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Manuscript, Archives,
and Rare Book Library
EMORY UNIVERSITY
JOHN H. STEGGALL:
A
REAR HISTORY OF A SUFFOLK MAN,
WHO HAS BEEN
A GIPSY, A SAJLOK, A SOLDIER, A SERGE ON',
A FELLOW-COMMONER OF CORPES CIERISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE;
ANTE IS NOW A CLERGYMAN—A CERATE OF MANY YEARS'
STANDING IN THE CHEECH OF ENGLAND.
NARRATED BY HIMSELF.
EDITED
BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MARGARET CATCHPOLE.'
ENLARGED EDITION.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK, 158 FLEET STREET.
PETTEB AND OALPIK
fcj£LLK SACVAGE PRINTING WORK$
LUDGATE HILL) B.C.
TO THE
EIGHT HON. EDWARD BARON LORD THURLOW;
My Lord,
The kindness and cordiality
with which I was always received and treated
by your Lordship in time past, made so deep
an impression on my mind, that I have longed
for an opportunity to express my gratitude.
That opportunity has now presented itself, as
you have just added to my other obligations
the permission to dedicate to you this little work,
which, unworthy as it is of the honor of bearing
your name, I trust you will accept as the best
acknowledgment I have it in my power to
offer you.
I am, my Lord,
Your Lordship's most respectful
and grateful Servant,
JOHN H. STEGGALL.
Gbeat Ashfield, neak Ixwobth,
August, 1856.
TO THE
REY. RICHARD COBBOLD, A.M.,
WORT HAM KECIOEY.
My Dear Sir,
The readiness and courtesy
with which you complied .with my desire for
your assistance to enable me to send before the
public a sketch of my eventful life, sank deep
into my mind; and I embrace this opportunity
publicly to express my gratitude for your bene-
volent kindness, as I am fully aware that, but for
your attention, such a Biographical Sketch would
probably never have seen the light; and that,
if it find a sale, I shall attribute it greatly to
the popularity of the Author of ' Margaret
Oatchpole,' 'Freston Tower,' etc. etc.: and I
beg you will permit me to offer my sincere
thanks for your kind exertions on my behalf.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours most sincerely and gratefully,
JOHN H. STEGGALL.
Gbeat Ashfield, near Ixworth.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTEE I.
PAG®
Eahly Life . . . ij
CHAPTEE II.
Gip3y Life . . . . .36
CHAPTEE III.
The Accident . . . . 57
CHAPTEE IY.
The Eags ". . . . .71
CHAPTEE Y.
The Squibe ..... 84
CHAPTEE YI.
The Pbison ..... 113
CHAPTEE YII.
The Absolute "Will . . . 122
CHAPTEE VIII.
The Gipsy's Song . . • .136
CHAPTEE IX.
The Awkwakd Offeb . . . 146
viii
introduction.
assistance rendered to him in bringing it before
the public, whose sympathy I have scarcely a
doubt but it will create.
RICHARD COBBOLD.
wobtham rectory,
August, 18o70
A SEAL HISTOEY.
CHAPTEK I.
early life.
Life, it may be truly said, has its ups and
downs with all men. Even those who are born
to affluence are born to trouble as other people,
and are not free from the cares incident to
human nature. The following narrative may
be depended upon as not fictitious, but as
indicative of the strange dealings which an all-
wise Providence pursues to bring about his own
purposes, until he ends all things with us and
brings us to himself.
I was born of respectable parents, in that plea-
sant little town called Needham Market, in the
10
EARLY LIFE.
county of Suffolk, in the year 1789. My father,
like many thousand others at that period, had just
sufficient competency to keep up the respectable
appearance of a gentleman, without taking any
prominent part either in the public matters of the
county, or in the more immediate duties of the
district. In fact, my father was neither a country
squire nor magistrate, nor sufficiently rich or
consequential to thrust himself into notice, but
contented himself in living upon his income, and
as a country clergyman performing the duties of
Barham House, Needham Market; and, in fact, he
was a country curate, not as yet come into his
livings of Westhorpe and Wyverstone, held by his
father before him. He wore his own hair powdered,
and not, as many did, a wig. But at that time of
day there was as much fashion in the appearance
of the head dressed by a barber, as there is in these
days in the physiological development of those
organs which are said to be prominent features
in every man's skull. That was an age of out-
ward decorum. This is one of inward cultiva-
tion—that is, as regards the development of the
head; though I cannot believe that human
EARLY LIFE.
11
nature was any different, or the human heart
anything less selfish, than at the present time.
Certainly, a gentleman was then a man of
much ^outward appearance. The less he had
to do for himself, or for others, the more of a
gentleman he was to all appearances, and per-
haps the more so in reality.
Still, though my father was a gentleman by
birth, he had not always been inactive, but had
three duties to perform, which are now divided
and shared by three different clergymen.
My mother was a most notable person: an
excellent housekeeper, an excellent mother, and
an excellent wife. She might be termed homely,
because she was almost always at home, and
gave her lord and master as little occasion ever
to find fault as one of the most conscientious
women could do. She was scrupulously exact,
and never gave way to any of that sentimen-
tal tenderness called romance. There was
nothing of the sort in her. Her reading for
her day was confined to Scripture, and the
history of her own country. She had no ac-
complishment3 beyond the use of her needle
12
EARLY LIFE.
and her bodkin; and when my father, who
was rather fond of books, used now and then to
indulge her with a play of Shakspere, she
used to say, in her quaint way, 'All very well;
but nothing but fancy!' Still, as it amused
my father to read to her, she, like a good lis-
tener, enjoyed his reading, though she could not
give her spirit to the admiration of the various
characters, which she called fictitious. Neither
did she see any particular good in the bringing
up of superstitious imaginations in the terrific
follies of witches and incantations.
My first lessons of reading were under that
mother's eye and ear, and I cannot but think,
if I had spent more time with her, and had
been taught by her to a more advanced period
of life, I should have avoided many of those
quicksands into which it was my misfortune
afterwards to fall.
I had one brother and two sisters, viz.,
William Charles, and Marian and Margaret. I
was the youngest, John, and, consequently, it
fell to my lot to take the latest departure from
the paternal roof, to be qualified for any situa-
EARLY LIFE.
13
tion which my father might consider he could
place me in.
There was a Grammar School at Needham
Market, at which sixteen or seventeen free boys
were educated, belonging to Needham Market,
Darmsden, and Barking; but my father was
considered too wealthy a man to have me
admitted therein; consequently, I was sent to
a school, then considered a very good one, and
in much repute—namely, that of Mr. Edmund
Rogers, of Walsham-le-Willows, where, with some
fifty or sixty youths, the sons of gentlemen and
tradesmen, I at seven years of age first took
up my abode.
Terror was the system under which we were
all trained. The mind of a boy in? that day
was not considered in the light of a rational
or religious character, or as to be taught any-
thing with a view to any future action in life,
but solely according to the prospect of tern-
poral possessions, and for one and all the same
form was pursued, the same lessons exacted,
and the treatment of all dispositions was ex-
actly alike.
14
EARLY LIFE.
Woe be to either the tender-hearted or fond
boy, who leaves the parental roof, where warm
affections existed, and encouraging smiles from
a tender mother or sisters could call forth
similar regard—when he has, as I had, to be
placed under the tuition and care of such a
master as Mr. Edmund Rogers. In these days
boys are trained to love good instruction, and
beneath the quiet patience of calm dignity, not
to be afraid to learn. In that day it was—
e Go and do it'—' find out yourself how it is
to be done,' and, if not done well, the doing
soon became worse, because of the trembling
hand, the terrified spirit, and the awful punish-
ment of the 'patter,' the rod, and the whip,
which were very soon applied, sans ceremonie,
and without any power of redress.
I had not been in the school seven days
before, for a simple deficiency in the multipli-
cation of the number seven, I was severely
whipped, and breeched as though I were guilty
of some crime. I am quite certain that no
parent who loved his child could have re-
6isted the impulse to retaliate upon such a
EARLY LIFE.
15
master, who had about as much feeling for a
boy as a gamekeeper has for a pointer puppy.
The reverence I had for my father, and the
gentleness of my mother, were but ill exchanged
for the detestation which I imbibed of this
man, whom I tried to love, but never could.
I dreaded him beyond anything tongue can
express. If in these days any boy in our Union
Schools received the treatment we used to re-
ceive from that irritable and unfeeling old man,
all the country would be up in arms, Parlia-
ment would interfere, and the master would be
cashiered. Fancy a young boy of seven held
on the back of another boy, flogged till the
"blood span out of him, and only because of a
mistake in his multiplication table, and which
neither tears nor entreaties could avert.
Assuredly, there appeared to me to be neither
mind, mercy, nor justice in such a man; and
the consequence was, that he never made a
scholar, though he gained sufficient money to
live and die in affluence.
My father was a strict disciplinarian; and
when he did exercise the rod of correction, it
16
EAULY LIFE.
"was either for some fault of which my mother
complained, or to uphold the authority of the
master, under whose care I was placed, so that,
though I ran away from school once, and fled
from the cruelty of the oppressor, to the home
where I expected justice, judgment, and mercy
to abide, yet I was represented as a refractory
spirit, which required the strongest measures
of coercion to restrain. Now I knew well, in
my own mind, that I could, if not terrified,
cowed, and bullied, have done anything. I did
not require flattery; but what could a poor boy
do who knew and felt that he had not a generous
master to look up to, but one who did nothing
but punish him for his youthful inability or inap-
titude, or distaste, or disgust, at a system which
had nothing but terror in it. I was sent back—
I was publicly disgraced—I was flogged—and
though for a time I was degraded and reduced
to the spirit of a slave and a dog, who had
constantly to mind the master's eye, I never got
a dog's caress, but was always treated with
harshness.
I can only say, that the treatment I received
EARLY LIFE.
17
was such that my spirit could not bear it. It
would have sought consolation, if consolation
could have been found in any hope of pardon,
from those whom it was taught to think it had
offended, though all the while it was uncon-
scious of offence. In short, one night I crept
from my bed-fellow's side, and managed to
descend the staircase unheard; slowly unbolted
the school door, climbed over the play-ground
wall, and made away from the school of Mr.
Sogers of Walsham-in-the-Willows. The night
was a bright one; and it was about a month
before the Midsummer holidays. I knew it was
in vain to seek a home beneath my father's
roof, though he had now come into his living,
and I, as such was the case, had no home to
go to; I knew not my heart's home. I knew
but one joy, viz., that I had escaped from
tyrannical treatment and oppression, and I was
resolved to get away from such a place, and
to take my chance in the wide world, wherever
I could find anything to do.
I had good, robust health. I was between
eight and nine years old, of a lively, cheerful,
2
18
EARLY LIFE.
active, and obliging nature, and I was not
addicted at that time to any one vice. I hated
quarrelling, and was fond of reading poetry, and
of games of play, and of nick-nacks, jumping,
skipping, and such amusements as boys of a
lively spirit generally enjoy. But I went sorrow-
fully along through the pretty village of Walsham,
hearing only on one side of me the rippling
village stream, where the water ran through many
archways, and the cats fighting on the roofs of
the cottages. My object was to hide myself up
in some wood, until all pursuit should fail, to beg
a piece of bread of any one, and to drink of any
stream that I might find. As I crept along
through the village of Badwell Ash, and the
light of morning began to dawn, and the birds to
twitter, as if talking to each other, I could not
help thinking I had no one to speak to me, no
one to care about me, and that I was a poor, lone,
weary boy, who had not even a brother to gather
blackberries with, and to love me, like the babes
in the wood, of whom we read in the nursery
tales.
Little did I think, as I ought to have done,
EARLY LIFE.
IS
of the providential care that was over me. Little
did I think that my heart would ever be cheered
by human kindness; and least of all did I suppose
that I should find a habitation, and brothers and
sisters, in that very lane upon which I was then
entering. But so it was.
Just as I was approaching the Hundred Lane,
as it was called, in the parish of Wyverstone, I
met a tall, gaunt-looking figure, which said to
me in a gruff voice, * Boy, what do you here ?'
Now it was very true in my case, that the
' empty traveller fears not the robber,' and though I
had often heard of such men, even then, as Dick
Turpin, yet I had brains enough to know that
Dick, or such as he, would not rob a beggar
boy, so I simply said in reply, f Nothing.'
(Doing nothing, young one,' said the man;
' doing nothing ? Don't tell me; you are after
catching some of Sir George Wombwell's hares.
Who employs you?'
I supposing him, then, to be a gamekeeper,
said to him, ' No, I am not, I am no poacher.'
How quick is the penetration of the man
who has to live by his wits. That man knew by
20
EARLY LIFE.
the sound of my voice, by the words I uttered,
and by my tone of speech, all about me, for he
said:
(Young one, you have run away from home»
You are not a poor man's child. You have met
with cruel treatment, and you don't care what
becomes of you.'
I maintain, in the face of all men, that the
man who so 'accosted me was a clever fellow,
for it was yet so dark that we could neither of
us see each other's faces plainly, and yet that
man had wit, or wisdom, or penetration enough,
to know my history in a moment, only from the
tone of my voice.
I burst into tears; I sobbed aloud; for my
heart owned that there was something almost
supernatural in the person who accosted me, and
I felt that he had spoken the truth.
( Come boy, come, cheer up! I dare say you
are hungry; come along with me. Do not be
afraid, I will not hurt you. Come along, come
along.' And with that, he took my trembling
hand in his, and led me along the lane, until
we reached a gipsies' encampment, when, giving
EARLY LIFE.
21
a whistle, there came peeping out of a low
tent hard by, a boy and girl, to whom he said
something in a language I could not then
comprehend, but which I took to be of this
nature: f Here, Jack, take this younker in;
give him something to eat, and be kind to
him.'
Eor the first time in my life I found myself
seated in a gipsies' tent. It was warm and
pleasant to the poor wanderer, and truly^
being an object of their sympathy, I thought
them the kindest-hearted creatures I had ever
met with.
The two who took me in introduced me to
two others, for they soon struck a light, lit a
little straw, opened a little fissure at the end of
the tent, so that the smoke was driven out at
the entrance, and they kindly seated me on
the windward side of the smoke, which, not-
withstanding that it made my eyes water, did
not stop the genuine tears which came from
my heart.
e Come, don't cry,' said the swarthy half-dressed
maiden, s we won't rob you, we won't ill treat
22
EARLY LIFE.
you, we will restore you to your friends—don't
cry, don't cry.'
This made me cry the more heartily, and
but that I dare not, I verily believe I could
have kissed my swarthy sister, and have blessed
her for her goodness.
They were very kind to me. Oh what a
contrast! Oh what a lesson! These offcasts
from society, these children of Cain, these
deserted, houseless wanderers, received with
kindness the son of a gentleman, and made him
feel more at home and more happy than he
had felt since he had left his good mother's
roof to dwell with Mr. Edmund Rogers, of
Walsham-in-the-Willows, the unkind and irri-
table schoolmaster.
c Tell us now who you are,' said one of those
in the tent.
I told them all my story, and as I narrated
to them my daily floggings, I could see the blood
boil beneath their dark skins, and if revenge
had been in me, or I had been of the spirit of
Cain, I am confident I could have then induced
them to take summary vengeance on the school-
EARLY LIFE.
23
master. But I was too joyous to have escaped
too happy not to show it in my countenance,
and too grateful to them for their kindness not
to touch their hearts with pity.
At no period of my life do I ever remember
being so kindly treated as among these strangers.
Had I been a prince I could not have received
more devoted affection, and if ever in after
life I met with gipsies, I never forgot, and never
can forget, the native dignity of that protec-
tion, which, in the hour of my distress, these
proscribed vagabonds, as they were termed, ex-
hibited towards me. I was happy, very happy
—my heart found the solace of sympathy, and
where is the forlorn, debased, or hardened
wretch who is insensible to human kindness ?
I was but a poor, tender, broken-hearted boy,
so ill treated as to run away from all my
relatives, and then took up my abode among
the gipsies. Fancy a boy eight years old
having experienced such decided inhumanity,
if I may so term it, as to be compelled to flee
from the most monstrous unkind treatment, and
then to find himself a welcome guest among
24
EARLY LIFE.
the poorest of the poor. It was a lesson to
me—such a lesson as those who learn from
experience can alone estimate. I do not wish
to fill any person's mind with dissatisfaction,
discontent, or rebellion—God forbid !—-but when
one can flee from cruelty, however tender his
years, and resolves to live honestly, he is happy
if he can escape a tyrant's clutches, and learn
to put his trust in God.
To describe my abode among the gipsies
would fill volumes. My first day among them
was one of interest and anxiety. Interest, be-
cause of the interest they took in me; and
fear, lest they should betray me under the idea
of doing me good.
' Keep you quiet within the tent all this day,'
said the old man, * and, if you want a job, take
that knife, and my girl there will show you
how to peel those willows in the corner, and to
split them afterwards ; and if, as I suspect, you
are not quite good for nothing, she will teach
you in a little time how to make a basket.'
This was both wise and kind: wise, because
it first gave me the idea that I could be of
EARLY LIFE.
any service, and was not quite good for nothing
and kind, because it found me an easy employ-
ment, and prevented those fears which every
fugitive naturally feels for some time before he
is quite reconciled to his new condition. If
every man would find something for his chil-
dren's hands to do, that which they learn would
come with far greater force into their hearts
and minds. Active boys can no more keep
their hands idle than they can their heads; and
if they have not some industrial employment
or praiseworthy occupation, they will fall into
mischief.
I went heartily to work to peel the long strips
of willow bark from their stems, and positively
I went at it so heartily and steadily that when
the mother of the gipsies came in, and learnt
from her youngest boy and eldest girl that I
had peeled such a bundle, she gave me a kiss
of approbation which again made me cry. Oh
it was so pleasant! it was so gratifying to have
and to hear those words, 4 Well done, my boy,
well done!'
It is wonderful how kindness acts upon some
26
EARLY LIFE.
natures, especially upon the free and the un-
daunted, though they may be turbulent; but I
must not do these poor people injustice, nor
must I say anything not strictly true: they did
riot spoil me with flattery, nor did they inspire
me with hatred towards any one; nor did they
teach me any vice. They pitied me; they found
me wretched, and in their way they were the
kindest creatures to me possible.
About noon Jack came into the tent, having
wandered with a basket upon a begging expedi-
tion into the parish of Walsham.
'Well, younlcer, you have created a fine
hubbub in the parish of Walsham. Some say
you have drowned yourself. Some say that you
have run home. Some say you were seen
against Hunt's Pond; and one old woman de-
clared that you were running like a mad-dog
across the lands towards Ixworth. Your old
master, Rogers, I saw myself speaking to the
constable of the parish, and I heard him say,
 I dare say the young dog has gone home, but
let him be gone where he will he is a good-
for-nothing young scamp, and when he comes
EARLY LIFE.
27
back I will make an example of him. I'll flay
him alive."'
' I hope he will not find me,' was my reply,
and I looked round the little tent very wist-
fully to see if there was any place in which, in
case of alarm, I could be hidden. They saw my
perturbation and smiled. Presently in came the
tall father of the family, creeping upon his hands
and knees, and quite unable to sit up in the
tent; but, reclining his head upon the bundle
of bed clothes rolled up at one end, and his
feet reaching nearly to the door, he looked at
me with some interest.
* Young lad,' he said, 'do you wish to be
restored to your friends?'
'Not yet,' said I.
'Humph!' was the old man's expression; as
if he thought that I should one day leave him
of my own accord.
' How long would you like to live here ?'
' As long as you are kind to me,' said I.
' Humph!' again.
'Did you peel those sticks yourself? '
* Yes, father, he did,' said the girl.
28
EARLY LIFE.
' Who asked you that question, Mog ? I asked
the hoy.'
* Yes, I did, but Mog taught me.'
'You have worked well, but if you wish to
xemain here you must be a gipsy, or at least
look more like one than you now do. There
is a reward of a guinea offered to any one who
will bring you in.'
' Pray don't take me back,' said I; e pray don't
take me back!'
' I was not going to do so; but you must take
those things off your back, or you will very
soon be carried back, for I expect there will be
some country fellows in search of you soon, who
would like to have a guinea in their hands, and
have us gipsies sent to gaol for kidnapping you.'
' Pray take my clothes; pray lend me some
others; and do what you will with me, only do
not let me fall into the grasp of that same tyrant
again.'
'Jack, get one of Barnaby's begging suits,
and doff the youngster's blue jacket. Mog, get
your mother's shears and just cut off those
curly locks of the young gentleman. Jin
EARLY LIFE.
29
go you and bring out of your mother's tent
some of the boiled willow peelings which have
been burnt and seething there since the morning,
and give him a regular wash.'
So did the gipsy presently employ all his
family to disguise me. I was soon stripped,
washed, clipped, and dressed, and actually one
of the girls went and fetched a piece of broken
looking glass, and showing me myself therein,
made me have such a fit of laughter that even
the long, lank, grim, and greasy-looking gipsy
could not help joining in the laugh. I cer-
tainly never beheld such a thorough black-
guard-looking young lad as I was made to look
in five minutes.
My fair face was as sallow as if I had been
smoked for a month; my teeth were white;
my eyes, which were hazel, were now surrounded
by such dark eyelids, that positively I had
no idea that I could have been so speedily
transmogrified. All the ringlets were shorn
from my hair, and Mog had so sheared and
stiffened it, that there I was, worse than any
union boy with his hair polled, and thoroughly
so
EARLY LIFE.
transformed. As to my dress, oh ye mothers
who love the decency of your darlings, I had
a dried sheepskin jacket, which served me for
waistcoat and coat; a pair of trousers, made of the
old smoky tent tarpaulin; no stockings; no gloves;
no hat but a greasy old dog's-skin or cat's-skin
cap; in fact, I was a young vagabond in appear-
ance, and though not yet a vagabond in heart,
I might very easily be thought one, and perhaps
I was such in the estimation of some readers.
But in my own eyes I was a gipsy, and though
I had not served my apprenticeship to the gang,
and knew nothing yet of the erudite slang
among them, I could perceive they enjoyed the
idea of my brotherhood amazingly.
'They will never know him, father, never.'
'Give me his clothes, Mog.5
' They were done up in a bundle, and m
a very curious place were they deposited. A
square piece of turf was taken up in the tent
—which had evidently been removed and put
diyprn before—and underneath that turf there
was a large boiler with a top to it, which being
taken off, my bundle of gentleman's clothes
EARLY LIFE.
31
was thrust without ceremony into it, my hat
crushed to a pancake. The lid of the pot was
put on again, the turf covered over it, and
sticks, and pots, and pans laid thereon, so that
no one could have possibly conceived such a
gipsy's cupboard, unless they had experienced,
as I then did, the use of it.
'Now boy,' said the gipsy, 'you must learn
to act, if you can, and pretend to be deaf and
dumb, and not to see or know anything. If
any one should come into our tent—as you may
depend upon it they will before the day is past
—you must take no notice of any one; stare at
the smoke, and sit with your hands upon your
knees like a fool; or you may do that which
appears to suit you better, go on peeling the
sticks.'
I am quite sure that I learned this lesson of
deception quicker than I learned any other lesson
at school, all the days I was at Mr. Rogers'
academy, and it was very necessary that I should
be an apt scholar, for I was very soon put^to
the test.
' Hullo, Jim! who is that coming up the lane ?9
32
EARLY LIFE.
4 Why, that's the constable of the parish of
Walsham, along with Fake the carpenter. You
may depend upon it we shall have a search.
Now, young one, sit you at your sticks.'
4 Hullo! hullo ! Master Gibson, we want to
have a word with you.'
This was the first time I had heard the name
of the gipsy—Gibson, Master Gibson—so thinks
I, I must be a Gibson. I could hear the con-
versation, and Mog sat peering into my face to
see how I took it.'
4 Who have you got there in your tent,
Master Gibson? We are bound to look for a
young gentleman, who has run away from school
at Walsham, and is suspected of being with
you, and that you are harboring him in your tent.
4 Go in if you like, and look.'
4 We don't want to go in ; but have you any-
body there ? '
4 Yes: I've poor Tom, the idiot, deaf and
dumbMog, my daughter; and Jin, my
youngest. You met my boys, Jack and Barnaby,
and I hope you didn't find anything wrong.
Pray look in.'
EARLY LIFE.
33
I saw two heads stare in, and Mog and I
kept on peeling the willow sticks, and as inno-
■cently as possible.
'What can you see, Master Fake?'
' I can see two or three urchins peeling
sticks, that's all. But we are bound to search!
Perhaps you'll order vour fry to come
forth!'
' Oh, yes. Mog, come out; Jin, come out.
Take care of your brother.'
We all came out. I grinning, and staring
in the face of the constable of Walsham, whom
I knew as well as I did old Bogers; for he,
as constable, questman, and sexton, used to keep
boys quiet at church, dig graves, and carry
persons to prison, all in the course of due
authority.
' The young lad missing is just the size of
this boy of yours.'
I stared in his face, as if I did not know
what he said.
'He has a wild eye—curly hair—sharp look
—is very strong for such a lad—and just this
boy's height.'
34
EMILY LIFE.
Certainly, I did not look very bright; I had
110 longer curly looks; I might have a wild
eye, but though my mind was not in the least
degree a vacant one, yet it looked, I suspect,
wild enough at the constable ; but I lifted up
the stick, put my long, browned fingers to the
top of it, and drew off such a long strip of
green and yellow peel, and grinned at it so
beautifully, that the old constable could not help
saying—
' Poor boy! he must be a sad misfortune to you,
Master Gibson. I hope you are kind to him.'
Mog patted me on the head. I knew, of
course, what was said, and I looked at her,
and laughed so pleased, that Mog herself could
not help smiling at the artful dodge of my
young idiotcy.
' Here, poor boy, here's a penny for you!'
said the constable.
But I was deaf—I could not hear. It was
the first time I would not hear, and it would
have been a good thing indeed if I had
not heard many more enticing things than this
first offer of a penny.
early life.
35
'He's quite deaf, Mr. Fake.'
' And quite dumb, too ? '
' Poor boy! I did not know you had such
an affliction. We'll just look into the tents.'
They did so, and found nothing. When they
came out the constable said to the gipsy—
' There's a guinea reward offered for the appre-
hension or capture of the younker; and if, in
your wanderings, you should find him, a guinea,
Master Gibson, is worth the handling.'
e Pray, do you want any baskets, sir ?' said
Mog. 'Any tea kettles mending—any wooden
bowls, sir ? Poor Tom, here, can make many
things, and works hard, though he is an idiot
boy.'
And she gave me a look so knowing, that
I understood how completely the constables
were gulled, and what an apt scholar I had
become at deception.
Header, the Gibsons were all clever gipsies,
and, to a certainty, they made me quickly as
clever as themselves. The constables departed,
and we had a bolt into the tent, and a roar of
fun and laughter at the acting.
CHAPTEE II.
GIPSY LIFE.
To describe my gipsy life would fili many a
volume, though the incidents were of a cha-
racter as yet unknown to society. I was witness,
in this family of the Gibsons, to a decorum and
a respect from every member of it, such as I
never shall forget. I did not lie down that
night in the midst of schoolfellows, who were
curious to look at my scars, nor with a heart
heavy with the consciousness nf cruelty, with
the sensitive suffering of a degraded boy.
No; I felt for the first time that I had acted
my part well, though it was one of cleverness
beyond the mere repetition of a lesson. Cer-
tainly these gipsies were all my friends; and
GIPSY LIFE.
37
•why ? because I had thrown myself on no other
feeling than their pity for protection. They had
hid me, fed me, housed me, when I was a
wanderer, and I felt grateful to them then, and
do so to this day.
My first supper was not a bad one, though
I had no pinafore, no slap on the head for not
sitting still, and no disgusting or unkind reproach
for having too great an appetite. We had
chicken broth for supper—dinner was out of
the question. The gipsies' grand meal is supper;
and the preparation of it and for it are equally
matters of delight. Outside our encampment,
which consisted only of three tents—one for the,
master and his wife, and one for the boys, and
another for the girls—we all had our supper
in the open air in the summer evenings; and
never shall I forget seeing the one iron cauldron
boiling on a fire of sticks, constantly fed, stick
by stick, not in large quantities, but with just
enough fuel to keep a gentle flame constantly
at the bottom of the cauldron. I say, I never
shall forget the marked kindness paid to me;
for whilst all the family of children had but one
38
GIPSY LIFE.
wooden bowl to eat out of, I had as neat a
pipkin presented to me as any child could pos-
sibly desire. I am not persuaded that it was
Hot bought for me that very day. It was bright,
clean, and handsome in my eyes, and a completp
contrast to my own dirty self, in my sheepskin
and tarpaulin trousers.
We had chicken broth. It might be an old
hen given to the gipsy in exchange for a tin pan,
or it might be stolen, but of that, of course, I
knew nothing; all I knew was, that never in my
life, at school, had I a supper that I enjoyed
half so much. It was a curious sight to see us
all in a circle round those three poles, which
were black and shining as ebony. The mother
fed us all. She gave sufficient at the very out-
set for all our appetites, and the nice slices of
onion, potato, cabbage, and small bits of white
bread, brown bread, crust and crumb, all mixed
with the savory limbs of the old hen, made us
a capital meal.
I have seen many public dinners since then,
at which mayors and corporations have smacked
their lips, and partaken of turtle soup, venison,
GIPSY LIFE.
89
and game ; aye, and I have seen many an active
dance afterwards in the ball-rooms of state and
fashion, but never was I at one of them without
thinking of my first supper with the gipsies in
the green Hundred Lane, and the merry game
we afterwards had.
The first thing was a race between Jin, the
youngest girl, and myself, to the end of the
lane and back. Jin beat me hollow. I could
not run with her, though she and I were of a
similar age. She was like an antelope ; and from
the very start she discovered she had the race
all to herself; and, looking back, she laughed
at all my efforts; and in the stead of a race, it
was,f Catch me, boy, catch me, if you can!' That
was not easily done. The next thing was
jumping over an osier bar. I thought I should
stand a good chance; but here again I was made
to feel my own deficiency.
Then I saw the boys have a game of wrestling;
and then, to end our evening amusement, we-
had the great tall gipsy bring out a cremona
violin, and set us all to dancing. Here I beat
them, for I could dance indeed. My ears were
40
GIPSY LIFE.
in my feet, and I did not mind showing them
what I could do, so that, before we had done
our wild gallop, they were all lost in admiration
at my solo.
Such was my first wild evening among the
gipsies. Let men say what they will, or think
as they will, Jack, Jim, and Barnaby were now
my brothers and companions, and Mog and Jin
my sisters; and though I had been brought up
in the school of Mr. Edmund Sogers, my first
holiday of life was truly spent at the gipsies*
encampment.
Men are in search of happiness from their
cradles to their graves. Happy they who, after
being knocked about from pillar unto post^
from visions of the wilderness to the banks of
some cultivated garden, find the sweet rest of
their souls in contented thankfulness of heart te
God who delivers them out of all danger^ and
distresses, and takes care of them when they
know it not, and brings them peace at the
last.
But my gipsy-bed was without a bedstead.
It was without much making. It was straw, and
GIPSY LIFE.
41
nothing else. And what else in the summer did
a lad require ? Jack and Jim lav on one heap,
Barnaby and I on the other. The reader may
think this a curious fact, but it will serve to show
how yet the grace of God was with me, for
though I was in a gipsy's tent, and with gipsy
lads, before I lay me down to sleep, I repeated
aloud, as I had been taught by my mother, the
Evening Hymn.
I dare say it was the first time such a thiey
had been done in the gipsy's tent. My
heart wanted, perhaps, a little relief, and, as in
the happy days of mother's love, ! knelt before
her to say my prayers. The force of habit,,
early habit, was so strong, that even in the
gipsy's tent, and the very first night of my
escape from cruelty, I did not forget the good
instruction of a mother.
Talk of decency! how many cottages have we
in the country where there is but one bed-room
for all the - family; the gipsies beat them com-
pletely. We had three tents and three dormi-
tories, and I can positively affirm that making
allowance for all the want of new suits of clothes
42
GIPSY LIFE.
and clean linen, we were better off, in respect
of decency, than a great many cottagers m.
Norfolk or Suffolk.
My sleep was sound, tbougb for a long time
I thought of the anxiety my parents would feel
at the uncertainty of my lot. The very excite-
ment of the day had been enough to make me
uneasy; so that straw was a sufficient bed for
such a young vagrant as myself.
But I had a pleasant dream. It was a dream
of freedom, and I had then an idea that I should
one day be king of the gipsies. I remember
seeing myself seated on a magnificent throne,
surrounded by armies of warriors clad in armor,
and yet, whilst on that throne, I was somehow
peeling willow sticks, and Mog was my queen.
My dream, which lasted all night, which night
was as it were a minute, was interrupted, as I
thought, by the neighing of a war charger, and
I heard a voice calling me to horse, to mount
and lead the way; in which state I awoke, and
heard an ass braying in the lane, and the master
gipsy's voice calling upon us to arise and pre-
pare for a journey before breakfast. So the
GIPSY LIFE.
43
dream "was changed for bustling activity, and it
was not,e We gipsies lead a life of ease,' but
simply, ' Gipsies journey where they please.'
We did not take long to wash or dress, or
pack up and be off. It was all done in half an
hour—tents taken down—bundles bound up—
the donkeys harnessed—the ropes for traces, an
old truck for a cart, and like a primitive patri-
arch of the East, see Mr. Gibson and his wife,
Jack, Jim, and Barnaby, and Mog, Jin, and
myself, all hastening out of the lane. The bro-
ken boiler in the centre of the tent was taken
up, and swung beneath the cart, and I could
see there was some anxiety in the elder Gibson
as he thrust a cabbage and a turnip over my
pancake hat, leaving the leaves of the turnip
to swell over the edges, that any person might
say, 'The gipsy carries his sauce with him.'
