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PROVINCIAL PAPERS. 
 
0%, OR 
 
 ‘ “hy Re 
 a Nias Fala 
 
 ¥ 
 
PROVINCIAL PAPERS, 
 
 BEING A COLLECTION OF 
 
 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH HATTON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 W. KENT & CO., PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 Uy . 1861. 
 
 ~S 
 
MOTE ELC ODy Be REE 
 
 BRISTOL: 
 ‘a D. narioR maz, IEROR R OFFICE, SMALL STREET. 
 
 Par 
 
 on Ui vi ie mia it eat 
 
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 Ae GENO MIO Y Bey Ox. if naa is 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 ——_—. 
 
 Some of the papers forming this volume have 
 previously appeared in print, and led a vagabond 
 sort of existence, under a variety of guises, in the 
 miscellaneous columns of newspapers, travelling in 
 more than one instance to our colonies, and coming 
 back to me in Cape of Good Hope and Australian 
 
 mail bags. Others have enjoyed a more limited 
 3 circulation : these I have fitted with new clothing 
 y. (some with fresh titles) for longer journeyings. 
 =) Several of the Tales and Sketches appear now for 
 
 _ the first time, making up a collection of papers 
 “which have, at least, one merit—they are brief. 
 “> Anxious to please, I have naturally my mis- 
 givings. I fear that the affection which we all feel 
 _. for our youthful days has prompted the introduc- 
 i ‘ tion of one or two papers which are more interesting 
 
 : to myself, as early productions, than they will be to 
 
 -<the reader from their own intrinsic merits. There 
 
Vi. 
 is one thing certain, if I have been guilty of such a 
 mistake I shall soon hear of it—unpleasant news is 
 a quick traveller. 
 
 A great philosopher has said that there was no 
 book so worthless that he could not collect some- 
 thing from it. Colton says he has seen it observed 
 that we should make the same use of a book that 
 the bee does of a flower : she steals sweets from it, 
 but does not injure it. Read me in this spirit, and 
 the frail bark which I now launch, on the sea of 
 literary life, may struggle through the storms, and 
 shoals, and quicksands, it will have to encounter, 
 and induce its author, like a merchant whose first 
 ship has been successful, to despatch another in 
 
 its wake. 
 
 J. H. 
 
 * 
 
 Bristcl, 1861. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MY GOOD ANGEL .. 
 UNCLE JACOB'S STORY 
 SIX OFFICIAL PEN AND INK PICTURES 
 I.—OvuR MODEL POLICEMAN. 
 I1.—Ovur Fast POLICEMAN. 
 IIIl.—Ovur NEw POLICEMAN. 
 IV.—OUR MODERN COUNTY POLICEMAN. 
 V.—OvUR MopDEL County POLICEMAN. 
 VI.—OvuR PARISH CONSTABLE. 
 EARLY REMEMBRANCES 
 PART I,—CHILDHOOD. 
 
 PART IJ.—My First JOURNEY : DOROTHY AND THE MATL DRIVER. 
 
 PART III].—SUPPLEMENTARY : ROMANCE IN HUMBLE LIFE. 
 
 TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP 
 LOOKING BACK .. 
 JONAS THE HUNCHBACK 
 
 CHAPTER JI.—REVERY AND BURGLARY. 
 
 CHAPTER Il.—THE HUNCHBACK’S HoME AND THE HUNCHBACK’S 
 
 STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER III—RECORDS A WORKHOUSE INCIDENT, AND CON- 
 
 CLUDES THE STORY OF JONAS THE HUNCHBACK., 
 
 A STORM ON THE HOUSETOPS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 33 
 
 48 
 62 
 
 72 
 
 87 
 
Vill. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MARCH: A FAIRY TALE FOR A CHRIST- 
 MAS FIRESIDE .. 
 AN AUTUMN LEAF, FROM A CHAPTER ON TRAVELLING.. 
 ON KEEPING UP APPEARANCES 
 SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW 
 I.—THE LOVERS. 
 II.—THE OFFSPRING. 
 III.—THE OLD BRook WHICH TURNED UNDERWOOD’S MILL. 
 GOING UP AND COMING DOWN 
 THE RUINED COTTAGE ~ 
 LOCKING UP... 
 HOW I NEARLY LOST A FORTUNE 
 LITTLE MILLY 
 A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE 
 THE STATUTE FAIR 
 FIRE PICTURES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 90 
 11 
 118 
 123 
 
 145 
 150 
 158 
 163 
 169 
 174 
 180 
 195 
 
MY GOOD ANGEL. 
 
 THE dreadful wailings of the maddened sea, the 
 screechings of poor humanity struggling with 
 death in the ocean, ring no longer in my ear, 
 though they echo still in my aching heart. I have 
 been rescued from a mighty gulf, snatched from 
 the brink of the grave. There are flowers climbing 
 up before my window, and soft breezes are rustling 
 the leaves and the blossoms. The cold blasts of 
 Winter have been chased away by the zephyr- 
 breath of Spring, and when the Sun sends his 
 genial messengers to gild my latticed casement, | 
 am permitted to breathe the fragrant air and lift 
 my bruised body from this rural bed of peace. 
 
 Am Iawake ? Are the horrors of that dreadful 
 night, when we struck upon the fatal rock ; are 
 the succeeding months of pain and pleasure, in 
 this humble cot, but the moving panorama of a 
 dream ? No! it is all reality. The footstep on 
 the stair tells me it is real, and my nurse, though 
 an angel, is a Peri of Earth. Listen to her soft 
 tread! See how that graceful form glides into the 
 whitewashed room, and deposits the health-restoring 
 draughts on the little oak chest under the flower- 
 bedecked window. Hark ! now she speaks, soft 
 
2 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 musical words, like the murmurings of the streamlet 
 which I hear at nightfall. ‘‘ Am I better ?” did 
 you ask, my good angel? Who would not be 
 better, in body and in soul, when an angel is his 
 ministering spirit? She is gone! Would that 
 I could kiss even her shadow on the wall! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 When the raging fever was at its height ; when 
 I fancied myself again battling with the angry 
 billows ; when the waters rose mountains high, 
 bearing on their towering summits white foam, like 
 Alpine snows ; when the watery avalanches broke, 
 in all their angry might, threatening to engulf me 
 in their dunnest depths ; when my brain was on 
 fire, and delirium drove away bodily torture, and 
 shook me in its dreadful grasp ; even then I saw 
 that angel face look down upon me with its great 
 blue eyes, bringing transient gleams of Hope 
 (Heaven’s best gift to poor humanity) into the 
 vaults of darkness and Despair. And when, in 
 my lucid moments, I fancied that face merely a 
 portion of my wild ravings, My Good Angel came 
 to me, bade me be of good cheer, and ‘ be sure 
 to keep very quiet.’ Oh! who shall describe 
 the sweet sensation? It was the sunshine of 
 Paradise after the darkness of Hades. ‘I'wice was 
 I snatched from the grave ; once when rescued 
 from the sea ; once when saved from despair and 
 death on a sick bed, by that angel face which came 
 to me with the flowers of Spring and the first dawn- 
 ing of reason after the chaos of fever. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 These memories will come back to me, though 
 
 years have passed away, and Time has pencilled 
 
MY GOOD ANGEL. 3 
 
 my hair with grey. I see the flower - wreathed 
 cot in the firelight, and hear the crashing wreck 
 at sea when the wind roars across the commons. 
 The old memories come back in the evening of 
 life ; I read them in the smoke which curls up 
 from my pipe, when the night bird cries in 
 the cornfields. 
 
 Blessed are the dispensations of Providence ! 
 In shipwreck and in sorrow I found an angel. The 
 sweet face, which came to me with the flowers, has 
 been mine for many years, and, though it bears 
 marks of change, the voice is still the same—there 
 is the same loving light in the same loving 
 eyes ; and there are more angel faces ‘now to smile 
 upon me when clouds hang about the regions of 
 Hope. Those angel faces are mine, too, and the 
 soft voices call me—Father ! 
 
UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. 
 
 HAVING retired from public life, laid aside his old 
 legal wig, taken to covering his white head with a 
 bowler hat, and given up the musty atmosphere of 
 close chambers for the free and genial air of a 
 picturesque retreat in the North Midland Counties 
 of England, my Uncle Jacob, like a retired sailor, 
 has become addicted to spimning yarns. ‘Two 
 years ago I threatened that if he again repeated 
 that stock story of his about the mail cart business, 
 I would print it. Now, a short time since I 
 happened to drop in upon the good old soul, and 
 in the evening, when Jane, the housekeeper, was 
 a-bed, my uncle lit his pipe, and wheedled the 
 conversation into the old channel. I could see 
 what was coming, so for the sake of freshening up 
 my memory, that I might put the story in black 
 and white with verbatim faithfulness, I encouraged 
 the retired barrister, who thus related the story of 
 the Crossleton Mail and the attempted robbery :— 
 
 ‘You did not know Christopher Higgleston ? 
 Of course not—he lived in your father’s time. 
 Well, Chris and I were fellow-clerks, articled to 
 Tweezles and Son, of Crossleton-on-the-Derwent. 
 He was a good-hearted fellow was Chris ; but I 
 
UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. 5 
 
 never gave him credit for being so thoroughly 
 genuine as he proved himself in the little affair I 
 am going to relate to you. 
 
 “One fine, brisk afternoon, in the Spring of 
 1799, Chris proposed that we should walk as far as 
 Whitherton, a pretty little village, about four miles 
 from Crossleton, for the purpose of gaining some 
 particulars relative to a case we had coming on at 
 the March assizes. We went, did our business, and 
 paid the Plough a visit. A jolly place that Plough 
 Inn was, with its old-fashioned tankards, its prime 
 home-brew’d, its buxom wenches, and its great 
 fire-places. I shall always like that old place, 
 although the warm hearthstone and the cozy 
 company were undoubtedly the means of nearly 
 ruining Christopher Higgleston and your poor old 
 Uncle.” 
 
 ‘“¢ Never mind, Uncle, you are all right now,” I 
 suggested. 
 
 ‘* Ah, my boy, so I am, thank God and the law 
 givers. Well, to cut a long story as short as 
 possible, Chris drunk too much of the Plough 
 liquor. We did not start on our journey home until 
 night and darkness had obscured the highway, and 
 made Chris more unsteady than he would have 
 been under ordinary circumstances. Chris had no 
 walking-stick, so he borrowed, “‘ for the fun of 
 the thing,” as he said, a besom-handle of no 
 ordinary size I can assure you. Onward we jogged 
 as nicely as could be, but the night seemed to grow 
 darker and darker, until descending Witherton 
 Valley we could not see a yard before nor behind 
 us. IJ was just associating the dark glen with 
 thoughts of the entrance to Dante’s Inferno, when 
 
6 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I turned round and saw, far away behind me, two 
 star-like lights, which gradually increased in size. 
 Then the rumbling of wheels were heard, and | 
 knew that the conveyance must be the Crossleton 
 mail. We were half-way down the valley when 
 the mail was entering the top, the lamps looking 
 like two meteors descending upon us in the 
 darkness. 
 
 ‘¢¢ What’s coming,’ asked Chris—‘ devils or 
 lawyers ? 
 
 ‘“*¢ Neither, my boy. Only a notice of eject- 
 ment, which, if neglected, will speedily be executed. — 
 We must get out of the road.’ 
 
 ‘<The narrow road, Parson Freeman says, is 
 the right road,’ replied Chris, ‘ so I shall not quit 
 it, though I may turn out for—’ 
 
 ‘¢¢ The mail,’ said I. 
 
 ¢<'The male! No, I’ll not turn out for the best 
 male that ever walked.’ 
 
 ““¢Tt is coming a trifle faster than walking, 
 Chris,’ I urged. ‘ It comes at full gallop.’ | 
 
 ‘¢¢ ull gallop or not, it’s a male all the same,’ 
 said Chris, merrily ; ‘and I'll not knock under to 
 a male. ‘To a petticoat 1 bow, but to a male I 
 stand on my dignity ;’ and Chris kept in the middle 
 of the road. 
 
 “Now Chris was not thoroughly inebriated. 
 He was what they call in this county ‘ fresh.’ He 
 spoke clearly enough, and walked pretty well, but 
 he was very obstinate ; so relinquishing his arm, I 
 ran back up the hill to stop the cart, or caution the 
 driver. As soon as I came up with the mail, I 
 shouted, as loud as I could bawl, ‘ Keep to the 
 right ;” but the only reply was a crack of the 
 
UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. 7 
 
 whip, a plunge of the horse, and a dash at double 
 speed along the road. I ran after the flying vehicle, 
 but to no purpose. On it went, faster and faster. 
 At last it stopped. The two lamps seemed to jump 
 into the air, and bang! bang! went the reports of 
 a pistol. Then away went the two lights as before, 
 and when the valley had done repeating the bang! 
 bang! of the pistol, the echoes took up the clatter 
 of the horse’s measured gallop, and the rumbling of 
 the cart wheels. I was amazed. For a few 
 moments I could not stir from the spot, although I 
 clenched my stick with a grasp of iron. At last I 
 rushed along the road, shouting ‘ Chris,’ until I 
 stumbled over his prostrate form. : 
 
 *** Good God! what has happened?’ I exclaimed. 
 
 *** Nothing, nothing,’ said Chris, getting up 
 with his formidable staff. ‘ All right, Jacob, all 
 right.’ 
 
 ‘| did not trouble him with any more questions 
 until I had satisfied myself that he was not hurt. 
 
 *¢¢ T was in the way—the fellow was frightened 
 —took me for a ghost, perhaps, so let off his 
 infernal barkers,’ said Chris, now as sober as ever 
 he was in his life. 
 
 ‘With a peculiar sense of alarm I hurried my 
 companion on, and in ten minutes we were at the 
 village of Chawney. Arrived at the turnpike, we 
 were astonished to find about fifty men and boys 
 armed with sticks, the mail cart, with one lamp 
 shattered to pieces, in their midst. 
 
 ¢« Stop! stop!’ shouted the mail driver, ‘‘ Yo 
 need na go no further, lads. Here they are. 
 Thems the chaps!’ and rushing towards us, he 
 
 2 
 
8 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 presented a pistol at Christopher’s head, and 
 charged him to stand. Then the village constable 
 came up. 
 
 ‘¢¢ These are th’ devils,’ said the excited mail 
 driver. ‘I charge ’em both wi’ attempting to stop 
 th’ Queen’s mail and troying to rob and murder th’ 
 droiver.’ 
 
 ‘© « Nah, young gentlemen, what’s ole this abaht” 
 said the parish constable, who knew us both. 
 
 “© ¢ This is what it is all about,’ said Chris— 
 ‘move this vagabond mail driver and his pistol, or 
 T’ll smash his ugly head with this stick.’ 
 
 **¢ Boi gum, lad, oil shoot thee if tha doesna 
 oud thee tongue and gi thee sen up.’ 
 
 ‘Chris raised his stick. The mail driver’s 
 finger was on the trigger of a double-barrelled 
 pistol. Another moment, to all appearance, murder 
 or manslaughter would have been committed, when 
 the constable suddenly seized the threatening 
 pistol, and down came Christopher’s heavy stick 
 upon the pate of the mail driver. This was nigh 
 creating a general engagement, but the constable— 
 oh! he was a fine fellow was that old parish 
 constable—swore with a terrific solemnity that he 
 would be the death of him who struck the next 
 blow. The mail driver was not to be feared ; he 
 was completely stunned and silenced. 
 
 *¢¢ Now, gentlemen, just come in here and tell us 
 ole abaht it,’ said the constable, leading the way. 
 ‘The mail man charges yo wi’ attemptin’ to rob 
 and murder him. One on yo troied to stop him 
 half way up the road, and t’other ’tacked him 
 below, smashing his lamp wi’ a great cudgel. He 
 shot at t’ one as did that but thinks he missed him.’, 
 
a 
 
 UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. 9 
 
 ‘¢¢ It was I who struck him,’ said Chris. ‘My 
 friend has nothing at all to do with the matter, and, 
 as he has somebody expecting him at home and I 
 have not, let him go, for they will be anxious.’ 
 
 *¢* But he charges him wi’ aidin’ and abettin’.’ 
 
 *¢¢ ] tell you he had nothing at all to do with it. 
 It happened in this way. I was a little ahead of 
 my friend. The cart came up. One of the shafts 
 was within an ace of my back. Angry at the fool’s 
 carelessness, as he must have seen me, and fearing 
 lest he should drive over me, I turned round and 
 struck him. The force of the blow caused me to 
 fall, and it was lucky I could not keep my legs, for 
 in an instant the driver drew up, the horse reared, 
 soa a brace of bullets chased each other over my 
 
 ead.’ 
 
 “¢ Well, a’ul tell yo what it is; I know 
 yo boath to be real gentlemen and to be inno- 
 cent. Nevertheless I should be glad if Mester 
 Christopher would spend a noit wi me. I shan’t 
 tak him up, but if he stays wi me I’ll treat him 
 well, and yo Mester Jacob may go, oletho I doant 
 know whether I’m doin roit to let yo go.’ 
 
 ‘* Christopher stayed with the parish constable and 
 I went home. ‘The damaged mail cart and the 
 terrified driver were at Crossleton before me ; the 
 Crossleton Guardian had stopped the press to 
 announce ‘ A daring attempt at Highway Robbery 
 and Murder—the Royal Crossleton Mail stopped 
 by Highwaymen.’ 
 
 ‘¢ The town was all astir with excitement; but I 
 went to bed in peace, somewhat puzzled, neverthe- 
 less, in imagining what might be the upshot of the 
 adventure. 
 
 B 
 
10 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 *¢ Scarcely had I breakfasted next morning, when 
 the Superintendent of the Crossleton police entered 
 my apartment, ‘ with the magistrates’ compliments, 
 and would Mr. Jacob be good enough to accompany 
 the officer to the office of the magistrates’ clerk.’ 
 I went, and there found Chris, the parish con- 
 stable, the mail driver, and several magistrates. 
 One of the latter told us that he was extremely 
 sorry to see two gentlemen of our standing in 
 society in so unpleasant a position ; but however 
 much these feelings might agitate his mind ; indeed, 
 although he might be satisfied of our innocence, 
 still he must, with his brother magistrates, fulfil the 
 duties of his office. ‘ What makes the case look 
 more serious,’ he continued, ‘1s the fact that last 
 night was the very night upon which, once a month, 
 a large sum of money isdespatched by the mail from 
 the bank at Winterton ; that you, Mr. Higgleston, 
 had armed yourself with a dangerous weapon ; 
 that a pistol has been found, on the road where the 
 struggle took place, bearing the initials of you Mr. 
 Jacob ; that the attack was made in the most 
 lonely part of the road ; that you were planted at 
 different points to commit the robbery, if robbery 
 you intended. The broken lamp and the bruised 
 head of the mail driver bear testimony to the fact of 
 an attack having been made upon him, and there 
 are other circumstances which, at any rate, look 
 suspicious.’ 
 
 ‘When I heard about my pistol being found I 
 wasalarmed. I had lent it to Chris, only the pre- 
 vious day, for the purpose of shooting sparrows, and 
 he had never taken it out of his pocket. The 
 discovery of the pistol, Christopher's big stick, the 
 
UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. ll 
 
 lonely spot in the road, the value of the mail 
 driver’s cargo, ail seemed to form a chain of evi- 
 dence which appeared to be entwining itselfaround 
 us with woeful certainty. Oh! what a lesson that 
 taught me regarding circumstantial evidence. Just 
 let me stop to tell you, my boy, that, in all my 
 experience, I have found good come out of every- 
 thing that has ever happenedto me. That instance 
 of the treachery, which may lurk under circumstan- 
 tial evidence, has saved several of my fellow- 
 creatures from ignominious deaths; for, in my long 
 career at the bar, I have been enabled to snatch 
 more than one or two victims from untimely graves 
 to which circumstantial evidence would have 
 hurried them. It is a fearful thing to stand at the 
 bar of justice, and, conscious of your innocence, 
 see that the evidence is almost conclusive of your 
 guilt. But how much more fearful is it to stand 
 there without influence, without friends, and see 
 every little circumstance caught at and twisted into 
 evidence against you, whilst anything in your 
 favour is coolly overlooked. Ah! my boy, these 
 are sad sights—I have seen them. 
 
 ‘¢ Well, I will not weary you by going further 
 into detail. We were both committed for trial at the 
 assizes, heavy bail, however, being accepted. Poor 
 Chris was dreadfully cut up, and I felt queer, I can 
 assure you. It was indignation at being suspected 
 of dishonesty that sent the hot blood coursing 
 through our veins. I could have annihilated 
 everybody and everything; but I contented myself 
 with doing neither the one nor the other. 
 
 ‘¢ Our case was drawn up and explained in the 
 shape of a sort of petition from the burgesses, 
 
12 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 begging the Post-office authorities not to prosecute. 
 All the members for the county were working hard 
 in our behalf, whilst we scorned to say or do 
 anything, one way or the other, beyond explaining 
 the affair to our friends. Despite all this, we were 
 advised to leave the country, and forfeit our bail. 
 But we were determined to let things take their 
 course, except Chris, who actually hinted at making 
 some sort of a confession of his ‘ guilt’ and my 
 innocence, if there was any probability of such a 
 course making me safe. I would not hear of it. 
 
 ‘‘ Weeks passed away, during which time not a 
 stone was left unturned by our friends to stay the 
 prosecution. Two days before the assizes, infor- 
 mation reached Crossleton that the case was not 
 to be proceeded with, and that the authorities would 
 take means to publish their conviction of our inno- 
 cence. The mail driver was proved to be in the 
 habit of getting drunk, and it was shown that he 
 was of a very excitable temperament, and had twice 
 before brought unfounded charges against innocent 
 people. I must say, however, that in this case 
 he had foundation for his charge, innocent as Chris 
 and I were of the dreadful offence imputed to us, 
 and for which we might have been hung—yes, my 
 boy, your poor old uncle’s neck was once actually 
 in peril through a singular bit of that peculiarly 
 dangerous evidence which has hung many a man 
 before and since. 
 
