at last we got her to sleep and forget her wants. My 
husband was driving one of the drays, and was so thirsty, that 
when we came to a muddy hole of water on the path, which the 
dray had passed through, he lay down on the g-round and drank 
heartily. One of our party, who knew something of the roads, 
told us we were near water-holes, which raised our spirits. At 
last we came to them, and both people and animals took many a 
long drink, although the water was bad, and quite bitter from 
the reeds which grew in it. We filled our cask, and continued 
our journey a few miles farther, to a place where we were to 
sleep in the bush. When we g'ot out of the dray, one of the little 
kittens could not be seen ; but on a nearer inspection, it was 
found squeezed flat on the seat where our servant Mary had 
sat : it looked as if it had gone throug'h a mangle. Poor Mary 



was mucli distressed and annoyed by the gentlemen telling- her 
she must be an awful weight. 

We had soon lig-hted a lire at the foot of a tree, and put on a 
huge pot of water to boil : when it did boil, two or three handfuls 
of tea were put into it, and some sugar. One of the men made 
some thick cakes of flour and water, and fried them in grease. 
We had also some chops cooked, which we all enjoyed, as we 
had not stopped to eat anything on the road. The tea was not 
poured out ; every one dipped his panikin into the pot, and helped 
himself. Mary, Agnes, and I, had a bed made with some blankets 
under the dray, and all the others slept round the fire, taking by 
turn the duty of watching the bullocks. Before going- to rest, 
the bullock-driver made a large damper, which he fii'ed in the 
ashes, for our provision next day. 

We got up at daybreak, had breakfast, and went on again, 
and travelled through a forest on fire for forty miles. I was 
often afraid the burning trees would fall upon us ; and we had 
sometimes to make a new path for ourselves, from the old tracks 
being blocked up by fallen timber. The fires in the bush are 
often the work ot the natives, to frighten away the white men ; 
and sometimes of the shepherds, to make the grass sprout afresh. 
A conflagration not unfrequently happens from some one shaking 
out a tobacco-pipe (for every one smokes) ; and at this season 
the grass is so dry that it soon catches fire. 

We rested for two hours and cooked some dinner, chiefly that 
our bullocks might feed and rest during the heat of the day. 
Mr Yuille and I made some fritters of flour and water. I thought 
them the best things I had ever ate. The Scotch clergyman 
from Melbourne passed us on the road. He rebuked our bullock- 
driver for swearing at his bullocks ; but the man told him that 
no one ever yet drove bullocks without swearing ; it was the 
only way to make them go. We lost a very fine kangaroo dog 
by one of the drays falling back upon it. 

This night we slept at Mr Anderson's hut. He was from home, 
but had an old woman as hut-keeper, who made us as comfort- 
able as she could ; but it was a cold night, and the wind whistled 
very keenly through a door made of rushes. This was one of the 
most neatly-kept huts I saw, and the owner of it one of the few 
gentlemen who kept himself always neat and clean in the bush. 

Next day we went over to Mr Yuille's station, where I re- 
mained six weeks, until our own hut was put up : the gentlemen 
kindly gave up their sleeping apartment to me. While at Mr 
Yuille's station, I gathered a great many mushrooms, the finest 
I ever saw. I had fortunately a bundle of spices in my trunk, 
and I made a good supply of ketchup, both for Mr Yuille, and 
to take to our own station. 

I felt distressed to see so much waste and extravagance among'st 
the servants. JMany a large piece of mutton I have seen 
thrown from the hut door that might have served a large family 



for dinner : and unfortunately there is no remedy for this. If 
the masters were to take notice of it, it would only make them^ 
worse, or else they would run away, or, as they call it, 1)olt. I 
saw plainly that there would he neither comfort nor economy to 
the masters so long" as the country was so ill provided with ser- 
vants ; they were the masters ; they had the impudence always 
to keep in their own hut the best pieces of the meat, and send 
into their masters the inferior hits. I was sorry my servant 
Mary should have so bad an example, but hoped that she had 
too much good sense to follow it, as she appeared as much 
shocked at it as myself. 

I was glad when my husband came to take us to our own 
station, which was about thirty miles farther up the country. 
Part of the country we passed through was the most beautiful 
I ever saw, while other portions were very cold and bleak. AVe 
stopped at one or two huts, and had mutton, tea, and damper 
at each of them. We passed an immense salt lake,' which is 
gradually drying up : its circumference is forty miles. Many 
lakes, both salt and fresh, have dried up lately. The natives say 
it is the white people coming that drives away the water : they 
say, " Plenty mobeek long time, combarley white fellow, mobeek 
gigot" — in English, " Plenty water for a longtime, but when 
the white people come, the water goes away." The natives have, 
some strange ideas of death : they think, when they die, they go 
to Van Diemen's Land, and come back white fellows. I know a 
young man who receives many a maternal embrace from an old 
black woman. She fancies he is her son, who died some time 
before : she saw him come back, and she calls him always by her 
son's name. They also believe in a good and evil spirit, and that 
fire will keep away the bad spirit ; consequently, at night, when, 
urgent business prompts them to move about, they always carry 
a lire-stick ; but they do not like moving in the dark. 

When we passed the salt lake, the country began to improve. 
I thought we should never come to our own station, the bullocks 
travel so very slowly. At last Mr Thomson told me to look 
forward as far as I could see : we were now at the end of a large 
plain or marsh. I looked, and saw our pretty little hut peeping 
through a cluster of trees. I cannot say how it was, but my 
heart beat with delight the first time I saw that place. I took 
it for a presentiment of good fortune ; and Mary, who had now 
got over her fear of the natives, seemed to participate in my feel- 
ings, for she said, '•' It's a bonny place, and my heart warms to it." 


I now hoped that my travels were ended for some time. As 
we approached the hut, my brother Robert came running to meet 
us, to my great joy, for I had not seen him for nearly two 



months. When we arrived, we found my other brother busy 
making" himself a bedstead. Our house was not nearly linished, 
as it had neither doors nor windows ; nor could we get these 
luxuries for some months, as many thing's more immediately 
necessary were yet to be done ; but I did not mind it much — I 
was g-etting' inured to these little inconveniences. "VVe had 
plenty of daylight in our hut, as it was built of slabs, or split 
boards, and every slab was about an inch apart from the next. 
We passed the winter in this way ; but it was never very cold 
except in the mornings and evenings : we were more annoyed 
by the rain coming down the chimney and putting" out our fire 
than by anything else. Our hut consisted of three apartments 
— a water-closet, our bedroom, and a store in the middle, which 
was afterwards converted into a bedroom for my brother ; at 
£rst he slept in the sitting-room, until we built a detached store. 
Mary and her husband had a little turf hut, built a short way 
behind our hut, which was also used as a kitchen. 

It may seem strang-e, but I now felt very happy and con- 
tented. Although we had not many luxuries, we all enjoyed 
g-ood health, and had plenty to keep us employed : we had no 
time to weary : the gentlemen were always busy building* huts 
or fences. The first two years of a settler's life are very busy 
ones, so much is to be done in settling' on a spot where the foot 
of a white man had never been before. I was the first white 
woman who had ever been so far up the country. I found Mary 
very ig-norant in cooking ; however, in a short time she manag-ed 
pretty well : she was always delighted when I taught her any 
new dish out of " Meg Dods." I did not know much of cooking" 
myself, but necessity makes one learn many things. We had 
many visitors, who seemed often to enjoy any little new dish 
we had : it was a chansre from that everlasting mutton and 
damper, and many a receipt I gave away ; and to my great 
delight I got Mary to do as / liked, not as she liked. Sandy, 
our shepherd, generally came home in the evening loaded 
with wild ducks ; they were exceedingly good. We also some- 
times got wild g'eese, turkeys, and swans — all good eating : they 
were a great saving to us, as well as very delightful food. In 
Melbourne, wild ducks sell at twenty shillings a-pair, and we 
sometimes had thirty in a week. We had no milk or butter, 
w^hich I missed at first, but we hoped some time soon to have a 
few cows : it is very difficult to drive cattle so far up, and we 
could get none near us. Our nearest neighbours were Messrs 
Donalds and Hamilton ; they were within four miles, and were 
pleasant neighbours : we often saw them. The Baillies were 
eight miles on our other side ; we also saw them often, and hked 
them much. 

When we had been in our hut about a week, a number of 
settlers happened to come from different parts of the country. 
Before it was dark, eight had assembled with the determination 

£ 9 


of remaining: all nig'lit of course. I felt mucli anxiety alDOiit 
giving- tliem beds ; but that was impossible, as we had. onlj^ one 
spare mattress. I think they g-uessed my thoughts, for they 
told me never to think on giving them anything to sleep on"; 
that no one in this country ever thought of beds for visitors, 
and that they would manage for themselves. However, I 
collected all the blankets, pea-jackets, and cloaks I could find, 
and they all slept on the floor : I heard them very merry while 
making up their beds. Every settler, when riding- thi'ough the 
bush, carries either a kangaroo rug or a blanket fastened before 
him on his horse, so that, wherever he goes, he is provided with 
his bed ; and as it is not an uncommon circumstance for one to 
lose himself in the bush, and be obliged to sleep at the root of 
a tree, he then finds his rug" or blanket very useful. William 
Hamilton lost himself in the bush one night. It became dark, 
and he gave up hopes of reaching* any station that night, as he 
had not the least idea where he was. He fastened his horse, 
and lay down at the root of a tree, far from being comfortable, 
as he had unfortunately no blanket, and, still worse, no tobacco, 
or the means of lighting a fire. It was a very cold night, and 
when daylight came, he got up covered with frost : he heard 
some dogs bark, and soon found out that he was not more than 
half a mile from Mr Baillie's hut, where he might have passed a 
much more comfortable night ; but he was glad he had not to 
look long for a breakfast and a fire : no one seems ever to catch 
cold from sleeping- out at night. 

We were rather unfortunate in frequently losing our bullocks, 
which kept back all the buildings. Our bullock-driver was very 
careless ; his only work seemed to be finding' his bullocks one 
day, and losing them the next : he was a melancholy-looking' 
little man, and went by the name of " Dismal Jamie." Mary 
told me she was sure he had been a great man at home, he read 
so beautifully, and knew so much ; but certainly he knew little 
about bullock-driving. At this time our dray was often a month 
away upon a journey to and from the settlement. " Dismal 
Jamie" broke the neck of a beautiful bullock when he was 
yoking it up, and next trip he drowned another in a water-hole ; 
but new settlers always meet with a few such accidents. Although 
bullocks often disappear, and wander far from home, I never 
heard of any one losing a bullock entirely : they are always 
found some time, though it may be months after they are missed, 
having in general gone back to the run they were first put 

Buying- and selling- are favourite amusements in the bush, 
more particularly if a new settler arrives. Every one wants to 
buy something of him ; and, in general, all bring so many 
more clothes, &c. than they require, that they are glad to 
dispose of them. I have seen some rather amusing scenes in 
this way. No one keeps any money in the bush ; so a bill is 



generally criven on some store in to"vvn for whatever is boug-lit. 
The old settlers would g-ive an enormous price for good fii'earms ; 
indeed I used to think they would buy anything-. 

It is a beautiful sig-ht to see a number of emus running* across 
a plain ; they run so quickly that a horse can scarcely overtake 
them. I saw seven one day run across our marsh ; but we could 
get none of them, as we had no horse at hand. Sometimes the 
natives run hke the emu, to deceive the white people ; and they 
imitate them so well, that it is difficult, at a distance, to know 
them from a flock of emus. Occasionally they take a fancy to 
stand in such an attitude that you cannot, at a little distance, 
tell them from the burnt stump of a tree. I used often, when 
walking" in the bush, to fancy a burnt stump was a native, and 
made myself believe I saw him move. Mr Neven came one 
evening- to our station ; he was in search of a new run, his old 
one at Boning Yong being too small for his increasmg stock : 
he had his dray along with him, carrying provisions, so we 
gladly exchanged with him mutton for beef: it was a mutual 
benefit, as we had always mutton, and he had always beef. His 
bullock-diiver uniformly took his little son with him, as he was as 
good as a native in finding- the bullocks for him in the morning. 
The little boy was about seven years old. Little Agnes was in 
the servants' hut when he arrived, and she came running- to tell 
me to " come and see the icee icee man in Mary's hut ; " she had 
been so long separated from children, that I suppose she thought 
there were none but herself in the world. The little boy was 
very ill pleased with Agnes, as she kept walking round him to 
examine him, asking him many questions, to which he made 
no reply; till at last she said, "Can no peak any?" when he 
answered — " Yes," and then sat down to take his supper, accom- 
. panied by his tormentor, who was most hospitable in pressing* 
the wee man to eat heartily. I got a present of a quart-potful 
of butter from INIr Neven, which was a great treat to us, as 
we had seen none since we came up the countiy : it made us 
long to have some cows. We had now enclosed a little garden, 
and Mr Thomson and James tasked themselves to dig up a little 
bit every day. The ground was very hard, being dug for the 
first time. We put in many seeds which we had brought from 
home, also some from Van Diemen's Land, as we were told the 
home seeds seldom grew. 

In the month of September I had to proceed to Melbourne, as 
I expected to be confined, and we were too far up to ask a 
medical man to come. I was much grieved at leaving my little 
girl; but jMary promised faithfully to take great care of her. 
The weather was very unsettled and rainy, and the roads very 
bad. I was in a dray, covered by a tarpauline, which made it 
very comfortable ; it was hke a covered wagon ; and when we 
could not get to a station at which to sleep, I slept in the dray. 
My husband was with me, and read to me ^evj often ; but we 



had often to come out of the dray, to allow it to be pulled out 
of a hole. I have seen the bullocks pull it through a marsh 
when they wei-e sinking- to the knees every moment: we were 
often in dread of the pole breaking. We received much kindness 
at every station we were at. We remained at Mr Reid's hut 
two days, as both I and the bullocks required rest. We always 
met with much kindness from Mr Reid : he is a most hospitable 
person ; and as he is much liked, his hut is generally well filled, 
although oif the main track. At this time his hut was full of 
company ; but one room was prepared for us, and about twelve 
gentlemen slept in the other. 

I here met our friend Mr William Hamilton. As he came 
from the settlement, he brought all the news ; but he gave us 
a sad account of the state of the rivers. He said he was sure 
we could not cross them — it was difficult for him to cross them 
three days before, and it had rained ever since. Mr Reid sent 
off a man on horseback to see the river: he did not bring back 
a favourable account ; but I was determined to try it. Mr Reid 
and several gentlemen went with us to help us over our diffi- 
culty. We crossed one river without much difficulty, though 
the water was so deep that both bullocks and horses had to 
swim ; but when we came to the next river, the " Marable," it 
was so deep that we were at a loss how to get over. It was 
thought decidedly dangerous for me to remain in the dray while 
it was crossing. Many plans were talked of: at last it was fixed 
to fell a tree and lay it across, that I might walk over. But in 
looking about for one of a proper size and position, one was 
found lying across, which, from appearance, seemed to have 
been there for years : it was covered with green moss, and stood 
about twenty feet above the water : notches were cut in it for 
me to climb up and give me a firm footing, and I walked over, 
holding Mr Reid's hand. On landing, I received three cheers. 
Many thanks to Mr Reid and others for their kindness to me 
on that journey. My husband was too nervous to help me across 
— ^he thought his foot mig'ht slip. The gentlemen then went 
to see the dray across, while little Robert Scott and I lighted a 
fire at the root of a large tree, which we had in a cheerful blaze 
before the gentlemen came. We then had tea in the usual bush 
fashion, in a large kettle : it did not rain, and we had a very 
merry tea-party. I retired to the dray soon after tea. The 
gentlemen continued chatting round the fire for some time, 
and then laid themselves doM^n to sleep, with their saddles at 
their heads, and their feet to the fire. 

We breakfasted at daybreak, and started again after taking 
leave of the gentlemen, except Mr Anderson, who was going to 
Melbourne : he rode on before to the settlement, to tell Mrs 
Scott (who expected us at her house) that we were coming. Mrs 
Scott was a particular friend of my husband at home : she came 
out to meet us, and I really felt delighted to see her. I had not 



seen a lady for eight months. Mrs Scott was exceedingly kind 
to me, and would not allow me to go to lodgings, as I had 
intended. Next day being Sunday, I went to church — at least 
to the room where the congregation met, as no church was yet 
built in Melbourne. The ladies in Melbourne seemed to consider 
me a kind of curiosity, from living so far up the country, and all 
seemed to have a great dread of leading such a life, and were 
surprised when I said I liked it. I spent Monday evening at 
Mrs Denny's, a Glasgow lady ; but I really felt at a loss upon 
what subjects to converse with ladies, as I had been so long 
accustomed only to gentlemen's society; and in the bush, had 
heard little spoken of but sheep or cattle, horses, or of building 

My little boy was born four days after I came to Melbourne ; 
but my husband did not get down from the station for two 
months, as it was sheep-shearing time — a very busy time for 
the settlers. He came down with the wool in our own and Mr 
Scott's dray. Mr Clow christened our baby out of a basin which 
at one time belonged to the Barony church in Glasgow: it 
belonged to Mr Scott, whose grandfather had been minister of 
that church, and he had g'ot the old basin when the church was 
repaired and a new one substituted. I met with much kindness 
and attention from the people in Melbourne, particularly Mrs 
Clow. Our dray was again covered with saplings and tarpauline, 
and Mrs Scott and her family went along with us as far as their 
own station. I could not persuade Mrs Scott to go on to our 
station to remain with us till her own hut was put up : she lived 
for many months in a tent. We were again much detained on 
the roads on account of rain, which had rendered them extremely 
soft; but we got well over the rivers. We had to remain for two 
days and nights in the bush, for it rained so heavy that the 
bullocks could not travel : but by this time our party was in- 
creased by two drays belonging to another settler, and we had 
often to join all the bullocks to pull each dray through the 
marshes and up the hilly ground. We had, at one time, ten 
pairs of bullocks in the heavy dray with luggage and jDrovisions, 
and we were in constant dread of the poles breaking. At last 
one of Mr Elm's drays broke down, and had to be left in the 
bush, with a man to watch it, till a new pole could be got. I 
believe the man did not watch it long ; he ran oif to Melbourne, 
and left it to its fate. Mrs Scott, her little daughter and servant, 
and myself and baby, always slept in the dray, and Mr Scott and 
my husband under it. One morning I got into a little hut with 
the roof half oif; it was empty, and I thought I could wash and 
dress my baby more comfortably than in the dray. I had not 
been long in the hut when we were surrounded by natives, all 
anxious to see what we were about. One or two of the women 
came into the hut, and touched the pickanimiy cooley^ as they 
called it : they seemed much amused at his ditierent pieces of 



dress, and all the little black pickaninnies tried to cry like Mm. 
I seldom ever heard a black baby cry, and when it does so, the 
mother has little patience with it, but gives it a g-ood blow with 
her elbow to make it quiet. The women carry their children at 
their backs in a basket or bag- ; and when they suckle them, they 
generally put their breast under their arm ; and I have seen them 
put it over their shoulder. The natives whom we met here knew 
me. They said they had seen me before, when I went up the 
country with a "pickaninny leubra; though I did not recollect any 
of their faces. When a black woman has a second child before the 
first can run about and take care of itself, it is said they eat the 
second one. I have been told this several times ; but am not 
certain if it is really the case, it is so very unnatural ; but it is 
well known they are cannibals, and I know they will not submit 
to anything that troubles them. They are very lazy, particularly 
the men. They make their leubras go about all day to dig for 
maranong, or 'find other kinds of food for them, while they 
amuse themselves by hanging about idle. In the evening they 
meet at their mi-mi ; the men eat first, and whatever they choose 
to leave, the leubras and pickaninnies may eat afterward. Some- 
times a very affectionate cooley may now and then, while he is 
eating, throw a bit to his leubra, as we should do to a dog, for 
which kindness she is very grateful. Maranong is a root found 
in the ground : it is white, and shaped like a carrot, but the 
taste is more like a turnip. The leubras dig for it with long 
pointed sticks, which they always carry in their hands. I have 
often eaten maranong ; it is very good ; and I have put it in soup 
for want of better vegetables, before we had a garden. Vege- 
tables of all kinds now grow here most luxuriantly. We could 
have peas all the year round, except in June. 

When we were within six miles of Mr Scott's station, our pole 
broke : we got a dray from Mr Neven's station, a few miles off, 
and went in it to Mr Scott's station, where my husband and I 
remained two days : we then took our leave, and went on to Mr 
Baillie's station. Five miles from his hut, our dray broke down 
again in crossing a creek. I had no alternative but to walk to 
Mr Baillie's, which I did not much like, as I was far from being 
strong: we left the dray in charge of our bullock-driver. My 
husband took out the bullocks, and drove them on to bring back 
Mr Baillie's dray to carry our goods and drag the dray. I carried 
the baby, and the way did not seem so long as I expected. We 
could see Mr Baillie's huts for nearly a mile before we came to 
them ; so I begged my husband to go on quickly, to send the 
bullocks for our dray before it got quite dark. I felt myself quite 
safe when in sight of the huts ; but before I got to them I had a 
sad fright : four or five great kangaroo dogs attacked me, almost 
pulled my baby out of my arms, and tore my dress to pieces : my 
cries were heard at the hut, and my husband and two or three 
others soon came to my assistance. I was told the dogs were 



only in fun, and would not bite ; that they seldom saw a woman, 
which made them tear my clothes. I thought it was rather 
rough fun ; but I received no harm from them except a torn 
dress. My long walk had given me an appetite, and I enjoyed 
my supper very much, and was amused by some of Mr G. Yuille's 
eccentricities. We got home to our own station next day, after 
being eleven days on the road. My baby and myself were both 
very delicate when we left the settlement, and 1 dreaded much 
either of us being ill on the road ; but we never had a complaint 
from the day we entered the dray, although the weather was very 
bad, and our dray sometimes wet through. Such a journey in 
Scotland would, I am sure, almost kill a strong person ; but in 
Port Philip, so far from kiUing one, a little delicate baby of two 
months old could stand it, and gained more strength during that 
rough journey than he did during* a month before with every 
comfort. I often thought of the words of Sterne — " God tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb." I found little Agnes at the hut in 
high health. Mary, in her over-zeal, had fed her, and made her 
so fat that I scarcely knew her. I suppose she thought the fatter 
Agnes was the more I should be pleased. 


During my absence at Melbourne, everything had gone on 
well at the station; but I soon found that Mary had been 
managing as she chose too long to like being again under my 
control. I found her almost totally changed. Is^o one dared to 
find fault with her ; and so far from being of any assistance to 
me, she became a great tonuent. The first act of rebellion was 
her refusal to wash my baby's clothes, on the plea that she was 
not engaged to do it ; so I had to do it myself : the next was, she 
would not wash any one's clothes unless I cooked for two days. 
I wondered what her next demand would be ; but what could I 
do ? — it would have been very difficult to get another woman- 
servant. I had so far to humour her, that I cooked one day in 
the week when she had to wash. She never helped me at all 
with the children ; although, as we had lately got a herd of cattle, 
I had taken the management of the dairy upon myself — except, 
of course, milking the cows, which is done by men ; but my time 
was fully employed, and I often envied Mary sitting* quietly in 
her own hut and sewing her own work. I knew well why she 
behaved in this manner ; she wanted me to retain her as a nur- 
sery-maid only, and get a man as hut-keeper ; but wages were 
too high for us to do that at this time. Yie could not get a man 
under £40 a-year and his rations besides ; and provisions were 
now exorbitant in price. Flour could not be purchased under 
£80 per ton (formerly we got it for £25), and every other thing- 



was in proportion. This advance of prices pressed very hard 
upon the settlers, so that we determined to have no unnecessary 
expense at the station ; and I really liked manag-ing- the dairy^ 
although it was sometimes too much for me. If my baby would 
not sleep when I wanted him, I sometimes laid him on the grass 
and let him roll about while I was in the dairy ; and when he 
tired of that, I put him in a basket and hung" him at my side, as 
I had seen the native women do. 

We were now milking twenty cows, and we sent a great deal 
both of butter and cheese to market : for the butter we got 2s. 2d- 
per pound, and for the cheese Is. 8d. Our cheese was the best that 
had gone to market, but there was no great demand for it ; but if 
so, a cheese dairy would pay well, even at a shilling per pound ; 
and I should suppose that, as the population increases, there will 
be a greater demand. We had a ready sale for butter, and con- 
tracted with a person to give him butter all the year at 2s. 2d. per 
pound. With much persuasion I g'ot my brother to bring home* 
some pigs. He seemed to have a great dislike to them ; but I could 
not bear to pour out so much skim milk on the ground every day.. 
Our pigs got on well, and fattened on the milk and whey, and 
made an agreeable change in our diet. In very hot weather I 
made cheese when I could get rennet, as the milk did not keep 
well : our dairy was too small, and not cool enough. In thundery 
weather 1 had occasionally to give all to the pigs. I have seen, 
when a sheep was killed in thundery weather, the whole carcase 
get quite black in a few hours, and become useless : we found it 
very difficult to keep meat in any way in summer. We had it 
killed always after sunset, and then cut up and salted early next 
morning, and j)ut into a cask under ground. I had made a good 
supply of mutton hams, which were found useful in hot weather ;: 
and our dairy was a great comfort and saving to us, as we could 
use the milk, prepared in many ways, instead of meat. The 
shepherds were also fond of it. We gave them no butter except 
on the churning day, on which occasion I sent them some for 
tea, which was a great treat. 

Bad servants were now our chief annoyance ; and it seemed 
of no use being at the expense of bringing good ones from home, 
for they soon get corrupted : but I must make an exception in^ 
favour of Mrs Clerk, the servant of Messrs Donald and Hamilton, 
who was the best servant I ever saw : she was always neat her- 
self, and kept everything neat and comfortable about the hut,, 
and never grudged hard work : she was invaluable to her masters- 
We all went over one day to dine at Messrs Donald and Hamil- 
ton's ; it was the only visit I ever paid in the bush, although I 
had many invitations. I of course took the children with me : 
we enjoyed ourselves very much, and remained all next day. Mrs 
Clerk joined her persuasions for us to do so, and told us we had 
not seen half the good things she could make : she spared no 
pains to make us comfortable, and went thi'oug*h her work both 



quickly and well, besides nursing my little boy. After this visit, 
I had many invitations to visit the neig-hbours round ; which I 
should have liked very well, but I had too much to detain me 
at home. 

At this time we had a very troublesome old shepherd, who was- 
continually letting" his sheep g-o astray. One morning", when my 
brother was counting* them over, ninety-two were missing". The 
shepherd could g"ive no account of them, but that the day before 
the flock had divided, and he fancied he had collected them all 
ag"ain. My brother James took a hurried breakfast, and went 
with two of our men on horseback to endeavour to track them i 
they returned in the evening" without having seen anything of 
them : but James determined to go off again early next morning^ 
and, if necessary, remain out several days. One of the men 
returned in two days, and brought us intelligence that they had 
found the sheep-track beyond Mr Campbell's station, which was 
fifteen miles distant. The man returned to try and get a fresh 
horse from some of the neighbours, but we could not get one for 
two days. He brought home an emu across his horse, which he 
had run down. He told us that my brother was out with several 
gentlemen, and they had a native boy with them who was famous 
for tracking, but who seemed sadly afraid of going among a 
hostile tribe of natives, and therefore was of little use. Our owti 
man Sandy, whom we had brought from home, was a good 
tracker, and could see a mark when no one else could : he had 
tracked the sheep for nearly a mile on his hands and knees, the 
marks being too faint to be seen when walking or riding. Mr 
Alexander and Mr Colin Campbell were exceedingly kind in 
their assistance to my brother, and were out with him for several 
days. At last, after fourteen days' riding, the sheep were found 
a hundred and forty miles from our station. My brother and 
his friends had almost given up thoughts of looking any longer 
for them : but they rode on about a mile farther, when they saw 
them in a hollow, surrounded by about a hundred natives. The 
men had all hid themselves, having seen the party coming, and 
left the women and children, who ran about chattering* and 
hiding behind the rocks. The party rode down among them, and 
a singular scene met their view. The ground was strewed with 
heads of sheep and bits of mutton, and some of the sheep were as 
well cut up as if done by an English butcher ; the skins were 
pegged out on the ground, and the fat collected in little twine 
bags, which the women make of the bark of a tree. Fifty live 
sheep were enclosed within a brush fence (James said it was the 
best brush fence he had seen in the country), but they were very 
thin, the natives being too lazy to take them out to I'eed. They 
were killing and eating them up as fast as they could. The 
gentlemen lighted a good fire by which to watch the sheep all 
night ; but they durst not sit within the glare of it, for fear of 
the natives taking aim at them, as they knew they were among 


the rocks, and very likely watching" them, although they did not 
show themselves. The party slept little that nig-ht ; they cooked 
and ate some of the mutton ; and the little native boy they had 
to track for them, although in 2:reat fear of the other natives, 
devoured nearly a whole leg*. They started early next morning", 
driving" the sheep before them, and loaded with spears, toma- 
hawks, waddies, and baskets which they had taken from the 
natives. The native boy mounted a horse, saying" he would not 
walk a step ; but as he mounted, he slipped off again, and the 
horse started on ; the little fellow caught hold of the tail, and 
allowed himself to be dragged on till he got a good firm hold, 
and then sprung on the horse's back. James said he never saw 
a cleverer piece of agility in a circus. On their way home they 
killed an emu; but they could not carry it with them, being 
already well loaded. When James and our shepherd Sandy came 
near our hut, they fired off their pistols to let us know they had 
found the sheep ; but we did not understand the signal, and I 
was very much frightened. We at home had been living in 
great anxiety while my brother was away. I was at the station 
with only Mary and the children through the day, and our com- 
fort was not much increased at night by knowing that the two 
old shepherds were at home. We had seen, two days before, seven 
wild natives run past our hut at a little distance, all naked, which 
gave us a great fright ; I thought Mary was going into a fit. I 
got my pistol, which I had hanging in my room, loaded ; Mary 
then went for hers, and we walked up and down before the hut 
for about an hour. My husband was at the settlement during 
all the anxious time we had had at the station, and he heard 
nothing of our loss of sheep until his return home. 

Besides the occasional frights of this kind from natives, with 
whom it was no easy matter to be on good terms, we were at 
times troubled with wild dogs, which proved a very serious annoy- 
ance. These animals generally discovered themselves when they 
came by setting up a most piteous howl, which was the signal 
for sallying out in pursuit of them ; for, if let alone, they would 
make no small havoc with the live stock. They seldom escaped. 
One of our sheep dog'S had a most inveterate hatred to them, and 
he always tracked "them, and often killed one of them without 
assistance, although they are very tenacious of life. They are 
more like a fox than a dog ; are of a reddish-brown, and have a 
very thick bushy tail. When one is killed, the tail is cut off as 
a trophy, and hung up in the hut ; the shepherds generally get 
five shillings from their master for every wild dog they kill. 
My husband saw a wild dog which was supposed to be dead • its 
tail was cut off, and in a few minutes it got up and began to fight 
again with the dogs ; but it was soon overcome. 

Australia, as is well known, possesses many beautiful birds, and 
of these we seldom wanted visitors, particularly parrots and 
cockatoos ; but I never heard any sweet-singing bird, such as the 



larks and blackbirds of Scotland, and this I thoug-ht a great draw- 
back on their elegance of plumag-e. Some of the birds uttered 
very strang-e sounds, as if speaking-. I heard one every morning- 
say — " Eig-ht o'clock," and " Get up, get up : " anotlier used to 
call out — " All fat, all fat :" and another was continually saying- 
— " Potato, potato," which always put us in mind of our loss in. 
having none, nor any other vegetables at all. Parrots are very 
g'ood eating ; many a parrot-pie we had. The white parrots are, 
I think, the best ; next, the white cockatoo. 

I now come to the year 1840. Provisions at this time became 
very high in price. Flour, as I have mentioned, was £80 a ton, 
and it was scarcely to be had in a good condition; tea, £16 a 
chest ; sugar, 6d. a pound ; meat, butter, and cheese, were, unfor- 
tunately for the farmers, the only things which fell in price. We 
could now get only Is. lOd. for butter, and Is. for cheese. 

Our station had now a great look of comfort about it. "We had 
plastered the outside of our hut with mud, which made it quite 
close : we had windows and good doors, and a little flower- 
garden enclosed in front : we had built a good hut for our ser- 
vants, a new store, a large dairy under ground, a new wool-shed, 
and had two large paddocks for wheat, potatoes, &c. and we had 
now plenty of vegetables. We had also put up a larger stack- 
yard, as our cattle were increasing, and a large covered shed for 
the calves at night ; also to milk in. About five miles from the 
home station, we had formed an out-station for the sheep, which 
secured to us a large tract of land, as no new settler can come 
within three miles of a station. Every one thought highly of our 
station ; and we were well off for water, having several larg-e 
7vater lioles (as they are always called here, but at home we should 
call them lakes or large ponds) ; and when the rains come on, 
these ponds are joined together in a river, which comes down 
very rapidly. We often had a river running past our huts, where 
a few minutes before I had walked over on dry land. An im- 
mense number of ducks and geese came down with the water : I 
have seen our man Sandy kill seven or eight at a shot just oppo- 
site the huts. We had had a good many visits from the natives 
lately. They were much encouraged at Mr Bailhe's station, and 
we began not to turn them away so quickly as we used to do ; 
but we never allowed them to sleep at the station, except one big 
boy, "Tom," whom we had determined to keep if he would 
remain, thinking he might be useful in finding stray cattle or 
sheep. Tom was very lazy ; but he was always obliged to chop 
wood or do some work, else he got nothing to eat ; which we 
found to be the only way to make the natives active. 

In some of the fresh-water ponds there are found immense 
quantities of mussels, which the native women dive for. We 
often saw numbers of shells lying in heaps where the blacks had 
been eating them. They are also fond of a large grub found 
generally in the cherry and honeysuckle tree : they can tell, by 



knocking the tree with a stick, if any grubs are in it. When 
they knock the tree, they put their ear close to Hsten, and they 
open it with a tomahawk at the very spot the grubs are to be 
found. It is a large white grub, with a black head. I know a 
gentleman who was tempted to taste them from seeing the 
natives enjoy them so much, and he said they were very good, 
and often ate them afterwards. Manna falls very abundantly 
from the gum-trees at certain seasons of the year. I think it 
was in March I gathered some. It is very good, and tastes like 
almond biscuits. It is only to be procured early in the morning, 
as it disappears soon after sunrise. We sometimes got some 
skins of the opossum and flying-squirrel, or tuan, from the 
natives. It was a good excuse for them to come to the station. 
I paid them with a piece of dress, and they were very fond of 
getting a red pocket handkerchief to tie round their necks. 


We were visited one day by a very large party of natives ; I 
am sure there were a hundred of them. I happened to be alone 
in the hut. Some of the men came into it, and examined all they 
saw very attentively, especially the pictures we had hanging on 
the walls. They were much taken with a likeness of my mother, 
and laughed heartily at some black profiles ; they said they were 
" black leubras." I told them to leave the hut, but they would 
not ; and one, a very tall fellow, took the liberty of sitting down 
beside me on the sofa. I did not much like being alone with 
these gentry, so I rose to go to the door to call some one, but my 
tall friend took hold of my arm and made me sit down again ; on 
which I cried out sufficiently loud to alarm my husband, who 
was building a hut behind. He came in and turned them all out ; 
but they still kept hanging about the station for some time. My 
husband took his gun and shot some Avhite parrots, which were 
flying in an immense flock overhead. Some of the natives ran 
and picked them up, and thrust them into some hot ashes, where 
they had lighted a fire, without even taking the feathers off. 
They were soon cooked in this way, and I believe ate very well. 
I had often seen black Tom cook parrots and cockatoos in this 
manner. The natives will eat anything that comes in their way. 
I saw a woman take a piece of sheep-skin, singe the wool ofl*, and 
then begin to eat it, giving her baby a piece of it also. Much to 
my surprise, they actually ate a large piece of the skin. All these 
natives left us before sun-down, and went to Mr Baillie's, where 
they were always allowed to remain as long as they chose. He 
was too kind to them, and gave them great encouragement in 
his own hilt. We always expected to hear of some mischief 
there. At last one of them threw a spear at the groom, which 
stuck in his arm ; it gave him great pain, and he went to the 
settlement to consult a doctor. In many instances the undue 


severities of the settlers lead to reprisals from the natives, who 
are apt to inflict ven»"eance in a very indiscriminate manner. 

At this time I had a pleasant visit from Mrs Gibson and her 
brother ; they were on their way to a new station about fifteen 
miles beyond us. I was delighted to have the privilege of talking" 
to a lady again : it was more than a year since I had seen one ; 
and my little girl had not words to express her delight and asto- 
nishment. The sight of a " white leubra," as she called her, 
seemed for a time to take away her speech ; but she soon began 
to question her very closely as to where she came from, and 
whether there were any more like her in her country. I am 
sure Agnes dreamed of her all night, for she often spoke of the 
beautiful lady in her sleep ; and the moment she was dressed in 
the morning, she went to look again at her. Mrs Gibson was 
much amused at Agnes's admiration. I did all I could to per- 
suade her to remain some time with us, and allow her brother to 
go on, and have some place comfortable for her to go to ; but she 
would not. Some time after this Mrs Gibson's courage was well 
tried. She had occasion to go a journey on horseback, and not 
knowing the road, she took a native with her as guide. When 
they were at some distance from home, the man wanted her to 
dismount, and indeed tried to pull her off her horse. He did 
not know she had a pistol with her ; but she pulled out one and 
presented it at him, telling him that unless he walked on before 
the horse, and showed her the proper way to go, she would shoot 
him. Had she appeared at all afraid, most likely he would have 
killed her ; but her courage saved her, and she arrived safely at 
her journey's end. 

When all the gentlemen were from home, one of the shepherds 
came to my hut door to tell me that, in counting over his sheep, 
as they came out of the yard, he missed twenty-five. He was a 
stupid old man, so I asked the stock-keeper to get his horse and 
ride over the run ; but he proposed driving the sheep over the 
same ground they had gone the previous day, in hope that the 
lost ones might join the flock. This was done ; and when the 
sheep were again put into the yard, they were found all right. 
We had many alarms about losing sheep ; but, except the time 
they were taken by the natives, we always found them. One 
night it had become dark, and there was no appearance of the 
sheep coming home. At last the shepherd arrived in a great 
fright, and said he had lost all the sheep — he could tell nothing 
about them. Every one, except Agnes and I, went out imme- 
diately to look for them in different directions. It came on a 
dreadful night of rain, thunder, and lightning, and was very 
dark : the men returned one by one, and no sheep were to be 
seen. I was sitting in no very comfortable state in the hut, and 
taking a look at the door every five minutes, although it was so 
dark that I could not see a yard before me. Little Agnes was in 
bed, as I thought fast asleep ; but she called to me, and said, if I 



would allow lier to stand at the window, slie would tell me wlien 
they were coming-. I put her on a seat at the window, where 
she had not stood long-, listening very attentively, till she told 
me they would soon be here, for she heard them far away. I 
thought she was talking nonsense, as I could hear nothing, 
neither could any of the men ; but Agnes still said she heard 
them coming ; and she was right, for in a few minutes my hus- 
band sent to tell me they were all safe in the yards. He and one 
of the men had found them in a hollow about a mile from home ; 
but our next alarm was for James, who was still absent. My 
husband fired oiF several pistols, that he might know all were 
found if he was still looking- for them ; and we put a light in the 
window to guide him. He came in about twelve o'clock ; but 
would scarcely own he had lost himself, although we knew very 
w^ell he had ; however, we all enjoyed our supper and a good 
blazing log-fire, and were very thankful we had the sheep safe. 

We often killed kangaroos ; they are very palatable, parti- 
cularly the tail, which makes excellent soup, much like what is 
called hare-soup. My friend Willy Hamilton declared he never 
ate better soup at any dinner-party at home. I sometimes made 
cakes, which were much admired by the visitors at our hut ; and 
it was a fix;ed rule always to have a large pudding on Sunday, 
as we were sure to have some of our neighbours with us to 
dinner. We had an old man who made so good a pudding, that 
we had it every Sunday for six months ; and many came to eat 
of this mess, the fame of which had spread far and wide. We 
often gave the receipt for it ; but no one made it so well as old 

My husband or my brother read a sermon on Sunday ; indeed 
we kept up the form of a religious service as near as we could. 
Generally all our servants joined us ; but if they did not feel 
inclined of themselves to come, it was in vain to try to persuade 
them. I have sometimes seen our neighbours' servants come 
in also. We had many letters from home, which were a great 
pleasure to us. We had also received a larg*e box, containing a 
spinning-wheel, and many very useful things, from my mother. 
She would certainly have been pleased had she seen us unpack- 
ing it, and examining everything in it ; it made me think of 
days gone by, when we were children, at the opening of a New- 
Year's box. I am sure we were quite as happy. We received 
soon after this a box of preserves, and some other articles, from 
the same kind hand, and they were highly valued, as we could 
get nothing of that kind at Port Philip. Little or no fruit was 
yet to be met with in the colony ; but in our garden we had 
some young gooseberry, currant, and raspberry bushes, from 
which we hoped soon to have some produce. We had also a row 
or two of strawberry plants. 

On New- Year's day 1841, some of our neighbours came to 
dine with us. I was very anxious to have either a wild goose 




or turkey, but none of the shepherds could see one to shoot for 
me, so i had determined to have a parrot-pie instead : but on 
New-Year's morning", while we were at breakfast, two turkeys- 
were seen flying- over our hut, one of which was immediately 
brought down. I must describe oui' New- Year's dinner, to show 
what good things we had in the bush. We had kangaroo-soup^ 
roasted turkey well stuffed, a boiled leg of mutton, a parrot-pie, 
potatoes, and gi'een peas ; next, a plum-pudduig and strawberry- 
tart, with plenty of cream. We dined at two o'clock, a late 
dinner for us, as twelve is the general hour ; and at supper or 
tea we had currant-bun, and a large bowl of curds and cream. 
We spent a very happy day, although it was exceedingly hot : 
the thermometer was nearly 100 in the shade. Our friends rode 
home to their own stations that evening: it is very pleasant 
riding at night after a hot day. 

All the stations near us commenced their poultry-yards from 
our stock. We got 12s. and 15s. a-pair for hens, which was 
the Melbourne price. Had we been nearer town, we might have 
made a great deal by our poultry. Eggs are also very dear in 
town, sometimes 8s. and 10s. a-dozen. I was much annoyed by 
the hawks carrying off the yoimg chickens. Vv^e lost a gi'eat 
many in this way, as we had not a proper house to put them 
into ; but the gentlemen always promised to build one when 
they had nothing of more importance to do. They rather 
slighted the poultry, although they were very glad to get the 
eggs to breakfast, as well as a nice fat fowl to dinner. We never- 
fed the poultry ; they picked up for themselves, except when I 
now and then threw them a little corn to keep them about the 
huts. They roosted on a large tree behind our hut. I was 
astonished to see how soon the hen begins to teach her chickens 
to roost. I have seen one take her chickens up to roost in the 
tree when they were little bigger than sparrows, and scarcely 
a feather in their wings. I used often to admire_ the hen's 
patience in teaching her family to mount the tree : it took her 
a long time every evening to get them all up, for many a tumble 
they had, and many times she flew up and down for their 
instruction ; but she seemed very happy and satisfied when she 
got them all under her on the branch. 

A melancholy accident happened at a station near us. A 
young gentleman who had lately arrived in the colony went 
to pay a visit there. He jumped into a water-hole to bathe ; 
the hole was small but deep. He was well warned of this ; but 
nothmg would dissuade him from going in, and he was drowned 
before any assistance could be rendered. His body was not 
found for several days, although the hole was dragged with 
chains ; but some natives were set to dive for it, and one of them 
brought the body up immediately, which was buried next day 
in a wood near the hut. The funeral was attended by several 
settlers in the neighbourhood, and the service for the dead was 




read by the gentleman whose guest the deceased had been. A 
funeral in the bush is a very rare and a very impressive occur- 
rence. I only know of one other spot where a white man is 
buried ; it is the grave of a shepherd who was speared by the 
natives some time ago, and the valley where he now lies is called 
the Murderer's Valley. I never passed through it without 
feeling a kind of horror. The grave is fenced in by a rough paling. 

In the bush no one is ever allowed to go from a hut without 
eating, or remaining all night, although an entire stranger. We 
were once sadly deceived by a man who walked into our hut, and 
introduced himself as a new settler who had come to our neigh- 
bourhood. None of us were acquainted with him ; but we very 
soon saw he had not the manners of a gentleman, althoug'h he 
was perfectly at ease, spoke much of his large herds of cattle, 
and the difficulty he had in bringing his sheep up the country 
60 as to avoid the different stations, as there is a heavy fine for 
any one driving scabby sheep through a settler's run, except 
■during one month in the year. This pretended gentleman also 
talked as if on intimate terms with one of the settlers we knew, 
and told us much news, some of which astonished us not a little. 
He dined with us, and begged to know how the pudding was 
made. I offered to write him the receipt, which I did, although 
I am sure he could not read it. In a few days we heard he 
was a hut-keeper, and an old prisoner, who had been sent by 
his master to tell us he had some young bullocks to sell, as he 
knew we wanted to purchase some ; but this message was deli- 
vered to us as a piece of news. I was rather annoyed at being 
•deceived in this way ; but in the bush it is no easy task to tell 
who are gentlemen and who are not from their dress, or even 
manners, as a few of them pride themselves in being as rough 
as possible. 

We began to think that there were too many masters at one 
station ; and my husband's relations at home had expressed their 
surprise that he did not leave the young men to manage the 
station, and find something to do near a town. The situation 
of his family induced my husband to think seriously of this 
proposal ; but the only happiness I had in the idea of leaving 
the station was, that I should be able to pay more attention to 
Agnes, who was now four years old, and almost running wild. 
In short, for one reason and another, it was resolved that we 
should seek a new home ; and for that purpose my husband pro- 
ceeded to Melbourne to make the necessary inquiries. After an 
absence of three weeks he returned, having- taken a farm in the 
neighbourhood of Melbourne, to which we were immediately to 
proceed. This proved a fatal step, and the beginning of many 
misfortunes; but I shall not anticipate. My husband brought 
with him our old friend Mrs Scott, who had come to see us 
before we left the station, and she remained till the day of our 
departure, accompanying us on the journey. 



Accommodatecl in a spring-cavt, which was provided with s 
few necessaries for our use, we departed from the station on the 
fost morning* of sheep-shearing, and certainly not without a 
degree of regret ; for, all things considered, we had enjoyed at 
it a happy bush-life, to which I now look back with pleasure. 
It was early morning w^hen we set out, and the first place at 
which we stopped was the station of Messrs Donald and Hamil- 
ton, where we breakfasted, and found a hearty welcome. From 
this we proceeded to the station of my brother Robert. Fortu- 
nately we found him at home, but quite alone ; not even the 
hut-keeper was wdth him, as he had taken the place of a shepherd 
who had run away. The two little huts were perched on the 
top of a steep bank or craggy rock, at the bottom of which was 
a deep water-hole. It had the strangest appearance possible j 
at a little distance it looked not unlike a crow's nest, and must 
have been a very dismal place to be left alone in for such a 
length of time as my brother occasionally was, I was very 
sorry for him, and did not wonder at his complaining of being 
dull sometimes. I told him we had come to lunch with him, 
but he said he hoped we had brought the lunch with us, as he 
had nothing to give us but damper. The rations were done, 
and more had not come from the home station. We were well 
provided in the spring-cart ; so Robert and I laid out a lunch, 
and he took a damper he had made out of the ashes. We could 
not remain with him very long, as the day was pretty far 
advanced, and we wished to get to Mr Anderson's station, where 
my husband had promised to remain a short time, as Mr 
Anderson was ill at Geelong. 

Before we had got above four miles from my brother's, the 
wheel of our cart, in going through a creek, got into a hole, 
and the vehicle was upset. We were all thrown into the water, 
but were not hurt, and our greatest difficulty was getting the 
cart up again. We had to take out the horses, and get into the 
water and lift it up, as it lay quite on its side. It took all the 
party's united strength to lift it. We were quite wet already, 
so we did not mind standing in the water to do this duty ; it 
was rather refreshing, the day had been so hot. I undressed 
my infant, and rolled him in my cloak ; but all the rest of u» 
had to sit in wet clothes : we were so much pleased, however, at 
getting up the cart, that we did not think much of it, and were 
congratulating ourselves on our good fortune, when, in going 
up a very stony hill, down it went again. I felt much stunned, 
as I was thrown with my head on a stone ; but I was not insen- 
sible. The thought of my infant was uppermost ; he was thrown 
several yards out of my arms ; but the cloak saved him. He 
w^as creeping off on hands and knees out of it, quite in good 
humour, as if nothing' had happened. Agnes was also unhurt, 
except a bruised cheek ; but she was much concerned about a 
kitten she had got from her imcle Robert, which was squeezed 



•under a carpet-bag-. The most unfortunate of our party was 
poor Mrs Scott, who was thrown violently on the ground, and 
fay seriously stunned. On inquiring into her condition, she 
said that her leg was broken, and in great pain. This was 
terrible news in such a place as we were ; but on examination, 
the case was not so bad: the knee was out of joint, and her 
ankle already much swollen from a very bad sprain. By her 
own directions I pulled her leg till the knee-joint went into its 
place. She had been thrown with her head down the hill, and 
she suffered so much pain, that she could not allow us to move 
her ; but we propped her up with stones and a carpet-bag, and 
what more to do we could not tell. 

We were far from help : it was already nearly dark, very cold, 
and we had nothing to light a iire ; in a word, we were in a 
miserable state. My husband at length remembered an out- 
station of Mr Learmonth's, not above half a mile from us. He 
immediately went there for help, and two mounted police hap- 
pened fortunately to be at hand. One of them rode back for my 
brother Robert to come to us, and the other assisted my husband 
to carry Mrs Scott on a hurdle to the shepherd's hut, while I 
went on before with the children, to try to get a bed ready for 
her. The walk put my baby fast asleep, so 1 laid him down in 
a corner of the hut wrapped in my cloak, while Agnes went to 
the fire to dry her clothes, not looking very contented. The 
shepherds were very kind, and g'ave up their hut to us at once ; 
and the old hut-keeper begged me to let the poor sick lady have 
the best bed. I looked at the beds, but it was really difficult to 
say which was best, as one was an old sheep-skin, and the other 
a very dirty blanket, spread on some boards. I chose the sheep- 
skin for Mrs Scott, and my husband carried her into the hut and 
laid her on it. By this time my brother Robert had arrived with 
a bottle of Scotch whisky, which my husband had left with him. 
Mrs Scott took a little of it, which appeared to revive her, for she 
seemed in great agony from being moved. Her knee was con- 
tinually going out of joint when she moved, so I split up the lid 
of an old tea-box I saw in the corner of the hut, and bound the 
pieces round her knee with a bandage made of a part of my dress ; 
and I succeeded better than I expected, as it did not again come 
out of its place. I never saw any one bear pain with more com- 
posure and cheerfulness than my poor friend. My brother rode 
on to tell Mr Scott, and to get a doctor from Geelong. I bathed 
Mrs Scott's ankle often during the night with some hot water in 
which meat had been boiled ; it was the only thing I could get. 
It relieved her for a little ; but we passed a sad night, as we had 
no dry clothes. My husband Avas also much bruised, and the 
horse had trod on his foot, which was very painful ; but he said 
nothing about it till next day, when he could scarcely put it 
to the ground. 

The hut to which our misfortunes had thus conducted us was a 



miserable place; and I was afraid to try to sleep, there were so 
many rats running" about, and jumping on the beams across the 
roof. I was, however, very tired, and unconsciously fell asleep 
for a little ; but when I awoke, three rats were fighting- on the 
middle of the floor for a candle I had lighted and placed there 
stuck in a bottle, there being no candlestick. I rose and sepa- 
rated the combatants. Poor Mrs Scott had never slept : she said 
a rat had been watching her all night from the roof. The rats 
here are very tame and impudent, and not easily frightened, but 
are not so disgusting in appearance as the rats in Eng'land ; they 
are larger, and their skin is a beautiful light-gray. I shall ever 
remember this dismal night, which seemed protracted to an 
unusual length. Day at last dawned, and allowed those who 
"were able to move about and render assistance as far as circum- 
stances would permit. AVith the help of the shepherd I prepared 
breakfast, and afterwards dinner, for the party. We were much 
afraid, when the afternoon arrived, that we should have to pass 
another night in the hut; but at four o'clock, greatly to our 
delight, Mr Scott made his appearance, and soon after a dray, in 
which a bed was placed for Mrs Scott. It was with difficulty 
she was lifted into it. I sat beside her with the children, and my 
husband sat on the other side to keep her steady. Mr Scott was 
on horseback. In this way we arrived at Mr Anderson's station 
late at night, as we were obliged to travel very slowly on account 
of our unfortunate patient. 