And so he did, for he was a saucy fellow to
form such an idea of concealment, when he
knew well the dangerous treasure within the
boiler.
How many men divested of their fine clothes
would be better than Jonas Gibson ? We were
GIPSY LIFE.
like snails—we carried our concealment on our
backs. We journeyed before breakfast from the
Hundred Lane to Norton Wood, and encamped
again just as the gamekeeper was coming into
the lane against the thicket.
( Morning, Master Gibson! what have you got
for breakfast ?'
e Just what you see hanging out of the pot,
cabbages and turnips, a little salt, hot water, and
some nettle tea, and if you wish to have a cup
you are welcome.'
4 Not I, Master Gibson, I have been on the
look out for a young gentleman, who they say
has got off from school into the woods and can-
not be found. But they do add that he ran
away by reason of the unkind treatment, and
being rather of a melancholy character he is
not unlikely to hang himself.'
' Poor fellow, I hope he will do no such thing.
But boys are not such despairing fools as men.
There is in a boy's heart a buoyancy of hope,
and a dependance upon others, which never
leaves them whilst they are boys; and I only
know what it is to depend too much upon others,
GIPSY LIFE.
45
and to have had others dependent upon me,
until my heart was so disgusted that here you
see me, Tom, an independent man.'
'Ah! Master Gibson, and I am dependent upon
you for the very place I am in. You first taught
me to shoot; you first taught me how to catch
a hare, and how to catch a poacher; and yet
you used always to say to me,  Tom, fidelity
alone can make a good servant."'
'I never taught you to be a poacher, Tom!
I only taught you how poachers caught a hare,
how they set their snares, and how you might
take the poachers themselves.'
' That's true, Master Gibson, I know how you
were taught.'
'And I have taught you, Tom, to keep a
secret, therefore let that which I have taught
you remain a secret. And now I will tell you
something else which will not long be a secret.
That boy who is lost will one day be found.
The younker is only a wild one for a time.
Has taken a freak into his head to go off to sea,
and wants a strong lesson to bring him back
again! '
46
GIPSY LIFE.
' There are some olcl ones who want that as
well as young ones.'
f Hush, T om, hush! We have all to do
something to keep the pot boiling. Old ones
do not return so soon as young ones. Bend
the willow when 'tis young, Tom, and it will
not break. Our old bones are not so pliant.'
' I have hope that yours are not too old/
4 Hush, Tom have you got a rabbit in your
pocket ?'
•' I have two, Master Gibson. The foxes
spare too many of them to my mind. You
are welcome to them. How is Mog ?'
Mog had hid herself in the tent as soon as
the gamekeeper came up. Why or wherefore,
let those who are learned in female witcheries
declare. But this I know, that young as I
was, I had a precocity of mind as inquiring
as any simple man could imagine. Why did
Mog bolt into the tent the moment she saw
the gamekeeper?
Let any young lady, who may chance to read
these lines ask herself the question, why she
has ever felt timid when she has seen any-
GIPSY LIFE.
47
body in whom she feels an interest, and fancies
that he feels any interest about her. I am not
going to accuse the ladies of any artful tricks
to sham retirement, but there are some, even
in the highest walks of life—
'Who by retiring draw affection down,
Until the heart she fancies is her own.'
I was not too young just to fancy that Mog
absconded because she wished to be missed,
nor yet that Tom, the gamekeeper, had a
liking for Mog; and somehow I felt also that
if I were in Tom's situation, and a fine fellow,
with a green jacket and velveteens, with a gun
under my arm, and permission to shoot rabbits
to make the pot boil, that I might feel an
aspiring hope that Mog would make a very
good wife, though she was a gipsy's daughter.
I had read my Bible, and I remembered that
Moses married the daughter of an idolatrous
priest, to whom he was a servant.
What should make me think of that at that
time ? Tell me, ye learned, tell me. I answer
—precocity of reflection upon what I read. I
looked up at Gibson, though I had a pair of
48
GIPSY LIFE.
-canvass trowsers on. I looked up at him, as lie
stood, a tall, raw-boned man, talking to the
gamekeeper, and for the first time I found
there was a twinge of pride about the man,
as he said—
' Do you want Mog to skin the rabbits ?'
The young man blushed, and looked a little
Hushed, and actually said to the gipsy, to my
utter astonishment—
'I. beg your pardon. No! no! I did not
mean that. No. I can skin the rabbits. Only
"1 missed your daughter.'
' Mog,' said the gipsy, as Tom handed the
rabbits to him, and seeming to recover himself
from some unpleasant feeling, ffhere, take these
rabbits to your mother, tell her to prepare
them for our evening meal.'
Now, I was an observant boy, and I fan-
cied there was something more about the gipsy
and Tom than met the outward eye. I watched
Mog. I was read sufficiently in her, who was
so lively, and so kind to me as to teach me
how to strip a willow wand—I say, I was
sufficiently well read in her heart to perceive
GIPSY LIFE.
49
that her manners towards Tom were very
different to what they were towards me. And
I felt that she was afraid. Why should I feel
this ? I know now. It was because she had,
by her unaffected kindness, made me her
brother; aye, and made me wish her well.
A noble fellow, I, for eight years old; but
was that romance ? If it was, it was the honor-
able feeling of a heart that loved another; and
the best wish I have is, that every one had
the same. But I am not writing romance, how-
ever much a mail may think it. Romance is
like a play, very entertaining, but the characters
are only assumed. Mine, though not yet formed,
was real—my feelings real—my state real—my
positions real. But I did fancy that Gibson
was not a real gipsy. To be sure, he was all
that I had any conception of what belonged to
the gipsy character, except that which I found
to be an exception in him, that he was, under
all his outward garb, an amiable man. JBut I
will not speak of my imagination of the man.
I can only say, that my breast, for a young
one, became filled with sensations it had never
4
50
GIPSY LIFE.
experienced before; and if the visions of my
runaway days be not mixed up too much with
my after-knowledge of life and manners, I was
then as full of strange notions concerning that
man and his family, as his after revelation
proved to be true.
How strange are the ideas of an unformed
and uninformed mind! How wonderful a thing
pure simplicity appears to the initiated man ot
the world, or to the travelled hero of many
lands. Indeed, it is a mystery. It was in me
a mystery at an age like that, when my heart
was young, unhardened by the world, and soft-
ened by the first scenes of runaway life.
Mog bolted with the rabbits, and carried
them directly to her mother.
Tom looked at her as thoftgh he would have
spoken, but the gipsy's eye was upon him, and
he dared not—yes, reader, to me it appeared as
if he dared not.
It was evident that Gibson had some command
over the gamekeeper, of a very superior cha-
racter, although he was a fine stout young fellow,
and looked as though he need not be afraid.
GIPSY LIFE.
51
But he was afraid. Yes, and positively the man
trembled as if he would say something that he
dared not say; and you may think it a fabrication
or a fancy of my own; or you may construe it
into the mist of the morning, or the smoke
arising from the gipsies' new-made fire; but I
neither want to cast smoke or dust into your
eyes, when I say that I saw a tear drop from
the gamekeeper's eye. Gibson saw it—I am
sure he saw it—and he looked as if he did not
like it, and he turned his face round; and
singularly enough, too, the moment he caught
my wistful eye looking into his own, it dropt—
it dropt, as if some thought of being read by
another was not altogether pleasing. He turned
round, and took the gamekeeper's arm. I
shall never forget it, for I have known what
it is to have a duke, a lord, a great man,
put his arm in my own, and take me away
with him, as if he meant to be familiar or
respectful, when he was all the while only
desirous to escape some unpleasant observation.
I say that, even then, Gibson, the gipsy, looked
as proud as a duke when he took the arm of
52
GIPSY LIFE.
the gamekeeper, and walked with him into the
wood.
Oh, curiosity! curiosity! I almost wished my-
self a hare, to bop under the ferns and run
along the thicket, just that I might hide myself
in the bush, to hear what those two were talking
about; but I was afraid of being taken for what
I was, a bit of a sly fox, and so being shot for
my curiosity.
Luckily for me, as I was looking all amaze-
ment after them, a pat on the back made me
jump; and Mog, with a merry voice, said—
c Come, brother, come, don't stand staring into
the wood, come and learn to make a breakfast
and a basket.' And she popped into her brother's
tent, and I after her, where we found a good
substantial breakfast of bread and hot milk
already prepared for us.
We sat down and ate our breakfast with great
gusto; and though I confess my mind was all
thought about Mog, and Tom, and Gibson, and
the gamekeeper; and hares and rabbits; and
lords and ladies, and I know not what; yet I
dared not say what I thought, because Mog her-
GIPSY LIFE.
53
self appeared to have forgotten ail about it;
chatted away about the work to be done, where
we were to go, who would sell the most baskets,
or make them best; but, strange to say, she ate
no breakfast herself.
I was looking at her with wonder.
' Come, Harry,' as she called me, f eat your
breakfast, eat your breakfast.'
' You don't eat any yourself, Mog.'
' Oh yes I do.' And she tried and tried, but
somehow or other she did not get on.
'Don't look at me so, Harry. Don't look at
me so. You make me think you are not happy.'
' 'Tis you make me think you are not, Mog.'
Mog went out of the tent for something, and I
heard her sobbing in her mother's tent, and the
old woman seemed to sooth her.
' Hark,' said I, ' Mog is not well.'
' She's well enough,' said Jim. ' This is always
her way when father and the gamekeeper get
together. She's always unhappy. I suppose
she's afraid the gamekeeper should complain to
the Lord of the Manor, and have us all driven
away.'
5i
GIPSY LIFE.
'She ought not to be afraid of that, for the
gamekeeper was a long while a playmate of
ours, on the other side of West Hall Wood, near
Hickinghall, and used to come and see us, and
often he declares he owed a great deal to
father.'
Presently Mog came back again, her dark
eye was very red within the lashes, and we all
maintained a perfect silence and a gentleness
towards her, for we really loved her. And I
believe she loved us as dearly as we loved her.
As soon as we had finished breakfast, she set us
all to work.
' Come, I must take you in hand, master
Harry, and teach you how to make a basket.'
She showed me how to lay the bottom thereof,
and to carry up the uprights, how exactly to
bend them, and especially the larger and the
stouter ones, and then how to plait them in and
out, in and out. Two or three times she said
to me—
s You seem stupid this morning, Harry,
you seem stupid.' And all the while I was
thinking of her and the gamekeeper, but I
GIPSY LIFE.
55
dared not say so. So I took it as a boy does
a rap on the head, for inattention, and to work
I went.
Nothing is done without labor — nothing at
all—and I thought that I ought to try and earn
something to pay for my breakfast. That thought
put me into the right train, and soon she began
to say : e Come, you are mending. That will do.
There, you understand. That's right. "Work
on, and mother will be pleased again.'
And the mother did come; but just as she
came in we heard the gamekeeper's gun, and
she turned away from our work, and listened.
We all listened. I know not what made us
listen, but I suppose mother's being so intent
made us so too. In another minute the gipsy's
voice was heard.
1 Boys ! — Tom, Jim, and Barnaby — boys !
Come here! come here !'
Away went the boys. I was going too, but
Mog caught hold of me, saying—
' Harry, stay with me.' It was magic. It
Was impossible for me to run away, for Mog
looked very pale, trembled, then sat down,
56
GIPSY LIFE.
listened, and sighed. She tried to work, but
at last said—
f Harry, I fear there is something amiss.
But stay with me; there are plenty gone into
the wood.'
The mother's instinct had caught alarm from
her husband, and she had gone into her tent.
CHAPTER lit.
THE ACCIDENT.
How very soon is a house of joy turned into-
a house of mourning. If the transition from the
sublime to the ridiculous be often imperceptibly
sudden, the transition from the joy of life to-
its sorrows is often more sudden, and always
more certain, than any one thing on this earth.
But oh, what calmness does it require, what
strength of mind, and more, what true depen-
dance upon God, to be always ready for these
afflictions; never to desire them, but always to
take them as they are intended, for good. The
sudden check of joy in the too exuberant and
buoyant spirit of prosperity may be very good
for every one; and awaken thoughts, reflec-
58
THE ACCIDENT.
tions, and certainties which every man ought to
learn.
But a few minutes, and a change comes over
the dream of life, and all its intoxicating plea-
sures are suspended. Mog and I sat listening
with beating hearts for what was coming. I
thinking much more of her than she of me, for
if the truth could be told, my presence was only
on purpose that she might not be alone. One
does not like to be alone when the suspended ter-
rors of imagination are pressing themselves fear-
fully upon the mind; the presence of any living
thing is then to be preferred. But here is true
wisdom—and let all those who read these lines
take it—God is ever present. If he be our
portion, and his presence be felt, then no soli-
tude can be irksome. But neither Mog nor I
had a happy consciousness cf uhis truth. If
her ears had been like a timid hare's ears, they
would have been pricked up and turning to
every puff of wind to catch the sound of ap-
proaching danger; but Mog would every minute
put her head down as if to pick up a willow-
stick, and I could perceive it was only to
THE ACCIDENT.
59
listen to the sound, if any could be caught, of
coming foot-steps.
Jin was the first to hear them, for she was
outside, standing against the gate leading into
the wood, and she came rushing, or rather bolt-
ing, into the tent: ' They are coming! they are
coming! I can hear father's voice, saying:
 Take care, Tom. Gently with his legs,
Barnaby. Jim, take care of the gun."'
Poor Mog! poor Mog! her face was as wild
as that of a terrified lamb, which, being outside
the fold, sees the wolf coming, and cannot get to
its dam. But if I had been a painter, what a
picture was before me! Jin at the door of the
tent, poor Mog on her hands and knees, with
a bundle of osier twigs in one hand, and a
small knife under the palm of the other, and
her head peering towards the gate of the
wood, with eyes, at that moment so intent, they
seemed as though they could never permit the
eyelids to close over them. I, no longer liking
to stay where I was, passed Mog very quietly,
and she took no notice of me, for I crept round
the other side of the canvass, and walked directly
60
THE ACCIDENT.
up to the gate. I heard them coming. -I first
saw that which I did not wish Mog to see; so
I turned round, and with my hand beckoned
to her to go back into the tent. But this only
made her so much the more intent.
I would have drawn a curtain between them
if I could, for I saw Gibson and his two boys
bearing the body of the gamekeeper, whose
head and face seemed covered with blood.
' Young one,' said Gibson, f down with the
lift if you can.'
What could not a boy do when properly
directed. I do not think I had ever before
attempted such a thing; but I slipt the ends
of the lift back into the eyes of the post, turned
the other ends a little outward, and, being
unable to carry the lift out of the way, the
moment I had released it down it fell, fortu-
nately not upon me, but from me, and I upon
it, or perhaps they might have had two instead
of one to carry into the tent. Even at such a
moment the boys could hardly help laugh-
ing to see me sprawling on all fours upon the
lift.
THE ACCIDENT.
61
Gibson, however, said, f K ever mind, up with
you, bov. and run and tell mother we are
here.'
There wanted not that to tell her, for one of
the wildest shrieks that every rung in ""Norton
Wood thrilled through all our hearts as poor
Mog caught sight of the bleeding head, and
vented her whole strength of body and spirit in
the cry. It was not a wail—it was not a howl—
it was not a cry for help. It was a piercing
shriek such as a being gives who sees a gulf
and knows nothing can save him from it. Poor
Mog! poor Mog! That shriek was but one effort,
one utterance, and she herself was on the earth
insensible.
I believe that the gipsy himself would have
dropped the body had not that very shriek had
an effect upon the seemingly dead which he
had no idea of. Those eyes opened, the head
moved, and a struggling shudder ran through,
the frame of the youth, which was even more
overpowering to the gipsy than the voice of
despair which came from the- daughter.
' He is alive, boys ! He is alive. He heard
62 THE ACCIDENT.
Mog's cry. Come, bear him along, bear him
along. There, that will do, that will do.'
Nothing could be more gentle than the gipsies*
bearing, nothing more touching and tender than
the whole scene, which, though I now describe it
when I am grown old and grey, and have passed
through such scenes of joy and sorrow as after
pages must describe, is yet as vivid before me
as if it were but a scene of yesterday, a trans-
action of the very day in which I live. Old age
reverts to the scenes of youth with much more
vivid feeling than to the immediate cares that
press upon it. My after education too, and
years of life's experience, must of course add
something to the power of description. But I
do not think that any thing I could write would
exactly describe it. Even a painting could not
speak. All men when they look upon the represen-
tation of an event where the figures are drawn
as if they were speaking, have to imagine the
words of eloquence which are uttered. But
none were here spoken, as they bare the
body to the matron's tent. That matron was
chafing her daughter's hands and temples, and
THE ACCIDENT.
63
Jin was standing with some cold water and
sprinkling poor Mog's face. I was an intense
looker-on, but holding back the front of the
tent that the party might bear the body into it.
We talk of attention! we talk of interest, of
sympathy for suffering, and those who have
never seen it imagine it more forcibly than those
who have to blunt their feelings by active exer-
tion. They do not readily blunt them by so
doing, but prove to all the world that a little
help is worth a great deal of pity.
And so it is. Still pity, if sincere, is sure to
lend a hand somehow; though wisdom may
not like to show weakness, lest weakness be
misconstrued into folly.
Into that tent on a bed already prepared was
the body of the young gamekeeper borne, laid
thereupon, and now came such a scene as com
vinced me gipsies have hearts as well as we
have, at least Gibson had. A tear was on the
hard featured man's cheek as he looked at the
ghastly countenance. He felt the pulse, he found
it beating.
f Tom, run you down to Ixworth with all speed
64
THE ACCIDENT.
to Mr. Rowe, the surgeon, simply say to him.
that Squire Norton's gamekeeper has happened
with an accident, a gun-shot wound, and is in
the gipsies' tent at the east end of Norton Wood.
Speed, boy, speed.'
' Jim, go you to old Mrs. Sealeys, near  The
Dog, and tell her that her son is ill, and wants
to see her at the gipsies' tent.'
'And you, Barnaby. Yes.' And the gipsy
paused, and placed his hand upon his head as
if it ached. ' Yes, Barnaby, yes. Go you to the
Rectory. I know not who is the minister, but I
know poor Sealey was always at his church on
Sunday, and a good fellow too; and tell him
there is a dying man at the gipsies' tent.' And
then the gipsy sighed or groaned, but I diverted
his thoughts, for seeing he had given them all
something to do, I quietly said,
' And what am I to do, Mr. Gibson ?'
' Mr. Gibson' made him start.
'Well, young lad,' he said, ' I wish you were
somewhere else than where you are, for I know
not what to do with you. You had better go a
begging.'
THE ACCIDENT.
G5
' For what, sir ?'
'For some linen rags.'
'Take my shirt out of the boiler.'
' That won't do.'
'Why not?'
' It would be found out.'
' Why so ? '
' Because the very rags would prove it to be
belter linen than gipsies wear.'
' W ell, what then ?'
' You would bring me into trouble. Boy, don't
you know yet, that nobody believes a gipsy ?'
'I do.'
' Yes, you believe me, and trust me, but
children are mostly afraid of me. You are not.'
' No, you have been kind to me.'
'It will not always do to trust the kindness
of a gipsy; but go, you must go and ask some-
where for some linen. Go up to Norton Hall,
boy, take the lane down to the left, cross along the
foot of the valley, and you will come up into
the drift way leading to the Hall, you may be
of some service, off with you.'
This was the first begging expedition I ever
5
66
THE ACCIDENT.
went upon in my life, and as it was for
another, and that for the life of another, I
felt no compunction at the job I had to under-
take. Yet somehow I was an awkward beggar.
I felt I was, and my heart was filled with some-
thing like fear. Yet off I went, only just taking
a peep at poor Mog before I started. She was
reviving. Her dark mother, with her swarthy
hands, was smoothing down her hair, and actually,
with all a mother's tenderness, saying—
' Come Mog, come! cheer up! cheer up!
Hope! hope ! don't cast it all away! He is
not dead! he is not dead! Father would not
have sent for a surgeon if he were dead ! Tom
is gone for the doctor; Jim is gone for his
mother; Barnaby is gone somewhere !'
f Where, mother, where ?'
'I think for the minister of the parish, the
Rev. darker.'
f Ah! mother, is it so ? Then he will die.'
'Ho, Mog, not the more for that. Rectors
.don't kill people.'
' Ho, but they bury them.'
' Poor Mog ! they would have them live.'
THE ACCIDENT.
67
'Yes, mother, yes! I should like him to live;
yes, to live a little longer here; I don't wish
him to die. Do you think that he will die ?3
e I hope not. Harry, where are you going ? *
' I am going a-begging, mother.'
'We do not want anything, mother. Why
should dear little Harry go a-begging ?'
' Dear little Harry! dear little Harry!' Oh !
how the words came like nectar to my heart. Poor
Mog, I am sure I pitied her, I felt for her, I loved
her as my own dear sister; so I said to her—
'Don't be sorry, dear Mog, I am only going
to the Hall to ask for some linen rags. You
ought to be glad.'
' But will he die, Harry, will he die ? '
' Oh no,' said I, ' certainly not!' and I spake
with a kind of confidence that was more cheer-
ing than any kindness of the mother. She
looked hard at me; she thought she saw a gleam
of hope; she put forth her dark but yet livid
hand; and, though she did not say, Come here,
she drew me to her and kissed me for my
comfort. It did me good, and it did her good
likewise. It relieved her aching heart; it made
68
THE ACCIDENT.
me rejoice that I could give her comfort, and I
said—
' There, Mog, there, you are better now. Do
not delay me, or perhaps the surgeon will be
here before I am back.'
She let me go, and off I went. The birds
were singing around me, the sky larks rose
high in the air, the little warbler sent forth
the joyful praise of his heart. I was sent forth
upon a hopeful expedition, and, though but eight
years old, to myself I was much older, and I
seemed to be gifted with a strength I never had
before.
Down along the lane I ran, sprang over the
stile, laying my hands upon the upper bar, took
the footpath along the ploughed field, then a
summer-till, then across another field of pasture,
and over into the drift-way with a leap, that at
once got me such a cut across the back for my
agility, that it made be blubber most tremen-
dously.
'You good for nothing young dog,' said a
gentleman, who was driving a lady in a hooded
chaise just going up the hill, 'you had nearly
THE ACCIDENT.
69
thrown my horse down upon his knees. What
are you doing here, you young vagabond ? I'll
teach you to frighten folks, I will'; and he
gave me another thwack which made me leap
over the stile again, but not run back. No;
I had an errand, I had a task, a duty to perform,
and no thwacks, although they made me smart
and blubber, could make me forget the duty I
had to perform. So I stood still, but out of reach
of the whip.
'What are you doing here, you young scoun-
drel?'
'I am going up to the Hall.'
'Are you ? Let me catch you there, that's all!'
A quick thought struck me that it might be
the squire and his lady, who had gone down to
the farm, and were going to the town of Ixworth,
so forgetting my smart, I said—
' I was going to ask for a few rags for the
gamekeeper, who has happened with an accident.'
' What gamekeeper, boy ?'
'Your own, sir. He was in Norton Wood, this
morning, searching for a young gentleman who
is missing, and has happened with an accident.'
70
THE ACCIDENT.
' Is it Sealey ? '
' I think it is, sir.
' Did the gun burst ?'
' I don't know, sir; but father found him and
took him to his tent, sir, and has sent for lyir*
Hose, the surgeon. He is very bad.'
'What did your father do in Norton Wood?'
' He walked into the wood with Sealey, sir.'
' Oh, you are sure of that, are you ?'
' Yes, sir, I saw them go in together.'
'It might be that he went in search of that
young lad of whom I heard yesterday. Well,
well! Come, boy, come; I'll forgive you. Go
up to the Hall.'
'Don't cry, poor boy,' said the lady, 'I'll
give you some rags.'
So, reader, I forgave the squire for his injus-
tice towards me, for the sake of poor Sealey,
and Mog, and Gibson, and Tom, and Jim, and
Barnaby.
CHAPTER IT.
the bags.
I followed the yellow-bodied and hooded one-
horse chaise up to the Hall. I had even the
politeness to run and open the gate for tne
squire, though he had given me such a thwack
as made a great leviathan weal across my back ;
yet I had in view the rags which he promised
me. I thought of the gipsy's orders, and the
poor gamekeeper's condition. I verily believe
poor Mog's kindness to me, and the thought of
her sorrows, had at that time a wonderful influ-
ence in softening the asperity I felt towards the
squire.
The lady also dropped me a penny as she
passed through the gate, and I thought she
72
THE BAGS.
looked as if she would have healed the wounds
her rough—not to say cruel—husband had in-
dieted. I remembered also that in some mea-
sure it was on her account; for if the horse had
tumbled down, and the lady had been pitched
out, or the squire hurt, or even his horse, I
should have been sorry. So taking all these
things into consideration, my spirit regained its
composure, and I have found, through a very
long and very varied life, from childhood to old
age, that this regaining of inward composure is
a very great blessing, though I really did not
understand then what it was, or who it was
that gave it, or how it was to be kept.
Reader, I heartily wish you may get it. If
you should, let me tell you there are millions
who would give all the world to obtain it, even
at the last moment of life, and think themselves
blessed indeed; for it is internal peace, real
comfort.
I bore the smart for the sake of the chari-
table rags, which were to comfort the sick, and
I even condemned myself when I picked up
the penny—not for the thought of a bribe, but
THE RAGS.
because I did not look before I leaped. I have
leapt over many stiles since—have gone through
all kinds of dangers—but never leapt into a lane
"without thinking of who might be on the other
side of the gate or hedge.
* Boy, stay there at the gate, I will come and
speak to you. John, take my horse.'
The squire drove into the yard, his mistress
got out, and he came back and spake to me.
' What's your name, younker ?'
That was a question I had never had put to
me before. But I had taken the gipsy's habit,
I had given up my own kin, I had fled from
the name and nature of a schoolboy, and had
become one of Master Gibson's family.
Some gentlemen take the names of noble
families who leave them estates—some take the
names of Johnson, Thompson, Richardson, Wil-
liamson, Jameson, and Robertson. I never heard
the name of Bobson, though I have of Jackson;
and as these were the sons of those who had
befriended them, I think I was perhaps justified
in taking a name upon myself without paying
His Majesty a price for so doing.
74
THE EAGS.
'My name is Henry Gibson.'
' What parish do you belong to ?
' All parishesF
' Where is your father ? '
' On the other side of your honor's wood.'
' Is Sealey very bad ? '
' I should think so. He is shot in the back
of the neck. Father has sent for the surgeon,
and for Sealey's mother, and, I think, for the
Rev. Clarke, the clergyman.'
'For the clergyman? A gipsy send for a
clergyman! Are you sure he has done so ?
The man's a better man than I thought him.
But I fear poor Sealey must be very bad
indeed.'
'Father is a very kind father, sir, and I
think your gamekeeper Sealey is more indebted
to him than you are aware of, sir. He was
once a boy under Mr. Gibson's tuition.'
' Who taught you such fine words, boy ? You
are, at least, a generation before your race.'
'No, sir; we learn fine words; and father
himself was once better off, I think.'
' What, Gibson the gipsy ! Gibson, the gipsy
THE RAGS.
75
better off, indeed! A fellow that sets all law
at defiance, and lives by his wits!'
Now I could not help thinking then, and I
have thought so a hundred times since, that if
men did not live by their wits, how would they
live ?
All men are not possessed of hereditary
estates, and those who are, and have no wits to
make use of, generally find their estates leave
them ; and some of them come to beggary, being
cheated by those who have the wit to rob them,
and laugh at them to boot.
Where would be the lawyers if they had not
wits ? To make laws may be very pleasant
work, and to break them is very easy; but
when laws are made, lawyers obtain the profits
thereof, and care very little about who keeps
or who breaks, provided only they get paid for
the administration thereof.
Just then came the lady bringing the rags;
and, to be sure, my young heart could have
made me jump up and kiss her ; for she brought
me some nice fruit, and told me to come again
to-morrow for some more. I say I could have
76
THE RAGS.
kissed her, and yet I dare not, for my old
sheepskin and tarpaulin trowsers; but I cried.
' Why do you cry ? '
f Because you are so very kind.'
' Go—go !' said the squire. ' My dear, you
are too tender by half. You know not what
vagabonds these gipsies are. This very boy may
be a good-for-nothing thief!'
eI do not believe he would cry if he were
so bad.'
' I am not bad,' said I.
( Go about your business, boy, and tell your
father I shall walk across and inquire into the
case. I shall not be long before I come; so be
off with you.'
I made a very polite dancing master's bow to
the lady; and though I did not like the squire
so well as I did her ladyship, yet I did my best,
and had he kicked me, I had got the rags, and
my heart was happy.
Away I went, nor did I stop my trotting until
I arrived at the green lane again. I ran into
Mog's tent. She was sitting with her face in
her hands, and rocking herself to and fro, as
THE RAGS.
77
if deep grief was in her heart. I saw it
was so.
'Mog, here are the rags. And look, I see
the doctor coming up the lane; and there is an
old woman too, walking along the path with
some gentleman.'
The hopes of Mog were with the doctor.
' Boy! come and hold my horse !'
' Yes, sir.' And I had now the pleasure of
being useful in holding the little pony, if not
the horse, of Mr. Rose.
The doctor's horse was a little too frisky for
a boy of eight years old to walk about with; he
seemed, too, as if he was disposed to try my
courage, for he stamped with his foot, and pawed
the ground, and pranced about, and feeling my
hand tremble, he reared, and fairly lifted me off
my legs; but I did not let go, but called out, and
Gibson soon came out of the tent and took the
bridle in his hand, and told me to go to the doctor.
I ran into the tent to take my first lesson in
surgery; and, reader, being a very tender-hearted
boy, I felt too much, for when the surgeon asked
me to hold Sealey's head up, and I saw the wound
78
THE HAGS.
I confess I turned so sick I was forced to run
quickly out of the tent to the ditch; and no
shame either—I was sick.
Mother gave me a little brandy, and at the
same time told me to go in again directly. I
obeyed, and the brandy calming my stomach,
I was now anxious to render assistance.
The wound was washed, bits of the wadding ex-
tracted, and the poor mother, who stood outside
the tent, and handed the water to me, and I to the
doctor, was very anxious to know what the doctor
thought.
Doctors don't say much. Their business is
to do what they can in the case, and as quickly
as they can.
Neither did the doctor ask many questions ; he
simply said, c I cannot think how the man could
inflict this wound himselfThere was a very
great deal, however, in this assertion, and young
as I was, it led me to the very question, ' Did
Gibson do it ? *
All this timb poor young Sealey was insensible,
and though he evidently breathed, yet he was
unable to speak. Gibson was leading the doctor's
THE RAGS.
horse, and when the clergyman came up to
the tent and asked the doctor how the poor man
was, and learnt that he was insensible, he only
asked us if we could any of us read. I told
him I could; and he gave me a little book upon
the 'Visitation of the Sick,' and then walked
to the other tent. There he found Mog and
her mother. He went into the tent, and very
kindly conversed with them; and talked to them
about their wandering habits.
Mog said, ' I should like to have a cottage,
but where shall I find one ? I wish we all had
a business, but where shall we find it? All folks
hate us, and we are forced to live in the
lanes.'
'I know that gipsy habits are not easily
put off; nor are any wild habits easily tamed.
Man is by nature self-willed and wild—fond of
roaming where he will, and doing as he pleases ;
and it is not until he learns to feel for others
that he enjoys civilization.'
'Pray, sir, do all civilised people feel for others
more than for themselves ?'
'Self-preservation is called the first law of
so
THE RAGS.
nature: but a law of divine grace is to feel for
others as well as for oneself.'
4 Then, sir, the law of grace is with me, for
I do feel as if my heart would break for the
poor young man who is wounded. Do you
think he will die ?'
' He is dead, as it were, now.'
'Dead now, sir ? dead ! did you say he was dead V
And Mog wrung her hands, and looked so
wildly in the young clergyman's face, that he
very readily perceived the poor creature's affec-
tions were set upon the gamekeeper.
' I did not say that life was extinct; I meant
that he was insensible; ana when a person
is in that state they are to all intents and
purposes, of a mental character, dead. I came
to speak to him about his soul; and finding
him insensible, I cannot do so; I therefore
have to look upon him at present as a dead man.'
' Oh! I hope not, sir.'
' And I hope so, too; but should he revive
a little, I shall have to teach him to place his
heart's affections on a better world than this;
to which in all probability he is going.'
THE KAGS.
81
( Oh, sir, teach me to do the same; for if he
goes, I am sure I shall go to.'
The clergyman was struck with the poor
girl's simplicity, and felt, as he afterwards
declared, that he wished there were many hearts
like poor Mog's, as true and faithful as hers
appeared to be. He had a very interesting con-
versation with her.
It was not difficult in her then truly melan-
choly state to point out to her the transitory
nature of that very earthly attachment which
she felt, and to show her how very soon it
might be cut asunder—in one hour perhaps—
and then to what she should look.
He was not one of those men who thought
all natural affection wrong. Quite the reverse.
But he was one of those good men who taught
that all things should be taken with submission
to God's will, and he said to poor Mog—
(I do hope that it is ^ God's will the young
man should recover; and I will pray, with you,
that if it be not his will, we may all be resigned,
and that we may depend upon Him for the
best.'
6
82
THE HAGS.
C Pray, sir ? do you pray ? I am not in tlie
habit of it; and though I do not doubt there is
a God, yet, sir, I do not know him/
41 am not surprised to hear you say so ?
There are very few of us who know him as we
ought to do; and still fewer who obey him as
we ought to do.'