 ‘¢ Now often, when I have been telling this tale, 
 some silly people have imagined that I had finished 
 at this point. Ihave not. When the assizes came 
 
UNCLE JACOB’S STORY. 13 
 
 on, I had business there, and went, not to give my- 
 self up to the officers of justice, but to give others 
 up. J had not been in court ten minutes before 
 one of the officials asked me if I knew anybody 
 else of my name, and a Christopher -, of 
 Crossleton. I answered the question, as even bar- 
 risters are sometimes apt to do, by putting another 
 — Why ” 
 
 ‘*¢ Because they are to appear to-day to answer 
 the charge of attempting to rob the Crossleton 
 mail, and murder the driver.’ 
 
 ‘¢¢ Nonsense,’ I said, my heart beating quicker 
 than usual. ‘The case is quashed—there is no 
 prosecution.’ 
 
 *¢* Indeed! We know nothing to the contrary 
 here. I am just filling up the indictment, and if 
 they escape the gallows they'll be transported as 
 sure as they’re alive.’ 
 
 ‘¢T never fainted in my life; but I nearly did 
 when this appalling announcement was made. I 
 assured my friend that there must be some mistake. 
 We both went to the Clerk of Arraigns, who, like 
 his brother officer, knew nothing about stopping the 
 prosecution. I was beginning to feel very queer. 
 
 ‘$< Oh! stay a minute,’ said the Clerk of 
 Arraigns, after a brief pause, ‘here are several 
 letters from London, which I have not opened 
 yet. There may be one about this case.’ 
 
 ‘¢ And, sure enough, there was. One of the 
 metropolitan dignitaries had neglected to send the 
 information of the withdrawal of the prosecution 
 earlier. I breathed again when I heard the letter 
 
14 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 read. But, after all, my official friend, who had 
 been busy on my indictment was right in one sense, 
 if I may be allowed, in my old age, to play with 
 a word—transportation was the result; I was 
 transported—with joy !” 
 
SIX OFFICIAL PEN AND INK PICTURES. 
 
 I, 
 Our Moprt POLICEMAN, 
 
 Nor to be met with in every street, nor, we may 
 say, in every town, Our Model Policeman is no 
 common individual. His firm step and manly gait 
 are in keeping with his close-fitting and neatly- 
 buttoned coat, and his white gloves are emblematical 
 of the purity of his character. He gives directions 
 to strangers without being disagreeable, and is as 
 deeply impressed with the interrogations of a 
 harmless countryman as he is with the question of 
 a swell—'* Haw! policeman, when—haw—does the 
 next—haw—bus—haw—start—haw ?” He does 
 not consider it necessary, in order to maintain a 
 character for vigilance, to apprehend two or three 
 harmless individuals during the week. He would 
 sooner prevent a robbery at any time than, for the 
 purpose of making “a case,” hide until one is 
 committed. He has a horror of beggars, but 
 cautions them before conducting them to the 
 station-house.. A row in one street does not drive 
 him to the next, and he is at a fire before the 
 engines. He has a professional affection for his 
 rattle, but does not consider it necessary to use it 
 
16 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 when a chimney is on fire ; neither does he believe 
 in bellowing ‘ Fire!” in a quiet neighbourhood, on 
 learning that smoke has been discovered issuing from 
 certain premises on another policeman’s beat, some 
 mile or two distant. He can see a pickpocket in a 
 good coat as well as a ‘‘ suspicious character” in seedy 
 black ; and he does not charge every individual 
 who is guilty of being poor with ‘ frequenting a 
 certain street for the purpose of committing a 
 felony.” 
 
 If an unfortunate workman has ‘taken a drop 
 too much with a friend,” and insists upon informing 
 the public generally that he has serious intentions 
 of deserting his home ‘until daylight does 
 appear,” Our Model Policeman persuades the 
 oblivious individual to be quiet, and even accom- 
 panies him to the end of the street without giving 
 him a “dig” with his staff as a prelude to the 
 station-house. 
 
 Our Model Policeman has a kind heart, and 
 can sympathise with unfortunate children who 
 commit the awful crime of having ‘“ no abode nor 
 any visible means of subsistence.” He does not 
 accidentally find the area door open whilst the 
 cook in Lansdown-place is at supper, nor does he 
 command every musical itinerant to ‘‘ move on.” 
 In fact, he is rather fond of music, but likes your 
 English musician best. He has a great dislike to 
 German bands, particularly objecting to the 
 clarionet solo parts. Foreigners generally he looks 
 upon with an eye of pity, but he has hardly 
 yet forgiven the Frenchman who one evening 
 applied the ‘‘ epithet” gendarme to him, in 
 conjunction with something about Parle vous 
 
OUR MODEL POLICEMAN. 17 
 
 Francais? It is a weakness with him to be sin- 
 cerely attached to England and its language, and 
 the only time, we are informed, that he was really 
 known to lose his temper, was when told by a 
 newly-imported Dutch seaman that “ de Dotch vas 
 better as goot as de English, and all mine broders 
 dat vas on de sea vas the best sailors vat vas.” 
 
 Neither a terror to poverty, nor a very bogie 
 amongst small boys, Our Model Policeman does not 
 make the most fashionable part of his beat the chief 
 scene of his perambulations. He is not addicted to 
 pestering nurse girls with inquisitive hints as to the 
 particular day of the month upon which their ‘‘ Sun- 
 day out”.occurs ; it can never be charged against him 
 that he isin the habit of straining his brief authority ; 
 nor can ‘invisible blue” be applied to him on the 
 fall of a shower of rain. But you should see Our 
 Model Policeman when he has a case before the 
 magistrates. Then it is that all the good qualities 
 of his nature are most truthfully exhibited, however 
 dull the bench or the public may be in noticing the 
 unostentatious and unsuspecting display of official 
 virtue. Taking an oath solemnly and devoutly, 
 he does not throw the Testament down with as 
 little regard as he would an edition of ‘* Joe 
 Miller.” Every prisoner is not known to him 
 ‘as the associate of thieves,” and, unlike many 
 of his cloth, he will not ‘swear till all is blue.” 
 Verily, he is a paragon—the beau ideal, the ne 
 plus ultra of his profession; but, unfortunately, 
 he is one of a scarce race. May his shadow never 
 grow less ! 
 
If. 
 
 Our Fast POLICEMAN. 
 
 He walks with the air of an officer who “ knows 
 a thing or two, rayther,” and has no objection to be 
 considered “a downy cove.” His whiskers are neatly 
 curled, and the back parting of his hair is as 
 complete as even the most fastidious flunkey could 
 wish. He delights in making every itenerant 
 ‘“ move on,” and has never been known to let a 
 beggar escape him—f the solicitor of alms happened 
 to be a woman or a child. Rows and fires are 
 his abhorrence. Whilst the former occurrence 
 drives him a mile off, the latter only makes him 
 spring his rattle and alarm everybody, and he 
 generally reaches the scene of the conflagration after 
 the arrival of the engines and fire-escape. If he 
 meets with a man so helplessly drunk that he can 
 neither speak nor resist, Our Fast Policeman 
 arrests” him for being ‘drunk and disorderly.” 
 
 Strangers, who are not exceedingly well dressed, 
 need not anticipate any geographical or topographi- 
 cal assistance from Our Fast Policeman, whose 
 sympathies are only to be moved by the higher 
 classes of society. He is meanly servile to ear 
 trumpets, gold canes, and eye glasses. A lost 
 poodle, or a stray parrot, excites all his sympathies ; 
 but a lost child, in a blue pinafore, he takes to the 
 station-house at once, for ‘‘ wandering abroad and 
 soliciting alms, contrary to the statute in that case 
 
OUR FAST POLICEMAN, 19 
 
 made and provided.” ‘To little boys he is as great 
 a terror as hog’s fat is to a Sepoy ; and he is 
 very officious to perambulators, when the nurse 
 is unknown to him. In aristocratic localities he 
 twirls a flower between the thumb and forefinger 
 of his white-gloved hand. Always inquisitive as 
 to the contents and destination of butchers’ trays, he 
 takes an interest in cooks, and studies the peculiar 
 culinary abilities of each, making their acquaintance 
 by finding the area door open, and suspiciously 
 suggesting, ‘‘ All right ?” as though he expected 
 
 ~to find housebreakers in the neighbourhood, albeit, 
 nothing would frighten him more than a burglar, 
 especially a masked one. : 
 
 At fétes and galas Our Fast Policeman is a very 
 Boreas for bluster. He is a great man in a 
 thoroughfare where the traffic has been stopped for 
 a few minutes by a crowd; you may know him 
 by the noise he makes and the way he addresses 
 fustian jackets and boys, his commands, on such 
 occasions, being generally delivered something in 
 this style—‘‘ Now, then ! Go a-head! Move on! 
 Push along! Come, be alive! Stir your stumps!” 
 Like the eccentric fisherman, who was continually 
 engaged in decoying, but never succeeded in entrap- 
 ping, a certain fascinating perch, the official under 
 review is always after one of the worst thieves in 
 town. He suspects ‘‘a party” who frequents a 
 particular market, and means to ‘‘ keep an eye on 
 him,” having ‘“‘ marked him” fully a week ago. 
 
 In courts of justice the ‘“ silence” of Our Fast 
 Policeman is most menacing, and he is a strenuous 
 opponent to persons entering the gallery at the 
 Assizes without a ticket—ora sixpence. When he 
 
20 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 has a little case before the Magistrates, he narrates 
 the particulars with official dignity, and has always 
 experienced great difficulty in taking the prisoner 
 to gaol. Does he know the prisoner ? ‘ Oh, yes,” 
 he says, with a mysterious look, ‘‘ he has seen him 
 afore.” Does anyone throw doubt upon a brother 
 officer, Our Fast Policeman can corroborate the 
 statement of the cloth, and will swear the prisoner 
 is the ‘‘ associate of rogues and vagabonds.” He 
 could say ‘‘ a thing or two,” nevertheless, about his 
 superior officers, and entertains an opinion, pri- 
 vately, that he ought to be an Inspector himself. 
 He can make ‘a case” with the most paltry mate- 
 rials, and is ‘‘ not particular to a trifle’ when he 
 has ‘‘ kissed the book.” He would sooner have a 
 ducking than a magisterial rebuke, but the rebukes 
 of his conscience have been treated with indifference 
 for so long a period, that the inward monitor has 
 grown callous, and allows all sorts of misconduct. 
 Save us from the Fast Policeman ! 
 
III, 
 
 Our New PoLicEMAN. 
 
 His clothes are generally a bad fit, and his arms 
 have the appearance of most independent limbs, 
 entirely beyond the control of their owner. He 
 walks awkwardly, and, in turning round, moves 
 like the wooden men in Noah’s ark when the chil- 
 dren give them a twist with the thumb and finger. 
 The leather stock round his neck is the principal 
 cause of this peculiarity, making him look 
 straight before him. His staff will persist in 
 peeping out of his pocket behind, and his gloves 
 are a serious infringement on the liberty of his 
 hands. He answers questions with a confused air, 
 and detests those sharp-witted youngsters who, 
 thinking aloud behind his back, make suggestions to 
 Bill or Jack about ‘‘raw Peelers’? and coats that 
 are ‘a tidy fit—rayther.” 
 
 Our New Policeman has considerable doubts as 
 to the proper way of rendering ‘‘ move on” in the 
 most commanding style, but endeavours to ‘‘ come it 
 strong” ina crowd. Ina row he labours under a 
 fearful excitement, and gives his arms full play, 
 swinging them about like the sails of a windmill. 
 He tries to apprehend the whole of the disturbers 
 of the peace at once, and, meeting with resistance, 
 deals sledge-hammer blows with indiscriminating 
 vigour until he finds himself minus his staff and his 
 senses. Nevertheless, he has always a desire to go into 
 
22 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 action for the glory of his profession. He patronises 
 his old companions, and ‘‘ lets them into a thing or 
 two” over a pot when heis off duty. He takes a pride 
 in his new dignity, and thinks the Superintendent 
 an exceedingly great man—greater even than the 
 Magistrates, although he looks upon the Mayor as 
 next to her Majesty. He is always thinking about 
 the oath he has taken to keep the peace and pro- 
 tect her Majesty’s lege subjects. It was a great 
 event that swearing-in business. He never thought 
 to become so important as to be expected to swear 
 (as he told a companion afterwards) ‘‘all that ere 
 about Queen Victoria and the peace,” and * put 
 his name to it” afterwards in black and white. 
 There was no mistake about it though, and it 
 made him feel exceedingly queer afterwards. He 
 detests the drilling he undergoes in the prison yard 
 before turning out in a morning, and writes his 
 reports with no small anxiety. He gives every 
 information in his power to strangers, and touches 
 his hat to his superiors with becoming modesty. 
 The first time Our New Policeman had a case 
 before the Magistrates is an event never to be 
 forgotten. Even on the previous day the young 
 officer was all anxiety and nervousness. During 
 the live long night he never slept but once, and 
 then only to dream of the Bench, prisoners at the 
 bar, prosecutors, witnesses, and magisterial rebukes. 
 Let us picture the eventful morning of his debit, 
 when he is called into Court with his prisoner. 
 On being put into the box he is very much 
 confused, drops his hat, and upsets an ink- 
 stand. Poor fellow! ‘The spectators grin, and 
 the Superintendent looks daggers at him, whilst 
 
OUR NEW POLICEMAN. 23 
 
 the Inspector pulls his coat and makes some annoy- 
 ing suggestion in his ear. ‘Then, in his official 
 eagerness, he kisses the book before the Magistrates’ 
 Clerk has finished the oath, which draws forth a 
 rebuke from the Bench. At last he commences to 
 state his charge against the prisoner, not in the 
 orthodox fashion of ‘‘ From information I received, 
 &ec.,” but in a rambling and hesitating manner, 
 appealing to the prisoner as to the truth of his 
 statement, and attempting to reason with him, 
 which elicits sundry other raps on the knuckles. 
 
 The case being finished, Our New Policeman is 
 ‘taken to task by the Superintendent, and ridiculed 
 by the cloth in general. But for all this he is fully 
 compensated at the end of the week by seeing his 
 name in print. How wellit looks! ‘ P.C. Smith 
 apprehended the prisoner.” He buys the paper, and 
 looks at his name with exulting pride. Gradually 
 he becomes better acquainted with his duty, and at 
 last merges, perhaps, into the Model Policeman, but 
 more likely, following the example of the majority, 
 becomes a fast P.C. 
 
IV. 
 
 Our MopEerRN County POLICEMAN. 
 
 About the official and officious individual who 
 forms the subject of the present picture, there is a 
 peculiar physiognomy, which distinguishes him 
 from the city or borough policeman at a. glance. 
 Our Modern County Policeman wears a frock coat, 
 which fits badly, and is seldom brushed. His 
 boots, if cleaned, like himself, seldom shine under 
 any circumstances. His hat is put on carelessly, 
 and he has a slovenly shuffling gait. He carries a 
 stick sometimes, and when out in the green lanes 
 of the country indulges in a pipe. Dull of appre- 
 hension, he generally makes a mess of any case 
 with which he is connected, especially if it is a 
 serious matter. A murder, for instance, is itself 
 thrice murdered in his hands, and he never captured 
 a criminal except by some extraordinary accident. 
 
 If his beat includes a village, which of course it 
 generally does, Our Modern County Policeman 
 makes himself tolerably disagreeable in the hamlet, 
 being in fact asort of human, or inhuman, nightmare 
 upon the happiness of the villagers. Does Giles, after 
 a walk amongst his pigs and poultry on a Sunday 
 morning, prevail on the landlord of the King’s 
 Head to draw a glass of his nut-brown ale, the red- 
 faced host is hauled before the magistrates by Our 
 County Policeman, and poor Giles made to give 
 evidence against him. Is there a village féte, Our 
 
OUR MODERN COUNTY POLICEMAN. 25 
 
 - County Policeman, in his sombre dress, mars the 
 sport of the villagers, smothering all the rural 
 felicity that was wont to exist, when lasses danced 
 on the village-green, whilst stalwart lads flung 
 aloft the hammer, swung the ringing quoit, or 
 jumped the well-set hurdle. Does a farm-servant, 
 returning from town, where he has been with a 
 load of corn, fall asleep on the road and lose the 
 control of his team, Our Modern County Policeman 
 pounces upon him, like a hawk on an unprotected 
 chicken. He does not caution the offending 
 labourer, tell him that he has committed an offence 
 _against the law, and bid him be careful for the 
 future ; but, in arude, vulgar bluster, inquires the 
 waggoner’s name, and either takes him, cart and all, 
 into custody, or summonses him to appear at the next 
 meeting of Magistrates, where a fine is inflicted, 
 and the County Officer rewarded for his vigilance. 
 Is there a cricket-match in the village, Our County 
 Policeman walks about the field with an air of 
 authority, and drinks as much beer as anybody 
 will pay for. 
 
 To the Country Squire Our Modern County 
 Policeman touches his hat with servile respect, and 
 the County Magistrate is a king in his eyes, whilst 
 the son of the County Magistrate is a young 
 gentleman to be honoured and obeyed. The Chief 
 Constable, however, is greater than all, for Our 
 County Policeman well knows that if he displeases 
 the head of the force, the humble County Police- 
 man may be dismissed the corps without reason or 
 complaint. Therefore, the Chief receives due 
 homage, for, in the eyes of the force, which he 
 calls ‘*my men,” none is greater than he. 
 
 Pa 
 
26 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ‘As a thief taker, Our Modern County Policeman 
 is, generally speaking, a signal failure, for it frequently 
 happens that unless he is personally acquainted with 
 the thief he will not take him into custody without 
 a warrant, and whilst that document is being - 
 obtained the culprit is off ; but if the miscreant is 
 known, if he is a villager, or a man not likely to 
 run away, he is generally ‘‘taken up” without 
 hesitation. When he serves a summons, Our 
 County Policeman does it in a mysterious manner, 
 frightening some of the unsophisticated country-folk 
 out of their wits. If it was a death-warrant he 
 could not be more serious in its execution. 
 
 As arule Our County Policeman is inferior to 
 the police of large towns and cities; but he 
 thinks himself superior in every respect, much 
 to the disgust of the city policemen. His 
 Inspector, however, has made this clear to his 
 mind by telling him that he is a government 
 officer—one of her Majesty’s policemen—not a 
 mere fellow in the hands of a mayor and corpo- 
 ration. 
 
 Sometimes you may see Our Modern County 
 Policeman in town. Would you like to know 
 him ? If you see a man dressed in dark blue, 
 with a frock coat and leather belt, the ordinary 
 policeman’s hat put a little on one side of his 
 head, a pair of badly-fitting trousers falling over 
 thick Blucher boots, an ungloved coarse hand, 
 an uncouth swing of the arms, a twig in his 
 mouth, or a stick in his hand, be sure that is 
 Our Modern County Policeman. 
 
V;. 
 
 “Our Mopet County POLICEMAN. 
 
 We only caught a glimpse of him once, and as 
 we feel a sort of presentiment that we shall never 
 see him again, we feel bound to give the world this 
 little sketch of Our Model County Policeman. 
 He is a well-made, middle-aged man, witha rough 
 but open countenance. His cheeks are ruddy 
 with health, and when he talks to you: he looks 
 straight in your face like an honest man. He fits 
 his clothes well, filling out every wrinkle in coat 
 and trousers. His hat shines even more brightly 
 than his boots, but his merry-looking eyes shine 
 brighter than all. He was brought up in the 
 country, and knows it fifty miles round. For ten 
 years he was the borough policeman of a county 
 town. When he resigned his place to take office 
 in the new corps he was regretted alike by good 
 and bad, and when his successor, ‘‘ who knew not 
 Joseph,” came, the change was felt most keenly ; 
 hardly a night passed without some disturbance, 
 because the new policeman ordered people about 
 in such a disagreeable manner, and apprehended 
 every poor mendicant in the place. Well, times 
 will change! The good borough policeman 
 merged into our Our Model County Policeman, and 
 was entrusted with the care of two villages and a 
 large district close to his old quarters. Since he 
 has occupied his new post he has been a credit to 
 
28 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 his new cloth. He walks round his prescribed 
 beat and observes everything. If he encounters 
 a drunken countryman he persuades him to go 
 home, or fetches the ‘‘gude housewife” to her 
 drunken partner. He will even assist the unhappy 
 spouse sometimes to put her old man to bed, and 
 the next time he meets the grateful countryman he 
 lectures him soundly for his fault, and tells him 
 how narrowly he has escaped the lock-up. 
 
 At village festivals Our Model County Police- 
 man, if called upon to be present, takes such an 
 interest in the rural games that his presence 
 rather stimulates than hinders the rustic joy ; 
 the children are actually so bold as to run after 
 him and climb his legs, whilst he pats them on the 
 head and laughs with them till his sides are like to 
 crack. Should the beer, from “‘ over the way,” excite 
 some brawling bore to create a row, Our Model 
 County Policeman interferes at once, and, with 
 firmness, quells the storm; or if the fracas grows 
 beyond the usual limits of a single fight, the ring- 
 leader is sure to be picked out and taken, be he 
 ever so burly and violent. He has a strong arm 
 has Our Model County Policeman, and a stout 
 heart, too. He would never think of apprehending 
 the least harmless of the brawlers whilst the most 
 violent was present. But it is seldom that he is 
 called upon to do much in that line, for he has a 
 way of managing these little matters more satis- 
 factorily without resorting to staff and “‘ bracelets.” 
 