AYe found Mr Anderson's hut locked up, and the keys were at 
Mr Yuille's, three miles off. However, my husband opened the 
window with little difficulty, as it had no fastening ; so it seemed 
of little use having the door locked. We soon got a fire lighted 
by his woman-servant, and had tea and nice comfortable beds, 
■which we indeed much required. INIrs Scott was taken home 
next day ; but many months elapsed before she could walk about. 
We remained at Mr Anderson's station a short time. While 
there, we went over to dine with Mr Yuille. I saw many im- 
provements about his station ; but his own hut was still without 
windows. I expressed my astonishment at this ; but he said that 
he had been so long without them, that he would still continue 
so, and he did not see the use of them. We ate some of the largest 
lettuces here I ever saw. JMr Yuille takes great pleasure in his 
garden, and keeps it in order entirely himself. 

We were now in the Boning Y^'ong* district, which takes its 
name from a very hig-h mountain, on the top of which is a large 
hole filled with water. It is quite round, as if made by man, and 
there are fish and mussels in it. Boning Yong is a native name, 
and means hig mountain. I like the native names very much : I 
think it a great pity to change them for English ones, as is often 
done. Station Peak is also a peculiar-looking mountain, and is 
the boundary between the Melbourne and Geelong districts. 

We spent several days at Mr Scott's station, which is for cattle 



and daiiy-husbandiy. He had some of the finest cows I had seen 
in the country ; and the dairy was well manag-ed by a young- 
woman whom the family had hroug-ht from home ; and they 
fortunately did not require to keep many servants, the children 
were so useful, and never idle. His two little hoys managed the 
cattle as well as any stock-keeper could do, and everything seemed 
in a fair way of prospering at the station. A large family in these 
colonies is a blessing and fortune to their parents, if well-doing. 

In travelling down to Melbourne we did not require to sleep 
in the bush, as there are now several public-houses on the road. 
The first we came to was not at all comfortable ; and the keeper 
performed the paltry trick of hiding our bullocks, thereby com- 
pelling us to remain at his house till they were found, which was 
not accomplished until we offered a reward for them. We heard 
many complaints of " planting" bullocks (the colonial expression) 
at this house. We were more fortunate in the next we arrived at, 
in which we slept one night, and were exceedingly comfortable. It 
is kept by a Dr Grieve. On leaving next morning, Mrs Grieve 
gave me a nice currant loaf for the children to eat in the dray. 

I was astonished, when I visited Geelong' on our way down, to 
see the progress made in building. I had not seen it since we 
first landed in the country, at which time three stores were all 
the buildings in the township. Now, it is a large and thriving 
place. Such is the rapid way that towns get up in this new and 
enterprising colony. 


Our unfortunate journey from the bush station was at length 
brought to a close. After remaining two days in Melbourne, to 
purchase provisions and some articles of furniture, we proceeded 
to the farm which we had reason to expect would be our future 
home. I liked its appearance very much ; it was agricultural, 
with ten acres already in crop, and about thirty cleared. The 
soil was rich and jDroductive, and immediately we got a garden 
fenced in, and soon had a supply of veg'etables. To complete the 
establishment, we procured some cows from the station, these 
animals being reckoned my private property. The chief draw- 
back to our comfort was the want of a house, and we were com- 
pelled to live in a tent till one could be prepared for our reception. 
I was assisted in the domestic arrangements by an aged but 
willing and active woman, whom we had engaged as servant. 
Our neighbours round called upon us ; but all were men, and I 
saAV no ladies while at the farm for a period of eight months. 

All went on well with us till the month of February, when the 
heat became almost insupportable, the thermometer in our tent 
being at 110 degrees almost every day, and sometimes 120. It 
was like living in an oven. All around the country was parched 
up to a degree which I am unable to describe. Everything was 



as dry as tinder ; and while in this state, some shepherds, either 
heedlessly or maliciously, set the g-rass on fire a few miles from 
our farm, and it came down npon ns in a tremendous flame, 
several miles in breadth. Long before I could see it from the 
tents, I heard the crackling- and falling- of trees. My husband 
was in town, also our ploughman with the dray ; and we had 
only one man at the farm, as little work could be done at this 
season. This man told me he had seen the lire, and that it was 
coming down as fast as he could walk, and would be upon us in 
half an hour, when all our tents, &c. would be burned. For a 
moment I stood in despair, not knowing- what to do. I then 
thought our only chance of safety would be to burn a circle round 
the tents. I sent the children "to the next farm with old Mrs 
Douglas, our ploughman's wife. Nanny Douglas, a strong 
active girl, was with us ; so we lighted a circle round the tent I 
occupied, which was the most valuable. We procured branches, 
and kept beating the flames, to keep them from burning more 
than a space several yards broad, that the flames might not pass 
over ; but before we had finished the burning, Nanny, who was 
naturally anxious about her own property, began to burn round 
her own tent. The fire was too strong for her to keep it down 
alone, so I saw her tent catch fire at the back, while she was 
busy beating- out the flames in front. I ran to help her to pull 
down the tent, which she and I did in a few minutes. The tent 
was nearly all burned, but nothing- of consequence was lost inside. 
Nanny was in a sad state, knowing that her father had several 
pounds of gunpowder in a basket under his bed. In trying- to 
save this tent I nearly lost my own, which caught fire; but 
Nanny, with great activity, ran with a bucket of water she was 
carrying to throw on the burning tent we had pulled down. She 
threw it over the part that had caug-ht fire, while I beat with my 
branch ; and we had only a hole about three yards square burned 
in our tent, and part of our bed which was next that side. We 
had now got the circle burned, and sat down to rest and contem- 
plate the mischief we had done. We soon found that our exer- 
tions might have been spared ; for, by the intervention of our 
ploughed land and a bend in the creek, the fire was divided before 
it reached us, and went burning and crashing' down on each side, 
several hundred yards from us. It was an awful sight, and I 
shall never forget it. As it unfortunately happened in the heat 
of the day, Nanny and I were quite knocked up, and we lay on 
the ground to rest outside the tent for nearly an hour. Mrs 
Douglas came home with the children, and began to arrange the 
beds, &c. in the third tent we had for cooking in. 

One of our neig-hbours, who lived several miles from us, know- 
ing the fire must be near our farm, and my husband not at home, 
kindly rode over to see if he could assist us. I was glad to see 
him, as I felt very anxious about my husband, not knowing what 
might befall him upon his return, as it was now near sun-down, 



and the fire very near the road he had to travel. Our kind 
neighbour offered to go to meet him if I could give him a horse, 
which we soon did, as I had had them tied in a safe place on the 
other side of the creek. He fortunately met the dray not very 
far off, and pointed out a road by which they might still get 
home ere the fire reached it. Had they been ten minutes later, 
they could not have got home that night, the fire burned so 
fiercely, and the horses were afraid of it. My husband and the 
men sat up all night watching the fire in the woods, which, 
owing to the darkness, was a most splendid sight, looking like a 
large town highly illuminated. Next day the conflagration 
returned upon us in another direction ; but we were better pre- 
pared for it, and it was kept back by beating it out with branches. 
All the gentlemen and servants from our farm, and our neigh- 
boui-s, were employed nearly all day in beating it out, and it was 
again watched all night. 

This fire did much damage to several farms in our neighbour- 
hood, in burning down crops and fences. It burned for nearly a 
week, and keeping it down was very fatiguing work, owing to 
the extreme heat of the weather. But, fortunately for the coun- 
try, we had some very heavy rain, otherwise I am sure we should 
have had no food left for our cattle, the pasture being nearly all 
burned. It was astonishing how soon the country looked green 
again. After two nights of heavy rain, the grass began to spring 

This fire was our crowning misfortune ; for though it did little 
damage to the property, it led to personal illness, against which 
it was not easy to bear up. I caught a violent cold from being 
overheated while putting out the fire round our tent ; Nanny 
also was ill, and unable to do any work for three weeks. Not- 
withstanding all my care, I could not get rid of my complaint, as 
the rains had set in, and our tents, clothes, and beds, were con- 
stantly wet. To increase my distress, I was seized one night 
with asthma, which increased every day. In this exigency my 
husband had a temporary hut put up for me, which would keep 
out the wet. It was put up in a week 5 and although not quite 
dry, we were very glad to get into it. It was made of young 
trees or saplings, sunk about a foot in the ground, and nailed 
at the top to a frame of wood. The saplings were placed quite 
close, and the walls were then plastered outside and in with mud, 
and washed over with lime. The roof was of broad paling, and 
we were very comfortable. Our hut was twenty feet by twelve ; 
but I had a division of canvass put up in the middle for a sick 
daughter of Mrs Douglas, who had come to try if country air 
would benefit her. After being three weeks with us, she was 
advised by our medical attendant to return to the town, where 
she died in a iew days. 

I was now very ill, and could not lie in bed with asthma and 
cough, and my husband was also suflfering severely from the 



effects of cold. Things were now in snch a state, that it was 
found impossible to go on with the farm, which we therefore let ; 
and my husband being* so fortunate as to get an oflSce under 
g-overnment, we removed to Melbourne. At first we could not 
find a house in Melbourne except a new one, and we were afraid 
to live in it. We were obliged to go to an inn, intending to look 
about for another house ; but I was laid up there for three weeks 
with a very severe attack, from which I was not expected to 

We were exceedingly anxious now to send the children home 
to my mother, as I was told if I had many such attacks I could not 
live. I felt this myself; but we could not make up our minds 
about parting with the children, although we knew that Port 
Philip was a sad place for children to be left without a mother 
to watch over them ; but as I got stronger, I could not bear the 
idea of parting with them, and determined to take great care of 
myself. We removed to our new house because we could not find 
another ; but it was very damp. I had a threatening of my old 
complaint, and my husband insisted on my leaving" it imme- 
diately. He found another, a very comfortable one, and I con- 
tinued pretty well in it for two months. I had only a few slight 
illnesses ; but I durst not go out if the weather was at all damp. 
I had great difficulty in getting a servant when we came to town ; 
indeed I was without one for some weeks. At last I got a little 
girl of twelve years of age, till I could hear of a woman-servant. 
This little girl would not come for less than seven shillings 
a-week ; and instead of being any assistance to me, was a great 
plague. She was always leading the children into mischief ; and 
whenever I wanted my servant to work, I had to go and bring* 
her home from a game of romps with some neighbouring children. 
I sent her home at the end of the week with her seven shillings, 
well pleased to get quit of her ; and that very day an Irishwoman 
came to the door asking me if I required a servant. She had 
landed from an emigrant ship three days before, I was delighted 
to see her, and bade her come in and I would try her. She 
turned out an honest well-behaved girl, but very slow and veiy 
dirty ; her wages were twenty pounds a-year. Several ships 
arrived soon after this with emigrants, and servants began to find 
great difficulty in getting* situations ; they were to be seen going' 
about the streets inquiring of every one if they wanted servants. 
Of course the wages came quickly down : men were now to be 
hired for twenty and twenty-five pounds a-year, and women 
from twelve to fifteen. One man I knew, who a month before 
would not hire under seventy pounds, said he would now be glad 
of a situation at twenty-five; which he could not get. The 
servants seemed astonished at the sudden change of things, for 
which they were not at all prepared. 

From compassion, we allowed a number of female emigrants 
to live in a detached kitchen we had, until they could find situa- 



tions as servants. They had little money, and lodgings were 
very hig-h in price. These girls had come out with most mag- 
nificent notions, and were sadly disappointed when they found 
that situations were so difficult to be procured. Affairs, gene- 
rally, were beginning to Avear a threatening aspect ; yet, in this 
country there is a lightness in the air which seems to prevent 
one feeling misfortunes so deeply as in England. 

JMost people like Port Philip after giving it a fair trial, as the 
delightful and healthful climate compensates for many disagree- 
ables Avhich one has not been accustomed to. The great thing 
is to get over the first feeling of surprise and disgust. Many 
find it impossible to do so, and return home to disgust others 
with their story ; but I never yet met one who said, after being* 
in the colony two years, that he would wish to leave it to return 
home, except for a visit. And this, certainly, notwithstanding 
what I suifered, is my own feeling towards the country. 

To conclude these rough notes : I now commenced a school 
in Melbourne, and had great encouragement to go on with it, 
having' been oiFered a number of boarders, indeed more than I 
could have taken charge of. After a short trial, I was unpleas- 
ingly reminded that my health was too uncertain to attempt 
carrying my plans into execution, otherwise all would have been 
well. Misfortunes did not fall singly. We had received at this 
time a severe and unexpected pecuniary disappointment from 
home, which, I am ashamed to say, notwithstanding the fine 
light air of Port Philip, made me very ill. My husband insisted 
on my going home to my mother with the children until his 
affairs were arranged, and I may consider myself very happy 
in having such a home to go to. Had I not been leaving my 
husband behind me in bad health, I could almost have con- 
sidered our misfortunes a blessing, as it gave me the unspeakable 
delight of again seeing my mother-^a happiness I had for some 
time ceased to hope I should ever enjoy, and which had been 
my only serious regret after leaving home. 

I left Melbourne on the 10th September 1841, with the inten- 
tion of returning ; but that must be determined by my health 
and other circumstances. 


URHOUNDED by some of the most powerful nations 
■ of Europe, Switzerland, a comparatively small country, 
-has for ages maintained a singular degree of freedom 
and independence, and been distinguished for the 
ciTil liberty which its people generally enjoy. For these 
enviable distinctions, it is allowed to have been greatly 
indebted to its physical character. Composed of ranges of 
lofty mountains, extensive lakes, almost inapproachable 
valleys, craggy steeps and passes, which may be easily 
defended, it has afibrded a ready retreat against oppression, and 
its inhabitants have at various times defeated the largest armies 
brought by neig'hbouring powers for their subjugation. How 
this intrepid people originally gained their Hberty, forms an 
€xceedingly interesting page in European history. 

About six hundred years ago, a large portion of Switzerland 
belonged to the German empire ; but this was little more than 
a nominal subjection to a supreme authority. Socially, it con- 
sisted of districts which were for the greater part the hereditary 
possessions of dukes, counts, and other nobles, who viewed the 
people on their properties as little better than serfs, and made 
free with their lives, their industry, and their chattels. In some 
instances, certain cities had formed alliances for mutual protec- 
tion against the rapacity of these persons, and demolished many 
castles from which they exercised their oppression upon the 
peaceful husbandmen and merchants. 

Things were in this state, when, in 1273, Rodolphe of Haps- 
burg, one of the most powerful of the noble proprietors, was 
^0. 9. I 


chosen Emperor of Germany, an event which added greatly to 
his means of oppressing his Swiss vassals. Rodolphe, however, 
was a humane master, and did not abuse his power. Albert, hi& 
son, who succeeded to the imperial dynasty in 1298, was a person 
of a diiferent character. He was a grasping prince, eager to 
extend his family possessions, and, by a most unjustifiable stretch 
of ambition, wished to unite certain free Swiss towns, with their- 
surrounding districts, called the Waldstatte, or Forest-towns, with 
his hereditary estates, proposing to them at the same time to 
renounce their connexion with the German empire, and to sub- 
mit themselves to him as Duke of Austria. They rejected his 
advances, and hence commenced the first of the memorable 
struggles for civil liberty in Switzerland. 

Proud of his great rank, uniting, as he did, in his own person 
the dignities of the house of Austria and the imperial throne,. 
Albert was indignant at the refusal by which his propositions 
were followed, and forthwith resolved to hold no measured terms 
with what he deemed a set of rude peasants. His first impulse 
was to decide the question by the sword ; but the result of any 
sudden attack was doubtful, and he finally resolved to proceed 
cautiously in his movements. Disguising his intentions, there- 
fore, he confined himself, in the first instance, to introducing as 
governor Hermann Gessler of Brunegg, along with small parties 
of Austrian soldiers, after which his design of subjugating the 
district became too manifest to its unhappy inhabitants. 

Once firmly established, Gessler, who was a fit instrument for 
the purposes of a tyrant, assumed an insolent bearing, and 
scrupled not to commit the most severe acts of oppression. The 
seat of his assumed authority was at Altorf, a small town near 
the head of the lake of Lucerne, on which the Waldstatte bor- 
dered, and surrounded by some of the most romantic scenery 
in Switzerland. Every great crisis in national disasters brings 
forth its great man ; as Scotland, under the oppression of the 
Edwards, produced its William Wallace ; as America its Wash- 
ington, when its hberty was threatened ; so did a part of Switzer- 
land, under the vice-regal domination of Gessler, produce its Wil- 
liam Tell. Not much is really known of this patriot, but the 
little that has been wafted by history and tradition to our times 
is interesting, and possesses all the charm of poetry and romance^ 

William Tell, according to the best accounts, was born at 
Biirglen, a secluded hamlet in the canton of Uri, near the lake of 
Lucerne, about the year 1275, and, like his forefathers, was the 
proprietor of a cottage, a few small fields, a vineyard, and an 
orchard. When William had reached the age of twenty, his 
father is said to have died, bequeathing to him these humble 
possessions, and earnestly requesting him, with his latest breath, 
to work diligently for his subsistence, and to die, should it be 
needed, in his country's service. These admonitions, addressed to 
a highly sensitive mind, were not disregarded. Having consigned 



his father's hody to the tomb, he g-ave himself up to the labours of ' 
the field, and by his assiduous industry, is said ever to have reaped 
a plentiful harvest. 

Rising' at dawn of day, he stood behind his rude plough, and 
left it only when darkness summoned both man and beast to 
repose. Endowed by nature with a lofty and energetic mind, 
Tell was distinguished also by great physical strength and manly 
beauty. He was taller by a head than most of his companions ; 
he loved to climb the rugged rocks of his native mountains in 
pursuit of the chamois, and to steer his small boat across the lake 
in time of storm and of danger. The load of wood which he could 
bear upon his shoulders was prodigious, being, it is said, double 
that which any ordinary man could support. 

In all out-door sports Tell likewise excelled. During holidays, 
when the young* archers were trying their skill, according to 
ancient Swiss custom, Tell, who had no equal in the practice of 
the bow, was obliged to remain an idle spectator, in order to give 
others a chance for the prize. With such varied qualifications, 
and being also characterised by a courteous disposition. Tell was 
a general favourite among his countrymen, and an acceptable 
guest at every fireside. Meanwhile, in his humble home, he 
remained without a mate ; and desirous of finding a partner who 
might grace his little domain, he fixed his attention on Emma, 
the daughter of Walter Furst, who was considered the best and 
fairest maiden of the whole canton of Uri. His advances being 
well received by both father and daughter. Tell in due time called 
Emma his wife, and henceforth his mountain home was the scene 
of happiness and contentment. The birth of a son, who was 
named Walter, in honour of his grandfather, added to the felicity 
of the pair. Until the age of six, Walter was left to his mother's 
care, but at that period the father undertook his education, 
carried him to the fields and pastures to instruct him in the 
works of nature, and spared no pains at home to cultivate and 
enlighten his mind. Other children subsequently added to the 
ties of family. 

With other sources of happiness, Tell combined that of possess- 
ing a friend, who dwelt amid the rocky heights separating Uri 
from Underwald. Arnold Anderhalden of Melchthal was this 
associate. Although similar in many salient points of character, 
there was still an essential difference between the two men. 
Arnold of Melchthal, while he loved his country with an ardour 
equal to that of Tell, was capable of very great actions, without 
being prepared for much patient suffering or long endurance of 
wrong. Tell, whose temperament was more calm, and whose 
passions were more influenced by reason than impulse, only 
succeeded in restraining his friend's impulsive character by the 
stem force of example. Meantime the two friends passed their 
days in the enjoyment of one another's society, visiting' at inter- 
vals each other's humble residence. Arnold had a daughter, 



Clair by name, and Walter, the son of Tell, learned as he grew up 
to love and cherish her. Thus, in simple and tranquil pleasures, 
in the industrious prosecution of their several occupations, these 
two families dwelt in tranquillity and mutual happiness. 

The introduction to power of Hermann Gessler broke in upon 
the joys of every citizen of Uri. Besides the allowance of the 
utmost license to his soldiers, the tolls were raised, the most 
slight and trivial oiFences punished by imprisonment and heavy 
fines, and the inhabitants treated with insolence and contempt. 
Gessler, passing* on horseback before a house built by Stauffacher, 
in the village of Steinen, near Schwytz, cried, " What ! shall it be 
borne that these contemptible peasants should build such an edifice 
as this? If they are to be thus lodged, what are we to do ?" History 
records the indignant remonstrance of the wife of Stauifacher 
upon this occasion. " How long-," exclaimed she, "shall we behold 
the oppressor triumphant, and the oppressed weep ? How long 
shall the iiisolent stranger possess our lands, and bestow our inhe- 
ritances upon his heirs ? What avails it that our mountains and 
valleys are inhabited by men, if we, the mothers of Helvetia, are 
to suckle the children of slavery, and see our daughters swelling 
the train of our oppressors?" The energetic language of his 
wife was not thrown away upon Werner, but settled, and in due 
time brought forth fruit. 

Meanwhile some of the instruments of oppression were pu- 
nished when they were least prepared for retribution. As an 
example, we may instance the governor of Schwanau, a castle 
on the lake of Lowerz, who, having brought dishonour upon a 
family of distinction, perished by the hand of the eldest son. 
As a parallel instance, we may mention that a friend of Berenger 
of Landenberg', the young lord of Wolfenchiess, in Unterwalden, 
having seen the beautiful wife of Conrad of Baumgarten at 
Alzallen, and finding that her husband was absent, desired, in 
the most peremptory terms, that she should prepare him a bath ; 
but the lady having called Conrad from the fields, and explained 
to him the repeated indignities to which she had been exposed, 
his resentment was so inflamed at the recital, that, rushing into 
the bath-chamber, he sacrificed the young noble on the spot. In 
a state of society but just emerging from barbarism, and which 
as yet knew but little of law or justice, continual instances were 
of daily occurrence in which private individuals thus took the 
law into their own hands. The result, however chivalric the 
custom may look in the abstract, was most fearful and terrible, 
and is but one of the many proofs how great a blessing civilisa- 
tion has really been to mankind. 

Tell foresaw, on the arrival of Gessler, many of the misfortunes 
which must inevitably follow his iron rule, and without explain- 
ing his views even to Arnold of jMelchthal, without needlessly 
alarming his family, endeavoured to devise some means, not of 
bearing the yoke demurely, but of delivering his country from 



the galling' oppression which Albert had broug-ht upon it. The 
hero felt satistied that the evil deeds of the g-overnor would sooner 
or later bring' just retribution upon him ; for this, and many other 
reasons, therefore, despite his own secret wishes, when Arnold 
poured out his fiery wrath in the ear of his friend, he listened 
calmly, and, to avoid inflaming him more, avowed none of his 
own views or even feeling's in return. 

One evening', however, "William Tell and his wife sat in the 
front of their cottage, watching their son amusing' himself amid 
the llocks, when the former grew more thoughtful and sad than 
usual. Presently Tell spoke, and for the first time imparted 
to his wife some of his most secret designs. While the conversa- 
tion was still proceeding, the parents saw their son rush towards 
them crying for help, and shouting the name of old Melchthal. 
As he spoke, Arnold's father appeared in view, led by Clair, and 
feeling his way with a stick. Tell and his wife hastened forward, 
and discovered, to their inconceivable horror, that their friend 
was blind, his eyes having- been put out with hot irons. The hero 
of Biirglen, burning with just indignation, called on the old man 
to explain the fearful sig-ht, and also the cause of Arnold's absence. 
The unfortunate Melchthal seated himself, surrounded by his 
agonized friends, and immediately satisfied the impatient curiosity 
of Tell. 

It appeared that that very morning the father, son, and 
granddaughter were in the fields loading a couple of oxen with 
produce for the market-town, when an Austrian soldier presented 
himself, and having- examined the animals, which appeared to 
suit his fancy, ordered their owner to unyoke the beasts pre- 
paratory to his driving- them oiF. Adding insolence to tyranny, 
he further remarked that such clodpoles might very well draw 
their own ploughs and carts. Arnold, furious at the man's 
daring' impertinence, was only restrained by his father's earnest 
intreaties from sacrificing the robber on the spot ; nothing, how- 
ever, could prevent him from aiming a blow at him, which broke 
two of his fing-ers. The enrag-ed soldier then retreated ; but old 
Melchthal, who well knew the character of Gessler, immediately 
forced Arnold, much against his inclination, to go and conceal 
himself for some days in the Rhigi. This mountain rises in a 
somewhat isolated position — a rare circumstance with the Swiss 
Alps — and is one of the most conspicuous hills of Switzerland. 
In form a truncated cone, with its base watered by three lakes — 
Lucerne, Zug, and Zurich — this gigantic hill is pierced by deep 
caverns, of which two are famous — the Bruder-balm, and the hole 
of Kessis-Boden, Scarcely had Arnold departed in this direc- 
tion, when a detachment of guards from Altorf surrounded their 
humble tenement, and dragging- old Melchthal before Gessler, he 
ordered him to give up his son. Furious at the refusal which 
ensued, the tyrant commanded the old man's eyes to be put out, 
and then sent him forth blind to deplore his misfortunes. 



Tell heard the story of Melchthal in silence, and when he had 
finished, inquired the exact place of his son's concealment. The 
father replied that it was in a particular cavern of Mount Rhig'i, 
the desert rocks of which place were unknown to the emissaries 
of the governor, and there he had promised to remain until he 
received his parent's permission to come forth. This Tell re- 
quested mig-ht be g-ranted immediately ; and turning- to his son, 
ordered him to start at once for Rhigi with a message to Arnold. 
Walter gladly obeyed, and providing himself with food, and 
receiving private instructions from his father, went on his jour- 
ney under cover of the night. 

Tell himself then threw around his own person a cloak of 
wolf-skin, seized his quiver full of sharp arrows, and taking his 
terrible bow, which few could bend, in hand, bade adieu to his 
wife for a few days, and took his departure in an opposite direc- 
tion from that pursued by his son. It was quite dawn when 
Walter reached the Rhigi, and a slight column of blue smoke 
speedily directed him to the spot where Arnold lay concealed. 
The intrusion at first startled the fugitive ; but recognising Tell's 
son, he listened eagerly to his dismal story, the conclusion of 
which roused in him so much fury, that he would have rushed 
forth at once to assassinate Gessler, had not Walter restrained 
him. Schooled by Tell, he informed him that his father was en- 
gaged in preparing vengeance for the tyrant's crime, being at that 
moment with Werner StauflFacher concerting proper measures of 
resistance. " Go," said my father, " and tell Arnold of this new 
villany of the governor's, and say that it is not rage which can 
give us just revenge, but the utmost exertion of courage and 
prudence. I leave for Schwytz to bid Werner arm his canton ; 
let Melchthal go to Stantz, and prepare the young men of Under- 
wald for the outbreak ; having done this, let him meet me, with 
Furst and Werner, in the field of Grutli." * 

Arnold, scarcely taking time slightly to refresh himself with 
food, sent Walter on his homeward journey, while he started for 
Stantz. Walter, when alone, turned his steps towards Altorf, 
where unfortunately, and unknown to himself, he came into the 
presence of Gessler, to whom he uttered somewhat hard things 
about the state of the country, being led to commit himself by 
the artful questions of the tyrant, who immediately ordered the 
lad into confinement, with strict injunctions to his guards to 
seize whomsoever should claim him. 

Meanwhile certain doubts and fears, from he knew not what 
cause, arose in the mind of Gessler, and struck him with a pre- 
sentiment that all was not right. He imagined that the people 
wore in their looks less abject submission to his authority ; and 

* A lonely sequestered strip of meadow, called indiiFerently Rutli and 
Orutli, upon an angle of the lake of Lucerne, surrounded by thickets, at 
the foot of the rock of Seelisberg, and opposite the village of Brunnen. 


the 'better to satisfy himself of the correctness or erroneousness of 
this view, he commanded Bereng-er to erect at dawn of day, in 
the market-place of Altorf, a pole, on the point of which he was 
to place the ducal cap of Austria. An order was further promul- 
g'ated, to the eifect that every one passing- near or within sig'ht 
of it should make obeisance, in proof of his homag-e and fealty 
to the duke. 

Numerous soldiers under arms were directed to surround the 
place, to keep the avenues, and compel the passers-by to bend 
with proper respect to the emblem of the governing* power of 
the three cantons. Gessler likewise determined that, whoever 
should disobey the mandate, and pass the ducal badg-e without 
the requisite sig-n of honour, or who should exhibit by his bear- 
ing* a feeling- of independence, should be accused of disaffection, 
and be treated according-ly — a measure which promised hoth to 
discover the discontented, and furnish a sufficient ground for 
their punishment. Numerous detachments of troops, among 
whom money had been previously distributed, were then placed, 
around to see that his commands were scrupulously obeyed. 
History scarcely records another instance of tyi'anny so galling 
and humihating to the oppressed, and so insolent on the part of 
its author. 

The proceedings of Tell in the interval were of the deepest 
concern to the country. Having arrived within the territory 
of Schwytz, and at the villag-e of Steinen, he called at the house 
of Werner, and being* admitted, threw at his feet a heavy bundle 
of lances, arrows, cross-bows, and swords. " Werner Stauffacher," 
cried Tell, " the time is come for action ;" and without a mo- 
ment's delay, he informed his friend of all that had passed, 
dwelling minutely on every detail ; and when he had at length 
finished, the cautious Werner could restrain his wrath no longer, 
but exclaimed, clasping the hero's hand, " Friend, let us begin ; 
I am ready." After further brief conference, they, by separate 
ways, carried round arms to their friends in the town and the 
neighbouring villages. Many hours were thus consumed, and 
when the whole were at last distributed, they both returned to 
Stauffacher's house, snatched some slight refreshment, and then 
sped on their way to Grutli, accompanied by ten of their most 
tried adherents. 

The lake of Lucerne was soon reached, and a boat procured. 
Werner, perceiving the water to be agitated by a furious tem- 
pest, inquired of Tell if his skill would enable him to strug*gle 
against the storm. " Arnold awaits us," cried William, " and 
the fate of our country depends on this interview." With these 
words he leaped into the boat, Werner jumped after him, and. 
the rest followed. Tell cast loose the agitated vessel, seized the 
tiller, and hoisting sail, the little craft flew along the waves. 

Presently, it is said, the wind moderated, and ere they reached 
the opposite side, had ceased altogether — a phenomenon common. 



in these mountain lakes. The boat was now made fast, and 
the conspirators hastened to the field of Grutli, where, at the- 
mouth of a cavern of the same name, Arnold and Walter Furst 
awaited them, each with ten other companions. Tell allowed 
no consideration of natural feeling to silence the calls of duty, 
but at once came to the point. He first gave a brief sketch of 
the state of the country under the Austrian bailiffs, and having 
shown to the satisfaction of his companions the necessity for 
immediate and combined action, is related to have added — " We- 
may have our plans frustrated by delay, and the time has come 
for action. I ask only a few days for preparation. Unterwalden 
and Schwytz are armed. Three hundred and fifty warriors are^ 
I am assured, ready. I leave you to assign them a secluded 
valley as a place of rendezvous, which they may gain in small 
parties by different paths. I will return to Uri, and collect my 
contingent of a hundred men ; Furst will aid me, and seek them 
in the Moderan and Urseren, even in the high hills whence flow 
the Aar, the Tessin, the Rhine, and the Rhone. I will remain 
in Altorf, and as soon as I receive tidings from Furst, will fire 
a huge pile of wood near my house. At this signal let all march 
to the rendezvous, and, when united, pour down upon Altorf, 
where I will then strive to rouse the people." 

This plan of the campaign was, after some deliberation, agreed 
to, and it was further resolved unanimously, that, in the enter- 
prise upon which they were now embarked, no one should be 
guided by his own private opinion, nor ever forsake his friends ; 
that they should jointly live or jointly die in defence of their- 
common cause ; that each should, in his own vicinity, promote 
the object in view, trusting that the whole nation would one day 
have cause to bless their friendly union ; that the Count of 
Hapsburg should be deprived of none of his lands, vassals, or 
prerogatives ; that the blood of his servants and bailiffs should 
not be spilt; but that the freedom which they had inherited from 
their fathers they were determined to assert, and to hand down 
to their children untainted and undiminished. Then Stauffachery. 
Furst, and Melchthal, and the other conspirators, stepped forward, 
and raising their hands, swore that they would die in defence of 
that freedom. 

After this solemn oath, and after an agreement that New- Year's. 
Day should be chosen for the outbreak, unless, in the meantime, 
a signal fire should arouse the inhabitants on some suddeii 
emergency, the heroes separated. Arnold returned to Stantz, 
Werner to Schwytz, while Tell and Furst took their way to 
Altorf. The sun already shone brightly as Tell entered the 
town, and he at once advanced into the public place, where the 
first object which caught his eye was a handsome cap embroidered 
Avith gold, stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers walked 
around it in respectful sOence, and the people of Altorf, as they 
passed, bowed their heads profoundly to the symbol of power. 


Tell was much surprised at this new and strang-e manifestation 
of servility, and leaning: on his cross-bow, gazed contemptuously 
both on the people and the soldiers. Berenger, captain of the 
guard, at length observed this man, who alone, amid a cringing" 
populace, carried his head erect. He went to him, and fiercely 
asked why he neglected to pay obedience to the orders of Her- 
mann Gessler. Tell mildly replied that he was not aware of 
them, neither could he have thought that the intoxication of 
power could carry a man so far; though the cowardice of the 
people almost justified his conduct. This bold language some- 
what surprised Berenger, who ordered Tell to be disarmed, and 
then, surrounded by guards, he was carried before the governor. 

" "NATierefore," demanded the incensed bailiff, " hast thou dis- 
obeyed my orders, and failed in thy respect to the emperor? 
Why hast thou dared to pass before the sacred badge of thy 
sovereign without the evidence of homage required of thee ? " 

" Verily," answered Tell with mock Humility, " how this hap- 
pened I know not ; 'tis an accident, and no mark of contempt ; 
suffer me, therefore, in thy clemency, to depart." 

Gessler was both surprised and irritated at this reply, feeling 
assured that there was something beneath the tranquil and bitter 
smile of the prisoner which he could not fathom. Suddenly he 
was struck by the resemblance which existed between him and 
the boy Walter, whom he had met the previous day, and imme- 
diately ordered him to be brought forward. Gessler now inquired 
the prisoner's name, which he no sooner heard than he knew 
him to be the archer so much respected throughout the whole 
canton, and at once conceived the mode of punishment which he 
afterwards put in practice, and which was perhaps the most 
refined act of torture which man ever imagined. As soon as 
the youth arrived, the governor turned to Tell, and told him 
that he had heard of his extraordinary dexterity, and was accord- 
ingly determined to put it to the proof. " While beholding 
justice done, the people of Altorf shall also admire thy skill. Thy 
son shall be placed a hundred yards distant, with an apple on 
his head. If thou hast the good fortune to bear away the apple 
in triumph with one of thy arrows, I pardon both, and restore 
your liberty. If thou refusest this trial, thy son shall die before 
thine eyes." 

Tell, horror-stricken, implored Gessler to spare him so cruel 
an experiment, though his son Walter encouraged his father to 
trust to his usual good fortune ; and finding the governor inex- 
orable, our hero accepted the trial. He was immediately conducted 
into the public place, where the required distance was measured 
by Berenger, a double row of soldiers shutting up three sides of 
the square. The people, awe-stricken and trembling, pressed 
behind. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree, patiently 
awaiting the exciting moment. Hermann Gessler, some distance 
behind, watched every motion. His cross-bow and one bolt were 

F 9 


handed to Tell ; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and de- 
manded his quiver. It was broug-ht to him, and emptied at his 
feet. William stooped down, and taking- a long time to choose 
one, managed to hide a second in his girdle ; the other he held 
in his hand, and proceeded to string" his bow, while Bereng-er 
cleared away the remaining" arrows. 

After hesitating" a long time — his whole soul beaming in his 
face, his paternal affection rendering him almost powerless — he 
at length roused himself, drew the bow — aimed — shot — and the 
apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow ! 

The market-place of Altorf was filled by loud cries of admira- 
tion. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by the 
excess of his emotions, fell insensible to the ground, thus exposing 
the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him, awaiting his 
recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away 
from the governor with horror, who, however, scarcely yet be- 
lieving his senses, thus addressed him : — " Incomparable archer, 
I will keep my promise ; but," added he, " tell me, what needed 
you with that second arrow which you have, I see, secreted in 
your girdle ? One was surely enough." Tell replied, with some 
slight evidence of embarrassment, " that it was customary among 
the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve;" an 
explanation which only served to confirm the suspicions of 
Gessler. " Nay, nay," said he ; " tell me thy real motive, and 
whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and thy life is 
spared." " The second shaft," replied Tell, " was to pierce thy 
heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son." At these 
words the terrified governor retired behind his guards, revoked 
his promise of pardon, commanding him further to be placed in 
irons, and to be reconducted to the fort. He was obeyed, and 
as slight murmurs rose amongst the people, double patrols of 
Austrian soldiers paraded the streets, and forced the citizens to 
retire to their houses. Walter, released, fled to join Arnold of 
Melchthal, according to a whispered order from his father. 

Gessler, reflecting on the aspect of the people, and fearful that 
some plot was in progress, which his accidental shortness of 
provisions rendered more unfortunate, determined to rid his 
citadel of the object which might induce an attack. With these 
views he summoned Berenger, and addressed him in these 
words : " I am about to quit Altorf, and you shall command 
during my absence. I leave my brave soldiers, who will readily 
obey your voice ; and, soon returning with supplies and reinforce- 
ments, we will crush this vile people, and punish them for their 
insolent murmurings. Prepare me a large boat, in which thirty 
men, picked from my guard, may depart with me. As soon as 
night draws in, you can load this audacious Tell with chains, 
and send him on board. I will myself take him where he may 
expiate his offences." 

Tell was forthwith immediately conducted to Fluelen, the little 



port of Altorf, about a league distant, at the foot of Mount Ror- 
stock. Gessler followed, and entered the bark which had been 
prepared with the utmost despatch, ordering the bow and quiver 
of the famous archer to be carefully put on board at the same 
time ; with the intention, it is supposed, of either keeping them 
Tinder safe custody, or hanging them up, according to religious 
custom, as an offering for his personal safety. Having started 
with the prisoner, under the safe conduct of his armed depen- 
dants, Gessler ordered them to row as far as Brunnen, a distance 
of three leagues and a half; intending, it is said, to land at that 
point, and, passing* through the territory of Schwytz, lodge the 
redoubted bowman in the dungeon of Kussnacht, there to undergo 
the rigour of his sentence. 

The evening was line and promising ; the boat danced along 
the placid waters. The air was pure, the waves tranquil, the 
stars shone brightly in the sky. A light southern breeze aided 
the efforts of the oarsmen, and tempered the rigour of the cold, 
which night in that season rendered almost insupportable so 
near the glaciers. All appeared in Gessler's favour. The extent 
of the first section of the lake was soon passed, and the boat 
headed for Brunnen. Tell, meantime, loaded with irons, gazed 
with eager eye, shaded by melancholy, on the desert rocks of 
Grutli, where, the day before, he had planned with his friends 
the deliverance of his country. While painful thoughts crossed 
his mind, his looks were attracted to the neighbourhood of 
Altorf by a dim light which burst forth near his own house. 
Presently this light increased, and before long', a tremendous 
blaze arose visible all over Uri. The heart of the prisoner beat 
joyously within him, for he felt that efforts were making to 
rescue him. Gessler and his satellites observed the flame, which 
in reality was a signal fire to rouse the cantons ; upon which, 
however, the Austrians gazed with indifference, supposing it 
some Swiss peasant's house accidentally on fire. 

Suddenly, however, between Fluelen and Sissigen, when in 
deep water, intermingled with shoals, the south wind ceased to 
blow, and one of those storms which are common on the lake 
commenced. A north wind, occasionally shifting to the west- 
ward, burst upon them. The wind, which usually marked the 
approach of a dangerous tempest, raised the waves to a great 
height, bore them one against another, and dashed them over 
the g'unwale of the boat, which, giving w^ay to the fury of the 
storm, turned and returned, and despite the efforts of the oars- 
men, who were further damped by an unskilful pilot being at 
the helm, flew towards the shore, that, rocky and precipitous, 
menaced their lives : the wind, also, brought frost, snow, and 
clouds, which, obscuring the heavens, spread darkness over the 
water, and covered the hands and face of the rowers with sharp 
icicles. The soldiers, pale and horror-stricken, prayed for life; 
while Gessler, but ill prepared for death, was profuse in his offers 



of money and other rewards if they would rouse themselves to 
save him. 

In this emergency the Austrian bailiff was reminded by one of 
his attendants that the prisoner Tell was no less skilful in the 
management of a boat than in the exercise of the bow. " And 
see, my lord/' said one of the men, representing to Gessler the 
imminent peril they were all incurring — " all, even the pilot, are 
paralysed with terror, and he is totally unfit to manage the helm. 
Why then not avail thyself, in desperate circumstances, of one 
who, though a prisoner, is robust, well-skilled in such stormy 
scenes, and who even now appears calm and collected ? " Gessler's 
fear of Tell induced him at first to hesitate ; but the prayers of 
the soldiers becoming pressing, he addressed the prisoner, and 
told him that if he thought himself capable of promoting the 
general safety, he should be forthwith unbound. Tell, having 
replied that by the grace of God he could still save them, was 
instantly freed from his shackles, and placed at the helm, when 
the boat answering to a master's hand, kept its course steadily 
through the bellowing surge, as if conscious of the free spirit 
which had now taken the command. 

Guiding the obedient tiller at his will. Tell pointed the head 
of the boat in the direction whence they came, which he 
knew to be the only safe course, and encouraging and cheer- 
ing the rowers, made rapid and steady progress through the 
water. The darkness which now wrapped them round prevented 
Gessler from discovering that he had turned his back on his 
destination. Tell continued on his way nearly the whole night, 
the dying light of the signal-fire on the mountain serving as a 
beacon in enabling him to approach the shores of Schwytz, and 
to avoid the shoals. 

Between Sissigen and Fluelen are two mountains, the greater 
and the lesser Achsenberg, whose sides, hemming in and rising 
perpendicularly from the bed of the lake, offered not a single 
platform where human foot could stand. When near this place, 
dawn broke in the eastern sky, and Gessler, the danger appear- 
ing to decrease, scowled upon William Tell in sullen silence. As 
the prow of the vessel was driven inland. Tell perceived a solitary 
table rock, and called to the rowers to redouble their efforts till 
they should have passed the precipice ahead, observing with omi- 
nous truth that it was the most dangerous point on the whole lake. 

The soldiers here recognised their position, and pointed it out 
to Gessler, who, with angry voice, demanded of Tell what he 
meant by taking them back to Altorf. William, without answer- 
ing him, turned the helm hard a-port, which brought the boat 
suddenly close upon the rock, seized his faithful bow, and with 
an effort which sent the unguided craft back into the lake, 
sprang lightly on shore, scaled the rocks, and took the direction 
of Schwytz. 

Having thus escaped the clutches of the governor, he made fop 


the heights which border the main road between Art and Kuss- 
nacht, and choosing" a small hollow in the road, hid himself 
under cover of the brush, intending to remain in ambush until 
such time as the bailiif should pass that Avay. It appears that 
the governor had the utmost difficulty to save himself and his 
attendants after this sudden disappearance of their pilot, but at 
length succeeded in effecting a safe landing at Brunnen. Here 
they provided themselves with horses, and proceeding in the 
direction above alluded to, advanced towards Kussnacht. In the 
spot still known as " the hollow way," and marked by a chapel, 
Tell overheard the threats pronounced against himself should he 
be once more caught, and, in default ol his apprehension, ven- 
geance was vowed against his family. Tell felt that the safety 
of himself and his wife and children, to say nothing of the duty 
he owed to his country, required the tyrant's death. He in- 
stantly, therefore, showed himself, and seizing an opportune 
moment, pierced Gessler to the heart with one of his arrows. 

This bold deed accomplished, the excited hero effecting his 
escape, made the best of his way to Art, and thence soon gained 
the village of Steinen, where he found Werner Stauffacher pre- 
paring to march. The news, however, which Tell brought, re- 
moved the necessity for further immediate action, and prompt 
measures were taken to arrest the progress of their allies. A joy, 
which deeply proved the wrongs of the people, spread over the 
whole land, and though they delayed to strike the blow for uni- 
versal freedom from the Austrian yoke, the final decision of the 
conspirators was only the greater. 

On the morning of New-Year's Day 1308, the castle of Ross- 
berg*, in Obwalden, was adroitly taken possession of, and its 
keeper, Bereng'er of Landenberg, made prisoner, and compelled 
to promise that he never again would set foot within the territory 
of the three cantons; after which he was allowed to retire to 
Lucerne. Stauffacher, during the earlier hom-s of the same morn- 
ing, at the head of the men of Schwytz, marched towards the lake 
Lowerz, and destroyed the fortress of Schwanau ; while Tell and 
the men of Uri took possession of Altorf. On the following Sunday 
the deputies of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden met and renewed 
that fraternal leag-ue which has endured even unto this day. 

In 1315, Leopold, second son of Albert, determined to punish 
the confederate cantons for their revolt, and accordingly marched 
against them at the head of a considerable army, accompanied 
by a numerous retinue of nobles. Count Otho of Strassberg-, one 
of his ablest generals, crossed the Brunig with a body of four 
thousand men, intending to attack Upper Unterwalden. The 
bailiffs of Willisau, of Wollhausen, and of Lucerne, meantime 
armed a fourth of that number to make a descent on the lower 
division of the same canton; while the emperor in person, at 
the head of his army of reserve, poured down from Egerson 
on Morgarten, in the country of Schwytz, ostentatiously dis- 



playing an extensive supply of rope wherewith to hang' the 
chiefs of the rebels — a hasty reckoning of victory, which reminds 
ns of similar conduct and similar results when Wallace repulsed 
the invaders of Scotland. 

The confederates, in whose ranks were William Tell and Furst, 
in order to oppose this formidable invasion, occupied a position 
in the mountains bordering on the convent of our Lady of the 
Hermits. Four hundred men of Uri, and three hundred of Un- 
terwalden, had effected a junction with the warriors of Schvrjrtz, 
who formed the principal numerical force of this little army. 
Fifty men, banished from this latter canton, offered themselves 
to combat beneath their native banner, intending to efface, by 
their valour and conduct, the remembrance of their past faults. 
Early on the morning of the 15th of November 1315, some thou- 
sands of well-armed Austrian knights slowly ascended the hill on 
which the Swiss were posted, with the hope of dislodging them ; 
the latter, however, advanced to meet their enemies, uttering the 
most terrific cries. The band of banished men, having precipitated 
huge stones and fragments of rocks from the hill-sides, and from 
overhanging cliffs, rushed from behind the sheltering influence 
of a thick fog, and threw the advancing host into confusion. 
The Austrians immediately broke their ranks, and presently a 
complete route, with terrible slaughter, ensued. The confederates 
marched boldly on, cheered by the voice and example of Henry 
of Ospenthal, and of the sons of old Redding of Biberegg. 

The flower of the Austrian chivalry perished on the field of 
Morgarten, beneath the halberts, arrows, and iron-headed clubs 
of the shepherds. Leopold himself, though he succeeded in gain- 
ing the shattered remnant of his forces, had a narrow escape ; 
while the Swiss, animated by victory, hastened to Unterwalden, 
where they defeated a body of Lucernois and Austrians. In this 
instance Count Otho had as narrow an escape as the emperor. 
After these two well-fought fields, the confederates hastened to 
renew their ancient alliance, which was solemnly sworn to in an 
assembly held at Brunnen on the 8th day of December. 

All that remains to be told of the Swiss hero's life is the imme- 
morial tradition, that Wilhelm Tell, the same who shot Gessler in 
1307, assisted at a general meeting of the commune of Uri in 
1337, and perished in 1350 by an inundation which destroyed 
the village of Biirglen, his birthplace. According to Klingenberg's 
chronicle, however, written towards the close of the fourteenth 
century, when many of his contemporaries were still living, 
Wilhelmus Tellus of Uri, as he calls him, the liberator of his 
country, became, after the battle of Morgarten, administrator of 
the affairs of the church of Beringer, where he died in 1354. 

Switzerland owes more to the archer of Biirglen than, at a 
rough glance, she might be supposed to do. It was his bold and 
decisive act which first roused within its people that spirit of in- 
dependence; before slumbering, and since so great in its results : 



Tell showed them, by his example, what courag-e and prudence 
could effect, and gave an impulse to his countrymen of which 
they have not failed to take advantag-e. 

To pursue, however, the history of Swiss independence. Lu- 
cerne shortly after (1332) threw off the yoke of Austria, and 
joined the forest cantons : the Bernese, under Rodolphe of Erlach, 
with the assistance of the other Swiss, defeated in battle such of 
the nobles as oppressed them, and earned their freedom : about 
the same time Zurich overthrew its aristocratic g"overnment, and, 
aided by one of the nobles, g-ained a free constitution. In May 
1351, Albert of Austria again threatening the land, Zurich de- 
manded admittance into the confederation; a furioas and bloody 
war ensued, which terminated in the utter defeat of the Aus- 
trians, and the further reception, at their own earnest request, 
of Zug and Glaris into the number of the cantons. 

The nobility, however, supported by the power of Austria, con- 
tinued to oppress the Swiss wherever they were able ; and the 
emperor, by imposing heavy transit duties, increased their exas- 
peration. Everything tended to another open rupture, and in 
1386 a new war was entered on with the Austrians, and Arch- 
duke Leopold vowed this time to take vengeance on the confede- 
rates, who had so often insulted his power. We shall not pursue 
the history of the events which immediately followed, for they 
disclose a sickening scene of war and bloodshed ; but at once 
state the conclusion, that at the battle of Sempach, fought on the 
9th of July 1386, the Swiss were again victorious over the Aus- 
trians. Another encounter ensued in 1388, equally successful on 
the part of the confederated cantons, with whom the Archduke 
of Austria was fain to conclude a treaty of peace for seven years. 

On the 10th of June 1393, the Swiss drew up a mutual military 
obligation, which was called the convention of Sempach. A 
further peace of twenty years' duration was then agreed on, and 
solemnly observed. The imiposing appearance presented by this 
hardy people, thus gradually advancing towards nationaUty and 
freedom, had its due weight also with her other neighbours, who 
for some years left them in peace. This period of repose was 
used to advantag-e, the Swass improving their internal condition, 
pui'suing their agricultural pursuits, and gradually progressing 
towards civilisation. In a word, they enjoyed during a short 
time the incalculable advantages, and reaped the glorious results, 
of peaceful industry. 

We, however, must quit the agreeable prospect of a happy, 
quiet, and contented people, and pursue the stormy history of 
Swiss independence. The canton of Appenzell, taking courage 
by the example of their neighbours, threw off the severe yoke of 
the abbots of St Gall, and was recognised by Schwytz and 
Glaris : war ensued, in which this new confederate for military 
glory g'ained two most brilliant victories over the Austrians, and 
finished by formally joining the confederation, which was soon 



farther strengthened by the addition of Argovia. Switzerland 
now assumed a somewhat lofty position, dictating" implicit 
obedience to all its neighbours : the Grisons, too, about this time 
began to hold their heads erect, and to defy the Austrian power. 

Frederick of Austria, however, having come to the throne, 
proclaimed his intention of retaking all the places gained by the 
Swiss, and in 1442 secretly formed an alliance with Zurich most 
disgraceful to that canton : the indignant Swiss immediately 
declared war against their late ally, whom, in an encounter 
which soon after took place, they utterly defeated. 