Little did I think that the first practical
lessons of divinity would be given to me in a
gipsy's tent. I sat down beside poor Mog. I
listened with deep attention to what that truly
pious and humble man spake, and I am certain
it did me good. It sunk deep into my heart,
and much of the fruits of the lesson of affliction
I learnt in that gipsy's tent, are now apparent
in this narrative of my life. So though that
poor man is dead, yet having cast his bread
upon the waters, it will be found perhaps not
unprofitable to many others as well as to my-
self.
There are some who read this will pooh!
pooh! it as unsound, and say it must be all
invention, or after-thought. Put I would ask
any one of them—if the lessons, aye, many of
THE BAGS.
83
the accidental lessons, they learnt in their
younger days, have not come back to them
with infinitely more force than those which the
world has taught them ? It was far easier to
convert a gipsy than a hardened well-to-do man
of the world, let him be professionally High
Church, Low Church, Broad Church, or no
church, and whose pulse beats high or low, only
according to the fever of the funds, the success
of cheating, or the cleverness of his aptitude
for business.
He was a good young clergyman, and the
sequel will show that he was a wise one as well,
for poor Mog's faith was put to the test in a very
few hours after this transaction; and she had
nothing which ever did console her so much
as the good advice and kind attention of the
clergyman and his family, then resident in the
Rectory, and who were Mog's best friends in
this life; and who will doubtless have their
reward in another.
The squire's voice was heard in the lane, and,
soon after he came, affairs took such a turn that,
we were all confounded.
CHAPTER T.
the squire.
The arrival of the squire created a general stir
in the gipsy camp, for the squire was a great
man, a magistrate, a good man, so reckoned,
though as squires sometimes do, and masters and
mistresses likewise, he took the law into his own
hands, and administered the lash where he had
no business so to do. So Mr. Macaulay, in his
History of England, can call whom he will a
buffoon, a villain, a scoundrel, an abomination,
and an abortion, and lash with his pen whom-
soever and whatsoever he pleases, so long as he
does but give an agreeable complexion to his
.own views. This is not exactly the being an
historian, but a lasher, splasher, and dasher,
THE SQUIRE.
85
something more aristocratic than the country
squire, and almost as autocratic as the Emperor
of all the Russias.
The squire's ' Humph, Gibson!' created a
pause in the curate's sermon to poor Mog. That
voice of autocratic sound, called all attention.
It was a call for us all to come forth, and
out we all went save the doctor, who, I dare
say, said within himself, as doctors frequently
do,
e I have got a case to attend to more impor-
tant than the squire's command, at all events let
the squire come to me, or send for me, or ask
for me, and I shall then be of some importance.'
So he remained in the gipsy's tent.
Gibson also was holding the surgeon's horse,
and he came very leisurely with the prancing
little steed up towards the squire.
e Gibson ! come here !'
'Yes, your honor! but I cannot leave the
horse.'
' Then bring him with you.'
Now the squire might have gone to Gibson,
but just imagine three tents pitched in a green
86
THE SQUIRE.
lane, and the squire standing between two of
them, and calling Gibson to come to him.
Gibson dared not say or would not say, c Squire,
come to me;' but as the squire stood still, and
the curate along with him and Mog, and Mother,
and Jin, and I, the sons having not yet come
back, Gibson had no alternative but to lead the
fiery little pony up to the tents. He did not like
the look of our habitations; he snorted and would
have reared, but the gipsy's strong right arm kept
his head so down that the pony could not lift his
fore legs. No sooner, however, had he brought
his head to the squire's presence, than without
more ado he lifted up his hind legs and sent
them smack into Mog's tent, and a pair of holes
held the little fellow's legs in an instant so that
he could not extricate them. Then there was a
kicking, a plunging, a snapping, and cracking
of the hoops, an overturning of the tent, and such
a scramble that the squire jumped into the ditch,
and came out again with something like a pair
of highlows of mud over his beautiful green
velveteen buskins.
The little animal was extricated as well as
THE SQUIRE.
87
could be, but he never after could be persuaded
to approach a gipsy's tent.
The squire was not a little angry. ' Boy, bring
some clean straw.' I had to rub the mud off
his worship's feet.
* There, that will do.'
The surgeon, hearing a hubbub, had come out
of the sick man's tent, for had the pony put
his hind legs into that instead of into Mog's
tent, it would have been a very awkward
thing.
' I hope that you are not hurt, Mr. N .'
'Fortunately I am not, but why do you keep
such a vicious brute of a pony as that ? He is
very dangerous.'
' I do not think that he has any vice. I never
knew him vicious; he is very high spirited but
very quiet. I am sorry he has occasioned you
such dirty feet.'
'Yes, I suppose so,' said the squire, 'and had
my shins been broken you would have been glad
—glad to have been present.'
' Undoubtedly so, Mr. N , and I should
have done my best to set them right.'
88
THE SQUIRE.
' Well, well, it is very unpleasant, for I
was going to the magistrates' sitting at Ixworth,
and now I must go home again first. But how
is your patient ?'
Mog drew very near to the squire and looked
very anxiously at the doctor.
fMy patient is very bad—and if he remain
here he will die. He is insensible, and will be
so for some hours, and I think he should be
removed directly.'
f Do you know anything about the occasion of
the accident?'
'I only know, that if it be an accident it is one
of the strangest I ever heard off. The man is
shot in the back of the neck, and the cervical
vertebrae are as bare in one place as if they had
been scraped with a knife. The muscles are
perforated but not destroyed. I never saw a
thing so near death, inasmuch as it was almost
a broken neck.'
' How was it done ?'
e That, squire, is to me a mystery; I cannot say
how it was done.'
f Do you believe the man did it himself?'
THE SQUIRE.
89
'I cannot conceive it possible tliat he could
do it himself.'
* Then must I ask you, when you get home,
to tell the constable of Ixworth to meet me at
the Pickerel immediately/
4 I will do so, squire.'
4 Send Gibson to me/
Gibson came as soon as the surgeon was
mounted, but he had most feelingly said,4 How
is the poor fellow ?'
4 It is a very awkward piece of business, Master
Gibson, and I fear it will bring you into trouble;
but the squire wants you.'
'Gibson, I do not desire that you should
criminate yourself, but the circumstances of this
case are so suspicious that I should not do
my duty to the public, if I did not issue my
warrant for your apprehension. You may be
quite innocent of any criminality, but you must
satisfy the magistrates thereof, or be committed
to prison, and if poor Sealey should not be able
to make a deposition, the case will be very
serious for you.'
'Very well, your honor; I am ready to go
90
THE SQUIRE.
to Ixworth, but do you not think we had better
remove the man to his mother's house first? '
' Leave that to me, Gibson, I will send a bed
or something easy for him to lie upon. I am
very sorry for it.'
'And so am I, your honor, and I hope to
satisfy your worship and the magistrates that I
had nothing to do with it.'
'I wish you may, Gibson. Was there any
body but yourself with him at the time? '
' Nobody, your honor ; I will tell you '
'So much the worse, Gibson; don't tell me
anything about it now, but if you have a mind
to spare trouble, go down to the Pickerel at
Ixworth, without delay.'
' I will go directly, your honor.'
f Boy,' said the squire to me, ' here's sixpence
for you, but take care how you jump into lanes
for the future.'
' I will, your honor.'
' Let that boy go with you, Gibson.'
' Why so, sir.'
' Because I wish it.'
' He did not see the accident.'
THE SQUIRE.
91
' May be not! but I think that boy will speak
. truth.'
I saw Gibson look at me. I saw his blood
a little stirred within him, for it was as much as
to say that he would not speak the truth. There
were some closer fears near the gipsy's heart
concerning myself, which at the same time
weighed upon his mind. Still he schooled him-
self well, and replied—
' Well, your worship, I hope I shall speak
the truth too; the boy shall go along with me.
Harry, are you ready?'
The squire saw the tears start in Mog's
eyes, and not only did they start in hers, but
in mother's also, and, therefore, they did in
mine, as the squire and the minister walked
away in conversation, such as I found afterwards
was of a very serious character.
e Children,' said Gibson,e attend to poor Sealey,
and stop where you are until I come back. I
cannot tell you how long that will be, but I hope
things will turn out favorably.'
' Husband, let me ask you one question before
you go,' said Mrs. Gibson, 'because I can endure
92
THE SQUIRE.
anything when I know the worst. Did you
cause the wound which p6or Sealey has got,
or did you not?*
' I did not give him the wound, wife; nor
did I intend or think of doing so. He and I
were talking of some matters of great moment,
and I think poor Sealey was a little passionate.
I do not think he intended to strike me, but he
had his gun in his hand, and it came so near
my head, either in his argument or in his
vehemence, that I warded it off with my hand,
and it swung round with him, his foot slipping
at the moment, when he knocked the stock as
he was falling against a stump, and the gun fell
out of his hand, and when on the ground it went
off. Any one may see that the charge went along
the ground, by the very ploughing of the earth
and ferns close to where poor Sealey's head lay.
I wish the squire had allowed me to show him
how it happened. But I daresay he thinks me
guilty. Do not you think so. Nothing was
further from my mind. Nothing.*
'Yet I fear you will have some difficulty in
proving your case.*
THE SQUIRE.
93
•'It may be so, and should I be committed to
prison, you and the boys must do the best you
can; but I shall hope that poor Sealey will
recover, and then all will be right.'
' Oh, father, I hope he will,' said Mog. * But
why do they want Harry to go with you ?'
' Harry,' said Gibson to me, ' did you say
anything to the squire about it ?'
' I only told him that you were in search
of a young gentleman that was lost, or I thought
that you had gone with Sealey into the wood
for that purpose.'
e Are you sure you said nothing else ?'
' I don't remember that I did, unless it
was something about Sealey's being indebted
to you in early life, which I think I heard him
say.'
' Boy, you should be cautious, and not be so
communicative; a close tongue makes a wise
head. You are a quick little fellow, but silence
is a great quality when you are not required
to speak.'
'I'm sure I did not mean to do you any
harm.'
94
THE SQUIRE.
' That I am sure of; but you may have done
yourself some, as -well as me.'
c Oh ! never mind me! never mind me ! I
shall take no hurt. It is you only, and Mog,
and Jin, and mother here that I care about.'
' And is there such a spirit in you, boy ? then
come along with me, and we will share the
danger together.'
For the first time in my life I felt a hero—
as if I was going actually to fight a battle upon
principle, and that principle the defence of the
oppressed.
Could I feel this at eight years old? Yes, as
keenly as I did afterwards, and more so than when
I became a soldier. But I had not yet obtained
a commission in the East India Company's
Service, or in the army of good King George
the Third. So, shaking hands with poor tearful
Mog and mother, and telling Jin to take care
of Tom Sealey, and give my love to Tom, and
Jin, and Barnaby, off we started for Ixworth.
The long town of Ixworth was crowded with
folks coming to the sessions, and the report had
reached the town that a murder had been com-
THE SQUIRE.
95
mitted in Norton "Wood, and it was said tnal
Gibson, the gipsy, was the perpetrator. Some
said that it was the poor lad who had escaped
from school who was murdered, and this very
report had gone, like wildfire, to Wyverstone.
Some said it was a female, but the most part
said there had been a quarrel between Gibson
and one of Squire N 's gamekeepers, and
that the gipsy had seized the man's gun and
shot him through the head; so that when
Gibson and I walked into the street, we were
hooted, and pelted, and so roughly handled, that
had not the constables and some few gentlemen
fought stoutly for us, I verily believe we should
neither of us have reached the e Pickerel' alive.
As it was, the mob were so vociferous that the
magistrates, and Squire Cartwright of the Abbey,
had to address them, and correct them, and
assure them there was nothing but a case of
suspicion before them, and that it was very un-
English to condemn any one without a fair
trial.
We found protection in the presence of tne
gentlemen in the court.
96
THE SQUIRE.
The very first person called #s a witness was
myself.
' Boy, what age are you ?' said the chairman.
'Just eight, sir.'
And at that moment I caught sight of the
constable of Walsham, who had seen poor me
acting the idiot deaf and dumb boy the day
before. I felt that now I was in a mess, as
the constable said in my hearing—
' Oh, what a young rascal that is ! It was
but yesterday he was deaf and dumb. I thinJs
their worships ought to know that.' But he
did not interrupt the proceedings.
Had it been in these days I should certainly
have been committed to the Suffolk Beforma-
tory School; but I had a school of far deeper
reform to go through than any mere establishment
could supply.
'Do you understand the nature of an oath,boy.''
'No, I don't.'
' Then simply take his affirmation.'
The constable looked at me, as much as to
say—I wish it may be worth having, out Jl
doubt it.
THE SQUIRE.
97
4 Did you not come to my house for some
rags this morning ? *
4 I did, squire.'
4 Did you not tell me that you saw the game-
keeper and the gipsy in conversation before
they went into the wood ?'
4 Yes, sir.'
4 How long have you known Sealey, the
gamekeeper ?'
4 Never saw him before this morning.'
4 How, then, did you know that the game-
keeper had been in debt to your father ?'
4 I did not know it.'
4 Did you not tell me that my gamekeeper
was more in debt to your father than I knew
of?'
4 I know nothing about his debts ?'
4 You are a young liar, I fear, and are afraid
to speak the truth !'
4 No ; I a'nt.'
4 Then tell me the truth. Do you mean to
say that you did not say my gamekeeper was
in debt to your father ? '
41 might say that father had obliged him.'
THE SQUIRE.
4 Come, younker — obliged him ? Are you
sure you did not say in debt, or indebted to
him V
4 I might say some such thing—but what of
that ? *
4 What of that, boy; do you ask me a ques-
tion ?'
4 Yes; if you please, sir; why not!'
I was quite unacquainted with courts of justice,
and I never felt as a prisoner, though I did feel
very queer before the constable of Walsham,
whom I had deceived. I was reprimanded for
impertinence, and I had no idea or intention
thereof, for I thought mine but a fair question.
But there must be order in everything, so I had
no right to question the squire, though he might
ask me anything; but I could not help saying,
4 Pray, sir, why did you give me a sixpence this
morning, if you think me such a bad boy ?'
The squire blushed, for the court might think
I had been bribed to make my appearance and
bear witness against my own father, and that the
squire had given me money for such a purpose.
There was evidently a little «embarrassment in
THE SQUIRE.
99
the squire's manner. It was too home a question,
for the squire himself had given it as a reason
why I should go with Gibson because he believed
I should speak truth.
' What was the nature of the debt. boy. which
you spoke of?'
'I don't know.'
'Yes; you do know ! How did you know that
my gamekeeper was indebted to your father ?'
' Only because I heard him say so.'
< When ?'
c This very morning.'
' Note that down, Mr. Sparks : note that down.
Now, young boy, you heard him say so this
morning; you cannot, therefore, forget the con-
versation; how much did he say he was indebted
to him ?'
' How much, sir !'
' Yes; how much ? in what sum I'
' In no sum at all.'
(What! no sum of money ?'
(No, sir.'
' What then ? What did you hear the game-
keeper say i'
100
THE SQUIRE.
'Something like this, "You first taught me
how to shoot—you first taught me how to set
a snare—and you first taught me how to catch
a poacher. '
There was evidently some stir in the court,
and I heard the constable of Walsham say, ' A
young dog—he's no fool either !'
' And this is all you meant when you said
that Tom Sealey was indebted to your father V
' That's .all; 'cause I knew nothing else.'
The magistrates conversed awhile, and a paper
was handed to the squire. It was evidently a
betrayal of me to the magistrates in having pre-
tended to be a deaf and dumb boy.
'Let tne eonstable of Walsham be sworn?'
' Do you know the last witness V
'I do.'
' Will you swear to him ?'
' I will; anywhere.'
' When did you see him last?'
'Yesterday morning.'
' Where ? '
' In the Hundred Lane, in Wyverstone/
' W hat did you do there V
TIIE SQUIRE. 101
4 I went in search of a young gentleman who
had run away from school, and it was supposed
had got into the woods.'
4 Did you see the witness at the gipsy's tent ? '
4 I did.'
* In what condition was he ?'
4 In the condition of a deaf and dumb boy.'
4 How do you know he was deaf and dumb ? '
4 I know now, your honor, that he was not so,
and that he must be a most artful, wicked, young
dog, for he deceived the constable of Badwell
as well as myself, and looked exactly like an
idiot. He could not speak ! he could not hear !
and laughed just lik.e a fool; and pulled the
peel off an osier twig exactly like an insane
person.'
4 Do you hear this, my lad ?'
4 Yes, your honor ; I do.'
4 And what do you mean to say to it, sir ?'
4 Say 1 only that I was told to try and do so.'
4 Who told you ? '
4 Father.'
4 Ho, ho ! And pray what for ?'
4 Only for a bit of fun, sir.'
102
THE SQUIRE.
'And are you in the habit of using such decep-
tions ?'
e No, sir ; I never did so before.'
* What did you do it for ?'
* For what I got given to me.'
4 What was that ? '
4 A penny, sir.'
4 So you obtained money under false pretences,
did you ?'
41 did not beg; I did not take any money.
The constable gave the penny to my poor sister.'
4 Is that true ? '
4 Yes, your honor.'
There was here a roar of laughter in the court
against the constable, and at my expense, for they
all looked at me, and at my marvellous powers of
deception. I only know that I felt a little
ashamed, and heartily wished myself out of court,
but my trial was not yet over, though for the
present the constable of Ixworth was ordered to
take charge of me.
As there was no other witness against Gibson,
the magistrates were a little puzzled, for it was
evident that the obtuse though well-meaning
THE SQUIRE.
103
squire had mistaken the meaning of my words,
and he wanted to elicit a motive for the mur-
derous attack which seemingly had been made
upon the gamekeeper; but evidently failing in
this, they did not exactly know what to say
about the case; but the clergyman was there,
and the doctor. So the latter was first called
and sworn.
' You are a medical man?'
4 Yes.'
' You live at Ixworth V
'1 do.'
' How did you know that the gamekeeper was
shot ?'
' I was sent for.'
1 By whom ?'
* The prisoner Gibson.*
' Did he employ you?'"'
4 Yes.'
' Do you look to him for payment tor your
attendance ?'
4 No.'
' To whom then ?'
4 To the parents and friends ol Sealey, sir.'
104
THE SQUIRE.
< Who came for you ?'
' The gipsy's eldest son.'
' Did you ask him any questions ? '
' Only as to tne spot where tne tents were,
and as to the nature of the wound. He told
me simply that the gameKeeper had shot himself
accidentally ; and that their tent was behind your
honor's wood.'
( You have seen the patient ?'
' I have.'
' Is it your opinion that the man shot him-
self?'
* It is my opinion that he did not; that he
could not, under ordinary circumstances, have
done so. I conceive it would have been difficult,
even supposing him to have meditated self-
destruction, to have shot himself in such a manner,
but accidentally, it is still more extraordinary.'
' Where is the wound ?'
f Directly in the back of the neck.'
' Let the lad be called.'
I was then placed before the magistrates.
'Boy, did you see the gipsy and the game
keeper go into the wood together ?'
THE SQUIRE.
105
' I did.'
' What did they go for ?'
' That I don't know.'
' Were they talking before they went in ?
'Yes.'
' Were they angry one with another ?'
' I should think not.'
' Why ?'
' Because I saw the gamekeeper give father
two rabbits.'
' Are you sure of that ? Did you see any-
thing paid for the rabbits ? '
' Nothing.'
' Do you know if they were sold to him ?'
' They were not sold, but given to him.'
' For nothing ? '
' For nothing that I know of.'
' W ho took the rabbits '(*
' Sister Mog.'
' What for ?'
* To skin them, and tell mother to get them
ready for our suppers.'
'Now, boy, do you say that your lather and
the gamekeeper had no high words ?'
106
THE SaUIRE.
' I did not hear any.'
' Did they look angry one with another ?'
£ Not that I know of.'
' Did you hear the report of the gun ?'
' Yes.'
' How long after that was it that you knew the
gamekeeper was shot?'
' A few minutes. I heard father's voice calling
to his sons to come to him into the wood. They
went.'
' Did you go with them ? '
'No.'
' How long was it before they came back ?5
' Ten minutes.'
' What did you do ? '
' I pulled down the lift, as they brought the
body out of the wood. I went and opened the
gipsy mother's tent, and they took the game-
keeper in.'
' What did your father thexl do ? *
' Sent off for the surgeon; sent off for his
mother; sent off for the clergyman; and sent
me for rags to your hall.'
There was evidently a stir here in the court,
THE SQUIRE.
107
ancl the gipsy was by some looked upon, as he
deserved to be, as a most humane man. The
surgeon was then recalled.
f Do you consider that the case is dangerous ?'
' Decidedly so.'
(Is the man insensible ? '
< He is.'
' Will he recover his senses ? '
' I cannot say; but I think he will.'
' Can you tell us how long it may probably
be?'
' I cannot possibly say; I expect that fever
will ensue ; and in all probability the man will
be delirious for some time. If we can subdue
the fever, I expect there will be, even if he
should sink under the blow, some interval of
a luminous character, preceding either his death
or his recovery.'
' You will let Mr. Marston and myself know
this as soon as you can.'
The magistrates then conferred together, and
at last they said, by their Chairman—
' Gibson, it is evident you were in company
with this poor man when he was shot, and you
103
THE SQUIRE.
have heard the evidence of the lad and the
surgeon. We give you full credit for humanity
in the case after the blow—but we are decidedly
dissatisfied, as yet, as to the cause of that blow.
Strong suspicion is attached to the case. You arc
not bound to say anything, but you may now ask
the lad or the surgeon any questions you please.'
Gibson looked at me and said, ' The boy has
spoken the truth, I have no questions to put
to him. But 1 must ask the surgeon a question
on his oath.'
' Do you mean to say, Mr. Rose, and* do you
mean to swear, that it was impossible that such a
wound could be accidentally given ?'
' I do not mean to swear that you might not
have accidentally shot the man, but I mean to
say that I do not believe that he accidentally
shot himself.'
'Do you mean to swear that it was impos-
sible ?'
' IN o, I only swear that I believe, according
to the situation of the wound, that no man
could have done it himself.'
' Gibson, you are at liberty to make any dis-
THE SQUIRE.
1C9
closures you please, but we do not desire you
should criminate yourself. You may say anything
you like, but whatever you do say will be used
in court for or against you, as it may appear in
evidence.'
' I should be sorry, gentlemen, to have it go
forth that I ant a murderer. I have known
Sealey from a boy and his father before him,
and I never knew a nicer boy—nor do I think
your honor has a better gamekeeper in your
service. What the lad says is true, I taught him
how snares were set, because I had often found
them, but I never set any in my life. I taught
him how to rear pheasants, because I had reared
them myself; and I taught him how to watch for
a poacher, not because I had been a poacher,
but because I had seen them taken. I liked
the boy, and I am sure he is a faithful servant.
Your honor gives him leave to keep the rabbits
down, and now and then he gives me one.
This morning he gave me two, and he said to
me,  Master Gibson, I want to speak to you.
He had told me about the young gentleman who
was lost, but we did not go into the wood on
110
THE SQUIRE.
that account. He wanted to speak to me more
particularly. Yes, gentlemen, when we got.some
way into the wood, he turned round to me,
and said—
e Gibson, I love your daughter, and if you
will let her stay with my mother, I will marry
her.
Now, I did not wish my daughter to marry
him, though I believe she loves him too—why I.
do not choose to say, and I dare say you will
excuse it.
' The young man was hurt—he was a little put
out, as was natural, and he flourished his gun
in the air. It came a little too near my head, I
warded it off, and just at that time the young
man's foot slipt into the rut of the bushway in
the wood, and he fell. When he fell he knocked
the stock against a tree, and I suppose that the
cock caught the tree and was drawn on to the
full cock, and that when upon the ground a twig
caught the trigger, and it went off whilst the
barrel was close against his neck, for his head
fell on to the end of the barrel. Any one may
see the direction of the shot along the ground,
THE SQUIRE.
Ill
and be convinced that I could never have fired
off a gun in that position; and I hope, sir, you
will take your men to the spot and examine it.
It can easily be known by the pool of blood.
This is simply my statement, and to which I have
no objection to put my signature.'
This was done, and the magistrates then
ordered the court to be cleared.
"When we were admitted again there was a
great crowd in, and the Chairman said—
'We are come to the determination of commit-
ting you both to prison upon suspicion, and we
are sorry to say, that unless some very favorable
circumstance should arise to make us alter our
opinion, you will remain there until the next
assizes to take your trial. In the meantime, poor
Sealey may be able to dictate some account
tending to your benefit, but ol which we are
bound at present in justice to doubt. The clerk
will make out your commitment.'
At the next moment there was a great stir in
the court, and who 'should come forwara in
breathless suspense, to ask the magistrates ii
his son was murdered—but my father. There
THE SQUIRE..
was I, and there was he. He lovecl me and /
loved him; but I dared noc confess myselr his
son ; nor would he, 1 thought, have owned me.
So he arrived just in time to see me committed
to Bury gaol upon suspicion of being an ac-
complice in a murder. He did not know me.
I was glad he did not.
We were soon off with the constables, and so,
reader, farewell for tne present.
CHAPTER YI.
the prison.
There is a very queer sensation to a lover of
liberty upon entering a gaol. He does not like
it. He feels, perhaps, for the first time the
authority of law—the strong arm thereof which
shuts out the fine fields, the open sky, the voice
of men and children, and the notes of birds.
' All very romantic!' exclaims the drudging
lawyer at his desk—'all very pretty, but when
young scamps, like master Henry, choose to
run away from scholastic correction, and to herd
with gipsies, such vagabonds as they are, he
deserves to be sent to prison.'
The very consciousness that a man deserves
a prison makes him feel queer, and, unless he
8
114 THE PRISON.
should be like Mr. Macaulay, of classical and
literary turn, and capable of judging and con-
demning every man, raising the dead of past
ages, and, like conjurors, giving them a good
knock and bidding the dummies be still—he
would find the time lie very heavy upon him.
"What, then, must I have felt? My joyous escape
from the severity of Mr. Roger's school to the
gipsy's encampment was soon ended, and but that
I thought that father felt ashamed of such a gipsy
hoy as me, I should like to have gone home with
him. So, reader, my mortification was only the
more severe. There is, however, a very wide
difference between the consciousness of suffering
for a fault of which we know ourselves guilty in
fhe sight of God, and the actual suffering for
another of which we knoiv we are not guilty.
Rut I was in for it. Gibson and I were
received with all the honor of suspected felons;
hut, as we were not yet tried, and only com-
initted under strong suspicion, we were not
treated exactly as if we had yet received our
condemnation or our punishment.
1 felt, however, that even the discipline of a
THE PRISON.
115
gaol, was not so bad as that of being flogged
every week because I did not know how to do
a sura in arithmetic, or translate Horace and
Virgil, and could not do them under terror and
compulsion; so, though my liberty was not of
that practical character which dear mammas and
nursery maids delight in, yet my liberty of mind
was, even then, something sweet, if I did not
deceive myself, because I felt I had not been
accessory in any way to the misfortune of the
gamekeeper. I suffered, in spirit, from the
thought of the poor fellow. I suffered for
Mog. I suffered for the gipsy wife and mother.
I suffered most for the gipsy himself.
The privations were all his; the imputation
was all upon him; and he had a kind of pre-
sentiment of what would be his fate when he
took leave of his wife and children. If I felt
a momentary privation,- what must he have
felt ?
Those men who have felt accustomed to the
open air feel much more confined, when they
are shut up in a cell, than those who have all
their life time been subject to a sedentary life.
116
THE PRISON.
I slept for the first night in a prison upon a
mattress and bedstead, not quite so soft as the
gipsy's straw, with clothing for my coverlet. My
mind was not hardened, nor my heart either;
and though I had to yield, as many have had
before me, to the laws of expediency, yet I could
not run away, I could not disobey ; and as I was
with a man who had shown me the unbounded
hospitality of his home —though it was a gipsy's
tent—I felt that I was mixed up with his fate,
and I felt for all. Yes, I wept for father, I wept
for mother, I wept for myself, I wept for grief
at the misfortune of others; and, though no
one saw me, yet I was, somehow, comforted, and,
next day, even cheerful.
My gipsy dress was taken from me, and a gaol
dress put upon me. Passive obedience was my
duty, and there I was, passive enough. So are
many honest laborers in the union house, whose
poverty in their old days compels them to sur-
render to the law that liberty of life and limb,
which farmers, in the shape of guardians of the
poor, think it nothing they should lose. Povertv
makes obedience very passive; and, let who will
THE PRISON.
117
condemn us, when we can't help it, it becomes
us to bear it with submission.
Bicli men are very seldom free men—very
seldom indeed. No rich man has so free a mind
as the man who owes nobody anything, and has
nobody owe him anything, but loves his neigh-
bor as himself, and takes an interest in his
happiness as if it were a part of his own. Boy
as I was, I saw that Gibson was unhappy. He
did not seem comfortable, and as days passed
on, and no tidings came of our release, we
began to fear that poor Tom Sealey was
actually in such a state as to make recovery
impossible.
It was, perhaps, seven or eight days after our
committal, that I missed Gibson from the court-
yard, where he was permitted to take exercise.
I missed him greatly, and I learnt that he was
confined to his cell. I had seen the fine frame,
and friendly face, altered, and I became alarmed
lest he should be very ill. And ill he was. I
knew that I could take no hurt, but again, boy as
I was, I thought of his family, and the green lane,
and poor Mog, and Jin ; and what if the gipsy
118
TIIE PRISON.
should die. I suffered, but nothing equal to what
I was to suffer.
I learned from the surgeon, and from the good
chaplain, that Gibson was seriously ill. One day
Gibson requested that I might be with him. It
was complied with—and I went into his dormi-
tory, where a chair was set at the end of the bed,
that his long legs, which otherwise would have
been out of bed, might be covered up. But, oh!
what a contrast in that long lank figure, now
emaciated and worn in one week by dysentery
and fever to a skeleton, and yet those eyes, now
almost like a pair of globes sticking out from
their sockets, and fixed upon me with a look of love
and pity such as would shame any one who could
condemn him.
Poor Gibson! he extended his long bony arm,
and the fingers thin and sinewy, but without
a muscle. I have seen since many a subject
for the surgeon's dissecting knife, but I never saw
a hand or frame in one week so completely
stringy. The metatarsal bones, and the
phalanges, were all so prominent that one
might see every vein, and every ligament,
THE PRISON. l[f
and count tlieir motions as they moved the
bones.
Poor Gibson! the spirit was alive in him, arat
when he looked at me his words, though faiaa^
were cheering.
'Boy, will you tell your own tale to the
chaplain, or shall I ?'
' Leave me t© myself,' said I; * don't think
about me—think only about yourself. I hope
you will soon be better.'
' So do I, my boy—but not in this world. No!?
my gipsy wanderings are over. Henry, I shal
die where I am.'
I burst into tears. I could not help it. I was
not old enough to prevent it. My agony was
too acute, and my heart too full. It was a boy's
heart, and I felt as if I was about to lose the best
friend 1 ever had. I have had noble friends
since then; some who have given me the hand
of uncommon politeness-—some who have given,
me the hand of patronage—some who have given
me the helping hand of pecuniary assistance, but
the gipsy gave me the hand of friendship, and it
was not the hand of a vagabond, or a man of this
120
THE PRISON.
world, but the hand of a poor fellow who, but for
my hand, would have never interested any one
beyond the prison walls. He gave me his hand.
' Hoy,' he said to me, '1 am not a real gipsy.'
' I thought so,' said I; 4 but do tell me what
you wish me to do.'
'I will; I will; be patient; do not cry. I
don't cry—don't you. 1 know 1 cannot live—but
listen patiently. My name is not Gibson, but my
wife's name vras, and I took her name. She is of
a gipsy tribe of the name of Hearne ; but frc-
quently they change their names. Her grand-
father was a Gibson—her father was a Hearne,
and I was—, I was—, a gentleman. Yes, boy,
a great landowner in Surrey. My real name is
Morris. I took my degree at St. John's, Cam-
bridge. I was the eldest son of Squire Morris
of . Ah! boy; why should I tell you!
H»ver mind, never mind; don't cry.'
' Tell me ! do tell me ! I wrill, when I go out, go
ana see your relatives.'
'Go and see them! What for? To dispossess
my second brother—rob all his children of that
which they have a right to—perhaps give all
THE PRISON".
121
their estates to lawyers, and drive the young
Ladies penniless upon the wide world ? "No such
thing, boy. No ; I don't want now to think
about money. I hunted with noblemen. I dined
with gentlemen; I shot with squires, and I learnt
all the secrets of preserving pheasants, rearing
foxes, drinking burgundy and claret—and so I
might have done to this day if I could have
swallowed but one golden pill, and have fancied
that it did me good.'
' And what was that, Gibson ? '
e It was matrimony, boy, without love.'
I was too young a fellow then to have any idea
that there could be such a thing upon the face of
the earth. I could not then, in prison, conceive
it possible that such a pill could be taken and
men be happy. The world has presented to my
view twenty thousanu matches of pride and lust,
wherein there was neither similarity of taste,
manners, nor ideas—where all has been merely a
polite imaginative idea of happiness—and nothing
but daggers, and piercings through and through
with many sorrows, have been the consequence.
But 1 had yet to learn the gipsy's story.
CHARTER V I f.
the absolute will.