 Is a hen roost robbed or a pigeon cote plundered, 
 Our Model County Policeman does not at once 
 pounce upon the first gipsy he sees, but investigates 
 the affair fully, proceeding, even in _ trivial 
 
OUR MODEL COUNTY POLICEMAN. 29 
 
 cases, with care and caution. He knows some- 
 thing of human nature, and observes the ways of 
 men generally. If he sees one man wantonly ill- 
 use another, or commit a robbery, or if he suspects 
 a man of having committed a serious crime, he 
 does not go creeping a mile or two off, wastin 
 time in getting a warrant, but takes the offender 
 whilst he has the opportunity. He is courteous 
 to all men, and fears none. In an evening he 
 sits at his cottage door and smokes his long clay pipe 
 with a contented relish, and he generally manages 
 to attend church once on a Sunday, walking out 
 with his wife in the afternoon, and nodding to 
 his village friends as he passes by. Is there a case 
 of ‘*’sault and battery” in his district, he does not 
 go to the parties and incite them to take out sum- 
 monses, but tries to cement the difference. At the 
 sessions, when he has to appear, he gives his 
 evidence truthfully, without insinuating anything 
 against anybody. What he has to say he says 
 fearlessly, and, when he swears, it is with reverence. 
 He is discreet in all his dealings, has tact and 
 judgment, and manages a case with the ability of 
 a lawyer, but with the fairness and justice of an 
 honest man. Such, briefly sketched, is the portrait 
 of Our Model County Policeman. 
 
vi 
 
 Our PARISH CONSTABLE. 
 
 Our last official picture is one of the past. Our 
 Parish Constable has recently ceased to exist. 
 There may be, perhaps, one ‘‘ outlandish” corner 
 of Britain where he may still live, but, us a rule, 
 he is ‘* gone out.” If we had an artist at our elbow 
 we should instruct him to sketch Our Parish Con- 
 stable labouring under the weight of a monster 
 extinguisher, labelled ‘* County Police Bill.” But 
 as we have no such valuable aid, we must e’en 
 make our own poor word-painting sufficient for 
 the purpose. 
 
 To our picture then. As we knew Our Parish 
 Constable, he was a kind and genial spirit, who 
 could drink his glass, smoke his pipe, and sing a 
 jovial song in tap-room or bar. He delighted in 
 gaiters and leggings, and often wore a brown coat 
 and an all-rounder. Sometimes he was a large 
 farmer ; sometimes he cultivated his snug freehold; 
 sometimes we knew him as a tenant on a small 
 farm, and at others as the proprietor of the village 
 general warehouse, where matches and butter, tape 
 and candles, mousetraps and broadcloth, treacle and 
 lace, black puddings and smock frocks, were all 
 exhibited in one window, and sold at one counter. 
 It was very seldom that he was required to do 
 anything in his capacity of constable, and when he 
 was called upon the call was often in vain—the 
 
OUR PARISH CONSTABLE. 31 
 
 duty which he should have performed often 
 neglected. Why should he trouble himself to 
 catch the stealer of neighbour Brown’s poultry ? 
 Why should he lose his time in chasing a tres- 
 passer in search of the squire’s game ? Why should 
 he take the trouble to go a mile or two from home 
 to catch the vagabond who fired farmer White’s 
 stacks ? He was never paid for these duties, and, 
 considering that a constable is seldom praised, even 
 if he does a good thing, Our Parish Constable was 
 too fond of himself and his comfortable home to 
 go running about the country endangering his life 
 and ease for nothing. People robbed and fought, and 
 committed all sorts of illegal acts, but Our Parish 
 Constable smoked as many pipes of tobacco and 
 drunk as many pots of beer as usual, and who can 
 blame him ? 
 
 If Our Parish Constable could attend to a case, 
 without inconveniencing himself, he would do it ; 
 but then he generally liked to get his prisoner out 
 of hand as soon as possible. . When he did interfere 
 in a village fight he entered into it with vigour, and 
 thoroughly vindicated the authority and honour of his 
 ancient office. Only on special occasions did he put 
 his power into force, and then it was more for the 
 pleasure of showing off a little than to benefit any- 
 body. He was always, however, great at an inquest. 
 To hear him open the ‘ crowner’s-quest”’ was 
 a treat—he could expound the law as well as 
 the first grave-digger in “‘ Hamlet.” He had many 
 friends and few enemies. He went to church on 
 Sundays. He never opposed the boyish sport on the 
 Fifth of November, which prompted the kindling of 
 bonfires and the discharge of puny ordnance ; he 
 
32 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 personally enjoyed the national custom of burn- 
 ing Guy Fawkes. If on the First of November he 
 caught a boy pillaging broken down railings, 
 or chopping up a ricketty fence, a box on the ears 
 would have anticipated the law, and saved the 
 boy’s character, as well as the county’s money. 
 
 If Our Parish Constable did not catch many 
 thieves, or exhibit cleverness as a constable gene- 
 rally, still we have no doubt, had he been stimulated 
 by a good salary, he would have been more active, 
 and in spite of his good heart, fees would, perhaps, 
 have put afew people into gaol who never deserved 
 to be there. ‘* Take him for all in all,” he was a 
 respectable, good-natured fellow. He did the state 
 some little service, and, what is more, the state got 
 that little service at a very little cost. In most 
 instances he was a fair-dealing, honest, upright 
 man—what he did, he did as well as he could, and 
 he never pretended to do that which he did not. 
 All honour, then, to Our Parish Constable of the 
 past, and all honour to him wherever he may 
 exist in the present. 
 
EARLY REMEMBRANCES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Yes ! simple were our joys in those bright hours, 
 Ere minds developed sought a loftier aim, 
 Young minds, unconscious of their slumbering powers, 
 Nor dreaming of their future thirst for fame. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 O tell him I have sat these three long hours, 
 
 Counting the weary beating of the clock, 
 
 Which slowly portioned out the promised time. 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 My earliest recollections are of vague and mys- 
 terious visits with my father to a carefully trimmed 
 grave ; of a strange and lonely existence in a house 
 surrounded by high walls and drowsy looking 
 garden plots ; of big oak panelled rooms and wide 
 staircases ; of a narrow cot, in a large room, which 
 fancy and nightly visits to the romantic regions of 
 dream-land peopled with hosts of curious visitors ; 
 of a very silent nurse who, when my infant mind 
 would expand itself into joyousness, would sigh 
 and weep over me; of quiet domestics, who went 
 about the old-fashioned house with a grave and 
 noiseless movement because my father would not 
 be interrupted at his studies. 
 
 I well remember the first visit I made from home. 
 My father had been taken seriously ill. Grief and 
 excessive mental exertion had impaired his health 
 
 E 
 
34 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 so seriously that his medical adviser had ordered 
 him to bed. The bells were muffled throughout 
 the house, and the adjoining highway was mufiled 
 also. Quiet and repose were absolutely necessary 
 to the invalid, and the doctor recommended that I 
 should be taken away into the country until father 
 had recovered. 
 
 Whether the sorrow occasioned by my father’s 
 serious illness, or the joy at my anticipated trip into 
 the great world, agitated my childish mind most I 
 cannot now venture to decide. But when Dorothy, 
 my nurse, informed me, whilst she smoothed my 
 pillow at night, that I was to go home with her 
 for a week, and that we were to start on the 
 morrow, I slept scarcely a wink for the pleasurable 
 anticipations which the announcement kindled in 
 my juvenile imagination. 
 
 I was up with the first ray of sunshine in the 
 morning, and on tiptoe at Dorothy’s bedside to see 
 if she had awakened to the fact that day-light was 
 dawning. Iremember how anxiously I watched 
 her good-natured face as she lay, with her arms 
 around her head, fast asleep ; how I listened to catch 
 the faintest sound of the church clock; how I 
 peeped through the half drawn window curtain 
 and saw the red tinge of morning rising behind the 
 distant hills, making the red tiles of the adjacent 
 town glow redder and redder, until I thought of 
 the pillar of fire and the children of Israel, about 
 which Dorothy was very fond of reading to me 
 on Sunday afternoons; how I wondered what 
 Dorothy’s father was like, and if she would go with 
 him to see her mother’s gravestone ; how I won- 
 dered if everybody had a mother’s gravestone, and 
 
CHILDHOOD. 35 
 
 if everybody was sorry for it; how all sorts of 
 strange thoughts and fancies flitted through my 
 little brain as I stood with my nose against the 
 window pane watching the break of day, until I 
 was very cold and fain to creep into bed again, 
 determined, however, not to go to sleep, and falling 
 into a sound slumber all the time. 
 
 Through the mist which now surrounds these 
 early remembrances, I see Dorothy in a black bonnet 
 and shawl, the latter fastened with a large white 
 anchor, for which she had a great affection, 
 because, as I learnt afterwards, 1t was a present 
 - from an old lover, who, disgusted with an appren- 
 ticeship to shoemaking, had taken to the sea as a 
 profession, and was in the habit of writing verses 
 thereon to his ‘* dearest Dorothea,” which he gene- 
 rally rhymed with ‘dearest dear.’ I can see 
 Dorothy at my bedside assisting me to dress and 
 packing up my little box. I can see her monster 
 trunk, fastened up in sacking, together with her 
 umbrella, parasol, bonnet-box, reticule, worsted 
 bag and knitting needles, all carried to the gate by 
 a red-faced individual, and deposited in the mail- 
 cart for Crossley. I can see myself carried to my 
 dear father’s room. I can feel his warm kiss on my 
 cheek, and my warm tears washing it away, and I 
 can feel the transient shadow, thus hovering over 
 me for a moment, flit away in my childish delight 
 at being lifted into the postal conveyance. I can 
 see the cart start, and I can see my father’s 
 window-curtain move, and his white face peering 
 out with a melancholy smile upon me. I kiss my 
 hand to him. He is gone, and I can hear the cart- 
 wheels rattling over the hard, echoing road-way. 
 
36 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I see the old-fashioned house of my father grow 
 less in the distance ; the antiquated gables no 
 longer stand out distinctly against the morning 
 sky; the trees around look like a black mass of 
 cloud. The house becomes a mere speck. Now 
 it vanishes in the distance, and I am looking 
 ahead for Dorothy’s home and the pleasant time 
 I am to have at Crossley. 
 
 Here, courteous reader, is the contrast between 
 Childhood and Maturity. In our younger days we 
 are ever looking forward, rich in hope for the 
 future, our pleasures being in the time to come. 
 When ‘the time tocome” has arrived and we are 
 men, we look back into the past and search for our 
 treasures in memory. Oh! that we brought with 
 us into our manhood more of the pure light of our 
 childish days! 
 
PART II. 
 
 My First JouRNEY : DOROTHY AND THE 
 Mait DRIVER. 
 
 Our home is by a woodland side, 
 Where beauty ever dwells ; 
 And from the door our eyes can glide 
 O’er flowering hills and silent dells. 
 The young rose through the window peeps, 
 Like maid with modest smile; 
 And through the night in fragrance sleeps, 
 And blushes all the while. ; 
 Anonymous. 
 
 The conveyance in which I made my first 
 excursion into the outer world of Chezzleton (a 
 little borough town in the north of England,) was 
 one which has now all but disappeared from the 
 highways and byeways of old England. It was a 
 comfortable well-to-do cart, capable of carrying five 
 passengers anda driver, besides sundry items of 
 luggage, and was dignified by the title of ‘‘ The 
 Royal Mail,” which appellation it was entitled to 
 by reason of its being the postal cart for Crossley 
 and Chezzleton. Although it had the appearance, 
 at first sight, of an ordinary spring cart, there was 
 something about it which, on inspection, left no 
 doubt that the conveyance was not a mere market 
 or carrier’s cart. ‘* In her Majesty’s service” shone 
 forth from every board and rivet. ‘In her 
 Majesty’s service” seemed to glimmer about the 
 decently polished axles, and the fact that the cart 
 really was in the service of its Queen and country 
 
38 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 radiated about the title, which was emblazoned on 
 the back, to such an extent that there could be no 
 mistaking the conveyance, humble as it otherwise 
 appeared, for an ordinary two-wheeled trap. 
 
 Will Tunster, a hale, hearty countryman, who 
 had been a rural postman before the days of 
 locomotives and telegraphs, was the driver. And 
 he was a shrewd fellow, too, was Will, full of 
 topographical facts and curious local information, 
 besides a performer on the bugle and a singer at 
 Crossley church. 
 
 Alas! Will and his cart are now both superseded 
 —he by a sharp, short-haired, ‘‘ horsey” looking 
 individual, and his cart by a red, sugar-loaf shaped, 
 high-wheeled chariot, constructed only to carry the 
 driver and his bags ; and for aught I know the old 
 Chezzleton and Crossley mail has descended to the 
 level of an ordinary market cart, or has become the 
 forgotten occupant of a lumber shed. 
 
 After sundry stoppages at road-side inns and 
 curious little post-oflices; after sundry performances 
 of “* Rory O’More” and ‘* Tom Moody” on Will 
 Tunster’s bugle, the Royal Mail arrived at Cross- 
 ley, a sort of half-mining, half-agricultural village, 
 about eight miles from Chezzleton, and equally 
 peculiar in its geological and etymological charac- 
 teristics. 
 
 As we jogged on through the little town we 
 passed long rows of newly-built cottages ; red, 
 burly-looking dissenting chapels ; beerhouses and 
 inns, identified by large swinging signs; farm- 
 houses, and well-trimmed hay-ricks; shops, with 
 windows temptingly set off with sugar, tape, nut- 
 megs, clogs, currants, mouse-traps, gingerbread, 
 
MY FIRST JOURNEY. 39 
 
 mops, buckets, Spanish juice, shot bags, marbles, 
 peg-tops, and a variety of other miscellaneous 
 articles. At intervals high chimnies towered above 
 the town, casting long shadows on the house tops, 
 and darkening the sky with rolling clouds of smoke. 
 On one side of the village the blackened fields 
 looked like gigantic cordage manufactories, the 
 coal pits being surmounted with long three-legged 
 erections, supporting a perfect net-work of pit- 
 ropes, which, propelled by steam, ran along their 
 iron rollers with an incessant whirr. Heaps, and 
 heaps, and heaps of coals (enough, my infantile 
 imagination suggested, to last Chezzleton for ever) 
 were piled along the roadside, rising, now and then, 
 into mountains of fuel. Troops of black-visaged 
 miners wended their way along the road to their 
 respective homes in the long rows of houses; whuilst 
 in front of the latter crowds of noisy juveniles 
 quarrelled over marbles, to the annoyance of nearly 
 as many boisterous mothers, who fought the battles 
 of their respective offsprings, in language more 
 noticeable for its energy than its refinement. 
 
 As the Royal Mail went jogging along, at any- 
 thing but a masculine pace, through these edifying 
 scenes, I began to be fearful that my visit would 
 not be so pleasant a one as | had imagined. 
 Dorothy, ever watchful, noticed the cloud of 
 apprehension which was settling upon me, and 
 soon dispelled it. 
 
 ‘We are nearly at home now, Master Ralph; 
 but it isn’t among th’ coal-pits, so thou needn’t to 
 be afraid, bless him,” she said, giving me an 
 affectionate hug. 
 
 ‘« He isn’t afraid at coal-pits, I knowa,” said Will 
 
AO TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Tunster, giving his horse a cut by way of 
 emphasis, and speaking with a broad Derbyshire 
 accent, which, were I to report it literally, would 
 puzzle many of my readers. 
 
 ‘“‘ Thou’rt not afraid on ’um, Master Winthorp ?” 
 
 ** No, sir,” I replied, fully impressed with the 
 dignity of the driver, and half-inclined, because of 
 his civility, to beg the favour of another tune on 
 the bugle. 
 
 ** That’s reight, moy little mon; thou moant be 
 afraid on ’um, olethough they’re not th’ noicest 
 things in th’ world. Nah that one younder, for 
 instonce, burnt up a hunderd chaps only a month 
 agoa. ‘hey cole it foire damp as does it. Well, it 
 may be foire damp or damp foire, but they can’t 
 damp t’ foire out, when it’s once agoin, and it’s 
 moy opinion there’s summut more in it than some 
 folks think. I’ve never been doon one on ’um, 
 not I, becos I oleways had a sort of objecshun to 
 "um, and since I’ve been to th’ institushun, as has 
 started here, and read abaht volcanics and that sort 
 o’ thing, it’s moy opinion as they sink them pits 
 too deep, and get into th’ Javer o’ foire asis in th’ 
 middle at earth, and that’s wot they cole foire 
 damp. That’s abaht the long and short on’t,” 
 said Will, evidently satisfied that he had said some- 
 thing very clever. ) 
 
 ‘¢ Lawks, Mr. Tunster, how you do talk, like a 
 book, I declare,” said Dorothy. 
 
 ‘‘ You'd rather I’d talk like a letter, Miss 
 Dorothy Cantrill, care of Christopher Winthorp, 
 Hisq., Chezzleton, Derbyshire, England, and if not 
 there, at Mr. Cantrill’s, post paid,” said Will, 
 holding his whip and ribbons in one hand and 
 
MY FIRST JOURNEY. 4] 
 
 gazing intently into the other, as though reading 
 the superscription of a letter. On pronouncing the 
 last word, he cast a sly intelligible glance at 
 Dorothy, who, instead of making any reply, put 
 the corner of her apron to each eye in succession, 
 and complained of the dusty road. This little 
 subterfuge, however, was without avail, for, by and 
 bye, the great tears rolled down her cheeks, and 
 she sobbed aloud. 
 
 And then Will coughed violently and thrashed his 
 horse, but finding that this did not repair the 
 mischief he had done, he turned sharply round upon 
 Dorothy, and, with admirable frankness, begged her 
 pardon in the traditional fashion—a thousand times 
 over—assuring her that he did not mean to hurt 
 her feelings. 
 
 Why Dorothy should have cried at all I could 
 not imagine, but I was quite convinced that Mr. 
 Tunster had been guilty of some very gross act of 
 unkindness, and until he had begged Dorothy’s 
 pardon a thousand times, (which in my infantile 
 imagination was ample reparation for any offence) 
 Will, despite his musical powers, was, to me, the 
 most odious person in existence. 
 
 The little storm blown over, Will commenced to 
 blow his horn with unwonted vigour (but whether 
 the tune was ‘ Rory O’Moore,”_** ‘Tom Moody,” 
 or both, or neither, I believe neither Will nor any 
 other accomplished musician could have decided), 
 and we turned the corner of the road in which the 
 Cantrills resided. 
 
 The change in the scenery, as we entered 
 the by-lane, was a singularly striking contrast 
 to that of the adjacent road, being, I have 
 
 Be 
 
42 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 often thought since, as complete as the difference 
 between Bagdad and the enchanted regions which 
 surrounded that famous city. In place of the black 
 busy scenes we had just left we were now in a quiet 
 rural lane, fringed with hedgerows white with the 
 blossoms of Spring. On one side of the road was 
 a rude stone footpath, by the side of which rippled 
 a stream of clear water, irrigating a numberless 
 variety of cresses; on the other side a long verdant 
 streak of grass stretched away into the distance, 
 where Dorothy’s house lay half concealed amidst 
 a cluster of luxuriant trees. 
 
 Even now I can remember the sensations of 
 delight that agitated my little mind in the new 
 world which these scenes opened up before me. I 
 remember howI watched the white clouds that 
 floated above us, and wondered how they could be 
 as far off as Dorothy had often told me they were, 
 when I could see their shadows chasing each other 
 over the green and sunny landscape. I can re- 
 member the strange mysterious feeling of joy with 
 which I drank in everything with my anxious 
 eyes, and the deep longing I had to gather the 
 buttercups and daisies which shone like stars along 
 the road, and gleamed yellow at the foot of the 
 green and white hedgerows. I remember how my 
 heart throbbed when I was lifted from the mail 
 eart by Dorothy’s broadchested father, and kissed 
 by his kind hearted wife. I can remember how 
 quickly the day changed to night, and how, with a 
 sort of unconsciousness brought on by the sudden 
 and total change of scene, I was put to bed and 
 dreamed the sweet dreams which are only dreamt 
 in “ our angel childhood.” 
 
PART Ill. 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY : ROMANCE IN HUMBLE 
 LIFE. 
 
 It is not in the mountains, 
 Nor the palaces of pride, 
 That love will fold his wings up 
 And rejoicingly abide ; 
 But in meek and humble natures 
 His home is ever found, 
 As the lark that sings in heaven, » 
 Builds its nest upon the ground. 
 L. Blanchard. 
 
 There are homesteads which have witness’d deeds 
 That battle fields, with all their bannered pomp, 
 Have little to compare with. Life’s great play, 
 May, so it have an actor great enough, 
 Be well performed upon a humble stage. 
 Westland Marston. 
 
 Years, many years, had passed away when I 
 returned to these early scenes of infancy. Death 
 had added another dear name to that inscribed on 
 my mother’s tomb ; the Cantrills had ‘rested from 
 their labours,” and ‘little Ralph” was the father 
 of a family. As I passed along the old highway 
 which I had travelled with Dorothy and Will 
 Tunster, everything seemed strangely altered in 
 size. ‘The trees, the coal heaps, the cottages, all 
 had become dwarfed—the hills which my infantile 
 mind had exaggerated into mountains, seemed to 
 have dwindled into mere mole heaps. Yet all were 
 like old friends to me save where fresh creations 
 
44, TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 had risen up to despoil the peculiar character of 
 the picture. The house of the Cantrills was still 
 nestling among the trees, as though it formed part 
 and parcel of ‘the troop of leafy giants. 
 
 It was evening, and as I neared the house faint 
 sounds of a bugle, warbling the sporting echoings in 
 ‘Tom Moody,” fell upon my ear—a voice from the 
 days of childhood penetrating the mists of the 
 past, and carrying me back with mysterious alacrity 
 to days strewed with the bright flowers of 
 infancy. Nothing will sooner rouse into sudden 
 activity reminiscences of the past than the repetition 
 of a strain of music familiar to us in our early 
 days, and identified as it were with some 
 particular epoch of our life. Well does the poet 
 describe this sweet sensation in an apostrophy 
 to music :— 
 
 ‘* Mysterious keeper of the key 
 That opes the gates of memory, 
 
 Oft in thy wildest, simplest strain, 
 We live o’er years of bliss again ! 
 
