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WILLIAM .VND ROBERT CHAMBERS

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

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 Anibla.ls, ------ 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 ]

EDINBURGH :
PRINTED BY W. AND R. CHAMBERS.

1847.

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

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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-
se

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE

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.
4

KIXG OF THE FKENCH.

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. * *

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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,
e

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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 ! '

7

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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-
sion.

" 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-
a.

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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-
mappes.

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 ^

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,
MISFORTUNES AND WANDERINGS.

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-

KI^'G OF THE FRENCH.

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 LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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

12

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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 ! "

13

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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
secret.

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

14

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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.

15

THE LIFE 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

16

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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

17

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE

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.

RESIDENCE AND TRAVELS IN AMERICA.

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

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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
days.

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

THE%.irE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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
elsewhere.

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
creditably.

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

20

KING OF THE FEENCH.

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
Philadelphia.

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.

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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-

KING OP THE FRENCH.

"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-
tains.

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 LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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

24

KING OF THE FRENCH,

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-
mouth.

ARRIVAL IN EUROPE — MARRIAGE.

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
Twickenham.

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

25

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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).

POLITICAL CAREER — BECOMES KING.

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

26

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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

27

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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.

KING OF THE FRENCH.

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-
disement.

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

29

THE LIFE OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE,

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.

ABDICATION — REVOLUTION OF 1848.

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
so-

KING OP THE FRENCH.

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

31

THE LIFE OF LOUIS PHILIPPE, KING OF THE FRENCH.

-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^
32

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
djring.

2

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

3

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

4

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

5

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
men.

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

7

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
a

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

9

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

10

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
from.

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

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

\

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
Catholics.

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-

13

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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

14

A TALE OF NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
composure.

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

1.5

A TALE OP NORFOLK ISLAND.

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
afflicting.

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.

STORY OF COLBERT.*

¥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-
morency."

" 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

STORY OF COLBERT.

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

" 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.
2

STORY OF COLBERT.

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
profession."

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

3

STORY OF COLBERT.

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
attendance.

" 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
him.

"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
counter.

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.

4

STORY OF COLBERT.

" 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."

STORY OF COLBERT.

" 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,
Comtois."

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

" 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
myself?"

6

STORY OF COLBERT.

*' 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
Parisian.

" 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,
reappearing.

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

7

STOBY OF COLBERT.

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
matter?"

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
modestly.

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

8

STORY OF COLBERT.

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
approbation."

" 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.

9

STORY OF COLBERT.

" 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
approval.

" 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

JO

STORY OF COLBERT.

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

11

STORY OF COLBERT.

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
Colbert."

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

12

STORY OF COLBERT.

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
triumph.

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
acquisition.

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,

J3

HAPPY FAMILIES OF ANIMALS.

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

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.

HAPPY FAMILIES OF ANIMALS.

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

14

HAPPY FAMILIES OF ANIMALS.

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
wood.

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

15

HAPPY FAMILIES OF ANIMALS.

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
nourishment.

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.

16

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

A FAMILIAR DIALOGUE.

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
divided.

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

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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
risk?

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.

2

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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-

3

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

4

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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 ?

6

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

7

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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 ?

8

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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
Lanarkshire.

" 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. ,

10

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

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

11

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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-
sation.

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

12

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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, ......

£12,803 0 0
Leaving a net pecuniary loss to the whole body of the

Preston operatives of, ... . £57,210 10 0

(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 0

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 0 0

And the loss sustained by the shopkeepers from loss of

business, bad debts, &c. &c. . , . . 4,986 0 0

Making the total loss to the town and trade of Preston,
in this unavailing struggle, .... £107,196 10 0

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

13

£9,652 10
4,719 0

0
0

38,142 0

0

9,500 0

0

8,000 0

0

£70,013 10

0

5,013 0
1,000 0
2,500 0

0
0
0

4,290 0

0

THE EMPLOYEE, AND EMPLOYED.

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 0 0

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 0 0

Loss to the operatives themselves by wages, , » £47,600 0 0

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

-14

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

15

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.
IC

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.

17

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.

18

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED,

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 .

19

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

21

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

22

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

23

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

-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
supporting".

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,

24

THE EMPLOYEE, AND EMPLOYED.

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

25

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.
26

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

3.

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.

4.
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.

5.
George Locket, of Kingsley (boatman);
wages 18s. per week, with a wife and
seven children ; his family is in a miser-
able condition.

6.
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.

7.
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
destitute.

8.
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-
stances.

4.

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

5.

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
assistance.

7.

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

8.

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

27

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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

THE EMPLOYER AXD EMPLOYED.

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

29

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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-

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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-
tressing*.

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-

31

THE EMPLOYER AND EMPLOYED.

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.]

32

\-i^

^#^<\

"TIME ENOUGH."

AN IRISH TALE, BY MRS S. C. HALL.

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

TIME ENOUGH.

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,

2

n

TIME ENOUGH.

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.

TIME ENOUGH.

" 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
rest?"

" 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
Eagle.

"' 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."

4

TIME ENOUGH.

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

5

TIME ENOUGH.

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
him.

" 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
child!"

" 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
wrong."

^ "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

6

TIME ENOUGH.

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

7

TIME ENOUGH.

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

8

TIME ENOUGH.

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

n

TIME ENOUGH.

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

10

TIME ENOUGH.

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

ENOUGH to do ANYTHING THAT WANTED DOING.' I'vC a

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

ANYTHING THAT IT'S TIME 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

11

TIME ENOUGH.

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

12

TIME ENOUGH.

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
sand-hills."

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

13

TIME ENOUGH.

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
yesterday."

" 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
chora?"

" 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

14

TIME ENOUGH.

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

15

MY NATIVE BAY.

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.

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.

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

BODILT HEALTH FOOD.

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

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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
breast.

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

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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-
ment.

SLEEP.

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.

CLOTHING.

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

4

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

WASHING AND DRESSING.

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

5

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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
ascertained.

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

6

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

AIR AND EXERCISE. '

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

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

ILLNESSES.

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

* MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

DEFORMITIES AND IMPERFECTIONS.

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^

9

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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.

MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL TRAINING.

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

10

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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
spoiled.

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

11

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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

MANAGETSrENT OF INFANTS.

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

13

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS.

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
economy."*

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.

MANAGEMENT OP INFANTS.

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

15

MANAGEMENT OF INFANTS. .

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.
16

PICCIOLA; OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.*

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

PICCIOLA, OB THE PRISON-FLOTVER,

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

2

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-PLOWBB.

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
imintentionally.

" 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"

3

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

"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,

4

I

PICGIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

5

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
leaves."

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

6

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

7

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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-
nishment.

"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
9

PICCICLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
trifle.

" 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,
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

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-PLOWER.

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."

10

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWEK.

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

" 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

11

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

12

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
interest.

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?"

13

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

" 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
friends."

" 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

14

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

16

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

17

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
superintendent."

" 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 ? "

13

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

** 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
phrases."

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
away.

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

19

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
inactivity.

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
hither."

"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
morning."

" 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.

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

21

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-PLOTVER.

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,

22

PICCIOl-A, OR THE PRISON-FLOWEB.

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-
yard."

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

PICCIOLA; OB THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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
captain.

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

24

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISOX-FLOWER.

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 —

25

PICCIOLA, OR THE PHISON-FLOWER.

^^ 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
seed.

"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
you."

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

26

PICCIOLAj OR THE PRISON-FLOWER,

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

n

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

•will help to answer your former question. Behold this butterfly,
she has just deposited the hope of her posterity on one of the
branches."

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

28

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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,

29

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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

30

PICCIOLA, OR THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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,

31

PICCIOLA, OB, THE PRISON-FLOWER.

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'

^r^SS^i

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

BY A LADY.
INTRODUCTION — GOING TO SETTLEMENT.

^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

LIFE IN THE BUSK.

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

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

3

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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-

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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
also.

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

6

LIFE IX THE BUSK.

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

7

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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."

COMMENCEMENT OF BUSH LIFE — JAUNT TO MELBOURNE.

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

8

LIFE IX THE BUSH.

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

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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
upon.

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

10

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

11

I.IFE IN THE BUSH.

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

13

LIFE IX THE BUSH.

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
huts.

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

13

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

14

LIFE IX THE BUSH.

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.

RETURN TO THE STATION — DAIRY MANAGEMENT — ANECDOTES
OF THE COUNTRY.

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-

15

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

16

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

18

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

19

IIFE IN THE BUSH.

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.

MODE OF LIVING — REMOVAL TO MELBOURNE.

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

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

21

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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
Williams.

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

22

1

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

23

«

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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.

24

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

25

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

•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

26

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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

27

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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.

FARM NEAR MELBOURNE CONCLUSION.

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

28

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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,

29

LIFE IN THE BUSH.

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
afresh.

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

30

LIFE IN THE EUSH.

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
recover.

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-

31

XIFE IN THE BUSH.

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.

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

2

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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,

3

AVILLIAM TELL AI^D SWITZERLAND.

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

4

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAXD.

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.

6

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.
6

TTILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.

7

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.

"WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZEBLAND.

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

10

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

u

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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-

13

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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 :

14

•WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

15

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

16

"WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

18

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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
ambition.

^ 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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.

SWITZERLAND AS AN INDEPENDENT COUNTRY.^

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,

21

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.

SOCIAL CONDITION — MANUFACTURES.

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

22

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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;

23

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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-
land.

The manufacture of wooden toys, such as small carved figures
and boxes, is also carried on in the mountainous parts of Switzer-

24

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

2a

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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
happiness.

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

26

■U-ILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

-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.

27

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

FEATURES OF THE COUNTRY.

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

28

WILLIAM TELL AIS'D STTITZERLAXD.

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.

29

•WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

30

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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

31

WILLIAM TELL AND SWITZERLAND.

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.

--"^-

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

A STORY FOR THE YOUNG.

BY MRS CROWE, AUTHORESS OF " SUSAN HOPLEY."

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

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

— 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
at?"

"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."

" 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

•3

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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

5

THE T^"0 BEGGAR BOTS.

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

6

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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

7

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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

8

THE TWO BEGGAR BOYS.

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.

THE WIDOW\S SON.

A TALE.

BY MRS STOKE, AUTHORESS OF THE " COTTOX LORD."

'^ 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-

10

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-

u

THE WIDOW'S SON.

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.
12

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-
days.

* THE WIDOW'S SON.

" 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

14

THE WIDOW'S SON.

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

15

THE WIDOW'S SON.

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
family."

"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."

SELECT POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTiaNS.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

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

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

THE HUSBAND'S RETURN.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

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.

Lapbaik.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

WINIFREDA.*

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.

FIRESIDE COMFORTS.

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.
8

POEMS OP THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIOK^S.

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.

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS,

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.

-Cotton.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.*

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.
10

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

DUTIFUL JEM.

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.

11

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIOXS.

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.

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.

TO MY MOTHER.

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 ?

12

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.*

"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

TO ME.

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.

13

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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

know?
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

mind."

CASA WAPPY.*

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.
14

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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.

15

POEMS OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

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 !

/>^.'

CHAMBERS'S MISCELLANY.

MBEES'S

jia^

or

tUsiriUiL Afj© mir[EKirA3N0N©

^■.^,vt ^f^J^'

[EiEOllBUIK'SM

wiLLrAiiAXD PlOBErt chambers

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

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

EDINBURGH :

PRINTED BY W. AND R. CHAMBERS.

1847.

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

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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

2

GRACE DARLING.

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
storm."

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

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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
wildly."

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
indulgence.

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.

4

GRACE DARLING.

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.

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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

6

GRACE DARLING.

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,

7

HEROISM IJJ HUMBLE LIFE.

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."
8

GRACE DARLING.

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,

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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.
10

VOLNEY BECKNEH.

throug-h. wiud and tide amongst those jagged rocks, came home
with electrifying eifect ; and it would have been strange had it
been otherwise.*

VOLNEY BECKNER,

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,

11

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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

12

JAMES MA.XWELL.

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
saved.

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.

JAMES MAXWELL.

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.

13

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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
u

JAMES MAXWELL.

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

16

HEROISM IN HUMBLE LIFE.

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.

MAURICE AND GENEYIEYE,

THE ORPHAN TWINS OF BEAUCE.

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-
bitants.

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

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
village.

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

2

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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,
4

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
away.

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

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

g-ave hopes that consciousness and reason would soon he fully
restored.

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

6

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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

7

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
lad.

" 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.
8

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
tears.

" 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
cure."

"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 ! ' "

MAUKICB AND GENEVIEVE.

" 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
strong."

" 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
road."

" 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

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

their place of destination, was disposed as a pillow in the
carriage.

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
exertion."

" 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

11

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
safety.

The only other untoward incident which marked the remaining
journey was a thunderstorm in the forest of L'Isle Adam, which

12

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
them!

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
beyond.

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-
tance.

" 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-

13

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
estabhshment.

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-
mation.

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

14

MAURICE AND GENEVIEVE.

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
atmosphere.

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
honom'ed.

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
lustre.

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

15

MAURICE AND GENEYIEVE,

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 "

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

MUNZER AND BOCKHOLT.

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
quelled.

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

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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^

2

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
asylum.

RICHARD BROTHERS.

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-

3

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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;
4

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

5

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

6

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

FEMALE FANATICS.

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

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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,

8

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
them.

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

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

ROBERT MATTHEWS.

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

10

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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-
tables.

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

11

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
miles.

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

12

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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,

13

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

14

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

15

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
friends.

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
duties.

16

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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,

17

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

18

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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 ,

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

JOHN NICOLLS THOMS.

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
society.

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

20

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

21

HELieiOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

HELIGIOUSJMPOSTORS.

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

23

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
fighting."

"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-
tuation.

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."

25

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

MORMONISM.

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

26

HELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

27

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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

28

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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-
selves.

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,

29

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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,

3-0

KELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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.

31

RELIGIOUS IMPOSTORS.

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
exposed.

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.

32

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

^^ 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

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

" 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."
2

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

PERSONAL ATTACHMENT.

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
punished.

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,

3

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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
masters.

" 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
4

AXECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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-
tion.

FIDELITY.

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,

6

ANECDOTES OF DOGS,

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

7

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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.

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.
ANECDOTES OF SHEPHERDS' DOGS.

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
years.

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 ^

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

10

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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
elements."

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

n

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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-

12

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

13

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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-

14

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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
dog.

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

15

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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.

EDUCABILITY OF DOGS.

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
wonderful.

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

16

I

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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.

17

ANECDOTES OF BOGS.

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.

18

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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
them.

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.

38

ANECDOTES OP DOGS.

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

20

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

21

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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-
paper.

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
misperformance.

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

22

ANECDOTES OE BOGS.

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
instruments.

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-

23

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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.

SAGACITY.

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

24

AlfECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

26

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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.

BEXEVOLENCE.

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

27

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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

28

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

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 time, the place,
the manner of the valet, raised suspicions in Sir Harry's mind,
and he determined to refer the investigation of the business to a
magistrate.

The perfidious Italian, alternately terrified by the dread of
punishment, and soothed by the hope of pardon, at length con-
fessed that it was his intention to murder his master, and then
rob the house. This diabolical design was frustrated solely by
the unaccountable sagacity of the dog, and his devoted attach-

29

AKECDOTES OF DOGS.

ment to his master. A full-leng'tli picture of Sir Hairy, witL
the mastiff by his side, and the words, " More faithful than
favoured," is still preserved among" the family pictures.

Presentiments of approaching dang-er, such as those now re-
lated, are to he traced only to the animal's close observation and
watchful jealousy of disposition. Looks, sig-ns, and movements
are noticed by him which escape an ordinary observer. The
idea that dogs have presentiments of death, and howl on such
occasions, is a superstition now all but vanished.

ECCENTRICITIES IN DOGS.

Although attachment to a master is the general characteristic
of the dog, there are exceptions to this rule. The spotted car-
riage-dog seems regardless of man, and attaches himself exclu-
sively to horses ; he is happy only in the stable, or when running
beside or near the heels of the horses in his master's carriage.
Small domesticated dogs often show a regard for the cats which
have been their fireside companions. The clever author of Tutti
Frutti relates the following instance of this kind of attach-
ment : — " I have a poodle whom I would make tutor to my son,
if I had one. I sometimes use him towards my own education.
Will not the following trait of his character amuse you? He
conceived a strange fondness, an absolute passion, for a young
kitten, which he carried about in his mouth for hours when he
went out to walk ; and whenever he came to a resting-place, he
set her down with the greatest care and tenderness, and began to
play with her. When he was fed, she always took the nicest
pieces away from him, without his ever making the slightest
opposition. The kitten died, and was buried in the garden. My
poor poodle showed the deepest grief, would not touch food, and
howled mournfully the whole night long. What was my asto-
nishment when, the next morning, he appeared carrying the
kitten in his mouth ! He had scratched her out of the ground,
and it was only by force that we could take her fi'om him."

Instances of dogs forming no particular attachment, and seek-
ing amusement entirely on their own account, are more rare. A
French author has related an amusing instance of canine inde-
pendence. He states that, at the beginning of the Revolution, there
was a dog in Paris known by the name of Parade, because he
always attended regularly the military parades at the Tuileries.
A taste for music was probably the cause of this fancy. He always
stood by, and marched with the band ; and at night went to the
Opera, Comedie Italiene, or Theatre Feydau ; dined with any
musician who expressed, by a word or gesture, that his company
was asked ; yet always withdrew from attempts to be made the
property of any individual.

A few years ago, the public were amused with an account given
in the newspapers of a dog which possessed the strange fancy of

30

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

attending' all the fires that occurred in the metropolis. The dis-
covery of this predilection was made by a gentleman residing* a
few miles from town, who was called up in the middle of the
nig'ht by the intellig'ence that the premises adjoining his house
of business were on tire. " The removal of my books and papers,"
said he, in telling* the story, " of course claimed my attention ;.
yet, notwithstanding* this, and the bustle which prevailed, my
eye every now and then rested on a dog, whom, during* the
hottest progress of the conflagration, I could not help noticing
running about, and apparently taking a deep interest in what
was going on, contriving to keep himself out of everybody's way,
and yet always present amidst the thickest of the stir. When the
fire was got under, and I had leisure to look about me, I again
observed the dog, which, with the firemen, appeared to be resting
from the fatigues of duty, and was led to make some inquiries
respecting him. ' Is this your dog*, my friend V said I to a tire-
man. ' No, sir,' answered he ; 'it does not belong to me, or to
any one in particular. We call him the firemen's dog.' ' The
fii^emen's dog !' I replied. ' Why so ? Has he no master V ' No,
sir,' rejoined the fireman ; ' he calls none of us master, though we
are all of us willing enough to give him a night's lodging and a
pennyworth of meat. But he wont stay long* with any of us ;
ids delight is to be at all the fires in London ; and, far or near,.
we generally find him on the road as we are going along, and
sometimes, if it is out of town, we give him a lift. I don't think
there has been a fii'e for these two or three years past which he
has not been at.'

The communication was so extraordinary that I found it diffi-
cult to believe the story, until it was confirmed by the concurrent
testimony of several other firemen. None of them, however, were
able to give any account of the early habits of the dog, or to offer-
any explanation of the circumstances which led to this singular
propensity.

Some time afterwards, I was again called up in the night to a
fiLre in the village in which I resided (Camberwell, in Surrey), and
to my surprise here I again met with ' the firemen's dog*,' still
alive and well, pursuing*, with the same apparent interest and
satisfaction, the exhibition of that which seldom fails to bring
with it disaster and misfortune, oftentimes loss of life and ruin.
Still, he called no man master, disdained to receive bed or board
from the same hand more than a night or two at a time, nor could
the firemen trace out his resting-place."

Such was the account of this interesting animal as it appeared
in the newspapers, to which were shortly afterwards appended
several cii*cumstances communicated by a fireman at one of the
^ohce-offices. A magistrate having asked him whether it was a
fact that the dog was present at most of the fires that occurred in
the metropolis, the fireman replied that he never knew " Tyke,"
as he was called; to be absent from a fire upon any occasion that

31

ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

he [the fireman] attended himself. The mag-istrate said the do^
must have an extraordinary predilection for fires. He then asked
what length of time he had been known to possess that propensity.
The fireman replied that he knew Tyke for the last nine years ;
and although he was g'etting old, yet the moment the eng-ines
were about, Tyke was to be seen as active as ever, running off in
the direction of the fire. The magistrate inquired whether the
dog lived with any particular fireman. The fireman replied that
Tyke liked one fireman as well as another ; he had no particular
favourites, but passed his time amongst them, sometimes going
to the house of one, and then to another, and off to a third when
he was tired. Day or night, it was all the same to him ; if a
fire broke out, there he was in the midst of the bustle, running
from one engine to another, anxiously looking" after the firemen ;
and, although pressed upon by crowds, yet, from his dexterity,
he always escaped accidents, only now and then getting- a duck-
ing" from the engines, which he rather liked than otherwise.
The magistrate said that Tyke was a most extraordinary animal,
and having expressed a wish to see him, he was shortly after
exhibited at the office, and some other peculiarities respecting
him were related. There was nothing at all particular in the
appearance of the dog ; he was a rough-looking small animal, of
the terrier breed, and seemed to be in excellent condition, no
■doubt from the care taken of him by the firemen belonging to the
<lifferent companies. There was some difficulty experienced in
hringing- him to the office, as he did not much relish going any
distance from where the firemen are usually to be found, except
in cases of attending with them at a conflagration, and then dis-
tance was of no consequence. It was found necessary to use
stratagem for the purpose. A fireman commenced running :
Tyke, accustomed to follow upon such occasions, set out after
liim ; but, this person having slackened his pace on the way,
the sagacious animal, knowing there was no fire, turned back,
and it was necessary to carry him to the office.

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN
LA YENDEE.

^^<j-^v^v HE war in La Vendee is as interesting a strug-gle as
^^m\]^^ any which, occurs in history. Similar in many respects

^1^ to that of ' ^

I'-V the Scottish
Highlanders un-
der Montrose at
the time of our
own revolution, it
is precisely the kind
of struggle that will
interest all who have
any strong patriotic
feeling, any pity for
the crushed and in-
jured, any admiration
for courag'e and dar-
ing, any regard for
the nohle men whom
God has made unfor-
tunate.

In the year 1789-90,
the revolutionary spi-
rit had gone abroad
over all France, except
La Vendee, a district
in the western part of
No. 16.

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

the kingdom, adjoining' the Atlantic ocean on one side, and the
Loire on another. The interior of this district, which we have
sketched in the accompanying map, was called the BocagCj or
thicket, and the strip on the sea-coast was styled the Marais, or
marsh. The" Bocage, plenteously covered with hedgerows and
brushwood, formed a pretty rural scene, enriched with farm-
houses, villages, churches, and old-fashioned chateaux, or resi-
dences of landed gentry.

At the period to which we allude, the population of La Vendee
consisted in a great measure of small farmers, a prosperous and
contented race, living under a body of kind landlords. According
to all accounts, the relation between the landlord and his tenants
was all that philanthropists could now desire. Nowhere had
the aristocratic principle shone with so beneficent a lustre. The
proprietors, most of whom belonged to the ranks of the nobility,
were constantly meeting, chatting, and laughing with their
tenants, and, if need be, lending them their advice and assistance.
The landlord's family went to all the weddings, and on the occa-
sion of every festival, all the young people on the estate came to
dance in the courtyard of the chateau. Returning from the
gaieties of Paris, the gentry were careful to resume the primitive
Vendean habits. Pond of field-sports, they invited all classes to
join them; at the time and place appointed they all met with
their guns — farmers, peasants, and proprietors together — each
having his assigned place in the hunt. In this manner, by fre-
quent out-door amusements and occupations, the Vendeans were
physically a strong and hardy race.

With substantially nothing to complain of, attached to their
landlords, their religion, and the old forms of government, the
people of La Vendee viewed the revolutionary outbreak with dis-
trust, and shrunk from taking any part in the movement. They
therefore remained tranquil until 1791, when the Constituent
Assembly decreed that the clergy, like other public functionaries,
should take the civic oath. The penalty for refusing was the loss
of livings. Many thousands refused, and hence arose a distinc-
tion between the Constitutional and Nonconforming clergy. In
the place of those who were ejected from their livings, others
with a more convenient conscience were appointed. The clergy
of La Vende'e generally refused to take the oath; and, coun-
tenanced by the people, openly retained their parishes in spite of
the government ; an act of contumacy which could not long escape
punishment. On the 29th of November 1791, a decree was
accordingly passed peremptorily ordering all the priests who
had not yet taken the civic oath to do so within a week, under
pain of forfeiting the pensions they still held, of expulsion from
the district if necessary, and, in certain cases, of imprisonment.
The local authorities were stringently required to see this decree
put in force, and they were empowered to put down every insur-
rection with a strong hand. Intellectually to assist the opera-

2

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

tion of this decree, the refractory districts were to be flooded
with cheap reprints of popular philosophical works, and with
enhg-htened new publications — a project which proved of efficacy
in many places, but was of small avail in La Vendee.

During' the whole of 1792, La Vendee continued in a state of
violent ebullition ; the local authorities carrying" out the decree
with considerable rigour, and the peasants everywhere oiFering
resistance. When they were turned out, the nonconforming*
clergy hid themselves in the woods ; thither the people flocked
to hear them, the men carrying muskets in their hands ; and if
they were surprised by the military, a skirmish took place. It
was not till the spring of 1793, after the execution of the unfor-
tunate Louis XVL, that anything Hke a rising took place, and
then only in consequence of the new and stringent measures to
raise men for the army of the republic. The Convention, as the
governing body was now called, on the 24th of February decreed
a levy of 30,000 men throughout France. Every parish was to
supply an allotted number of conscripts. Sunday the 10th of
March had been fixed as the day of drawing in many parishes
of Anjou and Poitou ; and, in expectation of resistance, artillery
and gendarmes were in attendance. In the town of St Florent,
on the Loire, especial precautions had been adopted; cannons
stood ready loaded to fire at a moment's notice. Some disturb-
ance having broken out, a cannon was fired, and this was the
signal for insurrection. Eene Foret, a young man, heading a
body of peasants, rushed forward, and seizing the gun, quickly
dispersed the authorities, civil and military. The party after-
wards proceeded to the municipality, took whatever arms they
could find, collected all the papers, and made a bonfire of them
amid huzzas and shouts of laughter. Having remained together
for an hour or two in high spirits, they dispersed, each individual
taking his own direction homeward through the Bocage, and
reciting to every one he met the exploits of the day.

In the course of the evening, intelligence of this event was
communicated to Jacques Cathelineau, a hawker of woollen goods
in the small town of Pin. Jacques was a shrewd, pains-taking,
and neighbourly man ; a good converser, and a species of oracle
in the district. He was a middle-sized man, with a broad fore-
head, and in the prime of life, being thirty-five years of age.
As soon as Jacques heard of the insurrection, he resolved on
leaving wife and family, and putting himself at its head ; it was,
he said, the cause of God and religion, and it was plainly his
duty to sit no longer idle. Acting on this impulse, he instantly
set out, going from house to house scattering his burning- words,
and in a few hours he had twenty-seven followers, all vigorous
and earnest. The civil war in La Vendee had begun.

"With his small and trusty band Jacques proceeded onward to
the village of Poiteviniere, recruiting all the way, and rousing
the country by setting the church bells a-ringing*. With about a

3

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

hundred men, armed mostly with pitchforks and clubs, he made
a bold beginning' by attacking- the chateau of Tallais, g-arrisoned
by a hundred and fifty republican soldiers, or Blues, as they
were contemptuously termed, commanded by a j)hysician of the
name of Bousseau, and possessed of one cannon. The attack
was over in a moment. The cannon was fired; but the shot
passed over their heads, and Cathelineau and his men dashed on
to the hand-grapple. The Blues fled — Bousseau was taken pri-
soner. The peasants also got firearms, horses, and ammunition,
and they had now procured a cannon. Delighted with the
prize, they almost hugged it for joy, and with a mixture of
pious faith and shrewdness, they christened it The Missionary.
Losing no time at Tallais, they marched to Chemille, where
there was a garrison of two hundred Blues, with three cannons.
The insurgents took Chemille with even greater ease than they
had taken Tallais, and were rewarded with more cannons and
firearms. At the same time recruits were fast pouring in from
all directions.

Meanwhile there were similar commotions in other parts of the
Bocage. Foret, the hot-spirited young man who had begun the
affray at St Florent, had gone home, like the rest, that evening :
he lived at Chanzeaux. Next morning a party of gendarmes, led
by a guide, came to arrest him. Foret, who expected the visit,
saw them coming, fired, killed the guide, and then darting* off
through the hedges, ran to the church and set the bell a-ringing.
The peasants flocked out and g-athered round him. Another
rising took place at a short distance, on the estate of Maulevrier.
The proprietor was absent, and nobody representing him was on
the property except the garde chasse, or gamekeeper. This man's
name was Nicolas Stofflet. He was a large and powerful man,
of German descent, with stern, strongly -marked features, a
swarthy complexion, black hair and black eyes, and had a vehe-
ment determined way of speaking, with a German accent. He
was forty yeai's of age, had served sixteen of these in the army,
where his courage and strong sense had raised him above the
rank of a common soldier, and it was there that he had attracted
the notice of the proprietor of Maulevrier, on whose estate he
now held the situation of gamekeeper. Though noted for a
blunt, harsh, positive manner, he had an extraordinary degree of
native sagacity, great acquired knowledge of affairs, a frame
of iron, and the courage of a desperado. On the day that
the gendarmes went to arrest Foret, a detachment of national
guards came from ChoUet, a town in the neighbourhood, to the
chateau of Maulevrier, and carried off" twelve cannons, which
were kept as family relics. Burning with rage at this insult,
Stofflet vowed vengeance, and roused the peasantry to the num-
ber of tw^o hundred. This was on the 11th. On the 14th these
two bands, Stofflet's and Foret's, with others raised in a similar
manner, joined themselves to that of Cathelineau.

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

On the 16th these combined forces attacked Chollet. Beating"
the national guards, they gained possession of a considerable
quantity of arms, money, and ammunition. Scarcely was the
combat over, when Cathelineau, hearing that the national guards
of Saumur were at that moment on their way to Vihiers, sent a
part of his forces to attack them. At Vihiers the guards fled,
abandoning their arms, and among the rest a peculiar-looking
brass cannon. This cannon had been taken from the Chateau de
Richelieu, and was the identical one which Louis XIII. had
given to the great Cardinal Richelieu. The peasants imme-
diately conceived a great veneration for this precious relic. They
thought they could trace in the engraving with which it was
covered an image of the Virgin, and so they called it Marie
Jeanne.

It was now Saturday night, and to-morrov/ was Easter Sun-
day. Cathelineau's little army broke up, the peasants all wend-
ing their way through the bushy labyrinth to their several
homes, to prepare for the solemnities of the morrow. They were
to reassemble when these were over. Thoughts of the events of
the past week, and of the dangers of the enterprise to which they
had committed themselves, mingled, we may suppose, with their
prayers and pious ceremonies. Cathelineau, at least, had been
thinking busily ; for we shall find that, on the reassembling of
the little army, he came prepared with a scheme for their future
proceedings.

In a single week, it is observed, not a little had been effected
in the district, which embraced the south of Anjou and the north
of Poitou. But all through the south of Bretagne, and the lower
part of Poitou, including the district called the Marais, the
draughting of recruits had been attended with similar effects. At
Challais and Machecoul especially, there were vigorous demon-
strations. At the former town one Gaston, a barber, who had
killed a revolutionist officer, headed the rising. At Machecoul
the outbreak was headed by a private gentleman, a keen royalist,
who had been a lieutenant in the navy, had seen some of the
terrible doings at Paris, and was now living on a small estate.
His name was the Chevalier de Charette. Twice the peasants
about Machecoul came to him, begging him to come and be
their leader, and as often he refused. They came a third time,
threatening to kill him if he did not comply with their wishes.
" Oh," said Charette, " you force me, do you '? Well, then, I
shall be your leader ; but, remember, the first one who disobeys
me, I shall blow his brains out." Charette was as extraordinary
a man as any of the Vendee heroes, though different in character
from them all ; but his story is the narrative of a whole insur-
rection in itself, which continued later than that with which
alone we are at present concerned, and therefore we pass him by
with a slight notice. The army which he led was called that of
Bas-Poitou, to distinguish it from the Vendee army which

5

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

Cathelineau headed, and wliicli was called tlie army of Haut-
Poitou. The existence of these two armies, conducting' opera-
tions near each other at the same time, but totally independent
of each other, is to be borne in remembrance. While we are
following" the proceedings of the army of Haut-Poitou, it is to
be recollected, therefore, that another army was carrying ou
similar operations. Occasionally the two armies co-operated;
Charette, however, seems to have disliked acting in concert with
other commanders, and regulated his own movements.

To return to Cathelineau and Stofflet. After Easter, the pea-
sants reassembled in large numbers. One of Cathelineau's first
propositions, after the httle army collected, was to insist upon
the necessity of securing one or two royalist gentlemen to join
their enterprise and become its leaders. " It is for the nobles to
be our generals," said he. " We are as brave as they are ; but
they understand the art of war better than we do." The proposal
was received with enthusiasm ; and that day, by dint of in-
treaties and deputations, they dragged three of the most popular
royalist gentlemen of the neighbourhood out of the retirement of
their chateaux. These were M. de Bonchamp, M. D'Elbee, and
M. Dommaigne. Bonchamp was a man of about thirty-three
years of age, and of noble family : he had served in India, but
had resigned his commission on being required to take the Revo-
lution oath ; had emigrated, but after a little while retui^ned to
his estate in the Bocage. He was one of the ablest and best-
liked officers the Vendeans ever had; and his great military
experience made his services particularly valuable. D'Elbe'e had
served in the army too ; he was a little man of about forty years
of age, with good abiUties, and great personal courage ; exceed-
ingly devout, somewhat vain, consequential, and touchy. The
last of the three gentlemen mentioned, Dommaigne, had been a
captain of carbineers, and was also a valuable acquisition.
Having secured these three generals to share the command with
Cathelineau and Stofflet, the peasants were prepared for all that
might come against them.

At that time there was living at the chateau of Clisson, farther
south in Poitou than the scene of the occurrences we have been
describing, a royalist family, named Lescure. The Marquis de
Lescure, the head of the family, was a young man of twenty-
six years of age, who had lately inherited the property from
his father, and been married to Mademoiselle Donnissan, a
young lady who had been on terms of intimacy with the queen,
and other members of the royal family. Having fortunately
escaped from Paris when their lives were menaced by a re-
volutionary mob, they retreated to their castle of Clisson, where
their hospitality was extended to a number of distressed
royalists.

Among the personages who had taken up their residence at
Clisson, there was a young- man, a friend of M. de Lescure, by

6

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA YENDEE.

name Henri Duvergier, Count de La Rochejaquelein. This youn^
man, the son of a colonel, was himself a cavalry officer in the
king's guard. Though all his family had emigrated, Henri
would not, and, leaving Paris after the terrihle 10th of August
1792, he was heard to say, "' I am going to my native province,
and you will shortly hear something of me." After residing for
some time by himself in his chateau of La Durbelliere, situated
in one of the disturbed parishes, he had come to live with his
friend Lescure at Clisson. He was only twenty years of age,
but tall, and singularly handsome. With fair hair, a fine oval
face, more English than French, and a proud eagle look, never
did hussar sit on horseback with a nobler bearing than that ot
the generous, dashing, chivalrous Henri. His appearance, in-
deed, was exceedingly prepossessing, and his conversation only
increased the fascination of his manner. It was pleasant to
hear him speak ; his mode of expressing himself was so simple,
so intense, so quaint, so laconic. At present his fault was
in being too impulsive, too daring ; but this high-souled impa-
tience seemed to make him more an object of attraction. The
peasants adored him. And afterwards, when they saw him
dashing on at their head into the thick of the enemy, the first
man in a charge, or defending a bridge, making his horse wheel
and his sabre flash amid whistling' bullets, or the last man in a
retreat, they could have stood still and looked on for sheer
admiration. Such was Henri La Rochejaquelein.

During the early part of the insurrection, none of the inmates
of Clisson had thought it necessary to interfere ; but now it was
evident that the time had arrived when they should take part
either with the peasants or with the authorities. It was decided
that when it became necessary to act, they would all join the
insurrection. The day was approaching when the militia were to be
drawn for in the parish in which Clisson was situated, and young
La Rochejaquelein had to submit to be drawn for with the rest.
The evening before the drawing, a young peasant came to the
chateau charged with a message to Henri from his aunt Made-
moiselle de La Rochejaquelein, who resided a little way oif, near
the scene of Charette's operations. This young man told Henri
that the peasants in the quarter from which he had come were
going to rise to-morrow, and that they were all exceedingly
anxious to have him for their leader. Henri, whose mind was
already made up, and who, in fact, was only waiting for a good
opportunity, declared his readiness to go that instant. Lescure
was for accompanying him, but Henri urged the folly of com-
mitting a whole family, till it should be ascertained whether the
enterprise were feasible. It was then urged by Madame Don-
nissan that Henri's departure might draw down the vengeance
of the authorities on the inmates of the chateau ; and this almost
had the effect of shaking the young man's resolution ; but at last,
putting on that energetic look which never afterwards left him,

7

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

Jie exclaimed, " If they do arrest you, I shall come and deliver
you."

This intrepid young man accordingly set out to join the in-
surgents ; and shortly after his departure, the other inmates of
the castle, including Lescure and his wife, were taken into cus-
tody, and conducted to Bressuire, where we shall leave them in
confinement, till we return to the general course of the war.

PROGRESS OF THE WAR.

For several weeks after Easter, the insurrection spread like
wildfire over the whole of Anjou and Haut-Poitou, and, gene-
rally speaking, the authorities of the district, with all the military
they could command, were completely worsted. The Convention,
roused by the intelligence that all La Vendee was in a blaze,
took strong and decisive measures. On the 2d of April a decree
was j)assed appointing a military commission, with authority to
try and execute, within twenty-four hours, all peasants taken
with arms in their hands, as well as all who should be denounced
as suspicious persons. Two representatives or delegates of the
Convention were to see these measures put in force. Berruyer,
a fresh general, was sent down to supersede Marce. A large
army of reserve, levied for the defence of Paris, and composed
principally of Parisian sans cullottes, were marched into the
Bocage, with two more representatives in their train. After a
little skirmishing, Berruyer and his army made their way into
the heart of the Bocage, whither also Cathelineau, Stofflet,
Bonchamp, and D'Elbee, were on their march at the head of a
large straggling mass of peasants. The two came in sight of
each other on the 11th of April at Chemille, and there halted.
On the morrow the peasants were to fight their first pitched
battle, and, accordingly, great were the bustle and preparation.
Among the Vendeans there was an old artilleryman of the name
of Bruno, and to this man Cathelineau had intrusted the
pointing of the cannons. All the day before the battle, Bruno
was going about more excited than usual, and bragging that he
would be a rich man yet ; and this being somewhat suspicious,
he was watched, and detected in the night-time pulling out the
charges of the cannons, and reloading them with earth and sand
instead of iron. Bruno was instantly shot, and his body thrown
into a river — the first and last Vende'an, the peasants boast, that
ever was a traitor. Next day, when the fight began, the revo-
lutionary soldiers were somewhat disconcerted when the cannons
of the enemy fired iron instead of sand. Part of the army, how-
ever, headed by Berruyer, fought heroically till the evening. The
cartridges of the peasants were now beginning to fail, and their
spirits were flagging, when, two bodies of the enemy committing
the mistake of falling foul of each other in the darkness, a con-
fusion arose, which D'Elbee and his men taking advantage of, a
complete havoc and dispersion was the result. Berruyer was

8

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

compelled to retreat, pursued by the Vendeans. Thus, though
not without great loss, the peasants had gained their first pitched
battle ; and often in their subsequent reverses did they encourage
themselves by recollecting " the grand shock of Chemille."
Berruyer -wYote to the Committee of Public Safety, announcing
his defeat. It was no insignificant affair, he told them, this
Vendee insurrection. The peasants, he said, were brave, and
fought with the enthusiasm of fanatics who believed death in
the field to be a passport to heaven. He complained, too, of the
miserably ill-provided state of his army, and of the cowardice of
the new recruits, who, he said, would not stand fii'e. This
report was of course kept secret from the public ; the success of
the Revolution, like that of every other enterprise, depending
greatly on its being thought to be succeeding. But Berruyer
was not a man to be easily beaten. He continued in the Bocage,
his columns advancing and coming into frequent collision with
the Vendeans; now routed, now victorious; avoiding" another
general engagement in the meantime, but gradually creeping
round the insurgent army, and encircling it with a chain of
posts.

It was at this point in the progress of the war that Henri La
Rochejaquelein arrived among the insurgents, having been
necessarily detained a few days at St Aubin's, the residence of
his aunt, by the way. He was received with gloomy despair.
Bonchamp and Cathelineau told him that it would not be pos-
sible to continue under arms, for all the posts were in the hands
of the enemy ; the stock of ammunition was exhausted ; and, to
crown the evil, the peasants, unaccustomed to be long absent
from home, were bent upon disbanding. Buin, they told their
young- and sanguine visitor, was inevitable. Henri did not stay
to hear more, but went back to his aunt's at St Aubin. Here,
again, bad news awaited him. The Blues were at the door;
they had pressed forward from Bressuire, and taken Aubieres.
The peasants all round were inconceivably excited; they had
hoisted the white flag on all their churches ; they wished to
fight the Blues, but they had no leader. Hearing that young
La Rochejaquelein was at his aunt's, they came to lum in
crowds, beseeching him to put himself at their head. They
wanted to fight, they said; and in a day's time there would
be more than ten thousand of them. Henri assented : away
they ran to spread the news. All night the diurch-bells were
tolling ; the fields were indistinctly swarming in the dusk with
men making their way in twos and threes from their farm-
houses through the wickets in the hedges ; and a constant stream
was creeping in the darkness through the labyrinth of paths,
speaking determinedly to each other with suppressed voices.
Early in the morning they had assembled almost to the
promised number. Some had sticks, many had pitchforks,
others had spits; their firearms amounted altogether to only

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIlvr AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

two hundred fowling'-pieces. Henri liad managed to procure
about sixty pounds of quarriers' gunpowder. When the young-
leader appeared to inspect his troops, they stopped eating the
pieces of brown bread they held in their hands, and gathered
eagerly round him. " My friends," said he, " if my father were
here, you would have confidence in him. For me, I am but a
boy ; but I shall prove by my courage that I am worthy to lead
you. If I advance, follow me ; if I flinch, kiU me ; if I die^
avenge me ! " " There spoke a hero," said Napoleon afterwards,
quoting the speech, as being exactly the thing for the Ven-
deans. The cheering was loud and long ; and when, not hav-
ing breakfasted, he took a hunch of their brown bread, and ate
it along with them, while somebody had gone away for a white
loaf, oh! they could have hugged him to their very hearts
for fondness. God bless him, their fair-haired, heroic young
leader !

They went to Aubieres first; the peasants, notwithstanding
their zeal, being not a little frightened, not knowing exactly
what a battle was like, nor how they should behave in it. With
very little trouble they expelled the Blues out of the village,
chasing them almost to Bressuire. But anxious as he was to
release Lescure, La Bochejaquelein thought it better to go and
extricate Cathelineau and his army out of their difficulties ; so
he marched to TifFauges with the cannon and ammunition he
had taken ; and by the help of this reinforcement, the Vendean
army was soon able to redeem its losses, retake Chollet and
Chemille, and beat the enemy out of all their strong positions.

The army advanced upon Bressuire ; and the rumour that the
brigands, as the Vendeans were named, were coming, drove the
Blues out of that town, retreating to Thouars. Lescure with
his wife and friends were now released, and having reached their
chateau, they were planning means for joining the insurgents,
when Henri La Rochejaquelein galloped into the courtyard.
He explained to them the state of affairs, and the prospects of
the insurrection. The grand army of Haut-Poitou, commanded
by Cathelineau, Bonchamp, Stofflet, &c. consisted, he said, of
20,000 men ; and on any emergency they had but to sound the
tocsin, and it would swell to 40,000. In addition to these, there
was a body of 12,000 natives of Bretagne, who had crossed the
Loire and joined the grand army. Then in the Marais, on the
sea-coast, Charette had an army of 20,000, and was doing won-
ders. Besides all these, there were numerous bands fighting
here and there under other leaders. An account so promising
put them all in high spirits ; and it was agreed that Lescure
should accompany his friend to Bressuire next day to join the
amiy ; that the Marquis de Donnissan, Madame Lescure's father,
should follow them as soon as possible ; and that Madame Les-
cure, Madame Donnissan, and the rest, should be conveyed to
the Chateau de la Boulaye, which would be the safest residence.

10

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

On joining' the insurgents, Lescure, as a matter of course, became
one of their generals. Donnissan, not being" a Yendean by birth,
would assume no direct command ; but all through the war he
exerted a species of governing influence.

MILITARY ORGANISATION — THE WAR AT ITS HEIGHT.

The organisation of the Vendean armies was peculiar. A staff
always remained in arms; but the great mass of the army
fluctuated, assembling and disbanding with the occasion. When
anything was to be done, the windmill-sails were seen going on
the hills, the horns were heard blowing' in the woods, and persons
on the watch set the church-bells a-toUing. The people, flocking'
to the church, were summoned, in the name of God and the
king, to assemble at a particular hour and place. The men set
out immediately, taking provisions with them ; the gentry and
rich people of the parishes supplying grain and cattle. All
along the road, too, women used to be waiting, telling their
beads on their knees, offering provisions to the men as they passed
on to the rendezvous. The expeditions never lasted more than
four or five days. After either a victory or a defeat, the army
melted away like a mass in a state of dissolution, and no intreaty
could prevail on the peasants to remain together, either to follow
Tip the one or to retrieve the other ; so much did they long, after
a day or two's absence, to revisit their farms and their homes.
Obedient enough in the field of battle, the peasants did not con-
sider themselves deprived of the right of judging what ought to
be done on any given occasion ; and if theu" generals did any-
thing they thought wrong or unfair, they very freely said so.
At first there was no commander-in-chief, but each of the gene-
rals commanded the peasants of his own neig'hbourhood — Cathe-
lineau those of Pin, StoflEet those of Maulevrier, &c. ; and the
generals together formed a council of war. . Of the inferior
officers, some were gentlemen, and some were peasants ; the bravest
and best-informed men becoming officers in the mere jostle with
each other. As relations and neig'hbours served in the same
body, it was noted that they were very attentive to each other,
and that if one were wounded, he was carefully conveyed out of
the field by his comrades. There were physicians in the army,
who took charge of the wounded ; and there was a kind of
central hospital at St Laurent. For dress, the men had com-
mon blue over-coats, wdth woollen bonnets or broad-rimmed
hats adorned with knots of white ribbons.