The Emperor Frederick, perceiving that he had little chance of 
quelling the insurrectionary spirit of the Swiss without the 
assistance of a foreign power, in 1444 concluded a treaty with 
Charles VII., king of France, who engaged to assist him in the 
subjugation of the revolted Swiss cantons. A French force, 
under the command of the dauphin, afterwards Louis XI., was 
accordingly despatched into Switzerland, and advanced upon th« 
populous and wealthy city of Basle. Suddenly called together 
to repel this new invader, the small Swiss army hastened to 
Basle, and in the morning of the 28th of August (1444) came up 
to the attack. The battle which now ensued is one of the most 
memorable in the Swiss annals, and not less so because the 
French, by their overpowering force, gained the victory. The 
gallant resistance of the Swiss, however, was favourable to the 
cause of freedom. Basle, on surrendering, obtained favourable 
terms from the dauphin, who was so much pleased with the 
bravery of the Swiss soldiers, that when he became king of 
France, his first care was to engage a Swiss battalion in his 
service ; and thus the practice of employing Swiss was intro- 
duced into the policy of the French monarchs. The engagement 
before the walls of Basle, usually styled the battle of St Jacques, 
is till this day commemorated every two years by a public festival. 

The cession of Basle proved only temporary. Other battles 
ensued, in which the confederated Swiss were generally victo- 
rious. Indeed never, in the whole history of the world, has a 
more striking example been presented of the great moral force 
which right gives to a people, than that presented by Switzer- 
land. Strong in the love of liberty, and in the justness of their 
cause, they met and overcame the vast mercenary hordes of the 
conqueror, whose only claim was the sword, and whose aggres- 
sions were founded on no one principle of legality or justice. 
The cession of Friburg to Savoy by Austria, when unable to pre- 
serve it herself, which occurred about this time, was one of those 
acts of arbitrary power which characterised the whole Austrian 
system of policy. The internal quarrels and dissensions in Swit- 
zerland could alone have rendered them blind to the necessity of 
preventing this transfer. At the same time, never were concord 
and unity of purpose more necessary ; for Charles, Duke of Bur- 
gundy, surnamed the Bold, an ambitious prince, whose sole 



delight was in conquest, detennined (1476) to add to his laure!» 
by subjugating: Switzerland. Fourteen years of desolating* wars 
and internal dissensions had but ill prepared its people for new 
struggles ; industry and commerce were expiring in the towns, 
and the culture of the fields was wholly neglected. The mad 
project of Zurich, in allying herself with Austria, cost that canton 
one million and seventy thousand florins, and obliged them to 
withdraw all their loans. War was never more pitiless in its 
course, or more pernicious in its results ; it had already created 
an uneasy and savage spirit in the citizens ; the humbler classes 
learned to prefer fighting and pillage to following the plough, 
feeding their flocks, and pursuing an honourable though laborious 
calling ; and the townsmen were equally unsettled and restless. 

Louis XI. of France, who held the Duke of Burgundy in uttei* 
detestation, had, by the exertion of much political intrig'ue, ac- 
companied by valuable presents to the leading Swiss, engaged 
the confederation in a league against his formidable rival, the 
consequence of which was an iiruption into his country. The 
Swiss were everywhere successful, severely punishing the people 
of Vaud for their devotion to Charles, taking Morat, and march- 
ing to the very gates of Geneva, then in alliance with Burgundy. 
Grandson, on the lake of Neufchatel, was also captured and gar- 
risoned by the Swiss. Suddenly both France and Germany 
made peace with the duke, and, despite all their pledges, aban- 
doned the confederation to its own resources, even facilitating 
the passage of troops through their territory to attack the Swiss. 
These latter, utterly unprepared for this act of perfidy, endea- 
voured to come to terms with Charles; but their overtures were 
angrily rejected, and an army of sixty thousand men marched 
upon Grandson. Crossing the Jura, the duke found Yverdun in 
the possession of his troops, it having been treacherously betrayed 
into his hands, though the citadel held out bravely, as well as 
that of Grandson. Irritated that his progress should thus be 
stayed by a mere handful of men, the duke publicly announced 
his intention of hanging every Swiss within the walls in case of 
a prolonged defence. Unfortunately this menace terrified many, 
and a Burgundian, who could speak German, having gained 
admittance into the citadel, fanned the erroneous feeling, per- 
suading them that Charles sympathised with their courage, and 
would, did they abandon a useless contest, allow them to retire 
home. The Swiss gave credit to this statement, even rewarding 
the negotiator, and surrendered at discretion. However, as they 
marched out of the citadel, they were seized by order of the 
duke, stripped, and inhumanly murdered, to the number of 450, 
some being hung, while others were bound and cast into the lake. 

Indignant at these horrors, the confederates hastened towards 
Grandson, having 20,000 men to oppose an army three times as 
numerous. In the first place the unprovoked invasion of Bur* 
gundy by the Swiss had imparted to the duke's enterprise some 


shadow of justice, but the barharous action above described with- 
drew at once the sympathy of mankind from his proceeding's, 
and never in the whole annals of human strife was an invader 
so justly punished. 

On the 3d of March, at dawn of day, the advanced g-uard of 
the Swiss appeared on the neighbouring heights, and the struggle 
■at once commenced. The Burg-undians almost immediately gave 
way, losing a thousand men, besides the garrison of Grandson, 
whom the Swiss hung up alongside their own relatives and 
friends — an act of reprisal only to be excused in consideration of 
the rudeness and semi-barbarism of the times. Charles escaped 
with difficulty, attended by a few followers, leaving behind a 
treasure valued at a million of florins, as also his camp equipage. 
Arrived at Nozeroy, and writhing under the humihation of his 
overthrow, the duke speedily gathered together a more numerous 
army than he had before commanded, and marched to avenge 
his defeat. He entered Switzerland on this occasion by way of 
Lausanne, in the month of April, and reviewed his troops in the 
neighbourhood of that town. Thence he advanced to the lake 
of Neufchatel, and took up a position on a plain sloping upwards 
from the north bank of the lake of Morat — one of the worst 
which any general would have selected, for the lake in the rear 
cut oif the means of retreat. 

The immediate object of the duke was less to fight a regular 
battle than to capture the town of Morat. This town, however, 
was ably defended by Adrian de Bubenberg, at the head of 1600 
Swiss soldiers, aided by the citizens of the town. Adrian's design 
was to hold out at all hazards till the confederated Swiss could 
reassemble their forces. This was not by any means of easy 
accomplishment. Morat was hard pushed; breaches were effected, 
and towers undermined. But the courage of Bubenberg with- 
stood every effort ; both he and the heroes he commanded hold- 
ing out tirmly until the confederates poured in, aided by their 
allies from Alsace, Basle, St Gall, and Schaffhausen. They were 
likewise promptly joined, despite the inclement weather, by the 
contingents from Zurich, Argovia, Thurgovia, and Sargens. John 
Waldmann, commander of the Zurichers, reached Berne on the 
night preceding the battle, and found the town illuminated, and 
tables spread before every house, loaded with refreshments for 
the patriot soldiery. Waldmann allowed his men but a few hours 
for repose, sounding a bugle at ten at night for a departure, and 
on the following morning reaching the federal army at Morat, 
fatigued and exhausted, having continued their march all night 
under an incessant and heavy rain. The roads were consequently 
in a very bad state, so that they had been compelled to leave 
about 600 of their companions in the woods quite exhausted. 
After a very short rest, however, these latter also arrived and 
drew up with their friends. 

Day appeared. It was Saturday, the 22d June 1476. The 



weather was threatening', the sky overcast, and rain fell in. 
toiTents. The Burgundians displayed a long Hne of battle, 
while the Swiss scarcely numbered 34,000. A vanguard was 
formed, commanded by John Hallwyl, who knelt and besought 
a blessing from on high. While they yet prayed, the sun broke 
through the clouds, upon which the Swiss commander rose, 
sword in hand, crying, " Up, up. Heaven smiles on oui' coming 
victory ! " The artillery thundered forth as he spoke, and the 
whole plain, from the lake to the rocky heights, became one vast 
battle-tield. Towards the main body of the Burgundians, the 
Swiss army poured down with in'esistible force and courage ; 
and clearing all dijSculties, they reached the lines of the enemy. 
A fearful slau^ter now ensued. The Burgundians were utterly 
vanquished. The haughty duke, pale and dispirited, fled with a 
few followers, and never stopped till he reached the banks of 
Lake Leman. The route was so complete among the Burgun- 
dian army, that many, in terror and despair, threw themselves 
into the lake of Morat, the banks of which were strewed with 
the bodies of the slain. From 10,000 to 15,000 men perished on 
the field. The sun of Charles the Bold of Burgundy set on the 
plain of Morat. In about half a year after, in an equally futile 
attempt on Lorraine, he perished ingloriously at the battle of 
Nancy (January 7, 1477). His body was found a few days 
afterwards sunk amidst ice and mud in a ditch, and so disfigured, 
that he was only recognised by the length of his beard and nails, 
which he had allowed to grow since the period of his defeat at 
Morat. The page of history presents few more striking instances 
of the retributive punishment of inordinate pride, ferocity, and 

^ The battle of Morat vies in history with the victories of Mara- 
thon and Bannockburn. As the deed which for ever freed a 
people from a grasping foreign tyi'ant, it was a matter of univer- 
sal rejoicing, and till the present day is the subject of national 
traditions. According to one of these, a young native of Fri- 
burg, who had been engaged in the battle, keenly desirous of 
being the fii'st to caiTy home tidings of the victory, ran the 
whole way, a distance of ten or twelve miles, and with such 
over-haste, that, on his arrival at the market-place, he dropped 
with fatigue, and, barely able to shout that the Swdss were vic- 
torious, immediately expired. A twig of lime-tree, which he 
carried in his hand, was planted on the spot in commemoration 
of the event ; and till the present day are seen, in the market- 
place of Friburg, the aged and propped-up remains of the 
venerable tree which grew from this interesting twig. 

Some years after the battle of Morat, the citizens of that town 
dug up and collected the bones of the Burgundians, as a warn- 
ing to those who might in future attempt the conquest of 
Switzerland. Subsequently, they were entombed beneath a 
xaonumental chapel j but again they were disinterred, and long 


remained as scattered frag-ments on the margin of tlie lake, and 
became a marketable commodity. In the course of his travels, 
Lord Byron visited the spot, which he commemorates in his 
Childe Harold :— 

" There is a spot should not be passed in vain — 
Morat ! — the proud, the patriot field ! — where men 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument." * * 

On visiting" the field of Morat in 1841, we found that the 
bones of the Burgundians had been once more collected and 
entombed by the side of the lake, at a central spot in the 

Elain where the victory was achieved. Over the remains a 
andsome obelisk, commemorative of the battle, has been erected 
by the cantonal authorities of Friburg. 

To return to the history of Switzerland. By the victory of 
Morat a number of the cantons were free to form an independent 
confederation, and the way was prepared for a general union. 
In 1481 Friburg and Soleure, and in 1501 Basle and Schaff- 
hausen, were numbered among the free cantons. In 1512 
Tessin was gained from Milan, and in 1513 Appenzell was ad- 
mitted into the confederacy. Two important parts of modern 
Switzerland still remained under a foreign, or at least despotic 
yoke. These were Geneva and the Pays de Vaud, the latter 
a fine district of country lying on the north side of Lake 
Leman. The progress of the Reformation under Zuinglius and 
Calvin helped to emancipate these cantons. In 1535 the power 
of the Bishop of Geneva, by whom the town and canton had 
been governed, was set at naught, the Roman Catholic faith 
abolished by law, and the Genevese declared themselves the 
masters of a free republic. The Duke of Savoy, who latterly 
held sway over the Pays de Vaud, interfered to suppress the 
revolt of the Genevese ; but this brought Berne into the field, 
and with a large army that canton expelled the troops of 
the duke, along with the Bishop of Lausanne, took the castle 
of Chillon, and, in short, became the conquerors of the Pays 
de Vaud. Chillon here spoken of is a strongly fortified castle 
near the eastern extremity of Lake Leman, partly within 
whose waters it stands. On the occasion of its capture the 
Genevese assisted with their galleys, while the army from Berne 
attacked it by land. On being captured, many prisoners were 
liberated ; among others, Franfois de Bonnivard, who had been 
imprisoned on account of his liberal principles, and the sympathy 
he had manifested in the cause of the Genevese. 

By the peace of Lausanne, in 1564, Savoy renounced her 
claims on the Pays de Vaud, and was thus driven from Switzer- 
land as Austria had been before. Vaud henceforth became a 


portion of Berne, but has latterly been declared an independent 
canton. By the events narrated, the Swiss were not altogether 
free of occasional invasions from without ; nor were they without 
intestine divisions, caused chiefly by relig-ious diiferences; yet, 
on the whole, they maintained their integ-rity, and extended 
their boundaries by the absorption of districts hitherto under the 
oppressive dominion of feudal barons. By the peace of West- 
phalia, Switzerland was recognised by Europe as an indepen- 
dent republic. 


From having- been a country imiversally oppressed by native 
barons or foreign powers, Switzerland, after a strugg'le, as we 
have seen, of five hundred years, attained in 1648 its political 
independence. For nearly a century and a half after this event, 
the country, though occasionally vexed by internal dissensions, 
enjoyed a state of comparative repose. Commerce, agriculture, 
and manufactures prospered, and the arts and sciences were cul- 
tivated. The people generally enjoyed civil freedom and nume- 
rous municipal rights ; certain towns, corporations, and families, 
however, inherited and maintained peculiar privileges, which 
were the source of occasional dispeace. From the reform of these 
abuses the nation was suddenly diverted by the French Revolu- 
tion in 1790. The French took possession of Switzerland, and 
converted the confederacy into the Helvetic republic — Helvetia 
being the ancient Roman name of the country. 

The oppressions of the French intruders at length roused the 
Swiss to attempt a relief from this new foreign yoke. A civil 
war ensued; and Napoleon Bonaparte, by way of conciliation, 
restored the cantonal system, and gave freedom to districts 
hitherto subordinate to the Swiss confederacy, so as to increase 
the number of the cantons. In 1814, with the sanction of the 
congress of Vienna, the old federal compact was established ; and, 
November 20, 1815, the eight leading powers in Europe — Austria, 
Russia, France, England, Prussia, Spain, Portugal, and Sweden 
— ^proclaimed, by a separate act, the perpetual neutrality of Swit- 
zerland, and the inviolability of its soil. In 1830 a considerable 
reform of abuses was generally eifected, and since that period 
Switzerland has been, politically, not only the most free, but 
also one of the most prosperous and happy countries in Europe. 

It now comprehends twenty -three cantons, as follows: — 
Zurich, Berne, Lucerne, Uri, Schweitz, Unterwalden, Glarus, 
Zug, Friburo", Soleure, Basle-town, Basle-country, Schaffhausen, 
Appenzell, St Gall, Grisons, Aargau, Thurgau, Tessin, Vaud, 
Valais, Neufchatel, and Geneva ; the whole containing about two 
millions and a half of people. The cantons, though in some cases 
not larger than an English county, are each independent states 
as far as internal government is concerned ; and are united only 
in a confederacy for mutual protection and general interests, 



Deputies sent hj each meet and form a diet or parliament, the 
seat of which is alternately at Berne, Lucerne, and Zurich. 

In Uri, Schweitz, Unterwalden, Zug-, Glarus, Schaffhausen^ 
Appenzell, St Gall, Grisons, Aargau, Thurgau, Tessin, Vaud, 
Valais, and Geneva, the constitutions are democratic ; in the 
remaining cantons they are of a mixed aristocratic and demo- 
cratic character. Neufchatel possesses a peculiar constitution. 
Although enjoying the name oi a canton, and admitted by repre- 
sentation into the diet, it is in point of fact a principality, under 
the control of Prussia, in virtue of a hereditary family claim of 
the Prussian monarch. This claim, by which an annual tribute 
is imposed, is the last wreck of arbitrary authority within the 
Swiss territories. 

Some cantons are Roman Catholic, and others Protestant. 
Except in Geneva, there is little practical toleration of any belief 
not generally professed ; and this intolerance is perhaps one of 
the least pleasing traits in the Swiss character. German is the lan- 
guage of the greater number of the cantons ; French is spoken 
only in Geneva, Vaud, and Neufchatel ; and Italian in part of the 
Grisons and Tessin. Elementary education is widely established, 
and the country possesses some learned societies; but, on the 
whole, Switzerland has made a poor hgure in literature, and the 
public mind is more occupied with the real than the imaginary 
or the refined. 


The principal towns in Switzerland are Berne, Basle, Zurich, 
Lucerne, Lausanne, and Geneva. Berne is generally esteemed 
the capital : it certainly is one of the most elegant and wealthy 
of the cities. In the different towns and villages throughout 
the country, manufactures are carried on to a considerable extent 
for home consumption and export. The manufacturing industry 
of Switzerland in some measure takes its tone from the distinc- 
tions of race in the population. The Germans engage in the 
manufacture of iron and machinery, linens, ribbons, silk, cotton, 
pottery, and some kind of toys ; while the French, from their 
superior artistic tastes, employ themselves in making watches,, 
jewellery, musical boxes, and other elegant objects. Iron of a 
superior quality is found in one of the cantons ; and coal is also- 
dug, but it is of a poor quality, and wood forms the chief fuel. 
Salt is now made within the canton of Basle, and in the Valais. 
From the prevalence of rapid running streams, there is an abun- 
dance of water-power in almost all quarters. 

Geneva and Neufchatel are the seat of the watch manufacture, 
a large proportion of the watches being made in hamlets and 
villages throughout the two cantons. In the long valley called the 
Val Travers, stretching from the neighbourhood of Neufchatel 
to the borders of France, and at Locle, in the same quarter, are 
numerous small factories of these elegant articles. The existence 



of a great manufacture in cottages scattered over fifty miles of 
mountains, covered some months in the year with snows so deep 
as to imprison the inhabitants in their dwellings, is a singular 
fact in social economy well worthy of notice. One of the most 
intelligent of the village watchmakers presented Dr Bo wring- 
with an interesting account of the origin and progress of this 
remarkable trade, from which we draw the following pas-^ 
sages : — 

" As early as the seventeenth century, some workmen had 
constructed wooden clocks with weights, after the model of the- 
parish clock, which was placed in the church of Locle in the 
year 1630. But no idea had as yet been conceived of making" 
clocks with springs. It was only about the latter end of the- 
same century that an inhabitant of these mountains, having 
returned from a long voyage, brought back with him a watch^ 
an object which was till that time unknown in the country.. 
Being obliged to have his watch repaired, he carried it to a 
mechanic named Richard, who had the reputation of being a 
skilful workman. 

Richard succeeded in repairing the watch , and having atten- 
tively examined its mechanism, conceived the idea of construct- 
ing a similar article. By dint of labour and perseverance, he at 
length succeeded, though not without having had great diffi- 
culties to surmount ; and he was compelled to construct all the 
different movements of the watch, and even to manufacture 
some ill-finished tools in order to assist him in his labours. When 
this undertaking was completed, it created a great sensation in 
the country, and excited the emulation of several men of genius 
to imitate the example of their fellow-citizen ; and thus, very 
fortunately, watchmaking was gradually introduced among our 
mountains, the inhabitants of which had hitherto exercised no- 
other trade or profession than those which were strictly necessary 
to their daily wants, their time being principally employed in 
cultivating an ungrateful and unproductive soil. Our moun- 
taineers were frequently compelled, before the introduction of 
the above-named industry, to seek for work during the summer 
months among the people of the surrounding country. They 
rejoined their families in the winter, being enabled, from their 
economical savings, the moderateness of their wants, and the 
produce of a small portion of land, to supply themselves with 
the necessaries of life. And it must be remarked, also, that the 
entire liberty which they enjoyed, united to the absence of any 
description of taxation, greatly tended to reUeve the hardships 
of their lot. 

For a number of years, those who betook themselves to watch- 
making were placed at a great disadvantage, by having to im- 
port their tools ; but these they in time learned to make and 
greatly to improve upon. In proportion as men embraced the 
profession of watchmaking, the art became more developed; 



several returned from Paris, where they had g'one to perfect 
themselves, and contributed by their knowledge to advance the 
eeneral skill. It is not more than eig-hty or ninety years since 
a few merchants began to collect together small parcels of 
watches, in order to sell them in foreign markets. The success 
which attended these speculations induced and encouraged the 
population of these countries to devote themselves still more to 
the production of articles of ready sale ; so much so, that very 
nearly the whole population has, with a very few exceptions, 
embraced the watchmaking trade. Meanwhile the population 
has increased threefold, independently of the great number of 
workmen who are established in almost all the towns of Europe, 
in the United States of America, and even in the East Indies and 
China. It is from this period, also, that dates the change which 
has taken place in the country of Neufchatel, where, notwith- 
standing the barrenness of the soil and the severity of the climate, 
beautiful and well-built villages are everywhere to be seen, con- 
nected by easy communications, together with a very considerable 
and industrious population, in the enjoyment, if not of great for- 
tunes, at least of a happy and easy independence. 

Thus, in defiance of the difficulties which it was necessary to 
overcome, in spite of the obstacles which were opposed to the in- 
troduction of the produce of our industry into other countries, 
and notwithstanding the prohibitions which enfeebled its develop- 
ment, it has at length attained a prodigious extension. It may 
be further remarked, that, from the upper valleys of Neufchatel, 
where it originated, it has spread from east to west into the 
valleys of the Jura, and into the cantons of Berne and Vaud ; 
and further, that all these populations form at present a single 
and united manufactory, whose centre and principal focus is in 
the mountains of Neufchatel." 

It is very pleasing to know that the watchmaking trade of 
Neufchatel continues to prosper in spite of all the restrictions of 
surrounding states. In 1834, the number of watches manufac- 
tured annually in the canton was about 120,000, of which 35,000 
were of gold, and the rest of silver. When to this we add the 
watches manufactured in the adjoining canton of Geneva, an 
idea may be obtained of the magnitude of this flourishing branch 
of trade. It is extremely probable that not fewer than 300,000 
watches are exported annually from Geneva and Neufchatel. 
The greater proportion are necessarily smuggled out of the coun- 
try, in consequence of the heavy duties or positive prohibitions 
of France, Austria, and other nations, through which they must 
go to find an outlet to America, England, Turke;y-, and countries 
still more remote. Latterly, by the lowering of import duties, 
many Swiss watches are imported in a regular way into Eng- 

The manufacture of wooden toys, such as small carved figures 
and boxes, is also carried on in the mountainous parts of Switzer- 



land, many of the rural labourers employing" themselves on these 
articles at leisure hours, and particularly during the winter sea- 
son, when out-door labour is stopped. Among" the hills near 
Unterseen and Interlaken, we have observed a number of these 
interesting domestic manufactories, by which, at little cost, many 
comforts are procured. 

Appenzell takes the lead in cotton manufactures, and Zurich 
in the spinning and weaving of silk. It is most extraordinary 
how the manufacture of these bulky articles should prosper, con- 
sidering the distance of the country from the sea. Surrounded 
by hostile, or at least rival and jealous neighbours, and with a 
long land-carriage, on which heavy tolls are imposed, to and 
from sea-ports, the Swass still contrive to carry on a successful 
foreign trade, and even outdo the French and Germans in point 
of skill and cheapness. The whole social condition of the Swiss 
is curious. The bulk of the country is divided into small pos- 
sessions, each cultivated or superintended by its proprietor^ 
There are few persons with large estates ; and " landed gentle- 
men," as they are termed in England, are almost unknown. The 
rural population, therefore, whether agricultui^sts in the valleys 
or plains, or sheep or neat-herds among the hiUs, are, for the 
greater part, only a superior kind of peasants, few of whom 
possess the wealth or comforts of modern Scotch farmers. In 
some districts the people unite the character of agTiculturists 
and artisans. On certain days or seasons, or at certain hours, 
they work on their little farms, and the rest of their time is 
employed in weaving, toy -making, or in some other handi- 
craft. Instead of confining themselves to towns, the Swiss ope- 
ratives prefer working in villag-es, or in cottages scattered on 
the faces of the hills ; for there they are near the g'ardens or 
fields which they delight in cultivating, and there they can 
unexpensively keep a cow, goat, or pig. A great number have 
goats, for the sake of their milk, and because their keep is next 
to nothing in the way of outlay. 

The diligence with which the families of Swiss workmen pur- 
sue their labours in and out of doors at these rural retreats, is. 
spoken of by all travellers as a kind of wonder; and in the 
neighbourhood of Zurich it appears in its most captivating form^ 
Wandering up the slopes of the hills, we perceive numerous- 
clusters of cottages, inhabited principally by weavers, from which 
the sound of the shuttle is heard to proceed. Here, as elsewhere,, 
the cottages are chiefly of wood, but substantial, and are gene- 
rally ornamented with vines clinging" to the picturesque eaves of 
the roof. All around are patches of garden, or small enclosed 
fields, sufficient, probabl^^, to pasture one or two goats, with 
some ground under crops of j)otatoes. Industry is everywhere 
observable. If the husband is at the loom, his wife is out of 
doors at the potato-ridges; a g'irl is winding bobbins, and a boy 
is attending the goat. Baby leads the only sinecure life, and is 



seen sprawling- at his ease on a cushion laid on the ground at a 
short distance from the mother. The people, in this way, are 
constantly at work. They may be seen labouring in the helds 
before sunrise and after sunset. With all their labour, in and 
out of doors, families do not realise above eight or nine shillings 
each weekly. Provisions are cheaper than in England, and the 
taxes are few and light; but, with these advantages in their 
favour, the Swiss do not realise so high a remuneration as Eng- 
lish operatives. Yet, with their few shillings weekly, they are 
generally better off than workmen in this country, because they 
are exceedingly economical. The Swiss operative employs his 
spare hours in making his own or his children's clothes, and his 
wife and children are all productive in some humble waj ; so 
that, being frugal and easily contented, the family is never ill off. 
All contrive to save something. With their savings they build 
or buy a cottage, and purchase a piece of ground ; and to attain 
this amount of riches — to have this substantial stake in the 
country — is their highest ambition. That a large proportion of 
English and Scotch workmen could in the same manner, and 
with their comparatively high wages, attain the same degree of 
wealth and respectability, there can be no reasonable doubt. The 
sixty millions of pounds spent annually in Great Britain on in- 
toxicating liquors, could buy many a comfortable cottage, sur- 
rounded by a productive field or garden, the seat of health and 

The most remarkable point in the social economy of Switzer- 
land, is the universal principle of freedom in trade, in which 
respect it has no parallel on the face of the earth. While in 
Great Britain the principles of a free exchange of commodities 
are still nothing more than a theory, in Switzerland they are a 
practical good. A free export and import are permitted. The 
government has no custom-house establishment, either in refe- 
rence to the general frontiers, or the frontiers of the respective 
states: the only impediment to the transport of goods of any 
description, in any direction, is the exaction of tolls, at the rate 
of about one penny per hundredweight, for the benefit of the 
cantonal revenues ; from which, however, the roads are kept in 
repair. At all the great outlets from Switzerland, strong bodies 
of douaniers, or armed custom-house officers, are stationed by 
the authorities of other nations, for the purpose of rigorously 
examining and taxing all articles that come out of the Swiss 
territory ; but within the Swiss side of these outlets, there are 
no officials to pay the least attention to anything that comes into 
the country; and, in point of fact, the French, Germans, and 
other neighbours, export to Switzerland whatever goods they 
please, including all kinds of foreign produce, without being 
charged any duty whatever. This very remarkable state of 
things is partly ascribable to the contending interests of the 
different cantons. Some cantons are agricultural, and others 



-contain large seats of manufacture. But the agricultural cantons 
would feel it very hard to be obliged to buy manufactured goods 
from a neighbouring* canton at a dearer rate than they could 
buy them from somewhere abroad ; the peasantry of Vaud have 
no idea of emptying their pockets to benefit the manufacturers of 
Basle or Zurich. Another cause, perhaps, is the vast expense 
which would be necessarily incurred by attempting to watch a 
widely-extended boundary beset by active contrabandists. It is 
at the same time fair to state, that in all the deliberations of the 
Swiss authorities for a number of years, there appears to have 
been a great unanimity of feehng on the propriety of abstaining 
from restrictions on commerce. A committee appointed by the 
diet in 1833, to consider the subject of foreign relations, made 
the following report, one of the most extraordinary ever uttered 
by the members of a legislative body : — 

" First — The Swiss confederation shall irrevocably adhere to 
its established system of free trade and manufacture. Second — 
Under no circumstances and no conditions shall it form a part 
of the French custom-house system, of the Prussian commercial 
league, or the custom-house line of any foreign nation. Third — 
It shall use every effort for the establishment and extension of 
the principles of free trade. Fourth — It shall, as far as possible, 
discuss and establish conventions with the neighbom-ing states 
for the disposal of agi'icultural and vineyard produce and cattle, 
for obtaining the free ingress of corn, and for maintaining the 
daily, reciprocal, economical, neighbourly, and border traffic and 
market transactions. Fifth — Wherever a free trade is not ob- 
tainable, it shall endeavour to remove all prohibitions, to lower 
duties, and to secure the power of transit on the most favourable 
terms. Sixth — When exceptional favours can be obtained, they 
shall be used for the advancement of those measures which lead 
to the accomplishment of the ends proposed ; so, however, that 
exchanges be not thereby limited, nor personal liberty interfered 
with. Seventh — In the interior of Switzerland, it shall make 
every exertion to assist industry, and to remove impediments to 
intercourse ; taking care, however, that it do not interfere with 
the personal concerns of merchants or manufacturers." 

Ail restrictions on the importation of articles from other coun- 
tries being thus removed, it might be supposed by some that the 
country would be deluged with foreign manufactures, g'reatly 
to the injury of native capitaUsts and workmen. But this does 
not appear to be the case. In several branches of manufacture 
the Swiss excel ; and the opportunity of buying certain kinds of 
foreign produce, at a particularly cheap rate, enables the people 
to encourage the growth of other manufactures in their own 
country. The peasant who buys an English-made knife at half 
what he could buy a Swiss one for, has a half of his money 
remaining wherewith to purchase a native-made ribbon ; hence, 
Swiss manufactures of one kind or other are sui^e to be encouraged. 




Switzerland is celebrated for its picturesque beauty, and is a 
favourite resort of tourists from England ; these generally reach 
it by ascending the Rhine in steam-vessels as far as Strasburg^ 
and"^ thence by railway to Basle. Its lakes are the most beau- 
tiful of their kind, for they are surrounded with lofty hills, the 
lower parts of which are green, and the higher rocky and grand. 
The many pretty cottages on the hills are also a striking feature 
in the scene. The finest of the lakes is that of Lucerne, extend- 
ing southwards from that town from twenty to thirty miles, and 
which, for the accommodation of travellers, is now daily traversed 
by a small steamboat. 

The thing which imparts to the Lake of Lucerne a character 
beyond that of mere physical beauty, is its connexion with the 
history of Helvetic independence. It is Tell's lake — its shores, 
as we have seen, are the scene of his exploits — and hence they 
bear that kind of moral charm which consecrates the ground on 
which heroic actions have been evoked. In the true spirit of a 
poet, Rogers has referred to the sentiment which thus clothes the 
rugged headlands and steeps of Lucerne with hallowed recol- 
lections : — 

" That sacred lake, withdrawn among the liills, 
Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall, 
Built by the giant race before the flood ; 
Where not a cross or chapel but inspires 
Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God 
From god-like men. * * 

That in the desert sowed the seeds of life, 
Training a band of small republics there, 
Which still exist, the envy of the world ! 
Who would not land in each, and tread the ground — 
Land where Tell leaped ashore — and climb to drink 
^ Of the three hallowed fountains ? He that does, 
Comes back the better. * * 

Each cliff", and headland, and green promontory, 
Graven with records of the past, 
Excites to hero-worship." 

The lake, which is most irregular in its outline, bending into 
divers forms, is sometimes named the Lake of the Four Cantons, 
from having Lucerne, Unterwalden, Uri, and Schweitz, as its 
boundaries. On the west side rises Mount Pilatus, and on the 
east the Righi. Beyond this to the south, the shores are pre- 
cipitous, and clothed with green shrubs. The ground in such 
places does not admit of roads ; the only means of access from 
knoll to knoll being by boats or precarious pathways among the 
cliffs. Llere the tourist arrives in front of what is called TelFs 
chapel, which is situated on the eastern side of the lake, at the foot 
of the Achsenberg, a mountain rising to a height of 6732 feet, to 
which may be added a depth of 600 feet below the surface of the 



water. The chapel, which is a very small edifice, of a pavilion 
form, open in front, and disting'uished hj a small spire on its 
roof, is erected on a shelf of rock jutting out from the almost 
precipitous bank, and close upon the edge of the lake. The only 

Tell's Chapel. 

means of access is by boats. Here, according to tradition, Tell 
leaped ashore, and escaped from the boat in which he was in the 
course of being conveyed to the dungeons of Kiissnacht. The 
chapel, we are told, was erected in 1380, or thirty-one years after 
the death of the hero, by order of the assembled citizens X)f Uri, 
in commemoration of the event. The chapel is fitted up with an 
altar, and its walls ornamented with a few daubs of pictures ; its 
general appearance is wild and desolate ; and only once a-year, 
on a particular festival, is any religious service performed within 
it, A few miles farther on is Fluelen, the port of the canton of 
Uri ; and here the lake terminates. Altorf, where Tell shot the 
apple, is a few miles distant, up the vale of the Reuss. 

Passing southwards from Lucerne, the tourist generally visits 
a region of lofty mountains, called the Bernese Alps — alj) being 
a word sigTiifying a heig'ht. The principal of these alps are the 
Wetterhorn, the Schreckhorn, the Finisterarhorn, the Eiger, the 
Moench, and the Jungfrau, We present in next page a sketch of 
these snow-clad mountains, as seen at a distance of thirty to 
forty miles. The loftiest is the Jungfrau, which rises to a heig'ht 
of 12,000 feet. They are covered summer and winter with snow 
and ice, and have a dazzling white appearance on the horizon. 



Having' visited these interesting" mountains, the traveller 
usually proceeds on his journey southwards till he reaches the 
ValaiS; a long* and romantic glen, stretching- in an easterly direc- 

tion from Lake Leman, ©or Lake of Geneva, as it is sometimes 
called. This secluded valley is noted for the number of old and 
young persons called Cretins. These are a species o-f idiots, poor, 
miserable in appearance, and generally unable to attend to their 
own wants. Cretins occur in families in many parts of Switzer- 
land, but most frequently in low and damp sitmations, and in 
cottages where there is a want of ventilation and cleanliness. In 
this and other parts of Switzerland are likewise seen individuals 
afflicted with swellings in the front of the neck, termed goitres. 
Females have more frequently goitres than males ; and the cause 
of this singular swelling has never been correctly ascertained. 

Through the lower part of the Valais flows the Rhone, here a 
small river, which afterwards expands, and forms the large 
and beautiful sheet of water, Lake Leman. This lake, which 
is from fifty to sixty miles in length, by from two to six or seven 
miles across, possesses a singular pecuharity. Its waters, though 
pure and colourless to the eye when taken up in a glass, are in 
their entire mass of a blue colour, as brilliant as if poured from a 
dyer's vat. This peculiarity in the waters of the lake, which has 
never been satisfactorily accounted for, does not exist in the 
lower part of the Rhone, which is of a dirty whitish appearance. 
At the outlet of Lake Leman on the west, stands the ancient city 
of Geneva, partly occupying a lofty height, and partly the low 
ground beneath, with several bridges connecting the two sides of 
the river, just issued from the lake. Geneva, in 1798, was incor- 
porated with France, and it remained in this state till the resto- 
ration of its independence in 1814 ; since which period it has, 
along with a few miles of territory around, formed a distinct 
canton in the Swiss confederation. It remains, however, a 
French town as respects language, and partly manners and 
sentiments, but endowed with that heedful regard for industrial 



pursuits and rational advancement, which gives the place a dis- 
tinguished name among continental cities. Among the foremostr 
to embrace the Reformation, the inhabitants have ever readily 
afforded an asylum to the oppressed from all nations : at present 
it is a place of resort and settlement for intelligent strangers- 
from all quarters. Latterly, Geneva has been greatly improved 
in appearance, and now possesses many fine streets and hand- 
some buildings. 

The environs of Geneva are beautiful, but so is the whole dis- 
trict bordering on Lake Leman. On its southern side lies Savoy^ 
a generally high lying tract, over the top of which, and at the 
distance of sixty miles, is seen the white top of Mont Blanc, re- 
posing in the midst of a tumultuary sea of black hills. On the 
north side of the lake stretches the canton of Vaud, which in it& 
whole extent is unexampled for rural beauty. About the centre 
of Yaud, overlooking the lake, is seen the pretty town of Lau- 
sanne, situated on a low hill, amidst vineyards and gardens. At 
the small port of Ouchy, below Lausanne, steamboats take up 
passengers for various places on the lake. One of the most 
pleasant excursions is to Chillon, near the eastern extremity of 
the lake, on its north side. This interesting old castle is placed 
partly within the margin of the lake, at a part of the shore over- 
hung by a precipitous mountain, and was built in 1238 by 
Amadeus IV., count of Savoy, as a bulwark for defence of his pos- 
sessions, or a den whence he could conveniently make inroads on 
his neighbours. Since it fell into the possession of the Swiss, it 
has been used as a depot for military stores. The buildings are 
entire, but uninhabited. It consists of several open coui'tSy 
environed by tall, rough-cast structures, of immense strength^ 
and shows on all sides the character of a feudal fortress on a 
large scale. The chief building, as may be seen in the engravings 
next page, is a heavy square edifice, overhanging the lake. The 
most interesting part of this structure is a suite of g'loomy arched 
vaults, which, from incontestable appearances, had been, whatr. 
tradition affirms they were, the prison dungeons of Chillon. The 
last is the largest dungeon in the series, and is imdoubtedly the 
prison in which Bonnivard was confined. 

No one who has read the " Prisoner of Chillon " of Byron, can 
enter the low-arched doorway of this dreary tomb of living men 
without emotion. It consists of two aisles, separated by a row of 
seven massive pillars of stone; the aisle on the right, as we 
enter, being hewn out of the rock, and that on the left being of 
arched masonry. The floor is altog'ether of rock, and worn into 
various hollows. The only light admitted is by a small window, 
so high up the wall that no one could see out except by climbing; 
hence it could have afforded little solacement to the prisoners, 
more especially as the custom seems to have been to chain them 
to the pillars. On measuring the vault by pacing, it is found to 
be fifty-two steps in length, and it was at about two-thirds of 



this distance from the doorway that Bonnivard, one of the last 
victims of the Duke of Savoy, was confined. On the side of one 
of the pillars a strong* ring- is still attached, and the surface of the 
stone floor beneath is trodden into uneven forms by the action of 
footsteps. No poetic license has therefore been taken in the 
forcible lines — 

*' Chillon ! thy prison is a lioly place, 

And thy sad floor an altar ; for 'twas trod — 

Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod — 

By Bonnivard ! May none these marks efface ! 
For they aj^peal from tyranny to God ! " 

The pillar thus connected with Bonnivard's imprisonment has 
been an object of curiosity to hundreds of visitors, both before and 
since the place was consecrated by the g"enius of the poet. It is 
■carved all over with names, chiefly French and English; and 
among* these Dryden, Richardson, Peel, Victor Hug-o, and 
Byron, may be observed. Bonnivard, as has been mentioned in 
our previous historical sketch, was imprisoned here on account 
of the sentiments of civil and religious liberty which he enter- 
tained. In the dung'eon we have just noticed he was immured 
for several years, without hope of release ; and it must have 
been to him a joyful sound to hear the attacks of the Bernese 
forces by land, and of the Genevese galleys by water, which at 
length reduced this stronghold of tyranny, and gave liberty to 
its foi'lorn captive. 





CANNOT encourage a boy of your age in begging, 
said a gentleman to a little lad about ten years old, 
who intreated him to give him a halfpenny ; " you 
should work, not beg." " I have not got any work," 
answered the boy. "Would you do it if you had?" in- 
quired the gentleman. " Yes," said the boy. 

" What are your parents 1 " asked the gentleman. " My 
father's dead," replied the child, " and my mother begs, 
and sends me out to beg ; but I keep away from her, because she 
beats me." 

" And where do you sleep at night, when you don't go home ? " 
"Anywhere I can — under a hedge, or in a doorway; some- 
times I get into a stable-loft or an empty cart." 

" That's a miserable life," returned the gentleman ; " come 
with me and I'll give you a trial. What is your name?" 
" George Macmahon." 

" Come along, then, George Macmahon. Now, if you are 
wise, this may prove the turn of your fortune ; but remember, 
beginnings are slow ; you must work first for small wages till 
you are stronger and able to earn more ; but if I see that you 
are willing to work, I will do what I can for you." 

This gentleman, whose name was Herriott, was the overseer 

of some public works ; so, as George's capabilities were yet but 

limited, he put a hammer into his hand, and set him to break 

stones, promising that if he were diligent, and broke as many as 

No. 10. 1 


he could, he should have eightpence a-day, and a place to sleep 
in at night. 

George Macmahon set to his work apparently with a good 
heart. The stones were not very hard, and they had already 
heen hroken into small pieces — his business was to break them 
still smaller ; and when he exerted his strength and struck 
them a good blow, he could do it very well. However, when he 
had worked a little while, he began to make rather long pauses 
between his strokes, and to look a good deal about him, especially 
when any well-dressed persons passed that way; and once or 
twice, when he thought no one was looking, he threw down his 
hammer, and applied himself to his former trade of begging for a 
halfpenny to buy a bit of bread. When he had in this way made 
out some three or four hours, he was accosted by an acquaintance 
of his, a boy about his own age, who was also a beggar. The 
only difference in their situation was, that the mother of the 
latter was veiy sickly, and unable to support him ; but she did 
not beat him, and would not have sent him to beg if she could 
have done anything better for him. 

" What ! " said the new-comer, whose name was John Reid ; 
" have you got leave to break stones 1 " 

" Yes," answered George, " a gentleman has given me a job ; I 
am to have eightpence a-day and a place to sleep in ;" and George 
at that moment felt himself a person of considerable consequence. 

" I wish he would give me a job too/' said John j " do you 
think he would?" 

" You can ask him if you like," answered George ; " that's his 
office, and I saw him go in there just now." So John presented 
himself to Mr Herriott, and said he should be very glad if he 
would give him a job as he had done to George Macmahon ; 
and after asking him a few questions, Mr Herriott supplied him 
with a hammer, and set him to work. 

It was quite evident, from the way he set about it, that it was 
John Reid's intention to break as many stones as he could ; and 
accordingly, by night his heap was much larger than George 
Macmahon's, although he had not worked so long ; but then he 
hit them with all his might, did not make long pauses between 
his strokes to look about him, and when any well-dressed per- 
sons passed, instead of slipping away to beg for a halfpenny, he 
only grasped his hammer with more firmness, gaVe harder blov^'s, 
and appeared more intent upon his work ; for, thought he, it 
makes one look respectable to be employed, but everybody 
despises beggars. At night they each got their eightpence ; for 
although George had not worked as hard as he could, Mr 
Herriott did not wish to discourage him ; and having bought 
themselves some supper, they were conducted to a shed, where 
they passed the night on some clean straw — a much more com- 
fortable bed than they were accustonied to. On the following* 
morning they both repaired to their toil at the sound of the bell 


— John Eeid wdth rather augrmented vigour ; but after the first 
half hour, George Macmahon's strokes became lighter, and his 
pauses longer, till at last he threw down his hammer and burst 
out into a lit of laughter. 

" What's the matter 1 " said John ; " what are you laughing 

"Why, I am laughing to think what fools the gentlefolks 
must be to suppose we'll work for eightpence a-day at breaking 
these stones, when we can earn a shilling a-day by begging, and 
our food besides ; for people give us enough to eat at their doors, 
and then we can spend our money in di'ink." 

" But, then," said John, " we are only beggars, and that's 
such a disgrace." 

" Disgrace ! " said George ; " pooh ! who cares for that ? Surely 
it's better to live without working, if one can?" 

" I don't know that," said Johii : " besides, you know, if we 
go on begging, we shall never get to be better off — we shall 
always be beggars to the last ; but if we work when we are 
young-, we may grow rich by the time we are old, and live like 
the gentlefolks." 

" It's a long time to wait for what may never happen," replied 
George ; " besides, I'm tired of work — it makes my arm ache. 
There's a carriage coming down the hill with some ladies in it ! " 
added he suddenly, and away he ran to beseech the ladies to 
give him a halfpenny to buy a bit of bread. They threw him 
sixpence. "Now, look here," said he to his comrade; "here's 
nearly a day's wages just for the asking- ; one must break a 
pretty lot of stones before one earns sixpence. Come along*; 
throw down yoiu* hammer, and let's be off before Mr Herriott 
sees us." 

"' No, I shan't," responded John ; " I shall stay here and 
break the stones ; but I wish, if you mean to go, you would call 
and tell my mother where I am, and that she shall see me on 

" Sunday ! " cried George ; " you don't mean to stay here till 
Sunday, do you ? " 

" Yes, I do," said John ; " I'll stay as long as they'll keep me." 

George went away laughing at the folly of his companion ; 
and when he met Jane Keid begging, he told her she might 
expect to see John before Sunday, for he was sure his arm would 
be so tired that he would soon give up breaking stones. 

But George was mistaken : John's arm was tired at first, it 
is true, but it soon got accustomed to the labour, and then it 
ceased to ache, and grew daily stronger. Mr Herriott paid him 
his eightpence every night, and let him sleep in the shed ; but 
he took little more notice of him, for he looked upon it as pretty 
certain that he would follow the same course as George Mac- 
mahon had done, and disappear ; and he was justified in thinking 
so, for he had put several beggar boys to the same proof, and 



not one of them had held out above a couple of days. However, 
when a week had elapsed, and John Keid was still hammering" 
away as hard as ever, he began to think better of him— spoke 
to him encouragingly as he passed, showed him how to do his 
work with the greatest ease to himself, and occasionally sent 
him out a slice of bread and meat from his own kitchen. In 
short, John Reid grew into favour, and Mr Herriott began to 
think of putting him into some emplojrment more fit for him 
than breaking stones, which he was scarcely strong enough to 
do yet with advantage to himself or his employer. He therefore 
took him oiF the road, and set him to remove some earth where 
they wanted to make a drain 5 and when this was done, he was 
sent amongst the carters, to help to load the carts, and learn how 
to manage the horses. Thus, as is always the case with boys 
who are industriously inclined, John got on from one thing to 
another, till he found the way to make himself really useful ; 
and as he always did whatever was given him to do to the best 
of his abilities, his services were soon in general request among 
the men ; and John's place became no sinecure. He worked 
hard all day, but then his wages were raised to six shillings 
a-week ; he had enough to eat, and he could afford to pay for 
half a bed, which was a comfort he had very seldom enjoyed : 
and then he had the satisfaction of seemg that he was getting* 
on, and gaining the confidence of his employers. It is true he 
was often extremely tired after his day's work, yet he felt con- 
tented and hapjDy, and rejoiced that he had not followed the 
example of George Macmahon; for he had earned a treasure 
that George knew nothing of — the treasure of hope — hope for 
the future — hope that he might some day have good clothes and 
a nice house, and live comfortably " like the gentlefolks," and 
be called Sir, as Mr Herriott was; for John thought it must 
be very pleasant to be respected and looked up to. And John 
was quite right — it was a very legitimate object of ambition; 
and it would be well if it were more generally entertained 
amongst the poor, because there is but one road to success, and 
that is by the way of industry and honesty. John felt this, and 
that was the reason he liked his work : he saw that it made him 
respectable, because it is respectable to be u.seful. Indeed the 
being useful is the source of the only true respect mankind can 
ever enjoy; all the homage which is yielded to their other attri- 
butes — wealth, station, and power — unless these are beneficially 
exercised — that is, made useful — is only factitious; a sentiment 
compounded of fear, baseness, and self-interest. 

Amongst the persons under Mr Herriott was a young man 
called Gale, who acted as clerk and bookkeeper. His connexions 
were in rather a superior condition of life ; but having been 
himself imprudent, and reduced to distress, interest had been 
made with Mr Herriott's employers, who had appointed him to 
the situation he held. But adversity had not remedied the faults 


of his character ; he was still too fond of company and convivial 
parties, and not unfrequently, for the sake of yielding to their 
seductions, neglected his business. 

One Saturday, about three months after John Reid's first 
introduction to Mr Herriott, that gentleman had desired Gale to 
go to the town, which was about two miles distant, and bring 
back the money that would be wanted to pay the men's wages 
at night ; but in the morning Gale forgot it, and in the after- 
noon there was some amusement in the way that made him 
dislike the expedition. So he looked about for some one to send 
in his place, and at last fixed upon John, because he could be 
the best spared, and was the least likely to be missed ; his work 
being of such various kinds, that if he were not seen busy in 
one spot, he would be supposed to be busy in another. So he 
despatched John with a note, desiring the money might be given 
to the bearer ; and althoug'h the agent thought the Nearer rather 
an odd person to be intrusted with so large a sum, he did not 
consider himself justified in withholding' the money ; and conse- 
quently John received a bundle of bank-notes, which he buttoned 
carefully up in his pocket, and set off back again. On his way 
he fell in Avith Maggy Macmahon, George's mother. She was 
begging ; and seeing that he looked decent, and no longer wore 
his begg'ar's rags, she told him that she supposed, now he was 
grown such a great man, he could afford to give a poor body a 
penny. John had some pence in his pocket ; and more, perhaps, 
from a little pardonable vanity than from charity — for he knew 
Maggy to be a bad woman — he unbuttoned his pocket in order 
to comply with her request ; but he had no sooner done so than 
she caught sight of the bank-notes, and made a snatch at them, 
calling him, at the same time, a young thief, and asking him 
where he had stole all that money from. Failing, however, in 
her object, she tried to seize him by the collar, but John slipped 
through her fingers and took to his heels. She ran after him 
for some time, calling " Stoj) thief" — but as there was nobody 
at hand to stop him, and as, being half-intoxicated, she could 
not overtake him herself, she soon gave up the chase, and John 
arrived safe with his charge, and delivered it to Gale. But 
Maggy, who had heard from her own son where John was 
employed, was shrewd enough to guess that he had been sent 
to fetch the money to pay the week's wages, and that, probably, 
on the following or some other Saturday, he might be employed 
on the same errand ; and as the road was not much frequented, 
it occurred to her that, with a coadjutor, if not alone, she could 
hardly fail to obtain the booty. 

It happened as Maggy had expected. John having been found 
a faithful messenger on the first occasion, the next time Gale's 
engagements made it inconvenient for him to go himself, he 
despatched him again. John went, accordingly, and received 
the money ; but remembering what had happened on his former 



expedition, and having the fear of Maggy before his eyes, he hid 
the money this time in his bosom, resolving to run all the way 
back and not to answer her if she accosted him. But Maggy 
was too cunning for him ; she had watched him up to the town ; 
and not doubting the purpose of his errand, she waylaid him on 
his return, selecting for her purpose the most lonely part of the 
road, and taking her son George with her as a reinforcement. 
Thus, when the poor boy approached, she suddenly darted out 
from her concealment, and seizing him by the arm, told him that 
if he did not give her the money he was carrying she would kill 
him ; but instead of doing what she desired, John cried out for 
help, and struggled hard to get away ; and as he was an active 
boy, he did at last succeed in releasing himself from her grasp ; 
but unfortunately, just as he was. taking to his heels, his clothes 
having been loosened in the scuffle, the biCndle of notes fell from 
his bosom to the ground, and were in an instant picked up by 
George, who had been hitherto an inactive spectator of the con- 
flict. As soon as Maggy saw that her object was attained, she 
made no further effort to detain John ; but, deaf to his intreaties 
to restore him the money, she, with her son, started off in an 
opposite direction, declaring that if he attempted to follow her 
she would take his life. But John, too much alarmed at his loss 
to heed her threats, persisted in following her, hoping to meet 
some one to whom he could appeal for assistance ; but Maggy 
obviated this danger by cutting across the fields, till at length, 
finding she could not get rid of him, she turned suddenly round, 
and with a savage blow felled him to the earth. By the time 
John had risen and wiped the blood from his face, Maggy and 
her son were far out of his reach, so there was nothing left for 
him but to pursue his way home, which he did with a heavy 
heart, greatly fearing that this misfortune would bring him much 
trouble, and perhaps be the occasion of his losing his situation. 