 The sun-bright hopes of early youth, 
 Live in its first deep hour of truth, 
 And dreams of life’s delightful morn, 
 Are on thy seraph pinions borne!” 
 
 I felt the force of the poesy most acutely. In one 
 quick rush of memory my first trip into the outer 
 world of Chezzleton passed before my mind, a 
 panorama of yesterday viewed from the hill- top 
 of to-day. 
 
 I found Will Tunster still hale and hearty, 
 though verging upon the allotted age of fourscore 
 years and ten, sitting on a bench in the garden, 
 amusing himself neha his time honoured bugle, 
 breathing through its good old crooks the airs 
 
ROMANCE IN HUMBLE LIFE. 45 
 
 with which he had once made the welkin ring. 
 Dorothy, in a great white cap and apron, with a 
 handkerchief pinned over her shoulders, sat close 
 by knitting with matronly gravity. An old sheep- 
 dog lay asleep at the threshold of the house; a 
 great white cat sat lazily watching a blackbird, 
 which was singing a solemn strain on an adjacent 
 bush ; and a kitten was playing with a ball of 
 worsted that had fallen from the old woman’s knee. 
 
 It needed no explanation to make me understand 
 that Dorothy was Mrs. Tunster. Poor old soul, 
 she had grown almost absurdly like good old Will, 
 who, in his turn, had the very manner and carriage 
 of Dorothy. | 
 
 I need not go into the details of my reception. 
 It was hearty, ingenuous, and affecting, celebrated 
 with tears and laughter. 
 
 At a fitting opportunity, when Will was gone 
 out to do a ‘bit of carpentering,” I rallied old 
 Dorothy about her unfaithfulness to her sailor-boy. 
 
 ‘¢ Ah! moy lad,” said Dorothy solemnly, ‘it’s 
 a long tale, and a rayther foggy un at my toime o’ 
 loife to look back to. - But there’s no knowin’ what 
 were born to do and see. To think o’ Ralph 
 Winthorp, who I know’d and nursed when he wor 
 no more nor the height o’ sixpennorth a hapence, 
 bein’ a feyther, and me being a grandmother, and 
 boath comin’ together agean as if it wor to wish 
 each other God speed afore old Dorothy is laid wi’ 
 her poor old mother 7’ th’ churchyard!” 
 
 ‘* Now, now, your getting mournful, when I 
 wanted you to be merry and tell me all about the 
 sailor, and how Will made Dorothy Cantrill Mrs. 
 
 Tunster.” 
 
46 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ** Yes, yes, we are loike to get a bit soberer as we 
 get older, Mister Winthorp, and I donnat see but 
 why its only reight we should. We ma say th’ 
 same things as we've said as little uns, but we say 
 um wi’ more weight as it were—solemer like. Nah 
 my mester, he plays th’ same tunes he used to play 
 when I wor a little wench, but there’s not so much 
 loife in um now—they sound more feeling loike, as 
 if they’d had troubles loike us, and gett’n quieter 
 than they used to be. Poor Will, he’s been a good 
 husband to me, and a good feyther to his children.” 
 
 I could not get Dorothy to enter into any expla- 
 nation about her early love; but I learnt in the 
 neighbourhood, before I left it, the history of her 
 marriage, about which there is a halo of social 
 romance which might be spun into a volume, 
 though the heroine be but a simple country girl. 
 
 During the time that Will was persecuting 
 Dorothy with his unwelcome attentions, the sailor- 
 boy, referred to in my earlier chapters, ceased to fan 
 the flame of my nurse’s love with his graphic and 
 characteristic epistles. Month after month, year 
 after year, passed away, and no letter came to 
 Crossley from the runaway apprentice until évery- 
 body concluded that he was dead. In these years 
 of suspense Will Tunster became Dorothy’s friend 
 and adviser, and when her father and mother were 
 laid in the earth, poor Will seemed to be the only 
 soul to whom she could look for protection ; so 
 eventually they were married. <A year after their 
 union the village apprentice returned, rich with 
 _ prize money, to make Dorothy his wife. Poor girl! 
 The trial was great, but she bore it with all the 
 strength and fortitude of a wife and a woman. The 
 
ROMANCE 1N HUMBLE LIFE. 47 
 
 lover of her girlhood would have carried her off, 
 but she resisted his temptations. Will Tunster, 
 honest hearted Will, would have given her up, but 
 the woman having become the wife, was not to be 
 shaken in her honour and integrity. 
 
 ‘TI loved thee once, moy lad, and tha knows it ; 
 but nah and for iver, except as a friend, thou'rt as 
 dead to me as I thought thee when I stood 1’ our 
 oud parish church and bound mysen, for weal and 
 for woe, to Will Tunster, th’ mail driver o’ Crossley.” 
 
 Nevertheless, there was long afterwards a shadow 
 upon the spirit of Dorothy; but she was a true 
 wife to Will, combatting and conquering what she 
 regarded as the unlawful bent of her’ affection 
 towards her early love as boldly and as fervently as 
 a great titled lady, the heroine of a three volume 
 novel, might have done. Humbly, patiently, and 
 with enduring fortitude, did the good soul strive to 
 forget the past, and love, honour, and obey him who 
 had sworn to love and cherish her. In the end, 
 principle triumphed over passion, and Dorothy 
 came to respect her husband ; and as the duties 
 of the mother succeeded to the duties of the wife, 
 “a higher and a holier feeling took the place of 
 
 respect, and Will Tunster was beloved of Dorothy 
 his wife. } 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 
 No. J. 
 
 ‘Take you to the Chepstow Flower Show on 
 Tuesday ? Of course I will, my dear,” said Mr. 
 Charles Constance to his little wife, as ‘they sat at 
 breakfast one bright Summer morning. 
 
 ‘‘ T would rather not go if you cannot spare the 
 time, Charley,” responded Clara, putting a lump of 
 snow-white sugar into his coffee. 
 
 ‘¢T can manage it, my pet, and as I have won a 
 trifle on the Derby, I can afford you a new bonnet, 
 too,” replied Charley, laughing. 
 
 ‘* But —.” ‘There, no more buts, my dear, 
 we'll go to Chepstow, so get everything ready and 
 say no more about it,” said Charley, chucking his 
 wife under the chin. 
 
 Such was the manner of the engagement made 
 by Mr. Charles Constance, of Bristol, to take Mrs. 
 Charles Constance te one of the celebrated Chepstow 
 Flower Shows, and Charles thus describes the trip :— 
 
 It was a jolly day. ‘The sun shone out glori- 
 ously. The Hotwells was in a tremendous bustle 
 when we got there, at about eight o’clock. The 
 steamer was crammed with people, and, for some 
 time, I really thought I should not be able to get 
 Clara a seat. ‘‘ A falling drop at last will cave a 
 stone,” somebody says. It is a good motto to 
 remember when patience and perseverance are 
 required. I thought on it, persevered, and at last 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 49 
 
 both my wife and myself were seated. We had 
 not long to wait before the Wye was steaming 
 down the river Avon. There was a little quadrille 
 band on board, and the musicians began to play 
 as the boat commenced to ply. Vincent’s rocks 
 and Leigh woods seemed to rush by us as we went, 
 and the steamer made great shadows on the river’s 
 bank as she bounded joyously along, The water 
 was rather muddy, of course, but in the distance, 
 with the sunbeams upon it, the rolling tide shone 
 and sparkled like molten silver. 
 
 As we passed Cook’s Folly, an old building on 
 the Clifton heights overlooking the river, I told 
 Clara, for the tenth time, all about the legend 
 connected with the ruin ; how, in times gone by, 
 Mr. Cook, a wealthy man, had a son, of whom it 
 was predicted that he would meet with a fatal 
 calamity when he was in his twenty-first year ; 
 how this tower was erected by the anxious father 
 to preserve his child from harm ; how the son and 
 heir lived there, attended by a faithful servant, 
 until he was just entering his twenty-first year ; 
 how food and fuel were conveyed to him by means 
 of a pulley basket ; how the last night he had to 
 be left in his lonely apartment a bundle of fagots 
 were conveyed to him as usual, and in which 
 bundle a viper had concealed itself; how this viper 
 stung him; and how, on the next morning, instead 
 of being borne out amidst triumphant shouts, his 
 dead body was carried forth amidst weeping and 
 wailing. Clara, as usual, was almost inclined to 
 shed a tear at this painful recital, but I called her 
 attention to something else, and she was soon as 
 merry as ever. 
 
 G 
 
50 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 We made a comparatively rapid passage, and 
 there were hundreds of people to see the steamer 
 arrive at Chepstow. A band came alongside and 
 played a tune whilst we landed, and when we got 
 ashore we found a friend amongst the visitors. As 
 the Flower Show is merely an excuse for the excur- 
 sion, I proposed a trip to Tintern Abbey and the 
 Wyndcliff: agreed to at once. We made our way 
 to the Beaufort Arms, procured a fly, ordered 
 dinner for four o’clock, packed up some sandwiches, 
 and off we started. I never saw such scenery. 
 The more I see it the more I like it. Those 
 beautiful sweeps of rock and woodland, tier above 
 tier! The Wyndcliff rearing its head against the 
 blue sky! The river Wye winding through the 
 valley, now creeping slowly along, and now 
 bounding over the pebbles and making picturesque 
 weirs! The distant glimpses of the Severn, dotted 
 with ‘white winged craft!” The indescribable 
 beauty of the whole scene sent me into raptures. 
 Clara was delighted. Our friend grew poetic. 
 Our driver, an Irishman, said it was as ‘‘illigant 
 as Ould Ireland itself, and shure nothing ever bate 
 the ould counthry yet.” 
 
 “Tt is like fairy-land,” said Clara. 
 
 The thought presented a fitting opportunity 
 for a quotation—‘* Kingsley says, ‘ Wherever is 
 love and loyalty, great purposes, and lofty souls, 
 even though in a hovel or mine, there is fairy- 
 land,’” I replied. 
 
 “Tf love and loyalty make it, then we have 
 a fairy-land at home,” whispered Clara, with an 
 affectionate smile, as the old abbey merged from 
 behind the trees ahead. 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 51 
 
 ‘“¢ What a beautiful sight !” exclaimed Clara. 
 
 ‘‘And what a magnificent site” (spelling the 
 word), said our friend from the box, satisfied with 
 his bit of play upon the word. 
 
 ‘‘T hope its many a toime yet ye'll sight it, yer 
 ‘onner,” chimed in our Irish coachman, as he 
 flourished his whip harmlessly over the eo and 
 bade it ‘‘ come up, my jewel.” 
 
 On arriving at the Abbey we rambled over the 
 ruin and looked at it from every point of view. 
 We bought a printed guide, and Clara had a chat 
 with the old man who shows the building. - The 
 venerable guide (I mean the man not the book) 
 thought Tintern ought to be the first illustration 
 in the book. Being of the same opinion, Clara 
 established herself in his favour at once, and he 
 told her the legend about the founding of the 
 Abbey. We discussed our sandwiches in a secluded 
 part of the ruin, and discussed the legend at the 
 same time. Clara had no doubt about the truthfui- 
 ness of the story. I would fain believe the legend 
 for the sake of the extra charm it gave to the 
 Abbey ; but our friend, a bit of an antiquary, 
 would not allow us to take it all for granted. It 
 had its effect, notwithstanding, and imagination 
 soon peopled the ivy-clad ruins with shadows of the 
 past. The’daws made their antiquated cries above 
 us. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ivy 
 which clung to the mouldering stones. Green grass 
 grew where cowled monks once paced over orna- 
 mented pavements. Sunbeams came streaming 
 through crumbling walls. Broken columns and 
 ruined carvings lay at our feet— 
 
 “‘ Would they had tongues the deeds of yore to tell !” 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 exclaimed our friend, commencing a stanza of 
 Lushington’s, which I forget. The train of 
 thought, however, which it suggested was of the 
 past, with its dark tales of war and terror, 
 tyranny and tears. Hach of us conjured up 
 pictures of probable occurrences within the gloomy 
 walls, where “ hoary Time sits on his throne of 
 ruins.” | 
 
 When we had finished our sandwiches and 
 almost exhausted our theme, we started back again 
 to Chepstow. There were several dashing vehicles 
 on the road, and our friend feed our Irish coach- 
 man to give everything the go-bye, which he did 
 in capital style. When he had made a dash and 
 passed a trap, he would, at a convenient distance, 
 quietly turn himself round and perform sundry 
 bits of pantomime with the forefinger of his right 
 hand to invite those behind to mend their pace. 
 The challenges were accepted in several instances, 
 but Pat ‘‘bate them all intirely,” and we were soon 
 at our chosen hostelry again. Then we went to 
 the Flower Show, admired every thing and every- 
 body, walked about Chepstow Castle, amongst the 
 ruins of which the show is held, listened to the 
 music of the military band, spoke to several friends, 
 and returned to a capital dinner. Having washed 
 down our repast with some excellent claret, 
 my friend and myself smoked a cigar whilst 
 Clara dressed, and then we started again for the 
 steamer and Bristol. We had a good deal of 
 pushing and crowding to get aboard. The packet 
 was overladen. Hverybody was complaining. 
 The Fairy Queen, it was said, had left a number 
 of her passengers behind, and in addition to the 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 53 
 
 hundreds she brought down, the Wye had to take 
 these back. We made ourselves as comfortable as 
 we could under the circumstances, and the steamer 
 started amidst the cheers of a large concourse of 
 people assembled to witness her departure. 
 
 Another immense crowd greeted us at Bristol, 
 and after a deal of trouble in endeavouring to get 
 -a cab, we lost our friend, and had to walk home. 
 This was a little annoying, but the nice cup of tea 
 and ‘‘ frizzle,’ which awaited us at home, relished 
 better for the walk. The baby was brought to be 
 kissed. ‘The cat came rubbing its sides against 
 my legs. Clara handed me my slippers, and we 
 both came to the happy conclusion that we had 
 had a delightful trip, and had spent a most 
 agreeable day. 
 
54 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 No. IL. 
 
 “You know I hate trips,” said Mr. James 
 Grumpington to his wife, the other morning, 
 in reply to a question about the Chepstow Flower 
 Show. 
 
 ‘“¢ But you promised to take me months ago, and 
 I have prepared for it, and, what is more, I mean 
 to go, so there,” responded the wife, who had pur- 
 chased a large amount of finery for the occasion. 
 
 ‘“* Well, I'll see, I'll see ; don’t get prating about 
 what you'll do and what you won’t do ; just put 
 some sugar in my tea, and see if those eggs will 
 ever be ready,” said Grumpington, diving his 
 thumb into a letter just brought by the postman. 
 
 His request complied with, Mrs. Grumpington 
 followed up the attack. ‘I only wish you to say 
 whether you will go or not ; weeks ago you told 
 me you would take me ; but, of course, you don’t 
 care about breaking your word—oh, no!—nor 
 about taking your wife out for the slightest breath 
 of fresh air, though she should die for it, shut up, 
 like a nun, in this close place,” continued Mrs. 
 Grumpington, bursting into tears, by way of 
 jinale. 
 
 ‘* There, there, be quiet, do ; I suppose there'll 
 be no peace if you don’t go; I'll take you: but 
 mind, Mrs. Grumpington, I’ll not be dragged about 
 the confounded place like a spooney out for a day, 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 55 
 
 mincing and staring about, with exclamations of 
 ‘charming!’ ‘ beautiful!’ and such like, at every 
 touch and turn ; I hate it.” 
 
 Such was the introduction to the trip of the 
 Grumpingtons to Chepstow, on the day that our 
 friends, mentioned in the former sketch, were 
 there ; and the following is Grumpington’s account 
 of the excursion :-— 
 
 The day was awfully hot, and I had to get ap an. 
 hour earlier than usual. Ihad to wait for Mrs. 
 G. and bolt a blazing breakfast in consequence. 
 When we got to the starting point the steamer was 
 full of people. I had forgotten what they called 
 the confounded thing, and asked a fellow, with wide 
 trousers dangling about his legs, the name of the 
 packet. ‘‘ Why the Wye,” said the fool, with a 
 grin at his horrible pun, and a leer at me through 
 an eye-glass. I’d have all such puppies whipped 
 daily, had I my way! Mrs. G. was in a stew 
 because I couldn’t get her a seat. ‘‘ Was there ever 
 anything like it,” she said, as she tried to make her 
 way through a complicated mass of knees belong- 
 ing to people who were seated. Icould see she 
 was getting into one of her fits, and as I hate a 
 scene in public, I did my best to get her a seat, and 
 succeeded. Just as she had sat down, a fat old 
 woman and a dingy female, of an uncertain age, 
 crammed themselves down beside her, crushed her 
 bonnet, and made her cast appalling glances towards 
 me. Icouldn’t pitch into women before a boat- 
 load of people, so I turned my head and took no 
 further notice. After a while one of the she- 
 nuisances moved, and Sarah seemed more satis- 
 fied. When we started, a trumpeter, a harp 
 
56 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 player, and another fellow commenced kicking u 
 a row, playing against time, as though the chatter- 
 ing of the passengers, the bawling of the captain, 
 the splashing of the water, and the hissing of the 
 engine, did not make enough disturbance to distract 
 anybody. A lot of women sat next to where I 
 stood, and they began talking about the ‘‘ charming 
 scenery,” of course. 
 
 ‘‘ That's where Charlotte Pugsley was mur- 
 dered,” said one. 
 
 af Ah, poor thing,” added a second, “she has 
 gone to ‘her last account.” 
 
 ‘She has know’d what itis to suffer for her 
 misplaced love; ah! we are sadly misused and 
 prosecuted, we poor women, that we be,” chimed 
 in a sort of Sairey Gamp, the mother of a girl in 
 muslin and curls. 
 
 “But did you never hear nf the origin about 
 that place,” she continued, pointing to the 
 building called Cook’s Folly. 
 
 Perhaps not the correct one, was the reply. 
 
 ‘¢ Ah, it’s a melancholy legendry I can tell ’e,” 
 said the ugly old woman, doling forth one “of 
 the most stupid tales of nonsense I ever heard. 
 
 I scon moved from this quarter, but, there, it was 
 as bad everywhere. I tried to get into a chat with 
 a rather respectable looking man, who, I thought, 
 might have come there against his inclination, about 
 Italian affairs and the funds, but I found him a 
 noodle, full of nothing but trips and excursions, so 
 I tried to resign myself to the day’s calamity. 
 There was one good thing I had an excuse 
 for not sitting next my wife; I could not get 
 near her. She is a woman, however, and soon 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. sy 
 
 made herself at home with sundry members of 
 her sex. 
 
 We got to Chepstow at last, and passed under the 
 substantial-looking bridge, designed by Brunel, 
 called by sentimental stupids ungraceful, because it 
 is not full of curves and fancy work. I say it’sa 
 good solid affair, just such a bridge as it ought 
 to be. As the steamer neared the landing place 
 another set of noisy musicians came alongside, 
 and began blowing away in opposition to the other 
 set on board. How [ should liked to have sunk the 
 musical maniacs and their instruments too ! 
 
 We got ashore at last, and just as I and my wife 
 were fairly under weigh and bound for the Beaufort, 
 that jackanapes, Bates, came up. He had come 
 over alone, he said, and was just looking out 
 to join some party ina drive. He should like to 
 go to Tintern. 
 
 ‘Shall we go there, my dear?” said Mrs. G. 
 Of course I did not refuse ; it would have been 
 useless if I had ; so we started. 
 
 On the way, Bates talked a good deal about the 
 influence of scenery on the mind, and uttered no 
 end of twaddle borrowed from poets and madmen. 
 I said as little as possible. ‘The scenery was all 
 very well, I dare say, for those who like it ; but 
 the sun was blazing hot, and the dust blew about 
 in all directions. We sat behind an old hack of a 
 horse that crept along, and let every trumpery 
 _shopman drive past us, and to mend matters, the 
 driver, a chattering fool, pulled up every now and 
 then, to show us what he called the chief ‘‘ points” 
 on the road. ‘To hear him speak of the road put 
 me in mind of the fifty pounds Bates let me in 
 
 H 
 
58 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 for on the Derby, and the remembrance of it did 
 not at all contribute to my enjoyment. 
 
 When we got to Tintern we paid our shillings 
 (at least, I did), and entered. ‘There were lots of 
 people strolling about, and making comments 
 on the scene, reading ‘sermons in stones,” as 
 Bates said. Did they read the sermons they 
 might have read? that’s the question. Not 
 they! ‘The past, the glorious past,” was their 
 theme, of course. They talked of it as though the 
 days of priestly tyranny and feudal dictation were 
 things to be admired. ‘The abbey was a grand 
 monument of former days, sanctified by the lapse of 
 ages, and all that sort of thing. But the boobies 
 could not read, in the rotten stones, the history of 
 a rotten system of tyrannical dictation, priestly 
 rapacity, bloodshed, robbery, and murder. They 
 could not see, in the monument, as they called it, 
 a proof that systems formed contrary to law and 
 justice will not stand. Oh, no! they only saw 
 what they term the poetry of it. I like the prose 
 myself, and here one had it sternly enough, for 
 under one’s feet were deposited the bones and 
 ashes of the very men who made and carried out 
 the bad system, with their big house crumbling 
 about them. Near the centre of the building lay 
 a stone knight—with his great ugly head and 
 blunted sword—shorn of his legs, and rotting 
 to pieces over the grave of some wretched old 
 monk, who had once, no doubt, spent a very 
 jolly life, living on the fat of the land, grinding 
 down the poor, and confessing the women. Beau- 
 tiful poetry though, no doubt, if one could only 
 see it. As I happen to wear a beard, in which 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 59 
 
 _ Sarah says there are a few grey hairs, but which 
 statement I do not believe, Bates suggested that I 
 should form a capital accessory to the scene if 
 cowled and hooded and set to pace the cloisters. 
 Very witty, certainly ! A bystander laughed, but 
 I could not see the joke. 
 