In one of their early battles. La Rochejaquelein was seen fighting
with a red handkerchief tied brigand-fashion round his head, and
another round his waist, holding his pistols. " Aim at the red
handkerchief," cried the Blues. The officers and men insisted on
his giving up what made him so conspicuous a mark for bullets ;
but he would not; and so after that the red handkercliiefs
became common in the army. The officers did not use the ordi-

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

naiy military phraseology. Instead of saying", " To the right,"
" To the left," and such-like, they told their men to go up to that
white house, or to go round about that large tree, &c. The favourite
manoeuvre of the Vendeans was " going to the shock," as they
called it; that is, seizing" the enemy's artillery. The strongest
and most active among them went straight up to the battery ;
the moment they saw the flash they fell flat on their faces, let-
ting the iron-shower whiz overhead ; then, springing up, they
rushed forward, leaped on the cannons, and grappled with the
artillerymen. Frequently, also, they used to lie in wait for a
band of republicans they knew to be approaching. In that case,
the order given by the commander when he was aware the
enemy were near, v^as Eparpillez vous, mes gars — " Scatter your-
selves, boys." Instantly the whole mass would disperse hither
and thither, parties of six and seven creeping stealthily along,
concealing themselves behind hedges and bushes, one hand rest-
ing on the ground, the other holding the fatal gun. All is still
as death, the trees and bushes waving treacherously in the wind.
The doomed troop comes marching on, preceded by scouts, feel-
ing as if some unknown danger were near. As soon as they are
fairly jammed up in the path, as in a huge gutter, a cry is heard
not far off", like that of an owl. Suddenly, from behind every
tuft, every bush, there issues a flash ; scores of men fall among*
their comrades' feet, blocking up the path, and throwing the
whole troop into confusion. Enraged and infuriated, they try to
scale the banks on both sides of the path to come at their unseen
assailants, who by this time, however, are behind another row of
hedges recharging their g-uns.

Let us now pursue the route of the grand army, which we left
at Bressuire. From that town they marched straight to Thouars,
to which, it will be remembered, the Blues had retreated after
evacuating Bressuire. On the 7th of May they attacked this
town. First, there was a distant cannonading, then a hard
fight crossing a bridge, then a battering down of old rotten
walls ; and at last Quetineau, the brave republican general who
commanded, was obliged to surrender. The inhabitants of
Thouars were in a great panic, especially the public functionaries ;
but all the mischief the royalists did after the sm^render of the
town, was to burn the Tree of Liberty, and, as was their usual
practice, all the papers of the administration. At Thouars the
army gained several important accessions, some of them young
and noble emigrants, who embraced this opportunity of fighting
in behalf of royalty ; others were deserters from the republicans.
There came in one singular personage, a tall man of imposing
mien, whom some of the royalist oflicers recognised as the Abbe
Guyot de Folleville, a priest who had originally taken the civic
oath, but had afterwards recanted, left Paris, and settled in
Poitou, where he soon acquired a great reputation for sanctity.
Ill an interview which he had with the generals, this man styled

12

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

himself bishop of Agra, telling' them a strang-e stoiy of his being
one of four ajDostolic vicars appointed by the Pope for the whole
of France, and of his having* been secretly consecrated by a
conclave of the nonjuring' bishops held at St Germain. The
story was feasible enoug-h, and no one discredited it. Nothing*
could exceed the joy of the devout peasants on being- told
that their cause was now blessed by the presence and coun-
tenance of no less a man than the holy Abbe Folleville; bishop
of Agra.

After staying" about a week at Thouars, the royalists, greatly re-
duced in numbers, set out for Fontenay, passing* through Par-
thenay and Chataigneraie. Reaching Fontenay on the 16th of
May, they made a brisk attack ; but were eventually, ovv'ing to the
smallness of their force, repulsed with the loss of almost all their
artillery, Marie Jeanne included. This defeat, the priests im-
pressed upon them, was nothing else than a divine judgment for
certain excesses committed at Chataig'neraie, on their march to
Fontenay. Giving the army already assembled a day or tAvo's
rest, Cathelineau left it at Fontenay, scouring the Bocage in
person, everywhere showing his broad calm forehead, rousing*
the downcast peasants. In nine days he was back with fresh
forces ; and, urged on by an enthusiasm half-martial half-re-
ligious, the royalists again attacked Fontenay without cannon,
without ammunition, without everything* by the help of which
towns are usually taken, confiding* in the bishop of Agra's bless-
ing* and their own desperate hand -grapple. Fontenay was
taken ; and, what delighted the peasants more, Marie Jeanne,
the best beloved of their cannons, was their own again, torn by
the valour of young Foret from the hands of the retreating
enemy as they were drag-ging it away to Niort. The prisoners
taken at Fontenay had their heads shaven, in order that they
might be known ag*ain, and were then dismissed ; and this plan
of treating the prisoners became general.

While resting* at Fontenay after the battle, and deliberating
what should be their next route, the generals were struck with the
necessity, now that they were actually wresting* the Bocage out of
the hands of the Revolution, of establishing some kind of govern-
ment, to reside permanently in a central locality, administer the
aifairs of the whole district, and also provide supplies for the
army ; while the g-enerals, relieved in this way of all civil care,
should be marching* from place to place, storming towns, and
fighting the enemy. Accordingly, a body of eighteen or nine-
teen persons was appointed to sit at Chatillon, and administer
affairs under the title of the Superior Council. Of this council
the bishop of Ag-ra was president 5 there were many advocates
among the members : but the master-intellect in it, and the man
who, by the force of his overbearing energy, carried everything*
his own way, was an ecclesiastic, the Abbe Bernier, a bold,
griping, ambitious, essentially bad and selfish man, v.dth a deep

13

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

scheming- brain, a commanding person, a ready eloquent pen, and
a line sounding voice.

In these arrangements the generals spent some time, the
peasants as usual dispersing themselves through the Bocage.
Meanwhile the Convention, roused to the absolute necessity of
doing something decisive, and dissatisfied with the bad manage-
ment of Berruyer, sent down, to supersede him in the command,
Biron, a brave unfortunate man, who dishonourably served a
Revolution he disagreed with, and died on the scaffold declaring
himself a royalist. Biron's subordinates were Santerre the
brewer, and Westermann, whose abilities and inhumanity did so
much for the Revolution which guillotined him. Fresh troops
were also sent into La Vende'e. They were already occupying
strong positions in the north of Poitou. The most important of
these was Saumur, a considerable town on the Loire. The
royalists therefore determined to march north again and attack
this town. After some fighting by the way, they arrived at
Saumur on the 9th of June, spent the night in pious exercises,
and next morning commenced the attack in thi'ee parties.
Lescure, fighting at the head of one, was wounded, his men
fled, and the route of that division would have been complete
but for a lucky accident. Two wagons had been overturned
on a bridge, and this checked the pursuit, and gave the
fugitives time to rally. At the head of another division La
Rochejaquelein and Cathelineau attacked a body of republicans
encamped outside the town. The ditch was crossed, and Henri,
flinging his hat with its feather inside the fortifications, cried
out, " Wlio will go and fetch it ? " and then sprang in himself,
followed by Cathelineau and a number more. Evening put an
end to the conflict, which it was resolved to renew in the morn-
ing ; but so great had been the loss sustained by the Blues, that
they evacuated the town in the night-time, leaving the besiegers
a great many prisoners, plenty of ammunition, eighty cannons,
and some thousand muskets. Remaining a day or two at
Saumur, the insurgents were joined by several individuals already
distinguished, or who afterwards became so ; among others, by
the Prince de Talmont, a young and noble emigrant, who
had hitherto been leading a dissolute life in England, but had
now resolved to give himself up to great actions. Here also
the generals came to the important resolution of appointing
some one of their number commander-in-chief. But which
of them all should it be? — the simple, peasant-like. God-fear-
ing Cathelineau, with his broad forehead, large heart, and fiery
utterance; the swarthy, iron-visaged Stofflet; the gentle, un-
assuming Bonchamp, with his powerful inventive faculty, and
great military experience; the somewhat consequential and
pedantic, but really devout and well-meaning D'Elbee; the
grave, silent, thinking Lescure, so recollective and so resolute; oi»
the odd-opinioned, outspoken, chivalrous, high-souled young

14

LA BOCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

Ileni'i ? Lescure, whose character it befitted to make the pro-
posal, named Cathelineau, and Cathelineau was unanimously
appointed g-eneral-in-chief of the royalist army of Louis XVII.

Alas ! the noble peasant-commander had not long to live. The
republicans, after the loss of Saumui', had vacated all the sur-
rounding district, and concentrated their strength in Nantes, a
larg'e town also situated on the Loire, but some fifty or sixty
miles west of Saumur, and not far from the sea-coast. The
royahst generals deliberated what should be their next step ;
there was a keen debate, Stofflet almost quarrelling with Bon-
champ for proposing a plan which required delay ; but at last,
most of the g-enerals siding with Stofflet, it was resolved to be-
siege Nantes. This town being in the province of the Bretons,
they hoped, by taking it, to draw into the insurrection the whole
of that hardy population. Accordingly, leaving Lescure wounded
at La Boulaye, and La Rochejaquelein, much against his will, in
Saumur with a garrison, the royalist army set out for Nantes
along the northern bank of the Loire, sweeping its route clear of
the few stragghng republicans that were left, and picking up
recruits as it went on. Still, as this line of march did not lie
through the Bocage, and as the peasants had a strong repug-
nance to fighting far away from home, Cathelineau reached
Nantes with a force much smaller than usual. To make up for
this, however, Charette, who had been carrying on an indepen-
dent set of military operations in the district bordering on the sea,
was prevailed upon by the representations of Lescure to join his
forces with those of Cathelineau, and co-operate with him at least
in the present siege. The idea of trying to bring about a per-
manent coalition between the royalist army of Haut-Poitou under
Cathelineau, and that of Bas-Poitou under Charette — a coahtion
which Napoleon emphatically declares might have crushed the
Republic — originated either with Bonchamp or with La Roche-
jaquelein. The siege of Nantes, however, was almost the only
case in which the two armies really co-operated. On the even-
ing of the 28th of June, the republican sentinels of Nantes saw
far off in the horizon the bivouac-fires of the approacliing' royalist
army, and heard their horns blowing hke the lowing of bulls.
The commanders, Beysser and Canclaux, prepared for the attack
of the morning. The fight was long and bloody : the royahsts
had penetrated the suburbs ; the Blues were giving way ; they
were flying ; when, miluckily, the Prince de Talmont tm^ned two
cannons upon a path of exit from the town, into which the fugi-
tives were crowding, and which Cathelineau had purposely left
open. Beysser saw this mistake, rallied his troops, who now
began to fight with the courage of despair. Cathelineau, who
had already had two horses killed under him, gathered a few
faithful men of his native village round him for a last decisive
effort : making all of them the sign of the cross after their leader,
they dashed themselves impetuously against this single obstacle

15

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

between them and a great victory. The shock was irresistible.
Cathelineau was fig-hting- in the crowded street. At this moment
a gun was seen pointed from a window. It was fired. Cathe-
lineau fell, wounded in the breast. It ran from rank to rank —
" Cathelineau is wounded — is dead ! " The royalists lost all
courage ; Beysser rallied, and drove them out of the town ; their
retreat being made less disastrous, however, by the exertions of
Charette. The attack on Nantes had ended fatally for the royal-
ists. They had lost a great number of men, and some of their
best officers ; but all their other losses were felt as nothing com-
pared with that blow which, in the first moment of their grief,
seemed to reduce them to utter helplessness, and to make their
cause hardly worth defending any more. The good Cathelineau
was mortally wounded, and had not long to live. The army
broke up dispirited, crossing the Loire in parties, and carrying
the sad news, like a desolation, to all the firesides in the wood-
lands of La Vendee.

La Rochejaquelein had a perplexing duty to perfonn at
Saumur. Cruelly deserted by his followers, he found it neces-
sary to abandon the place, and proceed to Chatillon, where a
consultation on the general state of affairs was necessary. The
republican army under Westermann was burning and slaying
in the Bocage — the castle of Clisson, among' other places, being
destroyed ; and to arrest this inroad was the first object of the
Vendean chiefs. On the 8th of July an engagement between
the two parties took place. Westermann's army was almost
annihilated, and, exasperated by his cruelties, the royalists in-
flicted a terrible retaliation on their prisoners. Westermann
himself escaped with difficulty. Shortly afterwards he appeared
at the bar of the Convention to answer a charge of treachery,
founded on the fact of his defeat ; and it was only by a piece
of singular good fortune that the honest but iron-hearted
soldier was reinstated in his command. An attempt was made
by Biron to retrieve Westermann's defeat, by sending a strong
force under Santerre to make a similar inroad into another
part of the Bocage. An engagement ensued at Vihiers, which
effectually cleared the interior of the Bocage of republican
troops, and the latter end of the month of July was spent by
the wearied Vendeans in the comparative tranquillity of their
usual occupations.

Unfortunately, all the successes of the Vende'ans ended in
nothing. The war had lasted a considerable time ; there had
been much fighting ; several decided victories had been gained
over the armies of the republic ; the insurrection had forced itself
upon the attention of the powers directing the Revolution, till
it became a great subject of interest in Paris; but all this without
any sign of its being a whit nearer its immediate object — namely,
the shutting out of the Revolution from La Vendee ; much less
of its being nearer the great object which had grown out of the

16

lA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

Other, and come to occupy the foreground of the whole move-
ment— the extinction of the republic, and the restoration ot
royalty in France. This was felt by the Vendean leaders, and
they henceforward resolved on a more specific aim : but they
possessed little power to carry their schemes into execution ; and
the division into two armies, one under Cathelineau, and another
under Charette, was a fatal error. It was afterwards remarked by
Bonaparte, that if these two armies had united, and gone straight
to Paris, a counter-revolution would in all likelihood have been
the result. One of the plans of the Vendeans was to combine
their scattered forces, and they began by appointing" D'Elbee as
commander-in-chief, in room of the unfortunate Cathelineau, who
had died of his wounds. Another plan was, to open up a com-
munication with foreign powers, especially England ; procure,
if possible, the landing of an English army on the west coast,
join forces with it, and, thus strengthened, give battle to the
armies of the republic.

While the council was deliberating* on these determinate modes
of action, g-overnment became still more alarmed at the progress
of the insurrection. It had now lasted five months, and the Con-
vention perceived that if it lasted much longer, it would attract
the eyes of Europe, and become a royalist vortex in the heart of
the Revolution. The finishing of the war in La Vendee, there-
fore, seemed no longer like the mere healing of a local eruption ;
it became equivalent to cutting out a cancer. " It is with La
Vendee," says Barrere, in his report of the 2d of August, " that
the aristocrats, the federalists, the department men, and the sec-
tion men, hold correspondence. It is with La Vendee that the
culpable designs of Marseilles are connected, the disgraceful
venality of Toulon, the movements of Ardeche, the troubles of
Lozere, the conspiracies of Eure and Calvados, the hopes of Sarthe
and Mayenne, the bad spirit of Angers, and the sluggish agita-
tions of ancient Bretagne. Destroy La Vendee, and Valenciennes
and Conde will no longer be in the hands of the Austrian. De-
stroy La Vendee, and the English will no longer occupy Dunkirk.
Destroy La Vende'e, and the Rhine will be freed of the Prussians.
Destroy La Vendee, and Spain will see itself torn to pieces, con-
quered by the forces of the south, joined to the victorious soldiery
of Mortagne and Chollet. Destroy La Vendee, and Lyons will
resist no more, Toulon will rise against the Spaniards and the
English, and the spirit of Marseilles will rise to the level of the
Republican Revolution. In fine, every blow which you aim at
La Vendee will resound through the rebel towns, the federalist
departments, and the invaded frontiers."

These sonorous and sanguinary sayings were followed up by
decided actions. The ill-starred Biron had been already recalled,
and Beysser appointed to succeed him. Combustibles of all
kinds were ordered to be sent into La Vendee for burning the
plantations, the underwood, and the broom. The forests were to

17

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

be levelled, the crops cut down, the cattle seized, and the goods
of the insurgents confiscated wholesale.

While the Convention was meditating this project of devasta-
tion, the royalist generals were looking eagerly in the direction
of England, the refuge of so many royalists. What are they
thinking of us and our struggle in England ? was the feehng.
Alas ! England hardly knew what was going on in La Vendee.
One day early in August there came to Chatillon a strange little
man, with an exceedin^'ly sharp penetrating look, seeEng an
interview with the Vendean generals. This was an envoy from
England, carrying despatches from Pitt and Dundas as wadding
in his pistols. His name was Tinteniac : he was a Breton emi-
gTant, one of those men of whom so many extraordinary stories
are told, who, by the joint force of a wild courage and an
€xhaustless ingenuity, contrived, during the heat of the war,
to pass and repass through miles of hostile territory, carrying
despatches which, if discovered, would have conducted them
to the nearest gallows. Tinteniac produced his credentials. Can
we wonder that a pang of anger was felt when, on opening
them, it was found that they were addressed not to D'Elbee,
Lescure, La Rochejaquelein, Stofflet, or any other general in
the insurrection, but to a dead man; no other, in fact, than
the barber Gaston who had headed a local outbreak in the
Marais in the month of March, and been killed a day or two
after. Oh ! it was heart-sickening. Here had they been re-
sisting the Revolution for five months, and yet the statesman
whose eyes were supposed to be ranging over Europe, was not
so much as aware of the names that were daily bandied about by
the French journals. No wonder that they now distrusted Eng-
land. Nevertheless, an answer to the questions contained in the
despatches was written out, pressing for the landing of an Eng-
lish army on the coast of Bretagne, insisting particularly on the
necessity of having a Bourbon prince at the head of it, promising
20,000 recruits from La Vendee alone, and assuring England
that the landing of the army would rouse all Bretagne. With
this answer Tinteniac departed.

The activity of the republican generals, stimulated by the
recent orders of the Convention, did not allow the Vendee leaders
to desist long from military operations. A battle became neces-
sary whenever the Blues penetrated the Bocage; and this, a
strong force under Tuncq, one of Beysser's officers, was now
doing. To repel this inroad, Charette, on the 12th of August,
joined his forces to those of D'Elbee. A desperate battle took
place at Lugon, in which the Vendeans suffered a terrible defeat :
and this was but the beginning of disasters. All the servants of
the Republic were thinking about nothing else than the best way
of carrying out the exterminating edict of the Convention.
Santerre himself, who, though nominally exerting himself in a
military capacity, was, in reality, in safe lodgings at Saumur,

18 '

LA. ROCHEJAQUELEIIS^ AXD THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

came forward with a scheme pecuHarly his own. He was for
putting' an end to the insurrection by carbonic acid g-as. He
recommended that the chemists should prepare some of their
strong-est g-as-emitting- substances; these were to be bottled up
in tight leathern vessels, which were to be fired like shells into
the doomed district, so that, falling' on the ground, they might
burst, and emit the subtle fluid to impregnate the atmosphere,
asphjrsiate every living thing, and strew the fields with corpses.
Possibly Santerre, though familiar with the effects of carbonic
acid g-as at the bottom of vats, had no distinct notion of che-
mical possibilities ; at any rate his plan was not adopted, and
the Republic fell back upon the ordinary instrumentahty of fire
and massacre.

The devoted Socage was now surrounded by a formidable
ring of republican forces, amounting in all to about 200,000
men, many of them raw recruits, but many of them also veteran
soldiers ; and the purpose was, to draw closer and closer round
the whole insurgent population, until they should be collected
like sheep within a pen, and then deliberately butchered. To
frustrate this design. La Vendee was divided into four districts,
presided over severally by Charette, Bonchamp, Lescure, and
La Rochejaquelein, each of whom employed himself in repelling
the inroads of the enemy on his own frontier. Not a few bloody
engagements took place in this way ; and when the royalists were
victorious, as was usually the case when they fought in the
labyrinths of their own Bocage, they did not, as formerly, spare
their prisoners, but killed them without mercy. All that had
gone before seemed but a prelude to what was now going on.
Everybody believed that the time had now come pointed out in
the memorable prophecy of that holy man Grignon de Montfort,
founder of the blessed societies of the Missionaries of St Laurent
and the Daughters of Wisdom, who, more than fifty years ago,
had, with his own hands, planted a stone cross in the earth,
uttering these words — " My brothers, God, to punish misdoers,
shall one day stir up a terrible war in these quarters. Blood
shall be spilt ; men shall kill one another ; and the whole land
shall be troubled. When you see my cross covered with moss,
you may know that these things are about to happen." And,
sure enough, was it not covered with moss now ? Ah ! the words
of that holy and devout man have not come to nought.

The Vendeans, hemmed in on all sides, performed prodigies of
valour. Santerre and Ronsin at one point, Duhoux at another,
Mieskowski at another, Canclaux and Dubayet at another, and
lastly, Kleber himself — the Herculean and magnanimous Kleber,
one of the ablest servants the Revolution ever had — Kleber at
Torfou, with the brave Mayen9ais — all were defeated and beaten
back. The end of September was spent by the peasants in re-
joicing and thanksgiving'. Still the antagonists were unequally
matched, and the struggle could not last long. Charette, also,

19

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

wliose assistance had helped the insurgents in their successes,
now left them to pursue some plan of his own on the coast, having"
quarrelled with the g-enerals.

The Convention at Paris now recalled General Beysser for
being" unsuccessful in the war, and with him Canclaux and
Dubayet. These two officers were exceedingly popular with the
army ; and their recall so offended the Mayen9ais, that they
offered, for 400,000 livres paid down, and a guaranteed pay of
seven sous a-day per head, to desert the Republic and join the
royalists. The Superior Council, contrary to Abbe Bernier's
wishes, rejected this offer; the scrupulous honesty of the Vendeans
conceiving it to be a sacrilege to employ, for however good an
end, the dishonesty of others. Hearing of the insubordination
of the Mayen^ais, the Convention, on the 9th of October, issued
an order for concentrating all the troops then serving in the
west, in Normandy and Bretagne, as well as Anjou and Poitou,
into one large army, to be styled the Army of the West, and
commanded, "not by ci-devant nobles like Canclaux and Dubayet,
but by Lechelle, a man of the people."

Lechelle was not more capable than others; but he had able
subordinates, the best of w^hom were Kleber and Westermann;
and, besides, Canclaux generously left him a plan of procedure.
Acting on this plan, he caused two bodies of troops to march
into the centre of the Bocage simultaneously by different routes.
Advertised of the approach of one of these on the frontier
committed to his care, Lescure, then at La Trenblaye, went out
to meet it. Mounting a rising ground, he discovered the Blues
almost at his feet. " Forward ! " he cried ; but at that moment
a ball struck him on the right eyebrow, coming out behind
his ear, and gashing his head. It was his death-wound. While
he was in the act of being carried off the field, his men rushed
madly forward, and repulsed the enemy. But a more terrible
encounter was at hand. The various bodies of republicans were
now concentrated at Chollet, each having left behind it a track
of desolation, as if it had scathed the earth where it marched.
During the day, the air was filled with the smoke of burning
villages ; at night, fires blazed up along" the horizon ; the un-
tended cattle were heard lowing wildly on the hills ; and the
croaking of the carrion birds, and the howling of the wolves,
feasting on the corpses scattered about, made the scene more
horrible. The royalists gathered their dispersed forces, resolved
to stake the issue upon one decisive battle ; taking the precaution,
however, of following Bonchamp's advice so far as to send the
Prince de Talmont, v/ith a small body of men, to keep open an
avenue from Chollet into Bretagne, so that, in case of defeat,
their shattered army might still have the means of reaching an
asylum — a precaution, alas ! which the event proved to have been
but too necessary.

Long and desperate was the engagement between Kleber's

20

w-

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN ASD THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

forty-four thousand republican soldiers and the forty thousand
Vende'ans at Chollet. The carnag'e was g-reat ; and the issue
was yet doubtful, when suddenly, in one part of the royalist
army, there arose the jDanic-stricken cry, " To the Loire ! to
the Loire ! " In vain the g-enerals galloped hither and thither,
shouting* till they were hoarse ; it was night, and nothing could
be disting'uished. Flags, artillery, chiefs, horses, soldiers, women,
priests, childi^en, were all commingled and swept along- in an
irretrievable indiscriminate confusion. In the melee, Bon-
champ and D'Elbe'e both fell, the one struck down, the other
shot in the breast. They would have been left among- the dead,
but that they were recognised by a small body of men who had
taken no part hitherto in the light, but had come up in time to
witness the flight, and make it somewhat less disastrous by inter-
posing* themselves between the fug*itives and their pursuers.
Brandishing' his bloody sabre over his head. La Rochejaquelein
made an attempt to rush back, crying out, " Let us die where we
are ! " but he was carried on by the river of fugitives, his voice
drowned by cries of " To the Loire ! to the Loire ! " And on they
impetuously went towards the Loire, a wild and intractable herd
of human being*s ; g-overned by a blind impulse, they rushed
towards the broad and tranquil river which separated their un-
happy country from Brittany.

Overcome with fatigue, and arrested by darkness, the Vende'ans
halted at Beaupreau, where they remained during- the nig*ht.

PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE.

"We left the panic-stricken host of Vende'ans halting- for the
nig*ht at Beaupreau, on its way towards the Loire. A terrible
spectacle presented itself on the following- morning- — a con-
tinuous stream of a hundred thousand human being-s, men,
women, and children, with tattered g-arments and bleeding- feet,
pouring- out of their desolated native land, and seeking- from
God and man's mercy some other asylum. Before them, beyond
a broad river, was a strang-e country; behind them was a
pursuing- enemy. Three of their chiefs, too, were dying- of
their wounds, carried uneasily along- in litters. It was not
long- since the heroic Cathelineau was taken away from them,
and now all at once they were bereft of Lescure, Bonchamp,
and D'Elbe'e. La Vendee had indeed proved itself too weak
for the Revolution. For seven months the brave little dis-
trict had, by its own unaided efforts, kept that gig'antic force
at bay : the blame of its not being- able to do anything- more, of
its not being- able to frustrate and crush the Revolution alto-
gether, lay not with it, but with those whose duty it was to
improve the opportunity which the strug-gle in La Vendee afforded
them. La Vende'e had done her utmost. Whatever fault there
was, lay with those royalists who were nearest the centre of
European affairs, and who did nothing-. •

21

LA HOCKEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

A hundred thousand Vende'ans, men, women, and children^
were wending- along towards the Loire. They arrived at St
Florent, and prepared to cross the river opposite to Ancenis. In
a paroxysm of revenge, they were going* to massacre about five
thousand republican prisoners they had brought along with them,
when Bonchamp interfered on the side of mercy ; and when they
would have respected nothing else, they respected this, the last
wish of their dying general. The men were liberated. On the
18th of October the passage of the Loire was effected, and
is thus described by Madame Lescure in her memoirs : — " The
heights of St Florent form a kind of semicircular boundary
to a vast level strand reaching to the Loire, which is very wide
at this place. Eighty thousand people were crowded together in
this valley ; soldiers, women, children, the aged and the wounded,
flying from immediate destruction. Behind them they perceived
the smoke of burning villages. Nothing was heard but loud
sobs, groans, and cries. In this confused crowd every one sought
his relations, his friends, his protectors. They knew not what
fate they should meet on the other side, yet hastened to it, as if
beyond the stream they were to find an end to all their misfor-
tunes. Twenty bad boats carried successively the fugitives who
crowded into them ; others tried to cross on horses ; all spread
out their arms, supplicating to be taken to the other side. At a
distance on the opposite shore, another multitude, those who had
crossed, were seen and heard fainter. In the middle was a small
island crowded with people. Many of us compared this dis-
order, this despair, this terrible uncertainty of the future, this
immense spectacle, this bewildered crowd, this valley, this stream
which must be crossed, to the images of the last judgment."
They had almost all crossed, and relations who had been sepa-
rated were seeking each other in the crowd on the safe side,
when Merlin de Thionville, representative of the people, galloped
in among those still waiting on the Vendee side, cutting the
throats of women and children. A large number were thus
butchered at the river side. This Merlin de Thionville appears
to us to have been one of the most consummate scoundrels even
of that age, when, in the troubling of the waters, so many latent
scoundrels were stirred up from the bottom. In a letter addressed
on the 19th of October to the Committee of Public Safety, after
congratulating the Committee on the flight of the Vendeans, he
adverts to the five thousand republican prisoners whom the fugi-
tives had so magnanimously spared. Thionville is vexed at the
circumstance, and calls it an unfortunate occurrence. He had
taken great pains, he said, to represent the affair in its proper
light, as some faint-hearted republicans were actually touched by
it. " It is best, therefore," he says in conclusion, " to cover with
oblivion this unfortunate occurrence. Do not speak of it even to
the Convention. The brigands have no time to write or make
journals. The aff'air will be forgotten, like many things else."

22

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

The man who could write so — who could coolly suppress a fact
creditable to an enemy, speculating on the chance that that
enemy did not keep a journal — deserves to be sing-led out from
among his brother liars, to go down to posterity as the blackest
heart in the Revolution. Desirous of conveying his falsehood
through a public document to the people, he wrote as follows to
the Convention — " At St Florent we rescued out of the hands of
the enemy five thousand five hundred republican prisoners. These
unfortunate fellows threw themselves into the arms of their deli-
verers, bathing them with tears of joy and gratitude; and with
a voice enfeebled by the sufferings of more than five months, the
only words they could utter when they saw us were cries of
' Vive la Republique.' "

Bonchamp died in the boat while they were ferrying him
over ; D'Elbee was missing, having disappeared in the confusion
of the passage ; Lescure was evidently dying. Who now should
be the leader of the fugitives ? Gathering the generals round his
bed, Lescure proposed La Rochejaquelein. Shrinkingly, and
with sobs, the young soldier yielded to Lescure's representations,
and accepted the terrible office which made him responsible for
the lives and safety of all these wretched families, now without a
home. The spirits of the poor Vendeans flickered faintly up
again when their young general, not yet twenty-one, assumed
the command; and a kind of hope, even when hope seemed
impossible, beamed in their sorrow-blanched and hunger-bitten
faces, reciprocating to the glance of his eagle eye as he rode forth
among them, proud in his bearing as in the day of battle. From
that day there was a remarkable change in the demeanour of
Henri. As if overborne by the sense of his new situation, all his
wild gaiety, all his self-abandonment, all his impatience of delay
or deliberation forsook him ; he became grave, serious, cautious,
and foreseeing, like Lescure himself; and it was only when con-
fronted with personal and instant danger that his old nature got
the better of him, and he would dash into the fray, not as a com-
mander-in-chief, who had to combine the movements of many
masses, but as a brave hussar, who had no thought beyond th&
managing of his own sabre. Henri La Rochejaquelein had
become suddenly old.

La Vendee was now a desert covered with scathed and black-
ened patches. Merlin de Thionville was for calling it "Le
Departement Venge," and recolonising it with poor labourers and
Germans, who should get the land for the trouble of clearing
away the hedges. It is probable that the execution of this plan
was prevented only by the exertions of Charette, who, struck
with remorse for having quitted the grand army, left the occu-
pations in which he had been engaged on his own account, and
kept La Vendee open by making it again a fighting-ground.

Meanwhile, the expatriated Vendeans were moving through
Bretagne (Brittany) like a creeping famine. They had to keep

23

LA BOCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

constantly on the march, so as not to afflict any one spot with
too much of their presence. The hung'er of an additional mass
of 100,000 human beings is no slig-ht visitation upon a province,
not to speak of the numerous revolutionists who were pursuing-
them ; hut the people of Maine, and the Bretons too, shaggy
and uncouth as they seemed, with their sheep and goat -skin
dresses, had human hearts in their breasts, and strove to alle-
viate the woes and supply the wants of their royalist Vendean
brothers. Nor did the Vendeans, on their part, receive this
kindness thanklessly, as if they had a right to live by impover-
ishing their benefactors ; so long as a farthing or a farthing's
worth remained, it was freely given in exchange for the neces-
saries of life. A soldier caught pillaging was shot by La
Rochejaquelein's orders. And at last, when the whole treasury
was exhausted, the military council, at the instance of La Roche-
jaquelein and the Abbe Bernier, resorted to the only means of
compensation they had, that of promising future payment. On
the 1st of November, it was resolved to issue notes in the king's
name, to the amount of 900,000 livres, payable at the restoration
of peace, and bearing an interest of 4^^ per cent. To be sure, in
a commercial point of view, the 4^ per cent, was small interest,
considering the risk ; and being- paid in such notes was little
better than giving the goods for nothing. Still, the mere
thought of resorting to such a form, in such circumstances,
showed a people who had been accustomed to be honest, and
who liked any device that could banish the degraded feeling
of being beggars. There was a remarkable difference in this
respect between the Vende'ans and the republicans. Pillag'e
was leg-al in the armies of the Republic. One day, not long
after the period at which we have arrived, a body of repub-
licans was reviewed before Boursault, a member of Convention.
The poor fellows were in very ragged regimentals, and had
hardly a shoe among" them. Boursault looking round on the
crowd of peaceable well-shod citizens who had come to see the
review, and were looking* on with infinite interest, pointed to
the bare feet of the soldiers, and asked the citizens if they had
the heart to let slip such a fine opportunity of laying their
boots and their shoes on the altar of their country. The citizens
felt a consciousness that, if they parted not with their shoes
peacefully and good-humouredly, they would be taken by force.
So, with a good grace, they sat down on the grass and took off
their shoes, the soldiers fitting themselves as well as they could
with pairs.

From Varades, their first halting-place, the Vendee pilgrims,
reinforced by a body of Breton royalists, set out for Laval,
reaching it on the 20th of October. At this time they were
saddened by the news of the queen's death, and enraged by
discovering that the great bishop of Agra was no bishop of
Agra at all, but an impostor. On the night of the 24th, when

24

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

withiii a league of Laval, they fell in with a body of Blues under
Westermann, a division of the republican army which had crossed
the Loire at Angers, and pursued a route northward through
Anjou and Maine ; another division under Lechelle having
crossed at Nantes, much farther west, to penetrate Bretagne;
the intention of this arrangement being to come up with the
fugitives, whichever direction they might take, and, if possible,
shut them up between two marching armies. AVestermann,
however, was beaten, and retreated to Chateau-Gonthier to wait
for Lechelle, intending to join forces with him, and attack the Ven-
deans again on the morrow. La Rochejaquelein spent the night
in making his arrangements and encouraging the soldiers, bid-
ding them remember that the safety of their wives and children
depended on their winning this battle, and recalling to their minds
the horrors of that disastrous retreat from Chollet, of which all
their woes and sufferings since were but the consequence and
continuation., A long dormant enthusiasm reanimated the Ven-
deans; even the wounded Lescure had himself planted at a
window, propped up by pillow^s, to see the battle. When Lechelle
came up, with the whole army of the west, the fight began.
The bravery and ability of Marceau, Kleber, and Westermann,
were insufficient to counteract the blundering stupidity of the
commander-in-chief, co-operating so usefully with the skill of
La Rochejaquelein's arrangements, and the thunder of Stofflet's
cannon. The Blues were utterly defeated; and the royalists^
in their greatest extremity, had gained perhaps the greates-t
battle in the whole course of the insurrection. The republican
authorities are divided as to whether the loss of the battle of
Laval was owing more to Lechelle's military incapacity, or to
La Rochejaquelein's military genius. On the one hand, it was
Lechelle's last battle ; superseded by the Convention, he retired
to Nantes, where he died soon after in the arms of Carrier. On
the other hand, La Rochejaquelein's share of the merit is testi-
fied by the men most capable of judging. " This single battle,"
wrote General Jomini several years afterwards, "places that
young man high in the opinion of all military critics." Again,
the magnanimous Kleber, in his letter of the 28th of October,
announcing the battle, writes thus : " We had opposed to us
the terrible native impetuosity of the Vendeans, and the power
communicated to them by the genius of one young man. This
young man, who is called Henri de La Rochejaquelein, and who
was made their commander-in-chief after the passage of the
Loire, has bravely earned his spurs. He has exhibited in this
unfortunate battle a military science, and an accuracy of ma-
noeuvre, which we have missed among the brigands since Torfou.
It is to his foresight and coolness that the Republic owes a defeat
which has discouraged our troops."

The poor Vendeans had doubtless gained a signal victory, but
they had a whole nation to conquer. This new victory, there-

25

LA. ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

fore, like every other, was little better than a useless slaughter.
Within a fortnight of the defeat at Laval, the Republic again
had an efficient army ready to march after the fugitives. The
infamous Carrier of Nantes, indeed, would have saved them the
trouble. He proposed a plan for exterminating the fugitives,
not unlike that of Santerre. " Poison the springs," said he,
writing to Kleber on the 9th of November ; " poison bread, and
toss it about where it may tempt the voracity of the starving
wretches. You are killing the brigands with bayonet-thrusts.
Kill them with doses of arsenic; it will be neater and less
expensive." " If Carrier were here," said Kleber when he read
the letter, " I would pass my sword through him, the brute."
Some really were for giving Carrier's proposal a hearing ; but
Kleber was inexorable ; he stood out for the sword against the
arsenic, and went on organising his army.

The plan which La Rochejaquelein proposed to adopt after the
battle of Laval, and one which, bold as it was, really appears to
have been the single chance the Vendeans had, was instantly to
march back through Maine and Anjou by the way they had
come, pushing aside the wreck of the republican army, preventing
it from re-organising on Kleber's plan, and ultimately re-enter-
ing the well-known labyrinths of their own Socage. This plan
was overruled. A military council was held at Laval, which,
besides taking steps for procuring supplies, deliberated what
should be their next route. Possibly, La Rochejaquelein's plan
might now have been adopted, but the re-assembling of the
republican army had made it too late. There remained two alter-
natives— a march westward into Bretagne, or northward into
Normandy, Strong reasons were stated in favour of the former ;
but, finally, it was resolved to march north-west by the shortest
route to the sea-coast.

On the 2d of November, the Vendeans left Laval, and took
their way by Mayenne and Ernee. Lescure died on the way,
and was buried, his wife never knew where. At Fougeres the
officers were again waited upon by envoys from the British
government, with despatches, encouraging the Vendeans to per-
severe, promising assistance, and indicating Granville in Nor-
mandy as a port at which an Enghsh fleet might conveniently
land. The council wrote a grateful reply, pressing for speedy
relief, and repeating their urgent request that a Bourbon prince
might come over to head the army. It was also agreed with the
envoys what signal should announce to the English fleet the
taking of Granville by the Vendeans. On their way to Gran-
ville, the Vendeans marched to Dol on the 9th, to Pontorson on
the 10th, and thence to Avranches. But so great of late had
been the physical suffering among them, that murmurings arose
which no representations could suppress, and they demanded to
be led back to the Bocage. Three or four hundred did actually
set out to go home ; but they fell into the hands of the Blues,

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

and their bodies were afterwards found bleaching" on the road.
Arrived at Avranches, the women, the children, and the bag-gage,
were left there with a body of soldiers to guard them, and at the
same time to keep open a retreat — the mass of the army, amount-
ing to about 30,000 men, marching on to lay siege to Granville,
a town on a rocky height, overlooking the British Channel. The
attack began on the night of the 14th ; it lasted that night, all
next day, and even the night following. They fought on, look-
ing anxiously for the English flag that was to appear on the
horizon and bring them relief ; but though the firing was heard
by the English garrison at Jersey, no relief came; and after
fighting thirty-six hours, their ammunition gone, their bodies
fatigued, their spirits fainting, the Vendeans, spite of intreaties
and exhortations, would hold out no longer. Breaking up into
bodies, they left the sea-coast as they best could, muttering deep
imprecations against Pitt, Dundas, and the whole English
nation.

Hurrah now for home! — back, back to the Bocage! Their
scanty blood boiled at the name ; and as they turned their faces
to the south, they felt as if their strength were renewed by the
breeze blowing* from the woods of La Vendee, and fanning
their sun-tanned temples. No matter that the republican army
of Marceau and Kleber lay between; with the Bocage on the
other side, they would break their way through walls of iron.
Rejoined at Avranches by the women and children they had
left there, they came back to Dol, where, on the 21st of Novem-
ber, they fought one of their bloodiest battles, defeating* Kleber,
Westermann, and Marceau together — the women themselves
rushing about like furies in the battle, handling muskets, send-
ing fugitives back to the fight, and shrieking " Forward ! for-
ward ! " Though, after this victory, many of the Vendeans detached
themselves from the main body, in order to shift for themselves,
still the great mass kept together under Stofflet and La Roche-
jaquelein, pressing southward, and pursued by the republican
army, through which they had just cut their way. It was pro-
posed even now to try the effect of a march westward into
Bretagne, to besiege Rennes, and stir up a general rising of the
Bretons ; but again the murmuring* arose, " Home, home ! " So
southwards still they went. The terrible Loire must be crossed
ere they can plant their feet in La Vendee. They might cross it
either at Angers or at Saumur. They rush to Angers : in vain —
they cannot cross there. Oh that horrid river ! Foiled, they
fall back hke an ebbing wave, only to rush forward again with
greater violence. At no point can they effect a passage. Hither
and thither they wander in despair, from La Fleche to Mans,
from Mans to La Fleche again, Westermann and his Blues
approaching them every hour. The rumour is spread that the
authorities have resolved to allow the fugitives to disperse, and
travel safely without passports. Many believe it, and are sacri-

27

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

ficed. Thinned by these desertions, and utterly broken in body
and spirit, the Vendean army was defeated and shattered to
pieces at Mans — shattered to pieces, to be massacred more easily.
What a scene of horror for miles round ! Here a heap of dead
bodies yet warm, there a band of republican soldiers shooting'
women and children to build up another heap ; and Westermann,
everywhere, superintending the butchery. On the 14th of
December, La Rochejaquelein and the wretched remains of his-
army drew back to Laval. Eighteen thousand had perished in
that little district north of the Loire. Oh that terrible river !

Still they kept bravely together. On the 16th they made a
rush upon Ancenis, the very point at which they had crossed on
their leaving La Vendee two months before. Westermann was
but a few hours behind them. All the means of crossing they had
was one small boat they had taken from the pond of a chateau,
and brought along with them, and another flat-bottomed one
they found at the water's edge. By La Rochejaquelein's orders,
all hands were employed making' rafts. Four large boats also
were seen fastened with ropes at the other side of the river, loaded
with hay. Oh if they had but these boats ! But who could risk
carrying them off under the very eyes of the republican garrison
of St Florent ? Henri volunteered the trial ; Stofflet and another
brave man leaped into the little boat along with him ; and
eighteen soldiers accompanied them in the other. They had
reached the other side, and were making away with the boats,
when they were attacked, overpowered, and dispersed. Thus
La Rochejaquelein and Stofflet were separated from the Vendean
army.

La Rochejaquelein and Stofflet were now, therefore, on one
side of the river fleeing for their lives ; the mass of the Vendean
army was on the other, without a general, without a boat, and
with the merciless dragoons of Westermann behind it. This sepa-
ration of La Rochejaquelein and Stofflet from the miserable body
of their followers, necessarily breaks down the brief remainder of
our story into two narratives. What, in the first place, was the
fate of the poor army, the last remains of the hundred thousand
unfortunates who, two months before, had been driven from the
Bocage? And, in the second place, what became of the two
leaders, so strangely detached from their followers ?

CONCLUSION OF THE WAR — FATE OF LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN.

The fate of the residue of the Vendean army is sad to tell.
Reduced now by massacre and desertion to less than twenty
thousand, they stood almost stupified with terror, gazing at the
point of the opposite bank where the fatal boats were yet lying",
and where their two generals had disappeared from their view.
Sometimes they wished vainly enough that they were on the
other side too ; sometimes they indulged a dreamy hope that
their generals would reappear, bringing* deliverance. A few of

28

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

their number kept working* at the rafts. Their labour was in
vain. A g'un-boat, lying otf Ancenis, fired and sunk them. At
that moment Westermann and his men were battering" at the
gates and throwing* shells into the town. " Disperse, disperse ;
every man for himself!" was now the cry. They did so. Some,
confiding too easily in a rumour which the republicans had in-
dustriously spread, that an amnesty had been granted to all
who chose to avail themselves of it, made their way with diffi-
culty to Nantes, where almost all of them became Carrier's
victims ; some, meditating' a similar flig'ht, hid themselves in
the meantime in the surrounding fields and farmhouses, where
they were afterwards sought out and shot ; and a few managed,
by watching their time, to cross the fatal river, and reach La
Vendee or some more distant part of France. Notwithstanding
these desertions, a body of between eight and ten thousand still
remained together, among whom were some of the most distin-
guished officers, such as Talmont, Fleuriot, Donnissan, Forestier,
and Marigny. Adopting almost the only route open to them,
they left Ancenis, and proceeded to Nort, meeting but little oppo-
sition on the way. During this journey Madame Lescure was
obliged to part with her child, intrusting her to the care of a
peasant, who was to take charge of her until reclaimed ; but
the child died, and was never seen more by her distracted mother.
At Nort, Fleuriot was appointed commander, a choice which so
offended the Prince de Talmont, as seeming to imply a doubt of
his fidelity, that he quitted the army and retired to Laval — a
step adopted nowise for the purpose of personal security, for he
was shortly afterwards apprehended, and shot in the court of his
own chateau.

From Nort the wreck of the army marched to Blain, where
they remained, making good their position against small detach-
ments of the republicans, until advised of the approach of the
main force under Marceau and Kleber, who had now joined
Westermann, when they took their way to Savenay, closely pur-
sued. A strange, ragged, wo-begone, motley crowd they were.
Their clothes having* been long ere now worn to shreds in the
course of their weary journeyings, they had laid hold of every-
thing that could serve as a covering or a protection from the
weather. One man had on two petticoats, tied, one round his
neck, the other round his waist ; another wore a lawyer's gown,
which he had picked up somewhere, with a flannel nightcap on
his head ; a third had a Turkish turban and dress, which he had
taken from a playhouse at La Fleche. Madame Lescure rode on
a horse with a dragoon's saddle, and wore a purple hood, an old
blanket, and a large piece of blue cloth tied round her neck with
twine. The motley crowd reached Savenay, and hastily shut
themselves in. This, they knew, and so did the republicans,
must be their last place of retreat. Situated between two rivers,
swollen with the winter rains, with the sea before them on the

29

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE,

west, and the republicans approaching- them from the east, they
were shut up in a circle, one half of which was fire, and the
other water. Hardly had the fugitives shut themselves into
Savenay, when the republicans came up with them, and the fight-
ing began. For a while the attack was confined to insignificant
skirmishing', but it was evident that an annihilating blow was in
preparation.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when Madame Les-
cure, who had lain down for an hour or two, was awakened by a
bustle, and told to get up, for a horse was ready to convey her
away. Scarcely knowing what they were going to do with her,
she was about to dismount from the horse on which they had
already placed her, when Marigny, a man whose conduct at this
crisis has earned for him an illustrious reputation among the
Vendeans, came up, and taking her horse's bridal, led her a little
away from the rest, and whispered to her that she must try to
escape. He told her that all was over ; that they could not stand
the approaching attack of the morning; that in twelve hours
they would be all dead ; and that her only chance of escape was
in flying immediately, and trusting to the darkness. Unable to
say more, Marigny turned hurriedly away. Hastening to her
mother and M. Donnissan, Madame Lescure repeated Marigny's
words. It was instantly arranged by M. Donnissan that she and
her mother should disguise themselves as peasants, and quit the
town under the care of the Abbe Jagault, and a townsman as
their guide. At midnight the general, who had resolved to
remain with the army to the last, bade farewell to his wife and
daughter. " Never leave your poor mother," were his last words
to Madame Lescure at parting. He stood in the square of Save-
nay, looking after them through the darkness. They never saw
him again. At nine o'clock in the morning, a cold heavy rain
falling, the Vendeans under Fleuriot, Donnissan, and Marigny,
precipitated themselves upon the republicans. Their aim was, if
possible, to reach the forest of Gavre, where they might take
refuge in the meantime, and plan some means of crossing the
Loire. This Fleuriot, with a small body, effected at first. A
large number, including many officers, were cut to pieces. Three
times did the brave Marigny, holding the standard which, in her
happier hours, Madame Lescure had embroidered for the Ven-
dean army, dash himself against the Blues ; and as often was he
repulsed. " Women," he cried at last, " all is lost ; save your-
selves ! " To give them time to do so, he stationed two cannons
on the road along which they must retreat, and halting with a
few brave men between the enemy and the fugitives, fought an
hour longer. They then fled for their lives, dispersing them-
selves like the rest through the forest country, there to await
through the miserable winter what small chance of ultimate
escape the relentless vigilance of the authorities might afford
them.