As may be imagined. Gale, when he heard John's story, was 
extremely frightened, and, consequently, extremely angry, for he 
knew very well the fault was his own, and that his neglect of 
duty would now be disclosed to Mr Herriott ; and as fear and 
anger are apt to render people very unjust, he refused to believe 
John's account of the matter, accusing him in one breath of 
carelessness, and in the next of dishonesty, threatening to turn 
him oif, and to have him up to the police ; but as he could not do 
either of his own authority, he began by dragging him to Mr 
Herriott's office, and presenting him to that gentleman in the 
guise of a culprit brought up for chastisement. After reproving 
Gale severely for delegating a commission of such a nature to 
another, and especially to a boy who had so lately been taken off 
the streets, Mr Herriott turned to John to hear what he had to 
say for himself, not doubting that the temptation had been too 
strong for a lad brought up under circumstances so unfavourable, 
and that he was really guilty of appropriating the money. " But 



who has g-iven you that blow on the face?" inquired he, on 
observing" that John's nose had been bleeding-, and that his 
mouth was swollen. 

^•Mag:g-y Macmahon," said he, "because I ran after her to 
try to get the money back • and after she had knocked me down, 
she ran so fast that I could not overtake her ; but if you'd be 
pleased to send to where she lives, perhaps you might catch her, 
and g-et it yet." 

This sug-g-estion, whether honestly offered or not, Mr Herriott 
thought it rig-ht to follow ; so, having hastily gathered an outline 
of the case from John, he despatched him, with three of his most 
trusty workmen, to look after Maggy, giving the men strict 
orders not to let John escape, nor even to lose sight of him for a 
moment. But neither Maggy nor George was to be found at 
their lodgings ; neither did they return there all night ; so on the 
following day, the police having been put upon the alert, the ex- 
pedition presented themselves before Mr Herriott with John still 
in their custody, but without any tidings of the money. The 
disappearance of the mother and son was in some degree a con- 
firmation of the boy's story, and disposed Mr Herriott to listen 
with a more believing ear to what he said. Still it was possible 
that there might have been collusion amongst the parties, and 
that John's share of the booty was somewhere secured for him 
till he could accept it without danger ; and then it occurred to 
Mr Herriott that very likely it had been given to his mother. 
The police were therefore desired to investigate the matter, and 
keep a close eye upon Jane Reid's proceedings ; but, on inquiry, 
it appeared that Jane Reid was in the hospital ill of a fever, 
and had been there for some days. So far the circumstances were 
favourable to John, as was also the discovery that he had brought 
the money safely on a former occasion ; therefore, though still 
uncertain what to think, Mr Herriott did not turn him away, but 
merely kept him under strict surveillance^ desiring the men he 
could trust to lose sight of him as little as possible. Thus John 
went on as before, doing his duty as well as he could ; but he was 
not so happy, because he felt he was suspected ; and he saw little 
hopes of his justification, for Maggy and George returned no 
more to their lodging, nor did the police succeed in tracing them. 

However, fortunately, M'hen people intend to do right, being 
watched is much to their advantage; and so it proved with 
John, for the more narrowly his conduct was observed, the more 
reason Mr Herriott saw to approve it ; and as time advanced, and 
his acquaintance with John increased, he became thoroughly 
satisfied that the account the boy had given of the notes had been 
correct, and that he had actually been robbed of them. This 
conviction was accompanied by a great increase of interest for 
John, who, he felt, had been injured by the suspicion, and had 
thus had an additional difficulty thrown in his upward path, 
and one that, in a less well-disposed boy, might have discouraged 



him altogether from welldoing; for, besides the mortification 
of being doubted, John had many crosses to bear from Gale, 
who resented the loss of the money as the cause of his own ex- 
posure, and took many opportunities of making the culprit feel 
the weight of his displeasure. But Mr Herriott's favour and 
good opinion were the road to fortune, and John seeing that, bore 
Gale's ill-will with patience ; and accordingly, in spite of it, he 
rose from one thing to another, till he found himself in a situa- 
tion of trust and authority, being employed as clerk and overseer 
under Mr Herriott, with a salary of one hundred pounds a-year. 
This happened when John was twenty-five, exactly fifteen years 
after the time when he had found George breaking stones, and 
had asked Mr Herriott to let him have a hammer and give him 
a job. 

John Reid was now a very happy young man, and his mother 
was a happy woman ; for, having recovered from her fever, she 
was now kindly provided with every comfort in a neat and 
decent house by her dutiful son, and did not any longer need 
to lower herself by begging for a subsistence. John was the 
more happy from the contrast betwixt the present and the past, 
his comfortable and respectable situation being very unlike the 
prospect that had opened itself to him in his early years, when, 
a beggar born, he saw no hopes of ever being' anything else ; and 
nothing else would he ever have been, had he not had the wis- 
dom to seize upon fortune, and having once laid hold of her, taken 
good care not to let her go again. The opportunity had offered 
— John had seized it — George had refused it — and these reflections 
led him often to think of George, and to wonder what was become 
of him ; the more especially as he could not but remember that 
George was, in fact, the humble instrument of his own good 
fortune ; for had he not seen him breaking the stones, it never 
would have occurred to him to make the application for himself. 

It happened, on the occasion of some public rejoicing, that the 
men were allowed to leave work early, and some indulgences were 
given to permit of their spending the evening convivially together ; 
but Mr Herriott particularly charged John to see that there was 
no drunkenness or disorder ; and with this view, John put on his 
hat and cloak a little before midnight, in order to ascertain that 
the party had broken up, and that the men had retired peaceablj'' 
to their beds. It was in the depth of winter, the weather was 
very cold, and the snow was lying three feet deep upon the 
ground. Having seen that the place where the men had supped 
was empty, and that all was apparently quiet in the 'cottages 
where they slept, Beid gladly turned towards his own dwelling, 
for the cold g-usts of wind that seemed to blow through him, and 
the sharp sleet that drove against his face, brought out in bold 
relief the comforts of his tidily-furnished room, bright fire, and 
wholesome bed ; but as he passed a temporary building which 
had been run up to defend some stores from the weather, he 



fancied he heard a gToan. He listened, and it was repeated, 
" Ah! " thoug'ht he, " after all I am afraid they have not been so 
steady as I had hoped ; this is some drunken fellow, I suppose, 
paying- the penalty of his excesses ;" and he turned into the shed 
to see who it was. He had a lantern in his hand, and by its dim 
light he perceived a bundle of rags in one corner, whence the 
sounds proceeded, and on touching the object with his foot, a face 
was lifted up from the heap — a face on which death was im- 
printed, and which, with its hollow eyes, stared upon him with a 
meaningless stare, that showed that the senses were paralysed by 
the Avretchedness to which the body was reduced. Seeing that 
this poor creatiu^e must die if he remained exposed to the cold of 
the night, John called up one of the workmen, and with his 
assistance removed him to a warmer situation ; and there, after a 
little while, the heat of the stove, and a glass of warm brandy 
and water which they procured from Mr Herriott's house, restored 
the sufferer to consciousness. John then offered him something 
to eat ; but he shook his head, and said if it had come earlier it- 
might have done him good, but that now he believed he was 
past eating. And so he was — and yet he was but a youth ; but 
intemperance when he had money, and want and exposure to the 
inclemency of the weather when he had none, had done the work 
of years, and he had reached the last stage of his pilgrimag'e upon 
earth. In the morning, Mr Herriott, hearing of the circumstance, 
came to see him, and perceiving that death was fast approaching, 
he asked him where he came from, and if he had any friends ? 
The man lifted up his heavy eyelids on hearing the interrogation ; 
but when his eyes fell on Mr Herriott's features, a ray of intelH- 
gence and recognition shot from them. " Ah, sir ! " said he, " I 
know you, but you have forgotten me." 

" Did I ever see you before ? " said Mr Hemott. 

"You once gave me a job, sir, and said you'd be a friend to 
me," answered the miserable creature ; " but I hadn't the sense 
to see what was for my own good. There was a boy, called 
John Reid " 

" Ah ! " said Mr Herriott, interrupting him, for he recognised 
at once who the stranger was, and saw the importance of seizing 
the opportunity to clear his friend John's character from the 
shadow of an imputation — " I remember you now, and John 
Reid too ; but John got into trouble about some money that he 
lost betwixt this and the town. Did you ever hear anything 
of it?" 

" Did he lose his situation for it ? " said the dying man, making 
an effort to raise himself on his elbow — " that was hard — very 
hard, for he couldn't help it ; we took the money from him, I 
and my mother — but it did us no good ; it was soon gone, and 
then she took to thieving to get more, and made me thieve too. It's 
too late now ; but if I'd stayed and broken the stones, it might 
have been different with me this day ; but I was idle, and let the 

THE widow's SOK. 

chance slip by me, and I never got another. I wish I could live 
my life over again, and I would behave differently ; but that is 
impossible. I can now only hope that God will have mercy on 
me." In a few minutes the poor wretch breathed his last, pre- 
senting a melancholy sight to those who saw him expire. 
■ And such was the dismal end of George Macmahon, the 
beggar, who refused to work because he could get a shilling 
a-day and his food without the inconvenience of labour. 

But John Reid, who reflected that a beggar can never be 
anything but a beggar, and who thought it must be pleasant 
to be respected, and wear good clothes, and be called " Sir, like 
the gentlefolks," lived to see his honest ambition realised; and 
after passing' his existence in peace, plenty, and contentment — 
having risen step by step, till, at Mr Herriott's death, he was 
appointed to that gentleman's situation — died at a good old age, 
on a bed surrounded by his children and his grandchildren, to 
whom he left a comfortable provision, and the blessed inheritance 
of a good name. 




'^ Come, Susan, do not take on so ; it is true the death of your 
husband is a sad loss ; still it is your duty to submit." 

" I know that," said Susan to her visitor ; " I know that ; but 
it is main hard." And the new-made widow wrung* her hands, 
and wept in the extremity of grief. Just then a gentleman 
entered the cottage. 

" I'm glad you're come, sir, for Susan's in a sad way ; mayhap 
you can make her hear reason." 

" She must have time, poor woman ; she must have time. 
Don't bother her, Betty; let her weep; it will do her good." 

So saying, the gentleman, who was Mr Fenton, the master of 
the free grammar-school, sat down, took the widow's only child, 
a boy of about four years, between his knees, and began to talk 
to the visitor on indifferent topics. 

By degrees the paroxysm of the poor woman's grief subsided ; 
though she still wept, her tears fell calmly, and she was able to 
look about her, and to pay some attention to the conversation of 
those who were around. 

Mr Fenton, though he appeared to take no notice, had obseiwed 
her from time to time, quietly waiting till she would be in a state 
to " hear reason," as her friend Betty termed it, before he ad- 


THE widow's SOX. 

dressed her ; and when he did so, • to Betty's great sui*prise, it 
was to talk hopefully of the future, not to lament over the past. 

" What a fine boy Tommy is grown," said he, stroking" the 
boy's head ; " how old is he now ?"' 

" I am five year old," said Tommy, quite manfully. 

" Five years ! why, you're growing quite a man. What do 
you mean to do with him, Susan ?" 

" I know not, sir ; he's owre young yet for aught. He's a 
good child, but a sore bui*den for a lone woman to have to keep." 

" A sore burden ! not at all, if you train him up well, and make 
him useful. He might do something now." 

" No, no ; he's owre young yet for aught but play." 

" My good woman, the plays children find for themselves are 
far harder and more toilsome than any work I would put him to. 
The habit, the early habit of industry and usefulness, is what you 
must try to give your child ; and that habit alone is the best for- 
tune he can have. But, as I said, he is not too young even now 
to achieve something useful, as well as to gain a habit of industiy. 
He can pick up stones, I warrant." 

" Yes, to be sure," said the widow. 

" Yes, and I'll be bound he could weed out the groundsel and 
chickweed in a garden bed, if he were kindly and plainly shown 
which they are. ' 
. "Yes, he's a sharp boy, and minds what's said to him." 

" Sharp and attentive, and five years old ! oh, never tell me he 
can do nothing. I hear you begin 3'our charring ag^in on 
Monday, and Mrs Fenton says, that now the school's so full, she 
can find you almost constant employment at our house. Now, 
Susan, listen to me. Bring* your boy with jou ; I have a small 
field I want cleared of stones ; I have some rough but very easy 
and light work in my garden. I will take care that the child is 
properly set agoing. Thus he will be out of harm's way; he 
■will be acquiring a habit of industiy, besides learning- his letters ; 
and he will be even earning a trifle towards his own sujDport. 
You will mind what I say ?" 

" I will, sir, and I offer you many, many thanks." 

The good effect of this judicious kindness on the poor woman 
was immediate ; for the remainder of the fmieral week, instead 
of being passed in vain tears and lamentations, was busily occu- 
pied in mending up Tommy's clothes, that he might " go decent 
o' Monday." 

INIonday came, and Tommy was duly initiated into the mystery 
not merely of filling a httle basket with stones, and emptying it 
again (for in that he was, like the rest of the world of children, a 
tolerable proficient), but he was taught always to empty the 
basket at one spot, so as to make a heap ; and he directly felt a 
laudable pride in the size of his heap, and worked manfully. 

It was no very long time before Tommy became really useful, 
for he was docile, and attentive, and industrious. The school- 



master — whose servant, before her marriage, Susan had been, 
and who respected her for her strict integrity and steady in- 
dustry — kept, amid his own important avocations, an observant 
eye on her boy, and took care that some sort of work, suited to 
his ag*e, should always be found for him. In due time Tommy 
was elevated to the post of errand-boy and shoe-cleaner to the 
school, and there was now no need to seek out for work for him ; 
his own vocation brought him abundance ; but the principle of 
industry was already securely inculcated 5 the boy never shirked 
his work. 

It was about this time that Mr Fenton frequently observed 
Tom and his own son, who was a year or two younger, in earnest 
conference apart from the other boys. Their usual rendezvous 
was the steps of a dry-well in the playground. One day he came 
upon them quite unexpectedly, and both boys started, whilst his 
own endeavoured to huddle something into his pocket. 

" What is that you are hiding, Harry ?" said Mr Fenton. 
" Give it to me." 

" Please, father, it's only this," said the boy, holding out a 
tattered horn-book. 

" Why do you hide this, Harry? What are you doing with it?" 

" Only teaching Tom to read, father." 

" Which is creditable both to you and him. You need not be 
ashamed of it, either of you. So, you wish to learn to read, 
Tom ?" 

" I would give all I have in the world to learn, sir." 

" Well, my boy," said Mr Fenton, smiling, " it shall not cost 
you so much as that ; nevertheless, you must pay for it." 

Tom stared at the idea of his paying, and so did Harry. 

" What I mean is this, Tom : you are hired here to perform 
certain duties ; you are paid for doing them ; and I must have 
none of them omitted, or even neglected. But, by 7V07'1iing a 
little harder, you may contrive to have a spare hour in the after- 
noon, and that hour you may spend in the schoolroom. This 
extra work, Tom, this coming an hour earlier in the morning, or 
working in your dinner hour — for one or the other you must do 
— this is the way in which you must pay for your learning ; and, 
as you grow older, you will find that nothing great or important 
can be achieved without self-denial and exertion ; you must begin 
to practise both now, even to learn to read." 

A proud day was it for Tom Multon, and for his happy mother, 
when, with newly-washed hands, and a face as shining as soap 
and water could make it, he made his first appearance in the 
schoolroom as a scholar. He blushed scarlet, and felt painfully 
confused as he glanced timidly round and saw the jeering and 
quizzical looks that were cast on him ; but Harry Fenton smiled 
kindly on him ; and the usher, who had been previously instructed 
by Mr Fenton, called him to a form near himself, and imme- 
diately set him to work. 

THE widow's son. • 

From this day Tom never once missed his afternoon attend- 
ance at school ; his time of entering* became earlier and earlier, 
till at last he habitually came in almost as soon as the bell rang-. 
Mr Fenton at first made some remark, as, " Are you not too 
early, Tom ? " but the invariable answer was, " I've done my 
work, sir, every bit of it ;" and as the answer was always true, 
as nothing" of his regular employment was ever neg"lected, the 
schoolmaster ceased to notice the matter. 

He could not shut his eyes, however, to the extraordinary 
progress Tom made in his schooling-. The usher, who began to 
take quite a pride in the boy, frequently called his attention to 
the fact, and begged him to enlarg-e the circumscribed plan which 
he had laid do"\\Ti for his learning". For a long" time Mr Fenton 
refused to do this. He was afraid of entailing- misery on the 
boy, by g"iving him tastes beyond what his station in life would 
permit him to gratify. His mother was earning" her bread by 
the sorest drudg-ery ; the boy had no prospect but of doing" the 
same ; and he thoug'ht that, by enabling" him to read Eng-lish, to 
write a little, and cast common accomits, he was g^iving" him 
learning" sufficient to make him respectable in his own station of 
life, and even to elevate him moderately above it. He was not 
proof, however, against the repeated hints of his usher, the 
solicitations of his own son, and more especially the patient 
perseverance of the boy himself, when he found that he had 
absolutely, against orders, been secretly toiling- at the Latin 
gi'ammar. Moreover, he began to feel that, possessing*, from his 
own position, every facility to help Tom forward, he mig'ht him- 
self be doing" wrong to repress, determinately, the evidently 
strong bent of his disposition. The boy was quiet and docile, 
perseveringly industrimis in all he had to do, but above 2t\\.,fond 
of his look. 

So, having at length made up his own mind, the schoolmaster 
betook himself to the widow, to induce her to dispense with the 
present profit of her son's labour, and to let him give liimself 
entirely to the school. She remonstrated sorely: "she saw no 
good so much learning would do him; she was a lone widow; 
she had nobody to work for her ; and she could not aiford to keej) 
a great boy like him in idleness." 

The schoolmaster urged her to try, for her boy's sake, for his 
future good ; and at length, but not without considerable diffi- 
culty, he obtained her consent, promising that she should be at 
no expense about books, and that he would endeavour to help her 
in the matter of clothes. 

These latter stipulations Mr Fenton managed in a peculiar 
way ; for, Avith a heart open as the day to charity, he had not a 
purse wherewithal to second his wishes. 

" I have a great favour to beg of you, Mr Courtney," said he 
to a gentleman who had come to take his son home for the holi- 


" Pray, name it, Mr Fenton ; I shall feel much pleasure in 
obliging" you, if it be in my power." 

" It is quite so ; easily so. I have a protege, a poor lad, humble 
and industrious, but with such an irrepressible love of books 
that it is useless to attempt to curb it. I am willing to give him 
the run of the school ; his mother, a hard-working woman, con- 
sents to give up his time ; but we are at a loss for clothes and 
books. Your son is about a year older, and my petition to you 
is, that I may have Master Edward's cast-off suit, at the end of 
each half-year, for poor Tom Multon," 

" Oh, willingly — most willingly." 

" And perhaps I may be permitted to take Master Edward's 
school classics as he relinquishes them : truth compels me to say, 
they will hardly grace your library shelves after they have done 
duty here." 

There is hardly need to add, that ready permission was 
gTanted, and, moreover, that a lasting interest in his fortunes 
was thus awakened for Tom in Mr Courtney's breast. Similar 
applications were made, as they became requisite, by Mr Fenton 
to other jtarents, and with the like success. Thus was the 
errand-boy provided regularly and permanently with clothes, 
with books, and placed in the path of scholarship. And he 
became a scholar ; not a great, not a shining one, but a safe, a 
sure, a correct one. He was always assiduous, always attentive, 
always industrious. If he made no great or sudden steps for- 
ward, he never retrograded ; and thus gradually and sui'ely 
winning his onward way, he was fully qualified in a few years 
to succeed, in the post of usher, the young man who had so- 
kindly and' cordially co-operated with Mr Fenton in his educa- 
tion. And it may be doubtful whether Tom Multon himself, 
now called Mr Thomas, was more proud of his advancement 
than was his ever kind patron, Mr Fenton, or his fast friend, 
Harry Fenton, who was now bound for the university. 

But there was yet another who, silent, unobserved, unsus- 
pected, watched Tom Multon's progress with a far deeper inte- 
rest than either his patron, his school-friend, or even she who 
watched his cradle, and fostered him with a mother's love. This 
was a young girl of domestic habits and retired manners, " gentle 
and unobtrusive, who had been nurtured from infancy in the 
house which now, since he assumed the duties of usher, was 
also his home. Rose Fenton was an orphan, but not a destitute 
one, for her good uncle and guardian had taken care that the 
little patrimony bequeathed to her should not diminish in his 
hands. She was kind and good-tempered, a clever housewife 
for her years, obliging to those about her, and very good to her 
poor neighbours. Her uncle used to say jokingly, but most 
kindly, that she was " cut out for a parson's wife ;" but at pre- 
sent all Rose's hopes and wishes seemed to be centred in the 
home of her childhood. But ere long they began to stray, and 



it could not escape the notice of so observant a person as Mr 
Fenton, that a warm and mutual attachment was ripening" 
between his usher and his niece. 

At first this sorely grieved and perplexed him ; for he felt, 
naturally enough, the inequality of their stations ; for though 
bred up in a homely and domestic way, Rose Fenton had a right 
to look to a much higher marriage than one with the child of 
chai'ity, the son of his charwoman, Susan. But when, again, 
he reflected on the youth's course of conduct even from his cradle 
until now ; his unvarying integrity, industry, and docility ; his 
good temper, his kind disposition, and the advance in station 
which his own unwearied perseverance had abeady achieved — 
he thought perhaps he mi^ht rather congratulate his niece than 
otherwise. He determined to let matters take their com'se. 

But whatever hopes Thomas Multon might secretly cherish, 
he was too prudent as yet to give any expression to them. True, 
he had made his way wonderfully ; but he felt he had yet much 
to achieve ere he dared to whisper his hopes to Miss Fenton, or 
seek the approbation of her uncle. His mother was yet drudging 
as a servant ; she, who had for years deprived herself of every 
superfluity, in order to procure him the necessaries of life whilst 
he was a schoolboy — a mere burden on her hands. His first 
object must be to place her above want. He had, from the 
moment he received a fixed allovv'ance as assistant teacher, set 
aside a part of it for her ; but she, with the energy which had 
characterised her, placed it, with her other little savings, to accu- 
mulate. " She did not need to rest yet," she said. Nevertheless, 
her son hoped to see her rest before long. 

So some years passed away, whilst he continue^ patiently 
toiling through his duties as usher, but devoting, unremittingly, 
his private hours to study, with a view to qualify himself for 
the function of a clergyman. Mr Fenton would fain have 
dissuaded him from the last step, as he saw little prospect of 
advancement for him ; but in this one instance Multon's wishes 
were too powerful to be persuaded away. Ordination at that 
time, and in that district, was easily obtained, without those 
fitting" and decent preliminaries which are now indispensable ; 
and being' fortunate enough, through INIr Fenton's influence, to 
obtain a nomination to an adjoining curacy, the duties of which 
would not interfere with those of the school, he was ordained by 
the bishop of the diocese. And this great point being achieved, 
our errand-boy, now the Bev. Thomas IMulton, asked and ob- 
tained Mr Fenton's consent to a imion with Bose, so soon as he 
should have obtained the means to support her in respectabihty 
and comfort. 

These came suddenly, as good fortune generally does, and 
from an unlooked-for quai'ter. On entering the little parlour 
one day at tea-time, a few months after his ordination, Mr 
Multon was surprised to find an elderly gentleman whom he 



did not know, and a young- man in a military undress, whom 
he was some time in recog-nising" as Edward Courtney, the youth 
to whose Hbrary and wardrobe he had himself been indebted for 
several years. The gentleman had been making a tour in the 
northern counties, and at the earnest desire of the younger one, 
had turned aside to visit his old schoolfellow. His greeting* to 
Mr Multon was frank and cordial, that of the old gentleman was 
kind and even respectful, for Mr Fenton had been preparing 
the way for his young friend's aj)pearance. 

No allusion whatever was made to his circumstances that 
night ; but a few weeks afterwards, a letter arrived from the 
elder Mr Courtney to Mr Multon, presenting him the rectory 
of Northerton, in shire, worth £200 a-year, with a commo- 
dious parsonage house. And thus was the poor widow's son 
rewarded for his perseverance in welldoing. 

A few years ago, a friend paid me a morning visit, bringing 
with her a young lady of most prepossessing appearance, and 
of gentle manners and speech ; and who, I was informed, was 
Rose Multon, the daughter of the rector of Northerton — one of 
six children, united and affectionate, and as much respected as 
their parents. 

" And what of old Susan," inquired I, " as her old acquaintr 
ance here still call her ? " 

" Old Mrs Multon," replied my friend, " lives happily in a 
small cottage near her son, which, partly from her own former 
savings, and partly from his liberality, she is able to keep in 
very comfortable order. I hear but of one dissatisfaction in the 

"What is that?" 

"It is the rector himself, who complains that his children 
have quite superseded him in his mother's good graces, and that 
he really often fancies that she does not think half so much of 
him now as she did when he was an errand-boy." 




Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 

The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 

Y loved, my honoured, mucli respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each sellish end : 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing-, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

"V^Tiat Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, 
T ween ! 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 
No. II. i 


At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an ag-ed tree ; 
The expectant wee thing's, toddlin', stacher throfugh 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile. 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleug-h, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neibor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame perhaps to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle and her shears. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command. 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
" And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek. 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name. 

While Jenny hajfflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. 


Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings Mm ben ; 

A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the \dsit's no ill-ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleug'hs, and kye. 
The young'stei-'s artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave : 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is found ! 

Oh heartfelt raptm-es ! — bhss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 

And sag-e experience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! — 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Cm'se on his peijured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child 1 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board. 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace 

The big ha' -bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says with solemn air. 


They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild- warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page — 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped. 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; [mand. 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's corn- 
Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,"* 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Eeli^ion's pride. 

In all the pomp of method and ot art. 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
The power incensed, the pageant will desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 


Then homeward all take off their several way ; . 

The young-ling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God ; " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. 

Oh Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart. 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 
-Robert Burns. 


And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 

Mak haste, set by your wheel. 


Is this a time to talk o' wark, 
When Oolin's at the door ? 
Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
And see him come ashore. 

For there's nae luck about the house, 

There's nae luck ava ; 
There's little pleasure in the house, 
When our goodman's awa. 

Rise up and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the mickle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat : 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It's a' to please my ain goodman, 

For he's been lang awa. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 

There are twa hens upon the bauk, 

Have fed this month and mair, 
Mak haste, and thraw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare : 
And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing- look braw ; 
Its a' for love of my goodman, 

For he's been lang awa. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 

O gie me down my bigonet. 

My bishop-satin gown. 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife. 

That Colin's come to town. 
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 

My hose o' pearl blue. 
It's a' to please my ain goodman. 

For he's baith leal and true. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech, 

His breath's like caller air, 
His very foot has music in't. 

When he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought ; 

In troth I'm like to greet. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 


The cauld blasts of tlie winter wind, 

That thrilled through my heart. 
They're a' blawn by, I hae him sate ; 

Til death we'll never part : 
But what puts parting in my head i 

It may be far awa : 
The present moment is our am, 

The neist we never saw. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
Could I but live to mak him blest, 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again? 

And wiU I hear him speak ? 
I'm downrio-ht dizzy wi' the thought , 

In troth I'm like to greet. 
For there's nae luck, &c. 


When I upon thy bosom lean, _ 

And fondly clasp thee a' my am, 
I o-lory in the sacred ties 

That made us ane, wha ance were twain : 
A mutual flame inspires us baith— 

The tender look, the melting kiss; 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love. 

But only gie us change o' bliss. 

Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee ; 

I ken thy wish is me to please ; 
Our moments pass sae smooth away, 

That numbers on us look and gaze. 
Weel pleased they see our happy days. 

Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame-, 
And aye when weary cares arise, 

Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 

I'll lay me there, and tak my rest ; 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
rU bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drap a tear. 
Hae I a ioy ? it's a' her ain ; ^ 

United still her heart and mine ; 
They're like the woodbine round the tree, ^ 

That's twined till death shall them disjom. 




Away ; let noug-ht to love displeasing", 

My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let noug'ht delay the heavenly blessing", 

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 

With pompous titles grace our blood ; 
We'll shine in more substantial honours, 

And to be noble, we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : 

And all the great ones they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune's lavish bounty 

No mighty treasures we possess ; 
We'll find within our pittance plenty. 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling, 

We'll hand in hand together tread ; 
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly clung ; 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 

And when with envy time transported. 

Shall think to rob us of our joys. 
You'll in your girls again be courted, 

And I'll go wooing in my boys. 


Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

* Tlie name of the author of this beautiful address to conjugal lov^, 
written upwards of a century ago, is uncertain. 


From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbour enters here, 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil om' heartfelt joys. 

If sohd happiness we prize, 
Within our breast this jewel lies. 

And they are fools who roam ; 
The world hath nothing to bestow. 
From our own selves our bliss must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 
We, who improve his golden hours, 

By sweet experience know. 
That marriage, rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise : 
We'll form their mind with studious care, 
To all that's manly, good, and fair. 

And train them for the skies. 

While they our wisest hours engage. 
They'll joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They'll grow in virtue every day. 
And they our fondest loves repay. 

And recompense our cares. 

No borrowed joys ! they're all our own, 
While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forg-ot. 
Monarchs ! we envy not your state. 
We look with pity on the great. 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our portion is not large, indeed. 
But then how little do we need. 

For Nature's calls are few ! 
In this the art of living lies. 
To want no more than may suffice. 

And make that little do. 


We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resig-ned when ills betide, 
Patient when favours are denied. 

And pleased with favours given ; 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to Heaven, 

We'll ask no long'-protracted treat, 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 

But, when our feast is o'er, 
Grateful from table we'll arise, 
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, 

The relics of our store. 

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; 
Its chequered paths of joy and wo 

With cautious steps we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
Without a trouble, or a fear, 

And mingle with the dead. 

While Conscience, like a faithful fi-iend, 
Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 

And cheer our dying breath ; 
Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
Like a kind angel whisper peace, 

And smooth the bed of death. 



When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame, 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn ? 
'Tis the puir dowie laddie — the mitherless bairn ! 

The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim. 
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn 1 

* Motherless child. 


Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there, 
0' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair ! 
But morning" brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! 

The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rocked bed. 
Now rests in the mools where their mammy is laid ; 
"While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit that passed in yon hour of his birth, 
Still watches his lone lorn wanderings on earth. 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 

Oh ! speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile : 
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, 
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! 
-William Thom. 


There was a poor widow, who lived in a cot, 
She scarcely a blanket to warm her had got ; 
Her windows were broken, her walls were all bare, 
And the cold winter-wind often whistled in there. 

Poor Susan was old, and too feeble to spin, 
Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin ; 
And bread she'd have wanted, as many have done, 
If she had not been blessed with a good little son. 

But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad. 
And thought her the very best friend that he had ; 
And now to neglect or forsake her, he knew 
Was the most wicked thing he could possibly do. 

For he was quite healthy, and active, and stout, 
"While his poor mother hardly could hobble about. 
And he thought it his duty, and greatest delight. 
To work for her living from morning to night. 

So he started each morning as gay as a lark, 
And worked all day long in the fields till 'twas dark : 
Then came home again to his dear mother's cot, 
And cheerfully gave her the wages he got. 

And oh, how she loved him ! how great was her joy ! 
To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy : 
Her arm round his neck she would tenderly cast. 
And kiss his red cheek, while the tears trickled fast. 



Oh, then, was not little Jem happier far, 
Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are ? 
For as long as he lived, 'twas his comfort and joy, 
To think he'd not been an iindutiful boy. 
-Jane Taylor. 


In the search of good humour I've rambled all day. 
And just now honest truth has discovered her way ; 
When rubbing his telescope perfectly clear. 
Called out, " I have found her," and bade me come here. 

I'm grown weary of wit, who but dresses for show, 
And strives still to sparkle as much as your beau ; 
For, if he can shine, though at dear friends' expense, 
He will raise contributions on feeling and sense. 

Then learning is proud, nor can trifle with ease. 
Though in this little life 'tis oft trifles that please ; 
Unbending austerity, wrapt up in self. 
Is so like a miser when hoarding his pelf. 

Strong reason's a warrior that fights out his way. 

And seldom has leisure to rest or to play ; 

Nay, so rough has he grown, unless great things are done, 

He thinks that all useless went down the bright sun. 

Oh ! 'tis gentle good humour that makes life so sweet, 
And picks up the flow'rets that garnish our feet ; 
Then, from them extracting the balsam of health. 
Turns the blossoms of nature to true sterling wealth. 
-Miss Blamire. 


Oh thou whose care sustained my infant years. 
And taught my prattling lip each note of love ; 
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove ; 

To thee my lay is due, the simple song. 
Which nature gave me at life's opening day ; 
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 

Oh say, amid this wilderness of life. 
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me ? 
Who would have smiled responsive 1 — who in grief 
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieve like thee ? 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye. 
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear ? 
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
And clasped me to her heart with love's bright tear ? 



Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning- brow '( 
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the ag-ony of love and wo 1 

None but a mother — none but one like thee. 
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch, 
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, 
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 

By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom ; 

Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, 

That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. 

Oh, then, to thee, this rude and simple song, 
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, 
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 

-Davidson, an American Poet. 


"You took me, William, when a girl, unto your home and heart, 

To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part ; 

And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego, 

Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in wo ? 

No ; I would rather share your tear than any other's glee. 

For though you're nothing to the world, you're all the world 


You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne ; 
There's sunlight for me in your smiles, and music in your tone. 
I look upon you when you sleep — my eyes with tears grow dim, 
I cry, ' Oh Parent of the Poor, look down from heaven on him ; 
Behold him toil from day to day, exhausting strength and soul ; 
Oh look with mercy on him. Lord, for thou canst make him 

whole ! ' 
And when at last relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled. 
How oft are they forbade to close in slumber by our child ? 
I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest, 
And feel it is a part of thee I lull upon my breast. 
There's only one return I crave, I may not need it long. 
And it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no 

wrong : 

* The above admirable lines, we understand, originally appeared in the 
Monthly Repository for May 1834, under the signature of M. L. G. 



I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind ; 

I ask not for less frug-al fare, my fare I do not mind ; 

I ask not for attire more gay — if such as I have g-ot 

Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not. 

But I would ask some share of hours that you on clubs bestow, 

Of knowledge which you prize so much, might I not something 

Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for me ; 
Make me companion of your soul, as I may safely be. 
If you will read, I'll sit and work ; then think when you're away ; 
Less tedious I shall find the time, dear William, of your stay. 
A meet companion soon I'll be for e'en your studious hours. 
And teacher of those little ones you call your cottage flowers ; 
And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise and kind, 
And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my mind your 



And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come, 

Where life is joy? 
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our death. 

Casa AVappy 

Thou wert a vision of delight 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven : 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self than a part 
Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 

'Twas cloudless joy; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine, 

Beloved boy! 
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
That found thee prostrate in decay. 
And e'er a third shone, clay was clay, 
Casa Wappy ! 

* From " Domestic Verses, by Delta" (D. M. MoiR, Esq.) 1842. Casa 
Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, 
snatched away after a very brief illness. 


Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 

Earth's undefiled ; 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 

Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Do what I may, go where I will. 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still — 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till, oh ! my heart is like to break, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

In buoyant health : 
I see thine eyes' deep violet light. 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright. 
Thy clasping arms so round and white, 
Casa Wappy ! 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat, thy bow. 
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 

But where art thou ? 
A comer holds thine empty chair. 
Thy playthings idly scattered there. 
But speak to us of our despair, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Even to the last thy every word — 

To glad, to grieve — 
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 

On summer's eve ; 
In outward beauty undecayed, 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
And hke the rainbow thou didst fade, 
Casa Wappy ! 
* * * 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 

In life's spring-bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below, 

The silent tomb. 



But now the green leaves of tlie tree, 
The cuckoo and " the busy bee," 
Return — but with them bring* not thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

'Tis so ; but can it be (while flowers 

Revive again) — 
Man's doom, in death that we and ours 

For aye remain 1 
Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
Casa Wappy I 

It cannot be : for were it so 

Thus man could die. 
Life were a mockery. Thought were wo. 

And Truth a lie ; 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 
Religion frenzy. Virtue vain, 
And all our hopes to meet again, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Then be to us, O dear, lost child I 

With beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ; 
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road. 
That led thee back from man to God, 
Casa Wappy ! 
* * * 

Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell. 

Thus torn apart : 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 






tUsiriUiL Afj© mir[EKirA3N0N© 

^■.^,vt ^f^J^' 


wiLLrAiiAXD PlOBErt chambers 


No. Page 
Grace Darling, -------- 12 

VOLNEY BeCKNER, - - - - - - - -12 11 

James ^Iaxwell, -------- 12 13 

Maurice and Genevieve, -------13 

Religious Impostors, ------- 14 

Anecdotes of Dogs, --..----16 

La Rocuejaquelein and the War is La Vendee, - - 16 
Journal of a Poor Vicar, -----.-17 

Blanche Raymond : A Parisian Story, - - - - 17 26 

The Romance of Geology, 18 

History of the Slave Trade, * . > - - - 19 
Story of Walter Ruysdael, tub Watchmaker, - - 20 

Chevy-Chase, .--21 

The Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal-Green, - - - 21 




Honour and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part — there all tlie honour lies. 

How much truth there is in this sayino:, is 
strikingly shown in the history of Grace 
Darling-; for, being- in what is called a 
humble station in life, she, acting well her 
part in it, and having on one occasion manifested some of the 
highest qualities which belong to human nature, became, for 
these reasons, an object of respect and admiration to persons of 
every rank and condition, and acquired a celebrity which may be 
said to have spread over the greater par-t of the civilised world. 
Nobles of the highest rank, and even royalty itself, felt the 
demands which the singiilar worth of this j^oung woman made 
upon them, and vied with individuals of her own class in doing 
her the honour she deserved. 

N-. 12. i 


Grace Darling" was one of a numerous family bom to William 
Darling", lighthouse-keeper. Her g-randfather, Robert Darling-, 
orig-inally a cooper at Dunse, in Berwickshire, removed to Bel- 
ford, in Northumberland, and finally settled as keeper of the 
coal-lig-ht on the Brownsman, the outermost of the Fame islands 
on the coast of the last-mentioned county. William Darling" 
succeeded his father in that situation, but in 1826 was transferred 
to the lighthouse on the Longstone, another of the same group 
of islands. The qualities required in the keeper of a lighthouse 
are of no common kind : he must be a generally intelligent, as 
well as steady and judicious man. Moreover, in so solitary a 
situation as the Longstone lighthouse, where weeks may pass 
without any communication with the mainland, he would need 
to be of that character which has resources within itself, so as to 
be in a great measure independent of the rest of society for what 
may make life pass agreeably. In such a situation, the mind 
of an ordinary man is apt to suffer from the want of excitement 
and novelty ; while a superior mind only takes advantage of it 
for improving itself. Of this superior character seems to be 
William Darling, the father of our heroine. He is described as 
uncommonly steady and intelligent, and of extremely quiet and 
modest manners. It speaks great things for him, that his chil- 
dren have all been educated in a comparatively respectable man- 
ner — his daughter Grace, for example, writing in a hand equal 
to that of most ladies. 

Grace was born, November 24, 1815, at Bamborough, on the 
Northumberland coast, being the seventh child of her parents. 
Of the events of her early years, whether she was educated on 
the mainland, or lived constantly in the solitary abode of her 
parents, first at the Brownsman, and afterwards on the Long- 
stone island, we are not particularly informed. During her 
girlish years, and till the time of her death, her residence in the 
Longstone lighthouse was constant, or only broken by occasional 
visits to the coast. She and her mother managed the little house- 
hold at Longstone. She is described as having been at that time, 
as indeed during her whole life, remarkable for a retiring and 
somewhat reserved disposition. In person she was about the 
middle size — of fair complexion and a comely countenance — with 
nothing masculine in her appearance ; but, on the contrary, gentle 
in aspect, and with an expression of the greatest mildness and 
benevolence. William Howitt, the poet, who visited her after 
the deed which made her so celebrated, found her a realisation 
of his idea of Jeanie Deans, the amiable and true-spirited 
heroine of Sir Walter Scott's novel, who did and suffered so 
much for her unfortunate sister. She had the sweetest smile, 
he said, that he had ever seen in a person of her station and 
appearance. " You see," says he, " that she is a thoroughly 
good creature, and that under her modest exterior lies a spirit 
capable of the most exalted devotion — a devotion so entire, that 



daring' is not so mucli a quality of her nature, as that the most 
perfect sympathy with suffering* or endangered humanity swal- 
lows up and annihilates everything like fear or self-consideration 
— puts out, in fact, every sentiment but itself." 

There is something, unquestionably, in the scene of Grace's 
early years which was calculated to nurse an unobtrusively 
enthusiastic spirit. The Fame islands, twenty-five in number 
at low tide, though situated at no great distance from the Nor- 
thumbrian coast, are desolate in an uncommon degree. Com- 
posed of rock, with a slight covering- of herbage, and in some 
instances surrounded by precipices, they are the residence of 
little besides sea-fowl. On the principal one (Fame), in an early 
age, there was a small monastery, celebrated as the retreat of 
St Cuthbert, who died there in the year 686. "Fame," says 
Mr Raine, in his history of Durham, " certainly afforded an 
excellent place for retirement and meditation. Here the prayer 
or the repose of the hermit could only be interrupted by the 
scream of the water-fowl, or the roaring of the winds and waves ; 
not unfrequently, perhaps, would be heard the thrilling cry of 
distress from a ship breaking to pieces on the ii'on shore of the 
island ; but this would still more effectually win the recluse 
from the world, by teaching him a practical lesson of the vanity 
of man and his operations, when compared with the mighty 
works of the Being who rides on the whirlwind and directs the 

Throug'h the channels between the smaller Fame islands the 
sea rushes with great force ; and many a shipwi'eck, of which 
there is no record, must have happened here in former times, 
when no beacon existed to guide the mariner in his path through 
the deep. Rather more than a centuiy ago, a Dutch forty-gun 
frigate, with all the crew, was lost among the islands. In the 
year 1782, a large merchant-brig, on her return voyage from 
America, was dashed to pieces amongst them, under peculiarly 
distressing circumstances. During the dreadful gale which 
continued from January 31st to February 8th, 1823, three brigs 
and a sloop were wrecked in their vicinity, but all the crews 
were saved except one boy. Another brig was dashed to pieces 
on Sunderland Point, when all on board perished ; and a large 
brig and a sloop were wrecked on the Harker. Mr Howitt, 
speaking of his visit to Longstone, says, " It was like the rest 
of these desolate isles, all of dark whinstone, cracked in every 
direction, and worn with the action of winds, waves, and teni- 
pests, since the world began. Over the greater part of it was 
not a blade of grass, nor a grain of earth ; it was bare and iron- 
like stone, crusted round all the coast, as far as high -water 
mark, with limpet and still smaller shells. We ascended wrinkled 
hills of black stone, and descended into worn and dismal dells 
of the same ; into some of which, where the tide got entrance, 
it came pouring and roaring in raging whiteness, and chuming 


the loose fragments of whinstone into round pebbles, and piling 
tbem up in deep crevices witli sea-weeds, like great round ropes 
and heaps of fucus. Over our beads screamed hundreds of 
hovering birds, the gull mingling its hideous laughter most 

Living on that lonely spot in the midst of the ocean — with 
the horrors of the tempest familiarised to her mind, her constant 
lullaby the sound of the everlasting deep, her only prospect 
that of the wide -spreading sea, with the distant sail on the 
horizon — Grace Darling was shut out, as it were, from the 
active scenes of life, and debarred from those innocent enjoy- 
ments of society and companionship which, as a female, must 
have been dear to her, unaccustomed though she was to their 

She had reached her twenty-second year when the incident 
occurred by which her name has been rendered so famous. 

The Forfarshire steamer, a vessel of about three hundred tons 
burden, under the command of Mr John Humble, formerly 
master of the Neptune, sailed from Hull, on her voyage to 
Dundee, on the evening of Wednesday the 5th of September 
1838, about half-past six o'clock, with a valuable cargo of bale 
goods and sheet-iron ; and having on board about twenty-two 
cabin and nineteen steerage passengers, as nearly as could be 
ascertained — Captain Humble and his wife, ten seamen, four 
firemen, two engineers, two coal-trimmers, and two stewards; 
in all, sixty-three persons. 

The Forfarshire was only two years old ; but there can be no 
doubt that her boilers were in a culpable state of disrepair. 
Previous to leaving Hull, the boilers had been examined, and 
a small leak closed up; but when off Flamborough Head, the 
leakage reappeared, and continued for about six hours ; not, 
however, to much extent, as the pumps were able to keep the 
vessel dry. In the subsequent examinations, the engine-man, 
Allan Stewart, stated his opinion, that he had frequently seen 
the boiler as bad as it was on this occasion. The fireman, Daniel 
Donovan, however, represented the leakage as considerable, so 
much so, that two of the fires were extinguished ; but they were 
relighted after the boilers had been partially repaired. The pro- 
gress of the vessel was of course retarded, and three steam-vessels 
passed her before she had proceeded far. The unusual bustle 
on board the Forfarshire, in consequence of the State of the 
boilers, attracted the notice of several of the passengers; and 
Mrs Dawson, a steerage passenger, who was one of the sur- 
vivors, stated, that even before the vessel left Hull, so strong 
was her impression, from indications on board, that " all was 
not right," that if her husband, who is a giassman, had come 
down to the packet in time, she would have returned with him 
on shore. 

In this inefficient state the vessel proceeded on her voyage. 



and passed through the " Fairway," between the Fame islands 
and the land, about six o'clock on Thursday evening. She 
entered Berwick bay about eight o'clock the same evening, the 
sea running high, and the wind blowing strong from the north. 
From the motion of the vessel, the leak increased to such a 
degi'ee, that the firemen could not keep the fires burning. Two 
men were then employed to pump water into the boilers, but it 
escaped through the leak as fast as they pumped it in. About 
ten o'clock she bore up off St Abb's Head, the storm still raging 
with unabated fuiy. The engines soon after became entirely use- 
less, and the engine-man reported that they would not work. 
There being great danger of drifting ashore, the sails were hoisted 
fore and aft, and the vessel got about, in order to get her before 
the wind, and keep her off the land. No attempt was made to 
anchor. The vessel soon became unmanageable, and the tide 
setting strong to the south, she proceeded in that direction. It 
rained heavily during the whole time, and the fog was so dense, 
that it became impossible to tell the situation of the vessel. At 
length breakers were discovered close to leeward ; and the Fame 
lights, which about the same period became visible, left no doubt 
as to the imminent peril of all on board. Captain Humble vainly 
attempted to avert the catastrophe by running the vessel between 
the islands and the mainland ; she would not answer the helm, 
and was impelled to and fro by a furious sea. Between three 
and four o'clock, she stmck with her bows foremost on the rock, 
the ruggedness of which is such, that at periods when it is dry, 
it is scarcely possible for a person to stand erect upon it ; and 
the edge which met the Forfarshire's timbers descends sheer 
down a hundred fathoms deep, or more. 

At this juncture a part of the crew, intent only on self-pre- 
servation, lowered the larboard-quarter boat down^ and left the 
ship. Amongst them was Mr Ruthven Ritchie, of Hill of 
Ruthven, in Perthshire, who had been roused fi-om bed, and 
had only time to put on his trousers, when, rushing upon deck, 
he saw and took advantage of this opportunity of escape by 
flinging himself into the boat. His uncle and aunt, attempting 
to follow his example, fell into the sea, and perished in his sight. 
The scene on board was of the most awftd kind. Several females 
were uttering cries of anguish and despair, and amongst them 
stood the bewildered master, whose wife, clinging to him, fran- 
tically besought the protection which it was not in his power 
to give. Very soon mer the first shock, a powerful wave struck 
the vessel on the quarter, and raising her off the rock, allowed 
her immediately after to fall violently down upon it, the sharp 
edge striking her about midships. She was by this fairly broken 
in two pieces; and the after part, containing the cabin, with 
many passengers, was instantly carried off through a tremen- 
dous current called the Pifa Gut, which is considered dangerous 
even in good weather, while the fore part remained on the reck. 


The captain and his wife seem to have been amongst those wh© 
perished in the hinder part of the vessel. 

At the moment when the boat parted, about eight or nine of 
the passengers betook themselves to the windlass in the fore part 
of the vessel, which they conceived to be the safest place. Here 
also a few sailors took their station, although despairing of relief. 
In the fore cabin, exposed to the intrusion of the waves, was 
Sarah Dawson, the wife of a weaver, with two children. When 
relief came, life was found trembling in the bosom of this poor 
woman, but her two children lay stiffened corpses in her arms. 

The sufferers, nine in number (five of the crew and four pas- 
sengers), remained in their dreadful situation till daybreak — 
exposed to the buffeting of the waves amidst darkness, and 
fearful that every rising surge would sweep the fragment of 
wreck on which they stood into the deep. Such was their situa- 
tion when, as day broke on the morning of the 7th, they were 
descried from the Longstone by the Darlings, at nearly a mile's 
distance. A mist hovered over the island ; and though the wind 
had somewhat abated its violence, the sea, which even in the 
calmest weather is never at rest amongst the gorges between 
these iron pinnacles, still raged fearfully. At the lighthouse 
there were only Mr and Mrs Darling and their heroic daughter. 
The boisterous state of the sea is sufficiently attested by the fact, 
that, at a later period in the day, a reward of £5, offered by Mr 
Smeddle, the steward of Bamborough Castle, could scarcely 
induce a party of fishermen to venture off from the mainland. 

To have braved the perils of that terrible passage then, would 
have done the highest honour to the well-tried nerves of even 
the stoutest of the male sex. But what shall be said of the 
errand of mercy being undertaken and accomplished mainly 
through the strength of a female heart and arm ! Through the 
dim mist, with the aid of the glass, the figures of the sufferers 
were seen clinging to the wreck. But who could dare to tempt 
the raging abyss that intervened, in the hope of succouring 
them ! Mr Darling, it is said, shrank from the attempt — not 
so his daughter. At her solicitation the boat was launched, 
with the assistance of her mother, and father and daughter 
entered it, each taking an oar. It is worthy of being noticed, 
that Grace never had occasion to assist in the boat previous to 
the wreck of the Forfarshire, others of the family being always 
at hand. 

In estimating the danger which the heroic adventurers encoun- 
tered, there is one circumstance which ought not to be forgotten. 
Had it not been ebb tide, the boat could not have passed between 
the islands ; and Darling and his daughter knew that the tide 
would be flowing on their return, when their united strength 
would have been utterly insufficient to pull the boat back to the 
lighthouse island ; so that, had they not got the assistance of 
the survivors in rowing back again, they themselves would have 



been compelled to remain on the rock beside tlie wreck until the 
tide ag-ain ebbed. 

It could only have been by the exertion of great muscular 
power, as well as of determined courage, that the father and 
daughter carried the boat up to the rock : and when there, a 
danger — greater even than that which they had encountered in 
approachijig it — arose from the difficulty of steadying the boat, 
and preventing its being destroyed on those sharp ridges by the 
ever restless chafing and heaving of the billows. However, the 
nine sufferers were safely rescued. The deep sense which one 
of the poor fellows entertained of the generous conduct of 
Darling and his daughter, was testified by his eyes filling with 
tears when he described it. The thrill of delight which he expe- 
rienced when the boat was observed approaching the rock, was 
converted into a feeling of amazement, which he could not find 
language to express, when he became aware of the fact that one 
of their dehverers was a female ! 