Pooh Gibson requested me to help him tc raise
his head upon his pillow. I did so, and the
poor fellow turned those bright eyes upon me,
which were to shine but for a short time longer,
yet then they did shine with a light so luminous
that never did I behold the intensity of beauty
in any eye so bright. With me, at that age,
there was no doubt an undefined and indescribable
sensation of reverence amounting to superstition,
far I was but a boy, and a boy of very tender
feelings, though these had both then and after-
wards to be subdued. I have known what it
is to endure ill nature, as every man has, or
he could never obtain wisdom; and I have had
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
123
to take care tliat the subduction be not the
seduction of nature to vile superstition, instead
of to the influence of divine grace and true
wisdom. This wisdom is known only to those
who exercise it, and this wisdom is not man's
own wisdom, but the gift of his God. But
these, dear reader, are the experiences of a man
after many hard trials. It was with a venera-
tion, I say, indescribable, that I listened to the
gipsy's tale, and never supposed for one moment
then that it would be given to the world. May
it do good.
f Boy,' said Gibson, fyou are a gentleman's
son, and can therefore appreciate a gentleman's
story. The most difficult thing for any man to
do, is for a man of high degree to rejoice that
he is brought low. Yet here am I, in a gaol,
suspected of murder, and I never committed
one, or thought of one, in my whole life. I
never wished the death of any man, for any
private interest of my own, though I have been
as covetous in my youth, and as extravagant, as
any other man. I am not likely to live many
days, if a day; but do not cry, boy! cheer up!
124 TI1E ABSOLUTE WILL.
cheer up! your day of departure must come ;
and though I hope you may live to see many
years, yet do not desire to die rich, nor yet to
be where I am; but wherever you are, do try
and be a steady, honest, sober-minded man.
My parents, Henry, were wealthy, very
wealthy, and lived on a beautiful estate near
Croydon. I was sent to Eton College; yes, I,
Gibson the gipsy, was the son of Squire Morris,
of , but now the family have removed to
another family estate in Wiltshire; but no
matter ; that is nothing to me ; nothing to any
one. I was sent to St. John's, Cambridge; there
1 distinguished myself; and had not my father
desired me to take my name off the boards ®f
that College, I had there preserved my residence,
and have been perhaps a bachelor for life. But
I came home after taking my degree, according
to that parent's wishes. I was the eldest son ,
and as his eldest son, though not heir to any
entailed estate, yet my father had as great
notions or primogeniture as if the estates had been
entailed. He certainly was the master of his
own fortunes and a most fortunate man—a
TIIE ABSOLUTE WILT-
125
banker in the city—a brewer in the city—a
merchant in the city—a government contractor
in the city—and all his otner sons well to do;
the second, Robert, a fine fellow, and of a
generous disposition. Our fathers certainly have
a right to provide for us, in pecuniary matters,
as they see fit. I never disputed that authority;
but I could not admit, nor can I admit, that in a
matter so intimately connected with the happiness
of the human soul, they have any right to dictate,
absolutely, the matrimonial alliance we are to
form. Fathers have a right to advise, but they
have no right to compel, a son to take the
woman they please, to be for ever a companion.
A son certainly should not be perverse, nor
desire in any way to disgrace his family, nor to
act in opposition to good advice. True delicacy
is to leave that matter to the choice, and not to
iorce it.
But my father was an absolute man—master
of his wealth, master of my mother, master of
his children; and he governed all by making
them feel their dependence upon him for money.
Had he not made me take my name off' the
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
boards of my college, when I took my B. A.
I had been independent of him; but it was
done ; and perhaps he saw in me a disposition
to be independent of him, and thought that,
if he did not do so, I should run counter to
his wishes.
There was a very highly respectable family,
who lived in the same neighborhood—Sir Charles
and Lady Granger. They had an only child,
certainly an accomplished and handsome person,
not intellectual, but accomplished. She had a
very high spirit, and was one of those com-
manding beauties who attract or command atten-
tion. She could not fail to be admired among
all the young men of my own years and
standing in society ; but though I conversed with
her, and danced with her, and dined with Sir
Charles, and was favored with many polite atten-
tions, all of which I acknowledged with that
respect which was due to their station in society,
I had not the slightest conception or intention
of paying that lady any more respect than the
ordinary intercourse of society admitted of.
The first conscious blow to this composure of
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
127
mind was given me just as I was one day about
to go out pheasant shooting with my red and
white spaniels. My father had invited a young
painter, whom he had patronised in town, to
spend some days in the country, and he had
made a great many sketches of me and my dogs
—f Squire Morris and his pets,' as he used to call
them. The servant came to me and said, 4 My,
master, sir, desires to speak to you in his
study.'
I went, gun in hand, into my father's elegant
study, where were more books than he ever read,
or ever thought of reading.
I bowed respectfully, as I always did to him,
and he treated us all in the same respectful
manner; but always made us feel that his purse
was the foundation of his dignity, for, to do him
justice, he very seldom interfered with either our
intellectual or sporting amusements, but made us
all ample allowances; and though he directed
all my brothers' pursuits, and would know all
their pecuniary concerns as his, he gave them
splendid allowances as his clerks, but never
attempted to make them independent of him.
128 THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
As lie had made his million, he increased it by
his sons. I was the only one he had determined
in his own mind to make a nobleman oh lie
must do it, and money must be the means.
' I have sent for you, my son, to tell you my
views and my wishes.'
' I thank you, father, I am glad you have
something in prospect for me to do, as well as
my brothers; I am almost tired of doing
nothing.'
' You have done very well hitherto, my son,
very well indeed; and had I been poor your
career would have been profitable to me and
honorable to yourself. We are all justly proud
of you, and I hope we shall all be prouder
still.'
1 blushed, for my father had never said so
much to me before, and I was wondering in my
own mind what honorable post I should have
to nil.
' The subject 1 have to speak to you upon, is
one which most young people like to treat of—
it is matrimony.'
In one moment I started; and if I had been an
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
129
awkward militia boy, to whom it was first said,
* Stand at ease,' I could never have grounded my
gun less at ease, or more awkwardly, than I did,
for positively it fell upon the floor, and I thought
it was broken.
'You start, boy, you start! Why ? '
' Because I have never thought at all about
matrimony.'
' I don't believe you, my son.'
'You may; believe me, father, as far as it
regards any intentions of entering into that state.-
Though I have never determined to be anything
more at present than a Bachelor of Arts, yet I
should first wish to be a master of a heart before
I thought of matrimony.'
' Well said, my son. I do not intend you
should be a bachelor, I intend to marry you to
the finest lady in the land, and to give her such
a dowry as shall make it worth her while to
marry you.'
'But, father, with all respect for your kind-
ness, do you not think that I ought to consult
the lady first, and be the judge about her wishes
as well as my own ?'
' 9
130
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
'Nonsense, boy, nonsense! All wishes sue-
cumb to money. More girls are won by money,
and more men too, than you have any idea of.
And no fools either.'
' But they must like each other, or they cannot,
surely, expect any happiness.'
'Like each other? Why, of course; but
that they always do where there is plenty of
money.'
'Do they indeed! I do not think that any
such idea would have any weight with me. I
could never love for money only.'
' Only! No boy, not only. But when every-
thing else is accessory, then money is no dis-
advantage.'
'When the money is the accessory to an
honorable attachment, then all is well; but
poverty with honesty is better than wealth with
mere French philosophy. Politeness, father,
is not the only proof of sincerity.'
'So say I, my boy. But what on earth do
men love more than money ? It is all very well,
but I tell you money is the thing that conquers.
 Amor vincit omnia, say seme, but  Croesus
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
131
yincit amor"; therefore "Croesus vincit omnia.
Come, boy, I know, from far greater experience
than you can possess, what the power of money
is, and I am sure that I do not demand anything
that you will not approve. My desire is, that
you propose to Sir Charles and Lady Granger's
daughter. My intentions are to give you fifty
thousand pounds ; my wishes, that you go and tell
Sir Charles so this very day; and I hope you
will enter into my views for. your happiness.'
I stood still, riveted, breathless, and scarcely
knew what to say. I believe I trembled; I
know I felt such a quivering in my soul, that
had my spirit gone out of me, there could not
have been a greater agitation. I turned pale—•
felt faint—and my whole heart sick.
'What is the matter with you, my son?
Many a man would jump at my offer of fifty
thousand pounds and a bride. I have told Sir
Charles all about it. He says he likes you, and his
daughter likes you, and what would you more ?'
' Only that I liked her.'
'You conceited ass! Pray is it not enough
to be aware that all things are arranged between
132
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
us, and that nothing lies between you and
honor?9
4 Except, sir, the doing of one of the most
dishonorable things in this world; the making an
offer of your hand to a lady to whom you cannot
give your heart.'
'Heart, boy, heart! why not ? Heart! bah,
bah! You give her a handsome dowry, she
is a clever woman, and what would you give
her more ?9
' Father, you would not have me marry her
if I did not like her ?'
'That I would, and trust to your liking her
afterwards.'
' That I feel she never would do.9
' Why not ?9
' Because I feel that I could not like her.9
' But why ? why ?
' Because she is not to my mind.'
' Why not ?'
' I cannot tell you.9
' Why not try and win her to your mind i1
e That it is not in my power to do/
' Why not ?'
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
133
' Because I never could say to her that which
my heart acknowledges is untrue.'
'Bah! "Faint heart never won fair lady."'
"What is there in Miss Granger so distasteful ? '
' Father, there would be nothing distasteful in
her if I could like her.'
' Boy, do you like any one else V
'No, father.'
' Humph. Then I insist upon your trying to
like this young lady. I like her very much,
and it is only a piece of mock modesty on
your part; the most nonsensical thing I have
heard of—absurd beyond all folly. I thought
you knew the world too well to be so childish.
You, a son of mine, and to be as faint and
fickle about such a matter as a child! Go;
go your way. Go and walk into the woods,
and if you do not like fifty thousand pounds
and Miss Granger, then take a rope with you
into the heart of the wood and hang yourself.'
' No, father; I have too much regard for myself
and you to be guilty of any such folly. I would
not hang myself, nor would I do anything so
abominable.'
134
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
' Well, I do not care what you do. If you
thwart my counsel in this matter you may go
where you will. I will do nothing for you.'
'It is not counsel, father, but absolute tyranny.'
f Dare you speak so to me, young man ? Just
march out of this room and never let me see your
face again until you can think better of my offer.'
There are strange motives in the heart of man.
I retired. My dogs jumped up with,delight to
see me with my gun, and I was anxious to divert
my mind. I could not cry. I felt, I dare say,
as bad as you did a few days ago. Oh ! if my
heart had then broken, and I could have died, I
believe I should have been happy, but on I went
towards the wood; my servants and bushers stood
there waiting for me. Hares came bounding out
of the wood, but I did not attempt to kill them ;
pheasants flew up, but I let them fly away, and
rabbits, woodcocks, and partridges, passed me by
without my taking a single aim at them, until
at last we came to the end of the wood, and then
the men stood and looked at me, and then at each
other, and poor old John said to me, ' Master,
you are not well.'
THE ABSOLUTE WILL.
135
'No; I am not, John.'
' Take a little brandy.'
'No, John.'
' "What's the matter, sir ?'
' I don't know.'
I saw some of the men smile and whisper
among themselves, and old John looked angry at
them, and that made them laugh the more.'
What do you think they say, master ? '
' I don't know, John.'
' Why, either that you are mad or that you are
in love.'
' Tell them I am neither, but that I am a little
melancholy, and do not feel well. They may take
their sticks and walk home—I shall not shoot any
more to-day, or if I do, it will be quietly walking
home by myself. You may leave me the dogs,
John, and go home.'
4 Had I not better take the gun, sir ?9
'Yes; and now I think of it, the dogs too.'
So back they went and left me alone
CHAPTER VIII.
the gipsy's song.
Theke are moods sometimes in men, which,
without eccentricity, induce them to seek solitude.
They may have no distaste or morbid dissatis-
faction with their fellow men, and yet feel the
want of communion with themselves, free from
the excitement of passion or of the world. You
are but a lad, said Gibson, and yet you run
away from school, from cruelty, and soaight a
gipsy's protection, and now you share a prison
with him.
I was not in a mood to shoot. I could not
drive away the deep thoughts which then over-
powered me. A wife and fifty thousand pounds
—what a fool would ninety-nine persons out of
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
137
every hundred think me to refuse such a boon.
Pheasants, and hares, and hunters, and fox-
hounds, and carriages, and horses, and a brilliant
lady to drive about with me—could I be such a
simpleton as to refuse them? I was well read
in the courts of romance—well tutored in the
fashions of society, and my tone as high as that of
any man of my years. Had my father given me
fifty thousand pounds, and told me to make my
own choice for life, then would he have been, as
I hope many fathers are, of a noble mind, and
one who loved the noblest independence of his
child. But to tell me that I must take with that
fifty thousand the woman of his choice, and not
my own! I was not so fond of hunting, shooting
fishing, and foxhounds, as to think of those
pleasures, beyond all the prospects of domestic
happiness. I had seen Miss Granger often, and I
well knew that whoever married her, must for life
bend to a spirit of indomitable tyranny, or expect
a life of litigation as incessant as the continual
dropping of the eaves on a rainy day. Her spirit
was haughty and spoiled. It loved not anything
but itself, and would expect from every one a
138
the gipsy's song.
homage I felt that I could never pay it. Though
as a friend I could tolerate or pity, I felt that
a lover I could never be of such a spirit, and
therefore, to be chained to it for life was a
torture I could not, and was determined would
not, endure. I knew my father's inflexible nature
was fixed upon any plan he had taken in hand,
and that to oppose him was, of course, to lose
every shilling.
The dogs and men were gone, and still I
sauntered on with my hands behind me, and
every love of wild sports and excitement gone.
I took the foot path at the end of the wood
leading across the fields, and arrived at another
of our copses, and the path led through the wood.
On I went, meditating upon the best way to
proceed, not in the wood, but in my father's
house. Before I came to any conclusion com-
fortable to my own mind, I had arrived at
the end of the wood, and, not feeling disposed
to go any further, I sat down upon the stump
of an oak tree, resolved to come to some
conclusion. How singularly do things happen!
At that moment, I heard a female voice
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
139
singing close by me in the lane, these very
words :—
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
' What is the world to the weary man,
And what is the world to me ?
I can bid them defiance, deny it who can,
For I love to be joyous and free.
Though my lord in his mansion may proudly sit,
In the state of his pride, may be;
He cannot enjoy himself never a bit,
So much as a gipsy free.
Though the squire may ride o'er the country round,
And dash through the coverts with glee ;
Yet what are his hunters, and what is his hound,
To the gipsy so happy and free ?
Though the Jew rolls in riches and revels in joy,
Yet what in the forest is he ?
I had rather be poor with a gipsy boy,
And live with the lively and free!
Oh what is the world to the careful and proud ?
At best but an old rotten tree;
I love not the bustle, I love not the crowd,
But I love to be happy and free.
Then give me no state, but contentment at home,
Let my heart with my own kindred be;
With my gipsy husband through forests I'd roam,
And we should be happy and free.'
140
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
A joyous laugh, and 'Bravo, girl!' rang
through the thicket, and presently a voice—
' Take care, Mog, the young squire may be out
shooting and hear you.'
' And what care I if he is ? Do you think,
father, I care for the squire or any one else
whilst we do them no injury ? '
' Hush, chatterer, hush; I hear somebody in
the wood.'
And in the next moment I was at the gate to
see the singer. There was a motley group of
gipsies, old and young, a fire smoking in the
lane, and two or three raw-boned figures of men,
and mother and daughters, all sitting round the
fire. When I appeared the men rose and paid
their respects to me.
' Where is your singer ? ' said I.
' Here I am,' said she, and she jumped up and
looked at me full in the face; but ah ! ah ! ah!
too bold that look to last. It was no doubt the
spirit of her words, f Who cares for the squire ? '
that made her jump up to confront him; but the
moment she saw me, that moment, strange to say,
it told me she was not impudent, for the gipsy
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
141
blushed and dropt a curtsy, and I was equally
struck with her.
'Will you sing me that song again?' said I.
'Not to-day, sir ?'
' Why not ?'
' Because I cannot.'
' Say rather you will not.'
' I say I wish not.'
' When, then, will you ?'
' To-morrow at the same time.'
'You will sing it then to me ?'
' I did not say so, sir.'
' What did you say ?'
' I said I would sing the same song at this time
to-morrow.'
' And not to me ?'
' I will sing it, sir, to-morrow, whether you
like to hear it or not.'
' May I not hear it ?'
' That depends upon whether you like so to
do.'
' I should like to hear it again.'
' Come, Mog, sing it now to the squire.'
' No, father, I had rather not.'
142
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
' Don't ask her ! don't ask her! But here, my
man, I will cross her hand with a present.'
But the girl would not come to me. She
shrunk from me, and was evidently afraid, not-
withstanding all her boasting. I gave the father
a crown, and never did song do my heart more
good than that. I returned with a light step
toward my father's house, and I verily believe
happier then I ever was in all my life. My
moodiness was gone. I was as brave as
though nothing had transpired, and when old
John the gamekeeper came to me with his,
'Pray, sir, how do you find yourself now?'
I laughed full in his face as joyously as ever I
did in my life.
The report had reached the house that I was
in a very queer way, almost beside myself, and
that something or other had transpired to make
me melancholy. They were all soon disabused.
I was the same gentle, lively, and attentive youth,
and, if possible, more happy than I was in the
moment when I was called back before I went
out. My mother expected to see me downcast,
as my father had been speaking seriously to her
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
145
about me. When I met my father, it was with
a spirit restored to equanimity, and much more
consciously powerful in itself than it ever was.
He gave me his hand saying—
' Your walk has done you good.®
(Yes, father, it has/
' Come, come, I always said you were in the
main a sensible young man, and though you
have not obeyed me this day, in going and doing
as I would have had you do, yet Sir Charles and
his Lady will dine with us to-day, and Emily
also. Your brother Robert will be here from
town, and I hope you will yet come to your
senses.'
' I am perfectly in my senses, father. I am
glad my brother Robert is come, and I hope we
shall all have a happy party.'
Oh ! that gipsy's song. And, oh! that charm-
ing gipsy ; and then the counting of the morrow.
It restored me ; it roused me out of all the depth
of gloom, distraction, and sorrow, for it was hope
—an undefined hope in which there seemed to
be a freedom from terror, for I was lively as the
lark. And who is not, if true love be in his
144
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
heart ? Don't tell me that a lark could ever sing
so sweetly as that gipsy did. Had the lark risen
when I was walking to the wood I should have
said with that beautiful poet' of the Orwell:—
'Joyful warbler! mock not anguish,
Nor so lightly tread the air,
O'er the heart where sorrows languish,
O'er the mind oppress'd with care.
Further mount, then wave thy pinion—
Distant pour the lays of love!
Soar through aether's vast dominion,
To a purer clime above.
If thy melody could banish,
Cares that in my features dwell,
If the cloud within would vanish,
I could list the tale ye tell.
But, alas! the thrilling gladness
Of thy earnest, artless song;
But repoints the sting of sadness,
And puts sorrow on my tongue.'
But it was no such thing then. I could enjoy
a song, and I did enjoy one that drove away my
melancholy, and set my heart at ease. Oh! that
gipsy's song. I counted of hearing it again, and
in that very anticipation I was the same cheerful
being I ever was.
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
145
How wonderful all this seems to me. Love
seemed at one moment taken from me, and now
restored to me again. The world seemed to me
as if it was conquered, for I was inexpressibly
happy; as happy, Henry, as I am now I am
about to leave it. But you will have to do some-
thing for me if the gaoler will permit it. You
must go for Mog and for mother to-morrow.
' Oh, yes! oh, yes!' said I. But I was, I
confess, anxious to hear further about him.
Reader, are you?
10
CHAPTER IX.
the awkward offer.
Poor Gibson was greatly fatigued by his exer-
tion, and would have fainted, but the doctor had
granted, or rather ordered, a little brandy for him.
' Boy, pour out a little brandy into that glass.
My spirit is more exerted to speak than my body
will bear, and do not give me too much—only a
little drop. I do not want much to sustain my
stomach. There ! there! that will do. Now listen
again.'
That very evening my father had what we
termed a family party. I was in most excellent, I
might say, exuberant spirits, for well did I know
in my own mind th^t the proud Emily had no
peculiar charm for me above the ordinary routine
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147
of sociable intercourse. I was therefore perfectly
easy in her company, and chatty, and lively.
My father was a looker-on, perhaps the most
interested of any one there, because, as he said
in his own mind,' Money makes the mare to go?
a sort of proverb which he never understood
in any other light than simply that money would
win any woman's heart, and which proverb may
be found in old Crashaw's poems, in the following
quaint distich, which he never read, though the
book was in his library:—
4 Wilt thou lend me thy mare to go a mile ?
No; she's lamed leaping o'er a stile!
But if thou wilt her to me spare
I'll give thee money for thy mare.
Ho! ho! say ye so—
Money makes the mare to go.'
My father sat thinking in his own mind that his
fifty thousand pounds had won my affections. It
certainly was a tempting bait, and many a very
serious-minded man—yes, a very grave, quiet
wise, judicious, long-headed man—would have
swallowed the hook, even though it were baited by
the ugliest gudgeon in the world; even though it
had a beard, and squinted, and had a broken back,
118
THE AWKWARD OFFER.
thick skull, sunken eye, shore nose, and wide
mouth. Hogarth's line of beauty would be
completely altered in some person's eye by the
long purse of fifty thousand pounds. Lust of
money blinds, love opens the eye, and, as the
latter was a principle in my heart not to be
bribed, I was uncommonly quicksighted for a
youth, and had no intention of making an offer
to the lofty Emily.
It was evident, however, that she expected it
was to be so—in fact, she was given to understand
it would be so; and when I addressed her with all
the liveliness of our common polite society, and
heard her sing, and talked to her about the
various compositions of the day, she, with a
strange sort of coquetry, as if she would try to
make me declare myself, played off a sort of
game of hearts with my brother Robert.
Robert was a different man to myself; aye, and
a finer young man, and somewhat more versed
in the world, yet from his very position as a mer-
cantile man, and sub. to my father, he felt it
a degree of condescension to be admired by such
a beauty as Emily Granger. She played her
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149
part admirably well, though I could perceive
at the moment that she only tried to provoke
me to be more attentive. I was very lively, and
immediately paid the politest attention to Sir
Charles and his lady. Brother Robert was won
completely. My father became excessively
fidgetty, for although he had sent for Robert,
yet he had determined I should be the man.
There never could have been anything more
subtilly managed altogether. Father was playing
his game; Sir Charles and Lady Granger were
delighted with me; Emily did not care for
Robert; Robert was in love with her; and I
was the most free of the whole party. I knew
it—free from the snares of the temptation of fifty
thousand pounds. Emily sang, but what was her
song? It was one of the elegant compositions
of fashion then prevalent — all about a pretty
Saxon-headed plough-boy—and another—
'Slaves to the world shall be tossed in a blanket,
If I could have my will;
Like to the mill that turneth round again,
And round again; the ground just touching still.'
A very touching song when sung by a lady of
150
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such high breeding, who, of course, delighted
in everything nominally out of the world, but in
reality, in everything in the world. She sang
one song that evening rather a home-thrust to
me, and the more so from her unconsciousness
thereof. It was—
THE GIPSY OF RINGWOOD.
' The gipsy of Ringwood is merry and gay,
She laughs in her tent in the bright month of May,
And though brown is her face yet her eye is all bright,
For the gipsy of Ringwood is airy and light.
She can tell me my fortune! she points to the hall,
And deceives the young maiden with love's winding thrall.
Oh! believe not the gipsy of Ringwood's deep shade,
Though she promise a lover to every maid.
But the gipsy of Ringwood may tell thee a tale—
And if folly be thine, shall o'er folly prevail;
Oh! mind not the gipsy—but keep thine own will,
And love thou the lover who loves thy love still.'
I certainly admired tbe song more tban I did
tbe singer, and though very well sung, yet it
wanted that thrill, that truth, and that true
freedom of note which I heard in the wood. The
thought came over my mind, could any one be
aware that I had visited the gipsies' tent, and
could any one have told her that I had asked
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151
a gipsy girl to sing to me, or that I was going
on the morrow to hear one. Oh, no! it could
not be; my secret was with myself. I praised
the song. I believe I asked for it again. She
complied, and I drew near, and looked at her so
earnestly that, happening to turn my eye upward
from her, who should I see looking at me, as I
then thought with jealousy, but my brother Robert.
' You admire that song, sir.'
' I do. There is something so pleasantly
simple therein, it is very taking.'
' Is there not a young artist staying in the
neighborhood ?'
(Yes, there is one, a very good painter, staying
at one of my father's farm houses, rusticating, as
he calls it. My father has been a great patron
of his, and my brother Robert has much taste
for his pictures.'
( And have not you likewise ?'
e I confess I have a taste, or an eye, or a mind
for the scenes he describes, but these are more
engaging to my eye than his description of them.'
(Then you like the real landscape better than
the painter's description ?'
152
THE AWKWARD OFFER.
' A schoolboy likes a picture or a poem, or an
imaginary representation; for my own part, I
eschew imagination and prefer reality.'
' Then you like shooting better than the
picture of the sport ?'
eIndeed I do ?'
f But you would not totally discard the
representation ?'
' No. But do not you sing songs in the
drawing room which you have not the slightest
taste for in reality?'
f You are rather severe, sir.'
'Not in the least. When a singer attempts
to represent a country maid's song, whether it be
the milkmaid's call to her cows, or the Italian
his devoted passion for the banditti, or the gallant
troubadour, or the trooper, or the skylark, or
the forest glen, or the summer lake, the starry
sky, or the old oak tree, or the huntsman, or the
sportsman, or the angler, or the plough-boy, or
any song whatever; of course I conceive that if
she approves the sentiment of the song and
would have me enter into it, she must first like
the scene she describes, or else she could not
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153
make me like it, or I must like the scene, before
I can judge of the merit of her song.'
' But independently of the knowledge of the
subject, do you not admire the song?'
f No, I confess I do not. I know that men
dive into country scenes, and bring them into
our drawing rooms. Look yonder ! there are
Gainsborough's two pictures of the  Old Wood-
man and the  Old Widow "; they are worth
a great deal more in most people's eyes than the
originals, and the same man who would stand
and look at the representation with admiration
would care nothing about, and not look twice
at, a poor old man, or old woman, as any subject
of admiration. Fiction, fashion, and fancy, are
far brighter than reality.'
' Then you admire perhaps a real gipsy
fortune-teller more than the song of the Gipsy
of Ringwood?'
This was a home-thrust again, and I felt the
olush mantle on my cheeks, and she saw it, and
thinking she had justly reproved me for my
folly, she turned to my brother Robert and
said—
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THE AWKWARD OFFER.
f I hope you are not so barbarous, sir!'
' Most certainly not, Miss Granger; I prefer
your song and the style in which you sung
it to all the gipsies in Ringwood Forest.'
It was now my turn to have a little revenge.
f But, Robert, let me ask, do you not admire
the singer a great deal more than the song or
the subject of the song?'
And I turned away to speak to Sir Charles,
leaving my brother Robert to make what
comment he pleased upon the question, or to
take what advantage he would. What he did say,
I know not, but in another minute the lady was
across the room to her mamma, and her mamma
across the room to Sir Charles, and Sir Charles
across the room to the bell, and my father
across the room to both, urging them not to be
in a hurry, but to wait supper.
But no. The servant came in.
(Sir Charles Granger's carriage!' and then
there was an awkward sort of formal pause, as if
something unexpected had happened.
Robert was looking at a piece of music, and
I could see his face was as pale as a ghost,
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155
(though I never saw a ghost.) As to myself I
very gallantly gathered Miss Granger's music
up, and placed it in her elegant portfolio, of
course determining to see the young lady to her
carriage when it should be announced. An-
nounced it was; but Sir Charles and my father
were not in the room. I, of course, went forward
to hand the ladies to their carriage, hut Robert
remained at the piano.
In came my father.
(Leave that to me, Sir Charles, leave that
to me. I will make all right. You may
depend upon it. You may depend upon
it.'
I offered my arm to the young lady, but she
took her father's. I then offered it to Lady
Granger. She took it, but with very great
dignity; and still Robert remained at the piano,
turning over a music book, and did not do the
polite to any one. No doubt, poor fellow, he felt
he had overstepped the bounds of politeness,
and had been a little more indulging in the
reality of expression than the haughty lady
could admit to be polite.
156
THE AWKWARD OFFER.
The fact was, Robert was all sincerity, and the
lady all politeness. It wanted, I suspect, only the
fifty thousand pounds to put them both right.
Scarcely had I made my bow at the carriage
steps, before my father's voice summoned me to
his study.
(A pretty fool,' says he, f have you made of
yourself this evening.'
f Have I, sir ? In what way ?'
e In what way, sir! Why, in deceiving a lady
into the idea that you were going to do what I
ordered you to do in the morning, and th«n
doing completely the reverse this evening.'
' This is all an enigma to me.'
' You are such to me, sir.'
' How so ?'
' Did I not insist on your making Miss
Granger an offer ? '
' Did I promise so to do ? 9
e Did you refuse so to do ? '
< Yes, I did.'
f And do you refuse still ?'
' Yes, I do.'
' Sir, do you know the consequence ?'
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157
'No, I do not.'
' Then, you shall know it—I vow that you shall
know it. You may take your choice. Miss
Granger and fifty thousand pounds, or no Miss
Granger and beggary. I give you two days to
consider the matter in. You either take my
offer, or I discard you for ever.'
' But my brother Robert likes her.'
' That is no matter to me. I like that you
should have her, and not Robert.'
' But if Robert tells me he likes her, would you
be so cruel as to expect me to marry her ?'
' Yes, if you are no fool. I care nothing about
Robert's likes or dislikes. My likes are better
than all dislikes, therefore go your way; two days
—two whole days—and my decision is made that
upon your refusal to take my offer, I refuse ever
to see your face again.'
'Good night, father. I can spare you the
trouble of seeing me in two days hence to give
you a decision, for I am decided now. I utterly
refuse your offer.'
' Young man, be not too hasty. You will
repent. I have told Sir Charles he may expect
158
THE AWKWARD OFFER.
to hear from me on the third day from this. I
shall take no answer until then. You may leave
me.'
I did leave. I sought Robert. I ascertained
the state of his heart. Poor fellow! he had
simply taken advantage of my questions to make a
declaration of his own real attachment. And the
lady, expecting to receive mine, and perceiving
that I completely handed her over to a younger
brother, was indignant, her pride was wounded,
her self-love was wounded; she perceived that
I intended to be free, and she was altogether
discomfited.
f Well, Robert, I will never stand in your way/
'But, my dear fellow, what will you do ?'
' Go to Barbadoes, Bob.'
' But have you any money ?'
' What money have you ?'
' Pifty pounds.'
'Then keep it to be fifty thousand. I have
more—I have enough; do not trouble yourself
about me. Think nothing about me, I am happy,
and should you be able to help me, will you
ever do so ? *
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159
' Will I ever ? yes, ever/
The thing is easily said, but not so easily
done. I have known a man go to a banker, in
the day of the run upon his bank, and offer him
the security of his estates, stand behind his
counter, and countenance him in the day of his
distress; but afterwards, when that very man
only wanted a sum of money upon the security
of the same estates—no, he would not befriend
him, though he had made a fortune. So different
is it to give and to seek charity. But brother
was in earnest, and so was I; and never, till a
man learns to depend upon his own exertions—I
say, never, till then—does that man know what
it is to be free.
CHAPTER X.
the picture.
The next day at breakfast there was a melan-
choly seriousness spread over the former happy
countenances of the father and mother and
brothers, as if there was going to be a great
change among us all. Father and mother had
secret mischief brooding in their hearts—the
mischief of absolute determination to act against
nature, merely for the love of money.
The will of a parent should be obeyed by a
dutiful son; but the horror of conventional
matches was so great upon my mind—and cer-
tainly my distaste to marry the lofty lady who
was wrapt up in herself was such—that
Barbadoes, or the Antipodes, or even beggary,
THE PICTURE.
161
appeared t<§ me preferable. My mind was
certainly a high one in this instance; but it
was honorable, too, for I could not bear the
idea of learning to love after marriage, without
any idea thereof before.
Never do I remember the proverb coming
home to me more forcibly than it did then—
e Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than
a stalled ox and hatred therewith.'
As to brother Robert, he was full of gloom
and apprehension, for he was afflicted with that
disease, so common to all mankind, the only
cure for which is matrimony: namely, the desire
of the heart for one for whom he felt he could
do anything. But she had, in manner at least,
rejected, if not resented, his declaration. He
was too hasty, perhaps; for it is wise in man to
bestow affection only where it can be appreciated.
He was all gloom and moodiness. They were
all in some measure angry with me; and I was
not at all angry with any of them. I had made
up my mind, they had made up theirs, and the
sequel was to be seen.
We scarcely spoke a word to each other all
11
162 THE PICTURE.
breakfast time. Father and mother retired,
leaving Robert and me to ourselves.
4 What say you, Robert, to a bang at the
pheasants to-day ?'
' I am in no humor for shooting.'
f You made so bad a shot last evening, I advise
you to come with me and make a better.''
(But what do you intend to do ?'
( Go to Barbadoes, I tell you. Never mind
me. I will never stand in your light, and so I
tell you.'
f Noble brother! But what is your scheme—
what will you do 1'
e That I will not tell any one. My determina-
tion is to be independent of this matter, and to
take all the consequences.'
' Well, do not let me cause you to do anything
rashly.'
' I am not a boy, Robert, to run away from
a good home, as if I had done wrong; or as if I
wanted to squander away my portion. No; my
object is to do something for myself, and I
scarcely know what that something is. Time
will show. At all events, brother, you shall
THE PICTURE.
i6a
never hear any hurt of me, either towards
yourself, or to any one else. But come, will you
go and shoot ?'
' I cannot.'
' Then I shall go without you.'
And if the truth be told, I was more glad he
did not go than if he had accepted my proposal;
for I had a strange notion of my own, like a
presentiment that something momentous was
about to take place with regard to myself. So I
bade him good bye, told him I should be at home
to dinner, and advised him to go and repeat
the multiplication table over fifty times, until his
calculations had driven the fifty thousand pounds
out of his mind, and the lady too; but if not,
why then to go and sit in the bay window and
sigh, and count of both these great things one
day becoming his own.