30

lA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

Tor months after, miserable wretches were rooted out in two*
and threes from their places of concealment, to perish by the
hands of the republican executioner. Donnissan was shot at-
tempting a new rising'. The pretended bishop of Agra died on
the scaffold : an impostor to gratify his vanity, there was nothing
else bad about him. The Abbe Bernier lived long enough to lose
his reputation. And to conclude the catalogue, we may mention
that D'Elbe'e, who, it will be remembered, disappeared at the
time of the first crossing of the Loire, mortally wounded, made
his way in that condition to the sea-coast, the scene of Charette's
operations, where, falling into the hands of the Blues three
months after, he was placed in an arm-chair and shot, though
dying of his old wound.

The adventures of Madame Lescure after her departure from
Savenay were of the most distressing kind. Pursued as a fugi-
tive with her mother and attendants, she was delivered of twin
daughters in the cottage of a peasant, humanely opened for her
reception. The infants afterwards died, and Madame Lescure
was able to make her escape into Spain. After a period of exile,
she was permitted to return to France, and to assume possession
of her husband's property, which had been fortunately spared
from confiscation. Her mother was now anxious that she should
marry again — a proposal to which she long felt very repugnant.
" I was unwilling," she says, " to lose a name so dear to me,
and so glorious. I could not bear renoimcing all remembrance
of La Vendee, by thus entering on a new existence. I therefore
resisted my mother's solicitations, till I saw in Poitou M. Louis
de La Rochejaquelein, the brother of Henri. It seemed to me
that, by marrying him, I attached myself more to La Vendee,
and that, by uniting two such names, I did not offend against
him whom I loved so much." She married M. Louis de La Roche-
jaquelein in March 1802. From that period her life ran some-
what more smoothly ; but her second husband was killed at the
head of a body of Vendean loyalists in June 1815, a few days
before the battle of Waterloo.

It remains now to teU what became of Stofflet and Henri La
Rochejaquelein. Separated from the army at the Loire in the
manner we have abeady described, the two generals went hither
and thither through the desolated Bocage, trying to raise men
to renew the struggle. Charette, who, since the evacuation of
the district by the Vendeans, had taken up his station in it, was
then at Maulevrier. Here La Rochejaquelein had an interview
with him. Charette, who, with all his patriotism, had much
personal ambition, and who saw in Hemi's return the prospect
of a divided or contested command, received him coldly ; and
unfortunately for the cause they had both at heart, the two
parted in anger, Charette to pursue his plans in Bas-Poitou, and
La Rochejaquelein to raise a force of his own. He and Stofflet
kept together, and by a series of small successful engagements

31

LA ROCHEJAQUELEIN AND THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

tliey beg-an to make their presence felt by the republicans. In
March 1794, at the head of a small band of peasants, they
attacked the garrison of the village of Nuaille. After the vic-
tory, Henri saw the peasants preparing to shoot two republican
grenadiers. " Stop," he cried to the peasants ; " I want to speak
with them." Advancing to the grenadiers, he called out, " Sur-
render, and you shall have your lives." At that instant some
one pronounced his name. One of the grenadiers turned, pre-
sented his musket, and fired. The ball struck Henri on the
forehead, and he fell to the ground, dead. Thus, on the 4th of
March 1794, at the age of twenty-one, died Henri de La Roche-
jaquelein, the hero of La Vende'e. He and his murderer were
thrown into one grave. As the Romans treated Hannibal, his
enemies did him the honour of disinterring" his body, to have
ocular demonstration that he was really dead.

Though the story of the subsequent jDroceedings is considerably
less spirit-stirring than the narrative o£ the great war of 1793,
still the death of La Rochejaquelein did not by any means
extinguish the royalist enthusiasm of the Vendeans, or paralyse
their activity. On the contrary, the struggle was protracted for
several years ; Charette acting as the insurgent commander
on the coast, Stofflet in the interior, and the two occasionally
acting in concert. Besides what they did, an independent insur-
rection, called the War of the Chouannerie, was going on north
of the Loire. The Convention began to see that no amount of
fighting, burning, or massacre, would ever eradicate the inve-
terate royalist feeling* of the j^opulation of the north-west ; and
probably conscious, at the same time, that the Revolution was
now strong enough to be able to afford to be generous, they re-
solved to oifer terms to the Vendeans ; by which, on acknow-
ledging the authority of the Republic, they were to enjoy the
unmolested exercise of their religion, have freedom from military
service, and receive indemnification for their losses. Though
the terms ofiered were accepted, the habit of insurrection was
too strong to make the long continuance of tranquillity possible.
Accordingly, it required the judgment and moderation, as well
as the great military capacity, of General Hoche to reduce the
west of France to anything like order. This was in 1795.
Hoche's exertions were made complete by the almost simul-
taneous deaths of the two surviving spirits of the insurrection,
Charette and Stofflet. Stofflet was taken, tried by military com-
mission, and shot at Angers in February 1796. After wander-
ing about in concealment for some time, Charette was taken on
the 23d of March, and shot at Nantes three days after. With
the death of these leaders the war in La Vendee terminated ; and
peace and order were gradually restored to this long distracted
country.

32

JOURNAL OF A POOR YICAR.

HAVE to-day, December 15, 1764, visited Dr Snarl,
and received from liim £10, the amount of my half-
year's salary. The receipt even of this hardly-earned
sum was attended with some uncomfortable circum-
stances.

Not until I had waited an hour and a half in the cold
ante-room, was I admitted into the presence of my reverend
employer, who was seated in an easy-chair at his writing-
desk. The money designed for me was lying by him, ready
counted. My low bow he returned with a lofty side-nod,
while he slightly pushed back his beautiful black silk cap, and
immediately drew it on again. Really, he is a man of much
dignity ; and I feel I can never approach him without the awe I
should have in entering the presence of a king.

He did not urge me to be seated, although he well knew that
I had walked eleven miles in the bad weather, and that the hour
and a half's standing in the ante-room had not much helped to
rest my wearied limbs. He pointed me to the money. My
heart beat violently when I attempted to introduce the subject
which I had been for some time contemplating- — a little in-
crease of my salary. With an agony as if I were about to
commit a crime, I endeavoured to break ground, but at every
effort words and voice failed me.

" Did you wish to say anything t " observed the rector very
politely.

"Why — yes — pardon me: everything is so dear that I am

JOTJRKAL OF A POOR YICAR.

scarcely able to get along in these hard times with this small
salary."

" Small salary ! How can you think so ? I can at any time
procure another vicar for £15 a-year."

" For £15 ! Without a family, one might indeed manage
with that sum."

" I hope your family, Mr Vicar, has not received any addition ?
You have, I think, only two daughters?"

" Yes, only two, your reverence ; but they are growing up,
Jenny, my eldest, is now eighteen, and Polly, the younger, will
soon be twelve."

" So much the better; Cannot your girls work ?"

I was about to reply, when he cut the interview short by
rising and observing, while he went to the window, that he was
sorry he had no time to talk with me to-day. " But you can
think it over," he concluded, " whether you will retain your
situation for a New- Year's gift."

He bowed very politely, and touched his cap, as if wishing me
to be gone. I accordingly lifted the money, and took my leave,
quite disheartened. I had never been received or dismissed so
coldly before, and fear that some one has been speaking ill of me.
He did not invite me to dinner, or to partake of any refresh-
ment, as he had done on former occasions. Unfortunately I had
depended on him doing so, for I came from home without break-
ing my fast. Having bought a penny loaf at a baker's shop in
the outskirts of the town, I took my way homeward.

How cast -down was I as I trudged along! I cried like a
child. The bread I was eating was wet with my tears.

But fy, Thomas ! Shame upon thy faint heart ! Lives not
the gracious God still? What if thou hadst lost the place
entirely ? And it is only £5 less ! It is indeed a, quarter of
my whole little yearly stipend, and it leaves barely lOd. a-day
to feed and clothe three of us. What is there left for us ? He
who clothes the lilies of the field, and feeds the young ravens,
will He not shield us with his Providence ? Arouse thee, faint
heart ! We must deny ourselves some of our wonted luxuries.

Dec, 16. — I believe Jenny is an angel. Her soul is more
beautiful than her person. I am almost ashamed of being her
father ; she is so much more pious than I am.

I had not the courage yesterday to tell my girls the bad news.
When I mentioned it to-day, Jenny at first looked very serious,
but suddenly she brightened up and said, " You are disquieted,
father?"

" Should I not be so?" I replied.

" No, you should not."

" Dear child," said I, " we shall never be free from debt and
trouble. I do not know how we can endure our harassments.
You see our need is sore ; £15 will hardly suffice for the bare
necessaries of existence ; and who will assist us ? "

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

Polly seated herself on my knee, patted my face, and said, " I
wish to tell you something, dear father. I dreamt last night

that it was New- Year's day, and that the king' came to C ,

where there was a splendid show. His majesty dismounted from
his horse before our door and came in. We had nothing to set
before him, and he oixiered some of his own dainties to be brought
in vessels of gold and silver. Military music sounded outside,
and, only think, with the sounds some people entered, carrying
a bishop's mitre on a velvet cushion. It looked very funny, like
the pointed caps of the bishops in the old picture-books. The
mitre was put on your head, and it became you grandly. Yet
the oddity of the thing caused me to laugh till I was out of
breath; and then Jenny waked, me up, which made me quite
angry. Surely this dream has something to do with a New-
Year's present ; and it is now only fourteen days till New-Year's
day."

" Oh," said I to Polly, " how can you speak of such nonsense ?
Dreams can never come true but by accident."

" But, father, are not dreams from God ?"

" No, no, child ; put away all such fancies."

Although I said so to Polly, I write the dream down. When
in despair, one is apt to seize on any trifle for support. A New-
Year's gift would certainly be acceptable to all of us.

All day I have been at my accounts, I do not like accounts.
Reckoning and money matters distract my head, and make my
heart empty and heavy.

Dec. 17. — My debts, God be praised, are all now paid but one.
At five different places I paid off £7, lis. I have therefore left
in ready money £2, 9s. This must last a half year. God help
us!

The black hose that I saw at tailor Cutbay's I must kave un-
purchased, although I need them greatly. They are indeed
pretty well worn, yet still in good condition, and the price is
reasonable ; but Jenny needs a cloak a great deal more, I pity
the dear child when I see her shivering in that thin camlet,
Polly must be satisfied with the cloak which her sister has made
for her so nicely out of her old one.

I must give up my share of the newspaper which neighbour
Westburn and I took together; and this goes hard with me.

Here in C , without a newspaper, one knows nothing of the

course of affairs. At the horse races at Newmarket the Duke of
Cumberland won £5000 of the Duke of Grafton. It is wonder-
ful how literally the words of Scripture are always fulfilled, " To
him who hath shall be given;" and "From him who hath not
shall be taken away." I must lose £5 of even my poor salary.

Again murmuring; fy upon me. Wherefore should I com-
plain ? Not surely for a newspaper which I am no longer able
to take. May not I learn from others whether General Paoli
succeeds in maintaining the freedom of Corsica, or any such

3

JOURNAL OF A POOR, VICAR.

matter of foreign news? I do not fear for Paoli, for he has
20;000 veterans.

Dec. 18. — How little makes a poor family happy I Jenny has
procured a grand cloak at the slop shop for a mere trifle; and
now she is sitting- there with Polly, ripping it tO' pieces, in order
to make it np anew. Jenny understands how to ti^de and bargain
better than I ; but they let her have things at her own price,
her voice is so gentle. We have now joy upon joy. Jenny
wants to appear in the new cloak for the first time on New-
Year's day ; and Polly has a hundred comments and predictions
about it. I wager the Dey of Algiers had not greatei* pleasure
in the costly present which the Venetians made him — the two
diamond rings, the two watches set with brilliants, the pistols
inlaid with gold, the costly carpets, the rich housings, and the
20,000 sequins in cash.

Jenny says we must save the cloak in luxuries. Until New-
Year's day we must buy no meat. This is as it should be.

Neighbour Westburn is a noble man, I told him yesterday I
must discontinue my subscription for the newspaper, because I
am not sure of my present salary, nor even of my place. He
shook my hand and said, " Very well, then I will take the paper,
and you shall still read it with me.''

One must never despair. There are more good men in the
world than one thinks, especially among the poor.

The same day, eve. — The baker is a somewhat narrow-minded
man. Although I owe him nothing, he fears that I may. When
Polly went to fetch a loaf, and found it very small and badly
risen, or half-burnt, he broke out into a quarrel with her, so
that people stopped in the street. He declared that he would not
sell upon credit — that we must go elsewhere for our bread. I
pitied Polly.

I wonder how the people here know everything. Every one
in the village is telling how the rector is going to put another
curate in my place. It is distressing, and will be the death of
me. The butcher even must have got a hint of it. It certainly
was not without design that he sent his wife to me with com-
plaints about the bad times, and the impossibility of selling any
longer for anything but cash. She was indeed very polite, and
could not find words to express her love and re&pect for us. She
advised us to go to Colswood, and buy the little meat we
want of him, as he is a richer man, and is able to wait for
his money. I cared not to tell the good woman how that
person treated us a year ago, when he charged us a penny
a-pound more than others for his meat ; and, when his abusive
language could not help him out, and he could not deny it,
how he declared roundly that he must receive a little interest
when he was kept out of his money a whole year, and then
showed us the door.

I still have in ready money £2, Is. 3d. Wliat shall I do if no

4

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

one will trust me, so that I may pay my bills quarterly ? And if
Dr Snarl appoint another curate, then must I and my poor chil-
dren be tnrned upon the street !

Be it so ; God is in the street also !

Dec. 19, early ^ a. m. — I awoke very early to-day, and pon-
dered what I shall do in my very difficult situation. I thought
of Mr Sitting-, my rich cousin at Cambridge ; but poor people
have no cousins, only the rich. Were New- Year's day to bring
me a bishop's mitre, according to Polly's dream, then I should
have half England for my relations.

I have written and sent by the post the following letter to Dr
Snarl : —

" Reverend Sir — I write with an anxious heart. It is said
that your reverence intends to appoint another curate in my stead.
I know not whether the report has any foundation, or whether it
has arisen merely from my having mentioned to some persons
the interview I had with you.

The office with which j^ou have intrusted me I have dis-
charged with zeal and fidelity ; I have preached the word of
God in all purity ; and I have heard no complaints. Even my
inward monitor condemns me not. When I humbly asked for a
little increase of my small salary, your reverence spoke of re-
ducing the small stipend, v/hich scarcely suffices to procure me
and my family the bare necessaries of life. I now leave your
humane heart to decide.

I have laboured sixteen years under your reverence's pious
predecessors, and a year and a half under yourself. I am now
fifty years old, and my hair begins to grow gray. Without ac-
quaintances, without patrons, without the prospect of another
living, without the means of earning my bread in any other way,
mine and my children's fate depends upon your compassion. If
you fail us, there remains no support for us but the beggar's
staff.

My daughters, gradually grown up, occasion, with the closest
economy, increased expense. My eldest daughter, Jenny, sup-
plies the place of a mother to her sister, and conducts our domestic
concerns. We keep no servant; my daughter is maid, cook,
washerwoman, tailoress, and even shoemaker, while I am the
carpenter, mason, chimney-sweeper, wood-cutter, gardener, far-
mer, and wood-carrier of the household.

God's mercy has attended us hitherto. We have had no sick-
ness ; indeed we could not have paid for medicines.

My daughters have in vain offered to do other work, such as

washing, mending, and sewing ; but C is a little place, and

very rarely have they got any. Most persons here do their own
household work ; none can afford to employ others.

I assure you, in all humility, it will be a hard task to carry me
and mine through the year upon £20 ; but it will be harder still
\i I am to attempt it upon £'15. But I throw myself on vour

b'

JOUmSTAL OF A POOR YICAR.

compassion and on God, and pray jour reverence at least to re-
lieve me of this anxiety."

After I had finished this letter, I threw myself upon my knees
(while Polly carried it to the post-office), and prayed for a happy
issue to my communication. I then hecame wonderfully clear
and calm in my mind. A word to God is always a word from
God — so cheerfully did I come from my little chamber, which I
had entered with a heavy heart,

Jenny sat at her work at the window with the repose and
grace of an ang-el. Light seemed to stream from her looks. A
slender sunbeam came through the window, and transfigured
the whole place. I was in a heavenly frame of mind ; and, seat-
ing myself at the desk, wrote my sermon, " On consolations in
poverty."

I preach in the pulpit as much to myself as to my hearers ;
and I come from church edified, if no one else does. If others
do not receive consolation from my words, I find it myself. It
is with the clergyman as with the physician ; he knows the
power of his medicines, hut not always their efiect upon the
constitution of every patient.

The same clay, forenoon. — This morning I received a note from
a stranger who had remained over night at the inn. He begs
me, on account of urgent affairs, to come to him.

I have been to him. I found him a handsome young man of
about six-and-twenty, with noble features and a graceful car-
riage. He wore an old well-worn surtout, and boots which
still bore the marks of yesterday's travel. His round hat,
although originally of a finer material than mine, was still far
more defaced and shabby. The young man appeared, notwith-
standing the derangement of his dress, to be of good family.
He had on at least a clean shirt of the finest linen, which per-
haps had just been given him by some charitable hand.

He led me into a private room, begged pardon a thousand
times for having troubled me, and proceeded to inform me, in
a very humble manner, that he found himself in most painful
circumstances, that he knew nobody in this place, where he had
arrived last evening, and had therefore had recourse to me as a
clergyman. He was, he added, by profession an actor, but un-
fortunately without employment, and intended to proceed to
Manchester. He had expended nearly all his money, and had
not enough to pay his fare at the inn — to say nothing of the
expense of proceeding on his journey. Accordingly, he turned
in his despair to me. Twelve shillings, he said, would be a great
assistance to him. Giving his name, John Fleetman, he pro-
mised if I would favour him with that advance, that he would
honourably and thankfully repay it, so soon as he was again
connected with any theatre. There was no necessity for his
depicting his distress to me so. much at length, for his features
expressed more trouble than his words. He probably read some-

6

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

thing of the same kind in my face, because, as he turned his eyes
upon me, he seemed struck with alarm, and exclaimed, " Will
you leave me then, sir, without help ?"

In reply, I stated to him that my own situation was full of
embarrassment, that he had asked of me nothing less than the
fourth part of all the money I had in the world, and that I was
in g'reat uncertainty as to the further continuance of my office.

He immediately became cold in his manner, and, as it were,
drew back into himself, while he remarked, " You comfort the
unfortunate with the story of your own misfortunes. I ask

nothing of you. Is there no one in C who has pity, if he

has no wealth ?"

I ca5t an embarrassed look at Mr Fleetman, and was ashamed
to have represented my distressed situation to him as a reason
for my refusal to assist him. I instantly thought over all my
townsmen, and could not trust myself to name one ; perhaps I
did not know their hearts well enough.

I approached him, and laid my hand upon his shoulder, and
said, '■• Mr Fleetman, you grieve me. Have a little patience.
You see I am poor ; but I will help you if I can. I will give you
an answer in an hour."

I went home. On the way I thought to myself, " How odd !
the stranger always comes first to me — and an actor to a clergy-
man ! There must be something in my nature that attracts the
wretched and the needy like a magnet. Whoever is in need
comes to me, who have the least to give. When I sit at table
with strangers, one of the company is sure to have a dog which
looks steadily at what I am eating, and comes and lays his cold
nose directly on my knee."

When I arrived at home, I told the children who the stranger
was, and what he wanted ; requesting Jenny's advice. She said
tenderly, " I know, father, what you think, and therefore I have
nothing to advise."

" And what do I think ?"

" Why, that you will do unto this poor actor as you hope God
and Dr 'Snarl will do unto you."

I had thought no such thing, but I wished I had. I got the
twelve shillings, and gave them to Jenny to carry to the tra-
veller. I did not care to listen to his thanks ; it humbles me.
Ingratitude stirs my spirit up ; and, besides, I had my sermon
to prepare.

The same day^ eve. — The actor is certainly a worthy man.
When Jenny returned from the inn, she had much to tell about
him, and also about the landlady. This woman had found out
that her guest had an empty pocket, and Jenny could not deny
that she had brought him some money. So Jenny had to listen
to a long discourse on the folly of giving, when one has nothing
himself, and the danger of helping vagrants, when one has not
the wherewithal to clothe his own children. " Charity should

7

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

beg-in at home." " The shirt is nearer than the coat." " To
feed one's own maketh fat :" and so on.

I had just turned to my sei-mon ag:ain, when Mr Fleetman

entered. He could not, he said, leave C witho-ut thanking-

his benefactor, by whose means he had been delivered from the
greatest embarrassment. Jenny was just setting- the table. We
had a pancake and some turnips ; and I invited the traveller to
dine with us. He accepted the invitation. It was very timely,
he intimated, for he had eaten a very scanty breakfast. Polly
brought some beer. We had not for a long time fared so well.

Mr Fleetman seemed to enjoy himself with us. He had quite
lost that anxious look he had ; yet there was the shy reserved
manner about him, which is peculiar to the unfortunate. He
inferred that we were very happy, and of that we assured him.
He supposed, also, that I was richer and better to do in the world
than I desired to appear. There, however, he was mistaken.
Without doubt the order and cleanliness of our parlour dazzled the
good man, the clearness of the windows, the neatness of the cur-
tains, of the dinner-table, the floor, and the brightness of our
tables and chairs. One usually linds a great lack of cleanliness
in the dwellings of the pooi*, because they do not know how ta
save. But order and neatness, as I always preached to my
sainted wife and to my daug'hters, are great save-alls. Jenny is
a perfect mistress therein. She almost surpasses her mother ; and
she is bringing up her sister Polly in the same way. Her sharp
eyes not a fly-mark can escape.

Our guest soon became quite familiar and intimate with us.
He spoke more, however, of our situation than of his own. The
poor man must have some trouble on his heart ; I hope not upon,
his conscience. I remarked that he often broke ofl" suddenly in
conversation, and became depressed ; then again he would exert
himself to be cheerful. God comfort him !

As he was quitting us after dinner, I gave him much friendly
counsel. Actors, I know, are rather a light-minded folk. He
promised me sacredly, as soon as he should have money, to send
back my loan. He must be sincere in that, for he looked very
honest, and several times asked how long I thought I should be
able, with the remainder of my ready money, to meet the neces-
sities of my household.

His last words were, " It is impossible it should go ill with
you in the world. You have heaven in your breast, and two
angels of God at your side." With these words he pointed to
Jenny and Polly, and so departed.

Dec. 20. — The day has passed very quietly, but I cannot say
very agreeably, for the grocer Jones sent me his bill for the year.
Considering what we had had of him, it was larger than we had
expected, although we had had nothing of which we did not
ourselves keep an account. Only he had raised the price of
all his articles ; otherwise, his account agreed honestly with ours»

8.

JOURNAL OF A POOR YICAR.

The worst is the arrears of my last year's bill. He beg'ged
for the payment of the same, as he is in gr-eat need of monej ;
but what creditor is not ? The whole of what I owe him amounts
to eighteen shillings.

I went to see Mr Jones, who, on the whole, is a polite and
reasonable man. I hoped to satisfy him by paying- him in part,
and promising to pay the remainder by Easter ; but he was not
to be moved, and he regretted that he should be forced to proceed
to extremities. If he could he would gladly wait ; but only
within three days he would have to pay a note which had just
been presented to him. I know that with a merchant credit is
everything*.

To all this there was nothing to be said in reply, after my
repeated requests for delay had proved vain. Should I have let
him go to lavv^ ag'ainst me as he threatened 1 I sent him the
money, and paid oif the whole debt. But now my whole pro-
perty has melted down to eleven shilling's. Heaven grant that
the actor may soon return what I lent him ; otherwise I know
not what help there is for us.

Again despairing ! Go to, thou man of little faith ; if thou
knowest not, God knoweth. ^^Tiy is thy heart cast down ?
What evil hast thou done ? Poverty is no crime.

Dec. 24. — One may be rig'ht happy after all, even when at
the poorest. We have a thousand pleasures in Jenny's new
cloak. She looks as beautiful in it as a bride ; but she
wishes to wear it the first time abroad at church on Xew-
Year's day.

Every evening she reckons up, and shows me how little
expense she has incurred throug'h the day. We are all in bed by
seven o'clock, to save oil and coal ; and that, we find, is no great
hardship. The girls are so much the more industrious in the day,
and they chat together in bed until midnight. We have a l^eau-
tiful supply of turnips and vegetables ; and with these Jenny
tliinks we can get through six or eig-ht weeks without running
in debt. That were a stroke of management without parallel.
And until then, we all hope that Mr Fleetman will keep his
word like an honest man, and pay us back the loan. If I appear
to distrust him, it awakens all Jenny's zeal. She will allow
nothing evil to be said of the comedian.

That personage is our constant topic. The girls especially
make a great deal out of him. His appearance interrupted the
uniformity of our life, and he will supply us with conversation
for a fall half-year. Pleasant is Jenny's anger when the mis-
chievous Polly exclaims, " But he is an actor !" Then Jenny
tells of the celebrated actors in London who are invited to dine
with noblemen and the princes of the royal family ; and she is
ready to prove that Fleetman will become one of the first actors
in the world, for he has fine talents, a graceful address, and
well-chosen phrases.

K 9

JOURNAL OF A POOR YICAR,

" Yes, indeed ! " said the sly Polly to-day very wittily, " beau-
tiful phrases ! He called you an ang-el."

" And you too," cried Jenny, somewhat vexed.

" But I was only thrown in to the bargain," rejoined Polly ^
" he looked only at you."

This chat and childish raillery of my children awakened my
anxiety. Parents have many anxieties. Polly is growing- up,
Jenny is already eighteen, and what prospect have I of seeing
these poor children provided for 1 Jenny is a well-bred, modest,

handsome maiden ; but all C knows our poverty. We are

therefore little regarded, and it will be difficult to find a husband
for Jenny. An angel without money is not thought half so
much of now-a-days as a vixen with a bagful of guineas. Jenny's
only wealth is her gentle face ; that everybody looks kindly on.
Even the grocer Jones, when she carried him his money, gave
her a pound of almonds and raisins as a present, and told her
how he was grieved to take my money, and that, if I bought of
him, he would give me credit till Easter. He has certainly
never once said so much to me.

When I die, who will take care of my desolate children?
Who ! the God of heaven. They are at least qualified to go to
service anywhere. I will not distress myself about the future.

Dec. 26. — Two distressing days these have been. I have never
had so laborious a Christmas. I preached my two sermons in
two days several times in four different churches. The road was
very bad, and the wind and weather fearful. Age is beginning
to make itself felt, and I find I have not the freshness and acti-
vity I once had. Indeed, cabbage and turnips, scantily buttered,
with only a glass of fresh-water, do not afford much nourish-
ment.

I have dined both days with Farmer Hurst. The people in
the country are much more hospitable than here in this small
town, where nobody has thought of inviting me to dinner these
six months. Ah ! could I have only had my daughters with me
at table ! What profusion was there ! Could they have only
had for a Christmas feast what the farmer's dogs received of the
fragments of our meal ! They did, indeed, have some cake, and
they are feasting on it now while I write. It was lucky that I
had courage, when the farmer and his wife pressed me to eat
more, to say that, with their leave, I would carry a little slice
of the cake home to my daughters. The good-hearted people
packed me a little bagful, and, besides, as it rained very hard,
sent me home in their wagon.

Eating and drinking are indeed of little importance, if one
has enoug-h to satisfy his hunger and thirst. Yet it may not be
denied that a comfortable provision for the body is an agreeable
thing ; one's thoughts are clearer ; one feels with more vivacity.

I am very tired. My conversation with Farmer Hurst was-
worth noting ; but I will write it off to-morrow.

10

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

Dec. 27. — I have no heart to write a word of my conversation
with Farmer Hurst. This morning", as I was sitting- by the fire,
reflecting' on various matters, a neig"hbour stepped in to ask if we
had heard of a rumour that wag-oner Brook at Watton Basset
had destroyed himself. No such intelHgence had reached us.
The event g-ives us a new cause of distress. Brook was a rela-
tion of my sainted wife, and being a poor, thoug-h, as I be-
lieved, a conscientious and trustworthy man, I, some years ag-o,
became securitv for him to Alderman Fieldson for the sum of
£100.

The bond which I g-ave Mr Fieldson had never been cancelled.
It was a thing- hang-ing- over my head, and the remembrance of
it sometimes gave me trouble. Brook, I was told, had latterly
been embarrassed in his circumstances, and had given himself up
to drinking. Instead of bearing up under misfortunes, as was
his duty, he has, I fear, sunk under them. I must visit Mr
Fieldson, to know the worst.

Same day, noon. — I have been to Alderman Fieldson, who com-
forted me not a little. He said he had heard the report, but that
it was very doubtful whether Brook had destroyed himself. There
had been no authentic intelligence ; so I returned home com-
forted, and prayed by the way that God would be gracious to
me.

I had hardly reached the house, when Polly ran to meet
me, exclaiming, almost breathless, " A letter ! a letter from Mr
Fleetman, father, and I am sure it contains money ! But
the postage is sevenpence." Jenny, with blushing looks, handed
it to me before I had laid down my hat and staff. The children
were half out of their wits with joy; so I pushed aside their
scissors, and said, " Do you not see, children, that it is harder
to bear a great joy with composure than a great evil 1 I have
often admired your cheerfulness when we were in the greatest
want, and knew not where we were to find food for the next
day ; but now the first smile of fortune puts you beside your-
selves. To punish you, I shall not open the letter until after
dinner."

Jenny would have it that it was not the money, but Mr Fleet-
man's honesty and g*ratitude that delighted her, and that she
only wanted to know what he wrote, and how he was ; but I
adhered to my determination. This little curiosity must wisely
learn to practise patience.

The same day, eve. — Our joy is turned into sorrow. The
letter with the money came not from Mr Fleetman, but from the
Rev. Dr Snarl. He gives me notice that our engagement will
terminate at Easter, and he informs me that until that time I
may look about for another situation, and that he has accord-
ingly not only paid me up my salary in advance, that I may
bear any travelling expenses which I may be at, but also

11

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

directed the new vicar, my successor, to attend to the care of
the parish.

It now appears that the talk of the people here in town was
not wholly without foundation ; and it may also he true, what is
said, that the new vicar had received his appointment thus
readily, because he has married a near relative of his reverence^
a lady of doubtful reputation. So I must lose my office and my
bread for the sake of such a person, and be turned into the street
with my poor children, because a man can be found to buy my
place at the price of his own honour.

My daug'hters turned deadly pale when they found that the
letter did not come from Mr l^leetman, but from the rector, and
that the money, instead of being- the generous return of a grateful
heart, was the last wretched g'ratuity for my long and laborious
services. Polly threw herself sobbing- into a chair, and Jenny
left the room. My hand trembled as I held the letter containing
my formal dismissal. But I went into my little chamber, locked
myself in, and fell upon my knees and prayed, while Polly wept
aloud.

I rose from my knees refreshed and comforted, and took my
Bible ; and the jBrst words upon which my eyes fell were, " Fear
not, for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name ;
thou art mine."

All fear now vanished out of my heart. I looked up, and
said, " Yea, Lord, I am thine."

As Polly appeared to have ceased weeping, I went back into
the parlour ; but when I saw her upon her knees praying,
with her clasped hands resting on a chair, I drew back and
shut the door very softly, that the dear soul might not be
disturbed.

After some time I heard Jenny come in. I then returned to
my daughters, who were sitting at the window ; and saw by
Jenny's eyes that she had been giving- relief to her anguish in
solitude. They both looked timidly at me. I believe they feared
lest they should see despair depicted on my countenance; but
when they saw that I was quite composed, and that I addressed
them w4th cheerfulness, they were evidently relieved. I took
the letter and the money, and humming a tune, threw them into
my desk. They did not once allude to what had happened the
whole day. This silence in them was owing to a tender con-
sideration for me ; with me it was fear lest I should expose my
weakness before my children.

Bee. 28. — It is good to let the first storm blow over without
looking one's troubles too closely in the face. We have all had
a good night's sleep. We talk freely now of Dr Snarl's letter,
and of my loss of office, as of old affairs. We propose all kinds
of plans for the future. The bitterest thing is, that we must be
separated. We can think of nothing- better than that Jenny and
Polly should go to service in respectable families, while I betake
"12

JOURNAL OF A POOR YICAR.

myself to my travels to seek somewhere a place and bread for
myself and children.

I am g'lad that Polly has again recovered her usual cheerful-
ness. She bring's out ag'ain her dream about the bishop's mitre,
and gives us much amusement. She counts almost too supersti-
tiously upon a New- Year's g-ift. Dreams are surely nonsense,
and I do not believe in them ; yet there is a mystery about them
not without interest.

As soon as the new vicar, my successor, shall have arrived,
and is able to assume the office, I shall hand over to him the
parish-books, and take my way in search of bread elsewhere.
In the meantime I will write to a couple of old friends at Salis-
bury and Warminster, to request them to find good places for
my daughters as cooks, seamstresses, or chambermaids. Jenny
would be an excellent governess for little children.

I shall not leave my daughters here. The place is poor, the
people are unsocial, proud, and have the narrow ways of a small
town. They talk now of nothing but the new vicar ; while some
are sorry that I must leave ; but I know not who takes it most to
heart.

Dec. 29. — I have written to-day to my Lord Bishop of Salis-
bury, and laid before him in lively terms the sad helpless situa-
tion of my childi'en, and my long and faithful services in the
vineyard of the Lord. He is said to be a humane pious man.
May God touch his heart ! Among the three hundred and four
parishes of the county of Wiltshire, there must certainly be
found for me at least some little corner ! I do not ask much.

Dec. 30. — The bishop's mitre that Polly dreamt of must soon
make its appearance, otherwise I shall have to g'O to prison. I
see now very plainly that the jail is inevitable.

I am very weak, and in vain do I exert myself to practise raj
old heroism. Even strength fails me for fervent prayer. My
distress is too much for me to bear.

Yes, the jail is unavoidable. I will say it to myself plainly,
that I may become accustomed to the prospect.

The All-Merciful have mercy on my dear children ! I may
not — I cannot speak to them of this dreary prospect.

Perhaps a speedy death will save me from the disgrace. I
feel as if my veiy bones would crumble away; fever-shivering
in every limb — I cannot write for trembling.

Some hours after. — Already I feel more composed. I would
have thrown myself into the arms of God, and prayed ; but I
was not well. I lay down on my bed. I believe I have slept ;
perhaps also I fainted. Some three hours have passed. My
daughters have covered my feet with pillows. I am weak in
body, but my heart is again fresh. Everything' which has
happened, or which I have heard, flits before me like a troubled
dream.

So the wagoner Brook has indeed made away with himself.

13

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

Alderman Fieldson has called and g-iven me the intellig'ence.
He had the coroner's account, tog-ether with the notice of my
bond. Brook's debts are very heavy. I must, as a matter of
course, account to Withell, a woollen-draper of Trowbridge, for
the hundred pounds.

Mr Fieldson had g:ood cause to commiserate me heartily. A
hundred pounds ! How shall I ever obtain so much money ?
All that I and my children have in the world would not bring" a
hundred shillings. Brook used to be esteemed an upright and
wealthy man ; and I never thought that he would come to such
an end. The property of my wife was consumed in her long
sickness, and I had to sacrifice the few acres at Bradford which
she inherited. Now, I am a beggar. Ah ! if I were only a free
beggar ! I must go to prison if Mr Withell is not merciful ; for
it is impossible for me even to think of paying him.

Same day, eve. — I am quite ashamed of my weakness. What !
to faint ! to despair ! Fy ! And yet believe in a Providence \
and a minister of the Lord ! Fy, Thomas !

I have recovered my composure, and done what I should. I
have just carried to the post-office a letter to Mr Withell at
Trowbridge, in which I have stated my utter inability to pay
the bond, and confessed myself ready to go to jail. If he has
any human feeling, he will have pity on me ; if not, he may drag
me away whithersoever he will.

When I came from the office, I put the courage of my children
to the proof: I wished to prepare them for the worst. Ah ! the
maidens were more of men than the man — more of Christians
than the priest.

I told them of Brook's death, of my debt, and of the possible
consequences ; to all which they listened earnestly, and in great
sorrow.

" To prison ! " said Jenny, silently weeping, while she threw
her arms around me. " Ah, poor dear father ; you have done no>
wrong, and yet have to bear so much ! I will go to Trowbridge ;
I will throw myself at Withell's feet ; I will not rise until he
releases you ! "

" No," cried Polly, sobbing, " do not think of such a thing.
Tradesmen are tradesmen. They will not, for all your tears, give
up a farthing of our father's debt. I will go to the woollen-
draper, and bind myself to live upon bread and watei', and be
his slave, until I have paid him with my labour what father
owes."

In forming such plans, they gradually grew more composed ;
but they saw also the vanity of their hopes. At last, said Jenny,
" Why form all these useless plans ? Let us wait for Mr
Withell's answer. If he will be cruel, let him be so. God is
also in the jail. Father, I say, go to prison. Perhaps you will
be better there than with us in our poverty. Go, for you go
without guilt. There is no disgrace in it. We will both go to

14

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

service, and our wages will procure you everything needful. I
will not be ashamed even to beg. To go a-begging for a father
has something honourable and holy in it. We will come and
visit you from time to time. You will certainly be well taken
care of; and we will fear no more."

" Jenny, you are right/' said Polly ; " whoever fears, does
not believe in God. I am not afraid. I will be cheerful — as
cheerful as I can be, separated from father and you."

Such conversations cheered my heart. Fleetman was right
when he said that I had two angels of goodness at my side.

Dec. 31. — The year is ended. Thanks be to Heaven, it has
been, with the exception of some storms, a right beautiful and
happy year ! It is true we often had scarcely enough to eat —
still, we have had enoug-h. My poor salary has often occasioned
me bitter cares — still, our cares have had their pleasures. And
now I scarcely possess the means of supporting myself and mj
children half a year longer. But how many have not even as
much, and know not where to get another day's subsistence !
My place I assuredly have lost : in vay old ag"e I am without
office or bread. It is possible that I shall spend the next year
in a jail, separated from my good daughters. Still, Jenny is
right ; God is there also in the jail !

To a pure conscience there is no hell even in hell, and to a
bad heart no heaven in heaven. I am very happy.

Whoever knows how to endure privation, is rich. A good
conscience is better than that which the world names honour.
As soon as we are able to look with indifference upon what
people call honour and shame, then do we become truly worthy
of honour. He who can despise the world, enjoys heaven. I
understand the gospel better every day, since I have learned to
read it by the light of experience. The scholars at Oxford and
Cambridge study too closely the letter, and forget the spirit.
Nature is the best interpreter of the Scriptures.

With these reflections I conclude the year.

I am very glad that I have now for some time persevered in
keeping this journal. Everybody should keep one ; because one
may learn more from himself than fi-om the wisest books.
When, by daily setting* down our thoug'hts and feelinsrs, we in a
manner portray ourselves, we can see at the end ot the year
how many different faces we have. Man is not always like
himself. He who says he knows himself, can answer for the
truth of what he says only at the moment. Few know what
they were yesterday ; still fewer what they will be to-morrow.

A day-book is useful also, because it helps us to grow in faith
in God and Providence. The whole history of the world does
not teach us so much about these things as the thoughts, judg-
ments, and feelings of a single indi\adual for a twelvemonth.

I have also had this year new contirmation of the truth of the
old saying, '' Misfortunes seldom come singly ; but the darkest

\5

JOURNAL OF A POOR YICAR.

hour is just before morning-." When things g-o hard with me,
then am I most at my ease ; ahvays excepting" the lirst shock, for
then I please myself with the prospect of the relief which is sure
to succeed, and I smile because nothing" can disturb me. On the
other hand, when everything" g"oes according- to my wishes, I am
timid and anxious, and cannot give myself up freely to joy : I
distrust the continuance of my peace. Those are the hardest
misfortunes which we allow to take us by surprise. It is like-
wise true that trouble looks more terrible in the distance than
when it is upon us. Clouds are never so black when near as they
seem in the distance. When we grasp them, they are but vapours.

My misfortunes have taught me to consider, with amazing
quickness^ what will be their worst effect upon me ; so I prepare
myself for the worst, and it seldom comes.

This also I find good — I sometimes play with my hopes, but I
never let my hopes play with me ; so I keep them in check. I
have only to remember how rarely fortune has been favourable
to me 5 then all air-castles vanish, as if they were ashamed to
appear before me. Alas for him who is the sport of his visions !
He pursues Will-o'-the-wisps into bogs and mire.

Neiv-Yeai^s day, mornmg. — A wonderful and sad affair opens
the year. Here follows its history.

Early, about six o'clock, as I lay in bed thinking over my
sermon, I heard a knocking at the front door. Polly was up,
and in the kitchen. She ran to open the door, and see who was
there. Such early visits are not usual with us. A strang"er
presented himself with a large box, which he handed to Polly

with these words : — " Mr " (Pol^y lost the name) " sends

this box to the Eev. Vicar, and requests him to be very careful of
the contents."

Polly received the box with joyfiil surprise. The man disr
appeared. Polly tapped lightly at my chamber-door to see
whether I was awake. I answered, and she came in ; and wish-
ing- me " a happy New-Year," as well as " good-morning"," added,
laughing, " You will see now, dear father, whether Polly's '
dreams are not prophetic. The promised bishop's mitre is come ! '^
And then she told me how a New-Year's gift had been given her
for me. It vexed me that she had not asked more particularly
for the name of my unknov/n patron or benefactor.

While she went out to light a lamp and call Jenny, I dressed
myself. I cannot deny that I was burning with curiosity ; for

hitherto the New-Year's presents for the Vicar of C had

been as insignificant as they were rare. I suspected that my
patron, the farmer, whose goodwill I appeal^ to have won, had
meant to surprise me with a box of cake, and I admired his
modesty in sending me the present before it was daylight.

When I was dressed, and entered the parlour, Polly and Jenny
were standing at the table on which lay the box directed to me,
carefully sealed, and of an unusual size. I had never Jieeu

16

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

exactly such a box before. I lifted it, and found it pretty heavy.
In the lid were two smoothly-cut round holes.

With Jenny's help I opened the box very cautiously, as I had
been directed to handle the contents carefully. A fine white
cloth was removed, and lo ! But no, our astonishment is inde-
scribable. We all exclaimed with one voice, " Good God!"

There before us lay a little child asleep, some six or eig'ht
weeks old, dressed in the finest linen, with rose-coloured ribbons.
Its little head rested upon a soft blue silk cushion, and it was well
wrapt up in a blanket. The covering*, as well as the little cap,
was trimmed with costly Flanders' lace.

At such an unexpected sig-ht we stood some minutes g-azing*
with silent wonder. At last Polly broke out into a comical
laugh, and cried, " What shall we do with it 1 This is no
bishop's mitre ! " Jenny timidly touched the cheek of the sleep-
ing- babe with the point of her finger, and in a tone full of pity
said, " Poor dear little creature ! thou hast no mother, or might
as well have no mother ! Great God ! to cast off such a lovely
helpless being- ! Only see, father, only see, Polly, how peace-
fully and trustfully it sleeps, unconscious of its fate, as if it knew
that it is lying in God's hand. Sleep on, thou poor forsaken
one ! Thy parents are perhaps too high in rank to care for thee,
and too happy to permit thee to disturb their happiness. Sleep
on, we will not cast thee out. They have brought thee to the
rig-ht place. Poor as we are, I will be thy mother."

As Jenny was speaking, two large tears fell from her eyes. I
caught the pious gentle-hearted creature to my breast, and said,
" Be a mother to this little one ! The step-children of fortune
come to her step-children. God is trying our faith — ^no, he does
not try it, he knows it ; therefore is this forsaken little creature
brought to us. We do not, indeed, know how we shall subsist
from one day to another, but he knows who has appointed us
to be parents to this orphan."

In this manner the matter was soon settled. The child con-
tinued to sleep sweetly on. In the meanwhile we exhausted
ourselves in conjectures about its parents, who were undoubtedly
known to us, as the box was directed to me. Polly, alas ! could
tell us nothing more of the person who brought it than she had
already told. Now, while the little thing sleeps, and I run over
my New- Year's sermon upon " the power of the Eternal Provi-
dence," my daughters are holding a council about the nursing
of the poor little stranger. Polly exhibits all the delight of a
child. Jenny appears to be much moved. With me it is as if
I entered upon the New-Year in the midst of wonders, and — it
may be superstition, or it may be not — as if this little child were
sent to be our guardian angel in our need. I cannot express
the feelings of peace, the still hapjDiness which I have.

Same day, eve. — I came home greatly exhausted and weary
with the sacred labours of the day. I had a long and rugged

17

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

walk ; but I was inspirited by a bappy return home, by the
cheerfulness of my daug'hters, by our pleasant little parlour.
The table was ready laid for me, and on it stood a little wine, a
New- Year's present from an unknown benevolent hand.

The looks of the lovely little child in Jenny's arms refreshed
me above all things. Polly showed me the beautiful little bed
of our nursling-, the dozen fine napkins, the dear little caps and
night-clothes which were in the box, and then a sealed packet
of money directed to me, which they found at the feet of the
child when it awoke, and they took it up.

Anxiously desirous of learning something of the parentage of
our little unknown inmate, I opened the packet. It contained a
roll of twenty guineas, and a letter as follows : —

" Relying with entire confidence upon the piety and humanity
of your reverence, the unhappy parents of this dear child com-
mend it to your care. Do not forsake it. We will testify our
gratitude when we are at liberty to make ourselves known to
you. Although at a distance, we shall keep a careful watch,
and know everything that you do. The dear boy is named
Alfred ; he has been baptised. His board for the first quarter
accompanies this. The same sum will be punctually remitted
to you every three months. Therefore, take the child. We
commend him to the tenderness of your daughter Jenny."

When I had read the letter, Polly leaped with joy, and cried,
" There, then, is the bishop's mitre ! " Bountiful Heaven ! how
rich had we suddenly become. We read the letter a dozen
times. We did not trust our eyes to look at the gold upon the
table. What a New-Year's present ! From my heaviest cares
for the future was I thus suddenly relieved; but in what a
strange and mysterious way ! In vain did I think over all the
people I knew, in order to discover who it might be that had
been forced by birth or rank to conceal the existence of their
child, or who were able to make such a liberal compensation for
a simple service of Christian charity. I tasked my recollection,
but I could think of no one ; and yet it was evident that these
parents were well acquainted with me and mine.