 The guide to the abbey, or the showman, or 
 whatever he may be called, came and told us an 
 awful lot of rubbish about its erection and endow- 
 ment. According to his story a feudal customer, 
 named De Clare, a regular Blue Beard, married, 
 by her father’s consent, but against her own, a 
 pretty woman called Eva. They could not agree, 
 it appears, like a good many other people in the 
 present day. ‘‘ Incompatibility of temperament” 
 is the modern term for the complaint. Well, 
 De Clare ‘* put her away,” in the poetic fashion of 
 those days, by murdering her, as he had done 
 many others. Mrs. Eva, however, appeared to 
 him at night in her coffin garments (‘‘a grave 
 sight,” said that fool Bates), and bothered him and 
 his Father Confessor. To settle the spirit, the 
 priest advised De Clare to turn Pilgrim Crusader 
 (murder on a large scale), and build an abbey or a 
 church. De Clare, thinking this would give him 
 first-class accommodation in the world to come, 
 did so, and built Tintern Abbey. That’s the poetry 
 of the past! 
 
 We went back to Chepstow at last. Everybody 
 passed us on the road. On our arrival we went to 
 the Flower Show : more poetry and more romance 
 —the “noble ruins of the Castle,” ‘ beautiful 
 flowers,” &c. But, after all, it was only an exhi- 
 bition of women and millinery, an excuse for a lot 
 
60 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of vain-minded people to get together and show 
 themselves off in their best clothes, A wretched 
 band murdered several good compositions whilst 
 we were there; I thought the drumming was 
 tolerably good, ‘if noise was all that was aimed at. 
 There were a few nice flowers and vegetables ; but 
 as I like to see the former growing and the latter 
 cooked, I did not care much about them. 
 
 From the Castle, we went to the hotel, grubbed 
 in a hurry, amongst heaps of others, drank wine 
 quite warm, and then nearly broke our necks in 
 hurrying to the packet. 
 
 The vessel was crammed in every part; no 
 seat again. We had hundreds of passengers 
 more than we ought to have had. ‘There was 
 bad management fore and aft. I had no sooner 
 got aboard than the excitement and bustle nearly 
 knocked Sarah up. Ithought she would faint, so 
 hurried off for water. There was a most disgusting 
 pushing and crowding near the cabin, and in 
 attempting to descend into this den of close air and 
 tobacco smoke, I caught my foot in the protruding 
 garments of a fashionably-dressed female and fell 
 headlong down stairs, upsetting a porter with three 
 brandies and sodas, and causing considerable 
 merriment to everybody in the neighbourhood. 
 Of course my misfortune amused them. ‘They 
 were out for fun, determined to enjoy themselves, 
 and had I killed myself they would have laughed. 
 Fortunately the porter was stout (Bates sneered at 
 this expression when I was describing my mishap, 
 and charged me with an attempt at punning, the 
 scoundrel!) and I was not much hurt. In the 
 meantime, as I learnt afterwards, they heard the 
 
TWO PICTURES OF ONE TRIP. 61 
 
 ~ shout and the crash on deck. Sarah had seen me 
 
 fall down ; a nervous woman near her said some- 
 body had fallen overboard ; Sarah thought I was the 
 victim, and I only appeared on deck just in time to 
 prevent hysterics and heaven knows what besides. 
 
 All the way home the pushing and crowding 
 continued. Sarah’s clothes, which I shall find cost 
 me a pretty penny when the bill comes in, were 
 spoiled, and I never spent a more miserable day in 
 my life. I think of bringing an action against the 
 owners of the Wye for the value of Mrs. G.’s 
 attire. 
 
 When we got to the Hotwells hundreds of 
 people were there to see us come in. ' ‘I had my 
 corns trampled on in fighting a way through them. 
 I couldn’t get a cab when I had done so, and all 
 the drivers were saucy. We had to walk home, 
 and Mrs. G., who is no small body, nearly broke 
 my arm in leaning on it to rest her ‘‘ wearied 
 limbs.” When we reached home the children 
 were squalling, there was neither tea nor supper 
 ready, Mrs. G. blew up the servants; I banged the 
 doors and swore—yes, I swore—I would never go 
 out for another ‘‘ pleasure excursion,” by land or by 
 water, so long as I lived. 
 
LOOKING BACK. 
 
 What's past, and what’s to come, is strew’d with husks, 
 
 The formless ruin of oblivion. Shakspeare. 
 The velocity with which time flies is infinite, as is most apparent 
 to those who look back. Seneca. 
 
 Time, with its mighty strides, will soon reach another generation, 
 and leave the present in death and forgetfulness behind it. 
 Dr. Chalmers. 
 
 As mimic clouds passing over the deep, Memory 
 wafts the shadows of the past over the heart. One 
 by one they disappear—a mournful procession of 
 blighted hopes and mis-spent hours. How vividly 
 Memory recalls to ones mind the little winding 
 brook in whose limpid waves we dabbled our tiny 
 hands, or watched the speckled trout basking in 
 the sunbeams which swam upon the gilded waters. 
 As it did when we knew its shaded nooks and moss- 
 covered pebbles, the little stream still glides on its 
 way to the boundless ocean, and loses itself in the 
 foaming surge. Like that little stream we, too, 
 are hurrying on to the great, unfathomable sea of 
 eternity. . 
 
 Like pearls scattered upon the sands of time, 
 bathed in the light of a summer’s day, are the 
 bygone hours of boyish dreams dnd childhood’s 
 poetic imaginings, recalled after years of worldly 
 toil. How gratefully the murmurings of the past 
 fall upon the fainting soul! How “sweetly the 
 recollections of our early love strike upon the 
 chords of our affections, echoing their deep, 
 
LOOKING BACK. 63 
 
 ~melodious strains through the corridors of the 
 heart! The daisy-speckled slopes and sunny 
 flowers of our childhood are before us once more. 
 We rejoice in the sunbeams of Memory, revel in 
 “the light of other days.” What would we not 
 give for one year’s real life in the past, with all its 
 cares and sorrows ; its false ‘‘ friendships ;” its tears 
 and its troubles, so that its joyous moments, 
 verdant spots in the desert, still lent their charms 
 to existence. 
 * * * * 
 
 Now I am not a blind worshipper of the past, 
 nor an enthusiastic admirer of things that are 
 gone, merely because they are dead and have no 
 resurrection. Iam not one of the class who think 
 that our forefathers were more sagacious and better 
 men than exist in the present day. [am not an 
 admirer of every bygone custom and institution of 
 bygone days, although I like many of them. 
 Nevertheless, I am fond of looking back into the 
 past, even unto: days before I was born, not only 
 for information, but for amusement and pleasure. 
 I like to look down the long vista of departed 
 years ; to speculate upon the relics of former ages, 
 and make pictures of the days that are swallowed 
 up in the sea of eternity. To converse with 
 antiquity (without going into very technical details) 
 always affords me peculiar pleasure, and when 
 sojourning for a short.time in Wales there was one 
 particular locality in which I always felt my 
 inclination to look back irresistibly strong. The 
 scene of my contemplations was the peninsula of 
 _ Gower, and when on its breezy downs and amongst 
 its sea-beaten rocks, I confess to a continual 
 
64 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 looking back. Happily, however, I was not 
 solely governed by the past, and, consequently, 
 never found myself in the position of Lot’s wife— 
 erystalised in the act of looking backwards: such 
 being the punishment, according to a modern 
 writer, reserved for all guilty of the crime just 
 mentioned. 
 
 Glancing, the other day, over Mr. Cliffe’s 
 excellent guide to South Wales, and perusing his 
 notice of Gower, I was reminded of a few thoughts 
 and pictures of the past, which had formerly 
 caused me a good deal of pleasure and wiled away 
 many an hour. I therefore sat down, and thus 
 committed them to writing, for the benefit of those 
 who, like myself, may have a weakness for looking 
 back. 
 
 Gower, an extensive tract of land running out, 
 inrugged peaks and cliffs, into the Bristol Channel, 
 is one of those secluded districts which generally 
 repay investigation. Shut out from the world, the 
 modern railway train has never penetrated into the 
 sunshine and shadow of Gower. The locality is 
 even destitute of high roads, its scenery retaining 
 much of the native wildness which characterised it 
 even in the British times when the Druids per- 
 formed their curious rites and ceremonies there. 
 The coast is indented by charming little bays, 
 which so wonderfully combine the beautiful and 
 the sublime that the mind is fascinated and almost 
 lost in its magnificent wildness and seclusion. All 
 along the coast the sea has formed, amidst the rocks, 
 innumerable caverns, into which the tide ebbs and 
 flows, making music, ad infinitum, with the shining 
 
 shells and pebbles. 
 
LOOKING BACK. 65 
 
 I have often stood on the edge of a cliff, and 
 watching the antagonistic power of water, looked 
 back, imagining pictures of the accumulation of 
 the spoils of the land, which have been carried into 
 the bed of the ocean by rivers, waves, and currents, 
 and again brought to the surface elements of new 
 islands and continents, where men, investigating 
 the organic remains of the strata, might trace the 
 nature of the countries whence the spoils were 
 derived. By way of illustration I have then 
 glanced out to sea, where the little islands of the 
 Bristol channel seemed peeping through the mists 
 to tell me that they were thus formed. But for 
 material provocative of speculation, geological and 
 otherwise, the Bone Caves of Paviland furnish 
 abundance of curious facts and fancies. They are 
 pronounced to be the most remarkable caverns in 
 Britain. In front of a lofty cliff of limestone they 
 face the sea near Rhosilly, and are accessible only 
 at low water. [rom the land side they are invisi- 
 ble. Both caves are evidently branches of some 
 larger cavern which may have been cut away by 
 the denudation which formed the present. cliffs. 
 They are only about a hundred yards apart, and if 
 both were continued and extended towards the sea 
 they would meet and intersect each other. The 
 caves were long known to the farmers and fisher- 
 men in the vicinity before they attracted public 
 attention. About forty years ago the curate and 
 surgeon of a neighbouring village, whilst enjoying 
 a ramble in the neighbourhood, penetrated the 
 cavern known as Goat's Hole, where they found 
 two molar teeth of an elephant and a part of a large 
 carved tusk. They exhibited these curiosities, 
 
 I 
 
66 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which attracted other explorers, who found similar 
 bones and carried them away. In 1832, Dr. 
 Buckland, with Mr. Dillwyn, a gentleman who 
 represented Swansea in Parliament for many years, 
 visited the spot together, and I am indebted to Dr. 
 Buckland’s Leliquie Diluviane, and to Mr. Cliffe’s 
 book, for the materials for most of the facts con- 
 tained in this description of the two wonders of 
 Gower. ‘ 
 
 The floor of Goat’s Hole, which is covered with 
 a diluvial loam of a reddish yellow colour, ascends 
 rapidly. The loam is mixed with angular frag- 
 ments of limestone and broken calcereous spar, 
 interspersed with recent sea shells and with teeth 
 and bones of the elephant, rhinoceros, bear, hyzena, 
 wolf, fox, horse, ox, deer (of two or three species), 
 water-rats, sheep, birds, andman. A portion of an 
 elephant’s tusk was found, which measured nearly 
 two feet, and Dr. Buckland also found fragments of 
 charcoal, and a small flint, the edges of which had 
 been chipped off, as if by striking a light. . At the 
 interior extremity the recent shells and bones of 
 birds are most abundant, and the earthy mass con- 
 taining them are cemented to a firm brecchia by — 
 stalagmite. ‘This is almost the only point in the 
 cave where stalagmite or stalagtite occurs. The 
 entire mass through which the bones are dispersed 
 had every appearance of having been disturbed by 
 ancient diggings, by which the antediluvian 
 “remains were mixed with recent shells and bones 
 common to the adjacent shore. ‘There seems to be 
 no evidence to shew that the cave was ever occu- 
 pied as an antediluvian den. The bones discovered, 
 many of which I have examined in the museum of 
 
 . 
 
LOOKING BACK. 67 
 
 South Wales, appear to be perfect. In the caverns 
 in the Mendip Hills, in Somersetshire, you may 
 find, side by side, the powerful jaw of the hyena 
 and the cracked bones of the ox and deer, bearing 
 the marks of teeth, and showing conclusive evi- 
 dence that the animals were carried into the wild 
 beasts’ lair, and there devoured. Nothing of that 
 sort has been discovered in the Goat’s. Hole, which 
 appears only to have been a mausoleum for the 
 dead, unless the human race, in ancient times, made 
 it also a retreat for the living. The human 
 remains, found at a distance of only six inches 
 ‘beneath the surface of the floor, consisted of nearly 
 the entire left side of a female skeleton. It is 
 difficult. to account for the removal of part of 
 the skeleton, as the remainder did not appear to 
 have been disturbed by the previous operations. 
 The bones were enveloped in a coating of a kind 
 of raddle, composed of what is called red micaceous 
 oxide of iron. Near the body were a number of 
 ivory rods, nearly cylindrical, and varying from a 
 quarter of an inch to four inches in length. They 
 were cut into a variety of forms, one resembling 
 a human tongue, and others in the shape of rings, 
 armlets, and skewers. A wolf’s toe was moulded 
 into the form of a skewer. All these, with a quan- 
 tity of small yellow shells, of the nerita littoralis, 
 as conchologists would say, were found close to the 
 skeleton, just as such things occur in graves and 
 sepulchral remains of early times. Immediately 
 above the cave the remains of a British camp 
 existed, and this seems to throw some light on the 
 character of the woman, and the period when she 
 existed, which was, probably, anterior or coeval 
 
68 TALES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 with the Roman invasion of this country. The 
 antediluvian bones first, and then the remains of 
 charcoal, human food, and human bones, indicate 
 two successive occupations of the cavern at periods 
 long distant from each other. 
 
 What a history of the past is here inscribed in 
 Nature’s chronicle of creation! Here we may look 
 back for ages. Here is a clue to lead through the 
 darkness, and illuminate the valley of death and 
 oblivion. And what a beautiful theme for the 
 poet is there in that poor crumbling skeleton. Let 
 us picture it as it may have existed in life—a 
 sorceress, perhaps, dwelling in that solitary cave 
 amidst the remains of a former world, from which 
 she fashioned her bone and ivory ornaments. There, 
 perchance, she practised her harmless witcheries, and 
 reclined on her bed of skins. It may be that she 
 had her thoughts and fancies about the wondrous 
 occupants of the cavern which lived prior to her 
 existence, even as I have my thoughts upon her 
 mysterious history. It was a wonderful residence 
 that lonely cavern ; and how singularly picturesque 
 must have been the appearance of the sibyl in her 
 fantastic and scanty attire! Imagine her at the 
 entrance of her rocky home. ‘There she stands with 
 her grotesque and fanciful bracelets and ivory decora- 
 tions, her large black eyes drinking in the beauties 
 of the scenery around, or watching the progress of 
 the carving of some toy fashioned by her own 
 hands from the antediluvian relics around her. 
 At her feet lie the debris of past generations ; before 
 her the fretful waves, in perpetual motion, wash 
 the shore, leaving behind their marine deposits, 
 and carrying off spoils in return ; above her the 
 
LOOKING BACK. 69 
 
 ancient Britons sit around their camp fires, or 
 prepare to do battle on their foes. All—save the 
 sea, ‘*on whose brow Time makes no wrinkles’”— 
 have now passed away, subject to perpetual muta- 
 tion. The weird woman has come to the same 
 complexion as the bones out of which she con- 
 structed her toys and trinkets. There, in that 
 solitary cave, she lived, there she died, and 
 there was she laid to rest, with her beads 
 and ivory bars, her white armlets and bone needles. 
 Thus Time rolls on its ceaseless course of 
 change. Our morrows soon become long, long 
 past yesterdays, lighting ‘‘ fools the way to 
 dusty death.” But God has written the history 
 of the past, not in tablets of wax, nor on 
 perishable parchment, but on the rocks of 
 ages, that he who thinks may read. Nature 
 is ever repairing the ruins caused by _ this 
 process of decay. When the beds of the 
 existing seas shall be elevated above the waters, 
 and covered with woods and forests—when the 
 deltas of our rivers shall be converted into fertile 
 tracts, and become the sites of towns and cities— 
 we cannot doubt that in the materials extracted for 
 their edifices, the then existing races of mankind 
 will discover indelible records of the physical. his- 
 tory of our times, long after all traces of those 
 stupendous works, upon which we vainly attempt 
 to confer immortality, shall have disappeared. * 
 The second cave is very similar to the first, both 
 in size, form, and position. It is closed in on 
 every side with solid rock, excepting the mouth, 
 
 * Mantel. — 
 
70 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which is open to the sea. Towards the inner 
 extremity, and upwards also to the roof, it contracts 
 and terminates, as it were, in a vein, that is still 
 filled with calcareous spar. The floor is nearly 
 thirty feet above the sea ; it is more horizontal than 
 the Goat’s Hole, and, being within the reach of the 
 highest storm-waves, it is strewed over, to the depth 
 of a foot, with a bed of small pebbles. Underneath 
 these is a bed of the same argillaceous loam and 
 fragments of limestone, as in the other cave, and a 
 still more abundant accumulation of animal remains, 
 which may now, notwithstanding the quantities 
 which have been carried away, be found embedded 
 in the loam. Ancient coins, too, are found in 
 both caverns. 
 
 There are more theories than one for accounting 
 for bone caverns, and explaining how and by what 
 means they became filled with the remains of such 
 a variety of animals. Mantel’s appears to be the 
 most reasonable one. ‘The caverns are evidently 
 mere rents or fissures in the limestone rocks, and 
 have been filled with drift while submerged in 
 shallow water, and the carcasses of land animals 
 have been floated in by the subaqueous currenis. 
 The bones, though broken, are rarely. water-worn, 
 and the fragments even retain their sharp edges. 
 The bones must, therefore, have been protected, more — 
 or less, by muscles and skin ; the freshness of some of 
 these fully supports this proposition. | This, then, 
 proves that these animals, some of which are of 
 monstrous proportions, lived in this part of the 
 world; but there is abundant evidence, far stronger 
 than this, to show that our wastes and forests were 
 once inhabited by extinct herbivora and carnivora, 
 
LOOKING BACK. 71 
 
 belonging to genera of which the recent species are 
 almost entirely restricted to southern climates; and, 
 at the present time, the only living representatives 
 of the three families of carnivora, which swarmed 
 these latitudes during the Mammoth period, are 
 the fox of the dog tribe, the wild-cat of the feline 
 order, and the badger of the bear tribe. Thus, in 
 every step of our progress, the grand law of nature 
 —alternate decay and renovation-—is exemplified. 
 The work of destruction—whether in torrid climes, 
 in rocks, in verdant plains, by the agency of heat 
 or cold, by inundations of the ocean, or by volcanic 
 eruptions—is always going on. On the other hand, 
 amidst all these processes of decay and desolation, 
 perpetual renovation is ever apparent. But to pro- 
 ceed with the theory of the caves. Before the 
 elevation of the land, these fissures were raised 
 above the water and gradually drained. In the 
 meantime, the period of formation of stalactite 
 commenced from the percolation of water through 
 limestone. Before the formation of the floor 
 of stalagmite some of the tribes of Briton may 
 have occasionally sought shelter there, and that 
 will account for the finding of their implements 
 or instruments, which, if letiaindhe cave, would 
 soon sink into the pheirerone mud and become 
 sealed up. Then, afterwards, as regards Goat's 
 Hole, it may have become the habitation of man, 
 or the solitary home of her whose bones were found 
 mingled with the remains of many a departed year. 
 
* JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 REVERY AND BURGLARY. 
 
 It was a dull dreary night when I arrived in the 
 thriving seaport of ————, where I had obtained 
 a short engagement on a newspaper in the capacity 
 of areporter. Knowing my love of the picturesque 
 and of the beautiful, a friend had procured me 
 lodgings in a very interesting part of the town, 
 whence, from my bedroom window, I could see the 
 ivy-clad ruins of an old castle, which, like most of 
 its class, bore the unmistakable marks of Crom- 
 wellian destruction. It was nearly midnight when 
 I sought my bedchamber. I could not sleep, but 
 sat musing, with my head between the blind and 
 the window, upon the dim prospect without, which 
 the moon was struggling to illuminate. 
 
 All was quiet and still as death until the chimes 
 of the old parish church commenced the most 
 impressive and sweetest bell music I ever heard 
 break in upon the silence of night, ‘‘ Home, 
 
 * When the evils of the ticket-of-leave system were becoming so 
 painfully apparent a year or two ago, I published an adventure, 
 founded upon fact, as an illustration of what was generally regarded 
 as a great legislative mistake in the criminal jurisprudence of the 
 country. With some slight revision, I venture egain to reproduce 
 the story of “‘ Jonas the Hunchback,” hoping that even now it may 
 possess features of interest. 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 73 
 
 sweet Home,” was the melody. To those who are 
 fond of music old familiar tunes come _ back, 
 after many years, attended by a train of events and 
 occurrences which seem to re-enact themselves 
 before the vision of memory. As the music rose 
 and fell upon the night wind, I saw the family 
 hearth at home with its cluster of youth and age 
 around the winter fire ; I heard the tinkling of the 
 old piano, and, the choral accompaniment to its 
 uncertain tones. I was once more at ‘‘ Home, 
 sweet Home.” 
 
 The last sound of the bells had scarcely died 
 away when the quietude was again startled ; this 
 time by a cry of distress. Instinctively I seized the 
 shutter-bar and stood in montionless doubt, won- 
 dering where I was and what had happened. A 
 repetition of the scream roused me. ‘The sound 
 came from the adjoining house. I rushed out at 
 the back and there met a man, who, though I saw 
 him but for a moment, in the solitary gleam of an 
 adjacent gas-lamp, I can never forget. I was 
 struck a severe blow, which for a few short minutes 
 rendered me unconscious. Soon | heard many 
 voices in earnest "talk about the house, and the 
 household was speedily alarmed. A daring burglary 
 had been committed by men who carried torches. 
 Happily nobody was injured, but unfortunately the 
 thieves had escaped. 
 