I took my gun. I would only have the
spaniels, no bushers, for I had reasons of my own
for going alone. My object was not shooting, as
you know, but to hear the gipsy sing and speak.
I do not desire you to do as I did, master Henry,
I simply tell you what did happen. My advice
164
THE PICTURE.
to all young men is, to take the indications of
Divine Providence, which will direct them
to what is best suited to their own condi-
tion.
I walked towards the wood at the very time
appointed. Even before I reached the old oak
stump I heard the voice—the same song, the
unmistakeable freedom of which I admired so
much the day before. If possible, it came with
a greater thrill over my mind, because of the
strange situation in which I was placed. Just
as the song was concluded, my spaniels let out
their voices by barking, as the gipsies and I stood
at the gate, but who should in a moment call out
to me—
' Stand still, squire ; stand where you are, only
one moment; keep quite steady with your gun
in your hand. There I I have you now, dogs
and all.'
And the young painter made his sketch of
Squire Morris and the gipsies, which he after-
wards painted, and sold for one hundred guineas
to my brother Robert. How valuable that picture
became in my family will presently be seen; as
TIIE PICTURE.
165
it then was, I wished him and his sketch at
New York.
' Hearne,' said I to the gipsy, ' I want to speak
to you an hour hence, at the other entrance to
the wood. Thank you, young woman, for your
song ; you have kept your word.'
* Mr. Artist, will you let me look at your
sketch ?'
The artist brought his books, for the first
sketch was but a rough, almost indescribable
chaos; yet I could see what he meant. There
was the lane, and there stood I at the gate, in
the costume of the day; there was the tall
gipsy mother, the boys and girls, and the
distant group, and the spaniels barking at the
troop.
1 You must give me this sketch.'
'Not for the world. But you must come to
the rustic farm; you must give me one half-
hour's sitting or standing rather, and I can make
this a beautiful picture—pray come, squire.'
It just suited my fancy; so I walked away
from the gipsy encampment along with the artist,
and happening to turn my head, I saw the singer
160
THE PICTURE.
leaning on her mother's neck and looking after
me. It might be fancy, but I thought she wept.
In that thought there was love.
The painter was all infatuation with his sketch.
He bounded along with the delight of a school-
boy going out to play, and when I asked him
if he would not have a shot—
' Oh no ! squire—no ! and don't you stop to
shoot. I will not detain you from your sport,
only just to rub in the dead color, and your
own figure more particularly.
' And the gipsies ?'
f Those I can do very well, we do not want
a portrait of them; but of you I do.'
' Why so ? '
' Because a country squire is always acceptable
to a London citizen.'
' Well, we will move on.'
We moved on to the Grange Farm. There, in
a neat little parlor, all the artist's colors were
ready; his easel and his brushes, and rapidly
indeed did the facetious fellow rub me in, and
made a good likeness of me, and let me go within
the hour, just affording me time to meet the
THE PICTURE.
167
gipsy within the time appointed, at the gate
leading into the wood and between the two
coverts.
There stood Hearne, and never was man more
astonished than when he heard me say—
' Hearne, will you let me be a gipsy ?'
' Let you be a gipsy, squire ? "What do you
mean ?'
' I mean what I say; aye, and I am so much
in earnest, that I will give you fifty pounds to
take me in.'
' Master, you are joking, and have sent for
me here to take me in !'
' No such thing, Hearne—no such thing. I
tell you why and wherefore I am determined
to become a gipsy.'
' You cannot be one, squire.'
' And why not ? '
'You are so well known hereabouts.
' And can you not move ? '
' Quickly.'
'Then the quicker the better. Will you
take me in ?'
' For how long ? '
168
THE PICTURE.
' For life.'
'That I cannot promise. But pray, squire,
let me ask you again, what makes you so earnest
in this matter ?'
I told him all the facts. I told him my
resolve, and he promised never to betray me.
c Well, squire, and when will you come?'
' This very night.'
'We will do our best.'
' And you shall find I will do mine. I will
contrive to be with you by nine o'clock. Get
a gipsy suit ready for me. In all things make
me to conform to your habits; and have patience
with me, and you will soon find me a brave
gipsj-'
' I never was so confounded before; but I
will see and arrange as well as we can. You
make me marvel. I need not say, Squire Morris
shall be welcome; but you will find it a hard
lite—a great change.'
'Aye, Hearne, and for the better, not the
worse.'
That day I dined at my father's table. I
told them of the artist's sketch.
THE PICTURE.
1G9
' I have seen it,' said my father. ' It will
he one of his best pictures. If you saw it now,
you would scarcely believe that it was the work
of one day.'
' Indeed,' said I, ' then I will go and look
at it after dinner. You astonish me. I dare
say I shall find him at it in the evening.'
' If you go, you must slip on your shooting
dress. I think that picture would be a very
pretty matrimonial present.'
All eyes dropt, for here I saw the grave
question, or determination, of my father's soul.
But not a word did I respond. I changed the
subject, and a painful silence ensued.
A tear dropt from Robert's eye, but none
from mine, except it were for pity for those
souls who sought to sell a child's happiness for
money.
Ah, verily! the love of money is the root
of all evil. Not the money, but the love of it
to such an extent as to imagine there can be
no happiness without it. If men would learn
to curtail their desires in their hearts, and not
yield their souls to lusts, they would be happy.
170
THE PICTURE.
I did pity those stern beings whose resolve was
fixed. Money can purchase love! There may
be thousands who think so, but not one in a
thousand ever found that it did so.
After dinner, I proposed to go and change
my dress. I did so ; and when I came into the
drawing room, poor Robert was lying on the
sofa, positively ill. He was nervously ill—hypo-
chondriacally ill—his heart was almost broken
within him.
' Brother Charles, don't go out to-night; I
feel so very bad.'
' You will feel better presently, Robert.
Cheer up I don't be melancholy.'
' I shall die !'
I burst into a laugh; I could not help it;
because I knew what was the matter with him,
and I knew he would soon be cured. He looked
at me; aye, and the more earnestly, as I said,
'Weill well! good bye—I must be off'
CHAPTER XL
thf happy death.
I went to look at my picture by tbe young
artist. It was my last look at myself, with dog
and gun and spaniels. It was my farewell glance
at imaginary greatness. The painter was in-
dulging in his glass, and half intoxicated, yet
as if he was, while excited, enjoying the elysium
of his own fame. There he sat, now and then
dabbing in a touch, as if each touch would add
to his historic greatness.
' Look, master, look ! There you are to the life;
there is your own magnificent self—green jacket
slouch hat, long hair, and ruddy face—the per-
sonification of a country gentleman in the sportive
pride of his imaginary freedom.'
172
THE HAPPY DEATH.
'Well done, George, well done. It is imagi-
nary.'
'And yet, master, it is real, for there you
really are.'
'Well, George, and here you really are, and
enjoying the delirium of your own works, and
imagining that all the world must be pleased
with them.'
'Fame, squire, fame, is a g^eat thing; men in
London love the glowing beauties of the country
only because they do not see them every day.
Men in the country enjoy the metropolis, because
of the fashionable cultivation of arts, sciences
and society, the lovely sentimentality of which
is the soul of their existence.'
' And what is your picture but sentimen-
tality ?'
' My picture is real—it is yourself; it is your
wood, your dogs, your gun; and the gipsies—
look at them; they are all alive.'
' Are they, George, then would they stir ? '
' But there is action, there is light, there is
life. The gipsies are startled at your coming—
they are ready to tell your fortune.'
THE HAPPY DEATH.
173
' Do you know anything of the gipsies 11
'Not of these. I never saw them before
yesterday, and probably may never see them
again. There is one beauty among them, and
she has a voice as well, and when I offered to
give her money to let me take her likeness,
she asked me what it was for. I told her to put
in the shops of London. Then, says she, you
may put yourself there, but not me; and in
she went into her tent. I wonder, squire, if I
had told her I wanted it for you, whether she
would have bolted V
' I think she was a wise woman, George; few
like to be made caricatures of.'
' Caricatures, master! I never made one in
my life; a caricature is meant to ridicule, I did
not mean it as such.'
' She fled, maybe, from flattery, George, and if
so, she is a wonderful woman.'
' Not so wonderful as the lady for whom
this picture is painted?'
' And who is that ?
'You know.'
'Not I.'
174
THE HAPPY DEATH,
c Whv your father has just bought the picture
for you, and says it is to be a wedding present
to theiLady Emily Granger.'
' So it may, but not my wedding present.'
' Are you not going to be married to her?'
' No, George, no such thing. '
' You might do worse.'
*1 shall do better.'
(I wish you may, but do tell me, because this
very morning one hundred guineas was fixed
upon as the price to be given me, on purpose
that you might present it on your wedding day.'
4 Well, George, when one has nothing in this
earth but oneself to give, what is a man worth?'
( Everything, if he be industrious; nothing, if
he be a fool; worse than nothing, if he be a
deceiver.'
' Then according to your own showing, George,
I should be bad indeed if I married Miss Granger.
I should not be an honorable man if I deceived
her by saying that I did so. The world may think
me a fool, but I am too wise to live a life of
lying hypocrisy, and I had rathdr be worth
nothing and love and be beloved, than be worth
THE HAPPY DEATH.
175
fifty thousand pounds, and spend a married life in
heartless deception. 1 grant you, George, that an
honest and industrious man is worth everything
to a wise and quiet woman, who keeps his house
comfortable, and is clean, neat, and gentle.'
'All I ever wish for in a wife, except indeed
that she now and then admire my genius as well
as myself.'
' Your genius will be worth little, George,
unless it teach you to govern yourself, and not to
be too excited about your pictures. You have
earned one hundred pounds in a few days; how
many thousands are there who toil all the day
harder than you do, and earn next to nothing,
aye, at your very work. You are too fond of
brandy. If you really loved your art and were
temperate, your enjoyment would be great, but
drink will be your ruin. Your hundred pounds
will intoxicate you more and more, and you
will be a famous painter, but a profligate man,
unless '
'And what will Squire Morris be? You can
eat, drink, sleep, hunt, shoot, and ride about—
do nothing, but condemn others—be as mean as
176
THE HAPPY DEATII.
you are rich—be as selfish as you are proud—
and in your pride, in your riches, and in your
pomposity die without ever having done any-
thing worth a name or a thought/
George was in a rage, he was upon the point
of dashing out his one hundred guinea picture
when he looked at me furiously, and saw the tear
of pity standing in my eye. He dropt his brush,
sat down, and wept like a child; for men, when
excited by drink, are full of nothing but passion;
they cannot command their feelings, and they will
laugh, weep, or rage, all in a breath, until they
are sobered by some act of folly, and then they
6ulk into madness. It is the same with all covetous
men. They are intemperate in their passion
for hoarding money, and become the most mise-
rable and degraded victims of wretchedness in
the very height of their possessions.
George was sobered. He begged my pardon,
acknowledged my kindness, and said he was
really sorry for his hastiness.
' George, there is much truth in your idea of
what I might appear to be; but I do not intend
to be what you imagine. If I could submit to
THE HAPPY DEATH.
177
be the slave of money, I should be the exact
being you describe ; but I do not intend to be
so. I spoke to you in friendship, because I can
foresee in you that ambition which is of a low,
intemperate character, and is very far from that
cleanliness and neatness, that quietness and
independence, which you yourself just charac-
terised as the worthiness of man. My brother
Hubert will have that picture. I shall never
see it again.'
' Sir !' said George, with a vacant stare
' I shall never look upon it again.'
( Where are you going, sir ?'
' A very long way off, George; and it will
be for you, George, to say, that I paid you a
visit, admired your picture, and sent my love,
by you, to my parents and brothers. Assure
them all that I love them, and that they will
never see me again. You can tell them that I
am not going to be lazy, or that I intend to be
an old bachelor. Tell them that I shall be
constantly employed, always glad to hear that
they are well, and that, had not my parents
given me the choice of fortune, and a false-
12
178
THE HAPPY DEATH.
hearted marriage, or beggary, I should not have
left them as I have done. George, good bye!
Deliver my message, and accept my advice.'
I left him. I dare say George toolc another
drop to drown his sorrows, and then spent the
next day painting a pigstye. In less than an
hour from that time, Henry, I had done as you
did, trusted my life and fortune to a gipsy.
Here poor Gibson fainted, and big tears rolled
down his cheeks; and when he lifted up his
eyes, they were orbs of light, looking, as I have
sometimes seen, through a telescope, the orbs of
grandeur in their aqueous humor of lucid soft-
ness, shining beneath the rays of light belonging
to their systems. I was in prison, and locked
in; I could only attend to his wants with such
things as were within my reach; yet the atten-
tion of a child is a blessed thing, for a child
is gentle and pareful; so I put the little glass
to his lips, and he smiled again, and I could
see emotions that made us both weep—he for
his own, and I for him.
Gibson was revived, and resumed his story.
1 joined the gipsy, Hearne, that very night.
THE HAPPY DEATH.
179
Let it suffice, Henry, that I found them very
kind and considerate towards me, and you will
see how I became such towards you. We went
off that very night, and travelled into Kent,
and never more was the eldest son of Squire
Morris heard of, and never more, as such, is he
likely to be. Much has been said against
gipsies; they are many of them vagabonds; but
the family I joined were like the Rechabites of
old—a temperate and an industrious family.
They treated me with the greatest respect; and
though, at first, my line of life was like that of
a wanderer in Arabia, I soon learnt to be inde-
pendent and free. At first I had many severe
trials, and none greater than a severe illness, in
which the matron and the daughter nursed me
as if I had been their own relative. I could never
repay them for' their kindness. I felt I never
could. Yet I married Mog—aye, at the little
village church of Barming; and I have ever
found her the same active, energetic, and honest
partner she promised to be. Volumes upon
volumes might be written upon our career.
We separated from the others in the gipsy
180
THE HAPPY DEATH.
camp after some years, and I came into Suffolk,
where I am well known. I have travelled over
all the southern and eastern parts of England,
and I could tell the histories of many of the
families therein for a whole century. Whilst
grief and misery have visited many, and annihi-
lation, death, and destruction thousands—whilst
I have seen the scions of nobility cut off,
squires ruined, lawyers prosperous, poor people
—the industrious poor—miserable in workhouses
—I, the gipsy, have passed all my days in peace.
We have had many tempests, many shocks,
many troubles; but my dear gipsy songster
is worthy of a happier home than a prison.
Many times have I seen the country squire acted
to the very letter of George's painting. Many
years have passed away, and now my days are
shortening. I envy no one. I have been accus-
tomed to luxury, to hardship, and to danger-
But Mog and I have kept peace in our own
hearts, and not until I opposed her daughter's
marrying the gamekeeper, did I find my way
into a prison.
But you must go and fetch my wife and
THE HAPPY DEATH.
181
daughter Mog. I am persuaded all Trill yet be
right before I die.
Scarcely had these words been uttered before
the door opened, and the jailer announced our
liberty. Poor Sealey had recovered his senses,
and totally exonerated Gibson. He had become
quite miserable—had sent for the squire—had
begged of the clergyman to convey anything
and everything he had to the gipsies, and an
order for our immediate release had been signed.
But it was too late—too late for poor Gibson
ever to regain the fertile fields and lanes of
Suffolk.
I was soon sent on my gipsy errand to the
camp at Norton. As may be supposed, I was
not long in going; for, thanks to the chaplain,
jailer, and surgeon, there was, even to me, as a
poor gipsy boy, unjustly, though not unsus-
piciously sent to prison, a generous feeling
of regard. They sent me in a pony gig;
for I was too young then to know the way,
though it was but eight or nine miles off
Bury. I made the boy stop at the bottom
of the lane. I rushed into the gipsies' tent—
182
THE HAPPY DEATH.
Mog caught me in her arms. I cried with
sorrow, and I cried with joy; but I said with
vehemence—
' Haste, mother ! haste, Mog!—go, both of
you, this instant to Bury Jail; Gibson desires
me to send you. He is ill, but he is free.
Haste, mother, haste ! I will not be long behind
you. Go—go! the boy and gig are at the end
of the lane, and we will follow you/
There was an earnestness in my manner, and
an eloquence upon my tongue, which needed
no second hint. Dear gipsy! thou hadst a
heart of love, and so had Mog. They were
in the jailer's gig in an instant, and off for
Bury.
Scarcely were they gone, and I had been
telling all the sufferings of the father, before
that good man, the Rev. Mr. H , paid us a
visit. He had been—as a good-hearted, gene-
rous, and humble Christian minister ever is—
mindful of the souls of all in the gipsy encamp-
ment. He had been surprised at the intelli-
gence of the family, and was pleased beyond
measure at poor Mog's attention and attachment
THE HAPPY DEATH.
183
to the gamekeeper. Oh! that all England had
ministers like that good young man. He was
an angel, and he will be something greater than
an -angel in the world to come. He actually
proposed to take us all in his family van to
Bctryf ^*Not only did he propose it, but he did
it. I think I now see him driving up to the
jail with three gipsy sons, Jin, and myself, and
fo him we were indebted, all of us, for seeing
the last of poor Gibson..
It was a truly patriarchal scene. Aye, it was
a scene of affection, such as no fifty thousands
could ever purchase — such as I never shall
forget—such as I wish I may see in my last hours.
There was a composure, a firmness, a truly
humble and heavenly resignation. No word of
unkindness, none of reproach—a most blessed
blessing upon us all—an earnest recommendation
of us to divine mercy through Christ, the only way
of salvation for prince or gipsy—an exhortation
to us all to be honest, and to Ibve one another,
and to keep peace one with another.
That very day died poor Gibson the gipsy,
alias Squire Morris, in the presence of his
184
THE HAPPY DEATH.
family, the two clergymen, and the runaway boy
from the school of Mr. Rogers.
It was a jail lesson, one never to be erased
from my mind. Singularly enough, this very
year, 1856, I saw in Roe's print shop, at Cam-
bridge, the picture of Squire Morris and his
dogs, and the gipsy encampment. I told Mr.
Roe at the time the history thereof. How
strangely do things happen But what a journey
of life to such a period.
I must go back to the funeral of poor Gibson,
which took place at Norton. I became a great
object of attachment to the gipsy mother. Of
course, she found that I knew all her history.
She was very kind to me; but it was owing to
that good clergyman that I was made to confess
who I was. He undertook to see my father,
and to reconcile him to me. He did so. He
did more: he was instrumental in converting
all the Gibsons, in marrying Mog to young
Sealey, in settling the Gibsons in different situa-
tions, and in persuading Sealey to take Mog's
mother under his protection; and the good
clergyman never had more sincere converts. So
THE HAPPY DEATH.
185
a blessing followed his labors; and more, he
saw me placed at school, under a very different
tutor, at the very school where Lord Ellenborough
was educated, at the Rev. Mr. Hepworth's, of
Botesdale, who was a good and kind-hearted
man, and very different to my former cruel
master.
CHAPTER XIL
the sea.
My return home was hailed with joy, as my
parents had suffered very great anxiety on my
behalf. The uncertainty of my condition, whether
alive or dead, was the continual subject of con-
versation with them. Mr. Rogers's school, too,
had suffered severely since my departure; for
his was not like those great foundation
establishments, where masters are. provided
for by endowments, which raises them above
such fluctuations of pupils, so that many or few
makes no difference in their pockets; but Mr.
Rogers had prospered in his school, which had
been his support, and he died affluent.
How different the character of Mr. Hepworth,
THE SEA.
187
to whom I was now sent. He perceived in a
moment that I was a boy of tender and delicate
sensitiveness, and that ill treatment was not the
way to make me apply. He had heard, also,
of my stay among the gipsies, and he took plea-
sure in cultivating my mind. In one year I
gained more knowledge than in all former years,
and that which I gained I retained. My clas-
sical studies were then a pleasure.
But let not the reader imagine that my
memory could ever forget the gipsies. No.
There was a species of independence, or rather
self dependence, then taught me, which no
scholastic tuition could destroy; and all my
reading did but increase that ambition to do
something for myself, which lived with me under
various forms and stages of my existence, and
has only been overruled in my old days by my
finding out that I am good for nothing. Useful
to a certain extent I had already been; expe-
rienced to a certain extent I had already be-
come; but there still burned within me a
longing desire to do something in the world.
But no more runaways for me. Indeed, dear
188
THE SEA.
good old Hepworth, though a stern, man in
school, was a scholar and a gentleman, and
treated his boys as rational creatures, to be
improved by the discipline of their minds and
manners more than by the terrors of the rod
and coarse invectives. I was a sensitive boy;
yet the having to rough it in the world, and
even the having our hearts and minds mistaken,
may prove in the end a beneficial thing to our
future career. My gipsy story was often told
to my schoolfellows ; and upon more than one
in after life it had a good effect in softening
that asperity which too many imbibe from pre-
judice, and led to an endeavor to reform by
kindness, instead of driving to desperation by
unkind treatment.
During the years I was with Mr. Hepworth
religion was made a practical, rather than a
theoretical study; for the good man always en-
couraged cheerfulness, and used to say, e Be
good boys, and you will be happy men. Be
kind to your parents and friends, and you will
be more likely to prosper in life. Study now,
and you may take it easy hereafter.'
THE SEA.
Yet we used to play in Redgrave Park, and to
fish, and to have our cricket in Barley Birch; to
hurrah at the stage coaches, as they drove up to
the Crown, and brought us the news of the
stirring times of the French Revolution; and we
had holidays for loyalty, holidays for victory,
holidays for the king's birth-day, and, of course,
for our good old master's, on which day we
had sumptuous fare and heartfelt fun. I was a
lively boy, and though I had gone through heavy-
hearted scenes, yet I was to go through many
more before my grey hairs should arrive.
I was in a few years articled to a surgeon prac-
tising at Bacton. Here I began to make myself
useful, to mix up medicines, hold men's heads,
legs, and arms, and to bind up wounds. Craniology
was not then a study, nor Phrenology, but limbs
had to be set, teeth drawn, pills made, and of
course swallowed, and many to be cured of various
complaints; but nervous disorders, and rich fat
farmers, and their wives and daughters, were all
our best subjects in the Esculapian profession.
I had an old uncle, a clergyman, rector of
Westhorpe, who took a great fancy to me. He
190
THE SEA.
was an old bachelor, my mother's brother, and
he lived at Walsham, whither I often went,
rode his horses, and sung him many a cheerful
song. Ah! they were apparently happy days.
He had paid for my apprenticeship. He had
found me money to walk the hospitals, but he
always wished me to go to sea.
* Boy !' he used to say, ' your spirit should see
the world. I wish you would learn to be a sailor.
There's nothing like the joy of the free ocean, a
stiff breeze, a good ship, and an open sea. Why
not go a voyage in one of my ships ? You
will see something of the world, and then, if
you do not like it, you can but leave it.'
My great chum at home, at this tirfie, was my
sister Peggy, as I used to call her. She went
with me to pay a visit to Mog, whom I found
as happy as ever I saw a woman in my long
life.
Her aged gipsy mother was living with her.
They had become completely civilised, if I may
so term it, and more than that, she was a Christian
in her heart; she was buried by me at ninety-
five years old, at Westhorpe, forty years since.
THE SEA.
191
As may be supposed, she was glad to see me,
though she could hardly recognise in the hand-
some young surgeon the dirty runaway school-
boy.
' You have left1 the life of a rover, sir, she
said to me.
'No, Mog; I must not call you Mog. No,
Mrs. Sealey.'
'Ah ! call me Mog if you will, 'tis my mother's
name as well as mine. But what signifies the
name, so long as we are but contented—but
why say, "No, sir"?'
' Because I am going to be a greater rover
than ever.'
' Oh! dear sir, I hope not. I am cured of all
roving propensities, sir; and even mother is
cured, which was more difficult still, but since
she lost poor father she has been as gentle as a
lamb. I hope you are not unhappy, sir ?'
' No, Mog, no. But you know me to be an
active spirit. I am the youngest son of my
father, and my uncle is fond of the sea. He has
persuaded me to take a berth in one of his
vessels bound for the South Pacific ocean, and
192
THE SEA.
as he has some property, and talks of providing
for me, I think it best to let my father see I am
disposed to ease him of myself, and not be a
burthen to him.'
' Well, well, sir, I am glad you are not truant-
ing again. My dear mother lives with me, my
husband is kind to me, and my brothers and
Jin respect me (and I know I owe all this felicity
to Christian influence on my heart), so I rejoice,
dear sir, that you do not again run away from
any ill treatment.'
' Thank you, Mog—thank you. I almost envy
you. But I have a desire to go to sea; and, if I do
not return prosperous, I shall have gained, perhaps,
a little experience of this wide, wide world.'
e Yes, sir ; and I hope it will make you a little
thoughtful about another and a better world; for.
the affections must be, or ought to be, the more
holy, the more we see of the great and won-
derful works of God. Pray, sir, will you con-
descend to write to me ?'
* Oh! yes, Mog; and if I sometimes remind
you of our gipsy days, do not be surprised. I
came now only to see you, and to wish you
THE SEA.
193
heartily many years of prosperity. Dear sister
Peggy, remind me that I enclose a letter for Mrs.
Sealey in my letters to you.'
It was truly a nice, neat little cottage in which
the wife of Tom Sealey lived. He was out
with the squire, and as I thought Squire N
would not be angry, I determined to drive round
by the hall, and pay my respects to him. At all
events, I should see the pleasant face of his lady.
I drove to the hall. My sister and myself
were admitted, and when I made myself known
to the lady as the gipsy boy to whom she gave
the penny, she was very much pleased.
She asked me of my fortunes and my views
in life, and, going to a little bureau of hers, she
brought forth a very pretty little present of a
pocket compass, and wished it might be of some
future service to me.
Dear reader, there are kind people among the
squires' wives of Old England: and among none
more than those who have been born and bred
gentlewomen. If any people on the face of this
earth take real delight in the welfare of the
poor—I speak from experience—it is those gentle
13
194
THE SEA.
ladies, whose husbands are the owners of property
in the land, and who live among those who have
to live out of the land. And if the country
squires would only take their pleasure in the
employment of the poor, and, instead of ambitious
, speculating so improve their estates, there would
be a great deal more happiness and contentment
than there is.
But I took my leave of the kind-hearted lady.
I told her I would take care never to jump into a
lane again without looking before I leapt, and,
desiring my respectful remembrances to the
squire who had lashed me and committed me to
prison, I departed, soon took leave of my own
family and friends, and went with my uncle to
town. He got me my outfit, and put me on board
his ship c Adventure,' which was going upon a
voyage for the purpose of whale-fishing.
Though I afterwards saw lots of blubber, yet
there was no blubbering with me then. I was
committed to the care of Captain Moon, as second
mate, and soon sailed down the river. For the
first time I was upon the sea, and it was indeed
an adventure.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE STORM.
I am aboard—I am bounding with full sail down
the channel, and bidding farewell to the scenes of
Old England, but not to all associations connected
therewith. These are not easily forgotten. I
question if a man can forget anything. I am sure
he is never forgotten, for though he be ever so
desolate a being, there is a little corner in some
heart that still cares for him, unless he be the
most desperate and abandoned wretch possible.
Ah! reader, wherever thou art, thy God is there
too; whether on the broad ocean or in the gipsy's
tent—in the palace of a sovereign, or in the
cobbler's stall. He was then present with me,
though my young hopes were then confined to the
196
THE STORM.
discharge of my duty to my uncle: and, of course,
to the worthy skipper, Captain Moon.
e Young one/ he said to me, the very first day
I went on board, you have everything to learn,
and you have something to do. Make a friend of
that old veteran with his pigtail hanging half a
yard down his back, and he will soon teach you
every part of the ship and the use of all thp
tackling aboard. He's a rough diamond, but
many a diamond before it is polished may possess
intrinsic value, so does that old seaman, John
Crocket.—Jack, ahoy!'
Jack came, and stood before the captain.
(I've a young landsman here, appointed second
mate, Jack; he is a bit of a surgeon, and he'll
keep you in good health, if you will take him
in tow.'
' Aye, aye, master! if he'll be content to keep
in my wake he shall soon keep others awake.
What's your name, younker, I beg pardon, sir ?
Well, I don't care, I'll give you a name, if you'll
accept it. I always begin my pupils by giving
them a name, and, as you say you're a bit of
a surgeon, I shall call you Tom Pill, and you may
THE STORM.
197
call me old Crotchet if you please, but John
Crocket is my right name.'
I bowed, but did not say a word.
' Show him the second mate's berth; tell him
all about the ship, and have your eye upon him,
for if he slips overboard, you go after him, or
I shall never trust you again.'
'That must depend, master, upon the state of
the wind and weather, for if it blows a hurri-
cane, and Tom Pill should not be under the
hatchways, I should never jump overboard
after him, because his drowning would be obsti-
nacy on his own part. But come along, Pill!
come along; we shall have some talk about the
ship. I hope you are an apt scholar, for I never
like telling a man the same thing twice over.'
I remember the first lesson he gave me, was
about the wales.
' Boy,' says he, ' we are going to catch whales,
but you ought to know that every ship has
wales. Now look ye here: you see these stout
timbers just above the water-mark of the vessel;
these are called the wales, and ours in the 'Adven-
ture ' are stout enough ; you won't forget that.'
198
THE STORM.
'Never/
c If you do, I shall have to make some weals
upon your back with a rope's end.'
It would take a long time to go through
his lessons, upon fore-mast, main-mast, and
mizen-mast; shrouds, halliards, gangway, hawser,
keel, jib, and jib-boom; spanker-boom, poop,
ports, yards, waist, truck, tiller, tampion, taff-
rail, ratlines, pawl, rudder, rowlock, kelson, hold,
grapplings, gunwale, clewlines, buntlines, hull,
hulk, stowage, and all things necessary to be
understood. By little and little, I became mas-
ter of the thing, and found Jack Crocket, though
a rough seaman, a very rational one.
Curiosity was ever my strong propensity;
that curiosity to know things, and to know how
to do them: and like most men who ever had
I
any curiosity, and any degree of simplicity there-
with, I have been made to pay for my curiosity,
and learned the truth of ' Experimentia docet*
Magister docet, I once knew pretty well, but
old Jack Crocket, character as he was, was as
kind a hearted old fellow as ever lived. I shall
never forget missing stays once and going plump
THE STORM.
199
overboard, and that not long after I was on
board; but it was calm weather, and Jack's eye
was upon me. I was coming down the shrouds,
and thought to spring nicely on deck, just to
show Jack how active a sailor I was becoming,
when my foot caught the gangway, and over
I went into the sea, and down to the bottom
I should have gone, but for Jack, who sprang
over like a Newfoundland dog, and gave me
such a gripe of the hair, that he lifted me up
fairly out of the water, just as a man would
hold a cod-fish by his gills. No matter, we
all take to those who save and protect us, as
naturally as chickens in danger run to their
mother's wing; and happy they, who in this
life's dreary voyage, can find shelter from the
storms, and acknowledge every moment their
gratitude to the great Pilot of the ocean of
Life.
We were bound for New Zealand, and to
the South Sea. Our object was to get a full
cargo of spermaceti oil; and our work, as any one
may imagine, was arduous. In the year 1807,
the whole ocean was traversed by ships of war;
198
THE STORM.
'Never.'
' If you do, I shall have to make some weals
upon your back with a rope's end.'
It would take a long time to go through
his lessons, upon fore-mast, main-mast, and
mizen-mast; shrouds, halliards, gangway, hawser,
keel, jib, and jib-boom; spanker-boom, poop,
ports, yards, waist, truck, tiller, tampion, taff-
rail, ratlines, pawl, rudder, rowlock, kelson, hold,
grapplings, gunwale, clewlines, buntlines, hull,
hulk, stowage, and all things necessary to be
understood. By little and little, I became mas-
ter of the thing, and found Jack Crocket, though
a rough seaman, a very rational one.
Curiosity was ever my strong propensity;
that curiosity to know things, and to know how
to do them; and like most men who ever had
any curiosity, and any degree of simplicity there-
with, I have been made to pay for my curiosity,
and learned the truth of ' Experimentia docet.'
3Iagister docet, I once knew pretty well, but
old Jack Crocket, character as he was, was as
kind a hearted old fellow as ever lived. I shall
rever forget missing stays once and going plump
THE STORM.
199
overboard, and that not long after I was on
board; but it was calm weather, and Jack's eye
was upon me. I was coming down the shrouds,
and thought to spring nicely on deck, just to
show Jack how active a sailor I was becoming,
when my foot caught the gangway, and over
I went into the sea, and down to the bottom
I should have gone, but for Jack, who sprang
over like a Newfoundland dog, and gave me
such a gripe of the hair, that he lifted me up
fairly out of the water, just as a man would
hold a cod-fish by his gills. No matter, we
all take to those who save and protect us, as
naturally as chickens in danger run to their
mother's wing; and happy they, who in this
life's dreary voyage, can find shelter from the
storms, and acknowledge every moment their
gratitude to the great Pilot of the ocean of
Life.
We were bound for New Zealand, and to
the South Sea. Our object was to get a full
cargo of spermaceti oil; and our work, as any one
may imagine, was arduous. In the year 1807,
the whole ocean was traversed by ships of war;
202
THE STORM.
determination are the grand requisites for the
command of a ship, whilst the knowledge of
duty is indispensable to make a good captain,
and, of course, the fixed resolution to do it
will be necessary to carry every faithful man
prosperously through his voyage.
He used to say to me, c Youth, we are all
servants. Napoleon, who rules France, is a ser-
vant though he pretends to be so magnificently
free. He, however, is a servant of France, though
he commands every Frenchman except Talleyrand.