Wonderful, indeed, are the ways of Providence.

Jan. 2. — Fortune is heaping her favours upon me. This
morning I again received a packet of money, £12, by the post,
with a letter from Mr Fleetman. It is too much. For a shilling
he returns me a pound. Thing's must have gone well with him.
He says as much. I cannot, alas ! thank him, for he has for-
gotten to mention his address. God forbid I should be lifted up
foolishly with my present riches. I hope now in time to pay
oif honestly my bond to Mr Withell.

When I told my daughters that I had received a letter from
Mr Fleetman, there was a new occasion for joy. I do not
exactly understand what the girls have to do with this Mr
Fleetman. Jenny coloured, and Polly jumped up laughingly,

J3

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

and held up both her hands before Jenny's face, and Jenny
behaved as if she was seriously vexed with the playful g"irl.

I read out Fleetman's letter ; but I could scarcely do it, for the
young man is an enthusiast. He writes many flattering" things
Avhich I do not deserve ; exaggerating everything, even indeed
when he speaks of the good Jenny. I pitied the poor girl while
I read. I did not dare to look at her. The passage, however,
which relates to her is worthy of note, and ran thus : —

" Excellent sir, when I went from your door, I felt as if I were
quitting a father's roof for the bleak and inhospitable world. I
shall never forget you, never forget how happy I was with you.
I see you now before me, in your rich poverty, in your Christian
humility, in your patriarchal simplicity. And the lovely fasci-
nating Polly ; and ah ! for your Jenny I have no words ! In
what words shall one describe the heavenly loveliness by which
everything earthly is transfigured ? Forever shall I remember
the moment when she gave me the twelve shillings, and the
gentle tone of consolation with which she spoke to me. Wonder
not that I have the twelve shillings still. I would not part with
them for a thousand guineas. I shall soon, perhaps, explain
everything to you personally. Never in my life have I been so
happy or so miserable as I now am. Commend me to your sweet
daughters, if they still bear me in remembrance."

I conclude, from these lines, that he intends to come this way
again ; and the prospect gives me pleasure. In his unbounded
gratitude, the young' man has perhaps sent me his all, because I
once lent him half of my ready money. That grieves me. He
seems to be a thoughtless youth, and yet he has an honest heart.

"We have great delight in the little Alfred. The little thing
laughed to-day upon Polly as Jenny was holding him, like a
young mother, in her arms. The girls are more handy with
the little citizen of the world than I had anticipated ; but it is
a beautiful child. We have bought him a handsome cradle, and
provided abundantly for all his little wants. The cradle stands
at Jenny's bedside. She watches day and night hke a guardian
spirit over her tender charg'e.

Jan. 3. — To-day Mr Curate Thomson arrived with his young
wife, and sent for me. I accordingly went to him immediately
at the inn. He is an agreeable man, and very polite. He in-
formed me that he was appointed my successor in office ; that he
wished, if I had no objections, to enter immediately upon his
duties, and that I might occupy the parsonage until Easter ; he
would, in the meanwhile, take up his abode in lodgings prepared
for him at Alderman Fieldson's,

I replied that, if he pleased, I would resign my office to him
immediately, as I should thus be more at liberty to look out for
another situation. I desired only permission to preach a farewell
sermon in the churches in which I had for so many years declared
the word of the Lord.

19

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

With this he was quite satisfied, and said that he would come
in the afternoon to examine the state of the parsonage.

He has been here with his wife and Alderman Fieldson. His
lady was somewhat haughty, and appears to be of high birth,
for there was nothing in the house that pleased her ; and she
hardly deigned to look at my daughters. When she saw the
little Alfred in the cradle, she turned to Jenny, and asked
whether she were already married. The good Jenny blushed
up to her hair, and shook her little head by way of negative,
and stammered out something. I had to come to the poor girl's
assistance. The lady listened to my story Avith great interest,
and drew up her mouth, and shrugged her shoulders. It was
very disagreeable, but I said nothing. I invited them to take a
cup of tea ; but they declined. Mr Curate appeared to be very
obedient to the slightest hint of the lady.

We were very glad when this unpleasant visit was over.

Jan. 6. — Mr Withell is an excellent man, to judge from his
letter. He sympathises with me in regard to my unfortunate
bond, and comforts me with the assurance, that I must not
disquiet myself if I am not able to pay it for ten years, or ever.
He appears to be well acquainted with my circumstances, for
he alludes to them very cautiously. He considers me an honest
man; and that gratifies me most. He shall not find his confi-
dence misplaced. I shall go to Trowbridge as soon as I can,
and pay Mr Withell Fleetman's £12 sterling, as an instalment
of my monstrous debt.

Although Jenny insists that she sleeps soundly, that little
Alfred is very quiet o' nights, and only wakes once, when she
gives him a drink out of his little bottle, yet I feel anxious
about thei maiden. She is not so lively by far as formerly,
although she seems to be much happier than when we were
every day troubled about our daily bread. Sometimes she sits
with her needle, lost in a reverie, dreaming with open eyes ;
or her hands, once so active, lie sunk upon her lap. When she
is spoken to she starts, and has to bethink herself what was
said. All this evidently comes from the interruption of her
proper rest ; but she will not hear a word of it. We cannot
even persuade her to take a little nap in the daytime. She
declares that she feels perfectly well.

I did not imagine that she had so much vanity. Fleetman's
praises have not displeased her. She has asked me for his letter
to read once more. And she has not yet returned it to me, but
keeps it in her work-basket ! Well, I cannot be angry. Her
feelings are quite natural.

Jan. 8. — My farewell sermon was accompanied with the tears
of most of my hearers. I see now at last that my parishioners
love me. They have expressed their obligations on all hands,
and loaded me with gifts, I never before had such an abundance
of provisions in the house, so many dainties of all kinds, and so

20

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

much wine. A hundredth part of my present plenty Tvoiild have
made me account myself over-fortunate in past days. We are
really swimming- in plenty. But a goodly portion has already

oeen disposed of. I know some poor families in C , and Jenny

knows even more than I. The dear people share in our pleasures.

I was moved to the inmost by my sermon. AVith tears had
I written it. It was a sketch of my whole past course from my
call and settlement. I am driven from the vineyard as an
unprofitable servant, and yet I have not laboured as a hireling".
Many noble vines have I planted, many deadly weeds cut away.
I am driven from the vineyard where I have watched, and
taught, and warned, and comforted, and prayed. I have shrunk
from no sick-bed; I have strengthened the dying for the last
conflict Vv^ith holy hope ; I have gone after sinners ; I have not
left the poor desolate ; I have called back the lost to the way of
life. Ah ! all these souls that were knit to my soul are torn from
me^why should not my heart bleed ? But God's will be done !

Gladly would I now offer to take charge of the parish without
salary, but my successor has the office. I have been used to

foverty from my birth, and care has never forsaken me since
stepped out of my boy's shoes. I have enough for myself
and my daughters in little Alfred's board. We shall be able,
indeed, to lay up something". I would never again complain of
wind and weather beating against my gray hairs, could I only
continue to break the bread of life to my flock.

Well, be it so ! I will not murmur. The tear which drops upon
this page is no tear of discontent. I ask not for riches and good
days, nor have I ever asked ; but. Lord ! Lord ! drive not thy
servant for ever from thy service, although his powers are small.
Let me ag'ain enter thy vineyard, and with thy blessing win souls.

Jan. 13. — My journey to Trowbridge has turned out beyond
all expectation. I arrived late with weary feet at the pleasant
little old city, and could not rouse myself from sleep until late
the nest morning. After I had put on my clean clothes (I had
not been so finely dressed since my wedding-day — the good
Jenny shows a daughter's care for her father), I left the inn and
went to Mr WithelPs. He lives in a splendid great house.

He received me somewhat coldly at first ; but when I men-
tioned my name, he led me into his little office. Here I thanked
him for his gi'eat goodness and consideration, told him how I had
happened to give the bond, and what hard fortunes had hitherto
been mine. I then laid my £12 upon the table.

Mr Withell looked at me for a while in silence, with a smile,
and with some emotion. He then extended his hand, and shook
mine, and said, " I know all about you. I have informed myself
particularly about your circumstances, and I learn you are an
honest man. Take your £12 back. I cannot find it in my heart
to rob you of your New- Year's present. Rather let me add a
pound to it, to remember me by."

21

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

Saying- so, lie arose, brought a paper from another room,
opened it, and said, " You know this bond and your signature ?
I give it to you and your children." He tore the paper in two,
and placed it in my hand.

I could not find words, I was so deeply moved. My eyes
filled. He saw that I would thank him, but could not, and* he
said, " Hush ! hush ! not a syllable, I pray you. This is the
only thanks I desire of you. I would gladly have forgiven poor
Brook the debt, had he only dealt frankly with me."

How generous ! I do not know a more noble-hearted man
than Mr Withell. He was too kind to me. Desiring me to
relate my past history, he introduced me to his wife, and to the
young gentleman his son. He had my little bundle, containing
my old clothes, brought from the inn, and kept me at his house.
The entertainment was princely. The chamber in which I slept,
the carpet, the bed, were so splendid and costly, that I hardly
dared to make use of them.

Next day Mr Withell sent me home in his own elegant
carriage. I parted with my benefactor with a heart deeply
moved. My children wept with me for joy when I showed
them the bond. " See," said I, " this light piece of paper was
the heaviest burthen of my life, and now it is generously can-
celled. I pray for the life and prosperity of our deliverer ! "

Jan. 16. — Yesterday was the most remarkable day of my life.
My daughters and I were sitting together in the forenoon ; I
was rocking the cradle, Polly was reading' aloud, and Jenny was
seated at the window with her needle, when she suddenly jumped
up, and then fell back again deadly pale into her chair. We
were of course all alarmed, and cried, "What is the matter?"
Jenny, with a smile, said, " He is coming ! "

The door now opened, and in came Mr Fleetman in a beautiful
travelling cloak. We greeted him right heartily, and were truly
glad to see him so unexpectedly, and, as it appeared, in so much
better circumstances than before. He embraced me, kissed Polly,
and bowed to Jenny, who had not yet recovered from her
agitation. Her pale looks, however, did not escape him. He
inquired anxiously about her health. Polly replied to his ques-
tions, and he then kissed Jenny's hand, as though he would beg*
her pardon for having occasioned her such an alarm. But there
was nothing to be said about it, for the jDoor girl coloured again
like a newly-blown rose.

I called for refreshments, to treat my guest and benefactor
better than on a former occasion ; but he declined, as he could
not remain long, and he had company at the inn. Yet, at Jenny's
request, he sat down and took some wine with us.

As he had spoken of the company which had come with him,
I supposed that it must be a company of comedians, and inquired

Avhether they intended to stop and play in C , observing that

the place was too poor. He laughed out, and replied, " Yes, we

22

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

shall play a comedy, but altog-ether gratis." Polly was beside
herself with joy, for she had long wanted to see a play. She
told Jenny, who had g-one for the cake and wine. Polly inquired
if any actors had come along- with him 1 " No," said he, " only
a lady and gentleman, but excellent performers."

Jenny seemed more than usually serious, and casting- a sad
look at Fleetman, inquired if he also should appear. This was
asked in a tone peculiarly soft, yet very penetrating, which I
have seldom observed in her, and only upon rare occasions, and
at the most serious moments.

Poor Fleetman himself trembled at her tone, so like the voice
of the angel of doom. He looked up to her with an earnest
gaze, and appeared to struggle with himself for an answer, and
then advancing towards her a step, he said emphatically, " In-
deed, madam, you alone can decide that ! "

Jenny di-opped her eyes ; he continued to speak ; she answered.
I could not comprehend what they were about. They spoke —
Polly and I listened with the greatest attention, but we neither
of us understood a word, or rather we heard words without any
sense. And yet Fleetman and Jenny appeared not only fo
understand one another perfectly, but what struck me as very
strange, Fleetman was deeply moved by Jenny's answers,
although they expressed the veriest trifles. At last Fleetman
clasped his hands passionately to his breast, raised his eyes,
streaming with tears, to heaven, and with an impressive appear-
ance of emotion, exclaimed, " Then am I indeed unhappy ! "

Polly could hold out no longer. With a comical vivacity
she looked from one to the other, and at last cried out, " I do
believe that you two are beginning to act already ! "

He pressed Polly's hand warmly, and said, "Ah that it
were so ! "

I put an end to the confusion by pouring out the wine. We
di*ank to the welfare of our friend. Fleetman turned to Jenny,
and stammered out, " Miss, in earnest, my welfare?" She laid
her hand upon her heart, cast down her eyes, and drank.

Fleetman immediately became more composed. He went to
the cradle, looked at the child, and when Polly and I had told
him its history, he said to Polly, with a smile, " Then you have
not discovered that I sent you this New- Year's gift?"

The whole of us exclaimed in utter amazement, " Who, you ? "
Our guest then proceeded to relate what follows : — " My name,"
said he, " is not Fleetman. I am Sir Cecil Fairford. My sister
and myself have been kept out of our rightful property by my
father's brother, who took advantage of certain ambiguous con-
ditions in my father's will, and involved us in a long and en-
tangled lawsuit. We have hitherto lived with difficulty upon
the little property left us by our mother, who died early. My
sister has suffered most from the tyranny of her uncle, who was
her guardian, and who had destined her for the son of an inti-

2.3

JOUBNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

mate and powerful friend of his. My sister, on tlie contrary,
was secretly engag-ed to the young Lord Sandom, Avhose father,
then living, was opposed to their marriage. Without the know-
ledge either of my uncle or the old lord, they were privately
married, and the little Alfred is their son. My sister, under the
pretence of benefiting her health, and availing herself of sea-
bathing, left the house of her guardian, and put herself under
my protection. When the child was born, our great concern
wag to find a place for it where it would have the tenderest
care. I accidentally heard a touching account of the poverty
and humanity of the parish minister of C — — , and I came
hither in disguise to satisfy myself. The manner in which I
was treated by you decided me.

I have forgotten to mention that my sister never returned to
her guardian ; for, about six months ago, I won the suit against
him, and entered into possession of my patrimony. My uncle
instituted a new suit against me for withdrawing my sister from
his charge ; but the old Lord Sandom died suddenly a few days
ag'o of apoplexy, and my brother-in-law has made his marriage
public ; so that the suit falls to the ground, and all cause for
keeping the child's birth secret is henceforth removed. Its
parents have now come with me to take the child away, and I
have come to take away you and your family, if the proposal I
make you shall be accepted.

During the lawsuit in which I have been engaged, the living
which is in the gift of my family has remained unoccupied. I
have at my disposal this situation, which yields over £200 per
annum. You, sir, have lost your situation here : I shall not be
happy unless you come and reside near me, and accept this
living."

I cannot tell how much I was aifected at these words. My
eyes were blinded with tears of joy ; I stretched out my hands to
the man who came a messenger from heaven ; I fell upon his
breast ; Polly threw her arms around him with a cry of delight.
Jenny thankfully kissed the baronet's hand ; but he snatched it
from her with visible agitation, and hurriedly left us.

My happy children were still holding me in their embraces,
and we were still mingling our tears and congratulations, when
the baronet returned, bringing his brother-in-law. Lord Sandom,
with his wife, who was -an uncommonly beautiful young* lady.
Without saluting us, she ran to the cradle of her child. She
knelt down over the little Alfred, kissed his cheeks, and wept
freely with mingled pain and delight. Her husband raised her
up, and had much trouble in composing her.

When she had recovered her composure, and apologised to us
all for her behaviour, she thanked first me, and then Polly, in
the most touching terms. Polly disowned all obligation, and
pointed to Jenny, who had withdrawn to the window, and said,
" My sister there has been its mother!"

24

JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR.

Lady Sandom now approached Jenny, gazed at her long in
silence, and with evidently delighted surprise, and then glanced
at her brother with a smile, and folded Jenny in her arms. The
dear Jenny, in her modesty, scarcely dared to look up. " I am
your debtor," said my lady ; " but the service you have rendered
to a mother's heart it is impossible for me to repay. Become a
sister to me, lovely Jenny ; sisters can have no obligations be-
tween them." As they embraced each other, the baronet ap-
proached. " There stands my poor brother," said my lady ; " as
you are now my sister, he may stand nearer to your heart, dear
Jenny ; may he not 1 "

Jenny blushed and replied, " He is my father's benefactor."

" Will you not be," replied the lady, " the benefactress of my
poor brother 1 I pray you look kindly on him. If you only
knew how he loves you ! "

The baronet took Jenny's hand and kissed it, and said, as she
struggled to withdraw it, " Madam, will you be unkind to me ?
I cannot be happy without this hand." Jenny, much disturbed,
let her hand remain in his. The baronet then led my daughter
to me, and begged me for my blessing*.

" Jenny," said I, " it depends upon thee. Do we di*eam ?
Canst thou love him 1 Do thou decide."

She then turned to the gentleman, who stood before her deeply
agitated, and cast upon him a full penetrating look, and then
took his hand in both hers, pressed it to her breast, looked up to
heaven, and softly whispered, " God has decided."

Satisfied with the decision, I blessed my son and daughter,
who embraced each other. There was a solemn silence, and all
eyes were wet with a pleasing emotion.

Suddenly the lively Polly sprung up, laughing* through her
tears, and flinging herself on my neck, she cried, " There ! now
we have it ! The New-Year's gift — a gift better than a bishop's
mitre."

The vivacity of Polly awoke little Alfred.

It is in vain for me to continue the description of what oc-
curred during this happy day. I am continually interrupted ;
my happy heart, full to overflowing, is thankful to God for all
his goodness.*

* This singularly touching narrative of certain passages in the life of a
poor vicar in Wiltshire, is translated from the German of Zchokke, who
took it from a fugitive sketch that appeared in England from seventy to
eighty years ago, and which probably gave Goldsmith the first hint
towards his Vicar of Wakefield. The present translation from Zchokke,
vrho has improved considerably on the original, is (some emendations
excepted) by an American WTiter, by whom it was contributed to " The
Gift" for 1844, published by Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. To disarm
prejudice, it is necessary to add, that no vicar or curate can be exposed
in the present day to hardships so great as those endured by the hero
of the piece ; and we hope that men of the Dr Snarl species are nov
extinct.

8S

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

A PARISIAN STORY.

Every nation possesses prejudices respecting* its neig-libours.
A prejudice is an opinion formed without having" in the first
place acquired a sufficient body of facts whereon to form a
correct judg-ment. The French entertain some strang-e prejudices
respecting" the English ; they consider them to be generally a
coarse, overbearing", money-making", and sensual people, without
taste or delicacy of feeling". The English, with equal injustice
and ignorance of facts, are in the ' bit of considering the
French, universally, to be silly, frivolous, and deceitful, with
the additional misfortune of being very poor and very idle.
Anxious to correct all such wrong impressions, which tend to
foster national animosities, we shall tell a little story respecting
a young Frenchwoman, whose character for industry, good
sense, and benevolence, whilst no way singular in her own
country, could not be excelled in ours.

The name of our humble heroine was Blanche Raymond,
and her occupation was that of a washerwoman in one of
the large barges which are moored, for the convenience of
her class, within the margin of the Seine. At boats of this
kind, all the laundry washmg of Paris is performed — the clear
water of the river as it runs past, with a piece of soap, and a
mallet to beat the clothes, being the sole means of purification.
The labour is considerable, and the payment for it small, yet no
women are more cheerful than these laundresses. Exposed at
all seasons to perpetual damp, which saturates their garments, and
prematurely stiiFens their limbs, they still preserve their national
vivacity, which finds vent in many a song ; and, in a spirit of
cordial fellowship, sympathise with each other in prosperity or
adversity. Earning on an average little more than two francs,
or twentypence daily, they nevertheless agree to set aside rather
more than twopence out of that sum towards a fund for unfore-
seen calamities, and, above all, to prevent any of their number,
who may be laid aside by illness, from being reduced to seek
other relief. The greater part of them are married women with
families.

Unromantic as is the occupation of these women, yet incidents
occur among them, as in every other class of society, however
humble, of the most interesting and pathetic kind. This was well
illustrated in the life of our heroine, Blanche Raymond. Blanche
was no more than tAventy-three years of age, endowed with a fine
open smiling countenance, great strength of body, and uncommon

26

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

cleverness of hand. She had lost her mother some time before,
and being now the only stay of her old blind father, a super-
annuated labourer on the quay, she had to work double-tides for
their joint support ; though the old man, by earning- a few pence
daily by weaving* nets, was saved the feeling of being altogether
a burden on his child.

There was a nobleness in Blanche's conduct towards her poor
old father, that mounted like a brilliant star above the ordinary
circumstances of her condition. After preparing her father's
breakfast, at his lodgings opposite the stairs in the quay leading
to her boat, she went down to it at seven o'clock every morning",
came home at noon to give the poor blind man his dinner,
and then back to work for the rest of the day. Returning
at its close to her humble hearth, where cleanliness and com-
fort reigned, she would take out her old father for an hour's
walk on the quay, and keep him merry by recounting all the
gossip of the boat ; not forgetting' the attempts at flirtation
carried on with herself by certain workmen in a mermo
manufactory, whose pressing-machine immediately adjoined the
laundress's bark, and who never failed, in going to and fro
twenty times a-day, to fling passing compliments at the lelle
blanchisseuse (pretty laundress). The cheerful old man would
re-echo the light-hearted laugh with which those tales were
told ; but following" them up with the soberer counsels of expe-
rience over the closing meal of the day, then fall gently
asleep amid the cares and caresses of the most dutiful of
daughters.

Three yeai'^ had rolled away since her mother's death, and
Blanche, happily engrossed between her occupation abroad and
her flllial duties at home, had found no leisure to listen to tales
of love. There was, however, among the young" merino-dressers
a tall fine handsome fellow, named Victor, on whose open coun-
tenance were written dispositions corresponding to those of his
fair neighbour ; whom, instead of annoying with idle familiari-
ties, he gradually won upon, by respectable civility towards
herself, and still more by kind inquiries after her good old
father.

By degrees he took upon him to watch the time when she
might be toiling, heavily laden, up the steep slippery steps ; and
by coming just behind her, would slyly ease her of more than
half her burden. On parting at the door of one of the great
pubhc laundry establishments (where the work begun on the
river is afterwards completed), he would leave her with the
hopeful salutation, in which more was meant than met the ear,
of, " Good-by, Blanche, till we meet again."

Such persevering attentions could hardly be repaid with in-
difference ; and Blanche was of too kindly a nature to remain
immoved by them. But while she candidly acknowledged the
impression they had made on her heart, and that it was one

27

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

which she would cany to her grave, she with equal honesty
declared that she could allow no attachment to another to
come between her and her devotedness to her blind father.
"And why should it, dear Blanche?" was the young man's
rejoinder; "surely two of us can do more for his happiness
than one. I lost my own father when a child, and it will be
quite a pleasure to me to have some one I can call so. In
marrying" me, you will only g-ive the old man the most dutiful
of sons."

" Ah, but I should give myself a master, who would claim and
engross the greatest part of my love, for I know I should so
love you, Victor ! And if we had a family, the poor dear old
man would come to have but the third place in my heart,
after having it all to himself so long! He would find it
out, blind as he is, though he would never complain; but it
would make him miserable. No, no ; don't talk to me of
marrying as long as he lives, or tempt me with thoughts of a
happiness which I have quite enough to do to forego. Let
poor Blanche fulfil the task God has given her to perform ; and
don't lure her by your honied words to forget her most sacred
duty ! "

Poor Blanche might well say she had enough to do to main-
tain her dutiful resolution, between the gentle importunities of
her betrothed, and the general chorus of pleadings in his favour
among her sisterhood in the boat, whom Victor's good looks and
good behaviour had converted into stanch allies, and who could
not conceive it possible to resist so handsome and so constant a
lover. Borne down by their homely remonstrances, which agreed
but too well with her own internal feelings, Blanche came at
length to confess that if she had wherewithal to set up a
finishing establishment of her own, where she could preside over
her business without losing sight of her father, she would at once
marry Victor. But the capital required for its fitting up was at
least 5000 or 6000 francs, and where was such a sum to be got,
or how saved out of her scanty wages ? Victor, however, caught
eagerly at the promise, and never lost sight of the hope it held
out of attaining his darling object.

He was able to earn five francs a-day, and had laid by some-
thing ; and the master whom he had served for ten years,
and who expressed a great regard for him, would perhaps
advance part of the sum. Then, ag'ain, the good women of
the boat, whose united yearly deposits amounted to upwards
of 9000 francs, kindly expressed their willingness to advance
out of their savings the needful for the marriage of the two
lovers. But Blanche, whilst overflowing with gratitude for
the generous offer, persisted in her resolution not to marry
till their own joint earnings should enable her to set up a
laundry.

That she worked the harder, and saved the harder to bring

28

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

this about, may easily be believed. But the race is not always
to the swift ; and the desii^ed event was thrown back by a new
calamity, which well nigh dashed her hopes to the g-round. Her
old father, who had been subjected for fifty years of a laborious
life to the damps of the river, was seized with an attack of rheu-
matic gout, which rendered him completely helpless, by depriving
him of the use of his limbs.

Here was an end at once to all his remaining sources of amuse-
ment and occupation — it might be said, to his very animated
existence ; for he was reduced to an automaton, moveable only
at the will and by the help of others. He had now not only to
be di'essed and fed like a new-born infant, but to be kept from
brooding over his state of anticipated death by cheerful conver-
sation, by news from the armies, by words of consolation and
reading more precious still, in all which Blanche was fortunately
an adept. The old man now remained in bed till nine, when
Blanche regularly left the boat, took him up, set him in his old
arm-chair, gave him his breakfast, and snatching a crust of
bread for herself, ran back to her work till two o'clock ; then she
might be seen climbing up the long steps, and running breath-
less with haste to cheer and comfort the old man with the meal
of warm soup, so dear to a Frenchman's heart. Unwilling as
she was to leave him, his very necessities kept her at work till
a late hour, when, with her hard won earnings in her hand,
she would seek her infirm charge, and fall on a thousand devices
to amuse and console him, till sleep stole at length on eyelids
long strangers to the light of day.

One morning, on coming home as usual, Blanche found her
dear invalid already up and di'essed, and seated in his elbow-
chair ; and on inquiring to whom she was indebted for so pleas-
ing a surprise, the old man, with a mysterious smile, said he was
sworn to secrecy. But his daughter was not long in learning
that it was her betrothed, who, happy thus to anticipate her
wishes and cares, had prevailed on his master so to alter his own
breakfast hour, as to enable him to devote the greater j)art of it
to this pious office. Straight to her heart as this considerate
kindness went, it fell short of what she experienced when, on
coming* home some days after, she found her dear father not only
up, but in a medicated bath, administered by Victor, under the
directions of a skilful doctor he had brought to visit the patient.
At sight of this, Blanche's tears flowed fast and freely ; and
seizing" on her betrothed's hands, which she held to her heart,
she exclaimed — " Never can I repay what you have done for
me !" " Nay, Blanche," was the gentle answer, " you have but
to say one word, and the debt is overpaid."

That word ! few but would have spoken it, backed, as the
modest appeal was, by the pleadings of the ally within, and the
openly -avowed concurrence of old Raymond in the wish so dear
to both. Let none despise the struggles of the poor working girl

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

to withstand at once a father and a lover ! to set at noug-ht, for
the first. time, an authority never before disputed, and defy the
power of a love so deeply founded on g-ratitude ! In spite of
them all, filial duty still came off conqueror. Blanche summoned
all the energies of a truly heroic mind, to declare that not even
the happiness of belonging- to the very best man she had ever
heard of in her life, could induce her to sacrifice the tender ties
of nature. The more her father's mfii'mities increased, the more
dependent he would become on his daug-hter. What to her was
a pleasure, could, she argued, to him be only a burdensome and
painful task ; in a word, her resolution was not to be shaken.
Victor was therefore obliged to submit, even when (from a deli-
cacy which would but incur obligations on which claims might
be founded, too difficult, if not impossible, to resist) Blanche
insisted on defraying, from her own resources, the expense of
the medicated baths, thus putting more hopelessly far off than
ever the long-deferred wedding.

She had not the heart, however, to deny Victor the privilege
of putting the patient into the healing waters, which seemed
daily to mitigate his pains, and lend his limbs more agility.
While her father was at the worst, Blanche had been obliged
altogether to forego the river, and obtain from her employer
permission to do what she could in the way of her vocation at
home. But when, on his amendment, she resumed her out-
of-door labour, a circumstance occurred, so very honourable
to the class of workwomen we are commemorating, to theii*
mutual attachment, and honest feelings of benevolence, that
to leave it untold would be doing them and the subject great
injustice.

With the motives for enhanced industry which Blanche had
to spur her on, that she should be first at the opening of the
boat, with her daily load of allotted labour, will be little matter
of surprise ; or that her good-natured companions, knowing the
necessity for exertion on her part, should abstain from wasting
her precious time by any of their little tricks and gossip. But
one morning, when, from her father having been ill all night,
she had arrived at work unusually late, and had consequently,
when the hour of noon struck, left the greater part of her task
(which had often detained her till night set in) unfinished, it
was nevertheless accomplished, as if by magic, within the usual
time, and her day's earnings, instead of being diminished, rather
increased.

Next day, and the next, their amount was the same, till the
grateful girl, suspecting to what she owed so unforeseen a result,
and concealing herself behind the parapet of the quay, ascer-
tained, by ocular demonstration, that, during her necessary
absence, her place at the river was regularly occupied by one
or other of her neighbours, who took it in turn to give up the
hour of rest, that poor Blanche might be no loser by her filial

30

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

duty, as not one of those worthy women would foreg-o her share
in this token of goodwill to the best and most respected of
dauo;hters.

Blanche, thoug-h affected and flattered, as may well be believed,
by this novel sort of contribution, was led, by a delicacy of feel-
ing- beyond her station, to seem ignorant of it, till the addi-
tional funds thus procured had enabled her to effect the com-
plete cure of her father, whom she then informed of the means
by which it had been purcha,sed, and eagerly led the recruited
invalid to reward, better than she could do, her generous com-
panions.

Amid the hand-shakings and congratulations which marked
this happy meeting, Victor, we may be sure, was not behind-
hand ; only, he managed to whisper amid the general tide of
joy, " Am I to be the only one you have not made happy
to-day?" Too much agitated to be able to answer, Blanche
only held the faster by her father's arm.

Among the laundresses of the barges there is a custom of
choosing annually one of their number, whom they style their
queen, to preside over their festivities, and decide disputed points
in the community. Mid-Lent, the season for appointing the
queen of the boat, arrived, and Blanche was duly elected at the
fete always given on the occasion. The boat was gaily di*essed
up with ship's colours, and a profusion of early spring flowers ;
and all were as happy as possible. In England, on the occasion
of any appointment like that with which filanche was endowed,
there would be no kind of ceremony, and no ornaments would
be employed ; but it is doubtful whether we are any the better
for thus despising a tasteful and joyous way of performing a
gracious and useful public act. Be this as it may, the barge of
the laundresses was, as we have said, gaily decorated, and there
was to be a species of ceremonial at the installation of Blanche.

What a happy moment it was for the good daughter — how
much more happy for the aged father of such a daughter. Old
Raymond, firmer on his limbs than ever, led on his blushing-
daughter, and had the welcome office assigned him of placing"
on her head the rosy crown — a task which his trembling fingers
could scarcely accomplish. After having called down on the
head of the autiful girl, whom he half smothered with kisses,
the best blessings of heaven, he left her to receive the felicita-
tions of her new subjects, among whom the disconsolate Victor
was again heard to exclaim, " So I am still to be the only one
you wont make happy ! "

The melancholy words proved too potent for the softened
feelings of Blanche's honest neighbours, particularly the one
whose heart it was of most consequence to touch ; namely, the
mistress of the laundry establishment, who, having lono* had
thoughts of retiring, freely offered her the business whenever
she should be able to muster 5000 fi'ancs.

31

BLANCHE RAYMOND.

"Oh!" cried Victor, "I have already a fourth of it, and I'll
engage my master will advance the rest."

" It is not to be thought of ; it would be a debt we could never
repay," cried the upright Blanche ; " we never should be able to
make up so larg-e a sum."

" Pardon, mademoiselle," replied an elderly gentleman of
venerable appearance, who had, unobserved, mingled as a specta-
tor in the scene, " you will now have the means of paying it
with the prize of 5000 francs left for the reward of virtue in
humble life by the late M. Monthyon, and awarded to you by the
French Academy, at the representations of the mayor or the
eighth arrondissement of Paris. The mayor, it is jjleasing to
know, has become acquainted with your excellent filial devotion
from the laundresses of the city now assembled."

A shout of joy burst from all around ; and that which followed
may be left to the imagination. It will suffice to state that
Blanche, simple and modest as ever, could scarcely believe in the
honour she so unexpectedly received; while her surrounding
companions derived from it the lesson, that the filial piety so
decidedly inculcated and rewarded by Heaven, and equally
admirable in its effects in the cottage and the palace, does not
always go unrewarded on earth.

Restored Figure of the Dinotherium.

THE ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

EOLOGY is the science which examines and describes
■ the crust of the earth. It is almost of yesterday ; yet
'it has ah'eady made some most remarkable additions
to the stock of human knowledg-e. It has, for one
^ thing-, g-iven us a view of the earth's history during- a
',M. long' period, while as yet no human being's lived upon it.
>Q^ The facts of this history are extremely curious and inte-
resting". It appears that the space of time occupied by it was
vast beyond all that could have been supposed ; that during*
this time the surface of the earth imderwent many changes —
beds of rock being- formed at the bottoms of seas, other rocks
thrown up by subterranean forces, hills and valleys formed, and
sea and land frequently changed the one for the other ; also, and
most wonderful of all, that while these operations were going'
on, there rose a succession of animals, beginning- with those of
simplest form, and advancing to others of higher character, until
those nearest to the human figure appeared ; these animals, how-
ever, being of different sjDecies from any which now exist. All
of these facts have been ascertained by investigating the rocks
which compose the earth's crust, in which are found the remains,
TCo. 18. I

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

more or less perfectly preserved, of the animals in question, a»
well as of a similar succession of plants ; the order of the exist-
ence of both animals and plants being: established by an order
which is ascertained with regard to the age of the rocks, the oldest
of which are of course placed undermost, and the newest next the
surface. It is surely very interesting- to reflect on the manner
in which this history has been compiled ; not, as histories usually
are, from old family and state documents, from medals or monu-
ments, but from particulars placed before us, as it were, by
nature, that we might first observe and then reflect upon and
make inferences from them. And such is the character of this
evidence, that many of the facts of the reign of George III. are
less clearly ascertained than are some of the events which took
place thousands of years before the existence of the human race.
It was at first thought by some that these curious revelations of
science militated against the account of creation given by Moses
in the book of Genesis ; but this supposition is now generally
dismissed, and a very prevalent conviction exists, that there is
nothing in the one history to interfere with a becoming reverence
for the other.

The remains of the early animals and plants — called fossils, as
being dug (Latin, fossns, dug) out of the earth — are found in
various conditions ; sometimes what was once a coral, for in-
stance, is still a coral, the original hard substance being entirely
preserved ; sometimes the original substance has been with-
drawn particle by particle, and replaced by silex or some other
mineral substance, but without the slightest change of form ;
on other occasions there is merely an impression of the original
plant or animal, but this is in general as useful to the geo-
logist as if the primitive substance remained. " In a word,
there is no limit to the number and variety of these remains of
animal and vegetable existence. At one time we see before us,
extracted from a solid mass of rock, a model of the softest, most
delicate, and least easily preserved parts of animal structure ; at
another time, the actual bones, teeth, and scales, scarcely altered
from their condition in the living animal. The very skin, the
eye, the foot-prints of the creature in the mud, and the food that
it was dig-esting at the time of its death, to»-ether with those
portions that had been separated by the digestive organs as con-
taining" no further nutriment, are all as clearly exhibited as if
death had within a few hours performed its commission, and all
had been instantly prepared for our investigation. "We find the
remains of fish so perfect, that not one bone, not one scale, is out
of place or wanting, and others in the same bed presenting only
the outline of a st^eleton, or various disjointed fragments. We
have insects, the delicate nervures of whose wings are permanently
impressed upon the stone in which they are imbedded ; and we
see, occasionally, shells not merely retainino- their shape, but
perpetuating their very colours — the most fleeting, one would

2

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

think, of all characteristics — and offering' evidence of the brilliancy
and beauty of creation at a time when man was not yet an in-
habitant of the earth, and there seemed no one to appreciate
beauties which we are, perhaps, too apt to think were called into
existence only for our admiration." *

ROCK SYSTEMS.

Considering- the Geological Record as a history of the world
previous to the existence of Man, our first task is to divide it
into ages or eras, so that we may have, as it were, a chronology
for it ; for of course we can here have no reckoning by years, as
we have in ordinary history. This can be conveniently done by
a consideration of the various rock systems which constitute the
crust of the earth ; each set or system being chiefly composed of
some distinguishing material, as chalk, red sandstone, coal, slate,
&c. and at the same time containing different remains of plants
and animals. These systems, therefore, form a chronological
table, to which we refer the various plants and animals which we
wish to describe, as well as any other circumstances which may
be thought worthy of notice. They are named as follows : —
1. Gneiss System. 2. Mica-Schist System. 3. Clay-Slate
System. 4. Grauwacke System. 5. Silurian System.
6. Old Red Sandstone System. 7. Carboniferous Sys-
tem. 8. New Red Sandstone System. 9. Oolitic System.
10. Chalk System. 11. Tertiary System. 12. Super-
ficial Deposits. Each of these systems, consisting of many
beds of rock, may be fairly said to represent a space of time ;
for each must have required a certain time to be formed, and,
from palpable appearances, that time was in all instances of long"
duration. The whole of these eras being put together, would
of course make up one enormous space ; and yet it is but a part,
though a large one, of the earth's entire history. Before the
laying down of the Gneiss System, or first stratified rocks, there
is no saying how long the globe had existed. There has also
been a space of time since the termination of the rock systems ;
and during this time all the present tribes of plants and animals
have come into existence, and have gone through various stages
of progress.

The first great fact respecting the earth in what we may call
the geological ages is, that, as far as we can see, it was, in its main
features, such a world as we find it to be in our own time. It
consisted of sea and land ; there were an atmosphere and light ;
and animals lived and died, many of them preying upon each
other, as they now do. Rains, winds, and I'ivers, operated then,
as now, in wearing down the land, and forming out of the ma-
terials new strata in the bottom of the sea. The operations by
which mountain ranges were formed, lavas distributed, and dis-

* Ansted's Geology, i. 53.

HOMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

turbances effected in the stratified rocks, were in like manner
identical in character with the effects of volcanoes in the present
day. There were indeed some differences, thoug-h not such as to
affect the general case. For example, the seas in the earliest ag-es
were much more extensive than they are now : this is inferred
from the vast extent of surface at present occupied by these
rocks, which evidently required equally extensive seas for their
deposition. It is also evident, from the character of these
ancient rocks, that a much higher temperature existed at the
time of their formation than what is now experienced upon
earth ; and it further appears at a later time, that a heat now
confined to the tropics was then diffused into medium and even
polar latitudes. Still, as has been said, the world was in the
main such as it now is. And of this, the memorials are in
some instances extremely curious. We find, for example, ex-
tensive surfaces of strata in quarries marked by the same little
wavy ridges which may at this day be seen on any sandy
beach after the ebb of tide. These were formed exactly as such
wavy ridges are now formed. What is now a platform of
hard rock was originally a sandy beach, along which the sea
rose and fell imder the influence of tides. A peculiar gentle
agitation of the water when it was shallow, produced the ripple-
marli there, as it still produces it on the shores of our seas.
The surface so marked being hardened before the next tide,
a quantity of new sand broug-ht over it did not obliterate the
marks, but merely covered them, and formed a new layer
above. Now this new layer might of course be expected to be
marked underneath by the wavy ridges of the subjacent layer;
and such is actually the case. Quarrymen, digging up sandstone
formed unnumbered ages ag'o, find upper layers invariably pre-
senting perfect casts of the rippled surface on which they rest.
More than this — one may often remark, as he walks after a
shower along a sandy beach, that the drops of rain have pitted
it all over with little holes, each having the sand raised like the
lips of a cup around it. Now these holes have likewise been
observed upon ripple-marked rock-surfaces in quarries, being" of
course the memorials of showers which fell immediately after the
sand now forming the rock was laid down in a soft state. Nor
is this all — for in some of these rock-surfaces, the hollows being
found to have their lips raised higher on one side than the other,
as happens when rain is driven by wind in a particular direc-
tion, we have, it may be said, memorials of the wind which
Mew, and of the point of the compass from which it blew, at the
time when the rain fell upon these tablets. We have here, it
must be admitted, the most curious as well as convincing
proofs that the meteorology of the present era is analogous to
the meteorology of the inconceivably remote times under our
notice, while as yet there were no human eyes to note times and
seasons.

4

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

EARLY GEOLOGICAL AGES.

Reverting to our chronological table. It is to be observed
that the two first ages — those of the Gneiss and Mica-Schist
Systems — present us with no facts besides what have been already
hinted at ; namely, the vast expanse of the seas, and the preva-
lence of a temperature far higher than any now known upon
the surface of the earth. We have no memorials of any plants
or animals having existed in these ages. Perhaps the globe was
not yet fit to be a theatre of life ; or it may be that some humble
forms of both the vegetable and animal kingdoms existed, but
have, from various causes, left no remains to testify the fact.
However this may be, it is not till the next age — that of the
Clay-Slate System — that we have any certain memorials of orgar

1. Astrea ; 2. Turbinolia Fungites ; 3. Terebratula Risca ; 4. Leptaena Lata ; 5. Ac- '
tinocrinites ; 6. Euomphalus Rugosus; 7- Asaphus de Buchii; 8. Asaphus Tubercu-
latus ; 9. Calymene Blumenbacliii ; 9a. Side view of Calymene while rolled up.

nisation and life. We then find traces of a few species of such
animals as still inhabit our seas — corals and molluscs (the latter
being what are commonly, but erroneously, called shell-fish) — but
all of which have long ceased to exist as species. No traces c-f

5

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

land animals of any kind are now discovered, nor for several ag-es
after ; and we may hence presume that the sea was the first field
of life upon our globe.

In the Grauwacke ag'e, besides the above classes of animals in
greater variety of species, we have the addition of Crustaceans,
a class of higher organisation, being that to which the shrimp,
cray-fish, and crab of the present seas belong*. In the next age
(Silurian) the species of all these become still more numerous, and
annulose animals and fish are added. Here also are obtained the
first traces of vegetation, in the form of sea-weeds, horse-tails,
and ferns, the two last being teiTestrial plants. There is also a
remarkable addition in the Crinoidea, a family belonging to a
humble section of the animal kingdom, yet of very remarkable
structure. The principal animal forms of the Silurian age are
represented on the preceding page ; No. 1 and 2 being corals ;
3 and 4 double-shelled molluscs ; 5, a crinoid ; 6, a single-valved
mollusc ; 7, 8, and 9, trilobites 1 and 9a, the same as 9, but rolled
up at rest. As some interest must naturally attach to creatures
which are undoubtedly amongst the first which existed on this
planet, we shall here pause a little in our general narration, in
order to give a more particular description of some of them.

THE TRILOBITES.

The trilobite — so called from its three-lobed appearance — is a
type of being extremely abundant in the seas of the Grauwacke
and a few subsequent ages, yet long extinct in all its various
species, and hardly represented by any existing animal, the only
one approaching to it being the serolis. "The trilobite was
a true (that is, perfectly developed) crustacean, covered with
shelly plates, terminating variously behind in a flexible extre-
mity, and furnished with a head-piece composed of larger plates,
and fitted with eyes of a very complicated structure. It is
supposed by some to have made its way through the water by
means of soft paddles, which have not been preserved; and
by others merely to have sculled itself forward by the aid of
its flexible extremity. Of its various organs, the most inte-
resting^ is the eye, of which several specimens have been obtained
in a very perfect state. This organ, according to fossil anato-
mists, is formed of 400 spherical lenses in separate compartments,
on the surface of a cornea projecting conically upwards, so that
the animal, in its usual place at the bottom of waters, could see
everything around. As there are tv/o eyes, one of the sides of
each would have been useless, as it could only look across to meet
the vision of the other ; but on the inner side there are no lenses,
that nothing may, in accordance with a principle observable
throughout nature, be thrown away. It is found that in the
serolis, the surviving kindred animal, the eyes are constructed on
exactly the same principle, except that they are not so high — a
necessary difference, as the back of the serolis is lower, and pre-

6

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

sents less obstruction to tlie creature's vision."* Philosophers
have I'emarked with delig'hted surprise the evidence afforded by
the eye of the trilobite, that the air and light were generally the
same in the early ag-es of the earth as now, and that the sea must
have been as pure. If the water had been constantly turbid or
chaotic, a creature destined to live at the bottom of the sea would
have had no use for such delicate visual org-ans. " With regard
to the atmosphere," says Dr Buckland, " we infer that, had it
differed materially from its actual condition, it might have so far
affected the rays of light, that a corresponding difference from
the eyes of existing crustaceans would have been found in the
organs on which the impressions of such rays were then received.
Regarding light itself also, we learn, from the
resemblance of these most ancient org-anisations
to existing eyes, that the mutual relations of
light to the eye, and of the eye to light, were the
same at the time when crustaceans, endowed
with the faculty of vision, were placed at the
bottom of the primeval seas, as at the present
moment."

CRINOIDEA.

The crinoidea, which reached their zenith in
abundance of individuals and species during
the subsequent age, and afterwards, like the
trilobites, became extinct, were animals of a
humble class, consisting generally of a stalk
fixed at the lower end to the sea-bottom, and
bearing at the other a cup-like body, with a
mouth in the centre, and numerous tentacula
or arms branching* in all directions for the
seizure of prey. The stalk and tentacula were
composed of innumerable small plates of calca-
reous or bony substance, connected by a mus-
cular integument, so as to be capable of bend-
ing in all directions, and likewise, as some sup-
pose, covered with a gelatinous coating. The
bones of the stalk, perforated for an internal
canal, are of different form in different species,
some being round, and some angular, and at
intervals there are some of g-reater thickness, all
being- beautifully marked and nicely adjusted to
each other. In the accompanying drawing of a
crinoidean (the Encrinites Moniliformis, or neck-
lace-shaped encrinite), the stalk is abridged to
much less than the usual length, for the sake of convenience,
and the arms are represented as closed. As many as 26,000

w

* Page's Geology — Chambers's Educational Course.