 In the excitement of the moment I could hardly 
 satisfy myself whether I had been struck by the 
 villain I meet at the back of the house, or had run 
 against some obtruding building, so I said nothing 
 about what I had seen, but made the best of my 
 way to the police station. 
 
 K 
 
74 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The moon was completely obscured by dark, 
 heavy clouds, from which fell a thick, drizzling 
 mist. Scarcely a footfall was heard along the quiet 
 streets. By and bye, I came into a narrow, dreary 
 lane, populated by that class of persons whom you 
 find in seaport towns, living by their wits, or by 
 the lack of wit in others ; men and women who 
 are to be found in the company of seafaring men 
 and quay labourers. Even in this locality all was 
 dark and silent and without signs of life, save in 
 one single instance. From an attic window in the 
 roof of one of these wretched habitations of misery 
 gleamed a sickly light, which stole out into the 
 night like a thief creeping forth under the shadow 
 of darkness. 
 
 When opposite the house in which I had noticed 
 the light, I was suddenly confronted by that same 
 form which I doubted not had recognised me once 
 before on that same eventful night. For a moment 
 I hardly knew what*eourse to take. Flight first 
 suggested itself, and then | was tempted by fear to 
 cry ‘‘ murder.”~ But 1 remained quiet, notwith- 
 standing. I was soon conscious of something like 
 cold steel being threateningly flashed before my 
 eyes, and that kept me motionless. 
 
 ‘You will not be hurt ; you need raise no 
 alarm ; [am neither going to rob or molest you,” 
 said my particularly ugly friend, ‘‘ but as you 
 know me, and may probably give me into custody, 
 I wish to make friends with you.” 
 
 ‘Then let me go” I said. 
 
 ‘“¢ Not until I have had a few words with you in 
 private. Follow me ; I need your assistance : 
 come into the house,” said the burglar, with singu- 
 larly striking earnestness. 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 75 
 
 I hesitated and felt very much inclined to cry 
 for assistance. 
 
 At last, in mad desperation, thrusting a pistol 
 into my hand, my strange companion said, ‘* There, 
 I give you the means to defend ycurself. Kall me 
 if you like, but pray follow me first and rescue from 
 starvation a dying woman.” 
 
 ‘¢ Lead on,” I cried—striking, I believe, a most 
 theatrical attitude,—and the creaking door closed 
 upon a reporter and a burglar. | 
 
 Jt 
 
76 ' TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 OH AKL 
 
 THE HUNCHBACK’S HOME, AND THE HUNCH- 
 BACK’S STORY. 
 
 With my strange companion I ascended a rickety 
 staircase, and entered a poor dismal apartment. 
 On a bed of straw, upon the floor, lay a wretched, 
 emaciated woman, to all appearances drifting out, a 
 sad wreck of humanity, into the mysterious sea of 
 eternity. ‘The wind moaned in the cold chimney, 
 and the rain pattered against the paper-patched 
 window: A monster spider lay dead upon the 
 once white cloth which covered the bed of the 
 invalid ; a rushlight glimmered and flickered 
 faintly in the centre of{he room ; and, whilst I stood 
 gazing at the sad woeful picture, a half-starved moth 
 fluttered lazily into the cheerless light, and fell 
 buzzing upon the floor. Anempty medicine bottle 
 and a leaden spoon lay near the head of the bed 
 on one side, and a broken plate and basin on the 
 other, but all were empty. 
 
 The poor woman raised her head as we entered, 
 but motioned as though we had disturbed her. 
 
 ‘* My sister would sleep,” said the burglar ; ‘‘ we 
 will not awaken her now.” 
 
 Beckoning me into a lower room, my companion, 
 saying he had good reason for telling me what he 
 would now relate, gave me his history, which was, 
 nearly word for word, as follows. 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. Ue 
 
 My father and mother were respectable people, 
 and lived not far from the town of Manchester. 
 They were poor, but honest. I was their first 
 child, and, as you see, deformed. I had two 
 brothers and a sister. My brothers died young ; 
 and, when I was ten years of age, my father died, 
 and my mother was compelled to go into the Union. 
 The change in life, the cruel treatment of Union 
 officials, and the loss of her husband, so distressed 
 her that she died in six months afterwards, and 
 left myself and sister orphans. 
 
 My sister, two years younger than myself, got 
 a situation as housemaid, and was fed and clothed 
 by her master and mistress. I, nobody would 
 employ. My deformity made people look upon 
 me with repugnance. I had no companions. The 
 boys all scoffed at me, and called me humpback. 
 I tried to get employment, but in vain, and was 
 at last taken into the Union. There I was taught 
 to read and write by the schoolmaster, an old man 
 who, it was said, had saved a good deal of money. 
 Not even amongst the paupers had I a friend, and 
 I felt myself a despised, lonely, worthless being. 
 As years went on, a sort of revengeful feeling took 
 possession of me, and I hated all mankind as my 
 enemies. 
 
 When I reached the age of sixteen I was made 
 to work in the workhouse grounds, and at eighteen 
 I was entrusted with many little duties. At about 
 this time I felt a desire to leave the Union, and 
 did so, but no one would employ me, and conse- 
 quently I fell into the company of thieves, and 
 people who laughed when work was spoken of as a 
 means of subsistence. J nursed my hate, and 
 
78 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 determined to have revenge upon my fellows for 
 the way they had, all of them, treated me. I 
 robbed and plundered with my new companions. 
 I was an adept at picking pockets, quick to learn 
 anything vicious, bad, and wicked. I became a 
 burglar, and an object of suspicion to the police. 
 
 ‘One night one of my companions, a man much 
 older than myself, proposed that we should rob the 
 Union, and possess ourselves of the stored up 
 treasure of the schoolmaster. I agreed, and at ten 
 o’clock, one dark night in November, ten years 
 ago, we started on our unlawful expedition, armed 
 with picklocks, skeleton keys, a dark lantern, and 
 a couple of bludgeons. We did not carry firearms, 
 for we were not steeped so far in guilt as to contem- 
 plate murder, although the desperation, to which 
 the scoffs of society had excited me, sometimes 
 made me feel as fiendish as I look. 
 
 ‘* At about twelve o’clock that night the rain fell 
 in torrents, and you;could not see a yard before 
 you. We reached the workhouse. I knew every 
 turn in the building. Sleep had taken possession 
 of every body—pauper and freeman. We obtained 
 admittance to the place, and by means of a dark 
 lantern found our way along the corridors and 
 passages. We heard the hard breathing of many, 
 and several times lay down flat on our bellies, for 
 some minutes, hardly daring to breathe, for fear of 
 waking the sleepers. We reached the school- 
 master’s room—the door was locked, but I soon 
 turned the slender bolt, and entered the room and 
 closed the door. My heart beat with a wild 
 excitement. The old man was fast asleep, and 
 his grey hair hung over his wrinkled forehead. 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 79 
 
 We peered into a cupboard, where we found 
 a small box, which, I believed, contained cash, 
 but we were determined to open a chest of 
 drawers close to the bedside of the schoolmaster. 
 Whilst we were doing so the old man awoke, and 
 rose up in his bed tomakeanalarm. He put forth 
 his hand to seize the bell-pull, but I fell upon him 
 and prevented such a catastrophe. He tried to 
 shout, but I smothered his cries, although I 
 refrained from hurting him. In a whisper I told 
 him to be still, or he would be killed. For some 
 -moments he was quiet ; we opened the drawer ; we 
 obtained the coveted treasure, about a’ hundred 
 pounds, and were making off with it when the old 
 man cried ‘‘help !” It was the most unfortunate 
 word he ever uttered. My companion immedi- 
 ately struck him on the head a blow that shattered 
 the old man’s skull, and bespattered the bed and 
 ourselves with blood. Never shall I forget the 
 sight ; never shall I forget the sigh the old man 
 gave. ‘The noise was heard, and the alarm given. 
 We tried to escape through the window. I, 
 knowing the place, got out safely, and, clinging to 
 the spouting, got well to the ground; but my 
 companion, missing his hold, fell, and was impaled 
 upon the railings, where, in the morning, he was 
 found quite dead, pierced by six iron spikes—a 
 horrible sight. 
 
 ‘“‘T got away, but in a few days was apprehended, 
 and sworn to as one of the burglars by the school- 
 master, just before he died from the effects of the 
 blow. I was tried, and sentenced to be hanged. 
 I confessed, and related all the circumstances. 
 The day before I was to have suffered death 
 
80 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 my sentence was commuted to transportation 
 for life. 
 
 For ten years afterwards I endured, in Van 
 Dieman’s Land, the horrors of transportation. At 
 the end of that time, for good conduct, I obtained 
 a ticket-of-leave, and came back to England, with 
 the full intention of seeking an honest livelihood. | 
 I came back to the scenes of my boyhood, and 
 found that my sister, in consequence of my crime, 
 had been discarded by every body. In a state of 
 misery, she had been lured to vicious habits, had 
 become an outcast from society, and four days ago 
 I found her as you now see her. I applied for 
 work, to enable me to relieve her. At one place I 
 got work for a day; but the police, finding out 
 who I was, and thinking it their duty to inform, 
 my employer, I was discharged, and now there is 
 not the slightest chance of my being employed. 
 The other night I thought she would die. I could 
 get no work, so I tried my hand at the old game, 
 and had just failed to get my sister relief, when 
 you came, full cry, and in my fright and frenzy 
 I knocked you down. Knowing that you saw 
 me in the light of that infernal gas lamp, I 
 determined to obtain this interview with you, 
 because to-morrow I imtend, at the weekly 
 meeting of the Board of Guardians, to apply for 
 relief, and there is no other soul who can obstruct 
 me but you. 
 
 It was certainly very like what the lawyers call 
 compounding a felony, to allow the fellow to escape 
 thus, but there was such a vein of sadness running 
 through his melancholy story, that I immediately 
 assured him I would aid rather than obstruct him 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. Sir 
 
 in his design. Moreover, I promised I would 
 never give information concerning that night’s 
 failure in his old line of business, and, permitting 
 him to shake my hand freely, I left him, deter- 
 mined that his sister should not die without an 
 effort being made to save her, even though the gift 
 of life might not be worth her having. 
 
&2 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 RECORDS A WORKHOUSE INCIDENT, AND CON- 
 CLUDES THE STORY OF JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 
 
 Although the most ingenious sophistry might 
 fail in anything like a defence of the criminal life 
 of Jonas, the natural instincts of humanity excite 
 some sympathy for his misfortunes. Thrown 
 upon the wide, tempestuous world at an early 
 age, without parents, without friends, in abject 
 poverty, it was hardly likely that he should 
 grow up a pattern of virtue, or a model of 
 morality. His natural imperfection, his ugly 
 hump, seemed to cast him without the pale of 
 every pleasure. Our street boys, who exist amongst 
 the most complicated scenes of filth and degradation, 
 have their childish enjoyments. Be their amuse- 
 ment ever so barbarous, it excites the loud hearty 
 laugh of youth, which is none the less merry, though 
 it come from the descendant of a beggar or the heir 
 .toakingdom. But even boys, as poor and as ragged 
 as Jonas himself, seemed to shun the Hunchback. 
 Like a shoal of dolphins hunting the harpoon 
 struck fish of their own species, they made the 
 wretched lad a prey to his own infirmity, until 
 the heart became hard and the mind a blank, save 
 for the reception of malicious thoughts, and dark, 
 moody, sullen wickedness. 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 83 
 
 Crime grows like a noxious weed, and soon 
 chokes the flowers that bloomed and flourished 
 before the seed of the wild straggler came to kill 
 and destroy. By one sin Jonas was soon seduced 
 to another, until his life became one of infamy. 
 
 At last, the Hunchback is caught in his tres- 
 passes against the law of the land. Offended 
 justice decrees his punishment. The prisoner bends 
 before the lash, and suffers its keenest castigation. 
 Eventually the law is satisfied, and the penal settle- 
 ment gives up its chastened exile. Once more Jonas 
 returns to his native land (with a certificate of his 
 good behaviour as a convict), but only to find that 
 sins committed against Society and the Law, are 
 sins which are hard to be forgiven, though Society 
 prays every day ‘‘ forgive us our trespasses as we 
 forgive them that trespass against us.” 
 
 Not content with crushing the criminal under its 
 iron heel, Society cast down with him an unoffend- 
 ing sister. ‘This was the worst of all punishment, 
 it seemed, to Jonas; for there is a well-spring of 
 love in every heart, of which the weeds of the 
 darkest life cannot altogether stop the flowing. 
 
 The morning found the suffering woman still 
 alive, thanks to the kind offices of a surgeon and a 
 nurse, I had been enabled to secure for her, and at 
 ten o’clock I was at the Union, anxious to see the 
 scene about to be enacted there. 
 
 ' The Guardians of the Poor, great in’ their 
 official dignity, were assembled to discuss the 
 management of the establishment, and dole 
 forth relief to suffermg humanity. Around the 
 hard, cold, nail-studded door hovered a host 
 of wretched applicants for the scanty crumbs 
 
84 ? TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which were expected to fall from the national table. 
 The shivering outcast in her gaudy rags, starving 
 despite her sacrifices of virtue and all that ennobles 
 woman ; the hardened drunkard, trembling in 
 palsied sottishness ; the poor slave of a lazy hus- 
 band and a helpless family; the unfortunate labourer 
 out of work and out of luck ; the ruined tradesman, 
 turned tramp; the aged, the maimed, the orphan, 
 the fatherless : a motley crew of misery, with its 
 multifarious history of distress and wretchedness. 
 
 A murmur ran through the mendicant.crowd 
 as ** Jonas the Hunchback” entered the long avenue 
 which led to the Union-house. The old porter at the 
 gate shrugged his shoulders and frowned as Jonas 
 passed the portal. The lordly overseer shrunk 
 back even from the contamination of the convict’s 
 shadow. The very beggar crowd gave way for 
 the burglar, as though he had been an evil thing 
 which even they were glad to avoid. On went 
 the determined, scowling vagabond, straight into the 
 reception-room, where the mendicants were ushered, 
 in turn, prior to making their appearance before the 
 awful tribunal of their fellow-men in the adjoining 
 apartment. 
 
 The announcement of the Hunchback’s return to 
 the Union created: a sensation in the Board-room. 
 The murder of the schoolmaster, with all its 
 horrible details, presented itself to the minds of the 
 Board, many of whom believed firmly in the 
 Hunchback’s guilt. The chairman, a hard, wiry, 
 misanthropical scarecrow, who had saved the 
 Union large sums of money by his keen, searching 
 dealings with the relief cases, proposed that the 
 reporters of the press should not take notice of the 
 
JONAS THE HUNCHBACK. 85 
 
 remarks he was about to make upon this case. 
 A daring monitor of public opinion, however, 
 heedless of the arbitrary motion, went on with 
 increased alacrity at his hieroglyphical employment, 
 and when appealed to by the Board generally (who 
 wanted to oppose the burglar, but dared not, fearing 
 that if he saw their remarks in the local prints he 
 might pay them a midnight visit), declared his 
 intention of using his own discretion with regard to 
 what he published, and not submitting to anything 
 like dictation from a Guardian of the Poor. 
 
 Whilst this new phase of business was developing 
 itself, the Hunchback, tired of waiting, burst into 
 the sacred precincts of the great Poor-Law Legisla- 
 ture. ‘There was a dead silence immediately he 
 presented himself. He did not ask for relief with 
 the cringing humiliation of the other mendicants, 
 but boldly demanded it as a right for a dying 
 woman. One intrepid Guardian rose from his 
 seat to oppose the application, on the ground of 
 the applicant’s bad character, but a malicious, 
 revengeful stare, full of the intensest hatred, 
 made the gallant gentleman resume his seat ere 
 he had scarcely commenced his speech. 
 
 The burglar described his present position, pro- 
 duced his ticket of leave, and finally exclaimed with 
 a wild energy that almost made him eloquent— 
 ‘There are bounds which must be set to a man’s 
 misery ; I make this last trial at living honestly ; 
 my sister must be saved; she shall be saved; mone 
 and food must be had; for God’s sake let it be had 
 by fair means.” 
 
 Relief was granted, and before I left the town 
 a charitable gentleman of influence headed a 
 
86 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 subscription, to enable Jonas and his sister to leave 
 the neighbourhood and commence a little business 
 In some distant town. 
 
 * % * * * * 
 
 A year ago Jonas was a thriving tradesman, 
 ina small way, in the south of England, and his 
 sister, a fine, handsome woman (strange are the 
 freaks of nature) was the wife of a sergeant of 
 
 ~ police. 
 
A STORM ON THE HOUSE-TOPS. 
 
 The window of our sleeping apartment looks out 
 amongst a perfect forest of chimneys and old- 
 fashioned gables, where the Genius of Antiquity 
 might find a fitting dwelling-place. Nothing, 
 however, half so poetic is ever to be seen in this 
 dingy locality, the midnight echoes of which are 
 only awakened by the screams of a tribe of cats, or 
 the whistling of the wind round the quaint old 
 gables. 
 
 The city is fast asleep. The first grey streaks 
 in the horizon denote the advent of another 
 day. Spring seems to have assumed her genial 
 sway, and a grateful shower of rain comes pattering 
 against our window pane, and creating all sorts of 
 comfortable sensations. We fall asleep, and dream 
 of blue skies, green fields and daisies, laughing 
 streams and budding hedgerows, and a thousand 
 other things appertaining to beauteous Spring. But 
 what is that which beats against the house and patters 
 on the roof? We raise our head and listen. The 
 wind rumbles in the chimney, the window rattles. 
 The rain is roaring down the spouts and draining 
 from the eaves in large heavy drops, which go splash- 
 ing on the roof below, pelting against the house and 
 twittering in thechimney. We can hear the Spirit 
 
88 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of the Wind, like a monster going about seeking 
 whom he may destroy, banging our neighbour’s 
 outer door, which creeks and wheezes on its crazy 
 old hinges as if it had an asthma. The mysterious 
 presence rushes by our window, swinging back our 
 shutter as it goes, and sweeping round the corner 
 with increasing rage, taking a tile off a neigh- 
 bouring house, and depositing it with a crash in an 
 adjoining court. ' 
 
 And now another element joins in the fray, 
 which seems to be a struggle between Winter and 
 Spring. The rain has ceased, and in its stead large 
 round hailstones in white clouds go hissing and 
 clattering into every corner, likeastorm of shot- 
 corns into a doomed rookery. Hurrah for the 
 rollicking madcap wind! Away go the hailstones 
 over chimney and house-top. Away they go, 
 helter-skelter before the driving wind, which 
 increases in strength every minute, as though it 
 strove to get out of a locality in which it seems 
 ‘¢ cabined, cribbed, confined.” It whistles round 
 the tottering chimney-pots, until one close by us 
 can hold on to bricks and mortar no longer, and 
 down it goes crashing over the tiles, and frighten- 
 ing a muffled-up watchman as much as if it were 
 aburglar. Scarcely has it reached the street, over 
 the front of the house, when thunder, and red, 
 glaring, garish lightning join in the fray and shake 
 the very earth. All the elements are at war with 
 each other. 
 
 We peep forth into the storm. It isa sight for 
 Quasimodo himself. Bristling up amongst a host 
 of shining chimney-pots, some, on the swivel prin- 
 ciple, throwing about their great awkward arms as 
 
A STORM ON THE HOUSE-TOPS. 89 
 
 if in very despair, a hundred gable roofs 
 cluster together under the mysterious morning 
 sky. Loud roars the wind amongst the old 
 timbers. Hail, and snow, and sleet, and rain 
 rush to and fro in hazy clouds, which look like 
 affrighted ghosts amongst the gaunt chimney 
 stacks. rom roof to roof the gleaming lightning 
 flies, revealing the mysteries of many an old 
 corner, and glaring into a thousand chamber 
 
 indows on a thousand terrified dreamers. Away 
 clatters a loosened tile over our heads, dashing, 
 crashing, clattering, rattling, over the slanting 
 house-tops. The swivel chimney, belonging to 
 the lawyers’ offices hard by, turns round its black 
 head with a scream, and the lightning conductor 
 of its taller neighbour trembles like a reed. 
 
 Louder still old Boreas pipes to war. Far over 
 the seas he is gathering his forces, and now they 
 come roaring along, sweeping through the air, 
 carrying away the spout in wet, rotten, tattered 
 strips under our very nose, and giving the chimney 
 with two arms such a tremendous bang that the 
 swivel spins round like a maniac, and off goes the 
 top of the lightning conductor like a gigantic 
 dragon fly, which, after several evolutions in the 
 air, alights somewhere in the wet regions below. 
 
 Again the thunder rents the encumbered air, 
 and the lightning flits over the shining roofs until 
 it touches the vane of a distant steeple, where 
 it glimmers for a moment and then is lost in 
 cloudland. 
 
 M 
 
90 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE FOR A VOLUNTEER’S FIRESIDE.* 
 
 It was a clear, frosty evening, as I sat, at my 
 little parlour window, gazing into one of Bristol’s 
 quietest streets, after the exciting duties of a day’s 
 drill. The fire burnt up bravely, sending a ruddy 
 glow around the room, making my rifle look more 
 formidable in its accustomed corner, and my glossy 
 belt to shine with a borrowed radiance. I felt 
 stronger as I looked at my accoutrements, and 
 was conscious of a feeling of pride when I remem- 
 bered that the crimson scarf, upon which lay my 
 little foraging cap, had been presented to me 
 because I was the most efficient man in my 
 company. 3 
 
 «¢ And won't I try for the firmg prizes when the 
 time comes,” I mentally ejaculated. ‘* And won’t 
 you be foremost in defence of your country,” my 
 heart seemed to say in reply, as a thousand heroic 
 sentiments flashed across my brain. Picturing the 
 fight, in all its appalling grandeur, I saw myself 
 
 * First published in 1859. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 91 
 
 striking a strong blow for home and fatherland, 
 and a Peri waiting to catch the last ruddy drop 
 shed in so glorious a cause, as her passport to the 
 Regions of Light. 
 