The sufferers were conveyed at once to the lighthouse, which 
was in fact their only place of refuge at the time ; and owing 
to the violent seas that continued to prevail among the islands, 
they were obliged to remain there from Friday morning tiH 
Sunday. A boat's crew that came off to their relief from North 
Sunderland were also obliged to remain. This made a party 
of nearly twenty persons at the hghthouse, in addition to its 
usual inmates ; and such an unprepared-for accession could not 
fail to occasion considerable inconvenience. Grace gave up her 
bed to poor Mrs Dawson, whose sufferings, both mental and 
bodily, were intense, and contented herself with lying down on 
a table. The other sufferers were accommodated with the best 
substitutes for beds which could be provided, and the boat's crew 
slept on the floor around the fire.* 

The subsequent events of Grace Darling's life are soon told. 
The deed she had done may be said to have wafted her name 
over all Europe. Immediately on the circumstances being mnde 
known thi'ough the newspapers, that lonely lighthouse became 
the centre of attraction to curious and sympathising thousands, 
including many of the wealthy and the great, who, in most 

* Tlie names of the individuals saved from the -wTeck of t!ie Forfarshire, 
by Darling and his daughter, were— John Kidd, fireman, of Dundee ; 
Jonathan Ticket, cook, of Hull ; John Macqueen, coal-trimnjer, Dundee ; 
John Tulloch, carpenter, Dundee ; and John Nicholson, fireman, Dmidee, 
of the crevs^ : D. Donovan, fireman and free passenger, of Dundee ; James 
Keeley, weaver, Dundee ; Thomas Buchanan, baker, Dundee ; and Mrs 
Dawson, bound to Dundee, passengers. Tlie party in the boat, also nine 
in number, were picked up next morning by a Montrose sloop, and carried 
into Shields. The entire number saved was therefore eighteen, of whom 
thirteen belonged to the vessel, and five were passengers. The remainder, 
including the captain and his wife, Mr Bell, factor to the Earl of Kinnoul, 
the Rev. .Tohn Robb, Dunkeld, and some ladies of a respectable rank in 
societv, perished, 



instances, testified by substantial tokens the feelings with which 
they regarded the young' heroine. The Duke and Duchess of 
Northumberland invited her and her father over to Alnwick 
Castle, and presented her with a gold watch, which she always 
afterwards wore when visitors came. The Humane Society sent 
her a most flattering vote of thanks : the president presented 
her with a handsome silver teapot; and she received almost 
innumerable testimonials, of gTeater or less value, from admiring 
strangers. A public subscription was raised with the view of 
rewarding her for her bravery and humanity, which is said to 
have amounted to about £700. Her name was echoed with 
applause amongst all ranks ; portraits of her were eagerly sought 
for ; and to such a pitch did the enthusiasm reach, that a large 
nightly sum was offered her by the proprietors of one or more 
of the metropolitan theatres and other places of amusement, on 
condition that she would merely sit in a boat, for a brief space, 
during the performance of a piece whose chief attraction she 
was to be. All such offers were, however, promptly and steadily 
refused. It is, indeed, gratifying to state, that, amidst all this 
tumult of applause, Grace Darling never for a moment forgot 
the modest dignity of conduct which became her sex and station. 
The flattering testimonials of all kinds which were showered 
upon her, never produced in her mind any feeling but a sense 
of wonder and grateful pleasure. She continued, notwithstand- 
ing the improvement of her circumstances, to reside at the 
Longstone lighthouse with her father and mother, finding, in 
her limited sphere of domestic duty on that sea-girt islet, a more 
honourable and more rational enjoyment than could be found 
in the crowded haunts of the mainland ; and thus affording, by 
her conduct, the best proof that the liberality of the public hacl 
not been unworthily bestowed.* 

* William Howitt gives the follo\ving account of his interview •«ith 
Gi*ac8 Darling : — " "Wlien I went she was not visible, and I was afraid I 
should not have got to see her, as her father said she very much disliked 
meeting strangers that she thought came to stare at her ; but when the 
old man and I had had a little conversation, he went up to her room, and 
soon came down with a smile, saying she would be ^ith us soon. So, 
v»'hen we had been up to the top lighthouse, and had seen its machinery — 
had taken a good look-out at the distant shore — and Darling had pointed 
out the spot of the \\Teek, and the way they took to bring the people off, 
we went down, and found Grace sitting at her sewing, very neatly but 
very simply dressed, in a plain sort of striped printed gown, with her 
watch-seal just seen at her side, and her hah neatly braided— just, in fact, 
as such girls are dressed, only not quite so smart as they often are. 

She rose very modestly, and with a pleasant smile said, ' How do you 
do, sir?' Her figure is by no m.eans striking; quite the contrary; but 
her face is full of sense, modesty, and genuine goodness ; and that is just 
the character she bears. Her prudence delights one. We are charmed 
that she should so well have supported the brilliancy of her humane deed. 
It is confirmative or the notion, that such actions must spring fi'om 
genuine heart and mind." 


It is a melancholy reflection, that one so deserving should 
have been struck down almost ere yet the plaudits excited by 
her noble deed had died away ; that the grasp of death should 
have been fastened on her almost before enjoyment could have 
taught her to appreciate the estimate formed of her conduct. 
" Whom the gods love, die young," 'twas said of old, and 
unquestionably the fatality which often attends deserving youth 
(and of which her fate presents so striking an instance) origi- 
nated the idea. Consumption was the disease to which she fell 
a victim. Having shown symptoms of delicate health, she was, 
towards the latter end of 1841, removed from the Longstone 
lighthouse, on the recommendation of her medical attendant, 
to Bamborough, where she remained for a short time under the 
care of Mr Fender, surgeon. Finding herself no better, she 
desired to be removed to Wooler for change of air. Her wish 
was complied with ; but she found no rehef ; and at the request 
of her father she met him at Alnwick, with a view to proceed 
to Newcastle for further medical advice. The Duchess of Nor- 
thumberland having heard of the arrival of the heroine of the 
Longstone at Alnwick, immediately procured for her a com- 
fortable lodging in an airy part of the town, supplied her 
with eveiything requisite, and sent her own physician to give 
her the benefit of his medical advice. All, however, was of 
no avail. Her father anxiously desiring that she should return 
amongst her family, she was accordingly removed once more 
to her sister's house at Bamborough, where she arrived only ten 
days before her decease. On the day of her removal from 
Alnwick, the Duchess of Northumberland, without a single 
attendant, and attired in the most homely manner, repaired to 
Grace Darling's lodgings, for the purpose of taking her last fare- 
well, which she did with the most unaffected kindness. For 
some time previous to her death, she was perfectly aware that 
her latter end was approaching ; but this gave her no uneasiness. 
She was never heard to utter a complaint during her illness, but 
exhibited the utmost Christian resignation throughout. 

Shortly before her death, she expressed a wish to see as many 
of her relations as the peculiar nature of their employments 
would admit of, and with surprising fortitude and self-command, 
she delivered to each of them some token of remembrance. This 
done, she calmly awaited the approach of death ; and finally, on 
the 20th of October, 1842, resigned her spirit without a murmur. 
The funeral took place at Bamborough on the following Monday, 
and was very numerously attended. The pall was borne by 
William Barnfather, Esq., from Alnwick Castle, Robert Smeddle, 
Esq., of Bamborough Castle, the Rev. Mr Mitford Tayloi*, of 
Noi-th Sunderland, and Mr Fender, surgeon, Bamborough. 
Ten of the immediate relatives of the deceased, including her 
father, and brother William, as mourners, followed by Mr Evans, 
officer of customs, Bamborough, and a young man from Durham, 


who is said to have cherished an ardent affection for the deceased, 
formed the funeral procession, which was accompanied by an 
immense concourse of persons of all ages and grades in society, 
many of whom seemed deeply affected. 

It may be here mentioned, as illustrative of Grace Darling's 
character, that she received numerous offers of marriage, many 
of which might have been considered advantageous, but all of 
which she declined, usually alleging her desire never to change 
her condition whilst her parents were alive. It is said that, on 
the occasion of her being introduced to the Duke and Duchess 
of Northumberland, his Grace told her that he hoped she would 
be careful in such matters, as there would be sure to be designs 
upon her money ; and she told him she would not marry without 
his approbation.* 

We may here properly take occasion to advert to a disposition 
which strangers have observed to prevail amongst the inhabi- 
tants of the fishing villages adjacent to the scene of the wreck, 
to depreciate the greatness of Miss Darling's deed, by speaking 
lightly of the danger to which it subjected her. We do not 
ascribe this altogether to a spirit of envy or detraction, but 
rather conceive it to be in a great measure the natural effect of 
those people's habitual situation, relatively to the scene of the 
wreck, and the circumstances with which it was attended. They 
are persons who have husbands, and fathers, and brothers, 
almost daily exposed, in following their pursuits as fishennen, 
to the dangers which Darling and his daughter voluntarily 
encountered from an impulse of humanity. However para- 
doxical may seem the assertion, it in reality was not amongst 
people thus familiarised — all of them in idea, and most of them 
in reality — with scenes of tempest and danger, that the warmest 
appreciation of such conduct was to be expected. Striking as 
was the case, there was nothing in it which was sufficiently 
contrasted with the incidents of their daily life to stir their 
feelings on behalf of the heroine. It was to 

" The gentlemen of England 
Who live at home at ease," 

and the ladies, nursed in the lap of luxury, whose cheeks " the 
winds of heaven are not permitted to visit too roughly," and 
who had never known aught of a scene of tempest and shipwreck 
beyond what the boards of a theatre or the pages of a romance 
might have taught them — it was to them that the idea of a girl, 
under a humane impulse, voluntarily taking a boat's oar to di'ift 

* The proceeds of the public subscription (about £700) were funded for 
Miss Darling's use under the trusteeship of the Duke of Northumberland 
and Mr Archdeacon Thorp. Tliis sum is understood to have been inherited 
by her father. Some other sums which had been directly sent to her as 
tributes to her worth, were divided by the amiable young woman amongst 
her brothers and sisters. 


throug-h. wiud and tide amongst those jagged rocks, came home 
with electrifying eifect ; and it would have been strange had it 
been otherwise.* 


Heroism in a humble station in life was not more remarkably 
exemplified in the case of Grace Darling than in the instance of 
Volney Beckner, an Irish sailor boy. 

Volney was bom at Londonderry in 1748 ; his father having 
been a fisherman of that place, and so poor, that he did not 
possess the means of giving his son a regadar school education. 
^Vhat young Volney lost in this respect was in some measure 
compensated by his father's instructions at home. These instruc- 
tions chiefly referred to a seafaring life, in which generosity of dis- 
position, courage in encountering difficulties, and a readiness of 
resource on all occasions, are the well-known characteristics. 
'While yet a mere baby, his father taught him to move and guide 
himself in the middle of the waves, even when they were most 
agitated. He used to throw him from the stern of his boat into 
the sea, and encourage him to sustain himself by swimming, and 
only when he appeared to be sinking did he plimge in to His aid. 
In this way young Volney Beckner, from his very cradle, was 
taught to brave the dangers of the sea, in which, in time, he 
moved with the greatest ease and confidence. At four years of 
age he was able to swim a distance of three or four miles after 
his father's vessel, which he would not enter till completely 
fatigued ; he would then catch a rope which was thrown to him, 
and, clinging to it, mount safely to the deck. 

When Volney was about nine years of age, he was placed 
apprentice in a merchant ship, in which his father appears to have 
sometimes sailed, and in this situation he rendered himself exceed- 
ingly useful. In tempestuous weather, when the wind blew with 
violence, tore the sails, and made the timbers creak, and while 
the rain fell in torrents, he was not the last in manoeuvring. 
The squirrel does not clamber with more agility over the loftiest 
trees than did Volney along the stays and sail-yards. TVTien he 
was at the top of the highest mast, even in the fiercest storm, he 
appeared as little agitated as a passenger stretched on a ham- 
mock. The little fellow also was regardless of ordinary toils 
and privations. To be fed with biscuit broken with a hatchet, 
sparingly moistened with muddy water fuU of worms, to be half 
covered with a garment of coarse cloth, to take some hours of 
repose stretched on a plank, and to be suddenly wakened at the 
moment when his sleep was the soundest, such was the life of 

* This account of the latter years of Grace Darlmg, as well as the nar- 
rative of the rescue, is extracted, with permission, from a memoir of tlie 
young heroine which appeared in the Benoick and Kelso Warder, February 
4, 1843, 



Volney, and yet he enjoyed a robust constitution. He never 
caught cold, he never knew fears, or any of the diseases spring- 
ing- from pampered appetites or idleness. 

Such was the cleverness, the good temper, and the trust- 
worthiness of Volney Beckner, that, at his twelfth year, he was 
judged worthy of promotion in the vessel, and of receiving double 
his former pay. The captain of the ship on board which he 
served, cited him as a model to the other boys. He did not even 
fear to say once, in the presence of his whole crew, " If this little 
man continues to conduct himself with so much valour and pru- 
dence, I have no doubt of his obtaining a place much above that 
which I occupy." Little Volney was very sensible to the praises 
that he so well deserved. Although deprived of the advantages 
of a liberal education, the general instructions he had received, 
and his own experience, had opened his mind, and he aspired, by 
his conduct, to win the esteem and affection of those about him. 
He was always ready and willing to assist his fellow-sailors, and 
by his extraordinary activity, saved them in many dangerous 
emergencies. An occasion at length arrived, in which the young 
sailor had an opportunity of performing one of the most gallant 
actions on record. 

The vessel to which Volney belonged was bound to Port-au- 
Prince, in France, and during this voyage his father was on 
board. Among the passengers was a little girl, daughter of a 
rich American merchant ; she had slipped away from her nurse, 
who was ill, and taking some repose in the cabin, and ran upon 
deck. There, while she gazed on the wide world of waters 
around, a sudden heaving of the ship caused her to become dizzy, 
and she fell over the side of the vessel into the sea. The father 
of Volney, perceiving the accident, darted after her, and in five 
or six strokes he caught her by the frock. Whilst he swam with 
one hand to regain the vessel, and with the other held the child 
close to his breast, Beckner perceived, at a distance, a shark ad- 
vancing directly towards him. He called out for assistance. 
The danger was pressing. Every one ran on deck, but no one 
dared to go farther ; they contented themselves with firing off 
several muskets with little effect ; and the animal, lashing the 
sea with his tail, and opening his frightful jaws, was just about 
to seize his prey. In this terrible extremity, what strong men 
would not venture to attempt, filial piety excited a child to 
execute. Little Volney armed himself with a broad and pointed 
sabre ; he threw himself into the sea ; then diving with the velo- 
city of a fish, he slipped under the animal, and stabbed his sword 
in his body up to the hilt. Thus suddenly assailed, and deeply 
wounded, the shark quitted the track of his prey, and turned 
against his assailant, who attacked him with repeated lounges of 
his weapon. It was a heart-rending spectacle. On one side, the 
American trembling for his little girl, who seemed devoted to 
destruction ; on the other, a generous mariner exposing his life 



for a child not Ms own ; and here the whole crew full of breath- 
less anxiety as to the result of an encounter in which their young 
shipmate exposed himself to almost inevitable death to direct it 
from his father ! 

The combat was too unequal, and no refug-e remained but in a 
speedy retreat. A number of ropes were quickly thrown out to 
the father and the son, and they each succeeded in seizing one. 
Already they were several feet above the surface of the water. 
Already cries of joy were heard — " Here they are, here they are 
— they are saved!" Alas! no — they were not saved! at least 
one victim was to be sacrificed to the rest. Enraged at seeing 
his prey about to escape him, the shark plunged to make a vigo- 
rous spring; then issuing from the sea with impetuosity, and 
darting forward like lightning, with the sharp teeth of his capa- 
cious mouth he tore asunder the body of the intrepid and unfor- 
tunate boy while suspended in the air. A part of poor little 
Volney's palpitating and lifeless body was drawn up to the 
sliip, while his father and the fainting child in his arms were 

Thus perished, at the age of twelve years and some months, 
this hopeful young sailor, who so well deseiwed a better fate. 
When we reflect on the generous action which he performed, in 
saving the life of his father, and of a girl who was a stranger to 
him, at the expense of his own, we are surely entitled to place 
his name in the very fii'st rank of heroes. But the deed was not 
alone glorious from its immediate consequences. As an example, 
it survives to the most distant ages. The present relation of it 
cannot but animate youth to the commission of generous and 
praiseworthy actions. When pressed by emergencies, let them 
cast aside aU selfish considerations, and think on the heroism of 
the Irish sailor boy — Volney Beckner. 


The preceding instances of heroism in humble life, have a fine 
parallel in that of the late James Maxwell, whose sacrifice of 
self to duty and humanity has rarely been surpassed. James 
was of a family of brave men, natives of Stirlingshire. Having 
a number of years ago wished to emigrate to Canada, the family 
removed westward, intending to sail from the Clyde ; which, 
however, they were prevented from doing. The person intrusted 
with the money raised for the expenses of the voyage and sub- 
sequent settlement, acted unfairly, and absconded ; so that they 
were compelled, for want of funds, to remain in Port-Glasgow, 
where three or four of the lads became sailors. They were all 
first-rate men, and employed as masters or pilots o^ different 
steam-vessels, either at home or abroad. James was appointed 
to act as pilot on board a fine steam-vessel called the Clydesdale, 
of which the master was a worthy young man, named Turner. 



About the year 1827, the vessel was appointed to sail between 
Clyde and the west coast of Ireland; and one evening-, after 
setting- out on the voyag-e across the ChanrifeJ, with between 
seventy and eig'hty passengers, Maxwell became sensible at 
intervals of the smell of fire, and went about anxiously endea- 
vouring to discover whence it originated. On communicating 
with the master, he found that he too had perceived it ; but 
neither of them could form the least conjecture as to where it 
arose. A gentleman passenger also observed this alarming 
vapour, which alternately rose and passed away, leaving them 
in doubt of its. being a reality. About eleven o'clock at night 
this gentleman went to bed, confident of safety ; but while Max- 
well was at the helm, the master ceased not an instant to search 
from place to place, as the air became more and more impreg- 
nated with the odour of burning timber. At last he sprung upon 
deck, exclaiming, " Maxwell, the flames have burst out at the 
paddle-box!" James calmly inquired, "Then shall I put 
about?" Turner's order was to proceed. Maxwell struck one 
hand upon his heart, as he flung the other above his head, and 
with uplifted eyes uttered, " Oh, God Almighty, enable me to 
do my duty ! and, oh God, provide for my wife, my mother, and 
my child ! " 

Whether it was the thoughts of the dreadful nature of the 
Galloway coast, girdled as it is with perpendicular masses of 
rock, which influenced the master in his decision to press for- 
ward, we cannot tell; but as there was only the wide ocean 
before and around them, the pilot did not long persist in this 
hopeless course. He put the boat about, sternly subduing every 
expression of emotion, and standing with his eyes fixed on the 
point for which he wished to steer. The fire, which the exer- 
tions of all the men could not keep under, soon raged with 
ungovernable fury, and, keeping the engine in violent action, the 
vessel, at the time one of the fleetest that had ever been built, 
flew through the water with incredible speed. All the passen- 
gers were gathered to the bow, the rapid flight of the vessel 
keeping that part clear of the flames, while it carried the fire, 
flames, and smoke, backward to the quarter-gallery, where the 
self-devoted pilot stood like a martyr at the stake. Everything 
possible was done by the master and crew to keep the place on 
which he stood deluged with water; but this became every 
moment more difficult and more hopeless ; for, in spite of all that 
could be done, the devouring fire seized the cabin under him, 
and the spot on which he stood immoveable became intensely 
heated. Still, still the hero never flinched! At intervals, the 
motion of the wind threw aside the intervening mass of flame 
and smoke for a moment, and then might be heard exclamations 
of hope and gratitude as the multitude on the prow got a glimpse 
of the brave man standing calm and fixed on his dreadful 

watch I 


The blazing vessel, glaring through the darkness of night, had 
been observed by the people on shore, and they had assembled 
on the heights adjoining an opening in the rocks about twelve 
yards wide ; and there, by waving torches and other signals, 
did their best to direct the crew to the spot. The signals were 
not misunderstood by Maxwell, whose feet were abeady roasted 
on the deck! The fierce fire still kept the engine in furious 
action, impelling the vessel onward; but this could not have 
lasted above another minute ; and dui'ing the interval he run her 
into the open space, and alongside a ledge of rock, upon which 
every creature got safe on shore — all unscathed, except the self- 
devoted one, to whom all owed their lives ! Had he flinched for 
a minute, they must all have perished. What would not any or 
all of them have given, when driving over the wide sea in their 
flaming prison, to the man who would have promised them safety I 
But when this heroic man had accomplished the desperate under- 
taking, did the gratitude of this multitude continue beyond the 
minute of deliverance ! We believe it did not I One man ex- 
claimed, " There is my trunk — I am ruined without it : five 
pounds to whoever Tvdll save it ! " Maxwell could not hesitate in 
relieving any species of distress. He snatched the burning 
handle of the trunk, and swung it on shore, but left the skin 
of his hand and fingers sticking upon it — a memorial which 
might have roused the gratitude of the most torpid savage! 
But he who offered the reward forgot to pay it to one who could 
not and would not ask of any one on earth. 

As might have been expected. Maxwell's constitution, though 
very powerful, never recovered the effects of that dreadful burn- 
ing. Indeed it required all the skill and enthusiasm of an 
eminent physician under whose care he placed himself, to save 
his life. Though the flames had not actually closed round him 
as he stood on his awful watch, yet such was the heat under him 
and around him, that not only, as we have said, were his feet 
severely burnt, but his hair, a large hair-cap, and huge dread- 
nought watch-coat, which he wore, were all in such a state from 
the intense heat, that they crumbled into powder on the least 
touch. His handsome athletic form was reduced to the ex- 
tremest emaciation ; his young face became ten years older dur- 
ing that appalling night ; and his hair changed to gray. 

A subscription for the unfortunate pilot was set on foot among 
the gentlemen of Glasg-ow some time after the burning. On 
this occasion the sum of a hundred pounds was raised, of which 
sixty pounds were divided between the master and pilot, and 
the remainder given to the sailors. Notwithstanding his dis- 
abilities, James was fortunately able, after an interval, to pursue 
his occupation as a pilot ; but owing to a weakness in his feet, 
caused by the injuries they had received, he fell, and endured a 
severe fracture of the ribs. The value, however, in which he 
was held by his employers, on account of his steady and uprio-ht 



character, caused them, on this occasion, to continue his ordi- 
nary pay during the period of his recovery. After this event, 
James entered the service of another company (Messrs Thomson 
and M^Connel), conducting a steam - shipping" communication 
between Glasgow and Liverpool ; by whom, notwithstanding the 
enfeebled state of his body and broken health, he was (as how 
could such a man be otherwise ?) esteemed as a valuable servant. 

In the year 1835 the case of this hero in humble life was 
noticed in Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and roused a very 
general sympathy in his favour. The subscriptions in his behalf 
were, at this time, of material service in enabling him to support 
his family ; but misfortunes, arising out of his enfeebled con- 
dition, afterwards pressed upon him, and another subscription 
was made for his relief in 1840. James did not live to reap the 
fall benefit of this fresh act of public benevolence and respect ; 
and shortly after his decease, his wife also died. We are glad 
to know that enough was realised to aid in rearing and educat- 
ing the younger children of an excellent individual, who de- 
served so well of his country. 

The preceding instances of personal intrepidity may perhaps 
serve to convey correct ideas on the nature of heroism. A hero, 
as we have seen, is one who boldly faces danger in a good cause ; 
as, for instance, to save a fellow-creature from hurt or death — to 
protect the property of others from violence — and to defend our 
native country from the attacks of enemies ; in each case with 
some risk to our own person and life. Bravery is a different 
thing. A robber may be brave ; one nation attacking another 
for the mere purpose of injuring it may be very brave ; but 
bravery in these cases is not heroism. Military commanders 
have often been called heroes, without deserving the name. 
They may have been successful in their wars ; but if they have 
not fought for good ends, they are not truly heroes, and are not 
entitled to such fame as that bestowed on the heroic Grace 
Darli^s^g, Volney Beckner, and James Maxwell. 



S the traveller from Paris pursues his way south- 
wards throug-h the central part of France towards 
Orleans and the beauteous river Loire, he has occasion 
to pass across the great plain of Beauce. This is a 
^ide tract of country, very level in surface, and being* g-ene- 
rally fertile, it is entirely under culture, and is plenteously 
dotted over with villages, in which reside the farmers and 
others who are engaged in rural occupations. In France, 
there are few farmhouses standing by themselves suiTOunded by 
fields, as in England. Those who cultivate the soil reside, for 
the greater part, in dwellings clustered together in villages, 
where an agreeable society is formed among the general inha- 

The villages in the plain of Beauce are of this kind. Each is 
a little community of an industrious body of agriculturists, and 
the tradesmen required to supply their various wants. Every 
village has a church, an old gray edifice, whose turret may be 
seen for a great distance on the plain ; and a number of these 
church towers, from being so conspicuous, form stations for 
telegraphs. The traveller, therefore, as he passes along, may 
occasionally observe the arms of a telegraph busily at work on 
a steeple, and in that way helping to convey intelligence across 
the country between Paris on the one hand, and Marseilles, on 
the borders of the Mediterranean, on the other. 
Each church in this, as well as in other parts of France, is 
No. 13. 1 


provided with a cure. These cures are a humble and dilig-ent 
class of clerg-ymen, labouring" in their sacred vocation for a very 
small salary; and from their kindliness of manner, as well as 
their serviceableness in g'iving* advice, in cases of emerg-ency, to 
the members of their flocks, they are very generally beloved in 
their respective neig-hbourhoods. 

In Artenay, one of these peaceful and industrious villages, not 
many years ago, there lived a humble artisan, Jules Asselin. 
Jules was a journeyman wheelwright by profession; he made 
wheels for the cars which were employed by the farmers in 
carrying their produce to market in Orleans. These carriages 
would be thought rude in construction by those who are ac- 
quainted with the fine large wagons of England ; because, besides 
being clumsy in fabric, they are frequently drawn only by cows 
or oxen, yoked in pairs by the forehead. Yet they cariy large 
burdens of field produce, and answer very well for the wants of 
the people. Jules Asselin had regular employment in the making 
of wheels for these vehicles ; and as he was a sober, industrious, 
and tender-hearted man, fond of domestic happiness, it may be 
supposed that he was married, and dwelt in a cottage in the 

It was a pleasure to see the small patch of green or meadow 
at Artenay, on the occasion of any summer or autumn festival. 
While the elder cottagers sat at their doors enjoying the sunshine 
and the scene of gaiety before them, the younger members of 
the rural community danced in groups on the village green to 
the merry strains of a violin, played by a native musician. At 
these scenes of festivity, as is remarked by strangers passing 
through the country, everything is conducted with much deco- 
rum. The people are happy, and relieve the gloom that might 
creep upon their existence by a light-hearted gaiety ; a portion 
of every festival day, in fine weather, being devoted to the dance 
and the gleesome song. 

At one time mingling in such festivities with neighbours, Jules 
Asselin and his wife now principally looked on as spectators 
from the bench at their cottage door; and their pleasure was 
greatly increased when their two children, Genevieve and 
Maurice, were old enough to play in the open air around 
them. These children were regarded with more than ordinary 
affection. They were twins, and, though differing in sex, bore 
a remarkable resemblance to each other in features, and also 
in dispositions. 

" How thankful to God should we be," said Jules Asselin one 
day to his wife Lisette, " that he has given us two such good 
and healthy children. What a blessing it is to a poor man to be 
spared seeing his infants pining and sickly, or, what is worse, 
possessed of bad tempers and dispositions ! " 

" We should indeed be grateful," replied Madame Asselin. " I 
have never seen them a moment ill since they were babies, though 



I fear Maurice is scarcely robust enoug-h for a working-man, 
•which of course he must be. He, as well as his sister, however, 
are considered the most orderly children in the village; and 
Monsieur, the cure, was only the other day observing to me, that 

their mutual attachment was quite charming But, dear 

Jules, I think you have suddenly looked melancholy. What is 
the matter?" 

" Nothing, Lisette ; I was only thinking " 

" You were only thinking ! Well, tell me your thoughts. You 
know you should have no secrets from your little wife." 

" Well, then, dear, a sort of feeling came over me ; I felt a 
little distressed as to what would come of these little creatures 
should Providence remove us from our present earthly scene." 

" Oh, Jules, don't talk so ; it makes me so very melancholy. 
You know we are both young yet, and I see nothing against our 
living many years. Let us hope the best at any rate, and in the 
meantime do our duty. You remember what the good cui'e said 
one day in his sermon — what a great thing it is for a man to 
know, but how much greater to perform his duty ! And if any 
man does his duty to his family, I am sure you do. Come, cheer 
up, dear Jules." 

" I will. It was a mere passing notion ; but now that the 
thing occurs to my mind, I am resolved to do my best to give 
Maurice and Genevieve a good education. They shall go to 
school as soon as they are able to understand instruction, and I 
will take all the care I can to train them up at home. I will 
myself teach Maurice drawing and a love of art." 

" Oh, delightful ! and I will teach Genevieve to sew and spin, 
and be a nice housewife. And how pleasant it will be to be all 
together in the winter evenings round the stove ; and perhaps 
we shall try to sing in parts the chanson, *Wlien swallows 
return in early spring,' or * The tender Musette,' or some other 
pretty country song." 

Thus Jules Asselin and his wife Lisette would picture to them- 
selves visions of domestic felicity ; and until the twins were nine 
years of age, everything went on according to their wishes. Who, 
however, can tell what a day may bring forth ? One morning 
Jules proceeded to his work as usual ; in the evening he lay 
stretched on his bed a lifeless corpse. A scene of joy was sud- 
denly a scene of mourning. Poor Jules was killed by the over- 
turning upon him of a carrier's loaded wagon, the wheel of 
which he had been called on to repair. The accident was uni- 
versally mourned throughout the district. All felt acutely the 
loss of so worthy a man, and were distressed for the fate of the 
unhappy Lisette and her interesting twin children. 

Misfortunes, it is said, seldom come single. Lisette, a natu- 
rally impulsive being, was overwhelmed with the blow, and 
was in a situation which rendered it doubly afflicting. The 
shock was too great for her to bear. In three days she lay 


stretched a lifeless form beside her faithful Jules, and both were 
buried in one g-rave. 

This second disaster still more excited the sympathy of the 
neighbours in favour of the twins, now orphans in helpless child- 
hood. The master wheelwright who had employed Jules, bound 
in some respects by duty, but still more by a benevolence of dispo- 
sition, resolved that he would henceforth be a father to the 
orphans, and take them home to live with his own family — a 
species of adoption common enough in the villages of France, 
where the dwellers beneath their thatched roofs consider them- 
selves as the natural guardians of the orphans left among them 
without home or support. 

Briefly must five years be passed over, during which Maurice 
was instructed in his father's trade, and his sister Genevieve 
made herself useful in all possible ways to the new parent 
beneath whose eye they grew up lovingly together. But their 
protector, too, was taken from them by death ; and the son who 
succeeded him in the workshop did not, alas ! inherit with it his 
father's considerate tenderness for the poor twins. The boy he 
tasked beyond his strength, and exacted from the gii'l such humi- 
liating drudgery, that even gratitude to their beneiactor could not 
long reconcile them to slavery with his successor. 

Abundance of employment could have been found for the 
orphans separately ; but to live apart had become to them a 
thought more formidable than any extent of privation together. 
To work for weeks, perhaps, at distant farms, and leave Gene- 
vieve to the mercy of strangers, seemed to Maurice deserting 
both duty and happiness ; while, if Genevieve plied her late 
mother's skill with some village sempstress, the idea of who 
would care for Mam'ice, make ready his simple meals, and keep 
in order his rustic wardrobe, would haunt her to a degree which 
made remaining asunder impossible. 

Together, then, like two saplings from one parent stem, which 
the force of the blast but entwines more inseparably, did the 
orphans struggle on through increasing hardships, until a rich 
farmer, compassionating their condition, and moved by their 
rare attachment, once more opened to them a joint home, on 
terms which, since one roof was to shelter them, they were too 
much overjoyed even to inquire into. 

Here, for two more happy years, the lad found on the exten- 
sive farm ample employment — now in his original vocation, 
making and mending the agricultural implements of the estab- 
lishment, now as a willing sharer in the labours of the field ; 
while the care of the poultry, and all the miscellaneous duties of 
a farm in France, lent robustness to the frame of his cheerful 
sister. A passing smile or shake of the hand through the day 
sufficed to lighten its toils to both ; and to sit together over the 
fire, or on some sunny bank at its close, was an extent of happi- 
ness they never dreamt of exchanging, 


But the " course of true love " — even when hallowed, as here, 
by the sweetest ties of nature — seldom long- " runs smooth." 
Harvest — in Beauce a season of peculiar activity and importance 
— was prog-ressing" amid the most strenuous exertions of old and 
young- ; and Maurice, always earliest and latest in the field, 
though not gifted with a robust, had yet an agile frame, was 
eagerly engaged in a sultry afternoon in placing*, before an im- 
pending storm, the crowning sheaf on an immensely high stack, 
when one more vivid flash than ordinary of the lightning*, wliich 
had long been playing along the unenclosed corn-fields, struck 
the exposed pinnacle to which the poor lad clung, and hurled 
him down, breathless and senseless, among the pile of sheaves 
collected for a fresh stack below. 

When the other workmen, many of them stunned by the same 
shock, gathered round their late fellow-labourer, they at first 
concluded him to be dead. A faint sigh undeceived them ; but 
his eyes, when they opened, rolled vacantly round, and vainly 
did he attempt to utter a word. By feeble sig*ns he pointed to 
his head as the seat of some fatal injury, of which no external 
trace could, however, be descried ; but the effects of it were 
manifest in his limbs, which, on their attempting to raise him, 
bent utterly powerless beneath his weight, and he again fainted 

It was a sad and sobered group who followed to the farm the 
wagon containing the well-nigh lifeless body of their hght- 
hearted young comrade. But how powerless are words to describe 
the state of his sister, when the brother on whom she doted was 
brought home to her more dead than alive — how she suppressed 
the first burst of uncontrollable agony, to sit on the bed to which 
she had helped to lift him — his poor head resting on her bosom, 
her eyes fixed on her darhng twm, in long and vain expectation 
of some sign of returning life ! 

Faint tokens came at last to reward her ; but the glance of the 
slowly-reviving one rolled wildly around, without resting on 
anything, till it met the fixed one of Genevieve, when a scarce 
perceptible smile crossed the pale lips of the sufferer. " He knows 
me ! " exclaimed the fond girl. '• God has spared him to me, and 
will yet grant me to be the means of restoring him by my care 
and kindness. "VVe were born together, and together I feel we 
must Hve or die ! " 

The well-known voice found its way to the inmost heart of 
poor Maurice ; fain would he have spoken a word of love and 
comfort in return, but his paralysed tongue refused its office. All 
he could do was to point, with a feeble hand, to his forehead, and 
express, by faint signs, that there was the seat of the malady. 
The most skilful physician of the district, after an hour of un- 
remitting attention, came to the conclusion that paralysis had, 
for the present, affected both the head and lower limbs, but that 
the favourable symptom of his being able to point to the former 


g-ave hopes that consciousness and reason would soon he fully 

And when, at the end of a week, the poor fellow stammered 
forth a few broken words, the first of which were " Genevieve" 
and " sister," who can tell her joy to be thus called on by the 
companion of her birth. To think he would no long-er be a 
breathing" mass, without the power of expressing- a thought or 
a feehng, seemed reward enough for all her nights and days of 
anxious watching* by his side. Since he had begun to speak, 
he would, no doubt, soon regain the use of his limbs. His arms 
got daily stronger, and to the precious word "sister" he would 
by degrees add the welcome ones " dear girl," " my help," " my 
comfort," and the yet more affecting request that she would 
" take pity on him." 

" Oh yes, yes ! " she would eagerly answer ; " God will take 
pity on us, and let me make you well by dint of care and kind- 
ness." But if, as she thus spoke, she inadvertently kissed a little 
more fervently than usual the sick head which rested on her 
faithful bosom, the screams of the poor sufferer, and convulsive 
fits on the slightest pressure, revealed the unchanged cause of his 
continued helplessness. 

The doctor, once more summoned, pronounced the debility of 
the lower limbs all but hopeless ; and the severe winter of 1823 
was passed by the twins in a state more easily to be imagined 
than described. Genevieve devoted all its long nights, and every 
moment she could snatch from her work through the day, to the 
couch of the unfortunate cripple, who, though resigned to his 
own condition, yet prayed to be released by death from being a 
burden to all around him — to the sister especially whose youth 
and strength he was wasting, and whose every prospect in life 
he felt blighted by the calamity which had overtaken his own 
early career. 

"Do you wish me dead when you speak so, Maurice?" she 
would sobbingly reply to these heart-rending lamentations. 
" Do you think / could stay upon earth if you go and leave me 1 
I sometimes think I am going too, for my poor head throbs, and 
my limbs bend under me at times, almost like yours." 

" I well believe it," the poor cripple would reply ; " but it is 
all fatigue. You take no rest either by day or night ! " 

" Oh, never mind that ; God has given me strength to work, 
and the hope of seeing you at work again at your old trade 
keeps me up. Never lose neart, brother dear ! You've seen the 
corn beat flat many a time and oft by the wind and rain, yet 
half a day's brisk breeze and sunshine set it aU up again finer 
than ever ! " 

These encouraging words from the most sensible, as well as 
most loving of sisters, had the effect of making the poor lad at 
times look forward to possible recovery ; and to keep up his 
industrious habits and neatness of hand, he amused himself ere 



long in his chair with bits of ingenious workmanship ; among 
others, a little model of a four-wheeled wagon on springs, in 
which it was his utmost ambition to be drawn by some of his 
comrades to church or the village green on the evening of a 
hoHday, to witness, since he could not share in, the sports of his 
rustic neighbours. 

His sister, who was in the secret, and had furnished all that 
was required for the construction of the pet model of a carriage, 
had her own views on the subject, which were, that it should be 
drawn by no one but herself. And, harnessed in what was to 
her a complete car of triumph, she was able, after repeated trials, 
to fulfil her brother's darling wish, that he should attend, on 
Easter Sunday, the parish church of Artenay, about a mile dis- 
tant from the farm. The only difficulty (at least in the eyes of 
the delighted girl) was, how to get her brother — unable to endure, 
without agony, the slightest jolt — over the roughly-paved village 
street leading to the church ; but so completely had her devoted 
conduct won on her fellow-servants and their master, that the 
whole distance (a considerable one) was found by dawn on the 
eventftd day so thickly covered with straw, as to obviate the 
slightest injury to the invalid. From nine in the morning the 
church path was lined with inhabitants of the village thronging 
to sympathise with the happy girl, who, though declining to 
yield to any one the honour of drawing her brother — a task 
which she accomplished with a skill and gentleness none other 
could have shown — was yet astonished and bewildered by the 
admiring looks and congratulations pressed on her by her kind- 
hearted neighbours. 

The part, however, of the whole scene which went straight 
to her heart, and touched it most deeply, was the distinction 
pubhcly conferred on her by the worthy cm'e himself, who, 
pointing her out to his parishioners as a pattern of Christian 
charity and sisterly affection, and bestowing on the interesting 
pair his warmest benediction, said to her in a voice of paternal 
kindness, " Take courage, my daughter ; God approves of and 
protects you." 

It was agreeable to poor Genevieve to have these words of 
commendation and hope addressed to her ; not that she required 
such prompting to do her duty, but because they assured her 
that her conduct was worthy of esteem. Her sisterly affection 
was therefore strengthened by the sympathy expressed by the 
cure, and she felt herself repaid for her days and nights of 
toil and anxiety. How much more, however, was she repaid 
by the tearful glance of the brother for whom she had suffered 
so much; and by his fervent prayers that she might be re- 
warded by Him who had put it into her heart so to befriend 
him ! One result only she felt could fulfil such a petition, 
and something whispered to her it would not be denied. But 
spring had passed away without any marked amendment in 



the patient's condition. May had come, and well-nigh gone, 
and with it the hope that fine weather might do something 
for the invalid ; and, resigned at length to his fate, the young 
paralytic bade adieu for me to all idea of regaining the use of 
his limbs. 

One evening when, as usual, his indefatigable sister had 
drawn him to the scene of rural festivity beneath the old elms 
at the entrance of the village, he was accosted by an old soldier 
lately come on a visit to a relation in the place, who, after 
closely questioning Maurice regarding his infirmity, gave him 
in return the important information, that, in consequence of a 
splinter from a shell at the battle of Eylau, he had himself been 
two years entirely deprived of the use of his limbs, and subject 
to spasms in the head, which had nearly bereft him of reason. 
Of the various remedies prescribed, none, he added, had the 
slightest success, till sea-bathing, persevered in for a whole 
summer — plunging in head foremost, and allowing the natural 
douche afforded by the successive waves to play freely, as long 
as strength permitted, on the affected part — had at length effected 
a cure. " I was carried to the sea-side in a half-dying state," 
said the old corporal, " in a litter lent me by my colonel. 
At the end of a fortnight, strength and appetite began to 
return, and with them my spirits and hopes of a complete 
recovery, which took place in the course of three months 
after. At first I could only walk on two crutches, then I 
threw one away, and on the 3d of September (a day I shall 
never forget) I walked, without so much as a stick, a good 
half mile from the town to visit a couple of old friends. Back 
I came, still on foot, to finish my course of the baths ; and 
within three weeks after, I was on the top of a coach for 
my own country as hale and hearty as you see me before you 
at this moment." 

" And where, on earth, are these precious baths to be had ? " 
asked the cripple with eager interest. 

" At a place called Boulogne, a seaport town of the Pas-de- 
Calais,* some two hundred and fifty miles from hence." 

" Two hundred and fifty miles ! If I must go so far to be 
cured, I am pretty sure of remaining ill to my dying day." 

" Try and get conveyed there, my good fellow," said the kindly 
veteran, " and I'll be answerable for your entire recovery." 

" What I to get back my poor legs and return to my trade, 
and be able to gain my own bread, and help my sister ! No, 
no I — such happiness is not for me !" exclaimed the desponding 

" There, now, my young friend, you are losing hope. You are 
like many people who cannot believe in any cure till they see it 

* Tlie Pas-de-Calais is the name of the department in which Boulogne 
is situated. 


performed. VThj be so confident in disbelieving" the efficacy of 
sea-bathing- ? I have known many a poor sickly being braced 
up by it besides myself. I am no doctor ; but you are young-, 
and I can see no reason why you may not get rid of this feeble- 
ness, which is perhaps only a sort of disorder of the nerves — a 
thing bad enough, no doubt. Come, come, cheer up, Maurice ; 
I was, I tell you, radically cured at fifty; why give way to 
despair ? " 

" But you don't consider the impossibility of my going in 
any sort of carriage, even the smoothest voiture, when I faint 
dead away, or go into fits at the slightest jolt. No, no ! — it is 
the will of God that I should remain a cripple to my life's end, 
and I only pray he may be pleased to shorten it for my own 
sake and that of others." 

During this conversation Genevieve was an attentive listener ; 
and had the speakers been less engrossed, they must have read 
on her countenance the lines of deep determination. She took 
aside the old soldier, to obtain from him the minutest particulars 
about the wonder-working baths, their proper season, and pre- 
cise distance, and the easiest and least expensive route by which 
they might be reached ; and no sooner was her plan matured, 
than she hastened to put it in execution. 

The affectionate girl, overlooking all possible difficulties, had 
actually resolved to di'aw her brother in his little cart all the 
way from the centre of France to Boulogne. It was while 
sitting beside Maurice, and beholding his infirmities, that she 
had come to this resolution; and her emotions found vent in 

" How strangely moved you are, sister," said Maui'ice to her 
anxiously ; " surely you have something more than usual on 
your mind?" 

" "SYhy should I conceal it longer from you, brother?" was 
the answer. " I have, I think, discovered the means for your 

"And how do you intend to effect this desirable object ?" 

" By sea-bathing ; and I shall draw you myself to the sea- 
baths two hundred and fifty miles off!" 

" You never can have strength to do it." 

"And why not? — what is there one cannot do for one's own 
twin brother?" 

" But where is the money to come from for such a journey?" 

" Oh, I've got in an old glove round my neck five gold pieces 
saved out of my wages, more than enough to carry us to our 
journey's end." 

" Ay, but then the getting back again?" 

" By that time, please God, you'll be walking by my side, 
and that will shorten the way, and he will provide for us. 
Don't you remember the words he put into the good cure's 
mouth, ' Be of good cheer; God approves and protects you ! ' " 


" Well, sister, I commit myself to his hands and yours. 
Fulfil his commission, for such it surely is, since you are not 
daunted by the length of the way." 

" Not in the least." 

" Or the numberless difficulties you must meet with.'* 

" We'll g-et over them." 

" Or the dreadful fatigue, perhaps beyond your strength." 

" Never fear for that ; I will manage it nicely ; I am very 

" Ah ! but when you come to have to climb hills ! " 

" Well, 'tis only taking longer time." 

"They will keep us back so; perhaps a whole month on the 

" Yes, at the very least; so 'tis time we were oflf." 

" And you really wish it ? " 

"Do I not?" 

Both hearts were full, and a long embrace gave vent to feel- 
ings unutterable in words. 

Genevieve, as may be observed from these traits of character, 
was not a girl to be turned from her purpose. Possessed of a 
strong and decisive mind — despising all thoughts of self in a case 
of such emergency, trusting in God and her own good inten- 
tions — she hastened, as we have said, to put her plans in practice. 

Genevieve had made up her mind to start on her toilsome pil- 
grimage on the 3d of June, the birthday of the twins, on which 
they had never missed visiting for religious exercises the little 
chapel of St Genevieve, situated a league from where they lived, 
on the road to Tours. Early on the morning of this anniversary 
— the sun already shining out cheerily on the plain of Beauce, 
and the road lined on each side with shady trees — the heroic 
Genevieve drew her brother along with the apparatus she had 
prepared for the purpose. 

Let us pause a moment to describe this remarkable means 
of conveyance. It was not without such precautions as her 
simple wisdom could suggest, or her slender purse afford, that 
Genevieve had arranged her paraphernalia for the journey. 
The low carriage, somewhat rude in construction, and mounted 
on four wheels, was sheltered overhead by a species of canopy, 
under which Maurice, helpless in his lameness, could recline 
as on a bed. A leathern strap, a gift from the village saddler, 
was provided as a harness of draught, when the difficulties 
of the road rendered such an addition to the ordinary hand- 
rope necessary. A change of light easy shoes replaced on 
her feet the clumsy sabots, or wooden shoes of the country, 
and a gleaner's ample straw-hat served to ward off the scorch- 
ing rays of the sun. While Maurice was dressed in his 
Sunday suit, Genevieve prudently retained her working attire ; 
but a small bundle, which otherwise would have told tales, 
containing her holiday dress, to be assumed on arriving at 


their place of destination, was disposed as a pillow in the 

Thus provided for the journey, they proceeded along- the road 
towards the chapel, Genevieve, in her speed at the outset, finding 
vent for her highly-excited feelings. 

" Dear Genevieve, not so fast ! not so fast ! You'll be out of 
breath before we reach the chapel ; you'll kill yourself with the 

" True, dear brother ! I was forgetting that we have some way 
to go. I will be more cautious in future ; and you must tell me 
when you would like to rest." 

Suiting her pace to the words, and looking ever round to 
inquire if her brother felt the least inconvenience, the twins 
arrived about seven o'clock in the chapel, Maurice nowise 
fatigued, and Genevieve, heated and tired as she was, but 
too happy to find herself thus far on her road. Having 
drawn her brother's vehicle under the porch of the little rustic 
shrine, and listened devoutly to the matin service performed 
by a gray-headed chaplain, Maurice observed his sister to re- 
main prostrate, engaged in praying with extraordinary fer- 
vour, while big tears coursed each other down her cheeks. 
Her feelings being relieved, and her resolution strengthened by 
these acts of devotion, she addressed herself to her task. The 
road northwards across the plain of Beauce was taken. The 
journey was begun. 

Fain would we follow in all its interesting details the itinerary 
(unexampled perhaps in the world's histoiy) of the twin tra- 
vellers, from the very centre of France to one of its farthest 
extremities ; but a few only of its leading incidents must suffice 
to give an idea of the whole. 

Along the planted sides of the great high roads and the level 
plains, their progress, though slow, was steady : halting for the 
heat of the day under the trees at the entrance of some hamlet, 
which aiforded the needful supplies; while at nightfall, the 
humblest decent shelter their slender means could command was 
sought and generally obtained. To avoid large paved villages, 
and yet more formidable populous towns, was often a tax on the 
maiden's ingenuity; yet never, save once (at Etampes), was she 
compelled — by the impossibility of elsewhere crossing two inter- 
secting streams — to consign to strangers' hands her precious 
charge, and have her brother carried on a handbarrow from one 
end to the other of the town. 

From hence her forward path was beset with new and unfore- 
seen obstacles. The district is now opened up by a railway 
between Paris and Orleans ; but there was no such conveniency 
at this time, and if there had, how should the poor twins have 
been able to pay for its use ? They were therefore compelled to 
take the ordinaiy route, which abounds in steep hills, up which 
the strongest horses find difficulty in dragging their customary 



loads. No wonder, then, if Genevieve well nig'h sunk under hers. 
Her feet had become so blistered that she was forced to leave otf 
shoes ; and being" constantly obliged to stop and take breath, she 
made but little way : yet, after every such halt, the ag-ony of her 
brother in witnessing her distress would make her resume her 
task with a cheerful smile. 

It was not till after twelve days' weary march, during* which 
she had to climb the hills of Arpajou, Long" Jumeau, and Bourg 
la Reine, that they arrived at the village of petit Mont Rouge, 
near Paris, where they found in the hostess, the widow of an 
artillery officer killed at Waterloo, an almost maternal friend. 
The good woman burst into tears on witnessing one of her own 
sex so dutifully yet painfully employed — lavished on both tra- 
vellers the kindest attentions — procured for poor Genevieve 
(whose chest the strap had begun cruelly to lacerate) a new and 
more comfortable one — and insisted on her taking a few days' 
rest ; while the misgivings of her brother regarding a delay, the 
cause of which was carefully concealed from him, were obviated 
by the kind landlady's positive refusal to make the slightest 
inroad on their slender stock of coin. On parting, she embraced, 
with mingled admiration and regard, the recruited wayfarer, 
and assured her of the ultimate success of her enterprise, which 
could only, she said, have been dictated by express suggestion 
from on high. 

Cheered by this friendly farewell, Genevieve once more 
donned her harness — avoided, as directed, the city of Paris, 
by keeping the line of the new boulevard and Champ de Mars 
— crossed the Seine in a boat, and, late at night, arrived at St 
Denis, where a less hospitable reception, alas ! awaited the poor 
travellers. A party of gay young sporting men from town, 
dining in the hotel, chose to consider Genevieve as an ad- 
venturess, and her brother as an impostor, and insulted them 
accordingly ; and while the innocent girl, choking with indig- 
nant surprise, was equally unwilling and unable to reply, 
Maurice, writhing on his seat from inability to chastise such 
insolence, exclaimed, " Miscreants that you are ! the best proof 
that I am a cripple is my not having the power to punish you 
as you deserve." 

This burst of honest feeling only provoked fresh insults from 
the giddy crew, to escape from whom Genevieve, in spite of her 
fatigue, insisted on removing her dear invalid from the inhos- 
pitable shelter of the inn to one beneath the canopy of heaven, 
where the tired girl laid herself down at her brother's feet, her 
head resting on his knees, and their hands twined together like 
the branches of the old plane-tree above them ; and the jSne 
serene midsummer night was passed by both in peace and 

The only other untoward incident which marked the remaining 
journey was a thunderstorm in the forest of L'Isle Adam, which 



brouglit back on the poor sufferer from a similar visitation a 
return of his frightful convulsion fits. During its continuance, 
the poor girl — holding her brother's head on her bosom, her 
hand fast held over his eyes to shield them from the lightning, 
sheltering him from the rain, as best she might, with her own 
body — put up the most piteous prayers to Heaven that she might 
not thus far have led him only to fall a victim to a second catas- 
trophe — adding the natural, and in her case almost pardonable 
wish, that if the blow were again to fall, it might in death unite 

Her fears were not, happily, realised ; the storm passed off, 
leaving the wayfarers unscathed. A three days' fever, however, 
occasioned by alarm and neglect of her own soaked garments, 
detained them at their evening's quarters; and Beauvais, the 
half-way house of their arduous journey, lay yet a good way 

It was reached at last after twenty-two days' march, during 
which three of the five gold pieces so carefully husbanded had 
melted away. Fresh courage and economy then became neces- 
sary to save the high-minded twins from the humiliation of 
asking alms ; and volumes might be written on the hardships, 
and difficulties, and privations of the remaining half of the 
pilgrimage. The country in the neighbourhood of Boulogne 
being hilly, Genevieve found the draught of the carriage more 
toilsome than it had been for a week before. In England, 
probably, under such circumstances, she would have received 
some assistance from empty return vehicles, but in France 
there is little general traffic on the public roads. A heavy dili- 
gence under the charge of a heartless conducteur, or a heavily 
laden carrier's cart, are almost the only vehicles bound for long 
journeys which are met with, and from these she had nothing 
to expect. 