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

bones have been reckoned to go to tbe composition of a sinsrie
animal of this kind; and some of the family are supposedto
have had many more. The bottom of a sea, tilled with a number
of such animals, yielding- to its every current and impulse, and
each spreading about its far-reaching arms for prey, must have
been a striking sight — a vast field of tulips, waving in the wind,
being" the only idea we can form at all approaching to it. Frag-
ments and single bones of the crinoidea are found in vast quan-
tities in early rocks, forming in some places the principal por-
tion of masses a hundred and twenty feet thick ; and marble
mantel-pieces, in which these fragments appear in all attitudes
and forms, are common in this country. The single wheel-like
bones of the stalk are also gathered in abundance on some
sea-beaches, and strung up as beads. In the northern parts of
England they are called St Cuthbert's beads, and connected
with a popular superstition.

On a rock by Lindisfarn
Saint Cutlibert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name. — Marmion.

THE CEPHALOPODS.

In these early ages, as in the present day, the mollusca (shell-
fish) formed a conspicuous portion of animated nature. The
species, however, have been repeatedly changed in the course of
time. The most abundant order in the early ages was that of
JBracliiopoda, a set of creatures living in bivalve shells, and pos-
sessing two org-ans, somewhat like arms, with which to catch
prey. They are supposed to have been "the scavengers of
ancient seas, living upon such fragments of animal matter as
found their way to the great depths." But the most remarkable
molluscs of those ages were the Cephalopoda, an order occupying
univalve shells, and so high in org-anisation as usually to possess
an internal bony skeleton. Of this order there are still repre-
sentatives in our seas ; but in ancient times, they seem to have
been far more abundant both in species and in individuals, acting
then as the butchers of the marine animal -world, to restrain
within due bounds the redundant life of which nature is ever so
prodigal. The most remarkable species of the early ages were
those termed nautili and ammonites. The existing nautilus has
enabled geologists to arrive at a very clear understanding of the
economy of the cephalopoda of ancient times, of which the shells
are now almost the sole remains.

The cephalopoda possessed a body resembling a closed bag,
containing a heart, stomach, and other organs, and furnished
with a head and prominent eyes, as also a number of long arms
or tentacula, which at once served for the locomotion of the
animal, and for the seizure of its prey. The arms were each
provided with a double row of suckers, which enabled it to take

8

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

a firm liold of smaller animals, and convey them to its mouth,
which was armed with a joair of strong- horny mandibles or nippers,
not unlike the beak of a parrot. The cephalopod lodg'ed in a
shell, straig-ht or curved, consisting- of a series of air-chambers,
terminating' in an outer one which was more particularly the
residence of the animal. It formed these chambers one after
another in the course of its life, according* as they were needed
for the purpose to which nature had destined them. This pur-
pose was to enable the animal to float in the water. The reader
may be reminded that the principle on which floating- in water
depends is, that more water must be displaced than would weigh
the same as the article or object displacing- it. A life-boat is
made incapable of sinking", by having- empty copper boxes dis-
tributed within its structure, these, with the wood, displacing'
more water than is equal to the weight of the whole vessel. Now,
the air-chambers in the ammonite or nautilus are like the copper
boxes of the life-boat ; they displace a certain quantity of water.
But the creature required to be able to rise and sink in the water
at pleasure ; therefore something- more was needed. The end is
supposed to have been served in two ways. Down through the
centre or side of the series of air-chambers, but not communi-
cating- with them, there was an elastic pipe, called the sij)huncle
(represented in No. 2), the upper extremity of which was con-
nected with the cavity of the animal's heart. This cavity was
in g-eneral filled with a dense fluid, which partly filled the
siphuncle, the remainder being- occupied by air. It may easily

1. Ammonites obtusus ; 2. Section of ammonites obtusus, showing the interior
chambers and siphuncle ; 3. Ammonites nodosus.

he seen how this arrangement acted. Whenever the animal, for
any reason, whether to escape danger or in search of prey,
wished to sink, it contracted itself into the outer chamber,
thus pressing the fluid of its heart into the siphuncle, and re-
ducing the space occupied by the air, at the same time that the
gravity of its body was increased by its displacing less water.
Accordingly, being then heavier than the surrounding medium,
it sunk. When, again, it wished to rise, it had only to dilate its
body and arms, and allow the air in the siphuncle to expand
to its usual space, when, becoming lighter than the surround-

L 9

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

ing" element, it necessarily ascended. Some species of this order
of molluscs were also provided with a hag- containing" an inky
secretion, which they could express upon occasion, so as to
muddle the surrounding* water, and thus conceal themselvess
from enemies. In one case, the fossil ink-bag* has been found
in such a state of preservation, that a portion of the miner-
alised fluid, being' pounded down and properly prepared,
actually served an artist as a pigment with which to furnish a
drawing- of the animal itself. It is certainly curious to reflect
on all these particulars being* ascertained in modern times re-
specting species which have been extinct for numberless ag-es.
The ammonites and nautili of the early ag-es were of all sizes,
from one very minute, to two or three feet in the diameter
of the shell. The ammonite (Nos. 1 and 3) has been so called
from its resemblance to the coiled horn on the head of the
ancient statues of Jupiter Ammon. One had been obtained
by the poet Pope, at a time when their history was totally
unknown, and stuck up as a curiosity over the keystone of
one of the arches g-iving" access to his g'rotto at Twickenham ;
while the other entrance was in like manner ornamented by the
cast of the same fossil. Surely poet never dreamed of any-
thing more marvellous or interesting than the actual history
of this primeval cephalopod. But we have not yet told all the
wonders of the ammonite. As creatures of this kind required to
go down to great depths in the ocean, the plates of the air-
chamber were of course liable to be burst in by the pressure of
the water, as happens to common bottles when they are lowered
deep into the sea. All this had been foreseen. The shell of the
cephalopoda was therefore strengthened by a curious kind of
internal archwork, so as to be able to resist the weight of the
incumbent fluid. " This archwork so completely meets all human
ideas of contrivance for the purpose which it was destined to
serve, as to form one of the most striking examples of that adap-
tation of means to ends which prevails throughout the works of
nature, and which is so well fitted to impress the conviction of a
great designing First Cause."

" In the open seas in wliich the earliest strata were being de-
posited, we may picture to ourselves these large cephalopodous
molluscs reigning paramount, the tyrants of creation ; enabled,
by their rapidity of movement, to chase their prey at the surface ;
b}'- their curious hydraulic contrivance, to pursue it to the depths
of the ocean ; and by their numerous arms and great strength, to
conquer and bring it within the grasp of their powerful jaws.
The recent animals of this class are so fierce, that, even in our
own seas, where they occupy a place comparatively unimportant,
they rank amongst the most destructive species, in proportion
to their dimensions ; for ^ if once they touch their prey it
is enough : neither swiftness nor strength can avail ; the shell
of the lobster and crab is a vain protection, and even animals

10

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

many times their size have been soon disabled in their powerful
and pertinacious grasp.'"* These animals ceased about the
commencement of the Tertiary ag-e, but were then replaced by
Trachelipods, which served the same purpose of keeping down
the teeming minor population of the sea. The Trachelipods were
furnished with an armed membrane, by means of which they
could bore through the shells of bivalves, and suck out the body
of the animal within ; and numerous fossil shells, so bored, are
found in the Tertiary strata. It would appear that there was no
time when this principle did not exist; there have ever been
some tribes whose obviously designed function it was to destroy
for food large quantities of the smaller animals.

EARLY -FISHES.

The next age (Old Red Sandstone) gives us notice of tremen-
dous volcanic disturbances which broke up many rocks, and per-
haps had fatal effects upon many of the previously existing
species, which then disappear, and are no more seen. In the
course, however, of this age, fishes, which had begun to appear
in the preceding- period, become abundant. The fish of these
early ages, and of the subsequent periods down to the Chalk Era,
were not of the character which is now predominant. They
have been divided into two orders, to which names have been
g'iven, bearing reference to their external covering, this being
always a guide to the general character of fishes. One extensive
order, PiacoicUans, are so called from the Greek, plax, a broad
plate 5 being' covered with plates, often of considerable dimen-
sions, but sometimes reduced to small points, like the shagreen
on the skin of the shark, and the prickly tubercles of the ray.
The sharks, rays, and other cartilaginous fishes of the present
seas are representatives of this order. The other order are called
Ganoidians, from the Greek, ganos, splendour, because of the
brilliancy of the regularly arranged angular scales, composed of
bone within and enamel without, by which the animals were
covered. Of this order, once so extensive, we have now no repre-
sentatives except the sturgeon and the bony pike of the North
American lakes.

Some of the simpler Ganoids are allied, in form to the crus-
taceans, and may be considered as an advance upon that order.
The plates covering their bodies are composed of bone within
and enamel on the outside; and the mouths of several of the
species have been ascertained to open vertically, in which respect
they differ from ordinary fishes (in which the mouth opens
horizontally), but resemble the crab and lobster. One species,
the Cephalaspis, so called from its buckler-shaped head, bears a
striking resemblance to the asaphus, a crustacean of the Silurian
age. The head was of great size, composed of strong plates, which

* Ansted's Geology.

11

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

and it is thoug'ht

came to a sharp edge in the form of a crescent^ .„ ^

that the horns of the crescent were jDrobably used as weapons of
defence. Next to this fish comes the Coccosteus, which Mr
Hiig-h Miller describes as " a Cephalaspis with a scale-covered
tail attached, and the horns of the crescent-shaped head cut off."

Cephalaspis.

Coccosteus.

Pterichthys.

The plates of the Coccosteus have berry-like tubercles or promi-
nences ; hence the name g'iven to the animal. It has the vertical
arrang-ement of the mouth ; and its teeth, instead of being"
detached org-ans set in the jaw, are cut out of the solid bone in
the manner of the teeth of a saw ; this likewise being' a peculiarity
of the Crustacea.

The Pterichthys, of which seven species are known, resembles
the Coccosteus, but with the remarkable addition of two wing--
like appendages (hence the name of the animal), which were
probably fins or paddles for locomotion, and are also supposed,
from their curved and sharp terminations, to have been used
occasionally as weapons of defence. The Holoptychius was be-
tween two and three Teet long;, of flounder-like shape, and had
its head and body covered with large bony scales, curiously
furrowed on the surface. In the Osteolepis and Glyptolepis,
•other Ganoid fishes, we find a considerable advance of form, the
g-eneral figure being like that of modern fishes, with the fins
well developed.

One of the families of the Ganoidians, the Smiroides, are so
called, because in structure they make an approach to the next
higher class of animals, the Reptiles. The Megalichthys is a
sauroid fish, of which remains were first found in Burdiehouse
limestone quarry near Edinburgh. It must have been a huge

12

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

creature ; for some of its scales are five inches in diameter, and
one of its teetli measures four inches in length, with a breadth at
the base of nearly two inches. One curious peculiarity has been
remarked in the tails of both Placoids and Ganoids. In that
organ the vertebral column is continued to the extremity, and
the tail may be said to be a fin extending* from it downwards,
as seen in the existing* shark and dog-fish. This is called the
heterocercal, or one-sided tail. The Placoid and Ganoid fishes
alone reigned down to the Chalk ag'e. They then, in a great
measure, gave way to the two superior orders which now exist,
called by M. Agassiz the Ctenoid and Cycloid orders, from the
form of their respective scales, these being in the one case jagged
at the outer margin like the teeth of a comb, as in the perch,
while in the other they are entire and circular, as in the herring.
In these orders, to which the majority of modern fishes belong,
the tail is not heterocercal, but either extends in one entire lobe,
like that of the cod, or in two equal lobes called homocercal, as
that of the salmon.

COAL.

The Carboniferous age is not remarkable on account of its
animals, which are mainly the same in general character as in
the preceding* ages ; but it was productive of a wonder peculiar
to itself, namely, an enormously abundant land vegetation, the
ruins or rubbish of which, carried into seas, and there sunk to
the bottom, and afterwards covered over by sand and mud beds,
became the substance which we now recog'nise as coal. This was
a natural transaction of vast consequence to us, seeing* how much
utility we find in coal, both for warming* our dwellings and for
various manufactures, as well as the production of steam, by
which so great a mechanical power is generated. It may natu-
rally excite surprise that the veg*etable remains should have so
completely changed their apparent character, and become black.
But this can be explained by chemistry ; and part of the marvel
becomes clear to the simplest understanding when we recall the
familiar fact, that damp hay, thrown closely into a heap, g'ives
out heat, and becomes of a dark colour. When a veg*etable mass
is excluded from the air, and subjected to great pressure, a bitu-
minous fermentation is 25roduced, and the result is the mineral
coal, w^hich is of various characters, according as the mass has
been originally intermingled with sand, clay, or other earthy im-
purities. On account of the change effected by mineralisation, it is
difficult to detect in coal the traces of a vegetable structure ; but
these can be made clear in all except the highly bituminous caking
coal, by cutting* or polishing it down into thin transparent slices,
when the microscope shows the fibres and cells very plainly.
From distinct isolated specimens found in the sandstones amidst
the coal beds, we discover the nature of the plants of this era.
They are almost all of a simple cellular structure, and such as

13

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

exist with us in small forms (horse-tails, club-mosses, and ferns),
but advanced to an enormous magnitude. The species are all long
since extinct. Amongst them were the Sigillaria, so called from
the graven appearance of its stem ; Calamites, from the reed-like
jointings of its stalk ; Stigmaria, from stigmata, or punctures ;
Lepidodendro7i, from the scaly appearance of its bark. The vege-
tation generally is such as now grows in clusters of tropical

1. Sigillaria pachyderma ; 2. Calamites cannaeformis ; 3. Stigmaria
ficoides ; 4. Lepidodendron Sternbergii.

islands ; but it must have been the result of a high temperature
obtained otherwise than that of the tropical regions now is, for
the coal strata are found in the temperate and even the polar
regions. "The conclusion, therefore, to which most geologists
have arrived is, that the earth, originally an incandescent or
highly heated mass, was gradually cooled down — hot enough to
render the early Gneiss and Mica-Schist crystalline ; cool enough
during Grauwacke and Silurian eras to permit of marine corals,
sbell-hsh, and Crustacea ; cooler still, during the life of the plated
fishes of the Old Red Sandstone ; and only sufficiently genial,
throughout the Carboniferous period, to foster a growth of terres-
trial vegetation all over its surface, to which the existing jungles
of the tropics are mere barrenness in comparison. This high and
uniform temperature, combined (as suggested by Brogniart) with
a greater proportion of carbonic acid gas in the atmosphere,
would not only sustain a gigantic and prolific vegetation, but
would also create denser vapours, showers, and rains ; and these
again gigantic rivers, periodical inundations, and deltas. Thus
all the conditions for extensive deposits of wood in estuaries
would arise from this high temperature ; and every circumstance
connected with the coal measures points to such conditions." *

SAURIAN ANIMALS.

In the New Red Sandstone age, the plants and animals of the
preceding period are continued, with the addition of some superior

14

*^ Page's Geology — Chambers's Educational Course.

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

forms; but the ve^-etation is no longer of such quantity as to
form coal beds, and the amount of animal remains is also much
diminished. Life takes, however, a new start in the Oolitic age,
and its forms continue there to make still nearer approaches to
those of the present time. Here, also, still higher forms are
added — insects are found for the fii'st time ; likewise reptiles ; but
these are at first of extraordinary form and magnitude. In the
arrangement of the Animal Kingdom, reptiles are placed next
above fishes ; that is to say, they are considered as having the
next higher or more complicated structure. Now, the new animals
of this period which we are about to speak of, are, as it were, be-
tween fishes and a certain order of the reptiles ; namely, the Sauria
or Lizards. They are huge animals, and evidently must have been
very destructive to the smaller creatures v/ithin their reach. The
Ichthyosaurus, of which there are fully ten species, slightly differ-
ing from each other (the skeleton of one being here represented),

had the body of a fish, with a long tail having a small fin below ;
the head of a crocodile exhibiting long jaws armed with strong
teeth, and a pair of eyes as larg'e as a g'ood-sized cannon ball ; the
animal had also paddles, externally like those of a tortoise, but of
a fin-like structure, for propelling itself through the water, which
formed its proper element. The Plesiosaurus was a nearer ap-
proach to the reptile form. The tail is shortened, and upon a
similar body is fitted a long neck with a small head, the latter
parts being an approach to the serpent form. Being, although
of marine habits, essentially reptiles, these animals breathed the
atmosphere ; yet, for the same reason, we know that their respi-
ration was imperfect, and that they might be for the most part
under water, and only come occasionally to the surface to breathe.
It is supposed that they lived in the shallow waters near shores,
preying- upon the smaller fish and reptiles. Some curious parti-
culars respecting these creatures have been obtained in an ex-
traordinary way ; namely, by the discovery of fragments and
half-digested remains of their food, found in the situation once
occupied by the stomach and bowels of some specimens ; the
animal in these instances having died before its last meal was
digested. Nor is this all ; for the pellets ejected from the intes-
tines of the ichthyosaurus (coprolites) have been found in vast

15

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

quantities, and in tliese are fish scales and fragments of the bones
of reptiles. From the way in which the former remains occur,
and from the peculiar form of the pellets (being* spirally twisted),
it is inferred that the large body of the ichthyosaur was almost
entirely occupied by the stomach, leaving only a little room for
" an elongated intestinal canal, consisting of a flattened tube
reduced to the smallest possible dimensions by being wound
round in a spiral, like a cork-screw."* It is believed that these
creatures were covered with a soft skin, like that of the whale
tribe. We possess the remains of a plesiosaur of seventeen, and
of an ichthyosaur of thirty feet in length. Animals so huge and
so voracious, must have been the tyrants of the seas of their
time ; but the ichthyosaur seems to have been the supreme
monster of the age, for fragments of plesiosaur bones are found
in its stomach, showing" that that animal often fell a prey to it.

After these animals come a tribe of crocodile-lizai^s (Dino-
sauria), huge creatures uniting these two characters, and pro-
bably as destructive upon land as the former were in the waters.
One in particular, to which the name of Megalosaurus has been
given, was of gigantic size — probably not less than thirty feet
long' — its large body being mounted upon much taller legs than
lizards generally have. Within a straight and narrow snout
was a range of teeth peculiarly calculated to tear flesh ; and the
whole aspect of the creature must have been extremely formid-
able. We have now seen the lizard character united to both
the fish and the crocodile. In the Pteroclactyle, it was further
shown in union with features of a diiferent kind. This is a small
animal, chiefly of the lizard form, but furnished with a membrane
framed upon the fore extremity, like the wing of a bat, by which
the creature must have been able to pursue its prey through the
air. " In external form," says Dr Buckland, " these creatures
somewhat resembled our modern bats and vampires : most of
them had the nose elongated, like the snout of a crocodile, and
armed with conical teeth. Their eyes were of enormous size,
apparently enabling them to fly by night. From their wings
projected fingers, terminated by long hooks, like the curved claw
on the thumb of the bat. These must have formed a powerful
paw, wherewith the animal was enabled to creep or climb, or
suspend itself from trees. It is probable, also, that the ptero-
dactyle had the power of swimming, which is so common in rep-
tiles. ' Thus, like Milton's fiend, qualified for all services and all
elements, the creature was a fit companion for the kindred rep-
tiles that swarmed in the seas, or crawled on the shores of a
turbulent planet.

The fiend,
O'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way.
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies. — Paradise Lost

* Ansted's Geology.
16

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

Witli flocks of such-like creatures flying- in the air, and shoals
of no less monstrous ichthyosauri and plesiosauri swarming in
the ocean, and gigantic crocodiles and tortoises crawling on the
shores of the primeval lakes and rivers, air, sea, and land must
have been strangely tenanted in those early periods of our infant
world.' " *

FOOTSTEPS ON ROCK SURFACES.

The reader has already been told that slabs of sandstone often
bear ripple marks, or wavy ridgings, indicating their having
been originally surfaces of sand along which tides rose and fell.
These tablets bear in some instances what we may call additional
inscriptions, the work of certain animals. On the surface of slabs
both of the calcareous grit and Stonesfield slate, near Oxford, and
on sandstones of the Wealden formation in Sussex and Dorset-
shire, Dr Buckland has found " perfectly preserved and petrified
castings of marine worms, at the upper extremity of holes bored
by them in the sand, while it was yet soft at the bottom of the
water, and, within the sandstones, traces of tubular holes in
which the worms resided." f Man did not exist to impress with
his foot those early beaches ; but there were other animals to
walk over them, and, as might have been anticipated, foot-prints
of some of these have been found on the surfaces of various rocks
of the formations already referred to. In the lower district of Dum-
friesshire, there are extensive beds of the new red sandstoney
which are worked in various parts of the country. At the quarry
of Corncockle Muir, near Lochmaben, the surfaces of successive
layers or slabs of this rock were observed many years ago to
bear marks as of the feet of animals ; but the phenomenon was
disregarded till, in 1827, Dr Duncan, minister of Ruthwell, pre-
sented an accurate account of it to the Royal Society of Edin-,
burgh. It appears that the beds in that quarry dip or incline at
an angle of thirty-eight degrees, a slope greater than that of any
ordinary hill. Slab after slab has been taken away to a depth
of forty-five feet ; but one after another (though not in all in-
stances) has been found marked by the tracks of animals, up and,
down the slope. These impressions are generally about half an
inch in depth, and the matter of the rock is raised round them,
exactly as clay or mud is seen raised round a foot-print of yes-
terday. The observer clearly traces the double track made by
an animal which has two legs at each side, the hind foot, of
com'se, approaching near to the fore one. The prints are about
two inches in width, and present the appearance of five claws, of
which the three in front are the most distinct. It is worthy of
remark, that the fore feet give the deepest impressions, as if the
animal had been heaviest in that quarter, and this in the ascend-

* Geological Transactions, N. S. vol. iii. part I.
f Bridgewater Treatise, i. 260.

17

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

ing as well as the descending tracks. In one case, where the
dip of the exposed surface is at an angle of forty degrees, there
are clear evidences of the foot-marks having been made upon a
surface very steep at the time of the impression, for the animal
appears to have put forward its fore feet cautiously, and inserted
them deeply and firmly ; while the marks of the hind feet are
comparatively slight, and indeed scarcely perceptible. Gene-
rally, however, there is a small rise of the substance of the rock
either in front of or behind the prints, according as the tracks
are descending or ascending, showing that the surface sloped
more or less in its present direction at the time when the im-
pressions were made. Dr Buckland, conceiving it likely that
the marks had been impressed by animals allied to the land-
tortoises of the present day, set such an animal to walk up
and down slopes of soft sand, clay, and unbaked pie-crust, and
found the footsteps to be remarkably like those of the Corncockle
quarry. He makes the following just remark upon the experi-
ment in his Bridgewater Treatise : — " This evidence of footsteps
is one which all mankind appeal to in every condition of society.
The thief is identified by the impression which his shoe has left
near the scene of his depredations. Captain Parry found the
tracks of human feet upon the banks of the stream in Possession
Bay, which appeared so fresh, that he at first imagined them to
have been recently made by some natives : on examination, they
were distinctly ascertained to be the marks of the shoes of some
of his own crew, eleven months before. The frozen condition of
the soil had prevented their obliteration. The American savage
not only identifies the elk and bison by the impression of their
hoofs, but ascertains also the time that has elapsed since each
animal had passed. From the camel's track upon the sand, the
Arab can determine whether it was heavily or lightly laden, or
whether it was lame." It is remarkable that none of the series
of foot-marks at Corncockle are across the slab ; all are nearly
straight up and down. This is exactly what would happen upon
a sloping sea bottom or beach, which the animals had occasion
to traverse in one direction only, backwards or forwards. Speci-
mens of the Corncockle slabs have been deposited with the Royal
Society of Edinburgh.

Since these curious facts were made public, foot-marks of
animals have been traced upon rock-surfaces in various parts of
the world. Mr Poulett Scrope found rippled surfaces in Devon-
shire and Lancashire, marked with numerous tracks of small
animals (apparently crustaceous), which had traversed the sand
when it was in a soft state. These tracks are in double lines,
parallel to each other, showing two indentations, as if formed by
small claws, and sometimes traces of a third claw. There is
often, also, a third line of tracks between the other two, as if
produced by the tail or stomach of the animal touching the
ground; and where the animal passed over the ridges of the

18

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

ripple-markings on the sand, they are flattened and brushed
down. More recently, some fossil footsteps of a much more
striking" character have been found in the quarries at Hessberg',
near Hildburg-hausen, in Saxony, upon the upper surfaces of
beds of gray quartzose sandstone ; in alternation with which, it
may be remarked, there are beds of red sandstone nearly about
the same age with those of Dumfriesshire. The vestiges of four
diiferent animals have been made out. One has been apparently
a small web-footed animal, probably allied to the crocodile. The
footstep of another bears a striking though grotesque resemblance
to the human hand, from which the supposed animal itself has
been named the Cheirotherium. A specimen on a slab which
has been placed in the British Museum, is fully the size of a
human hand, the only remarkable difference being in the com-
parative thickness of the fingers, and the absence of the appear-
ance of joints. The fore feet are less by one half than the hind
feet, before which they are always advanced about an inch and a
half, an interval of fourteen inches being between each pair.
Professor Kaup conjectures that this animal has belonged to the
marsupial family, the oldest, it is supposed, of the families of
land quadrupeds.

In the New Red Sandstone in the valley of Connecticut,
there have been laid bare in quarries, along a considerable
tract of country, surfaces presenting foot-prints of many
various species of birds, apparently belonging to the order
Grallcs, or Waders. The discovery is remarkable on more
accounts than one, as it gives evidence, for the first time,
of the existence of birds at that early period of the earth's his-
tory. " The footsteps appear in regular succession, on the con-
tinuous track of an animal in the act of walking or running*,
with the right and left foot always in their relative places.
The distance of the intervals between each footstep on the
same track is occasionally varied, but to no greater amount
than may be explained by the bird having- altered its pace.
Many tracks of different individuals and different species are
often found crossing each other, and crowded, like impressions
of feet upon the shores of a muddy stream, where ducks and
g'eese resort." The smallest of these prints indicates an animal
with a foot about an inch long, and a step of from three to five
inches ; but they vary upw^ards in size, till they reach something*
which may well be regarded as gigantic. Let it be remembered
that the African ostrich, which weighs a hundred pounds, and is
nine feet high, has a foot of ten inches, and a leg four feet long.
It is the most stupendous of existing birds. But the largest
of the foot-prints in the Connecticut sandstone being fifteen
inches in length, exclusive of the largest claw, which measures
two inches, and the steps being from four to six feet apart, de-
note a considerably larger bird, the legs of which, probably, were
not less than seven feet in heig-ht. This has well been styled the

19

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

Ornifhichnites Giganteus. Another, ranking next to the above
in size, exhibits " three toes of a more slender character, measur-
ing" from fifteen to sixteen inches long^, exclusive of a remarkable
appendage extending backwards from the heel eight or nine
inches, and apparently intended, like a snow-shoe, to sustain the
weight of a heavy animal walking on a soft bottom. The im-
pressions of this appendage resemble those of wir};- feathers, or
coarse bristles, which seem to have sunk into the mud and sand
nearly an inch deep ; the toes had sunk much deeper, and round
their impressions the mud was raised into a ridge several inelies
high, like that round the track of an elephant in clay. The
length of the step of this bird appears to have been sometimes six
feet."*

ROCK SALT.

Amongst the strata of the New Red Sandstone there occur
in many places beds of rock-salt; that is, salt in a hard com-
pact crystalline mass. Such beds are found in Cheshire and
Worcestershire in England, in Spain, Poland, Austria, and
other countries ; and are sometimes not less than 120 feet in
thickness. Mines are established in these strata, as in coal,
and the saline material, when boiled down and properly puri-
fied, is sold for ordinary use. Springs, also, issuing' from such
deposits, are generally so strongly impregnated with salt, that
it can be profitably obtained from the water by evaporation.
There are few sights more impressive than that of a salt mine,
where the stratum has been of considerable thickness. You
find yourself in a lofty hall, of vast extent, supported upon
massive columns of the original material, the walls sending' back
thousands of sparkling reflections from the lights borne by
your attendants. And the consideration is a curious one, that
this great bed of salt, now far below the surface of the earth,
was once a solution filling a profound sea, the highest animals
which then existed being reptiles. The manner in which rock-
salt was formed is thought to have been as follows : — An estuary,
or arm of the sea, being by some convulsion of nature cut off
from the main ocean — and such events still occur — and being
then left to be dried up, the salt contained in the Avater was
unavoidably deposited as a stratum at the bottom, just as a layer
of salt is found at the bottom of a pan in a salt factory after
the water has been boiled off. Afterwards, the spot becoming
again the bed of a sea, strata of sandstone and other rocks were
laid down above, and thus the preparation was made for its be-
coming a mine of salt. Rock-salt is seldom pure, and generally
of a reddish colour : a piece of it suspended by a string* forms a
good barometer or weather-glass ; for when the atmosphere con-
tains much humidity, the lump of salt is sure to be damp.

* Dr Buekland, quoting an article by Professor Hitchcock, in tlie Ame-
riccan Journal of Science and Arts : 1836.
20

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.
THE CHALK AGE.

Immediate!}'' above the Oolite formation is a series of beds,
the most conspicuous of which are of chalk, a familiar substance,
which science describes as a carbonate of lime, being* thus a
variation of the same substance as limestone and marble. The
chalk beds form the surface of large districts in England, France,
Germany, and other parts of the earth. In the hrst-mentioned
country they average from six to eight hundred feet in thick-
ness, and form the beautiful pastoral wolds and downs of the
southern counties. It is difficult to account for the formation
of such a substance found in no other part of the series of
rocks ; but probably sea animals — coral polypes, infusoria, &c. —
had much to do with it. It has indeed been remarked that the
powder worn from coral reefs in the South Sea greatly resembles
chalk, though we believe some peculiar condition of the waters,
similar to that under which our more recent marls have been
formed, was the principal cause of the formation. Throughout
the chalk beds are layers of flints — that is, masses of silex or
flint of various sizes, from a pea to a man's head, each lying
detached amidst the chalk. AVhence this great quantity of a
substance which seems to be characteristic of the chalk forma-
tion ? The supposition is, that it has been derived mainly from
the siliceous coverings of animalcules ! The remains of many of
these minute and humble animals have been discovered in the
chalk, some of them being the first animals which yet exist as
species upon earth. It has also been found that the flints inva-
riably include the remains of some spong-e or other humble
animal form, the lineaments of which are often beautifully pre-
served amidst the dark glassy substance, and may be detected
by a microscope, if not by the naked eje. Now, if the silex
from the coverings of the dead infusoria were in solution amidst
the settling substance of the chalk, any decaying sponges, alcyo-
nia, sea-urchins, or other animals placed there, would be sure
to collect the particles of the silex round them, and thus be con-
verted into^flints.

In the Chalk Age a great chang-e takes place in the fish world.
As already mentioned, the Placoids and Ganoids now decline
in numbers, and are replaced by two other orders, the Ctenoids
and Cycloids, which continue predominant, though in diiferent
species, to the present day. Tiu-tles existed in the seas, though
not numerous ; and there were large birds of the swimming
family.

THE TERTIARY FORMATION.

The rocks, from the conclusion of the Old Red Sandstone
strata to that of the Chalk series, form an assemblage called,
to distinguish them from the earlier rocks, the Secondary For-
mation. This secondary formation is now finished. It saw the

21

BOMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

animal creation advance from the simpler forms to an abundance
of fishes and reptiles, with some few traces of creatures of higher
org-anisation — remains of whale-like animals and of creatures
allied to the opossum having" been found in the oolite. During*
its progress, a uniform temperature, equal at least to that of
the tropics, spread over the whole earth, and under favour of
this prevalent warmth, there was everywhere a vegetation such
as we now see confined to the torrid zone. The species of plants
and animals were all strikingly different from those of the pre-
sent world ; and at several stages there had been extensive
chang-es of the families of the latter, some going* out to appear
no more, while others came into existence in their place. At
the point which we have now reached, a close seems to have
come to many of the earlier conditions, and in the subsequent
age we see a dawn, as it were, of the present system of things.
The uniformity of climate begins to give way, and the animals
are consequently not uniform over various regions. Extensive
convulsions of the earth appear in a great measure to have ceased.
And the deposits of strata approach to the character of those
which we now see constantly taking place in estuaries or limited
portions of the sea. The Tertiary rocks seem to have been de-
posited in such seas, and are not so widely distributed over
the earth as some of the other formations. One remarkable
example is the vale in which Paris is situated ; another is found
under and around London. There are also examples in India
and America. It is remarkable of the Paris basin, as it is called,
that strata laid down by fresh-water alternate with marine beds,
implying apparently that the estuary had been filled by turns
with fresh and salt water, though how this could happen is not
very easily to be understood. The Tertiary Formation has been
divided into three lesser ages — Eocene, Miocene, Pliocene — with
a reg-ard to the proportions which their respective fossil shells
bear to existing* species.

ROCKS COMPOSED OP ANIMALCULES.

The fossils of the Tertiaries are in some respects more interest-
ing than those of any other series of strata. It is not in the
humbler classes of animals that this interest chiefly lies ; and
yet even in this department the Tertiaries present us with a .
wonder quite unexampled. We refer to beds of greater or less
thickness composed exclusively of the solid remains of animal-
cules— creatures individually so small, that only a microscope
could enable human eyes to see them. Such a rock (called Tri-
poli) is found at Bilin, in Bohemia, and at Planitz, near Zwickau,
in Saxony. It has been used as a powder in some of the arts for
ages, without any suspicion of its being thus composed. But
within the last few years, M. Ehrenberg*, a scientific Prussian,
has fully ascertained that it consists simply and wholly of the
siliceous coverings of certain minute creatures, some of which

22

ROMANCE OP GEOLOGY.

"belong-ed to species still to be found in stagnant waters. To-
common perception, the powder of which the rock may be
said to consist resembles flour ; and in Norway, where it is ac-
cordingly called berg-mehl (that is, mountain-meal), it is actually
used in times of famine as food ; for which it is not entirely un-
suitable, seeing that there is always a small per centage of ani-
mal matter left in it, in addition to the siliceous shields. So
extremely small are the creatures of which these rocks form the
sepulchre, that, according to M. Ehrenberg's calculation, ten
millions of millions of individuals might be required to fill the
space of a cubic inch. Yet in the smallest of such creatures, there
have been found several stomachs, besides other organs ; and
minute as the coverings necessarily are, they are found variously
sculptured or marked, so as to form distinctions of species.
These circumstances certainly affbrd a curious view not only of
the wondrous power of the Creator, but of the surprising extent
to which His most interesting production, the human mind, has
been fitted to go in research, by aid of instruments, the powers
of which are also of His institution.

The other invertebrate animals of the Tertiary are not remark-
able, except for their making a gradual approach to the appear-
ance of those which now exist. The corals are generally of small
size ; the echinodermata are rare, compared with their abundance
in earlier rocks ; the crustaceans are not numerous ; but insects
begin to be found in abundance. The mollusca are extremely
numerous in species ; but the cephalopoda of the early seas seem
to have now in a great measure given place to an order of meaner-
org'anisation (gasteropoda), which become much more varied in
form than in the older rocks. Of fishes there are abundance
of species ; but reptiles, so conspicuous in the two preceding
formations, are not now prominent. The great saurians or
fish-lizards are extinct, and are not replaced by any similar
families. At the commencement of the Tertiaries, three orders
of reptiles existed — Chelonia (tortoises), Crocodilia, and Batra-
chia (frogs) ; another now existing, Ophidia (serpents), was, as
far as research has yet gone, wanting. The earliest appearance
of the serpent is in the remains of one of large size (probably
eleven feet long, and resembling the boa constrictor), which have
been found in the London clay of the Isle of Sheppey. It is such
an animal as could only live in a tropical climate.

We have seen that the existence of birds and mammalia has
been very slightly evidenced in the Secondary Formation, show-
ing at least that these creatures were in very small number in
the ages represented by those strata. We are now to see both of
these classes — the highest in the animal kingdom — enter in
great force upon the field of existence. It seems as if a con-
siderable interval had existed between the conclusion of the
Chalk Formation and the beginning of the Tertiary, for these
classes come upon us all at once in numerous species in the

23

EOMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

Eocene. In fresh-water strata of that portion of the Tertiary
in the great Paris basin, M. Cuvier found remains of about fifty
extinct species of mammalia, tog-ether with various examples of
birds. The birds were of the genera represented by the buzzard,
owl, quail, woodcock, curlew, and pelican ; and to these has
been added, from the corresponding strata in the London basin,
a species referred to the family of vultures.

THE GREAT PACHYDERMS.

The most remarkable of the animals found in the Paris basin
are large Pachyderms, or thick-skinned animals, of a division
now represented only hj four species. By the discovery of these
remains, naturalists were enabled to make up a comparatively
complete series of a division of the earth's creatures, which had
previously been remarkably imperfect. Two genera are parti-
cularly described by geologists, namely, Palseotheria and Anoplo-
theria, the former being intermediate in character between the
tapir of South America and the rhinoceros, while the latter seems
a link from the rhinoceros to the hippopotamus. The Great Paleeo-
therium was an animal of the size of a horse, or about four feet
and a half to the wither. It was
more squat and clumsy in its
proportions than the horse ; the
head was more massive, and the
extremities thicker and shorter.
On each foot were three large
toes, rounded and unprovided

Form of Palseotherium.

with claws 5 and from the nose

proceeded a short ileshy trunk.
The palseotherium probably
lived, like the tapir of North America and Asia, in swampy dis-
tricts, feeding, as its congeners still do, on coarse veg'etable sub-
stances.

The Anoplotheria, of which six species have been determined,
were of various bulk, from a hare up to a dwarf ass. Two
species were about eig*ht feet long, including a tail of three feet.
These animals seem also to have inhabited marshy places, re-
pairing frequently to the water to feed upon roots and the leaves
of aquatic succulents. Another species was light and graceful,
like the gazelle, and j)robably, like that animal, fed upon aro-
matic herbs and the young shoots of shrubs. Amongst the
other animals found in the Eocene of the Paris basin, were

wolf and fox, and of the racoon and genette, of
dormouse, and squirrel; besides birds, reptiles,

species of the
the opossum,
and fishes.

The second, or Miocene period of the Tertiary age, brings
us a step nearer to the existing* condition of things. A strong
proof of this is derived from the shells of the strata of this
period. Whereas only three in the hundred Eocene fossils were

24

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

of recent species, of the IMiocene shells we find eighteen in
the hundred to have existing representatives. Along with the
mammalia, also, of the Eocene period, we find that the Miocene
deposits present us with the earliest forms of animals existing
at the present time. In Dr Buckland's Bridgewater Treatise a
table is given, exhibiting- the animals found at Darmstadt in
a bed of sand referrible to the Miocene period. In this list are
mentioned two skeletons of the dinolherium (represented in
the vignette to this tract), a large herbivorous animal, called by
Cuvier the Gigantic Tapir; tv/o large tapirs; calicotherium,
two large tapir-like animals of this name ; two rhinoceroses ;
hi23potherium, an animal allied to the horse ; three hogs ; four
large cats, some as large as a tig'er ; the creature called the Glut-
ton ; agnotherium, allied to the dog ; and machairodus, an animal
allied to the bear. From this list the reader will perceive the
gradual approach in the Miocene animals to existing species.
The largest of the terrestrial mammalia yet discovered belongs to
the period now under notice ; it is the dinotherium, or gigantic
tapir, already mentioned. No complete skeleton has yet been dis-
covered ; but from the bones found, Cuvier and others imag-ine
the animal to have reached the extraordinary length of eighteen
feet. The most remarkable peculiarities of its structure consist
in two enormous tusks at the end of its lower jaw, and in the
shoulder-blade, which resembles that of a mole, and is calculated
to have given the power of digg'ing', or other free movement, to
the fore-foot. It seems probable that this stupendous creature
lived in fresh -water lakes, and had the half - terrestrial half-
aquatic habits of the walrus or river-horse. The tusks might
be used m digging up roots and plants, and also in sustaining
the head on banks during sleep, or in pulling the body out of
the water, as the walrus uses a similar pair of tusks. " In these
characters (says Buckland) of this gigantic, herbivorous, aquatis
quadruped, we recognise adaptations to the lacustrine (lake-
covered) condition of the earth, during that portion of the Ter^
tiary periods to which the existence of these seemingly anoma-
lous creatures seems to have been limited.*'

In the Miocene period, the seas became the habitation of num-
bers of marine mammalia, consisting of dolphins, whales, seals,
walrus, and the lamantin, or manati. Few of these animals
were of the same species as those which exist at present, but the
differences were far from being great or remarkable. This cir-
cumstance, as well as the considerable number of fossil shells
identical with existing ones, exhibits an approach in the charac-
ter and tenantry of the IMiocene seas to the present state of
things in these respects. The discovery, also, of true terrestrial
mammalia, as the rhinoceros and hog*, in the Miocene forma-
tions, shows that, since the era of the gigantic reptiles, no slight
portion of the earth's surface had assumed the condition of ^ry
land, fit for the support of the common herbivora.

25

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.
THE MASTODON, MEGATHERIUM, &C.

It now remains to inquire into the nature and peculiarities of
the animals characterising the Pliocene age, which, for conve-
nience, has been arrang-ed into two periods, the Older and Newer
Pliocene, the latter of which immediately preceded the forma-
tion of the diluvial layer constituting the present superficial
matter of the globe. Whereas only eighteen in the hundred
of the Miocene shells were of recent species, in the Older Plio-
cene from thirty-five to fifty, and in the Newer Pliocene not
less than from ninety to ninety-five in the hundred, are iden-
tical with shells of existing species. This great change is
accompanied by the disappearance of the Palseotherian family
and others, which formed the most striking animals in the
periods immediately preceding. In place of these extinct
species of extinct Pachydermatous or thick-skinned families,
we observe in the strata of the Pliocene periods a vast number
of remains of existing Pachydermatous families, such as the
elephant, the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus, though these
remains belong to varieties that are now extinct. The first traces
also now appear of Ruminant animals — of oxen, deer, camels,
and other creatures of the same class.

The enormous creature called the Great Mastodon, belonging*
to the Pliocene era, was the largest of all the' fossil animals
whose skeletons have been found complete, or nearly so. Much
confusion has existed relative to this animal's true charac-
ter, many naturalists reg-arding it as an extinct species of the
elephant, and others holding that it approached nearer to the
hippopotamus. Cuvier, however, determined it to be the head
of a distinct family, comprehending several other species. It
is about one hundred and twenty years since remains of the
mastodon were first discovered in America, and vast quantities of
them have been since found in the same region, buried chiefly in
marshy grounds. One skeleton, nearly complete, was dug up on
the banks of the Hudson in 1801, and it is from this that a cor-
rect knowledge of the animal has been principally derived. In
height, the mastodon seems to have been about twelve feet, a stature
which the Indian elephant occasionally attains. But the body
of the mastodon was greatly elongated in comparison with the
olephant's, and its limbs were thicker. The whole arrangement
of the bony structure resembled that of the elephant, excepting
in one point, which Cuvier regarded as of sufficient consequence
to constitute the mastodon a different genus. This was the
cheek-teeth, which are divided, on their upper surface, into a
number of rounded, obtuse prominences, arranged not like the
elephant's, but like those of the wild boar and hippopotamus;
whence it is concluded, that, like the latter animals, the mastodon
must have lived on tender veg-etables, roots, and aquatic plants,
and could not have been carnivorous. The lower jaw of a

26

BOMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

skeleton found on the Hudson is two feet ten inches in length,
and weighs sixty-three pounds, .Like the elephant, the masto'don
had two tusks, curving" upwards, and formed of ivory, and, in
the opinion of Cuvier, it had also a trunk of the same kind with
the former animal's.

Another creature, belonging- to the later Pliocene ages, if not
indeed to the era of the Diluvial formation, has been discovered in
America, both north and south. This is the Megatherium, an
animal more widely removed in character from any existing
creature, than any of the other fossil remains that have been yet

Scale of a^

'Eeebt

Skeleton of Megatheriuia.

observed. The megatherium was discovered towards the end of
the last century. A skeleton, almost entire, was found nearly
at one hundred feet of depth, in excavations made on the banks
of the river Luxan, several leagues to the south-west of Buenos
Ayres. The megatherium was a tardigrade (slow-moving) ani-
mal, like the sloth, and was at least the size of a common ox.
Its limbs were terminated by five thick toes, attached to a series

27

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

of hug-e flat metatarsal bones, or those bones with which the toes
are continuous, as in the human foot. " Some of the toes (says
Buckland, in his notice of this creature) are terminated by large
and powerful claws of g*reat length ; the bones supporting these
claws are composed partly of an axis, or pointed core, which filled
the internal cavity of the horny claw ; and partly of a bony
sheath, that formed a strong- case to receive and support its base."
These claws, from their position, were admirably calculated for
the purpose of digging. The legs of this creature were of enor-
mous thickness, its thigh-bone being nearly three times the thick-
ness of the same bone in the elephant. The other bones of the
megatherium were almost joroportionably heavy. A still more
remarkable feature, however, in the animal's structure, was the
coat of armour, of solid bone, varying from three-fourths of an
inch to an inch and a half in thickness, which covered its hide,
in the same manner as the armadillo's is encased by the same
substance.

The habits and peculiarities of this stupendous sloth — ^for so the
megatherium may be termed — are well described and explained
in Dr Buckland's Bridgewater Treatise. After stating that with
the head and shoulders of a sloth, it combined, in its legs and
feet, an admixture of the characters of the ant-eater and the
armadillo, and resembled them still more in being cased in a coat
of armour, he continues, " Its haunches were more than five feet
wide, and its body twelve feet long and eight feet high ; its feet
were a yard in lenfjtli, and terminated by most gigantic claws ;
its tail was probably clad in armour, and much larger than the
tail of any other beast among living or extinct terrestrial mam-
malia. Thus heavily constructed, and ponderously accoutred,
it could neither run, nor leap, nor climb, nor burrow under the
ground, and in all its movements must have been necessarily
slow ; but what need of rapid locomotion to an animal whose
occupation of dig'ging roots for food was almost stationary ? — and
what need of speed for flight from foes to a creature whose giant
carcass was encased in an impenetrable cuirass, and who by a
single pat of his paw, or lash of his tail, could in an instant have
demolished the cougar or the crocodile ? Secure within the panoply
of his bony armour, where was the enemy that would dare en-
counter this behemoth of the Pampas (the South American region
where it existed), or in what more powerful creature can we find
the cause that has effected the extirpation of his race 1

His entire frame was an apparatus of colossal mechanism,
adapted exactly to the work it had to do ; strong and ponderous,
in proportion as this work Avas heavy, and calculated to be the
vehicle of life and enjoyment to a gig'antic race of quadrupeds ;
which, though they have ceased to be counted among the living
inhabitants of our planet, have, in their fossil bones, left behind
them imperishable monuments of the consummate skill with which
they were constructed."