 I know not how long I sat ruminating in this 
 manner, but my fire was nearly out, when I was 
 suddenly aroused by a strange sense of alarm. 
 I looked into the cold, quiet street. What a 
 change had taken place since I looked there 
 before! Men and boys were hurrying along the 
 road, all in the same direction, bearing weapons 
 of various descriptions, including guns, pistols, 
 hatchets, pokers, sticks, clubs, crowbars, and iron 
 in as many shapes and varieties as if half the 
 marine-store shops in the city had been ransacked 
 to arm the mighty throng. Bells were ringing in 
 the most discordant manner, and the sound of 
 trumpets was mingled with the cries and shouts of 
 the people. My astonishment was so great that 
 for some minutes I could neither move nor speak, 
 I stood gazing in a sort of trance, paralysed, like 
 some poor bird under the fascinating eye of a 
 serpent. Still the crowd poured on, in one 
 unbroken stream, and the bells rang out, unceas- 
 ingly, their dreadful music. Above all shone the 
 pale-faced moon, and a few stray shadowy clouds 
 sailed quietly along the illumined expanse of sky, 
 contrasting strangely with the busy scene below. 
 
 At length strains of martial music came wander- 
 ing through the air, accompanied by the measured 
 beat of drums and the shrill notes of trumpets. 
 Onwards went the motley crowd of men and boys, 
 rich and poor, employer and employed, merchantand 
 trader, tradesman and tramp. Louder still became 
 
92 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the music, increasing every moment, until the 
 ‘‘ British Grenadiers” burst upon my ear, and the 
 band of the Rifle Corps turned the corner of the 
 street below. The Colonel and the Major, 
 mounted on a pair of fine, thick-limbed chargers, 
 were at their head, and a standard bearer, carrying 
 one of the city banners, preceded the band-master, 
 who was beating time—not with a mahogany 
 baton—but with a glittering sword, that flashed 
 in the moonlight like a flaming meteor. Every 
 musician wore his new sword, and I was astonished 
 to observe that in most of their belts, where I had 
 that same day noticed gloves and music, were 
 formidable revolvers. ‘The members of the band 
 not only seemed to play better, but they marched 
 with more care and firmness than usually charac- 
 terised their movements. 
 
 Next came the regiment, their bayonets fixed, 
 and each man’s face wearing an expression as 
 threatening and as dangerous as the long rows of 
 polished steel above them. There was no talking 
 in the ranks ; not a word did any man whisper 
 to his neighbour. ‘The officers marched with 
 drawn swords, and some had rifles slung to their 
 shoulders. 
 
 Jt was not long before I saw the first rank of 
 my own company, and not until then did I feel 
 either able to move or speak. When I saw my 
 brave comrades, however, a change came over 
 me. The hot blood coursed through my veins ; 
 my heart thumped against my breast like a dis- 
 satisfied prisoner beating against the bars of 
 his prison-house. I was in the midst of my com- 
 panions in a moment, and onward we went— 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 93 
 
 tramp, tramp, tramp—to the echoing strains of the 
 band. 
 
 Although prepared for the worst, it was some 
 time ere I had the courage to ask one of my 
 comrades the meaning of this midnight demonstra- 
 tion. I was about to make the inquiry, when the 
 man next me whispered in my ear, ‘‘ We shall 
 meet them near Cook’s Folly. It will be hand 
 to hand work, and we shall drive them over the 
 rocks.” 
 
 ‘¢ Amen,” I said, for I felt that the invader had 
 come. } 
 
 ‘‘They are mostly Zouaves and Algerines,” 
 continued my comrade. ‘* Not one must escape 
 us, for the sake of our wives and sweethearts.” 
 
 ‘* By God, and our willing arms, they shall not,” 
 I cried, as I thought of my blue-eyed little Milly. 
 
 ‘¢ Amen,” solemnly exclaimed my companion, 
 just as the signal ‘* Halt” was given, and the music 
 ceased. 
 
 We were on the edge of Clifton Down, when 
 our commander, in an impassioned speech, full of 
 loyalty and patriotism, informed us that some hours 
 ago a French fleet was seen steaming up the 
 Channel towards Bristol. It had been ascertained 
 that on board were large bodies of troops, princi- 
 pally Zouaves and Algerines, the most ferocious 
 men in the French army, and that their object was 
 to invade this part of the country at various points. 
 A message had been despatched to Portsmouth for 
 the Channel Ileet, but it was feared that the 
 Frenchmen had gained a victory at sea, and by 
 this time had effected a landing near the Light- 
 house at Shirehampton. ‘If so, my comrades and 
 
94 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 fellow-citizens,”’ continued our leader, ‘‘ we must 
 drive them back into the Channel. It is for your 
 Queen and country ; for your wives and families ; 
 for the honour and safety of old Bristol, that you 
 are now called upon to fight. Strike home, my 
 friends, and let our watchword be— Bristol to the 
 rescue!’ March !” 
 
 ‘¢Hurrah! Hurrah! Bristol to the rescue,” 
 shouted ten thousand voices, and onward moved 
 the Volunteers. 
 
 At a given signal, the crowd which I had 
 noticed preceding the regiment, fell back on either 
 side, and we marched through the avenue thus 
 formed, amidst deafening applause. 
 
 Arrived fairly in the middle of the Down, we 
 were halted again, whilst scouts were sent out to 
 reconnoitre. In the meantime, the officers held 
 a council of war, and we quietly waited their 
 instructions. 
 
 The Down was covered with a thick hoar 
 frost, and everything around was so still that 
 I could hear the footsteps of the skirmishers 
 scrunching over the white rime, until the men 
 looked like black spots against the midnight 
 horizon. How my heart beat as they disappeared ! 
 How refreshing was the cold breeze to my burning 
 cheek !_ How slow seemed the arrival of the time 
 when I should meet the foe, and strike for Bristol, 
 my Queen, and my Milly ! | 
 
 ‘¢ But where is Milly ?”’ I thought, and thought 
 aloud, for my fellow Sergeant told me she was 
 with the other women. 
 
 ‘‘ What women, Sergeant: where are they, 
 then ?” I inquired. 
 
 ‘Some in the Squares; some in the Council- 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 95 
 
 House ; some in the Guildhall; some in the 
 Exchange ; some in College Green ; some in the 
 Cathedral ; some in the Broadmead Rooms, with 
 guards of specials, lumpers, peelers, and all sorts, 
 armed to the teeth, and the men will fight like 
 devils, if needs be,” my companion replied. 
 
 ‘Then what could I have been doing, to hear 
 nothing of it ? asleep, [ suppose,” I said to myself, 
 with an inward determination to make up for my 
 laziness. 
 
 The halt had lasted about half-an-hour, and the 
 whole regiment was growing excessively fidgety 
 that the scouts did not return. It was feared that 
 they might have fallen into some ambush, and the 
 signal to march was just about to be given, when 
 the sky in the direction of the Channel was 
 suddenly illuminated with a brilliant light, and a 
 radiant car, drawn by a team of sea-horses, came 
 slowly through the air. In shape the car was like 
 unto a mighty shell of pearl. Around it was a 
 beautiful halo of many colours, reflected back in 
 the glistening chariot. The horses wore trappings 
 of gold, and the flowing manes of each spotless 
 animal were streaming with water of crystal 
 brightness. The driver of the car was a man of 
 gigantic stature, and his long white beard flowed 
 In massive wreaths over his shoulders. In his 
 right hand he carried a trident ; with his left he 
 controlled the movements of his steeds. Behind 
 him, in the car, were the Riflemen who had been 
 sent out to reconnoitre, and in the rear followed 
 a band of sea nymphs and water sprites, who 
 floated through the air as lightly as gossamer in 
 an August wind. ‘They never touched the earth 
 
96 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 but to bound higher into the illuminated space, 
 or to disport themselves closer to the driver of the 
 glimmering chariot. Many of them waved around 
 their sister nymphs azure scarfs of the most delicate 
 texture, whilst others held gorgeous shells to their 
 mouths, and created music, which rose and fell in 
 varying cadence, like celestial echoings from a 
 thousand golden harps. 
 
 This, surely, is Neptune and his court, I 
 thought, rubbing my eyes, and wondering if my 
 senses were failing me. But, much as I rubbed 
 my eyes, the picture did not fade. Nor would I 
 have had it disappear, for there was nothing dis- 
 agreeable about it. Neptune, evidently, was 
 not in that terrible humour which moved him 
 when, as Homer relates, he strode the world in 
 three gigantic strides. Then the nymphs of the 
 deep—without their tails, too, strange to say— 
 were beautiful creatures, with real, natural ankles 
 and feet. No wonder that Acis fell in love with 
 Galatea! No wonder the fairy tempters have 
 induced fascinated mortals to plunge into 
 deep, dark waters after singing Nereids! Then 
 there were river nymphs, from the Severn, 
 and fancy detected amongst them the beautiful, 
 the lovely Sabrina, made famous in Milton’s 
 ‘“ Comus.” Deities of the air, too, had joined the 
 gorgeous throng. Indeed, the brilliant assemblage 
 would have looked more like a production of the 
 air than the sea, but for the adornments which 
 the Nereids wore, and the intermingling of bands 
 of nymphs and sprites peculiarly oceanic. 
 
 When this magnificent procession reached the 
 spot where I and my amazed comrades stood, it 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 97 
 
 decended amidst a cloud of the most delicious 
 perfume. The riflemen who were in the car im- 
 mediately leapt from it, to the delight of their 
 brethren in arms, and cried ‘ All hail, mighty 
 Neptune, King of the Sea!” 
 
 Upon this the gigantic individual, with the long 
 white beard, stood upright, as a man does when about 
 to deliver himself of an oration; but never did I 
 see such a man—lI should say such a monarch—as 
 King Neptune. He was at least twenty feet high 
 and proportionably wide. When he coughed several 
 riflemen were knocked down by the. force of 
 his breath, and, I grieve to say, cut a very sorry 
 figure, especially one luckless officer, whose sword 
 became so helplessly entangled with his legs that I 
 was obliged to pick him up, at which a general titter 
 ran through the assembled crowd of ladies of the 
 sea, several of whom were compelled to thrust their 
 scarfs into their mouths to prevent themselves from 
 laughing outright ; whilst at least a dozen sprites 
 of the male sex were suddenly seized with fits of 
 leap-frog, and one of them turned a somersault, and 
 jumped so high that I believe he never came down 
 again. , 
 
 Whilst these little incidents were going on, 
 Neptune commenced to speak, and so well do I 
 remember his words that not only can I write out a 
 fair transcript of his speech, but I think I can fill in 
 the cheers, &c., after the style of ‘‘our own 
 reporter's” reports of the speeches of public men ; 
 at any rate, 1 will endeavour to do so. 
 
 His Majesty, the King of the Sea, having received 
 the salutations of his retinue and the Bristol Vo- 
 lunteers, turned towards the latter, and having 
 
 N 
 
98 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 coughed several riflemen off their legs, as I have 
 before described (and, by the bye, this is not the 
 first time that Englishmen have been coughed down) 
 his Majesty spoke as follows :—‘‘Gentlemen and 
 soldiers ; sons of Britain and Bristol (cheers) ; 
 inhabitants of the Dry Land; brave Volunteers 
 (cheers). In the first place we must apologise (no,no, ) 
 for having personally inconvenienced several 
 of you by a severe cough, which has afflicted us 
 (cries of ‘no apology, your Majesty’) ever since 
 our Coral Palace in the Pacific has been undergoing 
 repairs. As we said before, we apologise for this 
 little mishap (no, no), as every gentleman should 
 do who inconveniences another (cheers). But not 
 to detain you, we will proceed, and, by the aid of a 
 few notes we have made, we hope to be enabled to 
 tell you all we have to say in a very short space of 
 time. [ Here his Majesty pulled from a girdle, which 
 encircled his waist, an immense flat shell, covered 
 with strange-looking memoranda, after which he 
 proceeded with his speech.| Many years ago, 
 gentlemen—after the birth of our thousandth child, 
 nevertheless—we formed a strong attachment for 
 your little island, and often thought, as one of your 
 ballad makers hath well expressed it— 
 
 ‘If ever we live upon Dry-land, 
 
 The land we would hit on 
 Would be Little Briton; 
 
 For, oh, ’tis a tight little island.’ 
 (Great cheering). Ages passed on, and we often came 
 with our court to reside, in the summer months, 
 near the whitest of your cliffs, which, we are bound 
 to say, beat all others for real beauty, by long 
 chalks (laughter). Gentlemen, we beg you will 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 99 
 
 not laugh at that remark. We can assure you it 
 was not intended as a joke, and we beg you will 
 not put it down asa chalk for us. We have no 
 sympathy with such jokes (solemn silence). Your 
 laughter, a little out of place we cannot help feeling, 
 has prevented a passing allusion to some intelligence 
 we received from the milky way, lest you should 
 imagine for a moment that we intended to make 
 another puny pun. But to proceed, gentlemen 
 (cheers). Upon one occasion, when our court had 
 assembled near your chalk cliffs—we remember the 
 time well, because the water had to be skimmed 
 for a week of a thick frothy cream, which was 
 carried to our royal manufactory to be converted 
 into cheese and meerschaum pipes—the wise men of 
 our court informed us that the Judge of the 
 Supreme Court had ordained that, after the lapse 
 of several ages, we should have a partner, besides 
 our Royal Consort, Amphitrite, to assist us in ruling 
 the main, although we were always to be the chief 
 ruler—that is, King of the Sea—and to have 
 dominion over our new partner also (cheers.) 
 Whatever the court above does we are not above 
 doing below (a laugh), we replied, and when we 
 were informed that Britain was to be our help-mate, 
 knowing the material of which she was made, we 
 were delighted, and decreed an extra supply of 
 natives for our whole court, until the arrival of the 
 day which should consummate the mighty alliance 
 (tremendous cheering). But sad troubles had to 
 be endured by Britain ere she was fit for her new 
 dignity. Like one of Mr. Bull’s children, she was 
 compelled, during her national infancy, to be 
 afflicted with croup, measles, small-pox, and a 
 
100 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 variety of other complaints (laughter). Like one 
 of the same gentleman’s puppies, she was condemned 
 to the distemper, or like a puppy of another 
 description, was doomed for a certain time to walk 
 in the most uncomfortable clothes, and with the 
 heaviest possible chains and rings that could 
 possibly be invented by tailor or jeweller (laughter). 
 In fact, you had to go through the fire, but, with 
 our royal son Triton, we were always at hand to 
 
 ut a damper on the flames if they went too far 
 (cheers). The time came at last for us to unite 
 together, and we can now say to you, as we often 
 say to our Queen— 
 
 ‘We have lived and loved together, 
 Through many a changing year.’ 
 
 (enthusiastic applause). Sometimes we have been 
 baffled a little no doubt. For instance, whilst we 
 are attending to State affairs at a distance you lose 
 a ship or two, often through an overweening desire 
 to propitiate me, and shine before other nations, 
 and all that sort of thing. Well, ‘ accidents will 
 happen in the best regulated families,’ as was 
 pithily remarked to us the other day by the lady 
 on our left, when she upset, on a coral reef, one of 
 the prettiest mother-of-pearl breakfast services we 
 ever had in our royal dominions. | At this little rally 
 of his Majesty one of the nymphs hung her head, 
 and the whole court laughed as good humouredly 
 as the King himself.] But we fear we detain you 
 (no no). The other day we were informed by 
 an agent—by agent do not imagine we mean that 
 sort of person you style a gent (suppressed laughter); 
 our agent is not of that class, we can assure you—in 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 101 
 
 the channel that, not satisfied with former defeats 
 or recent Paris fetes, France was fitting out a fleet, 
 to attempt a feat she never can perform—the feat of 
 planting her invading feet in Britain (boisterous 
 cheering and roars of laughter). In consequence of 
 this intelligence we removed our court, and learning 
 that the Bristol Channel had been selected asthe point 
 of attack, we took up our quarters off the Worm’s 
 Head. We should have come nearer to Bristol, but 
 the fact is—we don’t say it out of any disrespect—but 
 the fact is the water gets so unbearably muddy the 
 nearer one approaches Bristol (hear, hear), that the 
 whole of our court, and especially the’ ladies, who 
 wish to preserve their complexions, urged us to 
 stay somewhere about the mouth of the channel. 
 To cut a long story short, a French fleet arrived in 
 the channel, as was expected. They escaped your 
 channel squadron, and in order that the punishment 
 of the would-be invader’s impudence might be 
 more complete, we left our court, and, with a 
 chosen band of seamen, we followed them ourselves 
 to Kingroad, and—en passant, as those barbarous 
 French say—we cannot help remarking that it is 
 the dirtiest King-road we ever saw. But arrived 
 at Kingroad—as it may henceforth very properly 
 be called since our royal visit—we caused you to 
 be made aware of your danger, in order to test 
 your bravery, and when we learnt that you were 
 marching to meet the foe, we immediately upset 
 Napoleon’s fleet, and the whole of his force are now 
 our prisoners (great cheering). So now that the 
 danger is over, and we are thoroughly convinced 
 of your valour, we shall give you a treat (cheers). 
 It is centuries since we have permitted any of the 
 
102 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ladies of our ocean court ashore, but the main and 
 the men too can spare them to-night, and here 
 they may therefore re-main (great cheering ; also a 
 slight titter, main-ly owing, no doubt, to his 
 Majesty’s main-tenance of that very style of puny, 
 punning, and punishable language, which he had 
 condemned at the commencement of his speech). 
 We have sent a message to a friend of ours, a 
 mighty princess in the Regions Etherial, and she 
 has promised, in the fairest manner possible, to be 
 present, with all the fairest of her fairies, at a gala, 
 which is now being prepared in your honour. We 
 would remain just for one dance ourself, but have 
 a little business to attend to in the Mediterranean, 
 where we have reason to expect there is a design to 
 interfere with our dominion in those important 
 waters. To see after that business is our present desire 
 and intention. In the meantime we commit you to 
 the care of our court and the fairies of the Etherial 
 Regions. Upon you honour, as soldiers, we rely 
 that the humblest of our royal court shall be treated 
 as a lady should be treated (cheers). And now we 
 take our leave, and bid you all good night. Adieu! 
 A happy evening to all ! Good bye—good bye !” 
 
 ‘*'Tatta ! tatta!” cried several of the youngest of 
 the sea nymphs, whilst the others bent lowly to the 
 ground as the car moved slowly in the direction of 
 the channel, the steeds pawing the yielding space, 
 and the good-natured sea-king waving his trident 
 to the bending nymphs, kissing his hand in return 
 to their salute, and very waggishly whistling that 
 well-known and deservedly popular melody, “‘ The 
 girls I left behind me.” 
 
 The rifle band took the hint, and immediately 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 103 
 
 commenced to play, out of compliment to the king, 
 the air of that good old song, ‘‘ The Sea ! The 
 Sea !” His Majesty reined in his steeds a few 
 moments to listen, and then disappeared behind 
 a cloud. 
 
 I felt exceedingly sorry when the jolly monarch 
 had departed. JI would feign have heard more 
 concerning his Gallic prisoners, and, moreover, had 
 formed quite a liking for the eccentric Water God. 
 Had I known what were the contents of the cloud 
 that hid him from my gaze, I certainly should have 
 been perfectly content with his exit... But, like 
 humanity in general, I sigh -over a loss without 
 thinking that it may be only making way for a 
 gain, forgetting the good old adage that “all things 
 happen for the best.” : 
 
 Immediately the last glimmer of Neptune’s car 
 had disappeared, the cloud which obscured it grew 
 with such wondrous rapidity that we were soon in 
 total darkness, and I grieve to say that several of 
 my comrades availed themselves of this opportunity 
 to intrude too much of their attentions upon the 
 sea-nymphs, for I heard several half-smothered 
 screams, which told me that Neptune’s final demand 
 was not being so fully obeyed as it should have 
 been. ‘* You are no soldier, and you are no 
 gentleman either,” I heard one of the nymphs 
 exclaim. ‘* Not,” she continued, ‘‘ that I would 
 have minded the kiss, but to steal 1t in so unbe- 
 coming a manner, I blush for you really, and 
 unless you are down on your knees with a most 
 humble apology, I must report you to your 
 commander.” The apology was made, and so 
 absurdly too, that several humorous young ladies 
 laughed with refreshing heartiness. 
 
104 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A few minutes of total eclipse, and the earth 
 shook with such violence that we were all tossed 
 about as though the Down was a giant’s carpet 
 being shaken by the giant’s servants, and I and my 
 comrades had been thrown into it to amuse them. 
 I began to think that this was past a joke, and 
 wished myself at home again, when the vibration 
 ceased, and strains of exquisite music filled the 
 undulations of the air. Now it was the softest 
 gushing melody, asif produced by the most delicate 
 of wind and string instruments; now it rushed 
 through the air in liquid tones, and now it swelled 
 into grand melodious paroxysms, that I can only 
 liken unto mighty torrents of ever-rolling harmony. 
 Gradually these strains died away, and were 
 followed by a vocal chaunt, in which I detected 
 the following words :— 
 
 “ We come! we come! 
 
 From the regions of the air, 
 We come ! we come! 
 
 With the fairest of the fair. 
 
 “hen ring, ring, ye fairy bells ring, 
 
 Ring out through the earth and the sky; 
 A peal for the Great Ocean King, 
 
 A peal for Britain’s victory. 
 
 “And light your ruddy fires, 
 Ye gods of the sun-lit East ; 
 
 And fairies strike your lyres, 
 To honour Neptune’s feast.” 
 
 As the chaunt proceeded, innumerable peals of 
 fairy bells were heard in the distance, and the dark 
 cloud gradually opened, discovering the descent of 
 the fairies of the Etherial Regions, headed by 
 their Queen, Juno. As they approached the earth 
 the sea-nymphs rose into the air to meet them, 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 105 
 
 and were welcomed in these words, which were 
 sung in chorus :— 
 
 Welcome, sweetest sisters, 
 
 From your amber dales and dells ; 
 Welcome, fairy sisters, 
 
 With your wiles, and charms, and spells. 
 