As the poor girl drew her car up the last ascent towards 
Boulogne, she became giddy with fatigue and mental emotion. 
In a few minutes she was told she would see the wide open 
sea, with perhaps the white cliffs of Angleterre in the dis- 

" Oh, how delightful it will be, Maurice ; I will open the canopy 
of the car to let you have the first ghmpse of the sea, which 
neither of us have ever seen before." 

And when she reached the brow of the eminence, there surely 
was the sea stretched out, a vast sheet of water, with the white 
cliffs of England faintly pictured on the horizon. Boulogne, 
also, with its lofty church spire, was seen in a hollow bay on 
the coast — the goal of long-cherished hopes. The sensations of 
the pair on beholding the scene mock description. Maurice, 
though little less dehghted at an event which seemed to him 
scarce short of a miracle, would have urged on his sister a 
halt ; but, then, to pause within reach of her object was im- 



possible, and with quickened step she gained the gates of the 
town. Her first inquiry was how to reach the baths, and the 
way by which she was directed to them lay along the shore ; 
when the grand and novel spectacle of the gently-undulating 
ocean recalled to the twins the wide- waving corn-fields of their 
native country. 

Beneath the shade of an overhanging rock they encountered a 
group of elegant ladies of different nations awaiting the proper 
time of tide for repairing to the baths. All gazed with interest 
on the cripple and his conductress; and when, in answer to 
their inquiries from what village in the neighbourhood the 
kind girl was bringing him, he took her by the hand, and, 
with the eloquence of gratitude, told whence they came, and 
what she had done for him, the farm-girl of Artenay appeared 
in their eyes as an angel come down from heaven, whom 
they felt half tempted to worship, and whom they carried in 
triumph, sounding her praises to all they met, to the bathing 

Its worthy proprietor received the orphans with all his native 
goodness of heart, thanked Heaven that they were thrown upon 
his benevolence, and immediately entered on its active exercise, 
by consigning Maurice, with as many recommendations as if he 
had been a sovereign prince, to the skill and attention of two of 
his most experienced bathing-men. 

The twins were established in commodious lodgings, and 
loaded by the awakened interest of the bathers with everything 
necessary for their comfort. After ten or twelve dips, a degree 
of irritability began to be felt in the feet of the patient, which 
quickly ascending to the knees, called forth the doctor's most 
favourable prog-nostics. And how did the heart of Genevieve 
leap responsive to the happy omen ! how thankful did she feel 
for her own courage and perseverance ! And how did her fond 
brother pour out to her his mingled joy and gratitude, when, 
by degrees, he could move this or that portion of his crippled 
limbs, and at length — happy day for both — was able to mount, 
like his friend the old soldier, a couple of crutches. His first 
use of them, it may be believed, was towards his sister ; and 
never did mother more fondly hail the tottering efforts of her 
first-born, than Genevieve, receding playfully to lure him 
on, and crying, "Courage, brother! a few steps more!" re- 
ceived him at length in her outstretched arms, mingling tears 
and caresses with fresh thanksgivings for so blissful a consum- 

Boulogne is pre-eminent among the seaports of France for 
its fine stretch of sands, which are the daily resort of bathers, 
many of whom come from Paris and other parts of the interior, 
as well as English from the opposite coast. These sands were 
a favourite resort of the twins. Carrying a seat almost to 
the edge of the waves, Genevieve led her brother to it, and 



here he inhaled every day the refreshing breezes which played 
along" the surface of the ocean. At other times she would move 
with him to a sheltered spot inland, where he could have the 
benefit of milk procured from a farm dairy, and a change of 

With these attentions, and an unremitting attendance at the 
baths, where the salt-water douche continued to prove of the 
greatest efficacy, Maurice gradually gained strength. At first 
he could walk on his crutches only a few steps, then a greater 
distance, and after awhile he accomplished a mile and some- 
times two miles. He was now able to perambulate the streets, 
and to be amused with the shops 5 in these excursions leaning 
on his sister's ann, and occasionally resting when a seat pre- 
sented itself. In their walks through the town, Maurice and 
Genevieve found themselves the objects of respectful interest. 
Their mutual affection had become generally known, and what 
Genevieve had done for her brother was a theme of universal 
praise. In their rambles through the town, therefore, they 
were frequently addressed by name, while many would point 
them out in passing, and say, " There go the twins of Beauce." 

"When September was past, and the sea-bathing season over, 
the cure of Maurice was so far completed that he talked of 
returning homeward, and for that purpose modestly asked the 
worthy bath-keeper to advance him a small sum, to be faithfully 
repaid out of his own and his sister's first earnings. This loan, 
however, was not necessary. The day before that fixed on for 
their departure, a deputation from the youth of every rank in 
Boulogne waited on Genevieve Asselin, inviting her to receive 
on the morrow, at a civic feast, the tribute so richly earned 
by her sisterly devotion. The poor girl thought it a dream 
when thus summoned to enjoy honours reserved in her simple 
ideas for persons of rank alone; and could scarce comprehend 
when assured that it was the very obscurity of her station 
which enhanced her merit, and made her worthy of being thus 

Next day six young ladies came in two carriages to con- 
duct the twins to the spot called Tivoli, in the upper town, 
where preparations had been made for a fete in commemora- 
tion of^ the pui-est and most persevering vii'tue. There the 
simple timid girl of Beauce, in the garb she had brought 
from her native village, was crowned with white roses, and at 
the end of the banquet presented by the spokeswoman of the 
yoimg women of Boulogne with a purse containing fifty gold 
pieces, as a willing contribution from sisters of her own sex, 
justly proud of one who had reflected upon it such unfading 

How the unconscious heroine blushed and resisted ; how the 
sum — one she had never so much as dreamed of possessing — was 
forced upon her ; how she honourably flew to discharge with it 



her debt at the baths; but, thanks to their owner's liberality, 
brought it undiminished away — maybe left to the reader's fancy. 
He may be pleased, however, to learn, that by the physician's 
advice Maurice exchanged his intended walk home for an inside 
seat beside his sister in the diligence, on the top of which he 
insisted on fastening his beloved wagon ; that a few days were 
spent in seeing Paris, which they had once so painfully passed, 
and in visiting the kind hostess of Mont Rouge, w^ho had acted 
towards them the Samaritan's part ; and that, availing them- 
selves of a return vehicle for Orleans, they reached it late on a 
Saturday night. 

About the hour of ten next morning, just as its inhabitants 
were proceeding to church, Maurice appeared, now drawing, in 
his turn, up the street leading to the church, his blushing sister, 
half-smothered with the flowers showered upon her by the whole 
closely-following population of her native village. 

The good priest, apprised of their happy return, caused the 
brother to lead his sister to the foot of the altar, and founding 
on this living text a most affecting exhortation to Christian 
charity and fraternal love, and again blessing the maid he 
held out as a pattern to all around, alluded, in a voice faltering 
with emotion, to his former words of encouragement, asking, 
" Said I not truly, daughter, that the God who approved would 
protect you 1 " 


LL excesses are dang-erous, and none perhaps more so 
(than an excess in derotional feeling-. Of relig-ioiis 
excesses, orig-inating- either in imposture or the dehi- 
sions of an overheated temperament, the world has 
^had many lamentable examples. During* the last thousand 
^ years, there have appeared as many as twenty false Messiahs, 
besides an incalculable mmiber of persons who have pre- 
sumed, with equal impiety, to declare themselves to be 
prophets specially sent by God. History abounds in accounts 
of these deluded beings, and of their temporary success in work- 
ing" on the credulity of followers. For the sake of g-eneral infor- 
mation, and, if possible, to guard simple-minded people from 
being" deceived by the claims of all such pretenders, we present 
the follo-vving" accomit of a few of the principal religious impos- 
tors, or at least self-deceived fanatics of modern times, com- 
mencing- with 


In the year 1525, amid the turmoil of the Reformation, there 
arose a remarkable sect in Germany, headed by a fanatic named 
Thomas Munzer, who declared himself to be an inspired jDrophet. 
The members of the sect pretended to be the peculiar favourites 
of Heaven, the chosen instruments of God to eft'ect the millennium 
reig'n of Christ on earth. They beheved that they had famihar 
personal intercourse with the Deity, that they were on an equal 
footing" with the prophets and apostles of old, and were armed 
against all opposition by the power of working" miracles. Their 
pretended visions, miracles, and prophecies, soon kindled the 
flame of fanaticism in the minds of the peasants. Their prophet 
and leader at leng-th took the field, attended by his deluded fol- 
lowers, with the intention of overturning" all governments and 
laws, giving- as a reason that the world was now to be governed 
by the founder of Christianity in person. The elector of Saxony 
and other princes raised an army to withstand the dangerous 
pretensions of the sect. About five thousand were slain in battle, 
the leader of the mob was executed, and the fanaticism apparently 

A few years later a similar delusion was propagated in "West- 
phalia, a district in lower Germany, by John Bockholt, a tailor 
by profession, and a native of Leyden, in Holland — hence his 
popular name of John of Leyden. This man, with the aid of a 
few equally infatuated zealots, beg-an to spread his doctrines in 
Munster, the capital of Westphalia, in the year 1533, and, as in 
all similar cases, soon gained listeners, some of whom became 
believers in his pretensions. John of Leyden, like a number of 
No. 14. 1 


his predecessors, assumed the character of a temporal prince. He 
persuaded his credulous followers that a new spiritual kingdom 
was to be established, and that Munster was to be its capital, 
whence laws should be sent forth to govern all the kings of the 
earth. This presumptuous idea was flattering to the mob, and 
the Leyden tailor gained continual accessions of adherents. As 
he went on, even the learned, including some monks, joined his 
sect, until at length he found himself powerful enough to venture 
on his great project. His followers rose suddenly in arms, 
attacked and deposed the magistrates, and became masters of the 
city. Immediately afterwards John of Leyden was proclaimed 
Mng of the New Jerusalem. 

We have said nothing of the doctrines or personal doings of 
the man who thus got the sway of a great city containing many 
thousands of people. His extravagances are almost incredible. 
He married eleven wives, to show his approbation of the poly- 
gamy which prevailed in the times of other kings of Jerusalem ; 
and to assimilate himself to a particular king of the Hebrews, he 
ran or madly danced, without apparel, through the streets of 
Munster. Other most offensive and pernicious acts were daily 
committed by this mock-monarch, whom it is charity to set down 
as insane. He of course saw visions and dreamt dreams in 
abundance. In one dream it was communicated to him, he said, 
that the cities of Amsterdam, Deventer, and Wesel, were given to 
him as his own. He accordingly sant disciples or bishops 
thither, to spread his new kingdom. In the state of the public 
mind at the period, these religious embassies were not, as they 
appear now, ridiculous. The Amsterdam envoy gathered so 
many proselytes, that he attemj)ted to seize on the city. He 
marched his followers to the town-house on a given day, with 
drums beating and colours flying. Having seized on the house, 
he fixed his head-quarters there ; but the burghers rose, and with 
some regular troops surrounded the fanatics ; the whole of them 
were put to death in a severe manner, in order to intimidate 
others of the class. 

It may well be imagined that the city of Munster was in a 
dreadful condition under John of Leyden, it being a doctrine of 
the sect that all things should be in common among the faithful ; 
and they also taught that civil magistrates were utterly useless. 
Hence enormous crimes, as well as ridiculous follies, were prac- 
tised continually — real enthusiasm of belief adding to the evil 
rather than diminishing it. The following incident is the only 
one descriptive of the insane and scandalous practices of the sect 
which we shall venture to record — a specimen is enough. Twelve 
of them met, five being women, in a private house. One of the 
men, a tailor by trade, having prayed for four hours in a sort of 
trance, then took off his garments, and throwing them into the 
flames, commanded the rest to do the same. All did so ; and the 
whole subsequently went out to the streets, which they paraded^ 



crying", "Wo! wo! "vvo to Babylon!" and the like. Bein^ 
seized and taken before a magistrate, they refused to dress them- 
selves, saying", " We are the naked truth !" Were it not for the 
sequel, we might simply feel disgust at this, as the doing, 
possibly, of shameless profligates. But when these very persons, 
instead of being placed in lunatic asylums, were taken to the 
scaffold, they sung and danced for joy, and died with all the 
marks of sincere religious enthusiasm. 

John of Leyden did not long enjoy the throne of Munster. Its 
rightful sovereign and bishop, Count Waldeck, aided by other 
petty princes of Germany, assembled an army and marched 
against the city. The fanatics shut its gates and resisted ; nor 
was it until after an obstinate siege that the occupants were 
overcome. The mock-monarch was taken, and suffered a cruel 
death, with great numbers of his wrong-headed associates. 

The popular hallucination, however, did not end here. The 
severe laws which were enacted after the deaths of Munzer and 
Bockholt, in order to check the spread of their principles, were 
of no preventive value ; perhaps the reverse. We are told by 
Mosheim, that immediately after the taking of Munster, " the 
innocent and the guilty were often involved in the same terrible 
fate, and prodigious numbers were devoted to death in the most 
dreadful forms." There is proof, too, as in the single case 
detailed, that even where great profligacy characterised their 
peculiar course of conduct, there was often mixed up with it such 
an amount of sincerity as ought to make us think of them with 
pity as beings labouring under a strange delusion, rather than 
blame them as persons erring under the common impulses leading 
to vice. " In almost all the countries of Europe, an unspeakable 
number of these wretches preferred death in its worst forms to 
a retractation of their errors. Neither the view of the flames 
kindled to consume them, nor the ignominy of the gibbet, nor 
the terrors of the sword, could shake their invincible but ill-placed 
constancy, or induce them to abandon tenets that appeared dearer 
to them than life and all its enjoyments." The more enlightened 
policy of modern times would either leave alone such unhappy 
beings, or consign them to the humane treatment of a lunatic 


Richard Brothers was bom in Newfoundland in 1760, and fop 
several years served as a midshipman and lieutenant in the Bri- 
tish royal navy. In the year 1784 a reduction of the navy took 
place, and he was paid off, to live for the future upon an allowance 
of three shillings a-day. No particular eccentricities of conduct 
characterised Brothers up to the year 1790, when his under- 



standing", according- to his own showing, beg'an first to be really 
" enlig-htened, although (says he) I had always a presentiment 
of being some time or other very great." The enlightenment 
took the shape of an objection to the oath which he was obliged 
by form to take in receiving his half-yearly j^ay, and which 
bears to be a " voluntary" attestation that the annuitant has 
received the benefit of no public employment during the term 
for which he draws his salary. Mr Brothers found here a diffi- 
culty which seems really somewhat puzzling. " I do not wish 
(he reasoned) to take any oath if I can possibly avoid it, and yet 
part of my attestation is, that I swear voluntarily. This makes 
me utter and sign a falsehood, as the oath is compulsory, my 
pay not being procurable without it." The head of the Admi- 
ralty (the Earl of Chatham) would not depart from the ordinary 
form in such cases, and Mr Brothers was left half starving, for 
the space of a year or so, on the horns of this dilemma. Anxiety 
of mind appears to have given the decisive bent, at this period, 
to his awakening fanatical tendencies. 

The next tidings which we have of Mr Brothers result from 
the application, in 1791, of Mrs Green, a lodging-house keeper in 
Westminster, to one of the workhouses in that district, respecting 
a lodger of hers who owed her thirty-three jjounds, and whom 
she was unable to keep any longer, as his conscience would not 
allow him to draw the pay due to him from the Admiralty. The 
workhouse board pitied the poor woman, who spoke highly of 
the honesty, good temper, and moral conduct of her lodger. 
They sent for Mr Brothers. " His apj^earance (says a writer 
who was present) prepossessed me greatly in his favour. He 
seemed about thirty years of age, tall, and well -formed, and 
showed in his address and manner much mildness and gentility." 
He answered questions calmly, though his replies were all tinc- 
tured with fanaticism. The issue was, that the board took him 
off Mrs Green's hands for a time, and stated the case fully to the 
Admiralty ; which body, on the score of the eccentricities deposed 
to by the widow, granted the pension to Mr Brothers for the 
future without the oath. 

Richard Brothers, comparatively easy in worldlj'" circum- 
stances, now came before the world as a prophet. He did not 
publish his "great" works till 1794; but long before that time 
his prophetic announcements had been spread abroad, and he 
had made a mighty stir in the world. His house was constantly 
filled by persons of quality and fortune, of both sexes, and the 
street crowded with their carriag-es. There was at least one 
member of parliament, Nathaniel Brassey Halhed, a gentleman 
known as a profound Oriental scholar, and author of some highly 
valued compositions, who openly espoused the views and cause of 
Brothers, sounding his praises in the British senate, and support- 
ing him by learned dissertations from the press. Oxford divines 
did not disdaiu to enter the field as opponents of the new prophet; 


scores of pious entliusiasts " testified " in his favour ; thousand'* 
trembled at his denunciations of wo ; and, in short, Richard 
Brothers became, what he " had always a presentiment of being 
some time or other — a very great man." 

To glance at the mass of absurdities — blasphemous in the 
extreme, if viewed as the outpourings of mental sanity — which 
men thus allowed to arrest their attention, excites a sense alike of 
the painful and ludicrous. That the man was neither more nor 
less than a confirmed lunatic, appears on the face of every chap- 
ter. If there was any admixture of impostiu'e in the case, cer- 
tainly self-delusion was the prevailing feature. The following 
selections, which, so far from being the most gross specimens of 
his ravings, are only such as may without impropriety be set 
down here, will satisfy every reader of the diseased organisation 
of the prophet's head. He calls his work, which appeared in two 
books, " A Revealed Knowledge of the Prophecies and Times," 
with a further heading, which could scarcely be repeated. He 
had found out in his visions that his ancestors had been Jews, 
though " separated from that race for fifteen hundred years, such 
a length of time as to make them forget they ever belonged to 
the name." The discovery of his Hebrew descent was an essen- 
tial point, as the j)rophet was to be the " prince and restorer of 
the Jews by the year 1798." Absurd enough as this assumed 
genealogy was, what term should be applied to the further 
assumption, defended by Mr Halhed in parliament, of such a 
descent as to render him " nephew" to the Divine Being ! 

One of Brothers's more important prophecies was, that London 
would be destroyed in 1791 ; and will it be credited that such a 
piece of nonsense should at the time have created great uneasiness 
in the minds of many jDersons in the metropolis 1 To finish the 
farce, London was ?iot destroyed at the time predicted ; but that 
only gave the prophet gTounds for self-laudation : it was saved 
by his interposition ! He describes minutely what the state of 
things would otherwise have been, in order, no doubt, to make 
the sense of the escape stronger. " London would have formed 
a great bay or inlet of the channel ; all the land between Windsor 
and the Downs would have been sunk, including a distance of 
eighteen miles on each side, to the depth of seventy fathoms, 
that no traces of the city might be ever found." 

Mr Brothers had many visions of solid temporal power and 
honours. In a vision he was shown " the queen of England 
coming towards me, slow, trembling, and afraid. This was com- 
municated to William Pitt in the month called June 1792." In 
another vision he saw the English monarch rise from the throne, 
and humbly send him " a most magnificent star." What this 
meant the prophet could not at first tell, but it was " revealed " to 
signify that entire power was given to him over the majesty of 
England. A letter describing the vision, " with others to the 
king, queen, and chancellor of the exchequer, were put into the 



penny post-office, to be sent by that conveyance, according" to tbe 
directions I received on that head by revelation." But Brothers 
was still more direct in his announcements to the king- of his 
coming fall. In his book he plainly says, " I tell you, George 
the Third, king of England, that immediately on my being- 
revealed in London to the Hebrews as their prince, and to all 
nations as their governor, your crown must be delivered up to 
me, that all your power and authority may instantly cease.'*' 
The " revelation" spoken of was to be effected openly and visibly. 
" I am to take a rod and throw it on the ground, when it will be 
changed into a serpent ; to take it in my hand again, when it will 
be re-changed into a rod." 

Can it be possible that ravings such as these, which are among 
the least objectionable in the book, brought carriages full of 
admiring people of quality to the door of Richard Brothers, and 
were defended by a learned senator of Britain less than fifty 
years ago ? That they did so is undeniable ; and here lies the 
apology for yet holding the case up to ridicule. But space and 
time enough have now been occupied with the task, and we must 
speedily di'aw to an end with Richard Brothers. He showed 
most fully the extent of his self-delusion, perhaps, on the occasion 
of his visit to the House of Commons. After formally announc- 
ing that he was about to do so, he went to that place for the 
purpose of prophesying to the members of wars and rumours of 
wars, and of directing them, as their true " king and minister of 
state," how to avoid the coming perils. Strange to say, the 
reckless speaker sent back the letter of the prophet with a 
messenger, who set him off with what he felt to be, " in such a 
public place particularly, unfeeling contempt and incivility." 
But the House of Commons had not yet seen the last of Richard 
Brothers. On the 4th of March 1795 the poor prophet was 
taken into custody, ostensibly to answer a charge of high treason, 
founded on the printed passag'es relating to the king, but in 
reality to try the sanity of the man in a regular way. He was 
tried, and was declared by a jury to be insane. The imputation 
both of insanity and high treason was combated, in two long 
speeches in the House of Commons, by Mr Halhed, and these 
speeches show both learning and ingenuity in no slight degree. 
But the case was too strong for Mr Halhed, and his motions fell 
to the ground unseconded. 

Richard Brothers now fell under the care of the lord-chancellor 
as a lunatic, and passed the whole of his remaining days, we 
believe, in private confinement. Doubtless he would there be 
much more happy than in the midst of a world for which his 
unfortunate situation unfitted him. The victims of such illusions 
create a world of their own around them, and in imaginary inter- 
course with the beings that people it, find more pleasure than in 
any commerce with the material creation. Richard Brothers, as 
far as he lived at all for the ordinary world, lived only to give 



another proof of tlie streng-tli of the superstitious feeling and love 
of the marvellous in man, as well as of the difficulty which even 
education has in repressing- their undue exercise. 


Within the last sixty or seventy years, the religious world 
has been scandalised by the wild fancies and pretensions of 
several female fanatics, equally mad or self-deceiving with the 
most visionary impostors of the male sex. We shall first 
speak of 

Ann Lee. — This woman was the daughter of a blacksmith in 
Manchester, and having gone to America, she commenced her 
operations in 1776, near Albany, in the state of New York. A 
combination of bodily disease — perhaps catalepsy — and religious 
excitement appears to have produced in her the most distressing 
consequences. During the spasms and convulsions into which 
she occasionally was thrown, her person was dreadfully dis- 
torted, and she would clench her hands until the blood oozed 
through th« pores of her skin. She continued so long in these 
fits, that her flesh and strength wasted away, and she required to 
be fed, and was nursed like an infant. 

Deranged both in body and mind, she now began to imagine 
herself to be under supernatural influence ; thought, or pre- 
tended, that she had visions and revelations; and ended with 
declaring that she was the woman spoken of in the book of 
Revelations, chapter xii. : 1. " And there appeared a great 
wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the 
moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve 
stars ; 2. And she being* with child cried, travailing in birth, 
and pained to be delivered ; 5. And she brought forth a man 
child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron ; and her 
child was caught up unto God, and to his throne." Mrs Lee 
further declared that she was the mother and leader of the elect ; 
that she had the gift of tong-ues ; that she could converse with 
the dead ; and that she should never die, but ascend to heaven 
in the twinkling of an eye. Notwithstanding this confident 
prediction, she died ; but her death was so far from opening the 
eyes of her dupes, that it rather confirmed them in the faith, 
and she still numbers several thousand followers in the United 
States. These deluded people believe that they are the only 
true church on earth ; that they shall reign with Christ a thou- 
sand years ; that they have all the apostolic gifts ; and, like 
them, they prove all their doctrines from prophecy, as well as 
by signs and by wonders. 

Jemima Wilkinson was another American fanatic who flou- 
rished at the same time as Mrs Lee. She was the daughter of 


a member of the Society of Friends of Cumberland, Rhode Island. 
Mentally derang-ed, her first visions occurred in 1775, when she 
pretended that she had been ill, and had actually died. Her soul 
having" gone to heaven, as she alleged, she there heard the in- 
quiry, " Who will go and preach to a dying' world ?" Whereupon 
she answered, " Here am I, send me." Her body, as she said, was 
then reanimated by the spirit of Christ, upon which she set up 
as a public teacher, to g-ive the last call of mercy to the human 
race. She declared that she had arrived at a state of perfection, 
and knew all things by immediate revelation ; that she could 
foretell future events, heal all diseases, and discern the secrets 
of the heart. If any person was not healed by her, she con- 
veniently attributed it to the want of faith. 

Mrs Wilkinson made many other extravagant pretensions. 
She assumed the title of universal friend ; declared that she had 
left the realms of glory for the good of mankind, and that all 
who would not believe in her should perish. She pretended 
that she should live a thousand years, and then be translated 
without death. She preached in defence of a community of 
goods, and took herself whatever "the Lord had need of." 
Multitudes of the poor, and many of the rich, in New England 
believed in the truth of these frantic assumptions, and made 
large contributions to her. Some gave hundreds, and one even 
a thousand dollars for her use. In a few instances wealthy 
families were ruined by her. No detection of her fallacies un- 
deceived her willing dupes. She pretended that she could walk 
on water, in which she signally failed. She pretended that she 
could raise the dead to life, but a corpse placed in a coffin re- 
mained dead in spite of all her eiforts. Her own death occurred 
in 1819, and thus her claims to immortality were completely 
falsified. Yet her followers would not at first believe that she 
was dead. They refused to bury her body, but at last were 
compelled to dispose of it in some secret way. Mrs Wilkinson 
still numbers followers in the United States, who entertain the 
notion that she has left them only for a time, and will return 
again on earth. 

Mrs Buchan, a resident in Glasgow, excited by a religious 
mania, announced herself in 1783 as a mother and leader of 
the elect. She likewise was resolute in proclaiming that she 
was the Avoman spoken of in the Revelations ; that the end of 
the world was near, and that all should follow her ministrations. 
For some time she wandered from place to place, attended by 
hundreds of half-crazy dupes. This woman appears to have 
been one of the least selfish or arrogant of the class to which 
she belonged. She seems simply to have been a lunatic, whom 
it was cruel to allow to go at large. She announced that she 
was immortal, and that all who believed in her should never 
taste death ; but \-^ time, like all other mortals, she died ; and 
this event staggered' the faith of her followers. The Buchanites, 



as they were termed, are now, we believe, extinct. Perhaps 
some of them were absorbed by the next impostor-fanatic who 
appeared in England. 

Joanna Southcott. — This person was born in Devonshire about 
the year 1750, of humble parents. In early life, and till near 
her fortieth year, she was employed chiefly at Exeter as a 
domestic servant. Having joined one of the Methodist bodies, 
her religious feelings were powerfully awakened, and becom- 
ing acquainted with a man named Sanderson, who laid claim 
to the spirit of prophecy, the notion of a like pretension was 
gradually impressed on her mind. Possessing a very inferior 
education, and naturally of a coarse mind, her efforts at pro- 
phecy, whether in prose or verse, were uncouth and unworthy 
of the notice of people enjoying a sane mind. There being, 
however, always persons of an unsettled tm-n ready to give 
credence to pretensions confidently supported, her influence ex- 
tended ; she announced herself, like her predecessors in England 
and America, as the woman spoken of in the book of Keve- 
lations ; and obtained considerable sums by the sale of seals 
which were to secure the salvation of those who purchased 

Exeter being too narrow a field for the exercise of her pro- 
phetic powers, Mrs Southcott removed to London, on the invi- 
tation and at the expense of William Sharp, an eminent engraver, 
who had become one of her principal adherents. Both before 
and after her removal to the metropolis, she published a number 
of pamphlets containing her crude reveries and prophecies con- 
cerning her mission. Towards the year 1813 she had surrounded 
herseli with many credulous believers, and among certain classes 
had become an object of no small importance. Among other 
rhapsodies, she uttered dreadful denunciations upon her opposers 
and the unbelieving nations, and predicted the speedy approach 
of the millennium. In the last year of her life she secluded 
herself fi-om the world, and especially from the society of the 
other sex, and gave out that she was with child of the Holy 
Ghost ; and that she should give birth to the Shiloh promised 
to Jacob, which should be the second coming of Christ. Her 
prophecy was, that she was to be delivered on the 19th of 
Octobe/ 1814, at midnight ; being then upwards of sixty years 
of age. 

This announcement seemed not unlikely to be verified, for 
there was an external appearance of pregTiancy ; and her fol- 
lowers, Avho are said to have amounted at that time to 100,000, 
were in the highest state of excitement. A splendid and expen- 
sive cradle was made, and considerable sums were contributed, 
in order to have other things prepared in a style worthy of the 
expected Shiloh. On the night of the 19th of October a large 
number of persons assembled in the street in which she lived, 
waiting to hear the announcement of the looked-for event ; but 


the hour of midnig-ht passed over, and the crowd were only 
induced to disperse by being" informed that Mrs Southcott had 
fallen into a trance. On the 27th of December following- she 
died, having- a short time previously declared that " if she was 
deceived, she was at all events misled by some spirit, either g-ood 
or evil." Under the belief that she was not dead, or that" she 
would again come to life, her disciples refused to inter the body, 
until it began to be offensive from decomposition. They then 
consented, with much reluctance, to a post-mortem examination, 
which fully refuted Joanna's pretensions and their belief. The 
appearance which had deceived her followers was found to have 
arisen from dropsy. The pretended mission of Joanna Southcott 
might be expected to have been now thoroughly abandoned ; 
but whether influenced by fanaticism or shame, her disciples 
clung to the cause of the deceased. They most reluctantly 
buried the body, without relinquishing their hopes. Flattering 
themselves that the object of their veneration would still, some 
way, reappear, they foimed themselves into a religious society, 
which exists till this day in London, under the name of the 
Southcottian church. The members affect a peculiar costume, 
of which a brown coat of a plain cut, a whity-brown hat, with 
a long unshaven beard, are the chief features. Joanna Southcott 
was unquestionably, for the last twenty years of her life, in a 
state of relig'ious insanity, which took the direction of diseased 
self-esteem. A lunatic asylum would have been her most fitting 
place of residence. 


Some years ago a considerable sensation was created in the 
state of New York by the mad and grotesque pranks of Robert 
Matthews, who presumptuously laid claim to the divine cha- 
racter, and had the address to impose himself as a superior being 
upon some of the most respectable members of society. As no 
account, as far as we are aware, has ever been published in 
Britain of this remarkable affair, notwithstanding the interest 
which it excited in America, we propose to introduce a notice of 
it to our readers. 

Robert Matthews was a native of Washington county, in the 
state of New York, and of Scotch extraction. At an early age 
he was left an orphan, and was brought up in the family of a 
respectable farmer in the town of Cambridge, where in his boy- 
hood he received the religious instruction of the clergyman 
belonging to the Antiburgher branch of Seceders. At about 
twenty years of age he came to the city of New York, and 
worked at the business of a carpenter and house-joiner, which 
he had partially learned in the country. Possessing a genius 



for mechanical pursuits, and being* of active habits, he was an 
excellent workman, and was in constant and lucrative employ- 
ment. In 1813 he married a respectable young* woman, and 
removed to Cambridge for the purpose of pursuing* the business 
of a storekeeper; but the undertaking*, after a trial of three 
years, failed. He became bankrupt, involving* his father-in-law 
in his ruin ; and in 1816 he returned once more to New York, 
where for a number of years he wrought at his old profession 
of a house-carpenter. Being at length dissatisfied with his 
condition, he removed in 1827 to what he thought a better field 
for his talent in Albany. While settled in this city, a remark- 
able change took place in his feelings. Hitherto he had belonged 
to the Scotch church ; but now, disliking that communion, he 
attached himself to the Dutch Reformed congregation, and 
there gathering fresh ardour, at length surrendered his whole 
mind to spiritual aifairs. While in this condition, he went to 
hear a young and fervent orator, the Rev. Mr Kirk, from New 
York, preach, and returned home in such a frenzy of enthusiasm, 
as to sit up a great part of the night repeating, expounding', 
and commending passages from the sermon. From this period 
his conduct was that of a half-crazy man. He joined the tem- 
perance society, but went far beyond the usual rules of such 
associations, contending that the use of meats should be excluded 
as well as of intoxicating liquors ; proceeding on this notion, he 
enforced a rigid system of dietetics in his household, obliging 
his wife and children to subsist only on bread, fruits, and vege- 

During the year 1829 his conduct became more and more 
wild and unregulated. His employment was still that of a 
journeyman house-joiner ; but instead of minding his work, he 
fell into the practice of exhorting the workmen during the hours 
of labour, and of expounding the Scriptures to them in a novel 
and enthusiastic manner, until at length he became so bois- 
terous, that his employer, a very pious man, was obliged to 
.discharge him from his service. He claimed at this time to 
iiave received by revelation some new light upon the subject of 
experimental religion, but did not as yet lay claim to any super- 
natural character. Discharged from regular employment, he 
had abundant leisure for street-preaching, which he commenced 
in a vociferous manner — exhorting every one he met upon the 
subject of temperance and religion, and holding forth to crowds 
at the comers of the streets. Having made a convert of one of 
his late fellow-workmen, he procured a large white flag, on 
which was inscribed "Rally round the Standard of Truth;" 
this they raised on a pole, and bore through the streets every 
morning, haranguing the multitudes whom their strange ap- 
pearance and demeanour attracted around them. A young 
student of divinity, catching the infection, as it seemed, united 
himself with Matthews, and assisted in the preachings in the 



puT3lic tlioroiiglifares. Matthews, liowever, was a remarkably 
bad iDreacber, and made little or no impression on his auditors. 
His addresses were incoherent, consisting" of disjointed sentences, 
sometimes g-rand or bombastic, and at other times low and ridi- 
culous, but always uttered at the hig-hest pitch of the voice, and 
designed both in matter and manner to terrify and startle his 
hearers. The favourite doctrine which he attempted to enforce 
was, that i\lbany would be immediately destroyed, unless the 
people were converted ; and he harped so wildly on this theme, 
that in a short time he became utterly distraug-ht. All the 
efforts of his poor wife to restrain him in his mania were un- 
availing-. One night he aroused his family from their slumbers, 
declared that the city would be destroyed before morning", and 
fled from his home, taking' with him three of his sons, the 
young-est an infant of only two years. With these he travelled 
maniacally on foot for twenty-four hours, till he reached the 
house of his sister in the town of Arg-yle, a distance of forty 

The religious wanderings of Matthews the prophet, as he was 
called, may now be said to have commenced. With a Bible in 
his hand, and his face garnished with a long beard, which he 
had for some time been suffering to grow, in obedience to a 
Scriptural command, he wandered about, collecting crowds to 
listen to his ravings, and frequently disturbed the peace of 
regular meetings in the churches. Finding* that he made no 
impression in the old settled part of the country, he set out on 
a missionary tour through the western states, penetrating" the 
deepest forests, crossing the prairies, and never stopping till he 
had proclaimed his mission amid the wilds of the Arkansas. 
Thence he turned his steps to the south-east, recrossed the Mis- 
sissippi, traversed Tennessee, and arrived in Georgia with the 
view of preaching to the Indians ; but here he was seized by 
the authorities, and placed in confinement as a disturber of the 
public peace. Ultimately he was dismissed, and permitted to 
return towards his old haunts in New York and its neighbour- 
hood, where he arrived in a somewhat new character. It w^ould 
appear that till about this period Matthews was simply in a 
state of mental derangement, and, like all madmen in similar 
circumstances, was perfectly sincere in his belief. The small 
degree of success on his journey, his imprisonment in Georgia, 
and his utter poverty, may be advanced as a cause for an alte- 
ration in his conduct. He now lost a portion of his frenzy, and 
in proportion as he cooled in this respect, the idea of imposture 
seems to have assumed a place in his mind. There is at least 
no other rational mode of explaining his very singular beha- 
viour. In the capacity, therefore, of half-madman, half-knave, 
Mr Matthews may be viewed as entering on his career in New 
York in the month of May 1832. 

In ordinar}' times and circumstances, the intrusion of such a 



madman into a quiet mercantile city would lead to no other 
result than the committal of the intruder to the house of correc- 
tion or a lunatic asylum ; but at the period of Matthews's 
appearance in New York, a pretty large portion of the public 
mind was prepared for any kind of extravagance in religion, 
and therefore the declaration of his mission was looked upon 
only as another act in the drama which had for some time been 
performing. About the year 1822 a few ladies became dis- 
satisfied with the existing means of religious instruction in the 
city, and set on foot the bold project of converting the whole 
population by a system of female visitation, in the execution of 
which, every house and family was to be visited by committees 
of two, who were to enter houses indiscriminately, and pray 
for the conversion of the inmates whether they would hear or 
not. This scheme created no little noise at the time, but, like 
all frenzies, it only lasted its day, and was succeeded by other 
schemes perhaps equally well-meaning, but equally visionary. 
Among the class of perfectionists, as they were termed, there 
were doubtless many estimable persons, and none more so than 
Mr Elijah Pierson and his wife. Mr Pierson was a merchant 
by profession, and, by a course of industry and regularity in all 
his undertakings, was now in opulent circumstances. Until the 
late religious frenzy agitated the city, he had been noted for his 
intelligence and unafi'ected piety, and not less so was his lady. 
In a short period his devotional feelings underwent a remark- 
able change. In 1828, after passing through a state of preli- 
minary excitement, he became afflicted with monomania on the 
subject of religion, while upon all matters of business, as far as 
they could be disconnected from that on which he was decidedly 
crazed, his intellectual powers and faculties were as active and 
acute as ever. During his continuance in this state of hallucina- 
tion, in the year 1830 his wife died of a pulmonary affection, which 
had been greatly aggravated by long fasting and other bodily 
severities. This event only served to confirm Mr Pierson in his 
monomania. He considered that it would afford an opportunity 
for the working of a miracle through the efficacy of faith. By 
a gross misinterpretation of Scripture (Epistle of James, v. 14, 
15), he believed that his wife should be " raised up" from death 
while lying in her coffin, and accordingly collected a crowd of 
persons, some of whom were equally deluded with himself, to 
see the wonder performed in their presence. The account of 
this melancholy exhibition, which is lying before us, is too 
long and too painful for extract ; and it will suffice to state, that 
notwithstanding the most solemn appeals to the Almighty from 
the bereaved husband, the corpse remained still and lifeless ; 
and by the remonstrances of a medical attendant, who declared 
that decomposition was making rapid and dangerous progress, 
the body was finally consigned to the tomb. 

Such was the hallucination of Mr Pierson, which many pitied, 



and some were found to approve. Among" the latter was Mr 

S , also a merchant in good circumstances, but who had 

latterly become a victim to the religious excitement which pre- 
vailed, and, like Mr Pierson, often subjected himself to fasts for 
a week at a time, greatly to the injury of his health and the 
confirmation of his mania. Both gentlemen being thus in a 
state of mind to look for extraordinary events, a stranger pre- 
sented himself before them on the 5th of May 1832. He had 
the beard of a patriarch, a tall form, and his language was of a 
high-flown cast on religious topics, which at once engaged their 
attention and sympathy. This imposing stranger was no other 
than Robert Matthews. The pretensions which he made were 
of a nature which we can scarcely trust ourselves even to hint 
at. That the tale may be told with as little pain to our readers 
as possible, let it suffice to say, that the very highest imaginable 
character was assumed by this unhappy man, and that the pre- 
tension was supported merely by the perversion and misinterpre- 
tation of one or two passages of Scripture. The character which 
he assumed he pretended to be in the meantime incorporated 
with the resuscitated person of the Matthias mentioned in the 
New Testament ; and he accordingly was not now any longer 
Matthews, but Matthias. He had the power, he said, to do all 
things, not excepting those which most peculiarly belong to the 
divine nature. Mr Pierson and his friend believed all that he 
set forth of himself, then and subsequently, no matter how ex- 
travagant or blasphemous ; and he in turn recognised them as 
the first members of the true church, whom, after two years' 
search, he had been able certainly to identify. He announced to 
them that, although the kingdom of God on earth began with 
his public declaration in Albany in June 1830, it would not be 
completed until twenty-one years from that date, in 1851 ; pre- 
vious to which time wars would be done away, the judgments 
finished, and the wicked destroyed. As Mr Pierson's Christian 
name was Elijah, this afforded Matthews the opportunity of de- 
claring that he was a revivification of Elijah the Tishbite, who 
should go before him in the spirit and power of Elias ; and as 
Elias, as everybody knows, was only another name for John the 
Baptist, it was assumed that Elijah Pierson was the actual John 
the Baptist come once more on earth, and by this title he was 
henceforth called. 

Mr Pierson very soon relinquished preaching, as did Mr S , 

and the v/ork of the ministry devolved entirely on Matthews, 
who, jealous of his dignity, would bear no rivals near the throne. 
The prophet was now invited to take up his residence at the 

elegantly-furnished house of Mr S , and acceding to the 

invitation, he remained there three months. The best apart- 
ments were allotted to his use, and the whole establishment was 
submitted to his control. It was not long before he arrogated 
to himself divine honours, and his entertainer washed his feet in 



token of his humility. The female relations of the family were 
sent away by the impostor, and he allowed no one to reside there 
but the black domestics who were of the true faith. From 
fasting- he taught his disciples to chang'e their system to 
feasting" ; and having* their houses at his command, and their 
purses at his service — loving- the good things of this world, and 
taking- all the direction in iDrocuring- supplies — he caused them 
to fare sumptuously every day. But this splendid style of living' 
was not enough. The prophet was vain of his personal appear- 
ance, and proud of wearing- rich clothes. It was now necessary 
that he should be arrayed in garments befitting- his character 
and the dignity of his mission. His liberal entertainer, there- 
fore, at his suggestion, furnished him with an ample wardrobe 
of the richest clothes and finest linens. His favourite costume 
consisted of a black cap of japanned leather, in shape like an 
inverted cone, with a shade ; a frock-coat of fine green cloth, 
Hned with white or pink satin ; a vest, commonly of richly-figured 
silk ; frills of fine lace or cambric at the wrists ; a sash around 
his waist of crimson silk, to which were suspended twelve gold 
tassels, emblematical of the twelve tribes of Israel; green or 
black pantaloons, over which were worn a pair of well-polished 
"Welling'ton boots. Add to this, hair hanging over his shoulders, 
and a long beard flowing- in ringlets on his breast, and we may 
have an idea of him in his pubhc costume. In private he disused 
the black leather cap, and sometimes appeared in a nightcap of 
the finest hnen, decorated with twelve points or turrets, and 
magnificently embroidered in g-old by his female votaries. He 
usually preached in a suit of elegant canonicals. 

Lodged, fed, and decorated in this sumptuous manner, Matthews 
spent his time so agreeably, that he became less anxious to make 
public appearances. His preaching was confined to select parties 
of fifty or sixty individuals, composing, as he styled it, "the 
kingdom," and by these he was held in the most reverential 
esteem. Occasionally, strangers were invited to attend his 
ministrations, but this was only as a great favour ; and at all 
meetings he made it a rule to allow no one to speak but himself. 
He declared his rooted antipathy to arguing or discussion. If 
any one attempted to question him on the subject of his mission, 
or character, he broke into a towering- passion, and said that he 
came not to be questioned, but to preach. Among- other of his 
vagaries, he declared that he had received in a vision an archi- 
tectural plan for the New Jerusalem, which he was commissioned 
to build, and which for magnificence and beauty, extent and 
grandem', would excel all that was known of Greece or Rome. 
The site of this great capital of the kingdom was to be in the 
western part of New York. The bed of the ocean was to yield 
up its long-concealed treasui'es for its use. All the vessels, tools, 
and implements of the New Jerusalem were to be of massive 
silver and pure gold. In the midst of the city was to stand au 



immense temple, to be surrounded with smaller ones : in the 
greater temple he was to be enthroned, and Mr Pierson and 

Mr S were each to occupy a lesser throne on his right hand 

and on his left. Before him was to be placed a massive candle- 
stick with seven branches, all of pure gold. 

Any man in his senses must have perceived that this was the 
vision of a madman, but by his humble votaries it was considered 
a sure prediction of what would speedily come to pass. As long 
as it was confined to mere harangues, the public were not called 
on to interfere ; the case, however, was very different when 
Mr S , in obedience to the injunctions of the prophet, com- 
menced ordering' expensive ornaments for the proposed temple 
from a goldsmith in the city. Matters were now going too far 

for S 's friends to remain any longer calm spectators of his 

folly, and both he and Matthews were taken up on a warrant of 

lunacy, and consigned to an asylum for the insane. Poor S 

was too confirmed in his madness to be speedily cured, and there- 
fore remained long in confinement ; but Matthews had the 
address to appear perfectly sane when judicially examined, and 
was relieved by a writ of habeas corpus, procured by one of his 

Upon his release from the asjdum, he v/as invited to take up 
his residence with Mr Pierson ; but that gentleman shortly after-' 
wards broke up his establishment, though he still rented a house 
for Matthews and one or two attendants, supplying him at the 
same time with the means of living*. In the autumn of 1833 he 
was, on the solicitations of Mr Pierson, invited to reside at 
Singsing, in Westchester county, about thirty miles from town, 
with a Mr and Mrs Folger, two respectable persons, whose minds 
had become a little crazed with the prevailing' mania, but who 
as yet were not fully acquainted with the character of the 
prophet. Mr Pierson afterwards became a resident in the 
family, and thus things went on very much in the old comfort- 
able way. Only one thing disturbed the tranquillity of the 
establishment. Mrs Folger, who had a number of children, and 
was of an orderly turn of mind respecting household affairs, felt 
exceedingly uneasy in consequence of certain irregular habits 
and tendencies in the prophet, who set himself above all domestic 
discipline. The great evil Avhich she complained of was, that he 
always took the meal time to preach, and generally preached so 
long, that it was very difficult to find sufficient time to get 
through the duties of the day. He often detained the breakfast- 
table so long, that it was almost time for dinner before the meal 
was over ; in the same manner he ran dinner almost into supper, 
and supper was seldom over before midnight — all which was 
very vexing to a person like Mrs Folg'er, who was accustomed to 
regularity at meals, and could not well see why the exercises of 
religion should supersede the ordinary current of practical 



The infatuation of both Pierson and Folger in submitting" to 
the tyranny and pampering the vanity of Matthews, was demon- 
strated at this period in many acts of weakness which astonished 
the more sober part of the community. The impostor was fur- 
nished with a carriage and horses to convey him to and from 
New York, or any other place in which he chose to exhibit him- 
self. Money to a considerable amount was given him on various 
pretences ; and to crown the absurdity, an heritable property 
was conveyed to him for his permanent support. An allowance 
of two dollars a-day was further made to his wife in Albany ; 
and several of his children, including a married daughter, Mrs 
Laisdel, were brought to reside with him in Mr Folger's estab- 
lishment. After a short time, however, Mrs Laisdel was under 
the necessity of returning- home, in consequence of her father's 
violent treatment. 

This very agreeable state of affairs was too pleasant to last. 
Mr Folg'er's business concerns became embarrassed, and he was 
obliged to spend the greater part of his time in New York. The 
entire government of the household now devolved on Matthews ; 
and he, along with Katy, a black female cook, who Avas a sub- 
missive tool in all his projects, ruled the unfortunate Pierson, 
Mrs Folger, and the children, with the rod of an oppressor. 
Certain meats were forbidden to appear at table ; the use of con- 
fectionary or pastry was denounced as a heinous sin; and the 
principal food allowed was bread, vegetables, and coiFee. What 
with mental excitement and physical deprivations, JNIr Pierson's 
health began to decline; he became liable to fainting and 
apoplectic lits ; but no medical man was permitted to visit him, 
and he was placed altog-ether at the mercy of the impostor. At 
this crisis Matthews showed his utter incapacity for supporting 
the character he had assumed. Instead of alleviating the condi- 
tion of his friend, he embraced every opportunity of abusing 
him, so as to leave little doubt that he was anxious to put him 
out of the way. One of his mad doctrines was, that all bodily 
ailments were caused by a devil ; that there was a fever devil, a 
toothache devil, a fainting-lit devil, and so on with every other 
malady; and that the operations of such a fiend were in each 
case caused by unbelief, or a relaxation of faith in Matthews's 
divine character. The illness of Pierson was therefore considered 
equivalent to an act of unbeHef, and worthy of the severest dis- 
pleasure. On pretence of expelling the sick spirit, he induced 
his friend to eat plentifully of certain mysteriously -prepared 
dishes of berries, which caused vomiting' to a serious extent, and 
had a similar though less powerful effect on others who partook 
of them. The children also complained that the coffee which 
was served for breakfast made them sick. On none of these 
occasions did Matthews taste of the food set before Mr Pierson 
or the family ; and from the account of the circumstances, there 
can be no doubt of his having, either from knavery or madness, 



endeavoured to poison the family, or at least to destroy tlie life 
of his deluded patron. Besides causing Mr Pierson to swallow 
such trash as he offered him, he compelled him to receive the 
contents of a pitcher of water poured into his mouth from a 
height of four or five feet. This horrid operation, in which Katy 
the black servant assisted, brought on strong spasmodic fits, in 
which the sufferer uttered such dismal groans and sighs as 
shocked Mrs Folger, and might have induced her to discredit the 
pretensions of the impostor, and to appeal to a magistrate for 
protection ; but excellent as was this lady's general character, 
she possessed no firmness to decide in so important a matter, and 
her sympathy was dissolved in a flood of useless tears. 

The water-torture, as it may be called, hastened the fate of the 
unhappy gentleman, and he was shortly afterwards found dead 
in his bed. The intelligence of Mr Pierson's death immediately 
brought Mr Folger from New York, to inquire into the cause of 
the event, and to superintend the arrangements for the funeral. 
The representations of the case made by Mrs Folger did not sug- 
gest the possibility of Matthews having used any unfair means 
towards Mr Pierson, but that his death was in some way caused 
by him through supernatural power. Matthews, indeed, boasted 
that he could kill any one who doubted his divine character by a 
mere expression of his will. Singular as it may seem, this mad- 
ness or villany did not yet release Folger from the impression 
that Matthews was a divine being ; and fearing his assumed 
power, he had not the resolution to order his departure. In a 
lew days, however, all ceremony on the subject was at an end. 
An action having been raised by Pierson's heirs to recover the 
property which the impostor had obtained on false pretences, 
Matthews refused to resign it, and attempted to justify his 
conduct to Folger by reasons so completely opposed to the 
principles of common honesty, that that gentleman's belief at 
once gave way, and he ordered him to quit the house. This 
abrupt announcement was received with anything but com- 
placency. The prophet preached, stormed, and threatened ; tears 
likewise were tried ; but all was unavailing. Folger respectfully 
but firmly told him that circumstances required a retrenchment 
of his expenditure, and that he must seek for a new habitation. 
Matthews, in short, was turned out of doors. 

He was again thrown upon the world, though not in an utterly 
penniless condition. The right which he held to Pierson's pro- 
perty was in the course of being wrested from him, but he pos- 
sessed a considerable sum which he had gathered from Folger 
and a few other disciples, and on this he commenced living until 
some new and wealthy dupe, as he expected, should countenance 
his pretensions, and afford him the means of a comfortable 
subsistence. This expectation was not realised in time to save 
him from public exposure and shame. Folger, having pondered 
on a variety of circumstances, felt convinced that he had been 



the victim of a designing impostor, that Pierson's death had been 
caused by foul means, and that the lives of his own family had 
been exposed to a similar danger. On these suspicions he caused 
Matthews to be apprehended, for the purpose, in the jBrst place, 
of being- tried on a charge of swindling. On the 16th of October 
1834, this remarkable case came on for trial before the Court of 
Sessions in New York, on an indictment setting forth that 
Matthews was guilty of " devising by unlawful means to obtain 
possession of money, g'oods, chattels, and effects of divers good 
people of the state of New York ; and that the said B. H. Folger, 
belie\'ing his representations, gave the said Matthias one himdred 
pieces of gold coin, of the value of five hundi'ed and thirty 
dollars, and one hundred dollars in bank-notes, which the said 
Matthias feloniously received by means of the false pretences 
aforesaid." Matthews pled not guilty to the charge, but upon 
the soHcitation of Folger, who seems to have been ashamed to 
appear publicly as prosecutor, the district attorney dropped the 
case, and the prisoner was handed over to the authorities of the 
county of Westchester, on the still more serious accusation of 
having murdered Mr Pierson. 