28

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

Another extinct tardigrade creature, presenting many of tlie
characters of the meg'atherium, was discovered in a calcareous
cavern in Virginia, and received from President Jefferson, who
first described some of its bones, the name of the Megalonyx.
Jefferson conceived the claw to be that of an extinct feline ani-
mal of vast size (that is to say, an animal of the same description
as the tiger, lion, cat, and lynx, all of which are beasts of prey) ;
but the French naturalist declared the possessor of the claw to
have been herbivorous, or calculated to live on herbs ; and this
was triumphantly proved by the discovery of others of its bones.
The megalonyx appears (for a complete skeleton has not yet been
found) to have been a little smaller in size than the megatherium.
But the megalonyx, according to Cuvier, was herbivorous, after
the manner of the sloth, since its teeth were conformed precisely
like that animal's. From the resemblance of their feet also, he
concludes that their g-ait was similar, and all their movements
alike. The difference in volume of body, however, must have
prevented the habits of the meg'alonyx from being perfectly ana-
logous to those of the sloth. The megalonyx could but seldom
have climbed up trees, because it must rarely have found any
sufficiently strong to support its weight. But its height would
enable it to browse, like the sloth, among the leaves of trees,
without its being under the necessity of climbing- any but such
tall and strong ones as could bear its weig'ht. It is even possible
that the weight and strength of the creature may have been
serviceable in bending down, and perhaps in overturning trees,
the branches of which contained its food.

The next fossil animal to which we shall refer, is that long
called the Mammoth^ under the impression that it was a distinct
genus, but which is now universally denominated the Fossil
Elephant, as being an extinct species of that existing' family.
The mammoth (which name we shall retain for the sake of dis-
tinction) is rather to be regarded as a creature of the Diluvial
than of the Pliocene period (that is to say, belonging to the ag-e
when, by means of floods, the present beds of gravel and hard
clay so often found between the rocks and vegetable soil were
laid down upon the earth), as some specimens have been dis-
covered in Siberia, with portions of the flesh and hair actually
preserved along with the bones among the ice. It was at first
thought, when numbers of mammoth bones were discovered in
Italy, and other southern countries of Europe, that they were
the remains of elephants brought by the Romans and others from
Asia and Africa ; but the incalculable quantities of them ulti-
mately detected in Russia and other districts, where elephants
were never brought in the shape of Oriental tribute as they were
to Rome, showed that their presence was to be attributed to
natural causes, and not to the casual agency of man. In truth, the
beds of the Volga, Don, and other northern rivers, are filled with
them, and this can be accounted for only on the hypothesis, either

29

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

a ruminant approaching' in character to the Pachyderms. But
even this hug-e creature sinks into insignificance beside an-
other of the Indian Tertiary animals, a tortoise, of which many
remains have been found, and which from these would appear to
have been identical with existing' species of land habits, but the
carapace or back-plate of which reached the extraordinary length
of twenty feet. The Megalochelys Atlas, as this animal has been
called, would greatly exceed the largest of living land animals
in bulk : with the head and tail included in the measurement, it
could not be much less than thirty feet long. Dr Falconer, who
discovered this singular animal, thinks it may have survived as
a species till the peopling of India with human beings, and he
thinks it may account for some of the tales of Hindoo mythology,
particularly that which represents the world as supported by an
elephant standing on the back of a tortoise.

A few bones of monkeys, the family of animals approaching
nearest to the human species, have been found in various parts
of the world — at Kyson, near Woodbridge, in Surrey ; in South
America, and in India — all of them in Tertiary strata. As yet,
no remains of human beings have been discovered in any
similar situation. And hence it is inferred that the formation
of the rocks terminating with the uppermost Tertiaries had been
completed before man came into existence.

DILUVIAL AGENCY — ELEVATION OF THE LAND OUT OF THE SEA.

The last of our ages is that of the Superficial Deposits, a series
of accumulations differing in some respects from rocks, but
sigTiificant of events scarcely less remarkable than those which
we have seen inferred from the earlier formations. This ag-e
might, without much impropriety, be called the Age of Great
Floods, for it is evident that vast currents of water had traversed
the surface of the earth during this time. The first effect of these
has been to wear off such prominences as had been left by pre-
vious volcanic disturbances of the earth's crust, leaving all bare
where once there had been great roughness. For example, there
is in Northumberland a break of the superficial strata (carbonife-
rous formation), the consequence of which had been to leave those
on one side 500 feet above those on the other side of the fracture.
Yet, throughout a course of thirty miles, no trace of this is seen
on the surface ; all has been worn by floods down to one
g'eneral level. Another effect was to scoop or wear out great
valleys (called valleys of denudation) in surfaces originally level.
The matter thus worn off had been carried away in the flood, and
dispersed over the surface at the bottom, wherever the form of
the ground was favourable to its reception ; hence the vast beds
of blue and red clay which are found in so many places imme-
diately above the rocks — the till of the agriculturist. Amongst
these are generally found imbedded blocks of stone, often of large
size, which had been hkewise carried off from the mountain

31

ROMANCE OF GEOLOGY.

masses to which they orig-inally belonged. In some places, such
blocks are also scattered in great numbers over the present
surface of the ground, some bearing* a water-worn appearance,
and others not. It has long been a marvel to geologists how
such masses could be transported so far as they appear to have
been in many instances. For example, there are masses of Shap
Fell all over the country within forty miles round. A piece of
CriiFel rests on the opposite side of the Solway Firth. Nay, there
are blocks on the east coast of England which are supposed to
have travelled from the mountains of Norway. One supposition
is, that when the land was covered by sea, these masses of stone
had been carried oflP from their native situations by icebergs,
which, traversing the ocean, and gradually melting away,
dro23ped them to the bottom. Another view of the subject re-
presents them as carried along by glaciers over the surface of
the earth, in the same manner as pieces of rock are still by
these means transjDorted along Alpine slopes. For the present,
the subject may be said to rest in doubt.

One thing is certainly clear — that the land was, for a time
after the close of the Tertiary Formation, covered more or less
by the sea. Not only have we this evidenced by the super-
ficial clays, which alone could have had a watery origin, but
we see incontestable monuments of it in beds of sea-shells
found on grounds now several hundred feet above the level of
the ocean. More than this, there are in many countries traces
of former sea-beaches, in a succession mounting to as great a
height as the position of the shells. All round the coast of
Great Britain, there are clear appearances of a sea-beach from
forty to sixty feet above the present sea-level. It is in some
places a smooth plain several miles in extent, and of considerable
breadth, and exactly of that powdery formation which might be
expected if a large tract of sandy beach were at this time to be
raised up beyond the reach of the sea, and left to become " dry
land." Sometimes this beach can be traced on a steep coast or
hill-side, in the form of a narrow sloping platform, the sea having
worked out such a margin for itself on what was originally a
uniform cliff or descent. Such beaches are seen in hilly districts
rising in succession aboA^e each other to a considerable height, the
highest being of course the oldest, or the first formed. They
have been observed in Norway and Lapland as well as in
Britain, and there are traces of them still more clear in South
America. They undoubtedly indicate a rise of the land out of
the sea by successive movements, and probably at long intervals.
Nor can this be difficult of belief, when we know from accurate
observation that the Swedish side of the Baltic is continually
though slowly rising at the present time — ^the rate being about
three feet in a century — and that a large tract of the coast of
Cliili rose four feet in a single night in 1822, in consequence of
an earthquake.

32

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

LAVERY, in one form or other, has existed in the
world from the most remote period of history. It
existed, as we know, among' the patriarchs, and it was
a recog-nised institution among* the Jews. So also it
, existed among' the ancient pag'an nations — the Egyptians,
Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans. AVhen we are
;-ed in reading the history of any ancient state, we are
apt to forget that it is only the free inhabitants whom we
hear much about ; and that, under the same roofs with these free
men, there was living an immense population of bondsmen or
slaves, who made no apj)earance in public affairs, and who, by
their unhappy fate, were doomed to the performance of menial
offices, without the hope of alleviation in their condition.

And was no remorse experienced by nations or individuals in
reducing members of the human family to compulsory and per-
petual servitude? History discloses no such sentiment. The
practice arose out of the selfishness of barbarism, and did not
appear to its perpetrators either sinful or unjust. Debtors were
seized, and, in liquidation of petty claims, sold like ordinary pro-
perty by their ruthless creditors. Gamblers, having lost every-
thing, staked their persons as a last chance ; and being- unsuccess-
ful, became the bondsmen of the fortunate winner. Men, for their
crimes, were deprived of liberty, and publicly sold into bondage.
In cases of famine, parents disposed of children as a marketable
commodity, to relieve their own wants, and at the same time
provide food for their remaining* offspring. And lastly, came
war, the scourge of mankind; and the fruitful cause of slavery in
No. 19. 1

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

all ancient nations. " It was a law established from time im-
memorial among- the states of antiquity," sajs a Greek author^
"to oblige those to undergo the severities of servitude whom
victory had thrown into their hands." There was an excep-
tion, however, in the case of civil war, the prisoners taken in
which Avere not made slaves, but generally massacred. Besides
the regular wars between nation and nation, it sometimes hap-
pened that a vagrant population overran an adjoining* country,
and made the peaceful and dispossessed inhabitants their slaves.
Thus the Spartans were served by a race of hereditary bonds-
men, the old inhabitants of the district, called Helots — a term
afterwards used by the Romans to desig-nate men in a servile
condition. The unfortunate Helots of Sparta occasionally rose
in rebellion against their masters, and attempted to gain their
liberty ; but these efforts were always suppressed with merciless
slaughter.

We have, in these and other circumstances, the most conclusive
evidence that slavery in ancient times existed on no g-round of
philosophy or morals — was not sustained on any fine-spun plea
that one man was radically inferior to another ; but was, as it is
still, only a result of rapacity and force. It was long", indeed,
before mankind could be brought to recognise its iniquity or
impropriety 5 and even yet, certain nations find a difficulty in
viewing it in its true light. There being" thus still some
controversy on the subject, and liability to misconception, we
think it proper to state that, according to an enlig'htened philo-
sophy, each human being* retains inherently the right to his own
person, and can neither sell himself, nor be leg^ally bound by any
act of ag-gression on his natural liberty. " Slavery, therefore,
can never be a legal relation. It rests entirely on force. The
slave, being' treated as property, and not allowed legal rig-hts,
cannot be under legal obligations. Slavery is also inconsistent
with the moral nature of man. Each man has an individual
worth, significance, and responsibility ; is bound to the work of
self-improvement, and to labour in a sphere for which his capa-
city is adapted. To give up this individual liberty, is to disqua-
lify himself for fulfilling" the great objects of his being". Hence
political societies, which have made a considerable degree of
advancement, do not allow any one to resig"n his liberty, any
more than his life, to the pleasure of another. In fact, the g"reat
object of political institutions in civilised nations, is to enable
man to fulfil, most perfectly, the ends of his individual being".
Christianity, moreover, which enjoins us, while we remain in
this world, to reg"ulate our conduct with reference to a better,
lays down the doctrine of brotherhood and mutual love, of ' doing
as we would be done by,' as one of its fundamental maxims^
which is wholly opposed to the idea of one man becoming the
property of another. These two principles of mutual obligation,
and the worth of the individual, were beyond the comprehension
2

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

of the states of antiquity, but are now at the basis of morals,
pohtics, and relig'ion." *

Regardless, or ig-norant of such princij)les, the most enlightened
nations of antiquity, as we have said, gave the broadest sanction
to slavery ; and to this, among' other causes, was doubtless owing
their final dismemberment. In ancient Rome, the slaves formed
a motley population. Some of these unfortunate beings were
foreigners from far distant countries, others were natives — some
were less civilised than their masters, others much more so — some
were employed in tilling their masters' fields, others in teaching
their masters the sciences — some were working' in chains, and
enduring the lash, others living in comfort, and even petted. Thus
a rich citizen of Rome, at the commencement of the Christian
era, would possess slaves of all nations, filling appropriate offices
in his establishment — dark-haired beauties from the east, and
golden-haired beauties from the north ; cooks fi^om the south of
Italy ; learned men and musicians from Greece or Egypt ; menials
and drudges from the remotest part of Scythia, the interior of
Africa, or the savage island of Britain. Yes, eighteen centuries
ago, when Britain was a distant colony of Rome, the unfortunate
inhabitants of our own dear island, torn from their homes, toiled
for a Roman master, along with the dark-skinned and more
pliant native of Ethiopia.

Out of this promiscuous sj^stem of slavery arose the form of
slavery with which we in modern times are best acquainted —
Negro slavery.

Negroland, or Nigritia, is that part of the interior of Africa
stretching from the great desert on the north to the unascertained
commencement of Caftreland on the south, and from the Atlantic
on the west to Abyssinia on the east. In fact, the entire interior
of this great continent may be called the land of the negroes.
The ancients distinguished it from the comparatively civilised
countries lying along the coasts of the Mediterranean and the
Red Sea by calling the latter Libya, and the former Ethiopia.
It is upon Ethiopia in an especial manner that the curse of
slavery has fallen. At fii-st, as we have already said, it bore but
a share of the b'drden ; Britons and Scythians were the fellow-
slaves of the Ethiopian : but at last all the other nations of the
earth seemed to conspire against the negro race, agreeing never
to enslave each other, but to make the blacks the slaves of all
alike. Thus, this one race of human beings has been singled
out, whether owing to the accident of colour, or to their peculiar
fitness for certain kinds of labour, for infamy and misfortune ;
and the abolition of the practice of promiscuous slavery in the
modern world was purchased by the introduction of a slavery
confined entirely to negroes.

The nations and tribes of negroes in Africa, who thus ulti-

* Conversations Lexicon,

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

mately became the universal prey of Europeans, were them-
selves equally guilty in subjecting men to perpetual bondag-e.
In the most remote times, every Ethiopian man of consequence
had his slaves, just as a Greek or Roman master had. Savag'e
as he was, he at least resembled the citizen of a civilised state
in this. He possessed his domestic slaves, or bondmen, heredi-
tary on his property ; and besides these, he was always acquir-
ing" slaves by whatever means he could, whether by purchase
from slave-dealers, or by war with neighbouring tribes. The
slaves of a negro master in this case would be his own country-
men, or at least men of his own race and colour ; some of
them born on the same spot with himself, some of them cap-
tives who had been brought from a distance of a thousand
miles. Of course, the farther a captive was taken from his
home, the more valuable he would be, as having* less chance of
escape ; and therefore it would be a more common practice to
sell a slave taken in war with a neighbouring tribe, than to re-
tain him as a labourer so near his home. And just as in the
cities of the civilised countries we find the slave population often
outnumbering the free, so in the villages of the interior of Africa
the negro slaves were often more numerous than the negro
masters. Park, in his travels among the negroes, found that in
many villages the slaves were three times as numerous as the
free persons ; and it is likely that the proportion was not very dif-
ferent in more ancient times. Noav, the modern form of negro
slavery has its origin in this system of internal slavery among
the neg'roes themselves. If the negroes had not been in the
practice of making slaves of each other at the time when they
became known to the Europeans, negro slavery as it now exists
would not probably have arisen. The negroes being in the habit
of buying and selling' each other, it soon became a custom for
the negroes living on the southern border of the great desert
to sell their countrymen to the foreigners with whom they came
in contact. Thus, in ancient times, the Garamantes used to sell
negroes to the Libyans ; and so a great proportion of the slaves
of the Carthaginians and the Egyptians must have been blacks
broug'ht northwards across the desert. From Carthage and
Egypt, again, these negroes would be exported into different
countries of southern Europe ; and a stray neo-ro might even find
his way into the more northern regions. They seem always to
have been valued for their patience, their mild temper, and their
extraordinary jDOwer of endurance ; and for many purposes negro
slaves would be preferred by their Roman masters to all others,
even to the shaggy, scowling Picts. But though it is quite cer-
tain that negroes were used as slaves in ancient Europe, still the
negro never came to enjoy that miserable pre-eminence which
later times have assigned to him, treating him as the born drudge
of the human family. White-skinned men were slaves as well
as he ; and if; among the Carthaginians and Egyptians, 'negro

HISTORY OP THE SLAVE TRADE.

slaves were more common than any other, it was only because
they were more easily procurable.

RISE OF THE AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE.

Althoug'h the use of negroes as slaves by the Arabs maybe said
to have given the first hint of neg-ro slavery to the Europeans, the
Europeans are quite entitled to the credit of having- found it out
for themselves. The Portuguese were the first to set the example
of stealing negroes ; they were the first to become acquainted with
Africa. Till the fifteenth century, no part of Africa was known
except the chain of countries on the coast of the Mediterranean
and the Red Sea, beginning* with Morocco, and ending with
Abyssinia and the adjoining- desert. The Arabs and Moors,
indeed, traversing" the latter, knew something' about Ethiopia,
or the land of the negroes, but what knowledge they had was
confined to themselves ; and to the Europeans the whole of the
continent to the south of the desert was an unknown and unex-
plored land. There were traditions of two ancient circumnavi-
gations of the continent by the Phoenicians and the Carthaginians,
one down the Red Sea, and round the Cape of Good Hope from
the east, the other through the Straits of Gibraltar, and round
the same cape from the west ; but these traditions were vague
and questionable. They were sufficient, however, to set the
brains of modern navigators a-working ; and now that they were
possessed of the mariner's compass, they might hope to repeat
the Carthaginian feat of circumnavigating Africa; if, indeed,
Africa were circumnavigable. In the year 1412, therefore, a
series of attempts Avas begun by the Portuguese, at the instig-a-
tion of Prince Henry, to sail southward along the western coast.
In every succeeding attempt, the bold navigators got farther and
farther south, past the Canaries, past the Cape Verds, along the
coast of Guinea, through the Bight of Biafra, down that long-
unnamed extent of coast south of the equator, until at last the
perseverance of three generations succeeded, and the brave Yasco
de Gama, in 1497, rounded the great cape itself, turned his prow
northward, sailed through the Mozambique Channel, and then,,
as if protesting' that he had done with Africa all that navigator
could, steered through the open ocean right for the shores of
India. The third or fourth of these attempts brought the Por-
tuguese into contact with the negroes. Before the year 1470, the
whole of the Guinea coast had been explored. As early as 1434,.
Antonio Gonzales, a Portuguese captain, landed on this coast,
and carried away with him some negro boys, whom he sold to-
one or two Moorish families in the south of Spain. The act
seems to have provoked some criticism at the time. But fronx
that day, it became customary for the captains of vessels landing
on the Gold Coast, or other parts of the coast of Guinea, to carry
away a few young negroes of both sexes. The labour of these
negroes, whether on board the ships which carried them away,

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

or in the ports to which, the ships belonged, being found valu-
able, the practice soon grew into a traffic ; and negroes, instead
of being carried away in twos and threes as curiosities, came to
form a part of the cargo, as well as gold, ivory, and gum. The
ships no longer went on voyages of discovery, they went for
profitable cargoes ; and the inhabitants of the negro villages
along the coast, delighted with the beads, and knives, and bright
cloths which they got in exchange for gold, ivory, and slaves,
took care to have these articles ready for any ship that might
land. Thus the slave trade, properly so called, began. The
Spaniards were the first nation to become parties with the Por-
tuguese in this infamous traffic.

At first, the deportation of slaves from Africa was conducted
on a limited scale ; but about seventy years after Gonzales had
carried away the first negro boys from the Guinea coast, an
opening was all at once made for negro labour, which made it
necessary to carry av/ay blacks, not by occasional ship-loads, but
by thousands annually.

AFRICAN-AMERICAN SLAVE TRADE.

America was discovered in 1493. The part of this new world
which was first colonised by the Spaniards consisted of those
islands scattered through the great gap of ocean between North
and South America ; which, as they were thought to be the
outermost individuals of the great Eastern Indies, to which it
was the main object of Columbus to eifect a western passage,
were called the West Indies. When the Spaniards took posses-
sion of these islands, they employed the natives, or Indians, as
they were called, to do all the heavy kinds of labour for them,
such as carrying burdens, digging for gold, &c. In fact, these
Indians became the slaves of their Spanish conquerors; and
it was customary, in assigning lands to a person, to give him,
at the same time, all the Indians upon them. Thus, when
Bernal Diaz paid his respects to Velasquez, the governor of Cuba,
the governor promised him the first Indians he had at his dis-
posal. According to all accounts, never was there a race of men
more averse to labour, or constitutionally more unfit for it, than
these native Americans. They are described as the most listless
improvident people on the face of the earth, and though capable
of much passive endurance, drooped and lost all heart whenever
they were put to active labour. Labour, ill-usage, and the small-
pox together, carried them off in thousands, and wherever a
Spaniard trod, he cleared a space before him, as if he carried a
blasting influence in his person. When Albuquerque entered
on his office as governor of St Domingo in 1515, he found that,
whereas in 1508 the natives numbered 60,000, they did not then
number 14,000. The condition of these poor aborigines under
the Spanish colonists became so heart-breaking, that the Domi-
nican priests stepped out in their behalf, asserting them to be

6

HISTORY or THE SLAVE TBADE.

hee men, and denying* the right of the Spaniards to make them
slaves. This led to a vehement controversy, which lasted several
years, and in which Bartholomew de Las Casas, a benevolent
priest, figured most conspicuously as the friend of the Indians.
So energetic and persevering was he, that he produced a great
impression in their favour upon the Spanish government at
home.

Unfortunately, the relaxation in favour of one race of men
was procured at the expense of the slavery of another. Whether
Las Casas himself was led, by his extreme interest in the
Indians, to be so inconsistent as to propose the employment of
negroes in their stead, or whether the suggestion came from
some other person, does not distinctly appear ; but it is certain,
that what the Spaniards spared the Indians, they inflicted with
double rigour upon the negroes. Labourers must be had, and
the negroes were the kind of labourers that would best suit.
As early as 1503, a few negroes had been carried across the
Atlantic; and it was found that not only could each of these
negroes do as much Avork as four Indians, but that, while the
Indians were fast becoming extinct, the neg'roes were thriving-
and propagating wonderfully. The plain inference was, that
they should import negroes as fast as possible ; and this was
accordingly done. " In the year 1510," says the old Spanish
historian Herrera, " the king of Spain ordered fifty slaves to
be sent to Hispaniola to work in the gold mines, the natives
being looked upon as a weak people, and unfit for much labour."
And this was but a beginning ; for, notwithstanding the remon-
strances of Cardinal Ximenes, ship-load after ship-load of negroes
was carried to the West Indies. We find Charles V. giving one
of his Flemish favourites an exclusive right of shipping 4000
negroes to the new world — a monopoly which that favourite
sold to some Genoese merchants for 25,000 ducats. These mer-
chants organised the traffic ; many more than 4000 negroes were
required to do the work; and thoug'h at first the negroes were
exorbitantly dear, they multiplied so fast, and were imported in
such quantities, that at last there was a negro for every Spaniard
in the colonies ; and in whatever new direction the Spaniards ad-
vanced in their career of conquest, negroes went along with them.

The following extract from the Spanish historian already
quoted will show not only that the negroes were very nume-
rous, but that sometimes also they proved refractor}'", and endea-
voured to get the upper hand of their masters. "There was
so great a number of blacks in the governments of Santa Marta
and Venezuela, and so little precaution was used in the manage-
ment of them, or rather the liberty they had was so great,
being allowed the use of arms, which they much delight in,
that, prompted by their natural fierceness and arrogance, a small
number of the most polished, who valued themselves for their
valour and gaiety, resolved to rescue themselves from servitude,

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

and become their own masters, believing* that they mig-ht hVe
at their own will among the Indians. Those few summoning"
others, who, like a thoughtless brutish people, were not capable
of making any reflection, but were always ready at the beck
of those of their own colour for whom they had any respect
or esteem, they readily complied ; assembling to the number of
about 250, and repairing to the settlement of New Segovia, they
divided themselves into companies, and appointed captains, and
saluted one King, who had the most boldness and resolution,
to assume that title; and he, intimating that they should all
be rich, and lords of the country, by destroying the Spaniards,
assigned every one the Spanish woman that should fall to his lot,
with other such insolent projects and machinations. The fame
of this commotion was soon spread abroad throughout all the
cities of those two governments, where preparations were speedily
made for marching against the blacks, as well to prevent their
being" joined by the rest of their countrymen that were not yet
gone to them, as to obviate the many mischiefs which those
barbarians might occasion to the country. In the meantime, the
inhabitants of Tucuyo sent succours to the city of Segovia, which
was but newly founded ; and the very night that relief arrived
there, the blacks, who had got intelligence of it, resolved to be
beforehand v/ith the Spaniards ; and in order that, greater forces
thus coming in, they might not grow too strong for them, they
fell upon those Spaniards, killing tive or six of them, and a clergy-
man. However, the success did not answer their expectation,
for the Spaniards being on their guard, readily took the alarm,
fought the blacks courag'eously, and killed a considerable number.
The rest, perceiving that their contrivance had miscarried, retired.
The next morning Captain James de Lassado arrived there with
forty men from the government of Venezuela, and, judging that
no time ought to be lost in that affair, marched against the blacks
with the men he had brought, and those who were before at New
Segovia. Perceiving that they had quitted the post they had
first taken, and were retired to a strong place on the mountain,
he pursued, overtook, and attacked them ; and though they drew
up and stood on their defence, he soon routed and put them all
to the sword, sparing none but their women and some female
Indians they had with them, after which he returned to Segovia,
and those provinces were delivered from much uneasiness."

The Spaniards did not long remain alone in the guilt of this
new traffic. At first the Spaniards had all America to them-
selves ; and as it was in America that negro labour was in de-
mand, the Spaniards alone possessed large numbers of negroes.
But other nations came to have colonies in America, and as
negroes were found invaluable in the foundation of a new colony,
other nations came also to patronise the slave trade. The first
recognition of the trade by the English government was in 1562,
in the reign of Elizabeth, when an act was passed legalising* the
8

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

purchase of negToes ; yet, as the earlier attempts made by the
Eng-lish to plant colonies in North America were unsuccessful,
there did not, for some time after the passing- of this act, exist any
demand for neg'roes sufficient to induce the owners of Eng'lish
trading- vessels visiting" the coast of Africa to make neg-roes a
part of their carg'o. It was in the year 1616 that the first
negroes were imported into Virg-inia ; and even then it was not
an Eng-lish slave-ship which supplied them, but a Dutch one,
which chanced to touch on the coast with some neg'roes on board
bound for the Spanish colonies. These neg'roes the Virginian
planters purchased on trial ; and the bargain was found to be so
. good, that in a short time neg'roes came to be in great demand in
Virginia. Nor were the planters any long'er indebted to the
chance visits of Dutch ships for a supply of negro-labourers ; for
the English merchants, vigilant and calculating then as they
are now, immediately embarked in the traffic, and instructed the
captains of their vessels visiting" the African coast to barter for
negroes as well as wax and elephants' teeth. In a similar way
the French, the Dutch, and all other nations of any commercial
importance, came to be involved in the traffic ; those who had
colonies, to supply the demand there ; those who had no colonies,
to make money by assisting' to supply the demand of the colonies
of other countries. Before the middle of the seventeenth century
the African slave trade was in full vigour ; and all Euroj)e was
implicated in the buying and selling" of negroes.

SLAVE FACTORIES IN AFRICA.

So universal is the instinct for barter, that the immediate
effect of the new and g'reat demand for slaves was to create
its own supply. Slavery, as we have said, existed in Negro-
land from time immemorial, but on a comparatively limited
scale. The effect of the demand by the European ships gave
an unhappy stimulus to the natural animosities of the various
negro tribes skirting* the west coast ; and, tempted by the
clasp-knives, and looking - g-lasses, and wonderful red cloth,
which the white men always brought with them to exchang"e
for slaves, the whole neg-ro population for many miles inland
began fighting and kidnapping each other. Not only so, but
the interior of the continent itself, the district of Lake Tchad,
and the mystic source of the fatal Niger, hitherto untrodden
by the foot of a white invader, began to feel the tremor
caused by the traffic on the coast ; and ere long, the very
neg'roes who seemed safest in their central obscurities, were
drained away to meet the increasing demand ; either led cap-
tive by warlike visitants from the west, or handed fi'om tribe
to tribe till they reached the sea. In this way, eventually, Cen-
tral Africa, with its teeming- myi'iads of negroes, came to be
the great mother of slaves for exportation, and the neg'ro vil-
lages on the coast the warehouses, as it were, where the slaves

M 9

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRACE.

were stowed away till the ships of the white men arrived to
carry them off.

European skill and foresight assisted in giving constancy and
regularity to the supply of negroes from the interior. At first
the slave vessels only visited the Guinea coast, and bargained
with the negroes of the villages there for what quantity of
wax, or gold, or negroes they had to give. But this was a
clumsy way of conducting business. The ships had to sail
along a large tract of coast, picking up a few negroes at one
place, and a little ivory or gold at another ; sometimes even the
natives of a village might have no elephants' teeth and no
negroes to give ; and even under the most favourable circum- .
stances, it took a considerable time to procure a decent cargo.
No coast is so pestilential as that of Africa, and hence the
service was very repulsive and very dangerous. As an im-
provement on this method of trading, the plan was adopted
very early of planting small settlements of Europeans at in-
tervals along the slave-coast, whose business it should be to
negotiate with the negroes, stimulate them to activity in their
slave-hunting expeditions, purchase the slaves brought in, and
warehouse them until the arrival of the ships. These settlements
were called slave factories. Factories of this kind were planted
all along the western coast from Cape Verd to the equator, by
English, French, Dutch, and Portuguese traders. Their appear-
ance, the character of the men employed in them, their internal
arrangements, and their mode of carrying on the traffic, are well
described in the following extract from Mr Howison's book on
" European Colonies."

" As soon as the parties concerned had fixed upon the site of
their proposed commercial establishment, they began to erect a
fort of greater or less magnitude, having previously obtained
permission to that effect from the natives. The most convenient
situation for a building of the kind was considered to be at the
confluence of a river with the sea, or upon an island lying within
a few miles of the coast. In the first case, there was the advan-
tage of inland navigation ; and in the second, that of the security
and defensibleness of an insular position, besides its being more
cool and healthy than any other.

The walls of the fort always enclosed a considerable space of
ground, upon which were built the necessary magazines for the
reception of merchandise, and also barracks for the soldiers and
artificers, and a depot for slaves ; so that, in the event of external
hostilities, the gates might be shut, and the persons and the
property belonging to the establishment placed in security. The
quarters for the officers and agents employed at the factory were
in general erected upon the ramparts, or at least adjoining them ;
while the negroes in their service, and any others that might be
attracted to the spot, placed their huts outside of the walls of the
fort, but under the protection of its guns.

10

Li

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

The command of the establishment was vested in the hands
of one individual, who had various subordinates, according to
the extent of the trade carried on at the place ; and if the troops
who garrisoned the fort exceeded twenty or thirty, a com-
missioned officer usually had charge of them. The most remark-
able forts were St George del Mina, erected by the Portuguese,
though it subsequently fell into the hands of the Dutch ; Cape
Coast Castle, the principal establishment of the English; Fort
Louis, at the mouth of the Senegal, generally occupied by the
French ; and Goree, situated upon an island of the same name,
near Cape Verd. Most of these forts mounted from fifty to
sixty pieces of cannon, and contained large reservoirs for water,
and were not only impregTiable to the negroes, but capable of
standing a regular siege by a European force.

The individuals next in importance to the director or gover-'
nor were the factors, who ranked according to their standing in
the company's service. The seniors g-enerally remained at head-
quarters, and had the immediate management of the trade there,
and the care of the supplies of European merchandise which
were always kept in store. The junior factors were employed in
carrying on the traffic in the interior of the country, which they
did sometimes by ascending the rivers in armed vessels, and
exchanging various articles for slaves, gold-dust, and ivory, with
the negroes inhabiting the neighbourhood; and sometimes by
establishing themselves for several months in a large town or
populous district, and, as it were, keeping a shop to which the
natives might resort for traffic.

The European subordinates of the establishment consisted of
clerks, book-keepers, warehousemen, artificers, mechanics, gun-
ners, and private soldiers, all of whom had particular quarters
assigned for their abode, and lived under military discipline.
The soldiers employed in the service of the different African com-
panies were mostly invalids, and persons who had been dismissed
from the army on account of bad conduct. Destitute of the means
of subsistence at home, such men willingly engaged to go to the
coast of Africa, where they knew that they would be permitted
to lead a life of ease, indolence, and licentiousness, and be exposed
to no danger except that of a deadly climate, which was in
reality the most certain and inevitable one that they could any-
where encou:nter. Few of the troops in any of the forts were fit
for active duty, which was of the less consequence, because they
were seldom or never required to fight except upon the ramparts
of the place in which they might be quartered, and not often
even there. Hence they spent their time in smoking, in drinking
palm wine, and in gaming, and were generally carried off by
fever or dissipation within two years after their arrival in the
country. A stranger on first visiting any of the African forts,
felt that there was something both horrible and ludicrous in the
appearance of its garrison; for the individuals composing it

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

appeared g'hastly, debilitated, and diseased, to a degree' that is
unknown in otlier climates ; and their tattered and soiled uni-
forms, resembling" each other only in meanness, and not in colour,
sug-g-ested the idea of the wearers being a band of drunken
deserters, or of starved and maltreated prisoners of war.

Each company was in the practice of annually sending a cer-
tain number of ships to its respective establishments, freighted
with European goods suitable for traffic ; while its factors in
Africa had in the meantime been collecting' slaves, ivory, gum-
arabic, and other productions of the country ; so that the vessels
on their arrival suifered no detention, but always found a return,
cargo ready for them.

Though the forts w^ere principally employed as places of safe
deposit for merchandise received from Europe, or collected at
outposts, they were also generally the scene of a considerable
trade, being resorted to for that jjurpose not only by the coast
negroes, but often also by dealers from the interior of the country,
\^'ho would bring slaves, ivory, and gold-dust for traffic. Persons
of this description were always honourably, and even ceremoni-
ously received by the governor or by the factors, and conciliated
'in every possible way, lest they might carry their goods to
another market. They were invited to enter the fort, and were
treated with liqueurs, sweetmeats, and presents, and urged to
drink freely ; and no sooner did they show symptoms of con-
fusion of ideas, than the factors proposed to trade with them,
and displayed the articles which they were disposed to give in
exchange for their slaves, &c. The unsuspicious negro -mer-
chant, dazzled by the variety of tempting objects placed before
3iim, and exhilarated by wine or brandy, was easily led to con-
clude a bargain little advantageous to himself; and before he
had fully recovered his senses, his slaves, ivory, and gold-dust
were transferred to the stores of the factory, and he was obliged
to be contented with what he had in his moments of inebriety
• c greed to accept in exchange for them."

From this extract, it appears that not only did the managers of
-these factories receive all the negroes who might be brought
down to the coast, but that emissaries, "junior factors," as
they were called, penetrated into the interior, as if thoroughly
to infect the central tribes with the spirit of commerce. The
result of this was the creation of large slave-markets in the in-
terior, where the neg'ro slaves were collected for sale, and where
slave-merchants, whether negro, Arabic, or European, met to con-
clude their wholesale bargains. One of these great slave-markets
was at Timbuctoo ; but for the most part the slaves were brought
down in droves by Slatecs, or negro slave-merchants, to the
European factories on the coast. At the time that Park travelled
in Africa, so completely had the negroes of the interior become
possessed with the trading spirit, so much had the capture and
abduction of negroes grown into a profession, that these native

12

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

slave-merchants were observed to treat the slaves they were
driving* to the coast with considerable kindness. The negroes
were, indeed, chained together to prevent their escape. Those
who were refractory had a thick billet of wood fastened to their
ankle ; and as the poor wretches quitting- their native spots be-
came sullen and moody, their limbs at the same time swelling
and breaking out in sores with the fatig'ue of travelling, it was
often necessary to apply the whip. Still, the Slatees were not
Avantonly cruel ; and there was nothing they liked better than to
see their slaves merry. Occasionally they would halt in their
march, and encourage the negroes to sing their snatches of song,
or play their games of hazai-d, or dance under the shade of the
tamarind tree. This, however, was only the case with the pro-
fessional slave-driver, who was commissioned to convey the
negroes to the coast ; and if we wish to form a conception of the
extent and intricate working of the curse inflicted upon the
negroes by their contact with white men, we must set ourselves
to imagine all the previous kidnapping and fighting which must
have been necessary to procure every one of these droves which
the Slatees carried down. What a number of processes must
have conspired to bring* a sufficient number of slaves together to
form a drove ! In one case, it Avould be a negi'o master selling a
number of his spare slaves ; and what an amount of suffering
even in this case must there have been arising from the separa-
tion of relatives ! In another case, it would be a father selling his
son, or a son selling his old father, or a creditor selling his in-
solvent debtor. In a third, it would be a starving family volun-
tarily surrendering itself to slavery. When a scarcity occurred,
instances used to be frequent of famishing negroes coming to the
British stations in Africa and begging " to be put upon the slave-
chain." In a fourth case, it would be a savage selling the boy
or girl he had kidnapped a week ago on purpose. In a fifth, it
would be a petty negro chief disposing of twenty or thirty
negroes taken alive in a recent attack upon a village at a little
distance from his own. Sometimes these forays in quest of
negroes to sell are on a very large scale, and then they are called
slave-hunts. The king of one negro country collects a large
army, and makes an expedition into the territories of another
negro king, ravaging and making prisoners as he goes. If the
inhabitants make a stand against him, a battle ensues, in which
the invading" army is generally victorious. As many are killed
as may be necessary to decide that such is the case ; and the
captives are driven away in thousands, to be kept on the pro-
perty of the victor till he finds opportunities of sellino- them. In
1794, the king of the southern Foulahs, a powerful tribe in
Nigi'itia, was known to have an army of 16,000 men constantly
employed in these slave-hunting expeditions into his neighbours'
temtories. The slaves they procured made the largest item in
his revenue.

13

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

SLAVE-HUNTS IN NUBIA.

While a wholesale deportation of slaves from Central Africa
v/as actively org-anised and conducted in order to supply the
American market, Nubia and some other districts were equally
laid under contribution for slaves by Egyptian and Turkish in-
vaders. The main difference between the two trades was, that
while the Europeans generally bought slaves after they had been
captured, the less fastidious Turks captured slaves for them-
selves. The slave markets of the Levant have long been sup-
plied in this manner. On Mohammed Ali, the present ruler of
Egypt, lies the disgrace of having- brought this system of
plundering" to a high degree of perfection; Nubia being his
principal slave-preserve, into which he permits no intruder with
similar objects to his own.

Mohammed's slave-hunts are conducted on a grand scale;
the expeditions taking place annually after the rainy season,
with as much regularity as the collecting of a tax, and are
called The Gasna. In Dr Madden's work, entitled " Egypt
and Mohammed Ali," we have a description, from personal
inquiry, of these expeditions as they are conducted at the pre-
sent time. Dr Madden went to Egjrpt in 1840, as the bearer
of a letter from the Anti-Slavery Convention to Mohammed
Ali, congratulatmg him upon his having issued an order abolish-
ing the slave-hunts ; but to his surprise, on arriving in Egypt,
he found that the order, though issued, had never been exe-
cuted, and apparently had never been meant to be so. The
following is from Dr Madden's work : — " The capturing expe-
dition consists of from 1000 to 2000 regular foot soldiers ; 400
to 800 Mograbini (Bedouins on horseback), armed with guns
and pistols ; 300 to 500 of the militia (half-naked savages) on
dromedaries, Avith shields and spears ; and 1000 mftre on foot, with
bucklers and small lances. As soon as everything is ready, the
march begins. They usually take from two to four field-pieces,
and only sufficient bread for the first eight days. Oxen, sheep,
and other cattle, are generally taken by force before at Kordofan,
although the tax upon cattle may have been paid. When they
meet with a flock, either feeding or at the watering-places, they
steal the cattle, and do not care whether it belongs to one or
more persons ; they make no reparation for necessary things,
whoever may be the sufferer ; and no objection or complaint is
listened to, as the governor himself is present.

As soon as they arrive at the nearest mountains in Nubia, the
inhabitants are asked to give the appointed number of slaves as
their customary tribute. This is usually done with readiness ;
for these people live so near Kordofan, and are well aware that,
by an obstinate refusal, they expose themselves to far greater
sufferings. If the slaves are given without resistance, the inha-
bitants of that mountain are preserved from the horrors of an

14

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

;Open attack ; but as the food of tlie soldiers begins to fail about
tliat time, the poor people are obliged to procure tbe necessary
provisions as well as the specified number of slaves, and the
Turks do not consider whether the harvest has been good or bad.
All that is not freely given, the soldiers take by force. Like so
many bloodhounds, they know how to discover the hidden stores,
and frequently leave these unfortunate people scarcely a loaf for
the next day. They then proceed on to the more distant moun-
tains : here they consider themselves to be in the land of an
enemy : they encamp near the mountain which they intend to
take by storm the following day, or immediately, if it is prac-
ticable. But before the attack commences, they endeavour to
settle the affair amicably : a messenger is sent to the sheik, in
order to invite him to come to the camp, and to bring with him
the requisite number of slaves. If the chief agrees with his
subjects to the proposal, in order to prevent all further blood-
shed, or if he finds his means inadequate to attempt resistance,
he readily gives the appointed number of slaves. The sheik
then proceeds to procure the number he has promised ; and this
is not difficult, lor many volunteers offer themselves for their
brethi'en, and are ready to subject themselves to all the horrors
of slavery, in order to free those they love. Sometimes they are
obliged to be torn by force from the embraces of their friends
and relations. The sheik generally receives a dress as a present
for his ready services.

But there are very few mountains that submit to such a de-
mand. Most villages which are advantageously situated, and
lie near steep precipices or inaccessible heights, that can be as-
cended only with difficulty, defend themselves most valiantly,
and fight for the rights of liberty with a courage, perseverance,
and sacrifice, of which history furnishes us with few examples.
Very few flee at the approach of their enemies, although they
might take refuge in the high mountains with all their goods,
especially as they receive timely information of the arrival of the
soldiers ; but they consider such flights cowardly and shameful,
and prefer to die fighting for their liberty.

If the sheik does not yield to the demand, an attack is made
upon the village. The cavalry and bearers of lances surround
the whole mountain, and the infantry endeavour to climb the
heights. Formerly, they fired with cannon upon the villages
and those places where the negroes were assembled, but, on ac-
count of the want of skill of the artillerymen, few shots, if any,
took effect : the negroes became indifferent to this prelude, and
were only stimulated to a more obstinate resistance. The thun-
dering of the cannon at first caused more consternation than their
effects, but the fears of the negroes ceased as soon as they became
accustomed to it. Before the attack commences, all avenues to
the village are blocked up with large stones or other impedi-
ments, the village is provided with water for several days, the

u

HISTORY OP THE SLAVE TRADE.

cattle and other property taken up to the mountain ; in short,
nothing- necessary for a proper defence is neglected. The men,
armed only with lances, occupy every spot which may be de-
fended ; and even the women do not remain inactive ; they either
take part in the battle personally, or encourage their husbands
by their cries and lamentations, and provide them with arms ;
in short, all are active, except the sick and aged. The points of
their wooden lances are first dipped into a poison which is stand-
ing by them in an earthen vessel, and which is prepared from
the juice of a certain plant. The poison is of a whitish colour,
and looks like milk which has been standing ; the nature of the
plant, and the manner in which the poison is prepared, is still a
secret, and generally known only to one family in the village,
who will not on any account make it known to others.

The signal for attack being given, the infantry sound the
alarm, and an assault is made upon the mountain. Hundreds
of lances, large stones, and pieces of wood, are then thrown at
the assailants ; behind every large stone a negro is concealed,
who either throws his j)oisoned lance at the enemy, or waits for
the moment when his ojoponent approaches the spot of his con-
cealment, when he pierces him with his lance. The soldiers,
who are only able to climb up the steep heights with great diffi-
culty, are obliged to sling their guns over their backs, in order
to have the use of their hands when climbing, and, consequently,
are often in the power of the negroes before they are able to dis-
cover them. But nothing deters these robbers. Animated with
avarice and revenge, they mind no impediment, not even death
itself. One after another treads uj)on the corpse of his comrade,
and thinks only of robbery and murder; and the village is at
last taken, in spite of the most desperate resistance. And then
the revenge is horrible. Neither the aged nor the sick are
spared ; women, and even children in the womb, fall a sacrifice
to their fury ; the huts are plundered, the little possession of the
unfortunate inhabitants carried away or destroyed, and all that
fall alive into the hands of the robbers are led as slaves into the
camp. When the negroes see that their resistance is no longer
of any avail, they frequently prefer death to slavery ; and if they
are not prevented, you may see the father rip up first the stomach
of his wife, then of his children, and then his own, that they
may not fall alive into the hands of the enemy. Others endeavour
to save themselves by creeping- into holes, and remain there for
several days without nourishment, where there is frequently only
room sufficient to allow them to lie on their backs, and in that
situation they sometimes remain for eight days. They have as-
sured me, that if they can overcome the first three days, they
may, with a little effort, continue full eight days without food.
But even from these hiding-places the unfeeling barbarians know
how to draw them, or they make use of means to destroy them :
provided with combustibles, such as pitch, brimstone, &c. the

16

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

soldiers try to kindle a fire before the entrance of the holes, and, By
forcing" the stinking" smoke into them, the poor creatures are
obliged to creep out and surrender themselves to their enemies,
or they are suffocated with the smoke.

After the Turks have done all in their power to capture the
living, they lead these unfortunate people into the camp ; they
then plunder the huts and the cattle ; and several hundred soldiers
are engaged in searching the mountain in every direction, in
order to steal the hidden harvest, that the rest of the negroes,
who were fortunate enough to escape, and have hid themselves
in inaccessible caves, should not find anything on their return to
nourish and continue their life.

When slaves to the number of 500 or 600 are obtained, they
are sent to Lobeid, with an escort of country people, and about
fifty soldiers, under the command of an officer. In order to pre-
vent escape, a sheba is hung round the necks of the adults. A
sheba is a young tree, about eight feet long, and two inches
thick, and which has a fork at the top ; it is so tied to the neck
of the poor creature, that the trunk of the tree hangs down in
the front, and the fork is closed behind the neck with a cross-piece
of timber, or tied together with strips cut out of a fresh skin ;
and in this situation the slave, in order to be able to walk at all,
is obliged to take the tree into his hands, and to carry it before
him. But none can endure this very long ; and to render it
easier, the one in advance takes the tree of the man behind him
on his shoulder." In this way, the men carrying the sheba, the
boys tied together by the wrists, the women and children walking*
at liberty, and the old and feeble tottering along- leaning on their
relations, the whole of the captives are driven into Egypt, there
to be exposed for sale in the slave-market. Thus negroes and
Nubians are distributed over the East, through Persia, Arabia,
India, &c.

It is to be observed, then, that there have been two distinct
slave trades going on with Africa — the slave trade on the west;
coast, for the supply of America and the European colonies, which
is the one we are best acquainted with ; and the slave trade on.
the north-east, for the supply of Egy|3t, Turkey, and the East.
The one may be called the Christian, the other the Mohammedan
slave trade. We have been accustomed to interest ourselves so
much in the M'estern or Christian slave trade, that we are apt to
forget that the other exists. But the fact is, that while the one
trade has been legally abolished, the other is carried on as
vigorously as ever. A traffic in negroes is at present going on
between Negroland and the whole of the East, as well as the semi-
Asiatic countries of Africa. While it is illegal for a European to
carry away a negro from the Guinea coast, negroes are bought
and sold daily in the public slave-markets of Cairo and Constan-
tinople. The Mohammedans, it is said, treat their neg'roes with
more kindness than the Christians do. In the East, it is cus-

17

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

tomaiy to hear a poor wretch boast that he is a slave, and not a
servant. And there is this difference to be observed between the
slavery of the East and the slavery of the West, that whereas in
the West the neg-roes are the only slaves known, it is not so in
the East. In the East there are slaves of all countries, Asiatics
as well as Africans ; as was the case in Greece, Rome, and other
countries of the ancient world.