His own ambition will destroy him. Everything
the man conceives and everything he does osten-
sibly for France, is inseparable from his own
ambition. Do you think such a man will ever
acknowledge a superior ? Never. He cannot
conceive one. All men must be his tools. He
will find, however, that a few spirits in England
will defeat his projects.'
This was consolation from the old English
skipper of the ' Adventure,' traversing the mighty
deep without any convoy, and pursuing his
course for the interest of his employers.
We had only twelve men — the captain,
THE STORM.
coxswain, two mates, and a cook, and our vessel
was not one of the lightest in the world, with,
three great whale boats on board, and harpoons,
cordage, knives and guns, muskets, anchors,,
grapplings, barrels, and various goods for the
natives of the islands.
"We were also to be prepared in case of pirates,,
as we should most likely traverse the western
coast of Africa, so that we had guns, nets, pikes,
pistols, swords, and weapons which we "all hoped
we should never have occasion to use.
Jack Crocket was a sort of learned seaman, to
whom every man on board paid respect, from the
captain down to the cabin-boy, and truly was this
fine old sailor the pride of our ship ; and he took
as much pride in her as a lady does, if she is a
tidy one, in her house, husband, children, and
herself, without in the least degree assuming any
domineering quality. The very term which ir
often used, even in the houses of our neatest
tocracy, of having everything' shipshape,' is o.
having everything clean and in its proper place.
Many men go aboard a ship with pain
and regret, the same as boys go to school,
204
THE STORM.
and are never happy until they get home
again.
It was not so with me. If our skipper had
his venture in the ' Adventure,' I had mine. His
was to give satisfaction to his employers; mine
was to give satisfaction to both him and my
uncle, by gaining all the information I could, and
learning to do my duty in my new station of
life.
We will pass over swabbing decks, furling
sails, keeping watch, the different bells, and all
the nautical minutiae of ship-board. We had a
very small complement of men for a vessel of so
many tons, and for such work as ours; but every
man was a seaman and well paid, and glad to get
employment in service at a distance from the
war ; but where was that in that day ? All sailors
who could be pressed were required for the
king's service, so that we were fortunate to get
away as we did, and to be on our voyage as we
were,
To men accustomed to the sea, time is employed,
somehow, every day in activity. There is always
something to be done, even in the calmest
THE STORM.
205
■weather, except by those lazy landsmen, who have
nothing to do but to walk the decks to and fro,
and find fault with everything.
To me everything belonging to the ship was
interesting. For I was just eighteen, the right
age to be useful, and the right age for activity.
I felt an affection for every man on board, and
could describe all their characters, aye, and
features as well, so that if one of those men bo
now alive, he could not fail to recognize himself
and his companions.
We were very fortunate in our outward bound
voyage, not meeting with a single mishap. We
had storms, and the first I shall never forget, for
having just recovered from my sea sickness, it
was something so terrific to my young imagi-
nation, that after the lapse of nearly sixty years
I can scarcely forget it. Well may it be said
that seamen behold the grandeur of the elements.
Men who stand on shore, and see the dashing of
the sea, or the distant foam, can form no idea of'
the bounding action of a vessel driven in a storm
under bare poles, up to the heavens, down again
to the deep—up again and down again! on, on,
206
THE STORM.
on—perhaps a whole day and night, sometimes
for two days together, and without the slightest
lull.
I love to see the ocean lively—I love to see a
"brisk breeze and all things in motion; but the first
storm at sea filled me, I confess, with the most
awful consternation. I could not, as a young
missionary did, lay myself down in my berth, out
of the way, collect my scattered thoughts; and
concentrate them without effort upon Him who
holds the ocean in the hollow of his hand, and by
Faith be prepared for the worst. I had duty
assigned me, then, even amidst the din and roar
of the elements, which made me see that which
I would gladly have hid my eyes from if I could.
I beheld the terrific majesty of those elements
so mighty in our poor pigmy sight, but so little
in His who in one moment could say,e Peace, be
still, and there was a great calm.'
The more I saw of the fearful sky and the
mighty waves, the more I thought of the utter
insignificance of man, and yet, there we were,
helpless indeed, the captain at the helm, myself
at his feet, holding the speaking trumpet for
THE STORM.
207
him, and clinging with one arm to the lashings
which kept both him and myself to our posts.
It would have been impossible for me to have
stood upon my feet, I should have been blown
away in an instant; sails we had none; even the
cordage flew about, and how the beams bore the
straining was to me a marvel.
CHAPTER XIY.
bird fishing.
The 'Adventure' moved onward with various
winds; catching our first view of the coast of
America off Pio Janeiro, after five weeks' voy-
age. We stood off land, however, and continued
our course, passing through the latitude of Pio
de la Plata. Here we experienced some of
those remarkable blasts called by Spanish sea-
men, pomperas. All I knew of them was that
old Crotchet used to call them pomposas;
for they came down upon us without warning,
just as if they were blown out of an unseen
bag, without even a hand to denote its rup-
ture.
The old ' Adventure' was not easily blown
BIRD FISHING.
209
away; though a heavy ship, she was a steady
one: such too was the character of her jolly men
on board. We experienced very variable winds
along this coast. One hour perfectly calm—
another ' right in our teeth'—another cast us on
our beam ends—then we had a noble scudding
before the wind.
One morning I remember standing near the
bows, with old Jack Crotchet, as he was called;
it was the 4th of April, the wind being a light
south-easter, when I saw heavy clouds apparently
travelling along the horizon; and driving, as it
were, in an opposite direction to our vessel.
I said to old Crotchet—
'Look yonder!—the clouds are all running
a race,' for they appeared to be going one over
the other, as if they had started to see which
could drive the fastest.
Old Jack called out in an instant, 'Furl
all sails, brace up the yards. Tom Pill, call
the captain!'
This was done in a moment; and when the
skipper came, Jack pointed to windward; and
that was enough.
14
210
BIRD FISHING.
' Now, my boys, up with you,' said Captain
Moon.
* Furl up the mizen-top ; slacken the lee main-
topsail braces; put the helm to starboard. Wait
a bit—steady!—and in one moment, down came
the squall, away went the ship at the rate of
ten knots an hour; and every man seemed to
enjoy the run. It was a run; for what the clouds
had been doing in the morning, we were doing
all the day; playing a game of racing with the
waves. In this way we passed the Falkland
Isles; and though the gale abated, yet we pre-
pared, with getting in the flying jib-boom, for
the bad weather off the Cape.
But we passed the Cape, keeping our course
still to the south, towards New Shetland, that
mass of coral rocks, between which and New
Zealand lay our enterprising search for whales.
We were almost the first vessel chartered for
the South Sea fishing, by any private individual,
and my uncle wished that we should visit the
south pole, and our ultima thule was to be New
Zealand.
Of New Shetland we knew nothing; all I
BIRD FISHING.
21!
remember it by, was, because the first fishing
we had for birds happened to be there.
Yes, fishing with hook and line for birds
seems a curious thing for a sailor, especially
for whale fishers.
But the sailors were all permitted to try their
luck; and, as we were surrounded with what
they called Cape pigeons, a little sea fowl of
a fishy, but not unsavory taste, we had great
success. These pigeons followed our ship, and
kept flying, and "Swimming, and skimming around
us, and were attracted by any bit of meat, fish,
bread, or anything white and glittering. A hook
baited with a bit of fish was the best lure, and
we caught sufficient to make a capital pie, of
which we partook voraciously.
But our fishing was not always for what we
could eat.
One bird which we often saw in this latitude,
was the silent and beautiful companion of our
comparative solitude. I sometimes dream, even
now, that I see that ghost-like bird, sweeping in <
his majestic flight along the trough of the sea;
like some airy phantom of the brain. Yet as I
2i-2
BIRD FISHING.
looked at it, reader, it reminded me of my dear
sister Margaret and home. It was something
pleasant to have a noble creature, white as a virgin
bride, sailing along with us in those solemn seas,
and though not speaking directly to us, yet
evidently catching its food as we disturbed in our
course the shoals of fish through which we drove.
But I little thought that we could hook ail
albatross. When we think of a silent pair of
wings, fourteen feet from tip to tip,—no swan
in England ever measured such a length. Yet
without the seeming ruffle of a feather, and
certainly not with noisy pinion, he came sailing
along; there was something so beautiful in him
that I could have said, ' Let him alone, Jack
Crocket, let him alone!* But I knew Jack too
well to say so to him before his mess-mates ; men
never like to be taught tenderness; they always
set it down for weakness and affectation: and
even women despise too much tenderness in us,
and set it down for effeminaey.
But tenderness, gentleness, and the utmost
mercy, are compatible with the most manly
fortitude and bravery. I take real tenderness to be
BIRD FISHING.
213
as properly exhibited towards the brute creation,
as it is towards our own race.
The catching a fish for food and the catching
it for sport are two different things. Yet the
catching of the albatross made me unpleasantly
sentimental.
'I'll show you how to catch that bird,' said Jack;
' look here, Mr. Pill, do you see this lump of
salt-junk made soft by boiling? Yon fellow will
bounce at it like a hawk, when it dashes out of
the spray of our ship. Look sharp now; throw
you the line out a-head upon the wave, so that
we give the line a jerk just as we make way
through the crest of the wave, but not before I
point out the majestic bird coming with his long
swoop alongside our ship. Look out, look out,
here he comes. Out with it.' And I hurled it as
far as I could with the wind, and presently we
came up to it. We dashed it aloft with the jerk
of the string, and the bound of the vessel on the
crest of the wave, and it was instantly seized and
as instantly swallowed by the noble albatross,
who in another instant received such a check as
turned him over on his back, and he fell directly
BIRD FISHING.
upon the sea. I never saw him till that moment
off the wing: but he was flying again in a
moment—then again chucked down. He was
hooked, poor fellow, fairly or unfairly hooked, and
afforded much sport to the sailors, by his incessant
efforts to escape. Vain was it for him to fly. He
dropped upon the ocean, and for a while he rode
majestically along our side with his beautiful
neck outstretched and his mouth wide open,
endeavoring in vain to disgorge the hook from
his throat, till, nature fairly exhausted, the poor
bird could struggle no longer, but was drawn up
on board and laid upon the deck, just in time
for us to see him die.
And hast thou ever, in thy thoughtful mood,
Seen the eye close of one thou long hast loved?
Think of this lonely bird on ocean vast,
Skirting the foaming waves. Behold with pity now
The dying albatross; that mournful eye
Did ope and shut, then ope and shut again,
And looked at me so tenderly, and seemed to say—
Ah! mighty man, now what art thou to gain
By such display of strength and subtlety ?
Here thou hast drawn me from my element,
The free and joyous air; nor storm nor wave
Could ever break my flight. I came to thee
A silent friend, to cheer thy lonely way;
BIRD FISHING.
215
But thou art traitor, and hast loved me not.
I die thy sport; but lonely, ere I die,
I look at thee, a captive to thy ■will,
Destroyed by subtlety. Farewell, O man!
Sporting with God's creation. Fare thee well!
So it was, to my mind, that that noble bird
died upon the deck of the ' Adventure.' I
was permitted by the captain to skin the bird,
and I preserved it. I afterwards had it stuffed,
and presented it as a present to my sister Mar-
garet, with some lines somewhat like, though
not exactly the same as, those above written.
"We wore off those volcanic islands, the New
Shetland, which were but little known, when it
was proposed to go and catch some seals. The
whole coast, at that time, abounded with them,
and we were as much a subject of curiosity to
them as they to us.
Glad of the opportunity of seeing all the
habits of these animals, and of joining in the
adventure, I was rejoiced when the captain pro-
posed that I should take command of the boat,
only he added—rather humbling to me—f Jack
Crotchet will be your boatswain.'
.216
BIRD RISKING.
We had one of the whale boats out, and
as the weather was fine, we had an inte-
resting trip. The New Shetlands, as they were
called, were a long reef of island rocks,
evidently of volcanic origin. The vessel lay
off four miles or more. We had guns and
harpoons, spears and fishing lines, and as we
approached the coast, there was an apparently
magnificent sterility ; and yet the whole air
and sea was alive with fowl of every descrip-
tion.
These islands had been visited by very few
navigators, being much out of the latitude of
those who weather Cape Horn for the purpose
of visiting the western coast of South America.
So seldom had a boat approached the shore,
that all animated nature seemed to be sporting
in the joyousness of existence, without thought
of danger. Yet then they were engaged, each
devouring their own peculiar food. There
was the osprey diving into the sea for his
natural food, the fish; that fish probably feeding
on the marine insects that siyarmed around the
rocks, those very insects feeding upon various
BIRD FISHING.
217
tiny little creatures imperceptible to the human
eye.
There were the seals in every attitude imagi-
nable; some were seated with dignity upon a
ledge of rock, and looked almost human; others
were diving into the flood; others bathing as
if at play, like schoolboys in those days of fun
and frolic, when they visit the bright waters
amidst schoolfellows of their own age, and try
their prowess in the stream. Then, again, birds,
such as I never saw before, passed us on the
wing, and gave us a wild scream of recognition.
Little did they think how we observed them.
One moment we saw a great gull pursuing a
little one, until it dropt a small eel from its
mouth, which the great one instantly caught.
Then we saw a seal with a fish in its mouth,
swimming, followed by others, all anxious to have
a bit, whilst beside our boat millions of little
fish were swimming, and we had no difficulty
in catching thousands. As we drew nearer to
the shore, the rocks assumed a more majestic
form.
And now commenced our work of slaughter.
218
BIRD FISHING.
The first gun we fired was at an immense seal,
who stood up out of the water like a human
being, come up from the mighty deep to look
at us, and certainly not the oar's length from
the boat. "We had immense swan shot, the size
almost of pillets ; so that, when this curious
looking animal, indulging his first glance at man,
thought us friends, he little expected to receive
such a salutation. He turned over, and over,
and over, completely unsensed by the number
of shot entering his brain, so that he was cap-
tured, a dead seal directly. His bulk was enor-
mous. He measured eight feet from the head
to the tail, and was six feet in circumference.
He was soon hauled in and stowed away in our
deep-sea whale boat.
We had sometimes much difficulty in killing
these animals, even after we had harpooned
them: and several of them would lay at the
bottom of the boat, opening their eyes, and
turning their heads, as if they were going to
speak to us.
What with birds, and seals, and fish, we re-
turned to the ship loaded, so that we had not
BIRD FISHING.
219
time to go ashore, if we could have done so.
Seamen without some kind of sentiment about
them are very indifferent about scenery. Some
of them, indeed, take delight in doing anything
for their comrades who are curious about things,
and, as I was fond of shells, corals, or birds,
and had always a turn for curiosities, many of
them took delight in bringing me even a parti-
cular sea-weed, or shell, or fish, so that I had a
complete museum of our expedition. Not that
I could then arrange them according to scientific
order. Having been, and still being, a surgeon,
I could preserve many specimens from destruc-
tion, I could keep the skeletons of those I
could not preserve, and I only wanted at that
time an enlightened friend to aid me, and I
should have been a confirmed naturalist. As it
was, I was a mere comparative anatomist,
acquainted but superficially with the construe-
tion of various animals; but this I can say, I
never looked at any one of them, however
superficially, and forgot who was their Maker.
However much I had to rough it, I never
failed to see, with heartfelt astonishment, beyond
220
BIRD FISHING.
all that I could express, the living wonders of
the deep ; and though an active youth, my mind
was so singularly reflective, that I do not think
a single thing, from the mast-head of the vessel
to the keel, from the tip of the bowsprit to the
rudder, ever passed my eye without reflection.
Reader, you will say, what was the use of
my thinking so much? I could not tell you,
nor can I scarcely tell you now. From the
captain to the cabin boy, every man on board
that vessel had his character as indelibly impressed
upon my mind, as if I had been employed on
purpose to describe them.
John Crocket, Michael Stubbs, William Leeds,
Daniel Croutch, David Boulson, Tom Turner,
Hugh Mansel, Zach. Sharper, Timothy Burns,
Joseph Sharp, and every man, not only in the
whale-boat that day—for such was the complement,
for that day's sport—but from Captain Moon to.
poor little Bill Banks, there was not one that
I could forget.
We sailed through many a sea,
We pull'd at many an oar;
We all had many a spree,
But I shall have no more.
BIRD FISHING.
Where now those active hands ?
Where now my shipmates all?
Are they in other lands,
Or gone beyond our call?
Old Crocket, if ashore,
Thy timbers yet may stand;
Thy presence at my door
Should have a hearty hand.
Old messmates—Britons free!
Should any overhaul
These pages, they may see
The old things I recall.
Then heave the log again!
Up with the sail on high!
We steer for brighter main,
Beyond this stormy sky.
CHAPTER XY„
the whales.
Another boat's-crew went to the Shetland Rocks,
and, I believe, went on shore, but I was not ap-
pointed this time, so that I can only say they brought
us home plenty of fresh fish and fowl. I had to
attend to a poor sick sailor, and as I acted as
assistant surgeon to the ship, I had not my name,
Tom Pill, for nothing. "When the boats came
along-side, and were again hauled up, with all
their provisions, guns, spears, etc., etc., Captain
Moon set sail for the South Sea. We presented
rather a curious sight on board. What with
seal-skins hanging about to dry, and our birds
hanging up, and portions of flesh drying as well,
it was fortunate for us that we encountered no
rough weather.
THE WHALES.
223
We were now fairly within the antartic circle,
and had to contend with floating ice continually.
The interest of our voyage now became important,
for we were to search for the monsters of the mighty
deep, amidst the sunken and southern rocks of
ice. For some time it was like Poverty looking
for the eye of Pity in the miser's head, for
we saw nothing but the wide and weary waste
of waters, without the slightest sign of animation
except on board our own black vessel. It was
like a poor disconsolate author seeking for
Fame as the bright image of his future glory,
but through,such impenetrable fields of ice that
they seem frozen against him. Nevertheless,
he is led on by sweet Hope till he reaches the
Bay of Blessing.
This, of course, is all after-thought with an
old man like myself, now looking for the
Bay of Blessing in the haven of my rest; yet
that is sweet comfort too, after all the trials of
the voyage of live are over. I may as well
name that open space into which we sailed in
latitude 65 degrees south, and longitude 120,
when the cry from the mast head was, ' Pish
224
THE WHALES.
alioy I' I remember running up the rigging to
have a look into that bay. It was not a bay
inland, but a bay in ice — an ice-bound bay—
and a romantic, fairy-looking scene it was,
compared with that which we had been
traversing.
The impression now upon my mind is that of
a vast field of waters, surrounded by a white
and shining fringe of sometimes maiden white-
ness, sometimes rosy tinged, sometimes, or in
some places, purple, with here and there
indented spots, like distant caverns. This vast
amphitheatre of miles, was a lively scene to a
sailor's eye, and especially to the whale-fisher.
To me, who had never seen such a scene before,
it was as extraordinary as new. In parts, those
mountains rose with spiral grandeur into the
heavens, and then again seemed as if they had
been by some art of man cut down into a long flat
plain, and then to rise boldly up again, and so to
circumscribe a vast field of water, within which lay
the unconscious objects of our long search.
That which was joy to every one of us on
board, was, however, no joy to the large black
THE WHALES.
225
creatures which, like a herd of deer in the
Highlands, lay perfectly unconscious of the
approach of an enemy. It might as yet be said
to be no sorrow to them, for they knew not
what we were about.
Some were sailing quietly along as if guided
by a rudder, and looked like the bottom of
a ship, moved by the wind and waves after being
capsized; others were spouting forth a column
of froth and water, which was intended, probably,
to clarify their great mouths of many things that
had inadvertently got foul of their immense
fibrous range of seam-like teeth; for the whale
always swims with his mouth open, and catches
everything that chances to come within the
vortex of his eddy, and he only closes his mouth
when he sends forth that tremendous blast of
waters from his conical volcano.
But there lay the creatures of the deep; the
leviathan whose histories I had read of in my
boyhood, but never expected to behold. There
they lay—I did not count their numbers. Had
there been but one it would have been matter
ot joy, but we had every chance of our ship's
15
226
THE WHALES.
complement, and this was the promised prospect
of our reward.
All was life and animation on board our ship.
Preparations were quickly made. All the various
officers and men belonging to the ship's company
were aroused, and the busy sailors soon unhanked
the boats, and every man seemed to take to his
duty. Harpooners, boat-steerers, line-managers,
carpenters, coopers; all now were in and at their
proper work.
The boat was lowered, and manned with a
complement of six for the oars, and an harpooner
and rope-coiler, and steersman, and away we
went. I was in the boat, and old John Crocket
by my side. Every one seemed as joyous and
happy as activity could make them; and as the
whale has no visible ear—though he has one
under the first layer of his skin—he is an animal
supposed not to hear so quickly as other fishes.
He can scarcely be called a fish, as he does not
produce spawn, but generally one single young
fish alive, called a sucker, or cub, of which, like
all creatures, he is naturally so fond as to risk
his life in its preservation.
THE WHALES.
227
We proceeded in a line about a mile from
the ship, and, from what I could see in the boat,
the whale lay perfectly unconscious upon the
waters until the boat drove directly upon it;
and then instantaneously received the harpoon
into its back. One immense splash I saw, and
it disappeared. We joined on a second line
of 120 fathoms, and still the line ran on to about
a third of our own second line, and then there
was for a moment a lull; but again it ran on.
In about a quarter of an hour, the monster
came up, puffing or blowing into the air a stream
of water as if enraged, until, at length fairly
exhausted, the immense creature lay upon the
waters to have our long spears thrust into his
vitals, and then he turned upon his back and
died.
The sensations of pity, which now in my old
days move me to reflection, were then blunted
by the excitement and interest I felt in seeing
the first whale killed. We certainly did not go
so many thousand miles for sport, merely to kill
those creatures, enjoying in innocence their native
waters, and the purposes of their creation. Some
228 the whales.
people, and indeed, most youths love enterprise,
and even in a christian country, the very exercise
and activity of sport, though in the pursuit of
game, I have known to be very exhilarating; it
is not until we receive a check to pleasure that
we perceive its dangerous tendency, and even
then we have to be careful that we do not fall
into a morbid state of sensitiveness, instead of a
thankful heart at escaping from an indulgence
which was becoming a snare.
Then I remember if I did feel pain at the
death of the first whale, it was excitement,
enterprise, sagacity, the conquering of danger,
and a sense of duty to my employer, which made
me ardent and active. Yet do I remember,
after towing that great creature to the side of the
vessel, and looking over the gang-way at the
process of cutting up and hacking the blubber,
and seeing as I did the vast power of man's mind
over matter, I could not help thinking, insignificant
as he looked in size compared with the creature
he was flaking, what a wonderful being he was,
and is, even in his natural state. I have lived
long enough to know what a creature he is in the
THE WHALES,
production of gigantic inventions — how he
replenishes the earth and subdues it, and makes
it subject to his will. Yet I have known, and do
know, that there is a will superior to man's,
which it is far better to obey than one's own.
It is not for me here to describe the various
processes of skinning, cutting up, packing the
blubber in casks, and tearing out the long fibrous
teeth for the whale-bone. The various processes
would fill a volume minutely to describe them.
Some might be enlightened and pleased to learn
how we made fast the monster with pulleys from
the ship, and turned him over as we wanted to
cut him up. As an observer of anatomy, it would
be very interesting to treat here of all parts of
the whale, and to show his adaptation to the waters
in which he moves, and as a work of the Creator
he is a marvellous animal in all his parts. The
very mouth consists of three hundred plates of
whale-bone, the largest of which is about fifteen
feet, and from the centre plate gradually dimin-
ishing to nothing. It might be very entertaining
to describe how these masses are separated from
the jaws—how the whale itself is cut up—how
230
THE WHALES.
all the pulleys are fastened to the ship—how the
men descend upon it with shoes full of spikes
to prevent their slipping—how we cut oft the
tail, lifted it on board, and made the chopping-
block of it. I might spend some time in de-
scribing the kind of knives and spades used,
with which we divided the blubber into slips,
and I might speak of ' kenting' the animal,
that is turning him round, so that other layers
of blubber might be cut off.
Our object being oil, the flesh is taken no
notice of, and the blubber or fat, which is the only
part we look upon as valuable, is of sufficient con-
sistency to be cut up after being hauled on board
into long slips, and so thrust into the bung-hole
of a cask. After we had ' flensed' the whale,
which took us six hours, we pursued others, and
with the same energy and enterprise. When we
had filled the hold of the vessel with blubber
—before beginning the process of ' making off,'
our captain gave us all a grand treat or feast on
board, and it was preparatory to our final
e packing up,' but our great feast was when we
had got our complement of whales on board, and
THE WHALES.
231
all was stowed away, and we were to set sail on
our homeward-bound voyage.
We had a grand frolick on board after all our
exertions ; and to describe the whalers' cheer when
all is over, and the vessel is for home, there
is something so primitively beautiful in it that
though an old man I cannot refuse a song upon
the occasion. The reader must forgive me; I am
no poet, and yet the faint reminiscences of our
relaxation, is something like that of a man calling
up his school-boy pleasures. True! true! true !
we have all to look for far greater pleasures, and
of a purer, holier, and happier kind to come,
but in every age, true brotherly love, divested of
passion, and absorbed in the welfare of others, is
one element of holiness.
THE WHALERS' SONG.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
Hurrah! hurrah! we have weathered the gales,
And our ship is homeward bounding;
Hurrah !%hurrah! we have caught the whales,
The air with our shouts is sounding.
Heave a-hoy! my boy, we shall tell our joy,
To the hearts at home who love us ;
Though absent long, though hard our employ,
We sail with clear skies above us.
232
THE WHALES.
Hurrah! hurrah! we are homeward bound,
Our sails to the breeze unfurling;
Our hopes abound, as the waves around
Are before and behind us curling.
Away! away! o'er the ocean spray,
With the wind and waves all fleeting;
We look for the day when friendship may
Present us a happy greeting.
Hurrah ? hurrah! may they welcome home,
Our sailors in port arriving;
May all reach home from their ocean roam,
In the land to which we are driving.
I take it now as a happy circumstance that we
had not one mishap on board our lonely vessel,
but through the providence and goodness of God
we weathered all storms, and arrived in the
Thames as well as when we left it.
When we landed, I received letters from my
friends, and a handsome present from my uncle.
I received a hearty farewell from every honest
man on board, and as we were to part, not
knowing whether we should ever sail together
again—tears, aye, reader, tears were shed, and
even then I had to bear up more heartily the
hearts of some seemingly stubborn old harpooners,
THE WHALES. 233
and none more than my patron sailor, old John
Crocket.
I wrote a letter to my sister Margaret, and
enclosed one for Mrs. Sealey. It was a laconic
one, because I was hoping to see them so soon.
I was promising myself the pleasure of conveying
to them some of my wonders of the South Pole.
I had the albatross skin stuffed, and to be ready
as soon as possible for presentation. The day of
parting with the captain came, and parting is
unpleasant at any time, but especially with those
we respect.
There is often a deep pang felt when sailors
engaged for months and months in daily duty one
with another part after their long voyage together.
We may each have our separate berths on board,
but the good ship has held us together within her
timbers, and though she may go other voyages
with a younger crew, perchance upon a smoother
or a rougher tack, yet the weather-beaten veterans
do not part without a sigh.
It is indeed a hard heart which is never softened
with the tear of regret, or never softened with
the joys of others.
234
THE WHALES.
e Good bye, Tom Pill/ said, old Jack Crocket,
4 Good bye, master. You are bound, I suppose,
to a friendly port. I am going to ask you a
question; you will say it is a  rum  one, though
I hope you will not be angry with an old mess-
mate. I've a notion you are not much of a sailor,
after all. I've a strange notion coming across my
mind, that you are fitted for a different kind of
service than whale fishing. Do you intend to go
to sea again ?'
'Jack, I cannot tell you. What makes you ask
the question ?'
e I don't know, master, but I have seen so much
tenderness about you that I could several times
have given you a rope's end for your squeamish-
ness, but in the end I have generally found you
right.'
e We have been differently brought up, John,
and as you say you have perceived in me an
effort to conquer that tenderness which you
espied, I acknowledge it has been an effort—
sometimes a most unpleasant one. I own my
weakness, Jack, and but for you I should not
have acquitted myself as well as I have done.
THE WHALES.
235
I own you have been a good friend to me. The
strongest-minded men want friends as well as the
weakest, Jack.'
*1 know, Pill, (forgive me!) I know it. sir,
and I love you — that's it'—and the old man
wept.
4 And I love you too, Jack, for when I was
weakest then I felt your aid. I owe my life to
your courage, and I know nothing I can make you
a better present of, than this old watch and this
new Bible, and should you ever come out of
Hampshire into Suffolk, bring them to me ; you
will always hear of my whereabouts if you visit
Stowmarket, or that part of Suffolk; so, farewell.'
* God bless you, master, gooa bye ! and if you
should go to sea again then John Crocket goes
with you if h^
And so we parted. Captain Moon rewarded us
all. My uncle was highly pleased with the
expedition and with his nephew, and I revisited
with joy the county of Suffolk, the land of my
nativity.
"What befell me subsequently, after pages must
teH.
Ufa. APT EE XVI
TIT 73 WAUNIISCr,
ISfo man can tell the delight cf visiting tbe
dear friends of his youth after a long separation,
but those who have experienced it; and even
then there is a difficulty in description, because
of the fact that the feelings are something
beyond the power of words to portray them.
In youth it is buoyant above all other times and
seasons—apt to be effervescent, and in none
more so than in such as myself. Shut up in the
body of a whaler, and bound upon a long
voyage, and in the midst of dangers, not only
of winds and waves, but of privateers scouring
the seas to cut off the commerce of Old England,
THE WARNING.
237
it may readily be supposed that our hearts could
not be insensible to the most grateful feelings
towards God and man, when we found ourselves
restored once more to family and friends. It
is something like the joy of those who shall
meet hereafter in the land of bliss and blessed-
ness. I say it is something like it—I confess it
a poor feeble metaphor, but now looking back
thereupon, seeing through the lapse of years—
how the fond heart was welcomed by father,
mother, brother, and sisters how all our little
bickerings, and more serious disputations, were
forgotten ; my old heart makes the comparison of
that to the happy day when we are all to meet in
the kingdom of heaven.
I spent some months at home with my
friends. My uncle was pleased with me; my
father and mother were proud of me, though they
did not say so ; for in that little society in which
they moved, I was like the monkey who had
seen the world. Yain, conceited young man as
I was, I fancied likewise that I knew the world.
I knew nothing, and had everything to learn,
though I jabbered away in the buoyancy of
238
THE warn:xg.
youth, as if I would teach all who came within
reach of my voice.
But I had to inquire after all the little affairs
of others, besides the opportunity of giving this
and that thins to one and another, and of
telling them when, where, how, and in what
manner, or at what risk, it was obtained.
I dived into the past, revisited Walsham-in-
the-Willows, and sat down in the very lane
where those who loved me in the day of my
wild run away received and gave me food and
lodging more freely than any great house would
give me now. All men are seeking for happi-
ness. I had a beautiful blessing from a poor
woman yesterday. ' The Lord rest you and
bless you !' ' Amen/ said I, ' and thank you.'
We are all apt to catch at phantoms of joys,
and we carry ourselves back to them, to search
for a joy we fancied we then experienced.
Every day has its evil—every day has its joy—
but we must every one hnd that the joy which
is checked, is that we may eschew the evil, and
the joy that is felt must be with thankful-
ness.
THE WARNING.
239
Poor Mog! poor Gibson! Ah, I visited for,
and had the pleasure of seeing you.
Mog was grown quite a matronly woman.
Such an active, cleanly, comfortable person;
her house so neat, her children so lovely, and
her sanded brick floor so tidy, that I positively
did not like to disturb with my feet the little
parlor into which I was shown.
* Pray come in, sir! pray come in! do not
be afraid; you will do me no hurt. I love to
look at you, and so will my husband when he
comes home to dinner. You must stop and dine
with us. My husband will be so disappointed
if you do not. Our fare is homely, but you will
not despise it.'
Reader, nothing is despicable but a bad heart*
and when I knew that invitation was given, not
from any motive of self-interest, but from the
purest motives of kindly feeling, I could not
refuse it. I accepted it with joy; and I can
truly say it gratified me beyond measure to
behold the simple piety of this restored gipsy
and honorable couple. Not to say that much
of this was owing to the good teaching of that
240
THE WARNING.
excellent man, tlie village pastor, would be an
injustice, but the instruction in this and other
cases fell upon good ground, and it sprang up
and brought forth fruit.
I never saw more perfect confidence between
man and wife. Sealey had not said in vain
before God and man—c With my body I thee
worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee
endow.' He brought all his worldly goods to
his wife ; that wife, like an honest woman as
she was, squandered nothing, provided a com-
fcrtable home, and was the admiration of those
who knew her. She was a Christian woman at
heart, not only on this account, but as I saw from
a sense of duty to God.
Had I been in their station of life, I never
saw a couple I would more gladly have imitated.
I shall not stop to describe our homely
dinner strictly—( a toad in a hole'—but some
may not know what that is; it is simply a piece
of meat baked in batter, and a precious good
dinner it was ; and, e Better is a dinner of herbs
where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred
therewith.'
TIIE WA11XING.
241
Let not the reader suppose that their happi-
ness was without alloy—no such thing; but
thankfulness and honesty sweeten everything,
for they produce cheerfulness.
Truly, he who findeth a wife findeth a blessing
from God; that is, a wife in whom a man can
confide every thought of his heart, and who is
wise enough to see that her husband's health
and happiness are her own. She cannot interfere
with his profession, trade, or business, but she
can take care of his domestic affairs—and if a
wise woman, that will be the greatest comfort
in a poor man's life.