To bring to a conclusion this melancholy tale of delusion, 
imposture, and crime, Matthews was arraigned for murder before 
the court of Oyer and Terminer at Westchester, on the 16th of 
April 1835. The trial excited uncommon interest, and many 
persons attended from a great distance, to get a view of the man 
whose vagaries had made so much noise in the country. The 
evidence produced for the prosecution was principally that of 
medical men, who had been commissioned to disinter the body of 
the deceased, and examine the condition of the stomach, it being 
a general belief that death had been caused by poison. Unfor- 
tunately for the ends of justice, the medical examinators could 
not agree that the stomach showed indications of a poisonous 
substance, some alleging that it did, and others affirming the 
reverse. On this doubtful state of the question, the jiuy had 
no other course than to offer a verdict of acquittal. On the 
announcement of the verdict, the prisoner was evidently elated ; 
but his countenance fell when he found that he was to be tried 
on another indictment for having assaulted his daughter, Mrs 
Laisdel, with a whip, on the occasion of her visit to him at Sing- 
sing ; her husband was the prosecutor. Of this misdemeanour 
he was immediately found guilty, and condemned to three 
months' imprisonment in the county jail. In passing sentence, 
the judge took occasion to reprimand him for his gross impos- 
tures and impious pretensions, and advised him, when he came 
out of confinement, to shave his beard, lay aside his peculiar 
dress, and go to work like an honest man. 

Of the ultimate fate of Matthews we have heard no accoimt, 
and therefore are unable to say whether he renewed his schemes 
of imposture. 

19 , 



In the summer of 1838 the people of Great Britain were 
startled by the intellig^ence of a remarkable disturbance in Kent, 
caused by the assumptions of divine power by a madman named 
John Nicolls Thorns. 

This religious impostor was the son of a small farmer and 
maltster at St Columb, in Cornwall. He appears to have entered 
life as cellarman to a wine-merchant in Truro. Succeeding- to 
his master's business, he conducted it for three or four years, 
when his warehouse was destroyed by fire, and he received 
£3000 in compensation from an insurance company. Since 
then, during- more than ten years, he had been in no settled 
occupation. In the year 1833 he appeared as a candidate 
successively for the representation of Canterbuiy and East Kent, 
taking the title of Sir William Percy Honeywood Courtenay, 
knight of Malta and king of Jerusalem, and further representing 
himself as the owner by birthright of several estates in Kent. 
His fine person and manners, and the eloquent appeals he made 
to popular feeling, secured him a certain degree of favour, but 
were not sufficient to gain for an obscure adventurer a preferment 
usually reserved for persons possessing local importance and 
undoubted fortune. Though baffled in this object, he continued 
to address the populace as their peculiar friend, and kept up a 
certain degree of influence amongst them. He is supposed to 
have connected himself also with a number of persons engaged 
in the contraband trade, as, in July 1833, he made an appearance 
in a court of law on behalf of the crew of a smuggling vessel, 
when he conducted himself in such a way as to incur a charge of 
perjury. He was consequently condemned to transportation for 
seven years, but, on a showing of his insanity, was committed 
to permanent confinement in a lunatic asylum, from which he 
was discharged a few months before his death, on a supposition 
that he might safely be permitted to mingle once more in 

Thoms now resumed his intercourse with the populace, whose 
opinion of him was probably rather elevated than depressed by 
his having suffered from his friendship for the smugglers. He 
repeated his old stories of being a man of high birth, and entitled 
to some of the finest estates in Kent. He sided with them in 
their dislike of the new regulations for the poor, and led them to 
expect that whatever he should recover of his birthright, should 
he as much for their interest as his own. There were two or 
three persons of substance who were so far deluded by him as to 
lend him considerable sums of money. Latterh^, pretensions of 
a more mysterious nature mingled in the ravings of this 
madman; and he induced a general belief amongst the ignorant 



peasantry around Canterbury that he was either the Saviour of 
mankind sent anew ujDon earth, or a being' of the same order, and 
commissioned for similar pur|3oses. One of his followers, when 
asked, after his death, by the correspondent of a newspaper, 
how he could put faith in such a man, answered in language 
of the following tenor : — " Oh, sir, he could turn any one 
that once listened to him whatever way he liked, and make 
them believe what he pleased. He had a tongue which a 
poor man could not get over, and a learned man could not 
gainsay, although standing before him. He puzzled all the 
lawyers in Canterbury, and they confessed that he knew more of 
law than all put together. You could not always understand 
what he said, but when you did, it was beautiful, and wonderful, 
and powerful, just like Ms eyes; and then his voice was so sweet! 
And he was such a grand gentleman, and sometimes latterly 
such an awful man, and looked so terrible if any one ventured 
to oppose him, that he carried all before him. Then, again, 
he was so charitable ! While he had a shilling in his pocket, a 
poor man never should want. And then such expectations as he 
had, and which nobody could deny ! Pie had papers to prove 
himself to be either the heir or right possessor of Powderham 
Castle, and Evington, and Nash Court, and Chilham Castle, and 
all the estates of the families of the Courtenays, the Percies, and 
Honeywoods, and of Sir Edward Hales, and Sir Thomas Hind- 
lay, more than I can tell you of. And there was Mr of 

Boughton, who lent him £200 on his title-deeds, and the waiter 

of the Hotel, in Canterbury, who lent him £73, besides 

other respectable peojile throughout the county who let him 
have as much money on his estates as he ]3leased, and have 
kept up a subscription for him ever since he was sent to jail in 
1833 about the smugglers he befriended. And at that same 
time it was well known that he need not have gone to prison 
unless he liked, for the very ladies of Canterbury would have 
rescued him, only he forbade them, and said the law should be 
fulfilled. I myself saw them kissing his hand and his clothes in 
hundreds that daj' ; and there was one woman that could not 
reach him with a glass of cordial gin; she threw it into his 
mouth, and blessed him, and bade him keep a bold heart, and he 
should yet be free, and king of Canterbury !" 

It is further to be observed, that the aspect of the man was 
imposing. His height approached six feet. His features were 
regular and beautiful — a broad fair forehead, aquiline nose, small 
well-cut mouth, and full rounded chin. The only defect of his 
person was a somewhat short neck ; but his shoulders were broad, 
and he possessed uncommon personal strength. Some curious 
significations of the enthusiasm he had excited were afterwards 
observed in the shape of scribblings on the walls of a barn. On 
the left side of the door were the follovvdng sentences : — " If you 
new he was on earth, your harts Wod turn ;" '• But dont Wate 



to late;" " They how E."* On the rig-ht side were the follow- 
ing :— " O that great day of gudgement is close at hand ;" " It 
now peps in the dor every man according to his works :" " Our 
rites and liberties We Will have." 

On Monday the 28th of May 1838, the frenzy of Tlioms 
and his followers seems to have reached its height. With twenty 
or thirty persons, in a kind of military order, he went about for 
three days amongst the farmhouses in Boughton, Sittingbourne, 
Boulton, and other villages in the vicinity of Canterburv, 
receiving and paying for refreshment. One woman sent her son 
to him with a " mother's blessing," as to join in some great and 
laudable work. He proclaimed a great meeting for the ensuing 
Sunday, which he said was to be " a glorious but bloody day." 
At one of the places where he ordered provisions for his followers, 
it was in these words, " Feed my sheep." To convince his 
disciples of his divine commission, he is said to have pointed his 
pistol at the stars, and told them that he would make them fall 
from their spheres. He then fired at some star, and his pistol 
having been rammed down with tow steeped in oil, and sprinkled 
over with steel filings, produced, on being fii'ed, certain bright 
sparkles of light, which he immediately said vf ere falling stars. 
On another occasion he went away from his followers with a 
man of the name of Wills and two others of the rioters, saying 
to them, " Do you stay here, whilst I go yonder," pointing to a 
bean-stack, " and strike the bloody blow." When they arrived 
at the stack, to which they marched with a flag, the flag-bearer 
laid his flag on the ground, and knelt down to pray. The other 
then put in, it is said, a lighted match ; but Thoms seized it, and 
forbade it to burn, and the fire was not kindled. This, on their 
return to the company, was announced as a miracle. 

On Wednesday evening he stopped at the farmhouse of 
Bossenden, where the farmer Culver, finding that his men were 
seduced by the impostor from their duty, sent for constables to 
have them apprehended. Two brothers named Mears, and 
another man, accordingly went next morning; but on their 
approach, Thoms shot Nicolas Mears dead with a pistol, and 
aimed a blow at his brother with a dagger, whereupon the two 
survivors instantly fled. At an early houi' he was abroad with 
his followers, to the number of about forty, in Bossenden or 
Bleanwoods, which were to have been the scene of the great 
demonstration on Sunday; and a newspaper correspondent 
reports the following particulars of the appearance and doings of 
the fanatics at this place, from a woodcutter who was following 
his business at the spot :— " Thoms imdertook to administer the 
sacrament in bread and water to the deluded men who followed 
him. He told them on this occasion, as he did on many others, 
that there was great oppression in the land, and indeed through- 

* Apparently, They ivlio err. 


out the world ; but that if the j would follow him, he would lead 
them on to glory. He depicted the gentry as great oppressors, 
threatened to deprive them of their estates, and talked of parti- 
tioning these into farms of forty or fifty acres among those who 
followed him. He told them he had come to earth on a cloud, 
and that on a cloud he should some day be removed from them ; 
that neither bullets nor weapons could injure him or them, if 
they had but faith in him as their Saviour 5 and that if ten 
thousand soldiers came against him, they would either turn to 
their side or fall dead at his command. At the end of his 
harangue, Alexander Foad, whose jaw was afterwards shot off by 
the military, knelt down at his feet and worshipped him ; so did 
another man of the name of Brankford. Foad then asked 
Thoms whether he should follow him in the body, or go home 
and follow him in heart. To this Thoms replied, ' Follow me in 
the body.' Foad then sprang on his feet in an ecstacy of joy, 
and with a voice of great exultation exclaimed, * Oh, be joyful ! 
Oh, be joyful ! The Saviour has accepted me. Go on — go on ; 
till I di'op I'll follow thee ! ' Brankford also was accepted as a 
follower, and exhibited the same enthusiastic fervour. At this 
time his dentmciations against those who should desert him were 
terrific. Fire would come down from heaven and consume them 
in this world, and in the next eternal damnation was to be their 
doom. His eye gleamed like a bright coal whilst he was scatter- 
ing about these awful menaces. The woodcutter was convinced 
that at that moment Thoms would have shot any man dead 
who had ventured to quit his company. After this mockery of 
religion was completed, the woodcutter went to Thoms, shook 
hands with him, and asked him if it was true that he had shot 
the constable? 'Yes,' replied Thoms coolly, 'I did shoot the 
vagabond, and I have eaten a hearty breakfast since. I was 
only executing upon him the justice of Heaven, in virtue of the 
power which God has given me.' " 

The two repulsed constables had immediately proceeded to 
Faversham, for the purpose of procuring fresh warrants and 
the necessary assistance. A considerable party of magistrates 
and other individuals now advanced to the scene of the murder, 
and about mid-day (Thursday, May 31) approached Thoms'^ 
party at a place called the Osier-bed, where the Rev. Mr 
Handley, the clergyman of the parish, and a magistrate, used 
every exertion to induce the deluded men to surrender them- 
selves, but in vain. Thoms defied the assailants, and fired at 
Mr Handley, who then deemed it necessary to obtain military 
aid before attempting further proceedings. A detachment of 
the forty-fifth regiment, consisting of a hundred men, was 
brought from Canterbury, under the command of Major Arm- 
strong. A young officer, Lieutenant Bennett, who belonged to 
another regiment, and was at Canterbury on furlough, proposed, 
under a sense of duty, to accompany the party, on the condition 



that he should he allowed to return hefore six o'clock to dine 
with some friends. At the approach of the military, Thorns and 
his men took up a position in Bossenden wood, between two 
roads. Major Armstrong- divided his men into two bodies of 
equal numbers, that the wood might be penetrated from both 
of these roads at once, so as to enclose the rioters : the one party 
he took command of himself, the other was placed under the 
charge of Lieutenant Bennett. The magistrates who accom- 
panied the party, gave orders to the officers to take Courtenay, 
as Thorns was usually called, dead or alive, and as many of 
his men as possible. The two parties then advanced into the 
wood by ojDposite paths, and soon came within sig-ht of each 
other close to the place where the fanatics were posted. A 
magistrate in Armstrong's party endeavoured to address the 
rioters, and induce them to surrender ; but while he was speak- 
ing, the unfortunate Bennett had rushed upon his fate. He had 
advanced, attended by a single private, probably for the purpose 
of calling upon the insurgents to submit, when the madman who 
led them advanced to meet him, and Major Armstrong had just 
time to exclaim, " Bennett, fall back," when Thoms fired a 
pistol at him within a few yards of his body. 'Bennett had 
apprehended his danger, and had his sword raised to defend 
himself from the aiDproaching maniac: a momentary collision 
did take place between him and his slayer ; but the shot had 
lodged with fatal effect in his side, and he fell from his horse a 
dead man. Thoms fought for a few seconds with others of the 
assailants, but was prostrated by the soldier attending Mr Bennett, 
who sent a ball through his brain. The military party then 
poured in a general discharge of fire-arms on the followers of the 
mipostor, of whom nine were killed, and others severely wounded, 
one so fatally as to expire afterwards. A charge was made upon 
the remainder by the surviving officer, and they were speedily 
overpowered and taken into custod}^ 

A reporter for the Morning Chronicle newspaper, who was 
immediately after on the spot where this sad tragedy was acted, 
gave the folloAving striking account of the local feehns' on the 
occasion: — "The excitement which jDrevails here, in Boulton, 
the scene of the murder of Lieutenant Bennett, and of the 
punishment of his assassins, and the wretched peasantry who 
were deluded and misled by Courtenay, exceeds anything I ever 
before witnessed. It was evident, upon listening to the obser- 
vations of the peasantry, especially of the females, that the men 
who have been shot are regarded by them as martyrs, while 
their leader was considered, and is venerated, as a species of divi- 
nity. The rumour amongst them is, that ' he is to rise again 
on Siinday: Incredible as it may appear, I have been assured 
of this as a positive fact with respect to the utter folly and 
madness of the lower orders here. A more convincing proof of 
the fanaticism that prevails cannot be afforded than the fact. 


that a woman [by name Sarali Culver] was apprehended yester- 
day who was discovered washing the face of Courtenay, and 
endeavouring' to pour some water between his lips. She, upon 
being interrogated, declared that she had that day followed him 
for more than half a mile with a pail of water, and her reason 
for it was, that he had desired her, if he should happen to be 
killed, to jiut some water leticeen Ms lips, and he xcould rise again 
in a month. One of the prisoners, Wills, who had received a 
slight wound from Major Armstrong, the commander of the 
party, told him that he and the other men who were with 
Courtenay M'ould have attacked two thousand soldiers, as 
they iccre persuaded ly Courtenay that they could not he shot^ 
and it was under this impression they were determined upon 

"Another local observer reports : — " Such is the veneration in 
which numbers here hold Thoms, that various sums of money 
have been offered to obtain a lock of his hair and a fragment of 
the blood-stained shirt in which he died. The women, with 
whom he was a prodig'ious favourite, seek these relics with the 
greatest avidity, and are described as receiving them with the 
most enthusiastic devotion." 

Two of the rioters were tried at Maidstone, August 9, on the 
charge of being principals with Thoms in the murder of Nicolas 
Mears, and found guilty. Eight were tried on the ensuing day, 
charged with the murder of Lieutenant Bennett ; they pleaded 
guilty, and received the appropriate sentence. It was, however^ 
thought proper that capital punishment should not be inflicted 
on these men, seeing that they had been acting under infa- 

Mr Liardet, a gentleman deputed to make some inquiries 
respecting' the Kentish disturbances, observes, in a report on the 
subject, that the main cause of the delusion was ignorance. 
" A little consideration of rural life," says he, " will show the 
danger of leaving the peasantry in such a state of ignorance. 
In the solitude of the country, the uncultivated mind is much 
more open to the impressions of fanaticism than in the bustle 
and collision of towns. In such a stagnant state of existence 
the mind acquires no activity, and is unaccustomed to make 
those investigations and comparisons necessary to detect impos- 
ture. The slightest semblance of evidence is often sufficient 
with them to support a deceit which elsewhere would not have 
the smallest chance of escaping detection. If we look for a 
moment at the absurdities and inconsistencies practised by 
Thoms, it appears at first utterly inconceivable that any persons 
out of a lunatic asylum could have been deceived by him. That 
an imposture so gross and so slenderly supported should have 
succeeded, must teach us, if anything will, the folly and danger 
of leaving the agricultural population in the debasing ignorance 
which now exists among them." 




The sect of the Mormonites, or Latter-Day Saints, has of late 
years become familiar by these names in Great Britain. They 
derive their first and standing" appellation from a work called 
the Book of Mormon, assumed by them to be the fruit of inspi- 
ration and revelation, and taken as the text-book and bible of 
the sect. The Book of Mormon, published two or three times 
in North America, and once in Britain in 1841, had the follow- 
ing orig-in : — ■ 

A number of years since, a young- man named Joseph 
Smith, the founder, apostle, and prophet of the Mormonites, 
followed the profession of a money-digger in the United States. 
It is a common belief in some of the maritime districts of 
that republic, that larg-e sums of money and masses of bullion 
were there buried in the earth by the buccaneers, as well as, 
more recently, by persons concerned in the revolution. The 
pretence of discovering these treasures by incantations was an 
artifice to which needy and cunning men frequeTitly resorted, 
and Joseph Smith, according to the best testimony, distinguished 
himself peculiarly in this line. AVhile he was engaged in these 
and similar pursuits, he received, as his own story runs, several 
revelations from heaven relative to the religious sects of the 
day. On the first occasion when he was thus favoured, he had 
gone into a grove, and there besought divine aid to show him 
which, of all the denominations of the Christian church then 
existing, he ought to reverence and follow as the true one. A 
bright light, he said, appeared above his head ; he was received 
up into the midst of it ; and he there saw two angelic person- 
ages, who told him that all his sins were forgiven, that the 
whole world was in error on religious points, and that the truth 
should be made known to him in due time. A second reve- 
lation of a similar descrij^tion informed Smith that the Ame- 
rican Indians were a remnant of the children of Israel, and that 
prophets and inspired men had once existed amongst them, by 
whom divine records had been deposited in a secm'e place, to save 
them from the hands of the wicked. A third communication, 
made on the morning of September 22, 1823, informed Smith 
that these relics were to be found in a cavern on a large hill to 
the east of the mail-road from Palmyra, Wayne county, state 
of New York. Here, accordingly, Joseph made search, and, as 
he says, found a stone-chest containing plates like gold, about 
seven by eight inches in width and length, and not quite so 
thick as common tin. On these plates was graven the Book or 
Bible of Mormon, so called from the name given to the party 
supposed to have written and concealed it. Smith was not 
allowed to take away these golden plates until he had learned 



the Egyptian language, in which tongne, or a modern dialect 
of it, the graven book was composed. At length, in September 
1827, Smith was deemed qualified to receive the golden plates, 
and he transcribed an English version of the characters, which 
was published in the year 1830. The work made a considerable 
impression on the poorer classes of the United States, and a 
sect was formed soon afterwards, calling themselves "The 
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." From their 
text-book they were more familiarly called the " Mormonites." 

In the preparation, or at least promulgation of these pretended 
revelations, Smith was assisted by his father, and by persons 
called Rigdon, Harris, and others. At first little attention was 
paid to the imposture ; but when it appeared to be undermining 
the religious belief and habits of the less instructed portion of the 
community, the respectable citizens of Palmyra and Manchester, 
where the Smiths formerly resided, felt it theu' duty to expose 
the real character of the Smiths. An affidavit was accordingly 
made by about fifty gentlemen, of various professions, and of 
diverse religious sentiments. The following is a copy of this 
document : — ■ 

"Palmtr^, N. Y., Dec. 4, 1833. — We, the undersigned, 
having been "acquainted with the Smith family for a number 
of years, while they resided near this place, have no hesitation 
in saying, that we consider them destitute of that moral cha- 
racter which ought to entitle them to the confidence of any 
community. They were particularly infamous for visionary 
projects, spent much of their time in digging for money, which 
they pretended was laid in the earth ; and to this day large 
excavations may be seen in the earth not far from their resi- 
dence, where they used to spend their time in digging for hidden 
treasures. Joseph Smith, senior, and his son Joseph, were in 
particular considered entirely destitute of moral character, and 
addicted to vicious habits. Martin Harris had acquired a con- 
siderable property, and in matters of business his word was 
considered good ; but on moral and religious subjects he was 
perfectly visionary ; sometimes advocating* one sentiment, some- 
times another. In reference to all with whom we are acquainted 
that have embraced Mormonism from this neighbourhood, we 
are compelled to say that they were visionary, and most of 
them destitute of moral character, and without influence in the 
community. This is the reason why they were permitted to go 
on with their imposition undisturbed. It was not supposed that 
any of them were possessed of sufficient character or influence 
to make any one believe their book or their sentiments ; and 
we know not a single individual in this vicinity who puts the 
least confidence in tlieir pretended revelations." * [Here follow 
the signatures of fifty-one persons.] 

* Rise, Progress, and Causes of Mormonism, by Professor J. B. Turner. 
New York: 1844. 



A similar testimony is recorded against the Smiths from 
respectable citizens in Manchester ; and with respect to an 
assistant in the fraud, named Oliver Cowdery, in an affidavit 
presented by the authority before us, he is shown to be "a 
worthless fellow, and not to be trusted or believed." Whitmer, 
another member of this impious confederacy, is spoken of with 
equal disrespect. 

The religion which these wretched impostors proposed to dis- 
seminate, appears to be a mixture of Christianity, drawn from 
garbled portions of the common English translation of the 
Scriptures, and the fancies of an irregular and ill-educated mind. 
The Book of Mormon, on which the deceitful doctrines of the 
sect are founded, is nearly of the same extent as the Old Testa- 
ment, and contains, properly speaking, two distinct stories or 
histories. The history of the Nephites, a portion of the tribe 
of Joseph, supposed to have emigrated from Jerusalem under 
a prophet named Nephi, and to have been miraculously led 
to America, occupies the first part of the work. The Nephites 
founded, says the story, the Indian race. Many years after 
their settlement, they are also stated to have discovered the 
records of the Jaredites, an extinct nation which came to Ame- 
rica about the time of the building of Babel. The revelations 
of various prophets to these Jaredites and Nephites, and direct 
divine communications respecting " my servant, Joseph Smith," 
the apostle of the present day, compose the staple matter of 
the Book of Mormon. 

One main, if not the only object of the imposture, has been 
to exalt Joseph Smith as a grand head and director of the 
church; the other offices being filled by creatures subordinate 
to his will, and sharers in the plunder of the dupes. There are 
two distinct orders of church dignitaries — 1. The Melchi- 
ZEDEC, or High Priesthood, consisting of high priests and 
elders ; 2. The Aaronic, or Lesser Priesthood, consisting of 
bishops, priests, teachers, and deacons. The former preside over 
the spiritual interests of the church ; the latter administer its 
ordinances, and manage its temporal concerns. Three of the 
Melchizedec, or Hig*h Priests, are appointed presidents, to pre- 
side over all the churches in the world, and are called the First 
Presidency. There are also subordinate presidencies, ruling over 
towns or districts, called Stakes ; and the appointment of these 
stakes in new regions in North America affords Mr Smith a 
favourable opportunity, as it has been observed, for speculating 
in " town lots." 

The harangues of the Mormon preachers, abounding in allu- 
sions to the Christian doctrines, are well calculated to confuse 
and deceive the minds of unlearned hearers ; but when inves- 
tigated, the pretensions on which the whole fabric is reared 
appear eminently absurd and impious. From beginning to end 
the Book of Mormon is filled with evidences of forgery and 



imi30sture. The peculiar style of holy writ is borrowed throug-li- 
out, and, as reg-ards words and names, many separate lan- 
g-uages are drawn upon, proving* the assumed writer of early 
ag'es to have all the information of our day before him. The 
difficulty arising- from the red colour of the Indian skin, so 
different from that of the Jews, is overcome by the arbitrary 
and easy medium of a miracle. Their colour is said to have 
been chang-ed as a punishment for their sins. Thing's are spoken 
of which, it is well known, were not invented till late times. 
For example, it is said by the prophet Nephi, in allusion to a 
mutiny that took place on his voyage to America, "And it 
came to pass, after they had loosed me, behold, I took the com- 
pass, and it did work whither I desired it." Besides antedating 
the discovery of the needle's polarity by several centuries, the 
writer here evidently misunderstands the use of the compass 
altogether. A Mormonite elder, being pressed on the subject 
of this blunder, jDointed to the account of St Paul's voyage, 
which has this sentence in the English version : " We fetched 
a com]pass, and came to Rhegium." The misapprehension of 
this sentence, the first words of which mean merely, "We 
made a circuit," had obviously led to the blunder of the com- 
poser of the Book of Mormon. According to a paper in the 
Atheneeum : " The history of the jDretended Israelites is conti- 
nued in the Books of Enos, Jarom, Zeniff, &c. and through 
them all we find one signal proof not merely of imposture, but 
of the ignorance of the impostor, repeated with singular perti- 
nacity. Every successive prophet predicts to the Nephites the 
future coming of Christ : the writer has fallen into the vulgar 
error of mistaking' an epithet for a name ; the word ' Christ,' 
as all educated persons know, is not a name, but a Greek title 
of office, signifying ' The Anointed,' being in fact a translation 
of the Hebrew word Messiah. It is true that in modem times, 
and by a corruption which is now become inveterate, the term 
is used by western Christians as if it were a proper name, or at 
least an untranslatable designation ; but this is a modern error, 
and it has been avoided by most of the Oriental churches. Now, 
the use of a Greek term, in an age when the Greek language 
was unformed, and by a people with whom it is impossible for 
Greeks to have intercourse, and, moreover, whose native languag'e 
was of such peculiar construction as not to be susceptible of 
foreign admixture, is a mark of forgery so obvious and decisive, 
that it ought long" since to have exjoosed the delusion. Unhap- 
pily, however, we are forced to conclude, from the pamphlets 
before us, that the American Methodists, who first undertook to 
expose the Mormonites, were scarcely less ignorant than them- 

A second Nephi takes up the history at a period contemporary 
with the events recorded in the New Testament. It avers that 
our Lord exhibited himself to the Nephites after his resiu^rection, 



and the words attributed to him bear still more conclusive evi- 
dence of the ig-norance of the impostors : — 

* Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I created the 
heavens and the earth, and all things that in them are.' And 
again, ^ I am the light and the life of the world. I am Alpha 
and Omega, the beginning and the end.' 

In addition to the former blunder respecting the name ' Christ,' 
we have the name ' Jesus ' in its Greek form, and not, as the 
Hebrews would have called it, ^ Joshua ; ' but we have, further- 
more, the names of the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet 
given as a metaphorical description of continued existence to a 
nation that had never heard of the Greek language. It is quite 
clear that the writer mistook Alpha and Omega for some sacred 
and mystic sounds, to which particular sanctity was attached — a 
blunder by no means confined to the Mormonites — and wrote 
them down without perceiving that they were an evidence of 
forgery so palpable as to be manifest to schoolboys." 

The same authority which we have now quoted gives a hint of 
the probable origin of this whole imposture; for, as we shall 
show, Joseph Smith is a man scarcely capable of inventing or 
writing even the ravings of the Book of Mormon. A clergyman 
named Solomon Spaulding had left his ministry, and entered into 
business in Cherry Vale, New York, where he failed in the year 
1809. The sepulchral mounds of North America were then 
exciting some interest, and it struck Spaulding that he might 
relieve himself from his distresses by composing a novel, con- 
necting these mounds with the lost ten tribes of Israel, supposed 
by some to have peopled America. Intending to name his work 
" The Manuscript Found," he wrote it in the old style of the 
Hebrew compositions. In 1812 the work was taken to a printer 
named Lamdin, residing in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania ; but the 
author died ere any arrangement could be made for its publica- 
tion. Lamdin also died in 1826. He had previously lent the 
manuscript to a person named Sidney Rigdon, and this person it 
seems to have been who, in connection with his friend Joseph 
Smith, formed the idea of palming it on the world as a new 
revelation. The manuscript was well suited to their purposes, 
and of course they would make such changes as appeared requi- 
site. That this was the true source of the Book of Mormon, is 
borne out by the testimony of the wife, brother, partner, and 
several friends of Spaulding, who had heard him read portions of 
the manuscript, and who recognised many of the names and inci- 
dents in the Book of Mormon to be the same with those occurring 
in Spaulding's novel. The difficulty of supposing paper of any 
kind to have been so long preserved, appears to have suggested 
the additional and characteristic device of the "plates of gold" 
to the money-digger, Mr Joseph Smith. Sidney Rigdon is now 
the "prophet's" secretary. He, by the way, and a few other 
persons, have alone been honoured with a sight of the said plates, 



It might be deemed superfluous to say so mucli on this subject, 
were it not that the Mormon delusion has spread widely in North 
America, and even in Great Britain. Joseph Smith and his 
colleagnes settled in 1831 on the Missouri, whence they were 
soon after expelled on account of their lawless conduct. They 
then went to Illinois, and founded a town or city, called Nauvoo, 
near the Mississippi, said now to contain 1700 able-bodied men, 
exclusive of women and children. To this place too many emi- 
grants are directing' their course even from Great Britain. What 
sort of people they will find in the persons of the prophet and 
his associates, appears very clearly from a little work by Mr 
Caswall, who visited the city of the Mormons in the year 1842. 
The following- is his picture of Joseph Smith : — 

" I met Joseph Smith at a short distance from his dwelling, 
and was introduced to him. I had the honour of an interview 
with him who is a prophet, a seer, a merchant, a ' revelator,' a 
president, an elder, an editor, and the general of the ' Nauvoa 
Legion.' He is a coarse plebeian person in aspect, and his coun- 
tenance exhibits a curious mixture of the knave and the clown. 
His hands are large and fat, and on one of his fijigers he wears 
a massive gold ring, upon which I saw an inscription. His 
dress was of coarse country manufacture, and his white hat was 
enveloped by a piece of black crape as a sign of mourning for his 
deceased brother Don Carlos Smith, the late editor of the ' Times 
and Seasons.' His age is about thirty-five. I had not an oppor- 
tunity of observing his eyes, as he appears deficient in that open 
straightforward look which characterises an honest man. He 
led the way to his house, accompanied by a host of elders, 
bishops, preachers, and common Mormons. On entering the 
house, chairs were provided for the prophet and myself, while 
the curious and gaping crowd remained standing. I handed a 
book to the prophet and begged him to explain its contents. He 
asked me if I had any idea of its meaning. I replied that I 
beUeved it to be a Greek Psalter, but that I should like to hear 
his opinion. ' No,' he said ; ' it aint Greek at all, except, per- 
haps, a few words. Whsit aint Greek is Egyptian, and what 
aint Egyptian is Greek. This book is very valuable. It is a 
dictionary of Egyptian hieroglyphics.' Pointing to the capital 
letters at the commencement of each verse, he said, ' Them figures 
is Egyptian hierogly]Dhics, and them which follows is the inter- 
pretation of the hieroglyphics, written in the reformed Egyptian. 
Them characters is like the letters that was engraved on the 
golden plates.' Upon this the Mormons around began to con- 
gratulate me on the information I was receiving. * There,' they 
said, ' we told you so — we told you that our prophet would give 
you satisfaction. None but our prophet can explain these 
mysteries.' " The error of taking a Greek Psalter for a specimen 
of Egyptian hieroglyphics, sufficiently proves the slender preten- 
sions of Mr Joseph Smith to be a mystery-expounder. 



In another part of the book Mr Caswell relates a few personal 
anecdotes of this worthy, mentioned to him by credible witnesses ; 
but they refer to such scenes of drunkenness and profanity, that 
we should not feel justified in transcribing' them. Enough, we 
think, has been said to expose the character of a dang-erous im- 
postor, and to prevent individuals amongst our working popula- 
tion from expending their little all on the faith of such a man's 
promises. We have before us a letter from an unfortunate cot- 
ton-spinner of Lancashire, which shows how necessary such a 
caution is. The Moiinon preachers in England had described 
Nauvoo to him as a land overflowing with milk and honey, and 
a place where the Divine Being" had commanded a temple to be 
built, that might be a refuge to all mankind. Joseph Smith, at 
least, had certainly commanded this, as the following very 
■unequivocal passages from his writings will show: — "Verily, 
verily, I say unto you, let all my saints come from afar, and send 
ye swift messengers, yea, chosen messeng'ers, and say unto them, 
* Come ye with all your gold, and your silver, and your precious 
stones, and with all your antiquities ; and all who have know- 
ledge of antiquities that will come may come ; and bring the 
box-tree, and the fir-tree, and the pine-tree, together with all the 
precious trees of the earth ; and with iron, and wdth copper, and 
with brass, and with zinc, and with all your precious things of 
the earth, and build a house to my name, for the Most High 
to dwell therein ; for there is not a place found upon earth 
that he may come and restore again that which was lost mito 
you, or which he hath taken away, even the fulness of the 
priesthood.' " 

By such blasphemous and deceitful stuif as this the poor 
cotton-spinner, like too many others, was induced to go to 
Nauvoo, w^here, like other victims of delusion, he was wretchedly 
used. It is needless to carry our notice of this matter further. 
Every shadow of evidence yet obtained tends to prove Mormonism 
to be a gross imposture, and one unworthy of notice, save on 
account of the dangers which have here been described and 

Since writing the above, intelligence has arrived in England 
that Joseph Smith, the leader of the Mormons, was killed by a 
lawless mob on the 27th of June at Carthage, state of Illinois. 
This event is to be deplored, not only on account of its being a 
barbarous murder, but because it will be considered in the light 
of a martyi'dom by the infatuated followers of the deceased, and 
no w^ay tend to abate the Mormon delusion. 



^^ HE dog" has not unaptly been described as a gift of 
Providence to man — an aid almost indispensable for 
his conquest and manag-ement of the lower animals. 
Unhke other creatures, he voluntarily abandons the 
I companionship of his own species — becomes a deserter from 
their camp — and, enhsting himself as a humble member 
of human society, is fomid a willing' and loving servant, 
the companion and friend of his master. Unlearned in 
virtue, or any of the ordinary actions which command popular 
approbation, the dog, from the prompting of his own feelings 
alone, practises the most perfect integrity. Uncalculating as 
regards his own comfort or convenience, he is found adhering 
to his master through all shades of fortune, even unto disgrace, 
penury, and want ; nor will any temptation make him abandon 
the fond and stricken object of his undying affection. A long 
course of domestication and peculiar treatment have, as is well 
known, divided the canine race into nearly a hundred varieties, 
all less or more distinct as respects size, appearance, and special 
qualities and dispositions ; yet no kind of cultivation has altered, 
nor can misusage obliterate, the leading features of the animal. 
The character of the dog for tractability, attachment, g-eneral 
docility to his master's interest, and benevolence, remains the 
same. In all ages and countries, therefoi^e, has this remarkable 
animal been cherished for his services ; and these in a rude state 
of society are so essential to personal enjoyment, that the happi- 
ness of a future state of existence has been supposed to be incom- 
plete without them. 

No. 15. 1 


" Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind j 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk or millty way ; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, a humbler heaven ; 
Some safer world, in deptlis of woods embraced, 
Some happier island, in the watery waste ; 
> Where slaves once more their native land behold ; 

No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faitliful dog shall bear him company ! " 

The admirable quality of inflexible attachment has rendered' 
dogs the familiar and esteemed companions of men of the highest, 
attainments and rank. Emperors, prelates, statesmen, judges, 
men of all ranks and professions, and, it may be added, ladies of 
the highest fashion, have been gratified by their companionship. 
The late Lord Eldon had a small dog, Pincher, which he highly 
valued, and pensioned at his decease. Scott was immoderately 
fond of dogs, one in particular, a stag-hound, called Maida, 
being the constant companion of his rambles. Byron, likewise, 
if we may judge from the following lines, supposed to be in- 
scribed on the monument of a Newfoundland dog, must have 
entertained a kindly feeling towards these animals : — 

" When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
Tlie sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 
And storied urns record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
Not what he was, but what he should have been. 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend ; 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes, for him alone, 
TJnhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth. 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
IVhile man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! — thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power ; 
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust. 
Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
Tliy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat. 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
Each Idndred brute might bid thee blush for shame.- 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
I never knew but one— and here he lies." 



The attacliment of tlie dog* to his master becomes a ruling'" 
passion, and, united with a retentive memory, has led to some 
remarkable disclosures of crime. We are told by Plutarch of a 
certain Roman slave in the civil wars, whose head nobody durst 
cut off, for fear of the dog" that g-uarded his body, and fought in 
his defence. It happened that King- Pp^hus, travelling that 
way, observed the animal watching over the body of the de- 
ceased; and hearing that he had been there three days with- 
out meat or drink, yet would not forsake his master, ordered the 
body to be buried, and the dog preserved and brought to him. 
A ]few days afterwards there was a muster of the soldiers, so 
that every man was forced to march in order before the king. 
The dog lay quietly by him for some time ; but when he saw the 
miu'derers of his late owner pass by, he flew upon them with 
extraordinary fuiy, barking, and tearing their garments, and 
frequently tmTiing about to the king ; which both excited the 
king's suspicion, and the jealousy of all who stood about him. 
The men were in consequence apprehended, and though the 
circumstances which appeared in evidence against them were 
ver;^ slight, they confessed the crime, and were accordingly 

An old writer mentions a similar case of attachment and 
revenge which occurred in France in the reign of Charles V. 
The anecdote has been frequently related, and is as follows : — ■ 
A gentleman named Macaire, an officer of the king's body-guard, 
entertained, for some reason, a bitter hatred against another 
gentleman, named Aubry de Montdidier, his comrade in service. 
These two having met in the Forest of Bondis, near Paris, 
Macaire took an opportunity of treacherously mm^dering his 
brother officer, and buried him in a ditch. Montdidier was 
unaccompanied at the moment, excepting by a greyhound, with 
which he had probably gone out to hunt. It is not known 
whether the dog was muzzled, or from what other cause it per- 
mitted the deed to be accomplished without its interference. 
Be this as it might, the hound lay down on the grave of its 
master, and there remained till hunger compelled it to rise. It 
then went to the kitchen of one of Aubry de Montdidier's dearest 
friends, where it was welcomed warmly, and fed. As soon as 
its hunger was appeased the dog disappeared. For several days 
this coming and goiug was repeated, till at last the curiosity of 
those who saw its movements was excited, and it was resolved 
to follow the animal, and see if anything could be learned in 
explanation of Montdidier's sudden disappearance. The dog was 
accordingly followed, and was seen to come to a pause on some 
newly-turned-up earth, where it set up the most mournful wail- 
ings and bowlings. These cries were so touching, that passengers 
were attracted; and finally digging into the ground at the spot, 



they found there the body of Aubry de Montdidier. It was raised 
and conveyed to Paris, where it was soon afterwards interred 
in one of the city cemeteries. 

The dog attached itself from this time forth to the friend, 
already mentioned, of its late master. While attending- on him, 
it chanced several times to get a sight of Macaire, and on every 
occasion it sprang upon him, and would have strangled him had 
it not been taken off by force. This intensity of hate on the 
part of the animal awakened a suspicion that Macaire had had 
some share in Montdidier's murder, for his body showed him to 
have met a violent death. Charles V., on being informed of the 
circumstances, wished to satisfy himself of their truth. He 
caused Macaire and the dog to be brought before him, and beheld 
the animal again spring upon the object of its hatred. The king 
interrogated Macaire closely, but the latter would not admit that 
he had been in any way connected with Montdidier's murder. 

Being strongly impressed by a conviction that the conduct of 
the dog was based on some guilty act of Macaire, the king 
ordered a combat to take place between the officer and his dumb 
accuser, according to the practice, in those days, between human 
plaintiffs and defendants. This remarkable combat took place 
on the isle of Notre-Dame at Paris, in presence of the whole 
court. The king allowed Macaire to have a strong club, as a 
defensive weapon ; while, on the other hand, the only self-pre- 
servative means allowed to the dog consisted of an empty cask, 
into which it could retreat if hard pressed. The combatants 
appeared in the lists. The dog seemed perfectly aware of its 
situation and duty. For a short time it leapt actively around 
Macaire, and then, at one spring, it fastened itself upon his 
throat, in so firm a manner that he could not disentangle him- 
self. He would have been strangled had he not cried for mercy, 
and avowed his crime. The dog was pulled from off him ; but 
he was only liberated from its fangs to perish by the hands of 
the law. The fidelity of this dog has been celebrated in many 
a drama and poem, and has formed the subject of the sketch at 
the head of the present paper. The dog which attracted such 
celebrity has been usually called the Dog of Montargis, from 
the combat having taken place at the chateau of Montargis. 

Washington Irving mentions that in the course of his reading 
he had fallen in with the following anecdotes, which illustrate in 
a remarkable manner the devoted attachment of dogs to their 

" An officer named St Leger, who was imprisoned in Vincennes 
[near Paris] during the wars of St Bartholomew, wished to keep 
with him a greyhound that iie had brought up, and which was 
much attached to him ; but they harshly refused him this inno- 
cent pleasure, and sent away the greyhound to his house in the 
Hue des Lions Saint Paul. The next day the greyhound returned 
alone to Vincennes, and began to bark under the windows of the 


tower, towards the place where the officer was confined. St Leger 
approached, looked throug-h the bars, and was delighted again to 
see his faithful hound, who began to jump and play a thousand 
gambols to show her joy. Her master threw a piece of bread to 
the animal, who ate it with great good-will. St Leger did the 
same in his prison ; and, in spite of the immense wall which sepa- 
rated them, they breakfasted together like two friends. This 
friendly visit was not the last. Abandoned by his relations, who 
believed him dead, the unfortunate prisoner received the visits of 
his greyhound only, during four years' confinement. Whatever 
weather it might be, in spite of rain or snow, the faithful animal 
did not fail a single day to pay her accustomed visit. Six months 
after his release from prison, St Leger died. The faithful grey- 
hound would no longer remain in the house, but on the day after 
the funeral returned to the castle of Vincennes, and it is supposed 
she was actuated by a motive of gratitude. A jailer of the outer 
court had always shown great kindness to this dog, which was as 
handsome as affectionate. Contrary to the custom of people of 
that class, this man had been touched by her attachment and 
beauty, so that he facilitated her approach to see her master, and 
also insured her a safe retreat. Penetrated with gratitude for 
this service, the greyhound remained the rest of her life near the 
benevolent jailer. It was remarked, that even while testifying 
her zeal and gratitude for her second master, one could easily see 
that her heart was with the first. Like those who, having lost a 
parent, a brother, or a friend, come from afar to seek consolation 
by viewing the place which they inhabited, this affectionate 
animal repaired frequently to the tower where St Leger had been 
imprisoned, and would contemplate for hours together the gloomy 
window from which her dear master had so often smiled to her, 
and where they had so frequently breakfasted togethei\ 

In January 1799, the cold was so intense that the Seine was 
frozen to the depth of fifteen or sixteen inches. Following the 
example of a number of thoughtless youths who were determined 
to continue the amusement of skating, in spite of a thaw having 
commenced, a young student, called Beaumanoir, wished also to 
partake of this dang'erous pleasure, near the quay of the Hotel 
des Monnaies of Paris ; but he had scarcely gone twenty steps 
when the ice broke under his weight, and he disappeared. The 
young skater had carried a small spaniel with him, which, seeing 
his master sink under the ice, immediately gave the alarm, by 
barking with all his might near the spot where the accident had 
happened. It will easily be believed that it was impossible to 
give any assistance to the unfortunate youth ; but the bowlings 
of the animal warned others from approaching the fatal place. 
The poor spaniel sent forth the most frightful howls; he ran 
along the river as if he were mad; and at last, not seeing his 
master return, he went to establish himself at the hole where he 
had seen him disappear, and there he passed the rest of the day 


and all tlie following- nig-lit. The day after, people saw with 
surprise the poor animal sorrowfully at the same post. Struck 
with admiration of such constancy, some of them made him a 
little bed of straw, and brought him some food ; but, absorbed in 
the most profound grief, he would not even drink the milk which 
these kind-hearted people placed near him. Sometimes he would 
run about the ice or the borders of the river to seek his master, 
but he always returned to sleep in the same place. He bit a 
soldier who was attempting to make him leave his inhospitable 
retreat, who, fearing- that he was mad, fired at and wounded him. 
This affecting example of grief and constancy was witnessed for 
many days, and people came in crowds to contemplate this beau- 
tiful trait of attachment, which was not without its reward. The 
dog' being- only slightly wounded, was taken charge of by a 
woman, who, compassionating his suffering, and touched by the 
affection he showed for his late master, carried him to her house, 
where his wound was dressed, and every effort that kindness 
could devise was practised, to console him for the loss of the 
young skater." 

Anecdotes of this kind are exceedingly numerous. While we 
now write, a Westmoreland newspaper relates one respecting the 
dog of a Scotchv/oman, named Jenny, who follows the profession 
of a pedlar. A few years ago, she had a young- child which the 
dog was very fond of, being in the habit of lying- with it in the 
cradle. It happened, however, that the child became ill and died. 
Jenny was at that time living- at Hawkshead, but her infant was 
buried at Staveley. From the mother's distress of mind at the 
time, little notice was taken of the dog; but soon after the 
funeral it was found to be missing, nor could any tidings be 
heard of it for a fortnight. But the poor mother, passing through 
Staveley, thought she would visit the chm'chyard where the 
infant was interred ; when, behold I there was the little dog 
lying in a deep hole, which it had scratched over the child's 
grave ! It was in a most emaciated state from hunger and priva- 


Fidelity to the interests of his master is one of the most pleas- 
ing traits in the character of the dog, and could be exemplified 
by so many anecdotes, that the difficulty consists in making a 
proper selection. The following, however, is worthy of comme- 
moration : — 

A French merchant having some money due from a corres- 
pondent, set out on horseback, accompanied by his dog, on pur- 
Eose to receive it. Having settled the business to his satisfaction, 
e tied the bag of money^before him, and began to return home. 
His faithful dog, as if he entered into his master's feelings, frisked 
round the horse, barked, and jumped, and seemed to participate 
in his joy, 



The merchant, after riding some miles, alig-hted to repose him- 
self under an agreeable shade, and taking the hag of money in. 
his hand, laid it down hy his side under a hedge, and on re- 
mounting, forgot it. The dog perceived his lapse of recollection, 
and wishing to rectify it, ran to fetch the bag ; but it was too 
heavy for him to drag along. He then ran to his master, and 
by crying, barking, and howling*, seemed to remind him of his 
mistake. The merchant understood not his language ; but the 
assiduous creatui'e persevered in its efforts, and after trying to 
stop the horse in vain, at last began to bite his heels. 

The merchant, absorbed in some reverie, wholly overlooked the 
real object of his affectionate attendant's importunity, but enter- 
tained the alarming apprehension that he was gone mad. Full 
of this suspicion, in crossing a brook, he turned back to look if 
the dog would drink. The animal was too intent on his master's 
business to think of itself ; it continued to bark and bite with 
greater violence than before. 

" Mercy ! " cried the afflicted merchant, " it must be so ; my 
poor dog is certainly mad : what must I do ? I must kill him. 
Jest some greater misfortmie befall me ; but with what regret ! 
Oh could I find any one to perform this cruel office for me ! But 
there is no time to lose ; I myself may become the victim if I 
spare him." 

With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket, and with a 
trembling hand took aim at his faithful servant. He turned 
away in agony as he fired ; but his aim was too sure. The poor 
animal fell wounded, and, weltering* in his blood, still endea- 
voured to crawl towards his master, as if to tax him with ingra- 
titude. The merchant could not bear the sight ; he spurred on 
his horse with a heart full of sorrow, and lamented he had taken 
a journey which had cost him so dear. Still, however, the money 
never entered his mind ; he only thought of his poor dog, and 
tried to console himself with the reflection that he had prevented 
a greater evil by despatching a mad animal, than he had suffered 
a calamity by his loss. This opiate to his wounded spirit, how- 
ever, was ineffectual : " I am most unfortunate," said he to 
himself; "I had almost rather have lost my money than my 
dog." Saying this, he stretched out his hand to grasp his trea- 
sure. It was missing ; no bag was to be found. In an instant 
he opened his eyes to his rashness and folly. " Wretch that I 
am ! I alone am to blame ! I could not comprehend the admo- 
nition which my innocent and most faithful friend gave me, 
and I have sacrificed him for his zeal. He only wished to 
inform me of my mistake, and he has paid for his fidelity with 
his life." 

Instantly he turned his horse, and went off at full gallop to the 
place where he had stopped. He saw with half-averted eyes the 
scene where the tragedy was acted ; he perceived the traces of 
blood as he proceeded ; he was oppressed and distracted ; but in 



vain did he look for his dog* ; he was not to be seen on the road. 
At last he arrived at the spot where he had alighted. But what 
were his sensations ! His heart was ready to bleed ; he execrated 
himself in the madness of despair. The poor dog", unable to 
follow his dear but cruel master, had determined to consecrate 
his last moments to his service. He had crawled, all bloody as 
he was, to the forgotten bag, and, in the agonies of death, he lay 
watching beside it. A^Tien he saw his master, he still testified 
his joy by the wagging of his tail. He could do no more ; he 
tried to rise, but his strength was gone. The vital tide was 
ebbing fast ; even the caresses of his master could not prolong his 
fate for a few moments. He stretched out his tongue to lick 
the hand that was now fondling him in the agonies of regi'et, as 
if to seal forgiveness of the deed that had deprived him of life. 
He then cast a look of kindness on his master, and closed his 
eyes in death. 

A less tragical instance of this kind of fidelity occurred some 
years a^-o in England. A gentleman of Suffolk, on an excur- 
sion with his friend, was attended by a Newfoundland dog, which 
soon became the subject of conversation. The master, after a 
warm eulogium upon the perfections of his canine favourite, 
assured his companion that he would, upon receiving the order, 
return and fetch any article he should leave behind, from any dis- 
tance. To confirm this assertion, a marked shilling was put under 
a large square stone by the side of the road — being first shown to 
the dog. The gentlemen then rode for three miles, when the dog 
received his signal from the master to return for the shilling he 
had seen put under the stone. The dog turned back ; the gentle- 
men rode on, and reached home ; but, to their surprise and disap- 
pointment, the hitherto faithful messenger did not return during 
the day. It afterwards appeared that he had gone to the place 
where the shilling was deposited, but the stone being too large 
for his strength to remove, he had stayed howling at the place, till 
two horsemen riding by, and attracted by his seeming distress, 
stopped to look at him, when one of them ahghting, removed the 
stone, and seeing the shilling, put it into his pocket, not at the 
time conceiving it to be the object of tlie dog's search. The dog 
followed their horses for twenty miles, remained undisturbed in 
the room where they supped, followed the chambermaid into the 
bedchamber, and secreted himself under one of the beds. The 
possessor of the shilling hung his trousers upon a nail by the 
bedside 5 but when the travellers were both asleep, the dog took 
them in his mouth, and leaping out of the window, which was 
left open on account of the sultry heat, reached the house of his 
master at four o'clock in the morning with the prize he had 
made free with, in the pocket of which were found a watch and 
money, that were returned upon being advertised, when the 
whole mystery was mutually unravelled, to the admiration of all 
the parties. 