MODERN AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE.

To return to the western slave trade, with whose history we
are most concerned. About the year 1750 this trade was carried
on with extraordinary vigour. All the great nations had factories
•or negro warehouses on the Guinea coast, and ships of all
nations came periodically to carry off their valuable cargoes. It
is impossible to arrive at any exact conclusion as to the number
of negroes annually carried off by the traders of various nations
about this time ; but there is every reason to believe that it fell
little short of 100,000. In the year 1789, it was stated in parlia-
ment that the number of negroes carried away in British vessels
alone was 38,000 annually. Now, supposing the other nations
to have been equally active up to their means, it will be rather
Tmder than above the mark to say that Africa discharged itself
annually of about 90,000 negroes by the western trade alone.
Europe and her colonies were responsible to the extent of an
annual demand for 90,000 negroes ! In thu'ty years, at this rate,
Scotland would be emptied of its present population. And if we
think that the trade had been going on for two centuries, not
always at the same enormous rate perhaps, but still continually
g'oing on, it is remarkable to conclude that, up to the end of last
century, Africa must have been defrauded of a population equal
in numbers to that of the British islands, or nearly 30,000,000.
And it was not a mere experiment in emigration that these poor
negroes were undergoing for the sake of a country overburdened
with population ; they were torn from Africa, not because Africa
was tired of them, and desired to spew them forth — instead of
that, Africa could have received the whole of Europe, and never
felt the difference, its vegetation is so rank, its fertility so inex-
haustible, its streams so full of fish, its forests so stocked with
game — but they were torn away to be the drudges of the white
races, wherever they chose to take them. The principal slave-
importing places were the West Indian islands, the British
colonies in North America, Brazil, and other settlements in
South America. So much has the demand for slaves been con-
fined to America, that it may be said that, but for the discovery
of America, negro slavery would never have existed. Negro
slavery was a device struck out in a bold and unconscientious
age to meet a great emergency. When Europe, as we have seen,
had discovered the new world with all its riches, and found that
the aborigines there were useless as labourers, and were fast dis-

18

HISTORY OF THE SLA.YE TRADE.

appearing' broken-hearted into their graves, provoked at so un-
toward an occurrence, she looked about, in no very scrupulous
mood, for some other population less delicately framed, whom
she might compel to help her through the crisis. Her eye
lig'hted on the brawny figure of the negro, and the whole
difficulty vanished. Here was the individual that had been
specially desig-ned to dig' in mines and work in sugar planta-
tions. What so convenient as to use the old continent for the
purpose of subjugating* the new one ? Looked at in this way,
there is a species of savage magnificence in the idea of negro
slavery, worthy of the age in which it originated — the age of
Columbus, and Cortez, and Pizarro. But how much more mag-
nificent, because how much more difficult, is that mode of think-
ing which rejects a device, however efficient, if it is not also
agreeable to the eternal laws of justice!

NOMINAL ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

Having sketched the origin and progress of the slave trade, and
presented an idea of its extent, we have now to trace the history
of its nominal abolition. Possibly, if we had the means of know-
ing, we should find that, from the year 1512, when Cardinal
Ximenes protested against the introduction of negroes into
America, down to the year 1787, when Clarkson and Wilberforce
began the great strugg'le of abolition, there were never wanting
in the world good and benevolent men who saw the injustice of
the trade, were grieved inwardly when they thought of it, and
even denounced it in conversation. As cultivated feeling ad-
vanced, so w^as there a growing feeling that the slave trade was
a wi'ong thing.

In the middle of the seventeenth century, Morgan Godwyn,
an English clergyman, pubhcly broached the subject by writing
upon it. About a century later, two members of the Society of
Friends in America, John Woolman and Anthony Benezet, were
fully possessed with the abolition spirit. Woolman travelled far and
near among the people of his own persuasion, trying to get them
to relinquish all connection with the traffic in negroes. Benezet
founded and taught a negro school in Philadelphia, and de-
nounced the slave trade in various publications. So powerful
was the effect produced by these two men, especially on persons
of the sect to which they belonged, that in 1754 the Friends in
America came to a resolution, declaring " that to live in ease and
plenty by the toil of those whom fraud and violence had put into
their power, was consistent neither with Christianity nor with
common justice." This declaration was followed up by the
abolition of the use of slave labour among the Friends — the
penalty for keeping a slave being excommunication from the
body. By emancipating their negroes, and employing them at
regular wages, the Friends eiSected a great saving ; and showed
that, where labourers abound, free labour is cheaper than slave

19

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

labour. lu England, about the year 1765, tlie case of a poor
neg-ro, whom his master had cast adrift in London, attracted the
notice of the benevolent Granville Sharpe. Led by this case to
take up the cause of the neg-roes in general, Mr Sharpe, by per-
severing- in making public all instances of the sale or seizures of
negroes in London, drew from the bench in 1772 the famous
decision, that " when a slave puts his foot on English ground he
is free." What could be done for the negroes, became now a sub-
ject of conversation among educated people.

In 1783 Bishop Porteus made the slave trade the subject
of a public sermon. Next year the Rev. James Ramsay,
vicar of Teston, in Kent, who had resided for nineteen years
in the island of St Christopher, and become acquainted there
with the practice of slavery in its worst details, published
an essay on the treatment of slaves, which produced an im-
mediate sensation. The excitement of the attacks upon his
character by the jDlanters and their friends which this publi-
cation occasioned, is said to have hastened poor Ramsay's end.
In the year 1785 Dr Peckard proposed the slave trade as the
subject of a prize essay at Cambridge. The prize was gained
by Thomas Clarkson. From that day, Mr Clarkson devoted
his life to the abolition of slavery. We do not suppose that
any other prize essay ever did as much. Besides Mr Clarkson,
there was another individual of whose mind the subject, when
mooted in his presence by a lady, took a deep hold. This
w^as William Wilberforce. On Sunday the 28th of October 1787,
Wilberforce made this entry in his journal — " God Almighty has
placed before me two great objects, the suppression of the slave
trade, and the reformation of manners." The reformation of
manners he did not accomplish, but the suppression of the slave
trade he did. A very striking instance how great any educated
man may make himself, if only he fix early upon a great object,
and devote his life exclusively to it. Clarkson and Wilberforce,
the twin spirits of the movement, were soon able to form a
powerful confederacy including men of all parties, and to shake
the mind of the nation.

In England, as well as in America, members of the Society of
Friends have the honour of having been the first and the most
energetic abolitionists. In 1787 Wilberforce mooted the ques-
tion in parliament, and procured the appointment of a committee
to collect evidence. Next year a temporary measure, called the
Middle Passage Bill, was carried by Sir William Dolben, pro-
viding for the better treatment of slaves during the voyage.
The abolitionists went on gaining strength, till in 1792 Dundas's
Resolutions for the Abolition of the Slave Trade were carried in
the House of Commons. Next year, however, the house would
not confirm its former vote ; and though the motion for abolition
was brought forward annually, for seven successive sessions, it
was regularly lost ; owing, it is supposed, to the help which the

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

slave-owning' interest derived from the aversion whicli existed
at that time to everything* that seemed to breathe the spirit
of freedom. Unfortunately for the cause of abolition, during'
these seven years the phrases liberty, equality, the rig-hts of
men, &c. so hackneyed by the speakers and writers of the
French Revolution, were exactly those w^hich the friends of the
neg-ro required to use. When the revolutionary mania waned,
the cause of abolition revived in Britain. In 1799, thoug'h
Wilberforce's annual motion was lost, another bill was carried,
limiting the traffic to a certain extent of coast. For the three
succeeding- years, the state of European affairs occasioned the
postponement of the question of the slave trade. In 1804, how-
ever, Wilberforce's motion was carried in the Commons ; but
the Lords threw it out. At this time there was such an increase
in the number of slaves imported in British ships, owing" to the
capture of the Dutch colonies, that the nation became indig"nant,
and would have no more delay. Accordingly, in 1805, the im-
portation of slaves into the new colonies was j)rohibited ; next
year the slave trade with foreign countries was also abolished ;
and in 1807 came the climax. The bill for the total abolition of
the British slave trade on and after the 1st of January 1808 re-
ceived the royal assent on the 25th of March 1807. At first, the
only punishment for continuing the traffic, now declared illegal,
was a penalty in money ; but this was found so utterly insuffi-
cient, and the number of offences was so g-reat, that in 1811 an
act was carried by Lord Brougham making slave-dealing felony,
punishable by transportation for fourteen years, or imprisonment
with hard lalDOur. Even this was found inadequate as a check ;
and in 1824 the slave trade was declared to be piracy, and the
punishment death. In 1837, when the number of capital offences
was diminished, the punishment for trading' in slaves was changed
to transportation for life.

Meanwhile the example and the diplomatic influence of Great
Britain were rousing- the governments of other countries. Ere
long all the foreig'n powers imitated Great Britain in prohibiting
the traffic to their subjects. Two of them went the length of
making the traffic piracy, punishable with death, as England
had ; namely, North America and Brazil. 1'he rest did not go
quite so far, but all of them made the traffic illegal, and, with
the exception of the United States, have agreed to what is called
the Mutual Right of Search ; that is, each has agreed to permit
its ships to be searched at sea by the ships of the others, so as
to detect any slaves who may be on board. And at this day
a line of British cruisers is stationed along the African coast, to
chase and capture slave vessels.

It is necessary here to remind our readers, that the abolition
of the slave trade, and the abolition of slavery, are two distinct
things. It was not till 1833 that Great Britain abolished slavery
in her colonies. Other states, though they have abolished the

21

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

slave trade, or declared the importation of any more neg-roea
from Africa to be illegal, have not abolished slavery; that is,
emancipated the negro population already formed. In the United
States, for instance, to import any more neg-roes from Africa is
piracy by the law ; but at the same time slavery exists in all its
horror in the southern states ; negroes are bought and sold, and
marched in droves from one state into another, and if any one
is daring" enoug-h to say a word in behalf of the race, he runs a
risk of being- injured in person, or even assassinated. It is im-
portant, then, to bear in mind that the abolition of the slave
trade is a different thing from the abolition of slavery. The
British government, in abolishing slavery , has in effect laid down
the proposition, that no human being has a right to enslave
another ; the government of the United States, in stopping short
at the prohibition of the slave trade, has only said, " We can do
with the negroes we have, and we don't need any more."

To import negroes from Africa is now, therefore, an illegal act
by the law of all civilised nations. Some states still keep up
slavery, but all have abolished the slave traffic with Africa.
Those nations, accordingly, which do keep up slavery, such as
Cuba, Brazil, and the United States, are supposed to breed all
the slaves they require within their own territories out of the
existing slave population, and not to receive any ship-loads from
Africa. But is such the fact 1 Is the slave trade suppressed ?
Does Brazil, does Cuba, does Porto Rico, does Buenos Ayres,
does Texas, do the United States, import no negroes now ? Are
there no slave-ships packed with negroes crossing the Atlantic
at this moment 1 Is it only wax, teakwood, and elephants' teeth
that form the cargoes for which vessels now visit the Guinea
coast ? Are there no slave warehouses now on the line of shore
between Cape Verd and Biafra 1 Are the inhabitants of Tim-
buctoo and the banks of Lake Tchad wondering what strange
thing has befallen the whites, that there is now no demand for
negroes ; and finding it useless now to kidnap one another as
they did before ? Do no droves of slaves come westward now X
Has the stream of traffic, disappointed of its western outlet,
turned northward in the direction of the Barbary states and the
isthmus of Suez 1 Have the labours of our Clarksons and Wil-
berforces, our philanthropists and statesmen, the struggles and
negotiations of forty years, been crowned with success ? Have
the fifteen millions of pounds which England lavished in the
suppression of ih.e, traffic been well-spent money ? Are the nations
of the world entitled now to join in huzzas and mutual congra-
tulations on what they have done ? In one word, is the slave
trade at an end ?

Startling as the assertion is, the slave trade is no more abolished
at this moment than ever it was. In the year 1844, thirty-
five years after the British Abolition Act Avas passed, more
negroes were carried away in ships from the coast oi' Africa than

22

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

in 1744, fifty years before abolition was heard of. This appalling*
fact is every day receiving* confirmation. It is proved, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that all that has been done has only ag"g-ra-
vated the evil it was intended to destroy. While we are con-
gratulating ourselves on having" abolished the slave trade, and
prevailed on other nations to do the same, it turns out that it
would have been greatly better for the poor negro if the Aboli-
tion Act had never been passed. Instead of being a boon to
Africa, it has proved a curse. Not, as will be seen hereafter, that
the Abolition Act was not a grand and heroic achievement, not
that it was not a right and proper step; but only that much
more is required to eiFect the end it aimed at. An assertion so-
startling as that which we have made, requires strong evidence
to support it, and unfortunately the evidence is but too strong..
The fact, as we have stated it, was first distinctly brought out
by Sir Fowell Buxton, and every subsequent investigation has-
corroborated his assertions.

All that has been done, has been to change what was formerly
a leg'al trade, pursued openly by respectable persons, into a con-
traband trade, pursued secretly by blackguards and desperadoes.
According to Sir Fowell Buxton, it is an axiom at the custom-
house that no illicit trade can be suppressed if the profits be more
than 30 per cent. This is an ascertained fact. Now, the profits-
of the slave trade, as determined from a number of random cases,
average 180 or 200 per cent. Therefore, even supposing the
risks of an illicit trade in slaves to be considerably greater than
the risks of an illicit trade in anything else (though there is
no reason to believe that such is the case), still, according to the
ascertained rule, it might have been foreseen that the slave trade
would continue to be carried on even after it had been abolished
by law. Accordingly, since the slave trade was declared illegal
by the consent of the various states interested, a vig'orous con-
traband traffic has been carried on by French, Spanish, Por-
tuguese, and American crews. Britons are occasionally found in
such crews : Spaniards and Portuguese, however, predominate.
The pay is frequently forty dollars a month. The captain, and
often the sailors in these ships, are said to be men of ability, not
only as seamen, but in other respects. They carry their cargoes
across the Atlantic to Cuba, Brazil, Porto Bico, Montevideo, &c.;
nay, there is good evidence that negroes are still imported into
the southern states of North America, being secretly landed in
Florida, and conveyed thence to Carohna, Georgia, Alabama, and
Mississippi. That thousands of negroes are annually imported
into these southern states of the Union, has been asserted over
and over again in Congress ; and, besides, there is no other way
of explaining the fact, that in these states there are so many
slaves who cannot speak English. But Brazil and Cuba are the
principal slave-importing countries. Sir Fowell Buxton cal-
culates that Brazil imports annually about 80,000 negroes, and

23

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

Cuba about 60,000. To these two countries alone, therefore, the
annual delivery of neg'roes amounts to 140,000 ; and if we add
only 10,000 for all other places, the annual delivery of neg'roes
into the slave-using countries of the new world will amount to
150,000 ; that is to say, nearly double the largest annual delivery
ever known to have been made before Wilberforce began his
labours.

Africa, however, loses far more than America gains. It is
calculated that the whole wastage or tare of the traffic is seven-
tenths ; that is to say, for every ten neg'roes whom Africa parts
with, America receives only three ; the other seven die. This
enormous wastag-e may be divided into three portions — the wast-
age in the journey from the interior of Neg-roland to the coast,
the wastage in the passage across the Atlantic, and the wastage
in the process of seasoning after landing. The first is estimated
at one-half of the original number brought from the interior,
the second at one-fourth of the number shipped, and the third
at one-fifth of the number landed. In other words, if 400,000
negroes are collected in the interior of Africa, then of these one-
half will die before reaching the coast, leaving only 200,000 to
be shipped ; of these one-fourth will die in the j)assage across
the Atlantic, leaving only 150,000 to be landed; and of these
one-fifth will die in the process of seasoning, leaving only
120,000 available for labour in America. Now, this wastage is
more than twice as large as the wastage which took jDlace under
the legal traffic ; whereas, now, it requires 400,000 Africans to
give America 120,000 available negro labourers, it would only
have required 250,000 to do so while the traffic was legal. It
may be thought that the first and the third of the three sources
of wastage we have mentioned would continue the same whether
the traffic were legal or not, and tlip.t the amount of wastage
during the passage across the Atlantic alone could be affected by
the traffic being contraband. But this is not the case ; for, in
the first place, the traffic being now illegal, it is prosecuted by
a more debased and brutal class of men, and this would increase
the number of deaths all through ; in the second place, greater
precaution against detection must now be used not only during
the voyage, but also before the shipping and after the landing ;
and the effect of increased precaution is to increase the number
of deaths. But unquestionably it is the mortality during the
voyage that has been increased most. On this point the infor-
mation that is daily pouring in upon us is appalling. The sub-
stance of that information is, that the horrors of the passage
before the abolition were as nothing when compared with the
horrors of the passage now.

HORRORS OF THE MIDDLE PASSAGE.

While the trade was legal, the ships desi^-ned for carrying
slaves M^ere in a great measure constructed like other vessels ;

24

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADU.

though, in order to make the carg-o as large as possible, the
negroes were packed very closely together. The number of
negroes which a vessel was allowed to carry was fixed by law.
British vessels of 150 tons and under, were not to carry more
than five slaves to every three tons of measurement. In 1789,
a parliamentary committee engaged in inquiries connected with
Sir W. Dolben's bill, found, by actual measurement of a slave
ship, that, allowing every man six feet by one foot four inches,
every woman five feet by one foot four inches, every boy five
feet by one foot two inches, and every girl four feet six inches
by one foot, the ship would hold precisely 450 negroes. The
actual number carried was 454 : and in previous voyages she
had carried more. This calculation, illustrated as it was by
an eng'raving', caused an immense sensation at the time, and
assisted in mitigating the miseries of the passage. But all
this is altered now. By making the traffic illegal, we have lost
the power of regulating it. In order to escape the British
cruisers, all slave ships now are built on the principle of fast
sailing. The risk of being captured takes away all inducement,
from mere selfish motives, to make the cargo moderate 5 on the
contrary, it is an object now to make the cargo as large as pos-
sible, for then the escape of one cargo out of three will amply
repay the dealer. Accordingly, the negroes now are packed in
the slave ships literally (and this is the comparison always used)
like herrings in a barrel. They have neither standing room, nor
sitting room, nor lying room ; and as for change of position
during the voyage, the thing is impossible. They are cooped up
anyhow, squeezed into crevices, or jammed up against the curved
planks. The allowance in breadth for an adult negro is nine
inches, so that the only possible posture is on the side. The follow-
ing is a brief description given by an eye-witness of the unloading
of a captured slaver which had been brought into Sierra Leone.
" The captives were now counted ; their numbers, sex, and age,
written down, for the information of the court of mixed commis-
sion. The task was repulsive. As the hold had been divided for
the separation of the men and the women, those on deck were
first counted ; they were then driven forward, crowded as much
as possible, and the women were drawn up through the small
hatchway from their hot, dark confinement. A black boatswain
seized them one by one, dragging them before us for a moment,
when the proper officer, on a glance, decided the age, whether
above or under fourteen ; and they were instantly swung again
by the arm into their loathsome cell, where another negro boat-
swain sat, with a whip or stick, and forced them to resume the
bent and painful attitude necessary for the stowage of so large a
number. The unfortunate women and girls, in general, sub-
mitted with quiet resignation, when absence of disease and the
use of their limbs permitted. A month had made their condition
familiar to them. One or two were less philosophical, or suffered

25

HISTORY OP THE SLAVE TRADE.

more acutely than tlie rest. Their shrieks rose faintly from their
hidden prison, as violent compulsion alone squeezed them into
their nook against the curve of the ship's side. I attempted to
descend in order to see the accommodation. The height between
the floor and ceiling- was about twenty-two inches. The agony
of the position of the crouching slaves may be imagined, espe-
cially that of the men, whose heads and necks are bent down by
the boarding above them. Once so fixed, reUef by motion or change
of posture is unattainable. The body frequently stiffens in a per-
manent curve ; and in the streets of Freetown I have seen liberated
slaves in every conceivable state of distortion. One I remember
who trailed along his body, with his back to the ground, by
means of his hands and ankles. Many can never resume the
'cipright posture."

One item of the enormous mortality during the passage consists
of negroes thrown overboard when the slaver is chased, or when
a storm arises. Many thousands perish annually in this way.
Even when a slave vessel is captured by a British cruiser, and
carried into port, the negroes are not set at liberty, or, if they
be, they are little better than cast adrift among strangers. Very
frequently it is decided, upon trial, that the captm'e of the
vessel has been illegal; and then the slaver sails away trium-
phantly, the poor negroes on board having only been tantalised
with the hope of freedom. A remarkable case of this kind is told
by Mr Kankin in his account of a visit to Sierra Leone in 1834.

" On the morning after my arrival at Sierra Leone," says Mr
Rankin, " I was indulging in the first view of the waters of the
estuary glittering in the hot sun, and endeavouring to distinguish
from the many vessels at anchor the barque which had brought
me from England.

Close in-shore lay a large schooner, so remarkable from the
lov/ sharp cut of her black hull, and the excessive rake of her
masts, that she seemed amongst the other craft as a swallow
seems amongst other birds. Her deck was crowded with naked
blacks, whose woolly heads studded the rail. She was a slaver
with a large cargo. In the autumn of 1833 this schooner, appa-
rently a Brazilian, and named with the liberty-stirring appella-
tion of ^ Donna Maria da Gloria,' bad left Loando, on the slave
coast, with a few bales of merchandise, to comply with the for-
malities required by the authorities from vessels engaged in legal
traffic; for the slave trade, under the Brazilian flag, is now
piracy. No sooner was she out of port than the real object
of her voyage declared itself. She hastily received on board four
hundred and thirty negroes, who had been mustered in readiness,
and sailed for Rio Janeiro. Off the mouth of that harbour she
arrived in November, and was captured as a slaver by his majesty's
brig Snake. The case was brought in December before the court
estabhshed there ; and the court decided that, as her Brazilian
character had not been fully made out, it was incompetent to the

26

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

final decision of tLe case. It was necessaiy to apply to tlie court
of mixed commission at Sierra Leone for the purpose of adjudi-
cation. A second time, therefore, the unfortunate dungeon-ship
put to sea with her luckless carg-o, and ag-ain crossed the Atlantic
amidst the horrors of a two months' voyage. The Donna Maria
da Gloria having returned to Africa, cast anchor at Freetown in
the middle of February 1834, and on arrival, found the number
reduced by death fi'om four hundred and thirty to three hundred
and thirty-iive.

Continuance of misery for several months in a cramped posture,
in a pestilential atmosphere, had not only destroyed many, but
liad spread disease amongst the survivors. Dropsy, eruptions,
abscesses, and dysentery, were making" ravag-es, and ophthalmia
was g-eneral. Until formally adjudicated by the court, the
wretched slaves could not be landed, nor even relieved from their
sickening- situation. With the green hills and valleys of the
colony close to them, they must not leave their prison. I saw
them in April ; they had been in the harbour two months, and
no release had been offered them. But the most j)ainful circum-
stance was the final decision of the court. The slaver was proved
to have been sailing- under Portuguese colours, not Brazilian ;
and the treaty with the Portuguese prohibits slave traffic to the
north of a certain line only, whereas the Donna Maria had been
captured a few degrees to the south. No alternative remained.
Her capture was decided to have been illegal. She was formally
■delivered up to her slave-captain ; and he received from the
British authorities written orders to the commanders of the
British cruisers, guaranteeing a safe and free passage back to the
Brazils ; and I saw the evil ship weigh anchor and leave Sierra
Leone, the seat of slave liberation, with her large canvass proudly
swelling, and her ensign floating as if in contempt and triumph.
Thus a third time were the dying wretches carried across the
Atlantic after seven months' confinement ; few probably lived
through the passage."

Even where slavers are not so lucky as the Donna Maria was,
the consequences ai'e not more severe to the crews than to the
poor cargo of negroes. The whole amount of punishment is
generally nothing more than the forfeiture of the ship. For-
merly, the forfeited slave-ships at Sierra Leone used to be sold ;
and there were frequent instances of a forfeited slaver sold in one
year plying the same trade the next. Now, however, the vessels
are sawn asunder, and sold as old timber. With regard to the
crews, Sir Fowell Buxton remarks, that the law by which Great
Britain, Brazil, and North America, have made slave-dealing
piracy, and liable to capital punishment, is, practically, a dead
letter, there being no instance of an execution for that crime.
The poor negroes, on the other hand, when they are taken out of
the captured vessel, have very little attention paid to them, and
are thrown adrift to shift for themselves.

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

Lastly, it has been clearly proved that the condition of the
poor negroes at sea is far from being improved when the slaver
falls into British hands. Perhaps never was the utter inefficacy^
the utter foolishness we may say, of all that has yet been done
towards the suppression of the slave trade, been more strikingly
made out than in the harrowing pamphlet recently published by
the Rev. Pascoe Grenfell Hill, "entitled " Fifty Days on Board a
Slave Vessel in the Mozambique Channel, in April and May
1843." The Progresso, a Brazilian slaver, was captured on the
12th of April, on the coast of Madagascar, by the British
cruiser Cleopatra, on board of which Mr Hill was chaplain.
The slaver was then taken charge of by a British crew, who
were to navigate her to the Cape of Good Hope. Mr Hill, at his
own request, accompanied her ; and his pamphlet is a narrative of
what took place during the fifty days which elapsed before their
arrival at the Cape. We cannot here quote the details of the
description of the treatment of the negroes given by Mr Hill ;
but the following account of the horrors of a single night will
suffice. Shortly after the Progresso parted company with the
Cleopatra, a squall arose, and the negroes, who were breathing
fresh air on the deck, and rolling themselves about for glee, and
kissing the hands and the clothes of their deliverers, were all
sent below. " The night," says Mr Hill, " being intensely hot,
400 Avretched beings thus crammed into a hold 12 yards in
length, 7 in breadth, and only 3| feet in height, speedily began
to make an eifort to re-issue to the open air. Being thrust back,
and striving the more to get out, the after-hatch was forced
down on them. Over the other hatchway, in the fore part of
the vessel, a wooden grating was fastened. To this, the sole
inlet for the air, the suifocating heat of the hold, and perhaps
panic from the strangeness of their situation, made them press ;
and thus great part of the space below was rendered useless.
They crowded to the grating, and, clinging to it for air, com-
pletely barred its entrance. They strove to force their way
through apertures in length 14 inches, and barely 6 inches in
breadth, and in some instances succeeded. The cries, the heat —
I may say without exaggeration, 'the smoke of their torment' —
which ascended, can be compared to nothing earthly. One of
the Spaniards gave warning that the consequence would be
'many deaths.'" Next day the prediction of the Spaniard
" was fearfully verified. Fifty-four crushed and mangled corpses
lifted up from the slave deck have been brought to the gangway
and thrown overboard. Some were emaciated from disease,
many bruised and bloody. Antonio tells me that some were
found strangled, their hands still grasping each other's throats,
and tongues protruding from their mouths. The bowels of one
were crushed out. They had been trampled to death for the most
part, the weaker under the feet of the stronger, in the madness
and torment of suffocation from crowd and heat. It was a horrid

28

HISTORY or THE SLAVE TRADE.

sight, as they passed one by one — the stiff distorted limbs smeared
with blood and filth — to be cast into the sea. Some, still quiver-
ing", were laid on the deck to die ; salt water thrown on them to
revive them, and a little fresh water poured into their mouths.
Antonio reminded me of his last night's warning-. He actively
employed himself, with his comrade Sebastian, in attendance
on the wretched living beings now released from their con-
finement below ; distributing to them their morning meal of
farinha, and their allowance of water, rather more than half a
pint to each, which they grasped with inconceivable eagerness,
some bending' their knees to the deck, to avoid the risk of
losing any of the liquid by unsteady footing ; their throats,
doubtless, parched to the utmost with crying' and yelling-
through the night."

On the 12th of April, when the Prog-resso parted company
with the Cleopatra, there were 397 negroes on board. Of these
only 222 were landed at the Cape on the 22d of May ; no fewer
than 175, a little short of half, having died. Many also died
a.fter being landed. The crew escaped, there being no court
empowered to try them at the Cape. Abundantly does the nar-
rative of Mr Hill justify the bold sentence with which he con-
cludes— "While we boast the name of Wilberforce, and the
genius and eloquence which enabled him to arouse so g'eneral a
zeal ag'ainst the slave trade ; while others are disputing with him
the claim of being ' the true annihilator of the slave trade,' that
trade, so far from being* annihilated, is at this very hour carried
on under circumstances of greater atrocity than were known in
his time, and the blood of the poor victims calls more loudly on
us as the actual, thoug'h unintentional, aggravators of their
miseries."

CONCLUSION.

We have in the preceding pages shown how the slave trade
commenced, how it has been fostered by the continual demand
for labourers in the American continent and islands, and, lastly,
how ineffectual have been the various projects for its suppres-
sion. Great Britain borrowed twenty millions of pounds sterling
to purchase the freedom of the slaves in her West Indian and
other colonies. Besides this heavy imposition on the debt of
the country, an enormous sum is expended annually in the
attempt to quell the slave trade on the African coast. To add to
these burdens, it is calculated that the people of the United
King'dom suffer a loss of from five to six millions of pounds
yearly, by a compulsory arrangement to purchase sugar, coffee,
&;c. from the West Indies, by way of encouraging free labour,
instead of buying" them from Brazil and other slave-holding'
countries, where these articles can be had much cheaper. In
other words, Great Britain may be said to have taxed itself, one
wav and another, to the extent of nearly ten millions annually

29

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

to discourag-e slavery. Independently of its acting as an ex-
ample of national generosity, the only good achieved by such
a vast and continued outlay of national resources, has been
the liberation of the colonial slaves, who now, as free subjects,
are undergoing' a rapid melioration of circumstances. The in-
juries inflicted by the abolition project may be briefly summed
up : — The number of negroes imported into America is twice
as great as it was; while the mortality in the traiSc has
increased from about fifteen to thirty -three per cent. The
evil, in short, has been doubled in extent, and doubled in
intensity; so that if we take a given increase in extent to
be of the same value as the same numerical increase of in-
tensity, we may say that the issue of the struggle which was
meant to abolish the evil of the slave trade, has been to qua-
druple that evil.

The fact is humiliating, but it should be universally known ;
for by spreading a knowledge of the truth, we may hope at
length to see the nation generally bestirring itself on this mo-
mentous question, and adopting some rational expedient for ter-
minating the evils to which attention has been drawn. Hitherto,^
unfortunately, the subject of slavery and the slave trade has
been discussed with too little regard to prudential considera-
tions, and with an overweening conceit, that acts in them-
selves merely philanthropic would work marvels in arresting
a traffic the most deep-rooted, mercenary, and villanous on
record. Another fatal error has been the illusion that foreign
powers have ever sincerely wished for the abolition of the
trade. For years, the spectacle has been exhibited of eight or-
ten nations labouring at a difficulty, and making nothing of
it, but only smothering it up from public view by an inces-
sant mist of debating about cruisers, and treaties, and rights of
search. It is evident that the greater number of these nations
must be gross hypocrites, and have no real desire ever to see
the slave trade terminate.

In this discomfited state of the subject, various new plans have
been proposed by anti-slavery societies and others. It has been
suggested that the risk of capture should be increased by adding
to the number of British cruisers on the coast of Africa ; but this
is objectionable on the score of expense ; it being thought scarcely
reasonable that the people of Great Britain, considering the want
of a beneficiary expenditure at home, should tax themselves sa
heavily to keep up a universal sea-police, doubtful in its efficacy.
It has further been suggested, that the treaties which render
slave-trading piracy, should be enforced; but this also is not
without objections." It might render the slave-traders vengeful ;
increase the sufferings of the slaves during transit, if that were
possible ; and lead to quarrels and open warfare between Great
Britain and the powers who felt themselves aggrieved in the
persons of their subjects,

30

HISTORY OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

Colonisation, by its introduction of civilised habits and feel-
ins^s, would be a powerful means of uprooting- the practice of
slave-dealing" in Africa ; but all attempts to colonise the coast
of that continent, and also the borders of its large rivers, with
white and civilised men, have, as is well known, as signally-
failed as any other project. We have, however, an instance of
successful colonisation by a body of liberated negroes, endowed
with civilised usages. A society of North American citizens
has, for a number of years, been at the expense of conveying*
families of colour from different parts of the United States, and
settling them on the coast of New Guinea, to the south of Sierra
Leone. The interesting colony thus formed, known by the
name of Liberia, has, we believe, been eminently successful.
A considerable tract of country is already cleared, the reli-
gious and secular institutions of a civilised people have been
established, and an external trade in the produce of the country
created.

The experiment of Liberia is valuable as a suggestive; but^
apart from any considerations of its success, let the rational
and unexpensive attempt be made of allowing Africa to civi-
lise itself. This could be effected in two ways. In the first
place, every facility should be given for private English traders
carrying on a traffic with the natives on the coast of Africa,
in articles of general merchandise. Such traders, it is be-
lieved, would soon impress the native powers with the con-
viction, that it was more profitable to cultivate produce for
exchange than to g'o upon slave-hunting expeditions. It would
be, in effect, the substituting- of one trade for another. In the
second place, let Africans have every encouragement to hire
themselves as free labourers for a certain period to the West
Indies, the Mauritius, and every other scene of industry suitable
to their habits.

Already an immigration of this kind has been conducted with
considerable success in the West Indies, where cheap free labour
is said to be much required. The emigrants, according to the
government regulations, are to be hired at a current rate of wages
on their arrival, and to be insured a passage home at the end of
five years, if they are desirous of returning* ; equality in the
number of both sexes is to be imperative. By this free immigra-
tion of negroes to the colonies, it is conceived that the labourers,
on their return home to Africa, would carry with them certain
civilised habits and tastes, which would gradually inoculate
the native residents, and disincline them from the practice of
slavery.

It may possibly be alleged, that hopes of extinguishing the
slave trade founded on these apparently feeble means are little
better than visionary ; and doubtless they could not operate to any
advantage for many years. A more effectual and ready means
of extirpating slavery, at least in the South American states,

21

HISTORY OF THE SLATE TRADE.

would be the abolition of the monopoly enjoyed by the West
India planters. Our reasoning on this point is as follows : — Sug'ar
and other articles produced in the colonies are admitted into Great
Britain at rates of duty very considerably lower than those im-
posed on similar articles from Brazil and other slave-holding'
countries. Notwithstanding' this extraordinary advantage, the
West Indians fail in serving the people of Great Britain so
cheaply as they could be served by these foreign states ; the
difference, as formerly stated, is enormous. The reason why the
West Indians fail in this respect is their monopoly, which is
only a seeming, not a real advantage. Like all other monopo-
lies, their monopoly renders its possessors indolent. They con-
tinue to practise old, clumsy, and expensive methods of culture,
general management, exportation, and sale. Their whole system
is antiquated. Were the legislature to abolish their monopoly,
it is confidently believed that the face of affairs would be entirely
chang-ed for the better in the West Indies. Practical science
would be speedily applied to the land culture, cheap free labour
would be eagerly sought, and every other expedient adopted to
compete in the European market. Those who possess the best
means of judging, consider that by such renovations, it would not
be difficult to undersell the planters of Brazil, and to prove to them
that free was cheaper than slave labour. It is certainly evident,
that as soon as this can be proved, the temptation to import and
employ slaves will disappear — slavery ivill fall of itself in jneces.
Reposing confidence in these propositions, we would earnestly
advocate a free competition in the import of sugar and other
tropical products, nothing being so likely to j)ut an end to the
Atlantic slave trade, of which such afflicting examples have
been given. The slave trade, indeed, can never be utterly
eradicated till slavery itself is. In no slave-using country will
the existing- negro population propagate fast enough to supply
the growing demand for negro labour ; hence into all such
countries negroes will be imported. It is further evident, that
in no slave-using country will there ever be a strong feeling
against the slave trade ; and without such a feeling-, it cannot
readily be put down. In short, if there be no demand, there
will be no supply. Let every possible means, then, whether the
voluntary immigration of free labourers to fields for their exer-
tion, if such be indispensable, or improvements in husbandry,
he. ; the liberation of trade from monopoly ; the diplomatic inter-
ference of government ; the eloquence of the platform and pulpit ;
or the power of the press ; be employed to put down this monster
evil.

Is it, however, an evil ? Are the kidnapped negroes not treated
with much kindness and consideration by their white purchasers
in America 1 Are they not better off as slaves than as freemen ?
We shall set these questions at rest by a description of American
slavery in another paper.

STORY OF \YALTER RUYSDAEL,

THE WATCHMAKER.

ENEATH the shadow of the old and venerable castle
y^ of Rosenthal, on the beauteous river Rhine, there
j)p lived some years ago a humble husbandman with his
/\^;4^-=ss^'^ family, the cultivators of a small patch of ground,
\;i4§> whence they drew the meagre means of support. Hans
^r:P Ruysdael, as this obscure tiller of the fields was named,
and Greta his wife, though poor and hard-wrought, though
rising early and lying down late, were contented with the
lot which Providence had assigned them, and the only heavy
sigh they ever uttered was when a thought as to the rearing* of
their numerous children passed through their minds.

Besides requiring much labour, the grounds which Hans cul-
tivated bore precarious crops. They were principally laid out for
vines ; and some seasons, from the effects of blighting winds
and rains, these yielded scarcely any harvest. It was sometimes
in vain that Greta would toilsomely carry earth from the low
grounds to the higher, and lay it at the roots of the plants where
the soil was the thinnest ; or that the elder children would be
set to pick the dead leaves from the drooping stalks ; or that
Hans himself would turn up the ground with his powerful mat-
tock, so as to expose it to the sun. In a sing-le night a blighting
wind would rush up the valley, and at a blow disconcert the
toils and plans of a whole summer.

" It is clear, Greta," said Hans Ruysdael to his wife one day,
after the occurrence of a calamity of this kind-^" it is clear thati
No. 20. I

\9^'

i

m
m

would be the abolition of the monopoly enjoyed by the West
India planters. Our reasoning* on this point is as follows : — Sugar
and other articles produced in the colonies are admitted into Great
Britain at rates of duty very considerably lower than those im-
posed on similar articles from Brazil and other slave-holding-
countries. Notwithstanding- this extraordinary advantage, the
West Indians fail in serving* the people of Great Britain so
cheaply as they could be served b}^ these foreign states ; the
difference, as formerly stated, is enormous. The reason why the
West Indians fail in this respect is their monopoly, which is
only a seeming, not a real advantage. Like all other monopo-
lies, their monopoly renders its possessors indolent. They con-
tinue to practise old, clumsy, and expensive methods of culture,
g-eneral management, exportation, and sale. Their whole system
is antiquated. Were the legislature to abolish their monopoly,
it is confidently believed that the face of affairs would be entirely
changed for the better in the West Indies. Practical science
would be speedily applied to the land culture, cheap free labour
would be eagerly sought, and every other expedient adopted to
compete in the European market. Those who possess the best
means of judging, consider that by such renovations, it would not
be difficult *o undersell the planters of Brazil, and to prove to them
that free was cheaper than slave lahoiir. It is certainly evident,
that as soon as this can be jDroved, the temptation to import and
employ slaves will disappear — slavery will fall of itself in jneces.
Reposing confidence in these propositions, we would earnestly
advocate a free competition in the import of sugar and other
tropical ]3roducts, nothing being so likely to put an end to the
Atlantic slave trade, of which such afflicting examjDles have
been given. The slave trade, indeed, can never be utterly
eradicated till slavery itself is. In no slave-using country will
the existing negro population propagate fast enough to supply
the growing demand for negro labour ; hence into all such
countries negroes will be imported. It is further evident, that
in no slave-using country will there ever be a strong feeling
against the slave trade ; and without such a feeling*, it cannot
readily be put down. In short, if there be no demand, there
will be no supply. Let every possible means, then, whether the
voluntary immigration of free labourers to fields for their exer-
tion, if such be indispensable, or improvements in husbandry,
&c. ; the liberation of trade from monopoly ; the diplomatic inter-
ference of government ; the eloquence of the platform and pulpit ;
or the power of the press ; be employed to put down this monster
evil.

Is it, however, an evil ? Are the kidnapped negroes not treated
with much kindness and consideration by their white purchasers
in America ? Are they not better off as slaves than as freemen '.'
We shall set these questions at rest by a description of American
slavery in another paper.

STORY OP WALTER RUYSDAEL.

and Margaret already fancied she saw him the great man
which he wished to be. He promised her a watch of his own
manufacture one day, and they counted the months and weeks
which would elapse before they met again. Margaret scarcely
liked to see him so glad to part with her, but she did not say so ;
and she talked to him of next Christmas, and her hopes that he
would be allowed to come and see them then, and that they
should all be very happy. Walter, however, was too full of his
new greatness to think of returning so soon home ; and his sister
already thought she saw her brother was extinguishing affec-
tion in ambition. Her heart was heavy as they entered their
father's dwelling, and tears forced themselves unbidden into her
eyes.

The next morning was bright and beautiful as a May morning
could be. Margaret had helped her mother to put up Walter's
little bundle of clothes long before daybreak, and prepared break-
fast for him and her father. It had been arranged that they
should travel by one of the barges employed in passing up
and down the Rhine; for at this time no steam- vessels navi-
gated the river. The only conveyances were these barges, a
clumsy kind of boats, partly moved by oars and sails, but chiefly
by means of horses yoked one after the other to a long rope
passing- fi'om a mast in the barge to the shore. Hans's occupa-
tion near the banks of the river had made him acquainted with
many of the barge owners, and by some of them he was occa-
sionally carried to Mayence and other places on the river to
which his business led him. He had never, however, gone as far
as Strasburg with any of them. That was a long way up the
river, and few barges went to such a remote distance. On the
present occasion, he expected the passage upwards of an old
acquaintance, whose profession was the conducting of large rafts
of timber from the Black Forest on the borders of Switzerland,
down the Rhine all the way to Dort in Holland, and who there-
fore passed Strasburg- in his voyage. Having performed his
duty of conductor of the raft, and consigned it to the timber
merchants who waited its arrival, Ludwig', as this pilot was
called, was in the habit of returning up the Rhine in a barge
along' with the men under his charge.

Old and trustworthy Ludwig was now bending his way home-
wards to the Black Forest after one of these excursions. His
barge had been perceived toiling its way up the strait of the
Lurli, and was expected to pass the village and old tower of
Rosenthal on the followino' morninsr.

By early morn, as we have said, everything was prepared for
the departure of AValter and his father as soon as Ludwig should
make his appearance. In a state of agitation, Margaret would
one moment run out to see if the towing-horses were yet in
sight at the nearest turn of the river, and the next she would
rush into the cottage and again busy herself about Waiter and

3

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

his bundle, saying to him a thousand things which she had said
over and over again before.

At length, about seven o'clock, the cracking of whips and the
noise of horses were heard. " There they are at last ! " exclaimed
every one. Walter seized his bundle with one hand, and with
the other led Margaret down the bank to the side of the Rhine,
their hearts too full to speak. The anxious moment of departure
had arrived. Hans, who had signalled his old acquaintance Lud-
wig to draw nigh, was already speaking to him of his proposed
journey to Strasburg. The bargain was settled in a moment, for
the raft-pilot had made a more than usually good excursion, and
was in the best possible humour. Besides, he was glad to have
a fresh companion to talk to about his adventures on the river,
and was quite happy to welcome Hans and Walter to a lift in
the barge. They accordingly stepped on board, Walter's brothers
giving him a hearty cheer, and his mother her blessing, as they
left the shore. Margaret was the last they saw, as she stood
on a bank near, straining her eyes through her fast-coming
tears, to catch the last glimpse of Walter as they turned a bend
in the Rhine.

Walter, who had never been more than a few miles up and
down the Rhine from Rosenthal, was charmed with every new
feature of the scenery which came into view, and he Vv^as equally
delighted with the stories and anecdotes of Ludwig, who had
something to say of every old castle and crag which they passed
in their journey. Although a man of rough manners, he was
kind to Walter, and gave him a place in which to sleep at night,
under a little deck mounted near the stern of the vessel.

The first night Walter was on board the bargee he had little
inchnation to sleep, his mind being too much agitated with the
novelty of his situation to allow of repose.

" Since you do not seem to wish to lie down," said old Ludwig
to him, as he sat looking out upon the broad river glittering in
the moonlight, " if you like I will tell you a story about that
curious old tower which we are going to pass on our right ?"

" What tower ?" asked Walter ; " I do not see any one on the
banks just now."

" It does not stand on the banks at all, my young friend ; it is
situated on a rock which rises from the middle of the Rhine — a
kind of island ; and a strongly fortified place it must have been
in the times of the old German wars. Do you not see it now,
almost right ahead, like a grim giant rising from the bosom of
the stream ?"

" Now, I think I see it," replied Walter. " Do tell me the
story about it if you please. I am sure it must be something very
terrible."

" Terrible it is, if all be true, though of that one cannot be
certain. Like all the Rhine stories, it is no doubt a mixture of
truth and invention, and we must just take it as we find it. At
4

STOHY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

all events, here it is as the people round about tell it." And
Ludwig related the following- legend : —

"Once on a time, ages ago, when the castles on the Eliine
were inhabited by barons and their nien-at-arms, this tower in
the midst of the river was erected by a wicked and powerful
chief named Count Graaf, for the purpose of exacting tolls from
every one who passed up or down the Rhine. If a boat or barge
dared to go by without drawing up to the tower to pay a certain
toll, the warders on the top of the battlements had orders to shoot
with cross-bows at the voyager, and either oblige him to draw
nigh, or kill him for daring to pass without paying. You must
understand that the baron who exacted this toll had done nothing
to deserve it, and had no law in his favour. It was solely from
his own will and pleasure that he demanded a duty on passing-
boats ; a means of supporting- himself, and of acquiring wealth
without working' for it.

Everybody far and near feared this domineering rascal. He
kept a band of men in another castle which he had at some dis-
tance, and with these he delied any one to challenge his assumed
rights. Often he had battles with neighbouring barons, but he
was generally victorious, and on such occasions he never made
any prisoners. All who were taken he put to death with shock-
ing- barbarism and ignominy.

Among other ways by which he gathered money was that of
occasionally buying up, or rather taking for a small price which
he put upon it, the corn grown by the peasants in his neighbour-
hood. Graaf was a very cunning man in this respect. He
could very easily have taken all the crops for ten miles round
for nothing; but the consequence would have been, that no
one would have tilled any more land in that quarter, and so
he could not have taken more than the corn of a single season.
He was, as I say, too cunning for this ; his plan was to make
a show of kindness to the peasantry, but to take advantage of
their necessities. Sometimes he sent the corn which he thus
got at a trifling- expense to Mayence, and procured large sums
tor it : but more frequently he kept the corn up till there was
a dearth, and then he could get for it any money he liked to
name.