This was a very pleasant visit; and the
interest these poor people took in my narrative
of the ' Adventure,' made me think even then of
the pleasure to be derived from the descriptive
powers of the mind, especially where the informa-
tion is correct and the heart thoughtful.
After having spent several months among my
friends, a cadetship on the Madras establishment
was offered to me, and I thought again of my
position. What now must I become ? I had
been assistant surgeon, though nominally second
15
242
THE WARNING.
mate, on board a whaler; now I was to embark
for India, as one of the servants of my king and
country, though in the pay of the East India
Company.
This seemed to suit my disposition; and as
it was an honorable employment, in the support
of duly established authority, my mind was
buoyant with the hope that I should discharge
the duty appointed me with integrity.
Accordingly, after taking leave of my uncle
(who assisted me with an outfit), and of father,
and mother, and friends, I again embarked on
the wide ocean for a far distant land. Our ship
was the ' David Scott,' a fine East Indiaman,
of twelve hundred tons, and a capital sea ship
she was. Our commander was Captain Lock,
and as we had three hundred troops on board,
he had to be a captain and commander, who
knew that England expected every man to do
his duty; and to our respective duties he kept
us all. Being a passenger merely to some future
duty, my work was to look on; and the captain
was much pleased with me at various times, when
I lent a helping hand in a stiff breeze.
THE WAR XING.
243
' I perceive, young man/ he said to me, ' that
you have been on board ship before now.: what
part of the world have you been in?'
' I was assistant surgeon on board the  Ad-
venture, a South-Sea Whaler.'
'Hah, indeed! then you must have had to
rough it, and so must we.'
' Well, sir,' said I, ' the earlier we take the
rubs, and roughs, and storms of life, the sooner
we get into smooth water.'
' That depends upon how wfc take them, young
man. Some never take warning, and fall over-
board. Some do not mind their charts, and
steer a wrong course. Some are driven on the
rocks, and cannot get off. Some run aground
even in a smooth channel, and some are captured
at sea.'
He had scarcely said these words before the
cry came—
' Strange ship on our lee!'
The captain's glas3 was soon upon her.
' French privateer! up with all tails.'
It was now an exciting scene to us all on
board. A French privateer in full sail had us
244
THE WARNING.
evidently in sight, and in their eyes we were a
rich prize.
Now came thoughts of capture and a French
prison. Napoleon had frigates cutting up our
trade, and as the seas were full of our ships, and
we ourselves without any convoy, we were the
very prey most likely in their eyes to fall beneath
their guns. How terrible now appear to my old
age those monstrous cruelties of war. Ah ! dread-
ful ambition—that lust for a man's exaltation of
himself upon the earth—what a curse hast thou
been to the human race !
Napoleon the First was a warrior and a philoso-
pher ; but never did he dream of being humbled
in the sight of the world, because his genius
thought to die in glory. Dreadful scourge of
man—how many thousand widows were left to
lament thy blood-thirsty ambition. Thou didst
conceive that men were all made to be thy tools
and to add to thy glory. None wouldst thou
ever acknowledge greater than thyself; therefore,
thy fall was the more conspicuous. England,
supported by the God of Justice and Mercy,
withstood thy ambition, and though she suffered
THE WARNING.
245
severely, yet had she the greatest pity upon thy
fallen state ! That she bare no animosity to France
nor to thy race—let the conduct of her present
Queen tell. France has chosen another Napoleon
—that Napoleon found shelter in the days of his
adversity upon the English shore. We shall see
what will be our reward.
But I had reason to remember the terror of
Napoleon's name, though I had no fear nor the
slightest intention to flinch from my duty. We
were in an isolated Indiaman; but we carried
with us twenty guns, and the frigate pursuing us
had fifty. W© were all in the same ship resolved
that no French frigate should take any of us alive
whilst we -could stand to our guns, and as we had
three hundred soldiers on board, we could show
some force to meet our adversary. Let her come
to close quarters if she dare. We sailed w§ll—r
but it was evident that the cruiser was gaining
ground upon us. Curious words, *'gaining ground,'
upon the sea. I have known the sea gain ground
upon the coast. But the Frenchman sailed faster
than we did, so we had to count of his coming.
He soon came within range, and fired a bad
246
THE WARNING.
broadside at us, not one sbot doing us any material
damage.
We answered with far better mark, banging in
two of her guns, which never made another shot.
Again they sent at us, and again we sent at
them; but they seemed determined to come along-
side us, and to board us. And now our captain's
judgment was seen, for not wishing to have a
close broadside of thunder which might be de-
structive to our troops on board, he had them all
on deck, with their muskets in their hands pre-
pared to show their teeth.
The Frenchmen no sooner ^aw this, than
recognizing us as a troop ship, they thought it
best to take a tack and steer away. I was very
glad when they did so, for, though they might
have done us great damage, and have killed a
great many of us, and have delayed our voyage,
yet they could not have given us greater satis-
faction than to leave us to pursue our way in peace,
with only one man wounded, and a few splinters
in our hull.
We gave three hearty cheers as she left us,
and I confess I felt a thankfulness of spirit, some-
THK WARNING.
247
thing like that which I imagine a poor rabbit may
feel when it escapes the danger of the polecat's
gripe.
We were next day off the Cape de Yerd
Islands, and stopped at St. Iago to take in water,
which process afforded us an opportunity, who
were passengers, to go ashore, and also to indulge
in fresh food.
We were preparing on board to take a bathe,
that is, four cadets, myself being one of them,
had got into a boat placed alongside the vessel for
that purpose. The sea was calm, an inviting
ripple just moving upon the waters—the sun
burning our skin, and the green waves looking
delightfully cool to our heated blood. We were
in the joy of youth, when sinews are strong,
courage is high, and our ideas of such an enjoy-
ment were at the summit of anticipation, when an
old sailor, with his weather-beaten brow, looking
over the gangway, like Palinurus, the famous pilot
of old, in a gruff voice said to us—
'I say, young lads, have you any regard for
the voice of an old sailor ? because if you have,
well—if you have not, woe betide you'
248
THE WARNING.
'Why so, Jack Tar?' said one of them; 'are
there any sharks in view ?'
' No, boys, no. I do not mean to terrify yon
with sharks, but these waters are infested with
something more sharp and certain than even
shark's teeth.'
' What is it ? '
'WThat is it—why certain death to yon all,
that's what I say, and if yon like to run the risk
of fever—do !'
Fever, thought I, and what fever can come
from going into the water if we do not stay in too
long!
So over we all lour went, and swam round the
ship, laughing at old Palinurus's warning, who
only shook his head and said in a gruff voice,
' You are four fools, and you'll all know it.'
We soon got into our boat. No sharks alarmed
us—nothing happened to us—we came up unto
our ship, and the soldiers, who had been looking
at us, said they should like the same indulgence;
but this they were not permitted. It was well they
were not, or the result might have been more pain-
ful than it was. Sufficiently so it proved to us all.
THE WARNING.
219
We thought ourselves safe, and even old
Palinurus was taunted for his advice. e Well
shipmate,' I said to him, after we had left the
island about a fortnight, ' and what hurt have we
any of us taken ?'
' Say that to me to-morrow, young ones, if you
can. It is now the fourteenth day, to-morrow is
the fifteenth, and if you escape, then I shall be
surprised. I never knew a young lad able to
bathe in those waters without being dangerously
ill. Your constitution yet unsettled, your blood
yet boiling in your veins, you will see to-morrow,
you will all of you be sick.'
It was so indeed. I the first, and all the rest soon
after, as if we had been poisoned. Our heads
were swollen, and our bodies covered with boils.
For myself, I expected to die, and as I knew
pretty well the nature of the disease, and how
difficult it was to treat it successfully, without
fresh air and fresh food, without land treatment,
I expected to die—and can only bless God that
I did not do so at that time. Indeed, it is His
mercy that spares us to repent, and to think
seriously of our present and future condition. I
250
THE WARNING.
became then awfully smitten with the conscious
ness of the uncertainty of life and the certainty
of death. Two of my lively companions died.
The shock was felt by me severely, and it had a
most salutary effect upon my mind ever after.
Indeed, I look back upon that time as a wonderful
mercy. We all experience changes—we all re-
quire warnings—and none more so than the young
and thoughtless. Entirely thoughtless no man
can be; but careless most are, and especially
about their real happiness. I am sure that at
that time I was made to search my own soul, and
to repent of all my folly, and especially in not
taking good advice.
One of my brother cadets and myself recovered;
and as we sometimes walked the deck together we
conversed seriously upon our recent escape from
the jaws of death. It was pleasant to us to receive
the hearty congratulations of our fellow shipmen
upon our escape, and we were both of us very
penitential towards old Palinurus, who had warned
us of our danger; but we had better thoughts
towards Him who had saved us from death, and we
became more and more thoughtful of life ever after.
THE WARNING. 251
We did not perfectly recover from our attack
all the time we were in the ship; but like two poor
sickly chickens in a farm-yard, we moved about
without that life and spirit we used to have. Yet
we were inwardly more cheerful every day, as we
talked, resolved, and prayed together. Men's
hearts are wonderfully softened towards each other
by affliction. It is a sure proof that affliction is
oftentimes a great christian blessing. It sobers
a man—it steadies him—and if it but sets him
to work to search after God, happy, thrice happy
is he.
We arrived, but invalids, in the Madras Roads,
and had to be taken on shore in the boats of
the country, which are the only ones fit to sur-
mount the surging breakers which surround the
coast.
At that day nothing could equal the kindness
and hospitality of the natives and settlers of the
various establishments to the European officers
who came with or without recommendations, if
they did but bear the characters of gentlemen.
I was received into a most friendly family
house, that of a Mr. and Mrs. Invan, under
252
THE WARMING.
whose care I quickly recovered my wonted
health. I soon received my commission as ensign
of the 15th Regiment of Native Infantry. And
now began my military career. I have no
marvels of bloodshed to tell of. Indeed, whilst
in India I was in no action whatever, for I never
was fit for it. Though all the officers were kind to
me, yet they saw in me very soon one that could
never stand the climate of the country. They
did not tell me so, but every parade day found
me, though with spirit to do my duty, yet with
such debility that more than once I had to be
carried out of the field into the barracks. They
loved and respected me for my cheerful and
soldier-like deportment, but the surgeon told
me I was afflicted with an enlarged liver, and
I should certainly die if I staid in the
country.
It was long a question with me as to whether
I ought to die or to return. I was at my
appointed post of earthly duty, as it then seemed
to me. But there were many others better
capable of discharging the duty, and as the
surgeon said that Europe would revive me, and
THE WARNING.
253
that I might live even to be an old man, reader,
ask yourself, what would you have done? Even
as I did, return and regain your health.
So I obtained a sick certificate and went on
1
board the Ann, and sailed again for Old Eng-
land.
OHAPTEB XVII,
the change.
I returned, "with several sick passengers, for
England. The vessel had been in the merchant
service, but was employed as a cruiser to protect
the coasting trade in the Indian Seas. She was
now sent home with despatches and sick troops.
It may be a very stirring time for nations who
have great risks upon the ocean, when war, and
all its accumulated horrors raging over sea and
land add to the devastation of the human race.
It seems to me wonderful indeed that any man
should like war, for war's sake; but warriors of
the bravest and boldest character are, in truth,
privately speaking, some of the gentlest of the
human race. The Christian, that is, the man who
THE CHANGE.
accepts Christ for his God and Saviour, will seek
peace and ensue it. He will conquer in himself
all those evil passions which lead to war, and as
he grows more towards perfection, will be sorry
even to feel anger.
Yet, in the day in which 1 sailed over the
ocean with an enlarged and diseased liver, and
rendered totally unfit for the service of my king
and country, I had not the serious thoughts I now
have. They were there in embryo, but not in
that state of development to which they after-
wards attained, and where they ultimately gained
the ascendancy.
Youth was then with me, and I saw not cer-
tainly the dangers and temptations of a blindness
which the rebukes of after life alone have cor-
rected. And yet I thought something of my own
prowess, skill, and seamanship. I even thought
of my own distinction. Little did I know what I
had yet to suffer.
"When we were in the Mauritius, Admiral
Uvedale, as the commander then off the Isle of
France, ordered us to assist in the taking of the
island, and as we had many troops returning
2-5 G
THE CHANGE.
invalided or upon furlough, we formed such an
addition as aided successfully in the retaking of
the island, after which we sailed for England;
but I was now an additional sufferer, for though
not able to go ashore, we yet had to silence some
forts, and received two or three sharp shots in
our hull, one of which sent a splinter into my
thigh, and occasioned me great agony for the rest
of the voyage. But this splinter occasioned me
to be honorably received at home, for now I was
a wounded soldier, and had full pay, and leave of
absence for three years.
It was during those three years that my mind
underwent a serious change. The reader will
easily discover from this narrative that there were
circumstances sufficient to create in me a change
of mind. I had seen something of the wide wide
world, and being of a very reflective and thought-
ful turn of mind, I became more and more
seriously disposed.
Am I the only man who has turned his heart
from thoughts of human bloodshed to the blood
which was shed for the sins of mankind? I
think not- No man is less fond of a coward
THE CHANGE.
257
than I am; but I confess myself to be very
cowardly when doing anything my conscience
disapproves. I suffered at that time a great
struggle in my own mind. Positively, I thought
that happiness, after all, was to be found much
more in the constant occupation of daily life,
than in all the fields of ambition in which I had
sought it, and but that my hand had not been
accustomed to toil, and that it was a' little too late
for me to bind myself apprentice to a carpenter,
so pleased was I with all I saw, that I would
have left all the advantages of my condition and
have turned carpenter.
Much of this might be fancy; yet it laid hold
of the mind with strong conviction that they
were the happiest of mankind who were the least
ambitious of personal grandeur or personal dis-
tinction.
This led to reading and reflection, and ulti-
mately to such a change of occupation as to be
important to me to the end of my days. I thought
seriously of resigning my commission and entering
the church. I did not promise to myself therein
any increase of emolument, but a change of
258
THE CHANGE.
occupation more adapted to that change which
my heart had undergone. I well knew that I
should have to work laboriously, and mentally as
well as physically; but these things seem easy
to a man who goes to the work quietly, but
earnestly. My old uncle smiled at my change,
but he could never defeat my arguments. I
had no wish to be a recluse, to shut myself out
from the society of my fellow creatures, but I
had a desire to be a clergyman ; and as, during
the war, there were many young men who left
the toils of education for the fields of ambition,
and cut short their present, if not their future
prospects, in the hope of obtaining distinction
by the sword, so were there some few whose
hearts God called away from the dangers of
seas and the pursuit of glory in foreign lands,
to pursue a course more congenial to piety, in
preaching the gospel of the great Captain of
our salvation.
Some, like Alexander, delighted in the idea of
conquering worlds, for the name and fame of
men. Some thought only of being a door-
keeper in the house of God, rather than dwell
THE CHANGE.
259
in the tents of those whose ambition allured
them on to the attainment of a perishable crown
of glory. As to myself, I thought that if I
qualified myself for the ministry, I might become
one of the same useful men in my generation
that I had observed in the case of others then
in orders. But my way thereto was not without
anxiety. In the first place, I was somewhat
older than young men usually are when they
go to college; and as I had undergone some
discipline with men and manners, the thought of
going back to that period of youth, and con-
sorting with youths in statu pupillari, made me
think again and again of the steps to be
taken.
As there was a scarcity of educated men in
that day to fill the office of the ministry, and
actually men were required who had a little
knowledge of letters and history, as well as of
mankind, and as I had not so- totally forgotten
all I had learnt under the Reverend William
Hepworth, at Botesdale School, and was not
deficient in common speech or address, I had
the vanity to hope that I might attain a position
260
THE CHANGE.
of usefulness and prominence in the church.
Friends I had, or I could never have gone
through the necessary steps for the attainment
of my object. Those friends, too, had delicacy
of feeling for me, and sent me as a fellow
commoner to Corpus Christi College, Cam-
bridge.
My object was to qualify myself to pass the
necessary examination in classical and theological
knowledge to gain admission into the church.
It was vain for me to attempt distinction at the
University. I had let slip the opportunity of
study which qualifies men to offer themselves for
honors. It was enough for me to study suffi-
ciently, so as to fit myself for the degree, and
then to offer myself as a candidate for the
ministry before the Bishop of Norwich.
"What a different life I now had at the
University. Shut out from the busy scenes of
life, no more a rover over the deep, my mind
turned from the mighty campaigns of Welling
ton, or the thundering guns of Nelson, to the
study of Paley and Barrow, Pearson and Stack-
house, and especially to the Scriptures.
THE CHANGE.
261
I had some little difficulty in reviving my Latin
and Greek from the long dormant corners of
memory, and still more difficulty in retaining
the idiom of dead languages, so that I might
see the explication of the writings of the learned
in theology.
I found great comfort in the tranquil study,
preparatory once more to active life; and though
I never presumed to have any pretensions to erudi-
tion, yet God had gifted me with sufficient ability
to enjoy that to which I devoted my time. This
I can say with all honor towards the fellows of
my college, who, perceiving the position in which
I was placed, and being men of liberality and
intelligence, they received me not only with
politeness, but with that hearty honest English
feeling which helps greatly a mind under any
disadvantages. Long may our universities
flourish, and be the places of rest for such men
as then showed themselves ready to lend a
helping hand to a student like myself, entering
their society late in life, and as a sailor and a
soldier, a bit of a doctor, and formerly a gipsy,
Avas now placed among them as a gentleman,
262
THE CHANGE.
and wore a gown, or garb of distinction, which
my age, more than my money, qualified me to
wear.
A little solid learning, well digested, is better
than all the superficial trash of modern days,
though science may run mad for new fields of
enterprise, and literature be talked of more than
imbibed. The pressure now made upon the
human mind towards perfection will, in its
generalisation, produce nothing at all. It will
be like men of old, ever learning, and never
able to come to the truth, and so unable to
reach comfort. Old as I now am, and little as
I ever thought, I knew, or understood, it amazes
me to find what upstart ignorance can profess
to know, and how very little it really under-
stands. But give me anything rather than
politeness and dishonesty, profession and insin-
cerity, a pretended courteous reception, and a
cut direct because of poverty.
The fellows of Corpus Christi were directly
the reverse of this, and they make me retain a
grateful recollection of them to my latter days.
I would rather have the blunt rebuff of honesty
THE CHANGE.
263
at any moment, than the studied politeness of
those whose whole ideas of life and manners
are matters of ceremonial taste rather than sin-
cerity. I would rather sit down at meat with
a poor and honest man, who was thankful to
God for the blessings of health and employ-
ment, and pursued his way in peace, and gave
me a hearty welcome, than I would dine with
a lord off gold plate, who invited me merely
to gratify his condescension. Not that I am
insensible to the kindness of any man—not that
I love the poor more than the rich, or the
merchant more than the mechanic; but, as I said
before, I love a sincere man, whether he be high
in the church or the state, in the cabin or in
the field.
I have known great difficulties in life—I have
been betrayed into many misconceptions ; but I
never found it a failing maxim, in the long run,
to ( keep the heart with all diligence, for out of
it are the issues of life.'
My acquirements at the University were of a
very varied character; for though I studied
divinity, I yet found in that seat of learning
264
THE CHANGE.
many pursuits congenial to a generally inqui-
sitive mind. I was always social in my dis-
position, and as ready to communicate knowledge
as to listen to it, so that I made up for the
deficiency of youthful ability by attention. In
due time I presented myself before the venerable
Bishop Bathurst, and was ordained. I had
various curacies in his diocese, but that diocese
being changed, I live in that which was once his
diocese, and I shall in all probability die therein.
I have never been otherwise than a curate, and
am now approaching three score years and ten;
and singularly enough, I am at this time doing
duty in that diocese, and beneath the very roof
where I was best educated.
CHAPTER XVIII.
the first curacy.
One's first curacy is always something stirring.
After many years of laborious study, a minister
of the Church of England has, perhaps, to take
up his abode in a solitary lodging in some
village. Some of the greatest divines and the
most learned scholars have been so treated.
And are there no pleasures in poverty and
lowliness? Are there no joys in humility and
cheerfulness? Are there no blessings attendant
upon the poor curate of the Church of England,
however much he may be looked at as insigni-
ficant, and a thing to be despised ?
I am not one of those now seeking for that
which is vulgarly called the loaves and fishes.
266
THE FIRST CURACY.
A provision, that is, food and raiment, was all
I had a right to expect; and the little I had
from friends, and the kindness I have met with
for my Master's sake, have been the all that I
have had for a laborious life in that ministry
in which I hope soon to finish my course with
j°y-
I was blest with an intelligent, pious, and
learned man for my rector; a man who never
refused to receive me at any hour; and though
afflicted with a disease in the chest, which
incapacitated him from the exertion of much
public speaking, yet he ever aided me and
encouraged me in the discharge of my duty.
I am not going here to enter into the dis-
cussion of my ministerial career, or to lay
before the general reader those holy experiences
of a country clergyman's ministrations, which
are for a future day to disclose. The more he
perceives of his own success, or the more he
boasts of his works; nay, the more he thinks
he has done anything as he ought to have done
it, the greater will be his danger.
In the course of my long life, I have seen
THE FIRST CURACY.
267
signal failures of all kinds; whole families ruined
by go-a-head projects in Old England; and
even in the fairest prospects of accurate specu-
lations. In the long run, the greatest invest-
ments of companies or individuals have produced
disappointment.
I have seen money amassed, estates purchased,
and strong men seemingly passing in the
grandeur of greatness, but reduced as suddenly
to my condition, and with the shame of having
been deceived, and having deceived others; but
the contented man is alone the prosperous one;
and the quieter his wisdom is, the happier he
will be.
Having been once an assistant surgeon, there
were many little opportunities afforded me of
making myself useful to poor families, but never
to the disparagement of that holy religion
which it is our glory to maintain. Oh! how
many did I see whose poverty was their mis-
fortune, and not arising from any want of
industry either. The poor curate had to visit
in distress, to minister the word of comfort,
to bind up the wounds both of broken limbs
268
THE FIRST CURACY.
and broken hearts, and to share in the deepest
sorrows, because he himself likewise was con-
scious that he was poor.
A poor clergyman, in this rich country of
England, is no uncommon thing, even where
the income of the parish is large. Many a
one at this moment has no money in a banker's
hands, who is supposed by the ignorant and
outward judging multitude to be well off. I
have lived long enough to know that very often,
between the rich rector and the poor curate,
there is not much difference as to the amount
of cash in their possession. Of course there
are exceptions, and there always will be; but
with many rectors and vicars whom I have
known in the Church of England, and many
whom I have served, I have seen such strug-
gles, such sacrifices, such desires to do good,
that many and many a time have I known them
to deprive themselves of an indulgence which
their years, their age, their fortune, and position
might require, in order that they should be able
to aid a brother in distress.
A rector has often to supply a curate's purse;
THE FIRST CURACY.
269
to support his schools; to maintain a position;
has, perhaps, a wife and children. He may have
a large parish. He may be a man of perfect
humanity and amiable disposition, and if so, his
charity will not unfrequently reduce him to
poverty. He and I, then, come to the same
conclusion; that though he is a rector, he is,
in a monetary point of view, little better off than
his curate.
I do not say that I have not known mean,
illiberal, and wealthy men, who, under the garb
of sanctity, have concealed all manner of covet-
ousness. I only mean to say, I have had little
to do with such men, neither do I desire it.
They have lied to my very face. I would rather
be introduced to the poorest union chaplain, and
call him my brother, than be intimate with such
men. But in the progress of a poor curate to
that bourne whence there is no return, he has
seen the liberal soul made fat, and watered with
the cheerful dews of heaven, when the miser
has groaned in the agony of dissolution because
he has no hope in heaven.
I was once called to the death-bed of a man
210
THE FIRST CURACY.
who was an immense speculator, a great agricul-
turist, and had superior tact, energy, and activity.
He had horses superior to every other man. He
had cattle no one could excel. He had imple-
ments of husbandry of the most approved kind.
He was by no means unkind to me : personally, I
speak of him with respect. He was a rough
unpolished man, but in the market he was highly
esteemed, and, certainly, he could say he owed
no man anything. What is the most singular fact
that man used to say to me that he owed his then
present greatness to his early reading of the Bible
Yet it was a fact, that, though that Bible had
given him the most excellent lessons of worldly
prudence, yet had that man neglected the one
tiling needful, and was almost as ignorant of his
Saviour as the heathen in the interior of Africa.
I visited this wealthy man as a friend, for as I
v/as personally acquainted with his family, and
he with mine, I was admitted into his sick room,
where, propped up in an easy chair, he was
looking down upon his premises, and thinking,
perhaps, of living to see another harvest, and of
enjoying greater speculations.
THE FIRST CURACY.
273
When I came into the room, he had just been
taking a glass of brandy-and-water, and in his
rough style he said to me,( Well, parson, how
are you ?'
* Thank you, sir, I am very well. I wish you
were the same.'
' Oh! I Ijsel a good deal better than I did last
night; but this plaguy cough troubles me.'
e You are very much altered, sir, since I saw
you last, and I should very much doubt if you
ever will recover from this attack.' Indeed, I
had been told his dangerous state by his medical
man.
e Oh, yes; I think I shall! I'm only fifty-four
years old, and my father lived to be ninety/
f It does not always follow, sir, that a man
lives as long as his father. I have no wish that
you should not do so, but I mean to say that your
outward appearance is very much against you,
and as you know I have been a bit of a surgeon
myself, you may depend upon it I should not
say what I do if I did not think it.'
fWell, I believe you are honest enough: but
you parsons terrify a man so!'
272 THE FIRST CURACY.
4 We do not wish to terrify you. Your own
conscience makes you afraid.'
' My own conscience ! What harm did I ever
do to any man? I have worked hard—I have
employed a great many men—I have always
paid them well—and what has my conscience to
accuse me with ? '
' My dear sir, many a man may say as you
have said, and yet know hut little, if anything,
of Christianity?'
' Christianity! why you are not coming now to
teach me Christianity. I have read the whole
Bible, and if you begin any one chapter, I
believe I could repeat verse after verse to the
end of it.'
f I know that I have heard you say this before*
and, indeed, you have several times given me a
proof of your wonderfully retentive memory in
this respect; but, my dear sir, it is not even the
knowing the whole Bible by memory—useful as it
is so to do—that shall give you any comfort and
satisfaction in your heart,'
* Bray what will then, Mr. Parson ?'
'Nothing less than the obedience of the heart
THE FIRST CURACY.
273
and mind to the doctrines which that Bible
teaches.'
* I know the doctrines.'
* Have you obeyed them ?'
* Why, yes, yes; as well as I could. I never
cheated any one—I never robbed any one—I owe
no man any malice—what have I done wrong ?'
* That very question convinces me that you
know nothing of that Bible which you have read.
You would never ask me what you had done
wrong, by way of pretending to defend yourself,
as if you had always done right. If you thinic
you have done right all the days of your life, the
devil has deceived you by a tremendous delusion,
and all your whole life has been wrong.'
' Come, come, Mr. Parson; you ain't going
to persuade me that I am so bad as all that.'
' I am not going to deceive at such a time as
this. I am not going to flatter you because you
have got wealth. I strongly recommend you to
set your house in order, to make your will, and
leave all your money to your poor relations, and
to be prepared for your departure to another
world. But I would not advise you to think you
18
274
THE FIRST CURACY.
have done nothing wrong. I would rather have
you think of your want of love to God. of
all your neglect of your Redeemer, all your
foolishness, all your covetousness, and hear you'
say,  God be merciful to me a sinner, than to
hear you seek to justify yourself in your own
righteousness, when, in solemn fact, you are now,
in the sight of God, good for nothing.'
He gave two or three stamps with his foot, and
his obedient wife came in. f Missus, bring me
another glass of brandy-and-water.'
She did so, and the dying farmer swallowed it,
and just at that time his magnificent Suffolk cart-
horses, the pride and glory of his heart, were
coming out of the yard with the young laborers
by their side. e Well, Mr. Parson, they are fine
creatures, are they not ?'
' Undoubtedly, they are, sir. They are very
fine specimens of God's gifts to us on this earth,
but you must learn to leave them behind you,
and as you have no son they will probably be
sold.'
f Aye; and fetch a good price too.' The
brandy-and-water began to circulate through his
THE FIRST CURACY.
275
veins, and the courage of his bold mind to rise,
and he actually became awfully jocose. 'I sajr
Mr. Parson, I'm a-going to ask you a question^
and give me a plain answer—do you think
they can show me such another team of horses
in the other world as those ? Come, tell me.'
* In the world, my friend, to which you are
going, I conceive that all things will be of a
spiritual character. I pretend not to define the
nature or occupation we shall there have. All
I know is, that you will never obtain the better
world without being conformed internally to His
character who has come from heaven, and is gone
to heaven to prepare a place for those who trust
in him. The spirit of a beast goes downward,
•and if your spirit is earthly and sensual, it will
never dwell with God.'
' But you don't answer my question.'
'Neither shall I pretend to do so.'
* Then why should I not wish to take those
beautiful cart horses with me to the other world ?'
' Whether you wish it or not, you never wilh
I advise you to think of some holier joys than
Suffolk cart horses. Think of and believe in Him
276
THE FIllST CURACY.
who not only gave you richly to enjoy every
blessing here, but who by his death has made
atonement for sin, that you might never die.'
f Well; I cannot stand much more of this talk.
I shall see you another day.'
i Perhaps not,' said I; * but I shall pray for
you.'
That very night the wealthy yeoman died ; and
though he had read his Bible, he had paid hut
little attention to the practice of its precepts.
He was careless—he was thoughtless. His affec-
tions were cset on things on the earth.' He
never attended Church, and I have my doubts if
the Sabbath day was not as it is to most carnally-
minded men—the most tedious day in the week,
because tney are unrefreshed by the worship ot
God.
CHAPTER XIX,
tbe jew.
The life of a curate of the Church of England
may prove as full of instruction as that of any
other man, provided it be told in simple truth.
To make a consistent humble Christian, the only
sacrifice which any man has to make is that of
his lusts, his follies, his wickedness, his ambition,
and whatsoever is hurtful to his brother or
himself. Nor need he retire into a monastery
for this, or exercise flagellations or actual
crucifixions of his own flesh—he has only to
curb his appetites and desires into as few wants
as may be consistent with his condition. He
will find this no easy task; but do not ever
27S
THE JEW.
let him attempt to please men, except for their
edification.
He cannot help the differences of opinion which
may arise against him. Only take heed that he
do not hold the truth in unrighteousness by a too
great conformity co this world, without the trans-
formation of his own inward self.
Men have plenty of opportunities afforded them
of setting a good example, without making too
great a fuss about it. But they who hasten only
to be rich, fall into a snare, and drown themselves
in perdition.
A few experiences have arisen of various kinds
even in a country curate's life, which may prove
instructive to others; for I have met with con-
tempt from some, pity from others; persecution
from some, and mistaken zeal from others. But,
upon the whole, more kindness and respect than
anything else, and where I have met with the
deepest and most severe disappointments, it has
generally been from my desiring or expecting
too much.
A few of my experiences of character will not
be unwelcome, I conceive, to those who are fond
THE JEW.
m
of, I will not say adventurous narratives, but
common-place occurrences instructively and truth-
fully narrated.
In the course of my visitations of men and
families, it is impossible for me to shut my eyes,
ears, or senses to the truth. I do not go to spy
out men's failings; God knows, I would cure them
if I could. My rambles through the world have
long been over, my youth is gone, my friends
are most of them departed, my money is all spent
except my stipend, which is under the one
hundred per annum, even with the increase
of Queen Anne's Bounty. Yet there is left
me cheerfulness of heart, the friendship of an
amiable partner to share my old days, and the
honorable kindness of one of my own profes-
sion, who soothes my age with his philanthropy,
which has with it no selfish exaltation over me,
but simply the Christian pastor aiding my in-
firmities.
I shall give some of my conversations with
various men who have come into my parish, some
to interfere with my flock, some even upon a
crusade as it were against me, but others to
280
THE JEW.
obtain what they could from my people by the
sale of their goods.
I was one day visiting a poor dying girl, who
had been to service in London, where the lady
with whom she lived let out lodgings in the "West
End. She had been in good circumstances, but
became reduced through the failures of her
family, and with her little portion, she hired a
house in Town, furnished it, worked in a thousand
ways with her fingers, and contrived so that the
letting of her house during the fashionable season
of gaity in Town, more than paid for the rent of
the whole year.
She kept but one poor girl from the country,
and with her aid discharged the toil of the
house. There are, no doubt, many such in
London.
Eliza Berens had been a very good girl in
her way. She was the only daughter of a
second marriage, and as her mother had been the
lady's nurse in the palmy days of her prosperity,
she took her nurse's daughter to help her in
adversity. The poor girl, never very strong in
her constitution, was a faithful-hearted servant,
THE JEW.
281
yet she overworked herself, and came home, as
hundreds do, into the villages of their fathers to
die.
' Well, Mrs. Berens, how is Eliza to day ?'
fI thank you, sir, she is not worse, but she
grows thinner.'
And truly thin she was. She had helped me
in my Sunday School, could read well, and
understood what she had learned. She could
listen also without distraction, and was able fully
to comprehend the truth as she had received it.
She was not neglected by my good rector or his
wife. There are little temporal blessings they
are constantly in the daily habit of supplying,
4
which I well know is no small item of their
expenditure. But mine were spiritual duties,
and it was in their discharge that I met, a singular
character.
Whilst seated there, a knock was heard at the
door. ( Come in,' said I, and in came ' Moses
Levi,' the travelling Jew. He made a respectful
bow to me, and as I had seen him many times
on his journeys from Ipswich into the villages
282
THE JEW.
around, I knew him to be a seller of trinkets,
knives, scissors, cotton, and various other little
articles.