One of the most striking- instances which we have heard of 
the sagacity and personal attachment in the shepherd's dog, 
occurred about half a century ago among the Grampian moun- 
tains. In one of his excursions to his distant flocks in these 
high pasturages, a shepherd happened to carry along with him 
one of his children, an infant about three years old. After tra- 
versing' his pasture for some time, attended by his dog, the 
shepherd found himself under the necessity of ascending a 
summit at some distance, to have a more extensive view of 
his range. As the ascent was too fatiguing for the child, he 
left him on a small plain at the bottom, with strict injunctions 
not to stir from it till his return. Scarcely, however, hSd he 
gained the summit, when the horizon was suddenly darkened 
by one of those impenetrable mists which frequently descend 
so rapidly amidst these mountains, as, in the space of a few 
minutes, almost to turn day into night. The anxious father 
instantly hastened back to find his child ; but, owing to the 
unusual darkness, and his own trepidation, he unfortunately 
missed his way in the descent. After a fruitless search of 
many hours among'st the dangerous morasses and cataracts 
with which these mountains abound, he was at length over- 
taken by nig'ht. Still wandering on without knowing whither, 
he at length came to the verge of the mist, and, by the light 
of the moon, discovered that he had reached the bottom of his 
valley, and was within a short distance of his cottage. To 
renew the search that night was equally fruitless and dangerous. 
He was therefore obliged to return to his cottage, having lost 
both his child and his dog, which had attended him faithfully for 

Next morning by daybreak, the shepherd, accompanied by a 
band of his neio^hbours, set out in search of his child ; but, after 
a day spent in fruitless fatigue, he was at last compelled, by the 
approach of night, to descend from the mountain. On returning 
to his cottage, he found that the dog, which he had lost the day 
before, had been home, and, on receiving a piece of cake, had 
instantly gone oflp again. For several successive days the shep- 
herd renewed the search for his child ; and still, on returning at 
evening' disappointed to his cottage, he found that the dog had 
been home, and, on receiving his usual allowance of cake, had 
instantly disappeared. Struck with this singular circumstance, 
he remained at home one day ; and when the dog as usual de- 
parted with his piece of cake, he resolved to follow him, and find 
out the cause of his strange procedure. The dog led the way to 
a cataract, at some distance from the spot where the shepherd 
had left his child. The banks of the cataract, almost joined at 
the top, yet separated by an abyss of immense depth, presented 
that appearance which so often astonishes and appals the tra- 

H ^ 


vellers who frequent tlie Grampian mountains, and indicates that 
these stupendous chasms were not the silent work of time, but 
the sudden eiFect of some violent convulsion of the earth. Down 
one of these rug"g*ed and almost perpendicular descents the dog- 
began without hesitation to make his way, and at last disap- 
peared into a cave, the mouth of which was almost upon a level 
with the torrent. The shepherd with difficulty followed ; but on 
entering the cave, what were his emotions when he beheld his 
infant eating with much satisfaction the cake which the dog had 
just brought him, while the faithful animal stood by, eyeing his 
young charg'e with the utmost complacence ! 

From the situation in which the child was found, it appears 
that he had wandered to the brink of the precipice, and then 
either fallen or scrambled down till he reached the cave, which 
the dread of the torrent had afterwards prevented him from 
quitting. The dog, by means of his scent, had traced him to the 
spot ; and afterwards prevented him from starving, by giving up 
to him his own daily allowance. He appears never to have 
quitted the child by night or day, except when it was necessary 
to go for his food, and then he was always seen running at full 
speed to and from the cottage. 

The following instance of watchful care on the part of a 
farmer's dog, is related in the Sportsman's Cabinet as being 
well authenticated :— 

" Mr Henry Hawkes, a farmer residing at Hailing, in Kent, 
was late one evening at Maidstone market. On returning' at 
night with his dog, which was usually at his heels, he again 
stopped at Aylesford, and, as is too frequently the case upon such 
occasions, he drank immoderately, and left the place in a state of 
intoxication. Having passed the village of Newheed in safety, 
he took his way over Snodland Brook, in the best season of the 
year a very dangerous road for a drunken man. The whole 
face of the country was covered with a deep snow, and the frost 
intense. He had, however, proceeded in safety till he came to 
the Willow Walk, within half a mile of the church, when by a 
sudden stagger he quitted the path, and passed over a ditch on his 
right hand. Not apprehensive he was going astray, he took 
towards the river ; but having a high bank to mount, and being 
nearly exhausted with wandering and the effect of the liquor, he 
was most fortunately prevented from rising the mound, or he 
certainly must have precipitated himself (as it was near high- 
water) into the Medway. At this moment, completely overcome, 
he fell among the snow, in one of the coldest nights ever known, 
turning upon his back. He was soon overpowered with either 
sleep or cold, when his faithful dependant, which had closely 
attended to every step, scratched away the snow, so as to throw 
up a sort of protecting wall around his helpless master; then 
mounting upon the exposed body, rolled himself round and lay 
upon his master's bosom_, for which his shaggy coat proved a 



most seasonable covering and eventual protection during* the 
dreadful severity of the nig'ht, the snow falling' all the time. 
The following" morning- a person who was out with his g-un, in 
expectation of falling- in with some sort of wild-fowl, perceiv- 
ing" an appearance rather uncommon, ventured to approach the 
spot; upon his coming- up the dog- g-ot off the body, and after 
repeatedly shaking- himself to get disentangled from the accumu- 
lated snow, encouraged the sportsman, by actions of the most 
significant nature, to come near the side of his master. Upon 
wiping away the icy incrustation from the face, the countenance 
was immediately recollected; but the frame appearing lifeless, 
assistance was procured to convey it to the first house upon the 
skirts of the village, when a pulsation being- observed, every 
possible means were instantly adopted to promote his recovery." 
In the course of a short time the farmer was sufficiently restored 
to relate his own story as abeady recited ; and in gratitude for 
his extraordinary escape, ordered a silver collar to be made for his 
friendly protector, as a perpetual remembrancer of the transac- 
tion. A gentleman of the faculty in the neighbourhood hearing 
of the circumstance, and finding it so well authenticated, imme- 
diately made him an offer of ten guineas for the dog, which the 
g-rateful farmer refused, exultingly adding, ' that so long as he 
had a bone to his meat, or a crust to his bread, he would divide 
it with the faithful friend who had preserved his life ;' and this 
he did in a perfect conviction that the warmth of the dog, in 
covering the most vital part, had continued the circulation, and 
prevented a total stagnation of the blood by the frigidity of the 

The patience, the ingenuity, and fidelity of the shepherd's dog 
in assisting his master in his arduous profession, command our 
highest esteem ; while his knowledge of what is desired of him, 
his tact in understanding the slightest signal, his sag-acity in 
acting in cases of emergence on his own responsibility, make 
him the paragon of the brute creation. James Hogg-, vv^ho pos- 
sessed the best opportunities of studying the character of the 
shepherd's dog-, mentions that he at one time had a dog, called 
Sirrah, an animal of a sullen disposition, and by no means favour- 
able appearance, which was an extraordinary adept in managing 
a flock. One of his exploits was as follows : — " About seven hun- 
dred lambs, which were once under his care at weaning-time, 
broke up at midnight, and scampered off in three divisions across 
the hills, in spite of all that the Shepherd and an assistant lad could 
do to keep them together. * Sirrah,' cried the Shepherd in great 
affliction, 'my man, they're a' awa.' The night was so dark, 
that he did not see Sirrah ; but the faithful animal had heard his 
master's words — words such as of all others were sure to set him 
most on the alert ; and without more ado, he silently set off in 
quest of the recreant flock. Meanwhile the Shepherd and his 
companion did not fail to do all that was in their own power to 



recover their lost cliarge ; they spent the whole nig-ht in scouring* 
the hills for miles around ; but of neither the lambs nor Sirrah 
could they obtain the slightest trace. ' It was the most extra- 
ordinary circumstance/ says the Shepherd, ' that had ever 
occurred in the annals of the pastoral life. We had nothing" for 
it (day having" dawned) but to return to our master, and inform 
him that we had lost his whole flock of lambs, and knew not 
what was become of one of them. On our way home, however, 
we discovered a body of lambs at the bottom of a deep ravine, 
called the Flesh Cleuch, and the indefatig^able Sirrah standing in 
front of them, looking all around for some relief, but still stand- 
ing true to his charge. The sun was then up ; and when we 
first came in view of them, we concluded that it was one of the 
divisions of the lambs which Sirrah had been unable to manage, 
until he came to that commanding situation. But what was our 
astonishment when we discovered by degrees that not one lamb 
of the whole flock was wanting ! How he had got all the divisions 
collected in the dark, is beyond my comprehension. The charge 
was left entirely to himself from midnight until the rising of 
the sun ; and if all the shepherds in the forest had been there to 
have assisted him, they could not have effected it with g-reater 
propriety. All that I can farther say is, that I never felt so 
grateful to any creature below the sun, as I did to my honest 
Sirrah that morning.' " 

In the execution of such duties the shepherd's dog, as may be 
supposed, does not weigh moral considerations. His purpose is 
to serve his master, whether right or wrong, though, when em- 
ployed on guilty objects, he is probably not ignorant that his 
work is of a clandestine nature which it would not be faithful 
to disclose. Among the narratives which still entertain the fire- 
side circle in Tweeddale, one of the most remarkable refers to 
an extraordinary case of sheep-stealing, in which a shepherd's 
dog- was a subordinate though most active agent. The case oc- 
curred in the year 1772. 

A young farmer in the neighbourhood of Innerleithen, whose 
circumstances were supposed to be good, and who was connected 
with many of the best storefarming families in the county, had 
been tempted to commit some extensive depredations upon the 
flocks of his neighbours, in which he was assisted by his shepherd. 
The pastoral farms of Tweeddale, which generally consist each of 
a certain range of hilly ground, had in those days no enclosures < 
their boundaries were indicated only by the natural features of 
the country. The sheep were, accordingly, liable to wander, and 
to become intermixed with each other ; and at every reckoning 
of a flock, a certain allowance had to be made for this, as for 
other contingencies. For some time Mr William Gibson, tenant 
in Newby, an extensive farm stretching from the neighbourhood 
of Peebles to the borders of Selkirkshire, had remarked a sur- 
prising increase in the amount of his annual losses. He ques- 



tioned his shepherds severely, taxed them with carelessness in 
picking" up and bringing- home the dead, and plainly intimated 
that he conceived some unfair dealing- to be in progress. The 
men, finding themselves thus exposed to suspicions of a very 
painful kind, were as much chagrined as the worthy farmer him- 
self, and kept their minds alive to every circumstance which 
mig-ht tend to afford any elucidation of the mystery. One day, 
while they were summering their lambs, the eye of a very acute 
old shepherd named Hyslop was caught by a black-faced ewe 
which they had formerly missed (for the shepherds generally 
know every particular member of their flocks), and which was 
now suckling- its own lamb as if it had never been absent. On 
inspecting* it carefully, it was found to bear an additional birn 
upon its face. Every farmer, it must be mentioned, impresses 
"with a hot iron a particular letter upon the faces of his sheep, as 
a means of distinguishing- his own from those of his neighbours. 
Mr Gibson's biivi was the letter T, and this was found distinctly 
, enough impressed on the face of the ewe. But above this mark 
there was a* O, which was known to be the mark of the tenant 
of Wormiston, the individual already mentioned. It was im- 
mediately suspected that this and the other missing sheep had 
been abstracted by that person ; a suspicion which derived 
strength from the reports of the neighbouring shepherds, by 
whom, it appeared, the black-faced ewe had been tracked for a 
considerable way in a direction leading from Wormiston to 
Newby. It was indeed ascertained that instinctive affection for 
her lamb had led this animal across the Tweed, and over the 
lofty heights between Cailzie and Newby ; a route of very con- 
siderable difficulty, and probably quite different from that by 
which she had been led away, but the most direct that could have 
been taken. Mr Gibson only stopped to obtain the concurrence 
of a neighbouring farmer, whose losses had been equally great, 
before proceeding with some of the legal authorities to "Wormiston, 
where Millar, the shepherd, and his master, were taken into 
custody, and conducted to the prison of Peebles. On a search of 
the farm, no fewer than thirty-three score of sheep belonging to 
various individuals were found, all bearing the condemnatory O 
above the original bi7Vis ; and it was remarked that there was not 
a single ewe returned to Grieston, the farm on the opposite bank 
of the Tweed, which did not mmny her lambs — that is, assume 
the character of mother towards the offspring from which she 
had been separated. 

The magnitude of this crime, the rareness of such offences in 
the district, and the station in life of at least one of the offenders, 
produced a great sensation in Tweeddale, and caused the elicita- 
tion of every minute circumstance that could possibly be dis- 
covered respecting the means which had been employed for car- 
rying on such an extensive system of depredation. The most 
sui'prising part of the tale is the extent to which it appears that 



the instinct of dumb animals had been instrumental both in the 
crime and in its detection. While the farmer seemed to have 
deputed the business chiefly to his shepherd, the shepherd seemed 
to have deputed it ag'ain, in many instances, to a dog of extra- 
ordinary sag-acity, which served him in his customary and 
lawful business. This animal, which bore the name of Yarroio^ 
would not only act under his immediate direction in cutting- oif a 
portion of a nock, and bring-ing* it home to Wormiston, but is 
said to have been able to proceed solitarily, and by night, to a 
sheep-walk, and there detach certain individuals previously 
pointed out hj its master, which it would drive home by secret 
ways, without allowing one to straggle. It is meiitibned that, 
while returning' home with their stolen droves, they avoided, even 
in the night, the roads along the banks of the river, or those that 
descend to the valley through the adjoining glens. They chose 
rather to come along the ridge of mountains that separate the 
small river Leithen from . the Tweed. But even here there 
was sometimes danger ; for the shepherds occasionally visit their 
flocks even before day ; and often when Millar had driven his 
prey from a distance, and while he was yet miles from home, 
and the weather-gleam of the eastern hills began to be tinged 
with the brightening dawn, he has left them to the charge of his 
dog, and descended himself to the banks of the Leithen, off his 
way, that he might not be seen connected with their company. 
Yarrow, althoug-h between three and four miles from his master, 
would continue, with care and silence, to bring the sheep onward 
to Wormiston, where his master's appearance could be neither a 
matter of question nor surprise. 

Near to the thatched farmhouse was one of those old square 
towers, or peel-houses, whose picturesque ruins were then seen 
ornamenting- the course of the Tweed, as they had been placed 
alternately along the north and south bank, generally from three 
to six hundi'ed yards from it — sometimes on the shin, and some- 
times in the hollow of a hill. In the vault of this tower, it was 
the practice of these men to conceal the sheep they had recently 
stolen ; and while the rest of their people were absent on Sunday 
at the church, they used to employ themselves in cancelling- with 
their knives the ear-marks, and impressing with a hot iron a 
large O upon the face, that covered both sides of the animal's 
nose, for the purpose of obliterating- the brand of the true owner. 
While his accomplices were so busied. Yarrow kept watch in the 
open air, and gave notice, without fail, by his barking, of the 
approach of strangers. 

The farmer and his servant were tried at Edinburgh in January 
1773, and the proceedings excited an extraordinary interest, not 
only in the audience, but amongst the legal officials. Hyslop, 
the principal witness, gave so many curious particulars respect- 
ing the instincts of sheep, and the modes of distinguishing them 
both by natural and artificial marks, that he was highly compli- 



mented Tby the bench. The evidence was so complete, that both 
culprits were found guilty, and, according to the barbarous pohcy 
of those times, they expiated their crime on the scaffold. 

The general tradition is, that Yarrow was also put to death, 
though in a less ceremonious manner ; but this has probably no 
other foundation than a jeu tV esprit^ which was cried through 
the streets of Edinburgh as his dying speech. We have been 
informed that the dog was in reality purchased, after the execu- 
tion of Millar, by a sheep-farmer in the neighbourhood, but did 
not take kindly to honest courses, and his new master having no 
work of a different kind in which to engag'e him, he was re- 
marked to show rather less sagacity than the ordinary shepherd's 

An instance of shrewd discrimination in the shepherd's dog, 
almost as remarkable as that of poor Yarrow, was mentioned a 
few years ago in a Greenock newspaper. In the course of last 
summer, says the narrator, it chanced that the sheep on the farm 
of a friend of ours, on the water of Stinchar, were, like those of 
his neighbours, partially affected with that common disease, mag- 
gots in the skin, to cure which distemper it is necessary to cut off 
the wool over the part affected, and apply a small quantity of 
tobacco-juice, or some other liquid. For this purpose the shep- 
herd set off to the hill one morning, accompanied by his faithful 
canine assistant, Ladie. Arrived among the flock, the shepherd 
pointed out a diseased animal ; and making the accustomed signal 
for the dog to capture it, " poor Mailie " was speedily sprawling 
on her back, and gently held down by the dog till the arrival of 
her keeper, who proceeded to clip off" a portion of her wool, and 
apply the healing balsam. During the operation, Ladie con- 
tinued to gaze on the operator with close attention ; and the sheep 
having been released, he was directed to capture in succession 
two or three more of the flock, which underwent similar treat- 
ment. The sagacious animal had now become initiated into the 
mysteries of his master's vocation, for off he set unbidden through 
the flock, and picked out with unerring precision those sheep 
which were affected with maggots in their skin, and held them 
down until the arrival of his master, who was thus, by the extra- 
ordinary instinct of Ladie, saved a world of trouble, while the 
operation of clipping and smearing was also greatly facilitated. 

Hundreds of such anecdotes, we believe, could be told of the 
shepherd's dog, but we shall content ourselves with the follow- 
ing, as an instance of sagacity and maternal tenderness in the 
animal: — In October 1843, a shepherd had purchased at Falkirk, 
for his master in Perthshire, four score of sheep. Having occa- 
sion to stop a day in the town, and confident of the sagacity of 
his " collie," which was a female, he committed the drove to her 
care, with orders to drive them home, a distance of about seven- 
teen miles. The poor animal, when a few miles on the road, 
dropped two whelps ; but, faithful to her charge, she drove the 



sheep on a mile or two farther ; then allowing- them to stop^ 
returned for her pups, which she carried for about two miles in 
advance of the sheep. Leaving her pups, the collie ag-ain re- 
turned for the sheep, and drove them onwards a few miles. This 
she continued to do, alternately carrying- her own young- ones 
and taking charge of the flock, till she reached home. The 
manner of her acting on this trying occasion was afterwards 
gathered by the shepherd from various individuals, who had 
observed these extraordinary proceedings of the dumb animal 
on the road. However, when collie reached her home, and de- 
livered her charge, it was found that the two pups were dead. 
In this extremity the instinct of the poor brute was, if possible, 
yet more remarkable. She went immediately to a rabbit brae in 
the vicinity, and dug out of the earth two young rabbits, whom 
she deposited on some straw in a barn, and continued to suckle 
for some time, until one of the farm-servants unluckily let down 
a full sack above them and smothered them. 


The possibility of teaching dogs to perform various feats is 
v/ell known. Fetching and carrying, going to a baker's shop 
with a penny and getting a loaf in exchange, and such-like per- 
formances, demonstrate only a mean species of cleverness. It is 
only when they attain the power of acting an independent part 
in a well-sustained scene, that their performances rise to the 

An aged gentleman has mentioned to us that, about fifty years 
ago, a Frenchman broug-ht to London from eighty to a hundred 
dogs, chiefly poodles, the remainder spaniels, but all nearly of the 
same size, and of the smaller kind. On the education of these 
animals their proprietor had bestowed an immense deal of pains. 
From puppyhood upwards, they had been taught to walk on 
their hind-legs, and maintain their footing with surprising ease 
in that unnatural position. They had likewise been drilled into 
the best possible behaviour tovv'ards each other; no snarling, 
barking, or indecorous conduct took place when they were as- 
sembled in company. But what was most surprising of all, they 
were able to perform in various theatrical pieces of the character 
of pantomimes, representing various transactions in heroic and 
familiar life with wonderful fidelity. The object of their pro- 
prietor was, of course, to make money by their performances, 
which the public were accordingly invited to witness in one of 
the minor theatres. 

Amongst their histrionic performances was the representation 
of a siege. On the rising of the curtain, there appeared three 
ranges of ramparts, one above the other, having- salient angles 
and a moat, like a regularly-constructed fortification. In the 
centre of the fortress arose a tower, on which a flag was flying ; 
while in the distance behind appeared the buildino's and steeples 




of a tovra. The ramparts were guarded by soldiers in uniform, 
each armed with a musket or sword, of an appropriate size. All 
these were dog's, and their duty was to defend the walls from an 
attacking- party, consisting also of dogs, whose movements now 
commenced the operations of the sieg'e. In the foreground of the 
stage were some rude buildings and irregular surfaces, from 
among which there issued a reconnoitring party; the chief, 
habited as an officer of rank, with great circumspection surveyed 
the fortification ; and his sedate movements, and his consultations 
with the troops that accompanied him, implied that an attack 
was determined upon. But these consultations did not pass un- 
observed by the defenders of the g'arrison. The party wa& 
noticed by a sentinel, and fired upon ; and this seemed to be the 
signal to call every man to his post at the embrasures. 

Shortly after, the troops advanced to the escalade ; but to cross 
the moat, and get at the bottom of the walls, it was necessary to- 
bring ujd some species of pontoon, and accordingly several soldiers 
were seen engaged in pushing before them wicker-work scaffold- 
ings, which moved on castors towards the fortifications. The 
drums beat to arms, and the fearful bustle of warfare opened in 
earnest. Smoke was poured out in volleys from shot-holes ; the 
besieging forces pushed forward in masses, regardless of the fire ; 
the moat was filled with the crowd ; and, amid much confusion 
and scrambling, scaling-ladders were raised ag-ainst the walls. 
Then was the grand tug of war. The leaders of the forlorn-hope 
who first ascended, were opposed with great gallantry by the 
defenders ; and this was perhaps the most interesting part of the 
exhibition. The chief of the assailants did wonders ; he was seen 
now here, now there, animating* his men, and was twice hurled, 
with ladder and followers, from the second gradation of ram- 
parts ; but he was invulnerable, and seemed to receive an acces- 
sion of courage on every fresh repulse. The scene became of an 
exciting nature. The rattle of the miniature cannon, the roll of 
the drums, the sound of trumpets, and the heroism of the actors 
on both sides, imparted an idea of reality that for the moment 
made the spectator forget that he was looking on a performance 
of dogs. Not a bark was heard in the struggle. 

After numerous hairbreadth escapes, the chief surmounted the 
third line of fortifications, followed by his troops ; the enemy's 
standard was hurled down, and the British flag* hoisted in its 
place ; the ramparts were manned by the conquerors ; and the 
smoke cleared away — to the tune of " God Save the King." 

It is impossible to convey a just idea of this performance, which 
altogether reflected great credit on its contriver, as also on the 
abilities of each individual dog. We must conclude, that the 
firing from the embrasures, and some other parts of the me- 
canique, were effected by human agency ; but the actions of the 
dogs were clearly their own, and showed what could be effected 
with animals by dint of patient culture. 



Anotlier specimen of these canine theatricals was quite a con- 
trast to the bustle of the sieg-e. The scene was an assembly-room, 
on the sides and the farther end of which seats were placed ; 
while a music-gallery, and a profusion of chandeliers, g-ave a 
richness and truth to the general effect. Livery-servants were 
in attendance on a few of the company, who entered and took 
their seats. Frequent knockings now occurred at the door, fol- 
lowed by the entrance of parties attired in the fashion of the 
period. These were, of com'se, the same individuals who had 
recently been in the deadly breach ; but now all was tranquillity, 
eleg-ance, and ease. Parties were formally introduced to each 
other with an appearance of the greatest decorum, though some- 
times a young dog would show a slight disposition to break 
through restraint, but only to the increased amusement of the 
beholders. Some of the dogs that represented ladies were dressed 
in silks, gauzes, laces, and gay tasteful ribbons. Some wore 
artificial flowers, with the flowing ringlets of youth ; others wore 
the powdered and pomatumed head-dress of riper years, with 
caps and lappets, in ludicrous contrast to the features of the 
animals. Doubtless the whole had been the result of judicious 
study and correct arrangement, for the most animated were 
habited as the most youthful. The animals which represented 
gentlemen were judiciously equipped; some as youthful, and 
others as aged beaux, regulated by their degrees of proficiency, 
since those most youthmlly dressed were most atteiitive to the 
ladies. The frequent bow, and return of curtsey, produced great 
mirth in the audience ; but when the noses of the animals neared 
each other, it produced a shriek of delight from the youthful 
spectators. On a sudden the master of the ceremonies appeared. 
No doubt he was the chief in the battle fray. He was now an ele- 
gant fellow, full of animation ; he wore a superb court-dress, and 
his manners were in agreement with his costume. He approached 
many of the visitors : to some of the gentlemen he gave merely 
a look of recognition : to the ladies he was generally attentive ; 
to some he projected his paw familiarly, to others he bowed with 
respect ; and introduced one to another with an air of elegance 
that surprised and delighted the spectators. Tliere was a general 
feeling of astonishment at some of the nicer features of the scene, 
as at the various degrees of intimacy which individuals expressed 
by their nods and bows of recognition. 

As the performance advanced, the interest increased. A little 
music was heard as from the gallery, but it was soon interrupted 
by a loud knocking, which announced the arrival of some impor- 
tant visitor, and expectation was raised. Several livery servants 
entered, and then a sedan-chair was borne in by appropriately 
dressed dogs; they removed the poles, raised the head, and 
opened the door of the sedan; forth came a lady, splendidly 
attired in spangled satin and jewels, and her head decorateci 
with a plume of ostrich feathers 1 She made a great impression. 



and appeared as if conscious of lier superior attraction ; mean- 
while the chair was removed, the master of the ceremonies, in 
his court-dress, was in readiness to receive the elegante, the 
bow and curtsey were admirably interchang-ed, and an air of 
elegance pervaded the deportment of both. The band now 
struck up an air of the kind to which ball-room companies are 
accustomed to promenade, and the company immediately quitted 
their seats and began to walk ceremoniously in pairs round the 
room. Thi'ee of the ladies placed their arms under those of their 
attendant gentlemen. On seats being resumed, the master of the 
ceremonies and the lady who came in the sedan-chair arose ; he 
led her to the centre of the room ; Foote's minuet struck up ; the 
pair commenced the movements with an attention to time ; they 
performed the crossings and turnings, the advancings, retreat- 
ing's, and obeisances, dm'ing which there was a perfect silence, 
and they concluded amid thunders of applause. What ultimately 
became of the ingenious manager with his company, our in- 
foiTnant never heard. 

Fully as interesting an exhibition of clever dogs took place in 
London in the summer of 1843, imder the auspices of M. Leonard, 
a French gentleman of scientific attainments and enlightened 
character, who had for some years directed his attention to the 
reasoning powers of animals, and their cultivation. Two pointers, 
Braque and Philax, had been the especial objects of his instruc- 
tion, and their naturally inferior intellectual capacities had been 
excited in an extraordmary deg'ree. A wi'iter in the Atlas news- 
paper thus speaks of the exhibition of these animals : — " M. 
Leonard's dog's are not merely clever, well-taught animals, wliich, 
by dint of practice, can pick up a particular letter, or can, by a 
sort of instinct, indicate a number which may be asked for ; they 
call into action powers which, if not strictly intellectual, approxi- 
mate very closely to reason. For instance, they exert memory. 
Four pieces of paper were placed upon the floor, which the com- 
pany numbered indiscriminately, 2, 4, 6, 8. Tlie numbers were 
named but once, and yet the dogs were able to pick up any one 
of them at command, although they were not placed in regular 
order. The numbers were then changed, with a similar result. 
Again, different objects were placed upon the floor, and when a 
similar thing- — say a glove — was exhibited, one or other of the 
animals picked it up immediately. The dogs disting-uish colours, 
and, in short, appear to understand everything" that is said to 

The dog Braque plays a game of dominoes with any one who 
likes. We are aware that this has been done before ,• but when 
it is considered that it is necessary to distinguish the number of 
spots, it must be admitted that this requires the exercise .of a 
power little inferior to reason. The dog sits on the chair with 
the dominoes before him, and when his adversary plays, he scans 
each of his dominoes with an air of attention and "gravity which. 



is perfectly marvellous. "When he could not match the domina 
played, he became restless and shook his head, and g-ave other 
indications of his inability to do so. No human being could have 
paid more attention. The dog- seemed to watch the game vvitii 
deep interest, and what is more, he won. 

Another point strongly indicative of the close approach to the 
reasoning powers, was the exactness with which the dogs obeyed 
an understood signal. It was agreed that when three blows 
were struck upon a chair, Philax should do what was requested,, 
and when five were given, that the task should devolve on Braque. 
This arrangement was strictly adhered to. We do not intend to 
follow the various proofs which were afforded of the intelligence 
of the dogs ; it is sufficient to say that a multiplicity of directions 
g'iven to them were obeyed implicitly, and that they appeared to 
imderstand what their master said as well as any individual in 
the room. 

M. Leonard entered into a highly-interesting explanation of 
his theory regarding the intellectual powers of animals, and the 
mode he adopts to train and subdue horses, exhibiting the defects 
of the system generally pursued. His principle is, that horses 
are not vicious by nature, but because they have been badly 
taught, and that, as with children, these defects may be corrected 
by proper teaching. M. Leonard does not enter into these 
inquiries for profit, but solely with a scientific and humane view, 
being desirous of investigating* the extent of the reasoning 
powers of animals." 

It does not appear possible that dogs should be educated to the 
extent of those of M. Leonard, unless we can suppose that they 
acquire a tolerably exact knowledge of language. That they 
in reality learn to know the meaning of certain words, not 
merely when addressed to them, but when spoken in ordinary 
conversation, is beyond a doubt ; although the accompanying 
looks and movements in all likelihood help them in their inter- 
pretation. We have known a small spaniel, for instance, which 
thoroughly understood the meaning of " out,"' or " going out," 
when spoken in the most casual way in conversation. A lady of 
our acquaintance has a dog which lives at enmity with another 
dog in the neighbourhood, called York, and angrily barks when 
the word York is pronounced in his hearing. 

The late Dr J. MacuUoch has related, of his own knowledge, 
that a shepherd's dog always eluded the intentions of the house- 
hold regarding him, if aught was whispered in his presence that 
did not coincide with his wishes. Sir Walter Scott has told a 
number of anecdotes of a dog called Dandie, the property of a 
gentleman, which knew on most occasions what was said in his 
presence. His master returning home one night rather late, 
found all the family in bed, and not being" able to find the boot- 
jack in its usual place, said to his dog, " Dandie, I cannot find 
mj boot-jack ; search for it." The dog, quite sensible of what 



had been said to him, scratched at the room door, which his 
master opened, proceeded to a distant part of the house, and soon 
returned, carrying- in his mouth the boot-jack, which his master 
had left that morning" under a sofa. James Hogg, in his Shep- 
herd's Calendar, declares that dogs know what is said on subjects 
in which they feel interested. He mentions the case of a farmer, 
^' who had a bitch that for the space of three or four years, in the 
latter part of his life, met him always at the foot of his farm, 
about a mile and a half from his house, on his way home. If he 
was half a day away, a week, or a fortnight, it was all the same ; 
she met him at that spot ; and there never was an instance seen 
of her g'oing to wait his arrival there on a wrong- day. She 
«ould only know of his coming home by hearing it mentioned in 
the family." The same writer speaks of a clever sheep -dog", 
named Hector, which had a similar tact in picking up what was 
said. One day he observed to his mother, "I am going- to- 
morrow to Bowerhope for a fortnight ; but I will not take Hector 
with me, for he is constantly quarrelling with the rest of the 
dogs." Hector, which was present, and overheard the conversa- 
tion, was missing next morning, and when Hogg reached Bower- 
hope, there was Hector sitting on a knoll, waiting his arrival. 
He had swam across a flooded river to reach the spot. 

Still more surj^rising, the dog may be trained not only to 
know the meaning of v\-ords, but to speak them. The learned 
Leibnitz reported to the French Academy that he had seen a 
dog in Germany which had been taug-ht to pronounce certain 
words. The teacher of the animal, he stated, was a Saxon pea- 
sant boy, who, having observed in the dog-'s voice an indistinct 
resemblance to various sounds of the human voice, was prompted 
to endeavour to make him speak. The animal was three years 
old at the beginning of his instructions, a circumstance which 
must have been unfavourable to the object ; yet, by dint of great 
labour and perseverance, in three years the boy had taught it to 
pronounce thirty German words. It used to astonish its visitors 
by calling for tea, coffee, chocolate, &c. ; but it is proper to 
remark, that it required its master to pronounce the words before- 
hand ; and it never appeared to become quite reconciled to the 
exhibitions it was forced to make. 

The educability of the dog's perceptive faculties has been 
exemplified in a remarkable manner by his acquired knowledge 
of musical sounds. On some dogs fine music produces an ap- 
parently painful effect, causing them gradually to become restless, 
to moan piteously, and, finally, to fly from the spot with every 
sign of suffering and distress. Others have been seen to sit and 
listen to music with seeming delight, and even to go every Sun- 
day to church, with the obvious purpose of enjoying the solemn 
and povrerful strains of the organ. Some dogs manifest a keen 
sense of false notes in music. Our friend Mrs S. C. Hall, at Old 
Brompton, possesses an Italian greyhound which screams ia 



apparent ag'ony when a jarring* combination of notes is produced 
accidentally or intentionally on the piano. These opposite and 
various manifestations show what mig"ht be done by education 
to teach dogs a critical knowledge of sounds. A gentleman of 
Darmstadt, in Germany, as we learn, has taught a poodle dog to 
detect false notes in music. We give the account of this remark- 
able instance of educability as it appears in a French news- 

Mr S , having acquired a competency by commercial in- 
dustry, retired from business, and devoted himself, heart and 
soul, to the cultivation and enjoyment of music. Every member 
of his little household was by degrees involved more or less in 
the same occupation, and even the housemaid could in time bear 
a part in a chorus, or decipher a melody of Schubert. One in- 
dividual alone in the family seemed to resist this musical en- 
trancement ; this was a small spaniel, the sole specimen of the 

canine race in the mansion. Mr S felt the impossibility of 

instilling the theory of sounds into the head of Poodle, but hs 
firmly resolved to make the animal bear some part or other in the 
general domestic concert ; and by perseverance, and the adoption 
of ingenious means, he attained his object. Every time that a 
false note escaped either from instrument or voice — as often as 
any blunder, of whatever kind, was committed by the members 
of the musical family (and such blunders were sometimes com- 
mitted intentionally) — down came its master's cane on the back 
of the unfortunate Poodle, till she howled and growled again. 
Poodle perceived the meaning of these unkind chastisements, 
and instead of becoming sulky, showed every disposition to howl 
on the instant a false note was uttered, without waiting for the 

formality of a blow. By and by, a mere glance of Mr S 's 

eye was sufficient to make the animal howl to admiration. In 
the end. Poodle became so thoroughly acquainted with, and 
attentive to, false notes and other musical barbarisms, that the 
slightest mistake of the kind was infallibly signalised by a yell 
from her, forming the most expressive commentary upon the 

When extended trials were made of the animal's acquirements, 
they were never found to fail, and Poodle became, what she still 
is, the most famous, impartial, and conscientious connoisseur in 
the duchy of Hesse. But, as may be imagined, her musical 
appreciation is entirely negative ; if you sing with expression, 
and play with ability, she will remain cold and impassable. But 
let your execution exhibit the slig-htest defect, and you will have 
her instantly showing her teeth, whisking her tail, yelping, 
barking, and growling. At the present time, there is not a con- 
cert or an opera at Darmstadt to which Mr S and his won- 
derful dog are not invited, or, at least, the dog. The voice of tlie 
prima donna, the instruments of the band — whether violin, 
clarionet, hautbois, or bugle — all of them must execute their 



parts in perfect harmony, otherwise Poodle looks at its master, 
erects its ears, shows its grinders, and howls outright. Old or 
new pieces, known or nnlaiovrn to the dog', produce on it the 
same eflect. 

It must not be supposed that the discrimination of the creature 
is confined to the mere execution of musical compositions. What- 
ever may have been the case at the outset of its training-, its 
present and perfected intelligence extends even to the secrets of 
composition. Thus, if a vicious modulation, or a false relation 
of parts, occurs in a piece of music, the animal shows symptoms 
of uneasy hesitation ; and if the error be continued, will infallibly 
give the grand condemnatory howl. In short. Poodle is the 
terror of all the middling composers of Darmstadt, and a perfect 
nig-htmare to the imagination of all poor singers and players. 

Sometimes Mr S and his friends take a pleasure in annoying 

the canine critic, by emitting all sorts of discordant sounds from 
instrument and voice. On such occasions ihe creature loses all 
self-command, its eyes shoot forth fiery flashes, and long and 
frightful howls respond to the immelodious concert of the mis- 
chievous bipeds. But the latter must be careful not to go too 
far ; for when the dog's patience is tried to excess, it becomes 
altogether wild, and flies fiercely at the tormentors and their 

This dog's case is a very curious one, and the attendant phe- 
nomena not very easy of explanation. From the animal's power 
of discernmg the correctness of musical composition, as well as 

of executioiL; one would be inclined to imagine that IMr S , 

in training his dog, had only called into play faculties existing 
(but latent) before, and that dogs have in them the natural germs 
of a fine musical ear. This seems more likely to be the case, 
than that the animal's perfect musical taste was wholly an 
acquh'ement, resulting from the training. However this may 
be, the Darmstadt dog is certainly a marvellous creature, and 
we are sui'prised that, in these exhibiting times, its powers 
have not been displayed on a wider stag'e. The operatic estab- 
lishments of London and Paris might be greatly the better, 
perhaps, of a visit from the critical Poodle. 

It is now settled, as a philosophical question, that the instruction 
communicated to dogs, as well as various other animals, has a 
hereditary effect on the progeny. If a dog be taught to perfoim 
certain feats, the young* of that dog will be much easier initiated 
in the same feats than other dogs. Thus, the existing races of 
English pointers are greatly more accomplished in their required 
duties than the original race of Spanish spaniels. Dogs of the 
St Bernard variety inherit the faculty of tracking footsteps in 
snow. A gentleman of our acquaintance, and of scientific acquire- 
ments, obtained, some years ago, a pup which had been produced 
in London by a female of the celebrated St Bernard breed. The 
young animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never ob- 



served to g-ive any particular tokens of a power of tracking; foot- 
steps until winter, when the g-round became covered with snow. 
It then showed the most active inclination to follow footsteps ; 
and so great was its power of doing- so under these circumstances, 
that, when its master had crossed a field in the most curvilinear 
way, and caused other persons to cross his path in all directions, 
it nevertheless followed his course with the g-reatest precision. 
Here was a perfect revival of the habit of its Alpine fathers, with 
a deg-ree of speciality as to external conditions, at which, it seems 
to us, we cannot sufficiently wonder. 


A habit of close observation, w^ith or without instruction, leads 
dogs to reason on the circumstances by which they are affected. 
Dogs, for example, on the banks of the large rivers in the 
•southern states of America, practise a method of deceiving* alliga- 
tors. When about to cross a river, the dog barks loudly to bring 
the watchful alligators to the spot ; having by this ruse with- 
drawn his enemies to a wrong point, he runs to another part of 
the bank, and goes over in safety. 

There are few persons who have not seen mendicants guided 
by dogs through the winding streets of a city to the spot where 
they are to supplicate alms from passengers. Mr Ray, in his 
Synopsis of Quadrupeds, informs us of a blind beggar who was 
led in this manner through the streets of Rome by a dog. This 
faithful and affectionate animal, besides leading* his master in 
such a manner as to protect him from all danger, learned to 
distinguish the streets and houses where he w^as accustomed to 
receive alms twice or thrice a-week. Whenever he came to any of 
these streets, with which he was well acquainted, he would not 
leave it till a call had been made at every house where his master 
was usually successful in his petitions. When the mendicant 
began to ask alms, the dog* lay down to rest; but the man w^as no 
sooner served or refused, than the dog rose spontaneously, and 
without either order or sign, proceeded to the other houses where 
the beggar generally received some gratuity. " I observed," says 
Mr Ray, " not without pleasure and surprise, that when a small 
copper coin was thrown from a window, such was the sagacity 
and attention of this dog, that he went about in quest of it, took 
it from the ground with his mouth, and put it into the old man's 
hat. Even when bread was thrown down, the animal would not 
taste it, unless he received it from the hand of his master." 

Dogs, however, will go greater lengths than assist their masters 
in begging. An English officer, who was in Paris in 1815, men- 
tions the case of a dog belonging to a shoe-black, which brought 
customers to its master. This it did in a very ingenious, and 
scarcely honest manner. The officer, having' occasion to cross one 
of the bridges over the Seine, had his boots, which had been 
previously polished, dirtied by a poodle-dog rubbing against 



them. He, in consequence, went to a man who was stationed on 
the bridge, and had them cleaned. The same circumstance having 
occurred more than once, his curiosity was excited, and he 
watched the dog. He saw him roll himself in the mud of the 
river, and then watch for a person with well-polished boots, 
ag-ainst which he contrived to rub himself. Finding that the 
shoe-black was the owner of the dog, he taxed him with the 
artifice ; and, after a little hesitation, he confessed that he had 
taught the dog the trick in order to procure customers for himself. 
The officer being much struck with the dog's sagacity, purchased 
him at a high price, and brought him to England. He kept him 
tied up in London some time, and then released him. The dog 
remained with him a day or two, and then made his escape. A 
fortnight afterwards, he was found with his former master, pur- 
suing his old trade of dirtying gentlemen's boots on the bridge. 

That dogs should on occasions, such as that now related, find 
their way alone, for hundreds of miles, by roads with which they 
can have httle or no acquaintance, and even across seas and 
ferries, is one of the most surprising features in their character ; 
though cats, as is well known, will undertake equally remarkable 
adventures. Mr Jesse, in his Gleanings of Natural History, 
gives an instance of this sagacity, for which he says he was in- 
aebted to Lord Stowell. " Mr Edward Cook, after having lived 
some time with his brother at Tugsten, in Northumberland, went 
to America, and took with him a pointer dog, which he lost soon 
afterwards, while shooting in the woods near Baltimore. Some 
time after, Mr and Mrs Cook, who continued to reside at Tug-- 
sten, were alarmed at hearing a dog in the night. They admitted 
it into the house, and found that it was the same their brother 
had taken with him to America. The dog lived with them until 
his master returned home, when they mutually recognised each 
other. Mr Cook was never able to trace by what vessel the doo* 
had left America, or in what part of England it had been landed. 
This anecdote confirms others which I have already mentioned 
relative to dogs finding their way back to this country from 
considerable distances." Lieutenant Shipp, in his memoirs,, 
mentions the case of a soldier in India, who, having presented 
his dog to an acquaintance, by whom he was taken a distance of 
four hundred miles, was surprised to see him back in a few days 
afterwards. When the faithful animal returned, he searched 
through the whole barracks for his master, and at length finding 
him asleep, he awoke him by licking his face. 

In Turkey, dogs form associations for mutual defence and 
aggression. Each quarter of Constantinople has its own dogs, 
which will not tolerate the intrusion of dogs from other quarters, 
though all will occasionally unite against a common enemy. 
Anecdotes are related of dogs in our own country seeking the 
assistance of neig'hbour dogs to punish injuries they have sus- 
tained ; from which we may know that they possess a means of 


discovering' tlieir intentions to each otlier. A remarkable case 
of this kind is related in the Cyclopsedia of Natural History : — A 
gentleman residing in Fifeshire, and not far from the city of 
St Andrews, was in possession of a very fine Newfoundland dog", 
which Avas remarkable alike for its tractability and its trust- 
worthiness. At two other points, each distant about a mile, and 
at the same distance from this gentleman's mansion, there were 
two dog's, of great power, but of less tractable breeds than the 
Newfoundland one. One of these was a large mastiif, kept as a 
watch-dog by a farmer, and the other a stanch bull-dog that 
kept guard over the parish mill. As each of these three was 
lord-ascendant of all animals at his master's residence, they all 
had a good deal of aristocratic pride and pugnacity, so that two 
of them seldom met without attempting to settle their respective 
dignities by a wager of battle. 

The Newfoundland dog was of some service in the domestic 
arrangements, besides his guardianship of the house ; for eveiy 
forenoon he was sent to the baker's shop in the village, about 
half a mile distant, with a towel containing money in the corner, 
and he returned with the value of the money in bread. There 
were many useless and not over-civil curs in the village, as there 
are in too many villages throug-hout the country ; but in ordi- 
nary the haughty Newfoundland treated this ignoble race in 
that contemptuous style in which great dogs are wont to treat 
little ones. When the dog returned from the baker's shop, he 
used to be regularly served with his dinner, and went peaceably 
■on house-duty for the rest of the day. 

One day, however, he returned with his coat dirtied and his 
ears scratched, having" been subjected to a combined attack of 
the curs while he had charge of his towel and bread, and so 
€ould not defend himself. Instead of waiting for his dinner as 
usual, he laid down his charge somewhat sulkily, and marched 
off ; and, upon looking' after him, it was observed that he was 
crossing* the intervening hollow in a straight line for the house 
of the farmer, or rather on an embassy to the farmer's mastiff. 
The farmer's people noticed this unusual visit, and they were 
induced to notice it from its being a meeting of peace between 
those who had habitually been belligerents. After some inter- 
course, of which no interpretation could be given, the two set off 
together in the direction of the mill ; and having arrived there, 
they in brief space engaged the miller's bull-dog as an ally. 

The straight road to the village where the indignity had been 
offered to the Newfoundland dog passed immediately in front 
of his master's house, but there was a more private and more 
circuitous road by the back of the mill. The three took this 
road, reached the village, scoured it in great wrath, putting to 
the tooth every cur they could get sight of; and having taken 
their revenge, and washed themselves in a ditch, they returned, 
each dog to the abode of his master ; and, when any two of them 



happened to meet afterwards, they displayed the same pug'iiacity 
as they had done j)revious to this joint expedition. 

It does not appear, however, that all casual, or apparently casual 
interferences of dogs for the benefit of each other jDass off in this 
momentary way ; for there is another well-authenticated anec- 
dote of two dog's at Donag-hadee, in which the instinctive daring 
of the one by the other caused a friendship, and, as it should seem, 
a kind of lamentation for the dead, after one of them had paid 
the debt of nature. This happened while the g-overnment har- 
bour or pier for the packets at Donag"hadee was in the course of 
building", and it took place in the sig-ht of several witnesses. The 
one dog- in this case also was a Newfoundland, and the other was 
a mastiff. They were both powerful dog-s ; and though each was 
good natured when alone, they were very much in the habit of 
fighting when they met. One day they had a fierce and pro- 
longed battle on the pier, from the point of which they both fell 
into the sea ; and, as the pier was long and steep, they had no 
means of escape but by swimming a considerable distance. 
Throwing water upon fig-hting dog's is an approved means of 
putting an end to their hostilities ; and it is natural to suppose 
that two combatants of the same species tumbling themselves 
into the sea would have the same effect. It had ; and each began 
to make for the land as he best could. The Newfoundland being 
an excellent swimmer, very speedily gained the pier, on which he 
stood shaking" himself; but at the same time watching the 
motions of his late antagonist, which, being no swimmer, was 
struggling exhausted in the water, and just about to sink. In 
dashed the Newfoundland dog, took the other gently by the 
collar, kept his head above water, and brought him safely on 
shore. There was a peculiar kind of recognition between the 
two animals : they never foug"ht again ; they were always toge- 
ther : and when the Newfoundland dog had been accidentally 
killed by the passag*e of a stone wagon on the railway over him, 
the other languished and evidently lamented for a long time. 


The benevolence of dogs generally, but of the Newfoundland 
variety in particular, has often excited marks of high admiration. 
A writer on this subject observes that he once saw a water- 
spaniel, unbidden, plunge into the current of a roaring sluice to 
save a small cur, maliciously thrown in. The same motive 
seemed to animate a Pomeranian dog-, belonging to a Dutch 
vessel. This creature sprang overboard, caught a child up, and 
swam on shore with it, before any person had discovered the 
accident. A Yorkshire newspaper (November 1843) mentions a 
case not less humane and sagacious. A child, playing on Roach's 
Wharf with a Newfoundland dog belonging to his father, acci- 
dentally fell into the water. The dog immediately sprang after 



the child, who was only six years old, and seizing* the waist of 
his little frock, broug-ht him into the dock, where there was a 
stag'e, and by which the child held on, but was unable to get on 
the top. The dog', seeing it Avas unable to pull the little fellow 
out of the water, ran up to a yard adjoining*, and where a girl, 
of nine years of age, was hanging out clothes. He seized the 
girl by the frock, and, notwithstanding her exertions to get 
away, he succeeded in dragging her to the spot where the child 
was still hanging by the hands to the stage. On the girl's taking 
hold of the child, the dog assisted her in rescuing the little 
fellow from his perilous situation ; and after licking' the face of 
the infant it had thus saved, it took a leap off the stage, and 
swam round to the end of the wharf, and immediately after 
returned with his hat in his mouth. 

Newfoundland dogs have frequently been of service in the 
case of shipwreck. Youatt, in his " Humanity of Brutes," re- 
lates the following case : — A vessel was driven on the beach 
of Lydd, in Kent. The surf was rolling furiously — eight poor 
fellows were crying for help, but not a boat could be got off 
to their assistance. At length a gentleman came on the beach, 
accompanied by his Newfoundland dog. He directed the atten- 
tion of the animal to the vessel, and put a short stick into his 
mouth. The intelligent and courageous fellow at once under- 
stood his meaning, sprang into the sea, and fought his way 
through the waves. He could not, however, get close enoug'h 
to the vessel to deliver that with which he was charged; but 
the ci'ew joyfully made fast a rope to another piece of wood, 
and threw it towards him. He saw the whole business in an 
instant ; he dropped his own piece, and immediately seized that 
which had been cast to him, and then, with a degree of strength 
and determination almost incredible, he dragged it through the 
surf, and delivered it to his master. A line of communication 
was thus formed, and every man on board was rescued from a 
watery grave. 

The most remarkable anecdote of this class, however, is that 
regarding a Swiss chamois-hunter's dog. This animal being* on 
the glaciers with an English gentleman and his master, observed 
the first approaching one of those awful crevices in the ice to 
look down into it. He began to slide towards the edge ; his. 
guide, with a view to save him, caught his coat, and both slid 
onward, till the dog seized his master's clothes, and arrested them 
both from inevitable death. The gentleman left the dog a pen- 
sion for life. 

The presentiment of approaching danger, of which we have 
given the aboA^e example, evinces a higher degree of reasoning 
power than that shown in ordinary acts of sagacity or personal 
attachment. In the notice given by Captain Fitzroy of the 
earthquake at Galcahuasco, on the 20th of February 1835, it is 
mentioned that all the dogs had left the town before the great 



sliock which ruined the buildings was felt. Very extraordinary 
stones have been told of dogs discovering and circumventing 
plans to injure the persons of their masters, in which it is difficult 
to place implicit credit. We give one of the most marvellous of 
these anecdotes, as it is usually related. 

Sir H. Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire, ancestor of the late 
Earls of Lichfield, had a mastiff which guarded the house and 
yard, but had never met with any particular attention from his 
master. In short, he was not a favourite dog, and was retained 
for his utility only, and not from any partial regard. 

One night, as Sir Harry was retiring to his chamber, attended 
by his favourite valet, an Italian, the mastiff silently followed 
them up stairs, which he had never been known to do before, 
and, to his master's astonishment, presented himself in the bed- 
room. Being deemed an intruder, he was instantly ordered to 
be turned out ; which, being complied with, the poor animal 
began scratching violently at the door, and howling loudly for 
admission. The servant was sent to drive him away. Dis- 
couragement, however, could not check his intended labour of 
love; he returned again, and was more importunate to be let in 
than before. Sir Harry, weary of opposition, though surprised 
beyond measure at the dog's apparent fondness for the society of 
a master who had never shown him the least kindness, and wish- 
ing to retire to rest, bade the servant open the door that they 
might see what he wanted to do. This done, the mastiff, with a 
wag of the tail, and a look of affection at his lord, deliberately 
walked up, and crawling under the bed, laid himself down, as if 
desirous to take up his night's lodging there. 

To save farther trouble, and not from any partiality for his 
company, this indulgence was allowed. The valet withdrew, 
and all was still. About the solemn hour of midnight the 
chamber door opened, and a person was heard stepping across 
the room. Sir Harry started from sleep ; the dog sprung from 
his covert, and seizing- the unwelcome disturber, fixed him to the 
spot. All was dark : Sir Harry rang his bell in great trepidation, 
in order to procure a light. The person who was pinned to the 
floor by the courageous mastiff roared for assistance. It was 
found to be the favourite valet, who little expected such a recep- 
tion. He endeavoured to apologise for his intrusion, and to 
make the reasons which induced him to take this step appear 
plausible ; but the importunity of the dog, the