Year after year Count Graaf grew richer and richer with
spoils of one kind and another ; and every one said that he could
not pass out of the world without some sharp and signal punish-
ment for his greed and manifold oppressions. This, however,
seemed long of coming about. Yet the time of vengeance arrived
at last. He had become old and more hard-hearted than ever,
when one year there arose a dreadful famine in the land. The
summer and autumn were so wet that the grain did not ripen,
and it continued still green when the snows of winter fell on the
ground. In every town and village the cry of distress was
heard ; the husbandman saw his little ones fainting- and perishing

5

STORY OF TVALTEE, RUYSDAEL.

for lack of food, and the wealthy were becommg" poor, from being
obliged to purchase at enormous prices small supplies of bread.
Every one was suiFering except the cunning old baron whom I
am telling you of. While everybody else cried, he laughed and
chuckled over the rare high prices he expected he should get for
his great store of grain, which, for security, he transferred to the
rooms and vaults of the tower in the river.

Things during that awful winter became daily worse through-
out the country. The poor of the villages flocked to the towns
for assistance ; but the towns being as badly oiF as the villages
and hamlets, the famishing crowds were refused admittance, and
they perished in thousands at the gateways. All animals lit for
food were killed and eaten up, as I have heard ; cows, oxen,
horses, dogs, and other creatures. A very curious thing was
now observed. Larg'e numbers of rats began to roam about the
country in quest of food ; and so bold and ferocious did they
become, that people fled before them. When accounts of these
distresses were taken to old Count Graaf at the tower, he did not
in the smallest degree commiserate the woes of the poor. Instead
of opening* his granaries and selling his corn at a reasonable
cost, he declared that he should not dispose of a particle till the
price of the loaf in Mayence reached as high as ten guilders.*
' If the people are starving,' said he jocularly, ' why do not
they eat rats, rather than allow so much g'ood food to go
to waste throughout the country?' This was a bitter saying*,
and was afterwards remembered against him. One night,
when he was sitting* in his tower there, congratulating him-
self on soon getting the price he demanded — for the loaf was
now selling for nine and a half guilders — the warder from the
top of the castle rushed suddenly into his apartment, and de-
clared that the river was covered with armies of rats swimming
boldly to the tower, and that some had already gained a land-
ing, and were climbing the loopholes and walls. Scarcely had
this intelligence been communicated by the terrified man-at-
arms, when thousands of famishing rats poured in at the doors,
windows, and passages, in search, no doubt, of something to eat,
whether corn or human beings mattered not to them. Flight
and defence were equally impossible. While host after host at-
tacked the granaries, bands fell upon the wicked old baron, and
he was worried to death where he lay, and almost immediately
torn in pieces and devoured. The warder and one or two other
attendants alone escaped, by throwing themselves into a boat and
making with all speed for the nearest bank of the river. I need
scarcely tell you that, when the news of Count Graaf s death was
spread abroad, nobody mourned his fate, which indeed was •
looked upon as a just punishment for his great covetousness and
cruelty. No one ventured near the tower for several months

* Sixteen shillings and eiglitpence.

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

afterwards. When at length the heirs of the count visited it,
they found that all the grain had been eaten up. and that nothing'
remained of its former owner but a skeleton stretched on the cold
floor of one of the apartments. Such was the end of the wicked
Count Graaf ; and although such famines may never take place
in our times, his fate is not the less a warning* to those who would
sinfully, and for their own ends, prevent the poor from having a
proper supply of bread."

With stories such as this, Ludwig made the long passage up
the river seem short to Walter, who, when the barge arrived at
Strasburg on the fourth day after leaving Rosenthal, was sur-
prised to find that he was at the end of his journey. Bidding-
adieu to Ludwig and his companions, Hans and his son now ar-
rived at the fortifications of Strasburg, and entered the crowded
city. The streets, the houses, the shops, all seemed like a scene
of enchantment before the eyes of the country boy ; and as the
great clock of the cathedral struck eight, he listened in wonder
and delig'ht to its fine deep tone, which led to a reverie on clocks
and watches, and clockmakers and watchmakers, till he was
roused by his father stopping at the small door of a tall, dismal-
looking house in a narrow, dark, dirty little street. He now
made Walter follow him up a long staircase, which seemed
almost endless to the boy, till they stopped at the door of a room
in one of the upper storeys, and knocked with his hand. The
door was opened by his brother, who had just returned from his
work, and gave them a hearty reception, leading' them in to his
wife, a tall, bony-looking- woman, not very clean in her person,
w^ho was preparing" the supper of onion broth and salad. There
was a strong smell of onions and tobacco in the room ; but to this
Walter was accustomed at home ; though his aunt's untidy ap-
pearance, and the gloomy discomfort of the small room, were not
so like home, and for a moment his heart sank within him. How-
ever, a kind reception and some warm soup, which, as he was
very hungry, he was glad of, cheered him ; and he was soon
asleep on the straw-mattress of the little wooden bed prepared
for him in a recess in the next room. He slept soundly, and
dreamt that he was a watchmaker, and had made the clock of the
cathedral ; but just as his father and mother and Margaret and
his brothers, and all the village, were assembled, and admiring
his work, the whole steeple fell down with such a crash that he
awoke ; and, starting up in bed, saw his father, who had upset the
only chair in the room in his hurry to call Walter to bid him
^'ood-by, as he was returning home. He kissed the boy affec-
tionately, bade him be good and obedient to his master and his
uncle, and not forget his duty to God, or all that his mother
and he had taught him, and left the room. Walter was alone
for the first time in his life, and he sat up in his bed and cried
bitterly.

That morning his uncle introduced him to his new master, a

7

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

quiet old man, with a mild benevolent countenance, and a g-entle-
manner. He spoke kindly, and seemed sorry for the little pale-
boy who was separated for the first time from his family and
home. Walter felt his kindness, and was happier. There were
a g-reat many men and boys employed in the business, and his
■uncle could not be often in the same room with him ; but Walter
was inclined to be diligent, and was in a iew days so earnest
about his employment, that he forgot he was among strangers^
and worked as happily as if he had been doing something for his
father in his own home. He only felt lonely when he walked
through the busy crowded streets to his dark dirty lodgings at
his uncle's, and looked round at the four bare walls and his
straw-mattress in the wooden bed, which was its only furniture,,
excepting one chair with a hole in it. His aunt, too, was some-
times cross, and when he sat down with his uncle to his
uncomfortable supper, he thought of his mother, how nicely she
prepared the evening meal, and he longed to hear again the
cheerful voices of his brothers, and Marg'aret's sweet merry
laugh when the day's work was over. But these were foolish
thoughts to indulge, as they made him discontented ; so Walter
seldom allowed himself this painful pleasure.. He was becoming
tolerably reconciled to his situation, when he unfortunately
placed a little too much confidence in a new friend.

The boy who worked next him lived in a street adjoining
Walter's lodging, so they generally walked back together in the
evenings. An intimacy soon grew up between them, and it was
not long* before Walter communicated to him all his projects for
the future, that he meant one day to be a g'reat man, and ta
make a clock like that in the cathedral. He told him what he
had already done, his inventions, the wooden watches that ho
had constructed for his sister's amusement, and that he was at
that time working at one every night after he came home, by
which he meant to surprise her next Christmas. The next morn-
ing the boy amused his companions in the workshop by a recital
of these projects. Nothing could exceed Walter's indignation.
His face changed from pale to red, and then paler than before.
He did not speak, but his quivering lips and flashing eyes, and
the vain attempt at a scornful laugh, which only excited more
merriment from those around him, showed the violence of his
resentment, and at last, provoked beyond endurance, he advanced
to give a blow to his tormentor, when the master entered in the
midst of his passion, and commanded silence 5 but remarking
Walter's angry countenance, he desired to speak with him
when work was over. He then inquired from him the cause
of the morning's disturbance, which the boy frankly con-
fessed; and his master, after acknowledging the provocation,
yet blaming Walter's violence and imprudent openness to one
almost a stranger to him, continued — " But we must all
learn by experience, my boy. So you hope one day to dis-

8

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

ting^iiisli yourself: I commend your ambition; but the less
said, the more is likely to be performed. I would, however,
caution you in one thing" : the mere love of distinction is the
desire of gratifying your own vanity, often at the expense of
something" better ; and if you do not work from a higher motive,
you will fail in that. Let the desire of being- useful to your
parents in their old age be your first object, and then endeavour
to perfect and improve upon the inventions and discoveries of
others, which will lead to your making inventions and d'is-
coveries yourself, and to the distinction you covet : though,
Walter, I warn you, by the time you acquire it, you will have
attained something so much better than this boyish ambition is
worth that you will not care for its possession. However, work
on, and I do not fear your doing something yet ; only beware of
vain projects which hasten you on to your ruin. Pray to God
to put a right spirit within you ; fear no labour on your part,
and his blessing will go along- with you." Walter only half
comprehended his master's words, but they sounded encourag-
ingly, and he felt happy that evening-, and swallowed his onion
soup with so good an appetite, that his aunt was almost alarmed
for the family expenses.

The boy's character became from that day more and more
reserved : he worked diligently, but associated as little as he
could with his fellow-workmen. His waking hours, his nig'htly
dreams, were spent in the vain projects from which his master
had warned him ; and the desire for the approbation of his fel-
low-creatures seemed to increase in proportion as he shunned
their society, and fancied he despised them. Vanity was his
foible ; and, as is usually the case, he was the last to perceive his
own infirmity. He imagined there was something noble in
rising above those who were born his equals. God had given
them the same beautiful world to inhabit ; he was their Father
as well as his ; and what superior talents he had bestowed on one
more than another, were intended that that one might serve his
fellow-creatures more, and receive his reward in the consciousness
of that service ; but Walter only saw in those talents a promise
of his own elevation. True, he was only a boy ; but the full-
grown man is the development of the boy ; and if we do not
early cut away those branches which encumber the sapling, they
will, in its maturity, consume the richest nourishment, and de-
stroy the beauty and excellence of the tree.

Christmas came at last, and Walter would have returned
home, but it was inconvenient to do so, the distance being con-
siderable ; and he continued, without repining, to labour dili-
gently at his employment.

Years rolled on and Walter became a man : still, the same
earnestness, the same ambition, the same desire of fame, scarcely
more rational, thoug'h more determined in the man than in the
boy, characterised him. His master had placed him in one of th.e

9

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

most responsible situations in the house : he had won his regard
by his honesty, diligence, and obliging manners; but Waiter
was not happy. He was restless and discontented because he
was not known by the world : all his savings were spent in books
and in materials for the work which now occupied him the
greater part of the night. The clock of the cathedral had been
the object of his admiration since the day he hrst entered the
city, and he was never tired looking at it. This extraordinary
piece of mechanism was beg-un about the year 1352, and placed in
one of the spires of the cathedral in 1370. Until recent times, it
showed a variety of movements, some introduced since the period
of its first fabrication. The basement of the clock exhibited three
dial -plates, showing the revolutions of the year and seasons,
with eclipses of the sun and moon. Above the middle dial-plate,
the days of the week were represented by different divinities,
supposed to preside over the planets, from which their common
appellations are derived. The divinity of the current day aj)-
peared in a car rolling* over the clouds, and at midnig'ht retired
to give place to the succeeding one. Before the basement a
globe was displayed, borne on the wings of a pelican, round
which the sun and moon were made to revolve, and consequently
represented the motion of those bodies. The ornamental turret
above the basement exhibited a large dial in the form of an
astrolabe, which showed the annual motion of the sun and
moon through the ecliptic, as also the hours of the day, &c.
The phases of the moon were likewise marked on a dial-plate
above. Over this dial-plate were represented the four ag-es of
man by symbolical figures, one of which passed every quarter
of an hour, and marked this division of time by striking on
small bells. Two angels were also seen in motion, one striking
a bell with a sceptre, while the other turned an hour-glass
at the expiration of every hour. This celebrated clock has
lately undergone repair, and is now considerably simplified ;
but at the time of Walter's residence in the city, it was in
all its glory ; and he thought, if he could succeed in dis-
covering its mechanism, make a model of it, and then ex-
hibit it from city to city, he would realise a fortune for him-
-self and his family, and be on the high road to distinction.

Full of this idea, our young watchmaker studied the history
of every curious clock which he could hear of. Among others,
he was deeply interested in the clock of Berne, in Switzerland,
which is renowned for its ingenious contrivances ; but more
particularly a clock made by Droz, a mechanic of Geneva,
which rivalled even that of Strasburg.* Procuring as minute

* To amuse our young readers, we may mention that this clock was so

constructed as to be capable of performing the following movements.

There was exhibited on it a negro, a shepherd, and a dog. When the

clock struck, the shepherd played six tunes on his flute, and the dog

10

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

an account as possible of these clocks, for the purpose of enlarg-
ing' his ideas of mechanical combinations, he set ardently to
work in making" a model of the clock of Strasburg, which should
work perfectly in all its parts like the original. He kept his
labours a profomid secret, employing himself some houi's every
night for a space of two years. At the end of this time the
model was nearly completed, and all the movements worked as
smoothly as he could have wished. A feeling of pride now took
possession of his mind. He almost looked with disdain and pity
on the passengers in the streets ; and became more distant than
before to his fellow-workmen. He already felt as if he had
reached the summit of his ambition. Sometimes his courag'e
would sink, and then he was so forgetful of his business, that
once or twice he nearly quarrelled with his good master; but
the day at last arrived, the day he had reckoned on for years,
the day he could show the fruit of all his labours. His uncle was
the first to whom he communicated his secret. He invited him
to the garret, where he had lived and toiled since he finished his
apprenticeship ; and the astonishment and delight expressed by
his uncle exceeded even his expectations. His uncle had always
considered the clock as something beyond the reach of any human
intellect but that of the great man who had invented it 5 and
now his own nephew had, by his unassisted ingenuity, discovered
all its mechanism, and produced an exact model, which performed
all its evolutions, and if not so large, seemed to him quite as won-
derful. The neig'hbours, who had watched his small lamp burn-
ing nig'ht after nig'ht in his garret, till the sun's first rays broke
into the narrow window, now hastened to satisfy their curiosity,
and to express their surprise and delight. On the third day
after the disclosure of his workmanship, as Walter was standing
surrounded by eager admirers, the door opened, and Margaret
thi'ew her arms round his neck. She had been the only one to

approached and fa-t\Tied upon him. Tliis clock was exhibited to the lung
of Spain, who was greatly delighted with it. " Tlie gentleness of my dog,"
said Droz, " is his least merit. If your majesty touch one of the apples
which you see in the shepherd's basket, you will admire the fidelity of
this animal." The king took an apple, and the dog flew at his hand, and
barked so loud, that the king's dog, which was in the same room duriag
the exhibition, began to bark also ; at this the courtiers, not doubting
that it was an affair of witchcraft, hastily left the room, crossing them-
selves as they went out. Having desired the minister of marine, who
was the only one who ventured to stay behind, to ask the negro what
o'clock it was, the minister asked, but he obtained no reply. Droz then
observed, that the negro had not yet learned Spanish, upon which the
minister repeated the question in French, and the black immediately
answered him. At this new prodigy the firmness of the minister also
forsook him, and he retreated precipitately, declaring that it must be the
work of a supernatural being. It is probable that, in the performance of
these tricks, Droz touched certain springs in the mechanism, although
this is not mentioned in any of the accounts of his clock.

11

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

whom his secret had been confided. He had written to tell her
of its completion, and she instantly set out on foot, with the
yonng farmer to whom she was shortly to be married ; but,
tiring of this fatig-uing- mode of travelling", they had been for-
tunate in finding a diligence, which brought them to the scene
of her brother's triumph. She could not speak; but her eyes
told the fulness of her heart, and her silent pressure of Walter's
hand was more grateful to him than all the words of praise
and flattery with which his ears had been satiated the day
before. The rest of the family followed in a few days, and
a week was spent in nothing but rejoicing" and ]3roud congra-
tulations.

Walter was not, however, satisfied with this, nor his master
either, who now kindly proposed to him the alternative of be-
coming his partner in the business, or lending him money to set
up for himself, as he had no doubt of his speedy success. Walter
thanked his master, but refused both his proposals. His master
was astonished, and gave him a week to consider them. Mar-
g'aret was urgent with her brother to accept the one or the
other.

" What do you propose, dear Walter ?" she said gently. " You,
the pride of our family, to be settled here in Strasburg, a watch-
maker ! What could you desire better ?"

" To go to Paris."

'• Paris ! Walter, what would you do there ?"

" Yes, Paris. It is there — in the g-reat metropolis of France,
almost of the world — that genius is properly acknowledged.
There I shall rise to be somebody; here I should be no more
than our good master — a respectable tradesman. I will be one
of the great men of the age ; and where can I hope to become
one but in Paris ?"

And to Paris he accordingly went. All his savings, as well
as his sister's, had been exhausted in his clock. His master
refused to assist him in his wild projects, and lamented that so
much talent and energy should be wasted : his father and uncle
could not help him ; but in this difficulty his fellow- workmen
came forward : those whom he had so little regarded subscribed
all they were able, and supplied him with a small sum for his
journey. Walter hesitated whether to accept their loan, but his
desire for fame was too ardent to be repressed; so, promising to
repay them when he grew rich, which he had no doubt he
would soon, he took a kind farewell of them all. He had pro-
cured a crazy sort of caravan, which contained his clock and
himself, with a small bundle of clothes and provisions. His
parents and Margaret accom23anied him half a day's journey,
and left him to proceed, buoyant with hopes ancl spirits as
when he made his entrance into Strasburg at the ag-e of
fourteen.

Ten days after, Walter, with his tired horse, both covered

J2

STORY OF V.'ALTER IIUYSDAEL.

with dust, and wearied with travel, were traversing- the Boule-
vards of Paris. Speaking- French imperfectly, and not knowing-
where to get a night's lodg-ing", with only two or three small
coins remaining, he felt utterly helpless and forlorn. Turning
down the first street he came to, he looked vainly on all sides
for some small inn or beer-house, till chance happily favoured
him in discovering written in a shop window that German was
spoken within. Fastening his horse to a post, he boldly entered
the shop, and in spite of his miserable appearance, he was civilly
received, and a young German who was employed there under-
took to show him the way to a place where he might lodge him-
self and his horse for the night : he even offered to lend him
some money, with but slender chance of being repaid; and
Walter, though miwillingly, accepted it, as he would rather
incur a debt to a countiyman than a stranger. The next morn-
ing' the yoimg- German called to see him, and offered to assist
him in finding a room fitted to accommodate his clock, and to
direct him how to advertise it. He was interested in the success
of his countryman, and Walter's mild yet enthusiastic manners
attracted him. Before the end of the week, Walter established
his clock in its new lodgings, and promised himself soon to repay
the expenses incurred by his friend.

Now was the grand essay to be made. With mingled hopes
and fears he opened his exhibition.

The first day did not seem to open very auspiciously. Morning
passed away, and no visitors appeared. Walter tried to console
himself by thinking- it was too early for any but workpeople to
be abroad. About three o'clock a visitor appeared, and Walter,
in taking his money, felt relieved of an irksome anxiety which
was creeping upon him. The visitor was an old man with spec-
tacles, and a sharp snarling- countenance. He minutely examined
the clock, asked Walter a string of questions, or rather gave him
a series of his own observations ; and, finding he was not under-
stood, he shrugged his shoulders, smiled contemptuously at the
clock, and walked out again. A lady with two little boys suc-
ceeded him. The children attempted to handle the machinery
to see how it was made, and on Walter's remonstrating-, the lady
seemed offended, and departed very shortly. Two or three young
men followed, who seemed by their gestures to approve; and
one of them told him, in very bad German, it was a pretty toy.
No more came that day; but he had earned enough by the end
of the week to pay his friendly countryman, which was fortu-
nate, as he was leaving Paris immediately, and bade Walter a
kind farewell, wishing him success.

During the second week, a number of visitors came ; but
Walter, to his great sorrow, found that the debt for the lodging
increased at a quicker ratio than his gains. After the first fort-
night, he thought himself very happy if four visitors appeared
in the course of an afternoon : these gradually diminished, till

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

his exhibition-room was totally deserted. The bitterness of his
disappointment was even g'reater than his anxiety about his
circumstances : still he hoped some scientific man might, by a
happy chance, drop in, and, struck with his ingenuity, recom-
mend him to the notice of his friends. In the meantime, Walter
began to consider if he could, by any means, procure some
employment while waiting in his exhibition-room. His land-
lady, who was kind and compassionate, had a friend who was
a working jeweller, and he agreed to let Walter do any little
work, such as mending chains or watches, which he could take
with him to his lodging. He ate little and saved all he could ;
but the expense of his lodgings was very heavy, and his purse
very light : his health, too, was sinking, and his courage with it ;
but the man, great in science and influence, might still appear
and set all to rights. His landlord now told him he must pay
his debt or leave the house. The first was impossible : he had
pawned nearly all his clothes, and sold his old horse and caravan
for half their small value, which only sufficed to pay for his daily
maintenance ; so, giving his landlord the remainder of his monej'',
he removed his model to a small shabby room, which he hired
at a very low price, and where he still hoped for those visitors
who were not attracted by his more eligible quarters. In this
obscure lodging there was no better success. Day after day
passed, week after week, and still no one visited the exhibition.
He earned still a scanty subsistence by the working jeweller:
but even that failed at last; for his sickly constitution gave
way, more from sorrow than disease. The people of the house
pressed for rent ; they were poor themselves, and Walter knew
it. One cold wintry day, as he sat shivering with a tattered
coat drawn round his thin figure, he heard a foot on the stairs
leading to Ms apartment : hope and joy once more lighted up
his countenance : it might be a visitor. It was indeed, but not
such as he expected ; it was the officer appointed to seize his
goods for debt. He had nothing left him but his clock ; that
on which he had toiled so long*, in which he had seen so many
bright visions of the future ; the pride of his heart, the work of
his genius, his friend and consolation when forsaking all others ;
which had seemed to speak words of hope to him, and shine like
a beacon in the darkness which had gathered around. Alas ! it
had not warned him from the rock, but lured him on to his own
destruction. He did not utter a word as they removed this his
only treasure ; but ^s he heard the last heavy footstep descend-
ing the stairs, he cast himself on the ground and wept like a
child.

That night he had no shelter for his head, and he left
Paris to beg his way, sick, hungry, and weary, to that home
which he left in the pride of his heart and the fulness of hope
and joy.

Six months had passed since Walter left Strasburg-; when,

14

STORY OP "WALTER RUYSDAEL.

on the road to the little village of Rosenthal, on the banks of
the Rhine, a lonely wanderer was seen drag-g-ing' his weary
limbs along- : his cheeks were hollow, and his sunken eyes, still
restless and bright with the fever of the mind, seeme'd to tell
a long tale of misery. A ragged handkerchief was bound
round his head, his clothes hung loosely on his thin shi-unken
body, and he leant for support on a stick, which he seemed
to have cut from a tree on his way. On he toiled till he
reached a low bank near a solitary cottage. There he paused,
and stretched himself on the green g'rass which covered it. It
was a mild day in spring ; the birds were singing* merrily among
the trees, and the flowers looked up with their little bright beau-
tiful faces on the clear blue sky, and the cheerful sun which
shone on the green vineyards and danced in the broad blue river
at a little distance. The sound of voices and busy feet from the
cottage might be heard by the lonely stranger, who gazed silently
at the happy scene, till the large tears rolled slowly down his
cheeks. There is something* touching in the very loveliness and
peaceful joyousness of a spring day, when nature seems awaken-
ing- from her long wintry sleep ; but to the sad of heart, there i&
something in it inexpressibly melancholy, recalling as it does a
thousand recollections of the past, and reminding- him that there
is a fresh source of happiness yearly springing up to all but him,
and making him feel more lonely and desolate than before : but
the stranger's grief was deeper than this ; for he was Walter, and
this was his home.

As he lay there he heard his own name pronounced, and he
started from his reverie, and wished to conceal himself; but he
was not addressed, though the voice that he heard was that of
his own sweet sister Margaret. It was the day before her wed-
ding, and she was talking* with him who was soon to be her
husband. She only wished that Walter could have been at home
to witness her marriage ; " but," she added laughing, " he will
soon despise us all, for I daresay by this time he is as great as he
wished to be : God bless him, he was always a g-ood brother to
me." This one kind word was too much for poor Walter ; he-
groaned audibly, and Margaret and her lover turned and saw
him. Margaret shrieked aloud, and the next moment he' was
in her arms. The whole family were soon assembled, and the
poor v/anderer was welcomed back more heartily to his home
than if he had come laden with riches and honour. Shame
and wounded vanity still struggled in his breast for an ascen-
dancy ; but better feelings had been slowly winning their way
there, and the hard lesson of adversity had not been learned in
vain.

It was long before even the tender care of his mother and
Margaret could restore his feeble health; but as his strength
returned, he felt also the necessity of doing something- for him-
self and others. " It seems strange/' he said one day to Mar-

15

STORY OF WALTER RUYSDAEL.

g"aret, " that I should have been permitted to live, when so many
of the truly great and g-ood are dropping off day by day. If I
were to die, none would be less happy ; and my vacant place,
even with those who love me, would be soon supplied, for my
life has not benefited even them."

" Ah, Walter," replied Margaret, " live for what we are all
made to live — to endeavour earnestly to fulfil the duties of that
situation in which God has placed us. We may never know
why these duties are allotted to us ; it is enoug-h they are ours :
and the sum of each little day will be sufficient, if rendered
faithfully to our Lord, in that time when our earthly labours
are over. Live, dear Walter, to be good and happy, not to
be great ; were you to attain the utmost you desire, you would
not be content ; for were you greater than the greatest on
earth, you would still be little compared with the angels in
heaven."

"Yes, Margaret, that is true; and, however slowly, we are
still moving onwards and onwards. There is greatness in the
thought of an infinite growth in wisdom and goodness, infinite
as the Divine perfections. This is indeed glorious."

Walter had not yet been again at Strasburg ; he could not
resolve to see all his old companions, and to come as their
debtor instead of their benefactor ; but Margaret was the good
spirit who urged him to throw aside that weakness, so inherent
in us all, which makes us ashamed of doing that which is right,
more than that which is wrong. A humbled, yet a greater
man, Walter returned to Strasburg.

His first visit was to his uncle ; this was also the worst ; for
it was hard to stand the prying eyes and curious inquiries of his
old aunt, and harder still to feel he could be vexed by them.
His old fellow-workmen had heard of his misfortune, and gave
him a kind and hearty welcome, asking no questions. His last
visit was to his master : he received him at first sternly, more
to conceal his own tenderness of feeling than because he blamed
the youth severely. Walter told liim all ; and his master, taking
his hand kindly, spoke as follows : " My dear boy, your expe-
rience has indeed been hard, but it has been of more use to you
than all the advice of the wisest could have been. You have
genius, talent, perseverance ; with such qualities, you may in-
deed hope to rise to the highest position, but it must be by the
same road as others who have gone before you. I offer you
now what I offered you before; and, whichever you accept, I
hope to live to see you attain the eminence you deserve." Walter
accepted the partnership gratefully ; and, no longer the victim
of self-deluding vanity, he led a life useful to his fellow-crea-
tures, and we may hope that he presented his Talent with inte-
rest before Him from whom he received it.

16

CHEVY-CHASE.

^d^^J^ © D prosper long- our noble king",
f\ [AvS)"^ Our lives and safeties all ;
V^^^Vf A woful hunting- once there did
.O^ In Chevj^-Chase befall.

M To drive the deer with hound and horn
'^^^ Earl Percy took his wa}^ ;

The child may rue that is unborn
The hunting of that day.

The stout Earl of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summer days to take ;

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase

To kill and bear away.
These tidings to Earl Douglas came,

In Scotland where he lay :

Who sent Earl Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.

The English earl, not fearing- that,
Did to the woods resort

No. 21.

CHEVY-CHASE.

"Witli fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well in time of need
To aim their shafts ario^ht.

"-b-"

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran

To chase the fallow deer :
On Monday they began to hunt

When daylight did appear ;

And long before high noon they had

A hundred fat bucks slain ;
Then having dined, the drovers went

To rouse the deer again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills,

Well able to endure ;
And all their rear, with speci?l care,

That day was guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods.

The nimble deer to take ;
That with their cries the hills and dales

An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,

To view the slaughtered deer ;
Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised

This day to meet me here :

But if I thought he would not come,

No longer would I stay ;"
With that a brave young gentleman

Thus to the earl did say :

" Lo, yonder doth Earl Doug-las come,

His men in armour bright ;
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears

All marching in our sight ;

All men of pleasant Teviotdale,

Past by the river Tweed :"
" Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said,

" And take your bows with speed :

And now with me, my countrymen.

Your courage forth advance ;
Eor never was there champion yet.

In Scotland or in France,

CHEVY-CHASE.

That ever did on horseback come,

But if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,

AVith him to break a spear."

*j

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed^

Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company.

Whose armour shone like gold.

" Show me," said he, " whose men you be,

That hunt so boldly here.
That, without my consent, do chase

And kill my fallow-deer."

The first man that did answer make,

Was noble Percy he ;
Who said, " We list not to declare.

Nor show whose men we be :

Yet will we spend our dearest blood,

Thy chiefest harts to slay."
Then Doug-las swore a solemn oath.

And thus in rag-e did say —

"Ere thus I will out-braved be,

One of us two shall die :
I know thee well, an earl thou art.

Lord Percy, so am I.

But trust me, Percy, pity it were.

And g-reat offence to kill
Any of these our guiltless men.

For they have done no ill.

Let you and me the battle try,

And set our men aside."
" Accursed be he," Earl Percy said,

" By whom this is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth,

Witherington was his name.
Who said, " I would not have it told

To Henry, our king, for shame,

That e'er my captain fought on foot.

And I stood looking on.
You two be earls," said Witherington,

" And I a squire alone :

CHEVY-CHASE.

I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand :

"^Yhile I have power to wield my sword,
I'll fio-ht with heart and hand."

*&•■

Our English archers bent their bows,

Their hearts were g'ood and true ;
At the first flight of arrows sent,

Full fourscore Scots they slew.

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent,*

As chieftain stout and g'ood ;
As valiant captain, all unmoved,

The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three,

As leader ware and tried ;
And soon his spearmen on their foes

Bore down on every side.

Throughout the English archeiy

They dealt full many a wound ;
But still our valiant Englishmen

All firmly kept their ground.

And throwing straight their bows away.
They grasped their swords so bright :

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side,

No slackness there was found ;
And many a gallant gentleman

Lay gasping on the ground.

In truth ! it was a grief to see

How each one chose his spear.
And how the blood out of their breasts

Did gush like water clear.

At last these two stout earls did meet,

Like captains of great might :
Like lions wode, they laid on lode,

And made a cruel fight :

* Tliis and tlie three ensuing stanzas were substituted by Dr Percy for
one which he considered obscure, as follows : —

" To drive the deer with hound and horn,
Douglas hade on the bent ;
Two captains moved with inickle might,
Their spears to shivers went."
4

CHEVY-CHASE.

They fought until they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered steel ;

Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling- down did feel.

" Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said ;

" In faith I will thee bring
"S^Tiere thou shalt high advanced be

By James, our Scottish king :

Thy ransom I will freely give,

And this report of thee.
Thou art the most courageous knight

That ever I did see."

" No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then,

" Thy proffer I do scorn ;
I will not yield to any Scot

That ever yet was iDorn."

AVith that there came an arrow keen

Out of an English bow,
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,

A deep and deadly blow :

Who never spake more words than these—-
" Fight on, my merry men all ;

For why, my life is at an end ;
Lord Percy sees my fall."

Then leaving life. Earl Percy took

The dead man by the hand ;
And said, " Earl Douglas, for thy life

Would I had lost my land.

In truth ! my very heart doth bleed

With sorrow for thy sake ;
For sure a more redoubted knight

Mischance did never take."

A knight amongst the Scots there was.

Who saw Earl Douglas die.
Who straight in wrath did vow reveng-e

Upon the Earl Percy :

5'

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called,
Who, with a spear full bright,

Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the light ;

CHEVY-CHASE.

And past tlie English archers all,

Without a dread or fear ;
And throug-h Earl Percy's body then

He thrust his hateful spear ;

With such vehement force and might

He did his body gore,
The staff ran through the other side

A large cloth yard and more.

So thus did both these nobles die,

Whose courage none could stain :
An English archer then perceived

The noble earl was slain :

He had a bow bent in his hand,

Made of a trusty tree ;
An arrow of a cloth yard long
To the hard head haled he :

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery

So right the shaft he set,
The gray goose wing that was thereon

In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day

Till setting of the sun ;
Por when they rung the evening-bell,

The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there were slain

Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James,

Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain.

Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington my heart is wo

That ever he slain should be,
For when his legs were hewn in two,

He knelt and fought on his knee*

* This stanza is from the old ballad, as being preferable in, all respects
to the corresponding one in the new —

" For Witherington I needs must wail,

As one in doleful dumps,
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps«"

CHEVY-CHASE.

And T\H[tli Earl Douglas there were slain

Sir Hug-li Mountg-omery,
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field

One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Rateliff, too,

His sister's son was he ;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,

But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case

Did with Earl Doug-las die :
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears,

Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Eng-lishmen,

Went home but fifty-three ;
The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain,

Under the g-reenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come.

Their husbands to bewail ;
They washed their wounds in brinish tears,

But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood.

They bore with them away ;
They kissed them dead a thousand times,

Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinburgh,
Where Scotland's king* did reig-n.

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly
Was vrith an arrow slain :

" O heavy news," King James did say,

" Scotland can witness be
I have not any captain more

Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came

Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland

Was slain in Chevy-Chase :

" Now God be with him," said our king,

" Since 'twill no better be ;
I trust I have within my realm

Five hundred as good as he :

CHEVY-CHASE.

Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say

But I will vengeance take :
I'll be reveng-ed on them all,

For brave Earl Percy's sake."

This vow full well the king performed

After at Humbledown ;
In one day fifty knights were slain,

With lords of high renown :

And of the rest, of small account,

Did many hundreds die ;
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,

Made by the Earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless this land,

With plenty, joy, and peace ;
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate

'Twixt noblemen may cease *

* The popular ballad of Chevy-Chase, here reprinted, is believed
to have been written about the year 1 600 ; but it was not an original
composition. There was an older ballad of somewhat greater length,
and more rudely constructed, as might be expected in a composition
of earlier age. They are both printed in Percy's Reliques of Ancient
English Poetry. It is now believed that these ballads have no more
than a foundation in fact. There certainly existed in the fourteenth
century a strong feeling of rivalry between the English Earl of Nor-
thumberland and the Scottish Earl of Douglas, and this had in general
ample occasion for display in the wars then carried on between the
two countries. In 1388, during the reigns of Kichard II. of England
and Eobert III. of Scotland, the Scots under Douglas invaded and
ravaged the English border. They were met at Otterbourne by an
English party under Henry Percy (surnamed Hotspur), son of the
Earl of Northumberland, when a keen contest took place, which re-
sulted in the captivity of Percy by the Scots, who, however, had their
triumph saddened b}'^ the death of their brave commander. The known
incidents of this fight furnish the chief materials of the ballad, both
in its ancient and comparatively modern form : but here a difficulty
meets us. There is no historical record of such an occasion for a
battle as the hunting of Cheviot holds forth. It is nevertheless not
improbable that, amidst the mutual jealousies of these great lords, a
Percy might indulge in such a freak as hunting upon the grounds of
his enemy, the Douglas, and that a battle might be the consequence ;
and indeed a fight did take place between these lords at Pepperden,
not far from the Cheviot hills, in 1436. This might be the battle
which the poet meant to describe ; but, writing perhaps a hundred
years after even that later incident, he might easily confound the two
conflicts, and give the transactions of the one in connexion with the
occasion of the other.

The modern version of Chevy- Chase is mainly an improvement
8

THE beggar's daughter OF BETHNAL-GREEN".

THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF
BETHNAL-GREEN.*

FIT FIRST.

It was a blind beggar had long lost his sight,
He had a fair daughter of beauty most bright :
And many a gallant brave suitor had she,
For none was so comely as pretty Bessie.

And though she was of favour most fair,
Yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heir,
Of ancient housekeepers despised was she,
Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessie.

upon the original ; but it is scarcely so good in a few particular passages,
and in one the meaning of the old writer has been mistaken. This
ballad has for ages been admired by the learned and refined, as well
as by the common people.

Chevy-Chase, the scene of the ballad, was the extensive hunting-
ground afforded by the Cheviot hills between Scotland and England
— then partially covered with wood, and stocked with deer and roe,
though now bare, and devoted to sheep-pasture alone.

* This popular English ballad is believed to have been written in
the reign of Elizabeth. Like almost every other ballad which has
been preserved principally by tradition, there are various versions of
it, all less or more differing from each other. The version we have
adopted is that which has appeared in " The Book of British Ballads,"
a work of great elegance and taste, edited by Mr S. C. Hall, having
been revised by him from the version in Dr Percy's Reliques of Eng-
lish Poetry and a black-letter copy preserved in the British Museum.
The ballad in the British Museum is entitled " The Rarest Ballad
that ever was seen of the Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednal-Green.
Printed by and for W. Ouley ; and are to be sold by C. Bates at the
sign of the Sun and Bible in Pye Corner." With reference to one of
the main events in the ballad, history mentions that at the decisive
battle of Evesham, fought August 4, 1265, when Simon de Montfort,
the great Earl of Leicester, was slain at the head of the barons, his
eldest son, Henry, fell by his side ; and in consequence of that defea.t
his whole family sunk for ever, the king bestowing their great honours
and possessions on his second son, Edmund Earl of Lancaster. The
" angel," a coin alluded to in the ballad, was of gold, and of the value
of about ten shillings. It received its name from having on one side
a representation of archangel ^Michael killing the dragon.

THE beggar's daughter OF BETHNAL-GREEN.

Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessie did say,
*' Good father and mother, let me go away
To seek out my fortune, whatever it be."
This suit then they granted to pretty Bessie.

Then Bessie that was of beauty so brig-ht,
All clad in gray russet, and late in the night,
From father and mother alone parted she,
Who sighed and sobbed for pretty Bessie.

She went till she came to Stratford-le-Bow ;
Then knew she not whither, nor which way to go :
With teai's she lamented her hard destiny,
So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessie.

She kept on her journey until it was day,
And went unto Rumford along the highway ;
Where at the Queen's Arms entertained was she,
So fair and well favoured was pretty Bessie.

She had not been there a month to an end,
But master and mistress and all was her friend :
And every brave gallant that once did her see,
Was straightway in love with pretty Bessie.

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold.
And in their songs daily her love was extolled j
Her beauty was blazed in every degree,
So fair and so comely was pretty Bessie.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy ;
She showed herself courteous, and modestly coy ;
And at her commandment still would they be.
So fair and so comely was pretty Bessie.

Four suitors at once unto her did go ;
They craved her favour, but still she said " No ;
I would not wish gentles to marry with me :"
Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessie.

The first of them was a gallant young knight.
And he came unto her disguised in the night :
The second a gentleman of good degree.
Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessie.

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
He was the third suitor, and proper withal :
Her master's own son the fourth man must be,
Who swore he would die for pretty Bessie.

10

THE BEGGAB'S daughter OP BETHNAL-GREEN.

^' And if thou wilt many with me," said the knight,
" I'll make thee a lady with joy and delight ;
My heart's so enthralled by thy beauty,
That soon I shall die for pretty Bessie."

The gentleman said, " Come, marry with me,
As fine as a lady my Bessie shall be ;
My life is distressed : oh hear me," quoth he ;
" ijid grant me thy love, my pretty Bessie."

" Let me be thy husband," the merchant did say,
" Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay ;
My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee,
And I will for ever love pretty Bessie."

Then Bessie she sighed, and thus she did say :
" My father and mother I mean to obey ;
First get their good- will, and be faithful to me,
And you shall enjoy your pretty Bessie."

To every one this answer she made ;

Wherefore unto her they joyfully said —

" This thing to fulfil we all do agree ;

But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessie ?"

" My father," she said, " is soon to be seen ;
The silly blind beggar of Bethnal-Green,
That daily sits begging for charity,
He is the good father of pretty Bessie.

His marks and his tokens are known full well ;
He always is led with a dog and a bell :
A silly old man, God knoweth, is he,
Yet he is the father of pretty Bessie."

" Nay, then," said the merchant, " thou art not for me :"
^' Nor," said the innholder, " my wife thou shalt be :"
" I loathe," said the gentle, " a beg-gar's degree^
And therefore adieu, my pretty Bessie !"

" Why, then," quoth the knight, " hap better or worse,
I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse.
And beauty is beauty in every degree ;
Then welcome to me, my pretty Bessie.

With thee to thy father forthwith I will go."
" Nay, soft," said his kinsmen, •' it must not be so ;
A poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be.
Then take thy adieu of pretty Bessie."

THE BEGGAK'S daughter OF BETHNAL-GREEN.

But soon after this, by break of the day,
The knight had from Rumford stole Bessie away.
The young' men of Rumford, as sick as may be,
Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessie.

As swift as the wind to ride they were seen,
Until they came near unto Bethnal-Green ;
And as the knight lighted most courteously,
They all fought against him for pretty Bessie.

But rescue came speedily over the plain,
Or else the young knight for his love had been slain.
This fray being ended, then straightway he see
His kinsmen come railing at pretty Bessie.

Then spake the blind beggar, " Although I be poor,
Yet rail not against my child at my own door ;
Though she be not decked in velvet and pearl,
Yet I will drop angels with you for my girl.

And then if my gold may better her birth,
And equal the gold that you lay on the earth.
Then neither rail nor grudge you to see
The blind beggar's daughter a lady to be.

But first you shall promise, and have it well known,
The gold that you drop shall all be your own."
With that they replied, " Contented be we."
" Then here's," quoth the beggar, " for pretty Bessie.'^

With that an angel he cast on the ground.

And dropped in angels full three thousand pound ;

And oftentimes it was proved most plain,

For the gentlemen's one the beggar dro^Dped twain :

So that the 23lace wherein they did sit.

With gold it was covered every whit ;

The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,

Said, " Now, beggar, hold, for we have no more.

Thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright,"
^' Then marry," said he, " my girl to this knight ;
And here," added he, " I will now throw you^'down
A hundred pounds more to buy her a gown."

The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen.
Admired the beggar of Bethnal-Green ,
And all those that were her suitors before,
Their flesh for very anger they tore.

12 o .;

THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BETHNAL-GREEN.

Thus was fair Bessie matched to the knig-ht,

And then made a lady in others' despite :

A fairer lady there never was seen,

Than the blind beg-g-ar's daughter of Bethnal-Green.

But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
The second fit shall set forth to your sight,
With marvellous pleasure and wished delight.

FIT SECOND.

Of a blind beggar's daughter most fair and bright,
That late was betrothed unto a young knight,
All the discourse thereof you did see,
But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessie.

Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
Adorned with all the cost they could have.
This wedding was kept most sumptuously,
And all for the credit of pretty Bessie.

All kinds of dainties and delicates sweet
Were bought to the banquet, as it was most meet ;
Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessie.

This wedding through Eng'land was spread by report,
So that a great number thereto did resort
Of nobles and gentles in every degree,
And all for the fame of pretty Bessie.

To church then went this gallant young knight ;
His bride followed after, a lady most bright.
With troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen,
As went with sweet Bessie of Bethnal-Green.

This marriage being solemnised then.
With music performed by the skilfullest men,
The nobles and gentles sat doAvn at that tide,
Each one admiring* the beautiful bride.

Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done.

To talk and to reason a number begun ;

They talked of the blind beg-gar's daughter most bright.

And what with his daughterhe gave to the knight.

13

THE beggar's daughter OF BETHNAL-GREEN.

Then spake the nobles, " Much marvel have we
This jolly blind beggar we cannot here see."
" My lords," said the bride, " my father's so base,
He is loath with his presence these states to disgrace."

" The praise of a woman in question to bring
Before her own face were a flattering thing;
But we think thy father's baseness," said they,
" Might by thy beauty be clean put away."

They had no sooner these pleasant words spoke,
But in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak;
A fair velvet cap, and a feather had he;
And now a musician forsooth he would be.

He had a dainty lute under his arm,
He touched the strings, which made such a charm.
Said, " Please you to hear any music of me,
I'll sing you a song of pretty Bessie."

With that his lute he twanged straightway,
And thereon began most sweetly to play;
And after that lessons were played two or three,
He strained out this song most delicately.

" A poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green.
Who for her fairness might well be a queen;
A blithe bonny lassie, and a dainty was she,
And many one called her pretty Bessie.

r

Her father he had no goods nor no land,
But begged for a penny all day with his hand ;
And yet to her marriage he gave thousands three,
And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessie.

And if any one here her birth do disdain.
Her father is ready, with might and with main,
To prove she is come of noble degree ;
Therefore never flout at pretty Bessie."

With that the lords and the company round
With hearty laughter were ready to swound ;
At last said the lords, " Full well we may see
The bride and the beggar's beholden to thee."

On this the bride all blushing did rise.

The pearly drops standing within her fair eyes ;

*' Oh pardon my father, brave nobles," saith she,

^^ That through blind affection thus doteth on me."

14

THE beggar's daughter OF BETHXAL-GREEN,

" If this be thy father," the nobles did say,
" Well may he be proud of this happy day ;
Yet by his countenance well may we see,
His birth and his fortune did never agree ;

And therefore, blind man, we pray thee beware
(And look that the truth thou to us do declare),
Thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be.
For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessie."

" Then give me leave, nobles and gentles each one.
One song more to sing, and then I have done ;
And if that it may not win good report,
Then do not give me a groat for my sport.

[Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shall be,
Once chief of all the great barons was he ;
Yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase,
Now lost and forgotten are he and his race.

When the barons in ai-ms did King Henry oppose.
Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose ;
A leader of courage undaunted was he.
And ofttimes he made their enemies flee.

At length in the battle on Evesham plain,
The barons were routed, and Montfort was slain ;
Most fatal that battle did prove unto thee.
Though thou was not born then, my pretty Bessie I

Along with the nobles that fell at that tide.
His eldest son Henry, who fought by his side.
Was felled by a blow he received in the fight,
A blow that deprived him for ever of sight.

Among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay,
Till evening drew on of the following day,
When by a young lady discovered was he,
And this was thy mother, my pretty Bessie,

A baron's fair daughter stepped forth in the night
To search for her father, who fell in the fight.
And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he lay.
Was moved with pity, and brought him away.

In secret she nursed him, and 'suaged his pain,
While he through the realm was believed to be slain j
At length his fair bride she consented to be,
And made him glad father of pretty Bessie.

, 15

THE beggar's DAUpJHTER OF EETHNAL-GREEN.

And now lest our foes our lives should betray,
We clothed ourselves in beg-g-ar's array;
Her jewels she sold, and hither came we,
All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessie.

And here have we lived in fortune's despite,
Thoug-h poor, yet contented :with humble delig-ht ;
Full forty winters thus have I been
A silly blind beg-g-ar of Bethnal-Green.]

And here, noble lords, is ended the song
Of one that once to your. own rank did belong-;
And thus have you learned a secret from me,
That ne'er had been known but for pretty Bessie."

Now when the fair company every one,
Had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown,
They all were amazed, as well they might be.
Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessie.

With that the fair bride they all did embrace,
Saying, " Sure thou art come of an honourable race ;
Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
And thou art well worthy a lady to be."

Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight ;

A bridegroom most happy then was the young knight ;

In joy and felicity long lived he

All with his fair lady, the pretty Bessie.

X

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