He had brooches so like gold, that, were it not
for the price, you would think them to he so.
A fourpenny brooch is now before me, which, if
my Lady Freshwater had on, might be supposed
to be worth twenty, thirty, or forty guineas. The
pattern is the very newest, and with these our
poor village girls are tempted to vie in splendor
with their superiors. It is the same with every
species of dress. The silk, which, a few centuries
ago, was worth acres of land, is now sold at the
village cottage door; and girls take cloaks and
pay for them by instalments, get themselves set
down in a travelling pedlar's account book, and
so become his debtor. This is too much the case,
and induces them to be improvident and extra-
vagant.
(I see/ said Mr. Moses Levi, ' that you do not
want a brooch for your daughter, Mrs. Berens,
but do you want a pair of scissors, or a bodkin,
or a thimble for yourself ?'
' Not any, I thank you, Mr. Levi.'
THE JEW.
283
' Would you give me a glass of water,
Mrs. Berens, for the day is warm, and. I am
tired?'
'We have a little beer, if you would like it
better, Mr. Levi; my husband brewed a little
previous to his season for thatching, and you
shall be welcome.'
'I thank you, no, water will do ! Water, you
know, sir, is a great treasure in our country.'
This Mr. Levi said by way of letting me know
that wells in the East are considered as great
treasures, and as I was by no means desirous
of repressing any advance to conversation which
he might make, I said, ' You are quite right. In
your former happy land, belonging once to your
nation, Mr. Levi, a well of water was a great
treasure, and it is a very good thing anywhere,
for nothing can be done without water.'
' Nor without money either, sir. I toil all
my life and can scarcely get enough to buy
bread for my family. But I have to go and
seek purchasers. I shall not meet with any
here ?'
' Not to-day; but you have met with what
284
THE JEW.
you asked for, and the offer of more. You
asked for water, and this good Christian woman
would have given you beer, and is not that more
than you have a right to expect V
c Pray, sir, may I ask, without disrespect, and
what is it that you give them ?'
' I give them religious instruction. I bring
it them for their soul's health. 1 minister to
them, and your God helps me.'
c My God, sir ? You are not a Jew V
'In one sense I am a Jew, and in another
sense I am not a Jew. I am an Israelite—I am
an adopted child of your father Abraham, and I
have a bright hope of seeing your Father
Abraham in heaven.'
' Pray, sir, what tribe do you belong to ?'
' To the tribe of Judah and of Israel. But
I was not a natural born child of your father
Abraham. God adopted me into that holy
covenant which he made with your father Abra-
ham, that in his seed all the families of the earth
should be blessed.'
* But God led our fathers out of Egypt by
Moses, and gave them the law; and I am called
THE JEW.
285
Moses Levi, and am a direct descendant of the
children of Israel.'
4 And yet, do you deny the fulfilment of that
very promise which God gave to your father
Abraham ? Here I hold in my hand the whole
history of your nation. Here have I the account
of your troubles in Egypt. Here I read of that
blessed servant of God, Moses, and of Joshua.
Here I read of the delivery of the Law. Here
I have the law, the whole law, moral, ceremonial,
and civil; and here I see how you all forsook
the law, how you were punished, how you were
restored to favor. I read your prophets, I read
of your kings. I see their wisdom was to fear
God, and to keep his commandments. But I sec
how you despised and killed your prophets and
righteous men; and more, I see how God fulfils
all his promises to Abraham and Moses, and all
the prophets, in sending you the Messiah, and
yet you rejected and reject him, and consequently,
you have for awhile lost the favor and counte-
nance of your God.'
4 Ah, sir, I see you Christians will hold that
Jesus Christ was our Messiah. We are taught
286
THE JEW.
to believe otherwise. We cannot see any more
virtue in you Christians than is in ourselves.
You are a clever nation—a trafficking, rich,
arduous, enterprising nation. You all love
money as much as we do, and though the term
Jew be used to denote riches, yet you all make
what you can out of one another, and as far
as I can see, are more ready to eat each other
up and quarrel one with another than we are.
How can you expect us to become Christians ?'
' Only by our kindness to you. Now if every
person treated you in the same spirit that this
very poor woman has treated you this day,
would you not think better of us ?'
' I confess I should ; but yet I would ask her
without any disrespect to you, sir, Why did
you offer me a glass of your beer instead of
water ?'
f Simply, because I thought it was more
strengthening to you on your journey; and
though I know you to be a Jew, and that I
did not want any of your trinkets, yet the King
of the Jews is my Saviour, and I know that he
loved and does love his own people. I know,
THE JEW.
287
moreover, that he loves me and my daughter,
and he has told us to love one another. The
favor I showed to you, I could not afford to show
to every man, even of our own church, who
is at work in the fields, though he were thirsty,
but I see in you this very instant a proof of the
truth of our own religion, that you are bending
under a burthen, and, though a Jew, you ask
a glass of water, and I gladly would give you
my best for my Heavenly Master's sake. I beg
pardon, sir, if I have spoken boldly in your
presence who know these things so much better
than I do.'
' You have spoken the simple truth, my good
woman, and you rejoice my heart to hear
you.'
f Well, sir,' said Mr. Moses Levi, ' I must go
on my way. At all events, I shall not forget
what I have heard.'
Here the poor girl, who had not spoken a
word to him before, looked at him and said—
Good by, Mr. Moses. You say you will
think of what you have heard; now just hear
what I say. When you do think, think of your
288
THE JEW.
sins. Think and repent, and as you know better
than a great many who call themselves Christians
what is meant by an atonement, know that God
only has made the one atonement that can take
away sin in the person of his Son, Jesus Christ.
Good bye, Mr. Levi, I pray God to bless
you.'
This was a lesson to me as well as to us all.
The strength of that meek spirit, overcoming its
natural weakness. Oh, there spoke a kind, a
holy, pure, and christian spirit. I walked home,
after prayer, with that poor girl's spirit moving
upon my heart, and reflecting even then upon
the truth, that an early death is better than an
iil-spent lite.
CHAPTER XX.
the coast-guardsman
There are very few variations in a poor curate's
life, especially where his daily duties are regularly
performed, and his time is divided between read-
ing and visiting the sick.
I was staying with an uncle at the sea-side. He
was a farmer in the parish of Hollesley near
"VVoodbridge, in the county of Suffolk.
It is a wild, wide, open country, and the
shingly beach upon the shore has a range of
Martello towers raised in the time of the threat-
ened invasion of Napoleon the First. God pro-
tect us from an invasion by any of his descendants.
4 Are you going down to the shore to-day ?' said
my uncle.
e I think I shall, I love to behold the ocean,
and I never walk by the shore without remem-
19
290
THE COAST-GUARDSMAN.
berin<? the mercies of God to me when I was
myself upon the broad sea.'
* If you should be there long you will in all
probability meet there one ol the strangest
characters we have lately had in this part of
the country.
'Who is he?'
' He is a coast-guardsman — a red-hot Papist,
one who has upset the country people here with
his jargon about the church to which he belongs.
He goes through the villages of Shottisham, Alder-
ton, and Boyton, making himself very familiar with
all the cottagers, and talking to them about their
errors. He does not scruple to declare that all
our clergy are heretics, that we are all aliens from
the true church, and that, in fact, there is not one
of us but must be lost unless we belong to the
church of Rome.'
' Well, uncle, he comes into your country and
begins a crusade against you; some one must meet
him and confound him.'
c Our po or people are not able to do so, and he is
so civil, so polite, so merry, and so insinuating, that
I can tell you he has persuaded many not to go
THE COAST-GUARDS MAN.
291
to church at all. In his consummate impudence,
he talks of obtaining absolution for them.'
e Perhaps I may meet him; at all events, should
an opportunity occur, I shall not be afraid to give
him a reply.'
I went to the beach that very day, and, as I
was walking along the shore who should I meet
but this Mr. O'Brien, a fine young man in his
bright blue sailor's dress, with belt and sword,
upon his march along the coast.
Now I was in an old rusty brown great coat of
my uncle's, with a handkerchief round my neck,
and the coat buttoned up close, so that I might
very well be taken for a poor tradesman or little
farmer.
' Good morning to your honor,' said the merry
hearted Irishman; ' I suppose you are seeking
health from the sea breezes, and may be you
require it, for you look but poorly.'
* I do not look so active and robust as you, and
yet I may be as strong in constitution as yourself.'
* May be you are, but you could neither walk,
talk, nor work against me.'
' I do not want to do either; you have your
292
THE COAST-GUARDSMAN.
-duties, and I hope you do them well. I do not
suppose you to be a coward, though I think you
feel a little different by day to what you do at
night.'
'And in truth you speak it, for by day one can
see his enemy, but by night he may take advan-
tage of us.'
'But I suppose you are pretty quiet now upon
this coast.'
'All very still indeed. There is nothing stirring
here. 'Tis the dullest country I ever was in. It
is enough to give me the vapors, and except in a
storm, when the vessels come dashing on to the
beech, and the country people are bestirring them-
selves, it is the same cold, dreary, stupid coast
from Monday until Monday comes again.'
'And yet the people here are as decent and
comfortable as any in the county of Suffolk.'
' I have not been much in Suffolk, but this I
lenow— that all the people here are lost in igno-
ranee. They know nothing, they have no life in
them; they are plodding and industrious, but they
have no fun, no spirit, no animation; they are
nothing like the inhabitants of the Emerald Isle —
THE COAST-GUARDSMAN.
293
 There all is frolic, light and gay ;
They dance, they sing, they romp, they play;
They trip it o'er the dewy grass,
And every man delights his lass,
And all they can they do display,
To drive dull thought and care away. '
'And that you call happiness 1'
' Pray what do you call it, sir 1'
' I call it thoughtlessness and folly.'
' Would you have us all to wear long faces and
be miserable ?'
'I would not wish any man to be miserable,
but I should not wish any man to be thoughtless.'
'Well, sir, we are not thoughtless; we have in
our country to go and confess our inmost sins to
the priest, and then we are forgiven, and we come
away with hearts light and gay from the confes-
sional.'
' And go and do the same thing again and
again ?'
' And then go and confess, and again get abso-
lution. Surely, we are happier than those people
who never get absolution.'
'We do not get absolution from man; we con-
fess our sins to God only, and in our public
294
THE COAST-GUABDSMAN.
service we declare that it is God alone who par-
doneth and absolveth all those who truly
repent and unfeignedly believe his holy Gospel.'
4 Are you a clergyman ?'
4 I am.'
4 I took you for a tradesman.'
' I cannot help what you took me for from my
outward appearance. I do not want to make my-
self conspicuous for any outward reverence in your
eyes, or any one's else, when I am walking by the
sea side, and save when I am officiating in the
public congregation, I seek no mark of distinction
except gentleness and propriety of deportment.'
4 You speak well, sir, but you must let me ask
you a question—Where was your church before
the time of Martin Luther ?'
4 We bad a church in England almost as soon as
you had in Rome. Tertullian in the year 198
asserts that even those parts of Britain which were
inaccessible to the Romans had been subjugated to
Christ. Eusebius attributes the conversion of
Britain to some of the apostles.'
4 Still, sir, you do not mean to say you had your
bishops from any other source than Rome ?'
THE COAST-GUA RDSM AX. 295
'I do mean to say that we had bishops irre-
spective and independent of Rome as much as we
hare so now, and God preserve them to us still/
'But do you mean to say that you can derive
valid ordination from the British bishops irre-
spective of Rome ?'
'Undoubtedly, I mean to say I do, because our
church does not belong to Rome, and God forbid
she ever should. We do not acknowledge that the
Pope of Rome has any authority in the realm of
England. He has had authority—he has usurped
authority over the ancient British church, and the
British church has in times that are past been
subjected to Rome, but we escaped from her au-
thority and have maintained our own independence
and desire never to return to her again.'
' I never met with so bold a man as you are,
and I want at my elbow father Latroni to help
me to combat with you. He would soon prove
to yourself, as he has often done to me, that you of
the English church are all heretics.'
I then gave him an outline of the early history
of our British church, before she became subjected
to the power of Rome, to which he replied, 'I
never heard this before, sir,'
296
THE COAST-GUARDSMAN.
(No, it is not likely; you have never searched
the records of the history of our church; but
have received only the traditions of your own.
Take my advice, and mind the duty of the coast-
guard service. If you bring us any good, we
shall be glad of it; but we do not want any
excitement of evil passion, rebellion, or infidelity.
If you wish for any conversation with me, I am
staying close by; so, farewell.'
The light-hearted Irishman departed, but I fear
not much benefited by what I had said, though
the country was soon after benefited by his depar-
ture, occasioned by his disgraceful moral conduct,
which became so reprehensible that he had to be
removed.
I was greeted upon my return to my uncle's
house with the salutation—
(Well, John, did you meet the Irishman ?'
' I did, uncle, and had a long confabulation
with him.'
I then gave an outline of our argument, the
information which I had afforded the Irishman
relative to our English church, and how for once
the coast-guardsman seemed to have met with
his match in talking.
CHAPTER XXI.
MARRIED LIFE.
It was with various conversations with my
uncle that the happy hours of my visit to the
sea-side passed away, and it was soon after this
that even a more eventful matter, as concerning
my future comfort and anxiety, took place; for
it was my lot to meet, at my brother-in-law's
house at Botesdale, a lady who in every respect
was adapted to make me an excellent wife. It
happened in that day, as will happen to the end
of the world, that people do meet who fancy they
could be happy with each other for life.
It had often been my privilege to meet with
many agreeable ladies, but not before to feel
interested in one whom I wished to share my
humble lot through life, until I met her. I was
298
MAItRIED LIFE.
a clergyman, and, according to the decrees of
Home, as a priest I could not marry. But
I became attached to my Sarah. Aye! the
old curate took a gentle wife, who in sorrow, in
sickness, in suffering, in distress, in anxiety
and trouble, has been the constant partner of
his life, and will, in all probability, close his eyes
in death.
Life has its cares, and always will have as long
as the world lasts. There is no man who enters
into life, that can live in it, but must have some
care or burthen which, if he knows not how and
where to place the weight thereof, must press him
down to the dust.
My wife and I have known many privations—
we have known many mercies; and I speak it
with resignation, that only in the cases of sick-
ness, which we could not avoid, and in some
cases of mistaken imprudence on my part—which
I shall not hesitate to declare, and in which my
poor wife has been the deepest sufferer—have we
known what it is to be unhappy. We have
never aspired to be great people, or to live
beyond our means, or attempted to launch out
MARRIED LIFE.
299
into anything of luxury, because we could never
afford it.
We did not forget to invite Mog and her
husband to come and see us. The day they came,
I had been taking a walk far into the country,
and as I returned home, I passed a farm house
whence I saw a woman run screaming from the
door, and her husband after her with a broom-
stick in his hand, with which he most unmerci-
fully belabored the poor woman's back, and
knocked her down. I was a young married man
at that time, and certainly had high notions of,
at least, domestic kindness towards the partner
of my days, and my blood boiled within me at
the sight of a helpless female thus unmercifully
treated by a man who looked big enough to fell
an ox. I acted, perhaps, rather too impulsively,
for I did not wait to argue with the man upon the
occasion. I knew nothing of the nature of the
provocation given him. I saw only a prostrate
woman most shamefully beaten with a broom-
stick. I leapt over the little low paling in the
front of the farm house, on to the grass plot
where the transaction was taking place, and with
300
MARRIED LIFE.
the activity of a sailor, and the energy of a man
of spirit, I tript up the heavy farmer, who fell
down upon his back ; and when my spirit was
up I did not stop there, for I took the broom-
stick and belabored his fat sides most heartily,
asking him at the same time how he liked it.
He was cowed ; but not so his most obedient
loving wife, for her blood was up in the cause of
her husband., and I thought she would have
broken my neck. My hat had fallen off when I
jumped over the pales, and my locks, which were
at that time profuse upon my head, gave her such
a hold that, had it been a mop, she could not have
held it more tenaciously. She gave me such a
chuck, that in one instant I dropt the broom,
and, but for the lady herself, into whose arms I
fell backwards, I might have had a broken
neck in my fall. I bolted from her, seized my
hat, jumped over the paling, and saying, 4 Good
bye, ye loving couple, good bye/ I scampered off
as soon as I could, laughing at my own folly, and
resolving never again to interfere between man
and wife, but to let them settle their own
disputes.
MARRIED LIFE.
301
You may suppose that Mog and my Sarah
"were not a little interested with this tale. The
sequel was a very awful one. It was not more than
a month after this event that, in passing that very
house, I saw all the blinds down, and a funeral
proceeding from the house. That very wife was
chief mourner, three little children followed with
her, and the laborers were carrying their master
to the grave. Upon inquiry, I heard that the
woman's just accusations of infidelity on the part
of her lord had occasioned her the broom-stick,
and that drunkenness had been the issue of that
man's irregular life and want of love for his home.
Delirium tremens had ensued, and the wicked
farmer had met a premature death.
We lived in the parsonage house at Bading-
ham, the rector having another piece of prefer-
ment at Ellough, in Norfolk, where he resided.
The first year of my matrimonial existence,
cheered and comforted as it was by the kindest
attentions of friends, rich as well as poor, con-
vinced me that there were many good-hearted
people in the world, who still participated in the
happiness of others.
302
MARRIED LIFE.
Scarcely, however, had my first year of married
life past away, before a double affliction fell upon
me. My father, who was rector of Wyverstone
and Wcsthorpe, was smitten with a stroke of
paralysis, and was recommended to remove to
Bury St. Edmund's for medical treatment. My
sister Margaret accompanied him, and my dear
wife and I had to remove to the parsonage at
Wyverstone.
My poor father—liberal, kind, and considerate—
had been a hard-working minister and a laboring
pastor, and having no other property than his
living, was compelled to sell it for the benefit of
his family. I had to be his curate and to dis-
charge the duty of family provider out of the
means then placed in my hands. The two
livings were purchased by two clergymen, both
of whom, like my father before them, have since
been compelled to part with them. Indeed, I
have lived to see them change hands twice, whilst
I have had to struggle on to be the poor old
curate, and to write this narrative.
It was not the only affliction attendant upon
my lot, for the very sudden change of affairs
MARRIED LIFE.
303
either increasing the energies or responsibilities of
my dear partner's position, superinduced a debility
of constitution, which impeded the powers of her
otherwise actively disposed body and mind, and
she who was the life and assistance of my curate's
home, became now my continual anxiety.
My dear father was four years afflicted with
paralysis, during which time he required all the
attention of my sister Margaret, and all the assist-
ance we could render him, but he died; and oh
that I could pay the tribute of respect I ought
to do to his memory.
I buried my poor father, and now found
myself a curate under one of those rectors who
had been presented to the advowson by gift.
The little property of that parent, after all his
funeral expenses were paid, proved indeed that
his treasures were not laid up upon this earth.
From six hundred a year to sixty pounds per
annum, is rather a sudden descent in the scale
of human affairs.
There were friends who felt that our circum-
stances, being greatly altered, were worthy of
their commiseration, and this commiseration was
304
MAllRIED LIFE,
shown in that polite withdrawal of themselves
from our society, which gradually dwindled into
acquaintance, and from acquaintance into total
absence, and from absence into indifference, and
thence into forgetfulness, until the old adage
was proved, that the rich have many friends, but
the poor is despised even of his own neighbor.
But another blow soon after followed, and that
was certainly a severe one. The benevolent
rector, Mr. Ii , whose curate I was, in my
poor father's place, was taken away, and a man of
fortune as well as a clergyman, came to reside,
built a new parsonage, established new schools,
and became an increased blessing to the parish,
though I found it injurious to my position.
I have lived to see the Rev. Mr. W
succeeded by the Rev, Mr. C , and death has
already laid his hand upon two rectors of that
parish in the life time of the poor curate, tne son
of the former rector. But the savor of good
men lives after them, and both Mr. R and
Mr. T7 have left memorials of their benevo-
lence and Christian charity, which live beyond
the grave.
MARRIED LIFE.
305
I had hitherto made myself useful in a wav
to many poor people, having been brought up a
surgeon, and having practised in various branches
of the medical profession, I had also been fond
of the study of the human frame, and had kept
up my reading upon anatomy and the medical
sciences. Serious thoughts came over my mind
as to practising the medical profession in con-
junction with my ministerial duties.
I had no preferment in the church except a
perpetual curacy. I occasionally assisted in the
discharge of duties for brother clergymen; but
I found that my dear partner was suffering, and
as much felt the want of active employment for
me as for herself. What, thought I, would, be the
inconsistency of»my practising surgery. I knew
some clergymen who were engaged as physicians,
aye, and eminent ones too, who had preferment,
and had great practice as well. Why should
I neglect the art of healing, of which I had
acquired considerable knowledge in my youth?
Was it infra dig ? It is not beneath any man to
try and earn his bread if he can, at any time,
provided he does not act dishonestly therein
20
30G
MARRIED LIFE.
I was a clergyman, but I had no employment
just at this time in that profession.
I had ability—I had activity. My brother-
in-law was a medical man, and had received
assistance from me in his profession. These
things dwelt upon my mind and made me
desirous of active exertion; so I resolved to set
up practice as a surgeon. I went and lived at
Rattlesden, where my fame as a practitioner
increased, and I began to feel an independence
arising from my own exertions.
My father, grandfather, and great grandfather,
were clergymen before me, long living in the
county of Suffolk, but from circumstances over
which the family maintained no control, necessity
had compelled us to part with all hereditary
patrimony in that profession, and I was the last
of that race, and then unprovided for.
I tried hard to maintain myself, and not to be
an incumbrance upon any one. To trade or
traffic in speculations of any kind of business by
which men usually gain their livelihood, I was
forbidden, but I saw nothing contrary, at triat
time, to an honest endeavor to make my talents
MARRIED LIFE.
307
subservient to my independence, in that line
of education to which my attention had been
drawn.
A poor medical man has hacking work, but,
if a steady quiet practitioner, he may get on
so as to gain independence, but he must look for
it among those who can pay for it—and they
must have very often a deal of faith in man, and
be themselves very ignorant, very patient, and
very poor creatures, to depend so much on human
skill.
I was getting up by degrees in my practice,
when my name was mentioned to the late Lord
Thurlow, my noble patron, a man whose memory,
as well as that of his present son, I shall ever hold
in the deepest respect. That good man had but
one living in his gift—and that was not a rectory,
not a vicarage—but only a poor perpetual curacy.
Nevertheless, that, augmented by Queen Anne's
Bounty, amounting only to sixty pounds per
annum, that nobleman presented to me.
As there was no glebe house upon the curacy,
my residence was not required, so that I could
still keep up my medical practice, and yet
308
MARRIED LIFE.
perform the stated duties of the curacy of Great
Ashfield, in the county of Suffolk.
I found in Lord Thurlow an intelligent and
liberal-minded friend, who, comprehending the
struggles I had to maintain myself, met them
with every encouragement he could give me.
It was through his kindness and liberality that I
was enabled to go to London, and make myself
master of one branch of my medical profession,
viz., midwifery, in which I felt my deficiency,
and without which, in many cases, I found that
I could not practise as I ought. Accordingly,
I attended the course of lectures, necessary to
obtain the medical certificate as to my profi-
ciency.
Lord Thurlow himself saw no impropriety in
my endeavor to perfect myself for country
practice, and yet he often used to wish that I
could entirely devote myself to the one profes-
sion, in which he considered that I should
avoid many contradictions, and perhaps some
opposition.
He asked me one dav plainlv whether, if Great
Ashfield were sufficiently endowed, I would give
MARRIED LIFE.
309
up my medical practice. I had no hesitation in
declaring that I would, or, at least, confine it to
its charitable exercise for the benefit of the poor,
and the optional recompence of any one who
esteemed my abilities.
His lordship seemed to weigh these matters
well in his mind. There was a lectureship in the
same parish, instituted by one Nicholas Tyrmage,
who left three hundred pounds to be invested
in the year 1620, for a preaching minister of
God's Word, who was to preach every Sunday
in the forenoon, in that parish church. This
money was invested in the -purchase of about
forty acres of land, called Hoo Wood, in Stow-
upland and Stowmarket. Land in Hackford
was also left for the same purpose, and the rents
amounted to about £98 per annum.
There were some other purposes, but con-
nected with the poor, the church, and the sexton,
evidently intended by the benevolent donor as
an augmentation of the poor preferment of Great
Ashfield. The property was placed in the hands
of trustees, who, up to the year 1813, used to
appoint the curate to the lectureship; but after
310
MARRIED LIFE.
that year they began to appoint some other
clergyman.
Lord Thurlow thought this a question which
ought to be decided by the law, for it was evi-
dently a detriment to the preferment that the
parochial minister should not have the advantage
of the pious bequest intended for him as a
'preacher of the Gospel,' and, as it had been so
long given to the former incumbents, he thought
it a stretch of authority in the trustees to give it
to another.
His lordship wished me to try the ques-
ti<m, and as he was patron, and interested
therein, he promised to see me harmless in the
expense.
It was in consequence of this, and from no
private malice, that an action at law was com-
menced by me, and all the question turned upon
the point between the article ' the,' and ' a.'
The words were not specifically  the preaching
' minister of the Gospel,' but a preaching minister';
so that, as the deed did not state who that was to
be, the trustees were confirmed in their judg-
ment, and 1 lost my cause.
MARRIED LIFE.
311
One affliction seldom comes alone. There gene-
rally follows another and another, in quick sue-
cession, to remind us all that it is a bitter, though
a wholesome cup, we have to drink. I was
made to feel most deeply the loss of that ines-
timable nobleman, the late Lord Thurlow.
He died not long after the loss of my cause
cohcerning the augmentation of the living. It
was not because of my pecuniary loss, but
there was in that man such a disposition
of kindness, that I felt the loss of him more
than I can express. He was always my warm
friend—always lent me the aid of counsel—
and was never backward in doing good. Great
was our loss, though he was succeeded in his
title and estates by a son who was even more
liberal and kind to me than his father. Not
only did he pay all my expenses in the law-suit
for which I had no written document, but in a
thousand ways he has proved that the bright
spirit of Old England's true nobility descends
with honor upon the son who imitates his father's
good example.
.Not long after the loss of one law-suit I found
312
MARRIED LIFE.
siiyself involved in another. I had been prac-
tising surgery, because I was originally brought
up to it, and I held no preferment then but the
perpetual curacy, and had none to look forward
to. The thought of laying by a penny for my
old days was tempting. I had nothing but to
practise in a plain way, improving by the increas-
ing knowledge of continued experience. That
some might think it derogatory to my clerical pro-
fession is but natural; but let such an one have
first a clerical charge, an active mind, an appetite
to eat, and a delicate constitution in the partner
of his existence, and only forty, fifty, or sixty
pounds per annum, and he need not be ashamed
to confess that he endeavored, by the exercise of
his abilities, not to be a burden to any one.
Why should not a clergyman, brought up prac-
tically as an assistant-surgeon, when not provided
for, attempt to earn his livelihood by relieving
humanity in the same laudable manner in which
surgeons constantly do ? I was regularly educated
for a surgeon. I was regularly educated for a
clergyman, and I was ordained by the Bishop of
Norwich as a clergyman of the Church of England.
MARRIED LIFE.
313
Let a clergyman have nothing to do with physic,
or he will get himself into a scrape. He may be a
country magistrate, commit men to prison, be
acquainted with highways and byeways, and be
a man of this world ready for any enterprise of a
public nature, but as to surgery, anatomy, or
physic, that he must not meddle with, though it
be one of the most humane and useful studies
to which he could devote himself.
Why a clergyman is to be debarred those
studies, or to be refused the liberty to practise
therein, whilst every man without the slightest
impediment, from the highest to the lowest, in
every grade and profession, lawyers, doctors, tea-
dealers, cobblers, bankers, and dealers, and shop-
men of all sorts, may be preachers, and be irre-
sponsible to any one, is a mystery.
The fact is, that the clergy are the only men
who must not make use of their talents and
abilities for the purpose of providing anything
above starvation for themselves and families.
We certainly see some who have interest get
livings given to them, and they can afford to
smile at the honest efforts of laborious indepen-
314
MARRIED LIFE.
dence. They, no doubt, will condemn me even
for this assertion. So let them. Both they and
I are, and shall be, answerable to the same
Master, and shall have to give an account of
our time and talents. I write not this in any
spirit of envy, nor of bitterness, but simply as a
matter of fact.
About this time I had a patient who had in-
flammation in her foot and instep, very violent, and
though decidedly not of a dangerous character, yet
her subsequent mistake, if not wilful, led to very
serious consequences. I ordered that she should
place it in warm water, not in cold. She did
directly the reverse, whether from mistaking my
advice, or from the natural idea of cooling her leg,
I could not tell. She did not follow my advice, to
a certainty. She placed her foot in cold water,
mortification came on rapidly and frightfully.
Another medical man was called in; the case
became exaggerated; the limb was amputated,
and the woman was recommended to bring an
action against me for the loss of her leg. Heavy
damages were sought for. She obtained a ver-
diet for ten pounds damages, and, of course, a
MARRIED LIFE.
315
hue and cry was raised against me, though I was
acknowledged to be a regularly educated prac-
titioner. I say nothing against surgeons. I know
all the jealousies of the profession. I well know
the hacking work they have, and the respon&i-
bility attached to the exercise of their profession.
I know, moreover, there are some of the noblest
and best of men, morally speaking, among them.
But I know that if it were not for the very fear-
ful amount of ignorance, and the dependence
which ignorant people place upon them, their
profession would not be as good as it is.
Had I been a surgeon only, I might not have
been persecuted on account of the unfortunate
case alluded to; but I happened to be a poorly-
paid and half-employed clergyman. Also I soon
found that it was useless to attempt to carry
on my practice.
Never shall I forget the kindness of the pre-
sent Lord Thurlow. It was noble. He pro-
posed that I should come and reside in the
parish of Great Ashfield, and live among my
people. He not only made the proposition, but,
to his honor, he built for- me, at his own
316
MARRIED LIFE.
expense, the nice substantial parsonage house
in which I now reside. It cost him a considc-
rable sum, and it exhibits the taste, as well as
the generosity, of the nobleman. Many may
have greater means, in a pecuniary sense, than
my noble patron, few have better hearts. I have
been witness to such sacrifices on the part of
that man as are worthy of all honor, but which
must remain for a brighter and a better day to
declare. I have known him repeatedly to rise
at midnight to serve his fellow creatures in
their misfortunes and afflictions. No man was more
active, or more desirous of doing good to others
than the present Lord Thurlow. I speak with
a grateful heart from experience, and I am sure
that others, if'they had the opportunity, would
'•peak it as publicly as I do.
CHAPTER XXII.
conclusion.
Poverty is no disgrace to those who are unable
to avoid it. Had I been brought up a shoe-
maker, I should have worked hard at the task,
and it would be, even now, no more disgrace to
me to make a pair of shoes, if I were able,
than for Prince Albert to make a portfolio of
drawings.
The clergy of England are bound by a solemn
declaration that ' the Bishop of Borne hath no
jurisdiction in this realm of England,' and as long
as there are as many as there are ready to seal
this testimony with their blood, and to suffer
persecution sooner than consent ever to join
318
CONCLUSION.
again that communion from which they have
once escaped, England may be assured of her
freedom.
Certainly, I would rather be a tinker all the
days of my life, and live honestly, and earn my
bread, than I would assent, consent, or give my
sanction to a life of perverted religion.
Poor as I am—a poor curate—yet I pray God
to preserve his church in our land, and to keep
us from every species of error and infidelity.
Few would envy an aged pastor with sixty pounds
per annum, living in a retired village, almost
deserted. Yet thanks to God, and to the kind
hearts which have ministered to us in our afflic-
tions, my wife and I have not wanted friends.
We have indeed been in considerable difficulties,
and have suffered from sickness, and calamities of
a private nature incident to all classes.
In fact, we found ourselves so badly off at one
time, that the very necessaries of life exceeded
our income, and I had to call upon my richer
neighbors and ask their pecuniary aid to help us.
This would not have been the case, could my
hands have found remunerating employment so
conclusion.
319
as to have stemmed the torrent of our difficul-
ties.
Lord Thurlow built us a house, and thanks to
his lordship it is one both durable, convenient,
and substantial, and will stand for generations;
and in these days when so < many men of fortune
enter the church, it may be the lot of one to
bring hither many a blessing to the poor of the
parish, when I, the poor old curate, am no
more.
It was conversation with a kind and generous
friend that led to the production of these pages,
and if kind hearts have sympathised with an old
pastor in the perusal of this narrative, it will in
every way be productive of comfort and happi-
ness to him and his good old dame in their
declining years.
It may be interesting to the reader to know
that I still live in the little parsonage of Great
Ashfield, in the county of Suffolk, provided for
me by my noble patron, and still pursue the
even tenor of an old man's days. We visit our
poor people, and minister in a small way to their
little wants. My house stands close to the road-
320
CONCLUSION.
side, is built in the Elizabethan style, and is a great
place in miniature. One dell of a meadow runs
along the road by its side, and the house itself
hides the little garden from the road. My church
is seen from the windows, and so are many of
my poor people's cottages. Lord Thurlow's
mansion is hidden by a hill, and he himself
is not resident.
I wish he was, but till he is again
God grant in health and peace he may remain ;
Joy will it be whene'er that welcome day
Shall bring him back amidst us here to stay.
We mourn his loss—Old England loves to see
Her nobles flourish 'midst her peasantry.
We are no slaves, no serfs, nor fawning knaves,
But free-born Englishmen. Our channel waves
Wash not the shores of tyrants—we are free
Alike from priestcraft and from treachery.
It is not monied men alone can show
That true nobility that we would know.
Freedom to speak, freedom to act in love,
Is all that any free born man would prove.
Is there one bliss superior to another,
'Ti.s that each man should love his Christian brother.
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