 Whilst the female deities of sea and air were 
 going through the ceremony of individual intro- 
 duction, I looked about me and found that during 
 the darkness from which I and my fellows had 
 been so agreeably relieved, the country around had 
 undergone a marvellous change. We were standing 
 on the edge of St. Vincent’s Rocks, opposite 
 Nightingale Valley. The Down had lost its 
 frosty appearance, and was covered with velvet 
 turf, gemmed with myriads of small creeping 
 flowers and delicate mosses, amongst which sparkled 
 radiant drops of dew, glistening like resplendent 
 jewels. The Observatory was a fairy palace, 
 decorated, on the exterior, with the choicest of Mr. 
 West’s pictures, and the pillars of the suspended 
 Suspension-bridge were transformed into a couple 
 of gigantic dolphins, from whose mouths issued 
 jets of water, that bounded over the rocks and 
 were lost amidst the overhanging foliage. The 
 river was as clear as crystal, and on its swelling tide 
 were hundreds of fairy barques containing nymphs 
 of surpassing beauty. The adjacent woods were 
 studded with temples of porphyry and gold, and the 
 trees were filled with nightingales and birds of every 
 hue. There was a bridge from the rocks to the top 
 of the valley, constructed so lightly that it had the 
 appearance of the most delicate fretwork, and was 
 
 O 
 
106 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 swayed by every breeze. Upon the whole 
 charming scene troups of the rosiest sunbeams cast 
 their refulgent glances, and, as they glimmered on 
 the rocks the alabaster wall threw back a thousand 
 prismatic hues that made rainbows on the crystal 
 river, and scattered about light and shade in a 
 variety of tints that the pencil of a Turner would 
 have failed to depict. , 
 
 When the fairies had alighted upon the earth, 
 the Queen delivered a chaste poetical address to 
 the whole regiment, which presented arms as she 
 advanced. She bade us enjoy the treat which 
 Neptune had ordered as a reward for our bravery, 
 and then invited us to accompany her and her 
 retinue to the enchanted woods, which had, she said, 
 been filled with every conceivable charm for our 
 gratification and amusement. We followed her over 
 the bridge accordingly, and found everything 
 imaginable and unimaginable prepared for us. 
 There were temples of love, and temples of wine; 
 temples for smoking such tobacco as only the gods 
 are permitted to enjoy; temples for classical 
 games ; temples of jewels ; and temples contain- 
 ing everything that the heart could wish for. 
 Besides, there were gardens which looked in the 
 sun like kaleidoscope pictures, and hundreds of 
 woodland promenades and woodland bowers, which 
 eclipsed in grandeur and beauty everything I had 
 ever seen or imagined. 
 
 My comrades amused themselves in all manner 
 of ways. For my own part, I was so enraptured 
 and bewildered that I betook myself to a bower 
 and watched a bevy of fairies, who tripped it 
 lightly, in a voluptuous dance, on a plece of 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 107 
 
 elastic turf opposite an alabaster grotto. I retired 
 to the fairy retreat, and gazed upon the fairy 
 throng enraptured. I had not long feasted my 
 eyes when forth came one of the group towards 
 me. She was the fairest creature these eyes 
 ever beheld—the very counterpart of my blue- 
 eyed Milly. 
 
 ‘¢ Well, Charles,” she said, when she had arrived 
 at the spot where I stood, ‘I hope you are 
 enjoying yourself.” 
 
 “Enjoying myself—I am in heaven,” I 
 exclaimed. ; 
 
 *‘ No, you are not, my dear, and I hope you will 
 not go there yet,” she replied; the voice, the 
 action, the manner of her speech, all Milly’s. 
 
 ‘Will you permit me to ask you a question, fair 
 young lady?” I said. 
 
 ‘¢ A thousand, if you like,” she replied, pulling 
 her gossamer - like scarf round her beautiful 
 shoulders. 
 
 ‘¢ May I ask, then, what is your name ?” 
 
 ‘¢ Let us walk to yonder grotto on the hill, and 
 I will tell you,” said my sweet companion, and we 
 rambled there, arm in arm, the soft breeze playing 
 upon our cheeks, and scattering around us per- 
 fumes which seemed to intoxicate me with a strange 
 indescribable delight. 
 
 Arrived at the grotto, which was on the top of a 
 precipice, overlooking the fairy river, my sweet 
 companion said, ‘* You wish to know my name ?” 
 
 ** T do,” I replied, with great earnestness. 
 
 ** Well, Mr. Simpkins, my name is Milly.” 
 
 “Then you are my own dear Milly transformed 
 into a fairy.” 
 
108 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 “No! no! not quite so fast. Iam Milly, and I 
 am not Milly, if you can make that out.” 
 
 I confessed that I could not comprehend the 
 somewhat paradoxical situation she assigned her- 
 self, so she described her meaning somewhat in this 
 fashion. 
 
 ‘You see the Queen of the Etherial Regions, 
 who is one of the kindest-hearted queens in the 
 whole dominions of Fairyland, takes under her 
 care all the good maidens of the earth, assigning to 
 each constant fair one a fairy protector, who 
 becomes, as it were, the spiritual counterpart of 
 the one protected. I am your Milly’s guardian. 
 I watch over her slumbers, and am often with her 
 during the day. When I am absent from her I 
 know where she is and what she is doing, because 
 I can always see her wherever she may be. Iam, 
 therefore, Milly’s living spirit, and know all her 
 doings, and that accounts for my being like her. 
 If you look amongst the fairies around you, you 
 will find, I dare say, many features which may be 
 familiar to you, because you may know the young 
 ladies over whose destinies some of the fairies 
 present are appointed to superintend.” 
 
 I was astonished and delighted at this information, 
 and put my arm round a fairy waist upon the 
 strength of the fairy narrative. 
 
 ‘Tell me then where Milly is at the present 
 moment, I pray you?” 
 
 ‘Oh, the dear girlis at home. She has heard 
 of the defeat of the French, and is longing to 
 throw herself into your arms.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bless her little heart,” I ejaculated, and in the 
 absence of the original, I embraced the spiritual 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MARCH. 109 
 
 representative with great fervour, and to my 
 inexpressible delight, found that my companion 
 was not so etherial as she had led me to imagine. 
 She did not melt into thin air in my arms, or any- 
 thing of that sort, but seemed as palpable and real 
 a form as ever was embraced by lover. 
 
 I was just about to consummate my joy by 
 kissing the prettiest of pretty mouths, when I felt 
 my shoulder violently shaken. Thinking this some 
 supernatural work to warn me not to let my ecstacy 
 carry meso far as kissing, I took no notice of it, 
 but again pressed forward to salute the. ruddy lips 
 of my spiritual Milly, when-a hand seized me by 
 the shoulder and pushed me headlong down the 
 yawning abyss. Over and over and over I went, 
 whirling in the air, dashing myself against rocks, 
 falling over trees, entangling myself in foliage, until 
 at last I fell, with a terrible crash, on the river’s bank. 
 Lying there bleeding and bruised, a hand still shook 
 me by the shoulder, and, instead of the enchanted 
 perfume of Fairyland, a most unmistakable breeze of 
 onions and gin-and-water played about my nasal 
 organs. 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Simpkins! Mr, Simpkins!” screamed a 
 scolding voice in my ear. 
 
 I opened my eyes, and—oh! horror!—there I 
 lay on my couch in my little parlour just as I had 
 arrived from drill; and there stood my scarecrow 
 of a landlady screaming her head off at me. 
 
 **T thought I never should a waked yer. Oh 
 dear, oh dear, wos iver a woman frighted so 
 afore.” 
 
 “*Go to the devil,” I believe I was ungallant and 
 vulgar enough to exclaim when I was quite awake, 
 
110 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and found that the invasion and the charming 
 afterpiece were only a dream, from which I had 
 been awakened when it was most like reality. 
 
 ‘* Some people must a go there in there sleep, or 
 somewhere worse, for you wos a talking just now 
 that it wos very dark, and you wished you wos at 
 home. Ah! thinks I, thank God I hevs a good 
 conscience. Well, when I ears you a saying it wos 
 dark, I givs you ariglar shake all over, butas for 
 waking un, I might as well a shook them statis as 
 is alers a kneeling up in the Cathedral, and niver 
 says their prayers,” was the substance of my land- 
 lady’s reply, uttered with indignant volubility. 
 
 That ‘‘riglar shake” accounted for the earth 
 trembling so during the transformation business, of 
 course, and the old griffin was shaking me when I 
 first essayed to kiss Milly. I could have annihilated 
 that respectable landlady of mine on the spot, but 
 as that would have been useless slaughter, I kicked 
 her brass fender, and ordered the brazen-faced 
 owner thereof never to wake me again, though my 
 groans might alarm a whole universe of good 
 consciences. 
 
AN AUTUMN LEAF. 
 
 FROM A CHAPTER ON TRAVELLING. 
 
 *Mid Autumn’s purple sunsets, 
 A dirge note swells the blast, 
 And tells that soon the brightness 
 Of the year will all be past. 
 H. G. Adams. 
 
 Farewell, monsieur traveller; look you lisp, and wear strange 
 suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of 
 love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that 
 countenance you are; orl will scarce .think you have swam in a 
 gondola. Shakespeare. 
 
 Tourists are returning home by every train and 
 steamer. ‘The Rhine, the Lakes of Killarney, 
 Scotland, and the English watering-places, are 
 giving up their invigorated sojourners to the stern 
 duties of business, or the almost equally arduous 
 labour of discovering new pleasures at home. The 
 Spirit of Autumn is abroad amongst the hills, and 
 onthe plains. It is heard at night on the ocean, 
 and seen at morn in thecurling wave. It appears. 
 in mists at eventide, and newly-fallen leaves tell of 
 it in the morning sunlight. Oh! melancholy, yet 
 fascinating Spirit of the Closing Year, how grand 
 thou art in thy solemnity! how beautiful in thy 
 bending simplicity! Nowa lovely maiden, drooping 
 like a lily beneath an adverse wind; now a giant, 
 with locks, grey as the stubble fields at Harvest 
 Home! I have seen thee in thy most beauteous 
 aspects; in lonely woods; by running brooks; by 
 the rolling sea; in the misty mountains ; away from 
 the smoke of towns, or the hackneyed paths of 
 
112 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 tourists. And beautiful art thou as ever poet 
 painted thee. An emblem of life—a fore-glimpse 
 of man’s mortality ! 
 
 So much by way of introduction. I have 
 returned, with the crowd, to city life again, and 
 cannot be expected, at once, to shake off the 
 influences of my recent trip into fairy land. I have 
 not been to Baden Baden; I have not been lost in 
 Alpine snows, nor have I sipped to satiety of Parisian 
 pleasures. No! I have seen too littleof my own 
 country yet to rush off to foreign parts for novelty. 
 Would that every Englishman made a point of 
 seeing something of the ‘‘ green and sunny spots” 
 of his own native land, ere he leaves it for con- 
 tinental trips! We have Rhines and Switzerlands 
 at home, if English eyes could only see them. But, 
 unfortunately, in many cases, it is merely for the 
 sake of saying they have seen such and such a 
 place, that many persons are induced to take long 
 journeys, and become great travellers. 
 
 He is the man that best enjoys travelling who, 
 fresh from the heat and bustle of the city, travels 
 for enjoyment’s sake ; loves the beauties of nature 
 for themselves alone ; has no vain yearning to 
 inscribe his name in ‘ visitors’ book” thousands 
 of miles from home ; no desire to “‘ do” as large 
 a tract of country as possible in the smallest 
 possible period. Can anything be more obnoxious 
 to a sensible man than to find, on every ruin 
 to which his guide conducts him, names and 
 initials cut in the oak panels, ground into the 
 crumbling walls, engraved on the adjacent trees, 
 or cut out in the smooth turf of the courtyards? 
 Commend me to the nooks and corners of Great 
 
AN AUTUMN LEAF. lig 
 
 Britain, which have not become the popular 
 resorts of tourists ; where poets and painters have 
 not been before you to exaggerate little things, nor 
 book-makers to write their history ; where lodging- 
 house keepers have not pitched their tents, nor local 
 innkeepers learnt their power for good or evil. 
 Thanks to the vanity of travelling, there are 
 many such spots around our coasts, if we except 
 the footsteps of the book-makers. The Welsh 
 coast, for instance, abounds with glorious retreats, 
 where you may live, bathe, shoot, fish, sail, and be 
 merry, without coming, at every turn, under the 
 telescope of a tourist, or being interrupted by the 
 fussy importance of ‘* Old Men of the Mountain,” 
 who, insist on sending you to sleep with long 
 stories, or upsetting your palate with bad cigars— 
 the stepping stones to ‘‘acquaintanceship,” the 
 sprats thrown out for hooking bigger fish. Where 
 no ‘‘mud-pies” or semi-lakes interrupt your morn- 
 ing stroll along the beach ; where no donkeys 
 mingle with the view of the distant sea ; where no 
 bathing machines thrust forth their dirty inhar-. 
 monious forms against the clear outline of rock ; 
 where no terraces of houses, with high-sounding 
 names, frown upon your humble lodgings at the 
 inn ; where no lisping swells complain that the 
 castle on the hill is ‘‘a fine wuin, but vewy much 
 owt of wepair ;” where no hired country band bores 
 you with wretched interpretations of Verdi; where 
 the everlasting unprotected female, with the 
 blue sun-shade over her faded features, is gone 
 from the beach even at low water (where, in 
 fashionable watering places, she is usually found 
 in lonely contemplation of a sea shell); where 
 P 
 
114 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 indeed you are alone with Nature and yourself 
 —unless, of course, you have a companion, a 
 charming woman for instance, to participate in 
 your pleasures. 
 
 Along the rocky coast of Gower, leaving the 
 Mumbles on one hand and the Worm’s Head 
 on the other, you may find all the fascinating 
 quietude and beauties of which I speak; pretty 
 bays encircled with rocks and hills which stretch 
 away into wooded vales, where leafy steeps rise by 
 the side of sparkling rivulets. Only a few stray 
 pleasure-seekers and book-makers have been before 
 you. The former have left little traces of their 
 journeyings. ‘The latter you need not read, unless 
 it is to see how industrious some have been in 
 inventing stories and manufacturing rustic con- 
 versations; but pin your faith to their statements 
 and you are lost. ‘The simple-hearted women and 
 children, the unsophisticated fishermen and pilots, 
 who tell romantic stories about fairies, are myths. 
 Don’t believe a word of it; or farewell peace of mind 
 —farewell pleasure, satisfaction, enjoyment. Believe 
 in these book-makers’.stories of the simple intelli- 
 gence and romantic superstition of the peasants, and 
 in the ingenuousness of your nature, seeing, at a dis- 
 tance, a Welsh girl gathering laver bread on the 
 rocks, you may hasten to the place and question the 
 object of your curiosity, in the hope of eliciting a 
 pathetic story of love or a romantic narrative of dark- 
 ness, such as those you see printed by the book- 
 makers. Thus perchance would you be disap- 
 pointed :— | 
 
 Stranger: Well, my little girl ; what are you 
 gathering ? 
 
AN AUTUMN LEAF. 115 
 
 Peasant Girl: Laver bread. 
 
 Stranger: Yes; and what is laver bread for? 
 
 Peasant Girl: To eat. 
 
 Seana For whom do you gather it, my good 
 
 irl! 
 i Peasant Girl: Mother. 
 
 Stranger: What does she with it? 
 
 Peasant Girl: Eat it. 
 
 Stranger: Do you not sell it then? 
 
 Peasant Girl: Yes. 
 
 Stranger (getting less verbose in his questions) : 
 Where? Skt 
 
 Peasant Girl(going away): At the market. 
 
 Stranger (taking a sudden interest in a distant 
 sail): Oh! 
 
 Now your professional book-maker would make 
 a pretty little sea-side narrative out of such a 
 meeting as that, working it up perhaps after this 
 fashion :— 
 
 ‘‘'The other morning as we rambled along the 
 rocky shore, the sea gulls screaming over our head, 
 and the ocean rolling in majestic grandeur at our 
 feet, we observed at a somewhat inaccessible part 
 of the rugged coast the figure of a little girl, clad 
 in the native costume of Wales. With some 
 difficulty we gained the scene of her industrious 
 occupation, the collection of a peculiar kind of 
 sea-weed, called by the natives laver bread, which, 
 after undergoing a cleansing process, is eaten after 
 the manner of a vegetable. It is sold in the 
 Swansea market, and is to the poor peasant an 
 important source of revenue. (Here follows a note 
 of reference, on turning to which you will find duly 
 set forth the nature and history of laver bread.) 
 
116 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ¢¢ What are you gathering, little girl?’ we said, 
 as she held up her pretty face at our approach. 
 
 ‘¢ ¢ Laver bread, Sir, for my mother.’ 
 
 ‘¢ ¢ What do you do with it ?’ 
 
 ‘¢ ¢ Hat as much as we can afford to eat, and sell 
 the rest in the market,’ the child _ replied, 
 continuing her occupation, and filling her basket 
 most industriously. 
 
 “© « Are you poor, then, my good girl?’ 
 
 *¢ ¢ Not when dear mother is well, Sir,’ replied 
 the girl, her soft blue eyes filling with tears ; 
 ‘when mother is well we have meat and laver 
 bread every day; but now we sell what can be 
 done without, that mother may have a fire in her 
 room.’ 
 
 ‘¢¢ Poor unhappy one; where is your father, 
 then?’ we asked. 
 
 ‘¢ The poor child sobbed aloud at the mention of 
 her father, who, she said, was taken away by the 
 fairies a year ago. He was a fisherman, and being 
 wrecked one fine moonlight night near a small bay, 
 adjacent to Rhosilly, he swam ashore whilst the 
 fairies were tripping over the golden sands. For 
 interrupting the midnight sport and seeing what 
 no mortal eye can see and live—that mystic dance 
 of the fairy elves in the moonlight-—the poor 
 fisherman was carried to the fairy bowers a slave 
 to the mysterious ‘gentry.’ Such was the 
 superstitious account the child gave us of her 
 father’s death. 
 
 ‘*¢ ¢ But how, my child, do you know that the 
 fairies took away your father?’ 
 
 *¢ ¢ Tt was told to mother in her dreams, and she 
 has heard the fairy music when the moon rises.’ 
 
AN AUTUMN LEAF. phity: 
 
 ‘‘ We found that for months the unsophisticated 
 child had maintained her bereaved mother merely by 
 gathering laver bread. Sheled us to the humble 
 cot in which she resided, and there we found the 
 mother influenced by the same superstitious feelings 
 as those which actuated her child, whose little blue 
 eyes would lighten up with curious intelligence, as 
 she told us of the doings of the fairies, whom she 
 confidently believed would hear the supplications 
 she offered up, in the moonlight, to take herself and 
 mother to the place where the poor fisherman was 
 confined, or let him return to those who pined for 
 him at home. We were quite affected with this 
 little picture of the romantic child-like attention of 
 the peasant girl, and, we need not say, lent a helping 
 hand to lighten the burden which weighed so 
 heavily on their humble household. We often 
 saw the little blue-eyed believer in fairies during 
 our stay, and christened her ‘ Our little Welsh 
 fairy.’ 
 
 * * , % od 
 
 ‘¢ Returning to this spot some few months after- 
 wards, we sought the cot of Our Little Fairy. 
 Empty, desolate, still as the grave, was the once 
 pretty cottage. The wind moaned around in 
 sorrowful cadence, and the sea-birds shrieked as 
 they whirled by in the yielding air. Death had 
 removed the sorrowful mother. Our Little Fairy 
 had gone to the crystal halls of fairydom.” 
 
 : * * 2 
 
 Don’t believe a word of it! 
 
ON KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 
 
 What a hollow miserable system this keeping up 
 appearances is; living a continual, daily, yearly 
 lie ; ever on guard against anticipated attacks upon 
 your mock fame and wealth ; existing on false 
 appearances, making what the world calls friends 
 of those who would not know you for yourself, 
 but associate with you on the strength of your 
 assumed wealth or family connexions! — 
 
 I know a man who for years did nothing, 
 absolutely nothing, but keep up appearances, 
 merely because he had suddenly grown rich, and 
 wanted the world to think he had never been poor. 
 Originally a shopkeeper, he was promoted from the 
 counter to affluence by an unexpected legacy of 
 three hundred pounds a-year. He removed from 
 the scene of his former occupation to live the life 
 of ‘‘a gentleman of independent fortune,” in the 
 capital of a distant county. From this time he 
 never knew a moment’s real happiness. He was 
 always engaged in mounting guard against 
 imaginary attacks upon his respectability. From 
 morning till night he was ever prepared to rebut 
 and resent fancied sneers at his humble origin. 
 He would wake up in his dreams to quote the 
 pedigree of his family, and exhibit the armorial 
 bearings ‘which he had procured from that par- 
 ticular office in the great metropolis, where there are 
 ancient pedigrees for all who can pay for them. 
 He exaggerated his income to such an enormous 
 sum, in the imagination of his new friends, that he 
 
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 119 
 
 soon found himself involved in a_ variety of 
 expenses necessary to the maintenance of the 
 great lie of society. The result was a keeping up 
 of appearances to such an alarming extent that the 
 imaginary fabric of wealth soon came to the 
 ground, and left our hero without a sovereign to 
 commence life again—either as a ‘‘ gentleman ” or 
 a tradesman. As drowning men catch at straws 
 he turned to his friends for assistance, and found 
 them all engaged—in keeping up appearances. 
 
 The widow of a respectable bagman, or ‘* com- 
 mercial gentleman,” as the modern title runs, occu- 
 pies the grand suite of apartments above my modest 
 rooms. Her struggle of keeping up appearances is 
 an extremely arduous one. For a whole week 
 the drawing-room lady, my landlady tells me, 
 (that landlady of mine will talk when she pays me 
 her weekly visit, whether I will or not,) often 
 lives on a pound of beef. The first day it comes 
 to table in the shape of soup, and, with an 
 occasional dining out, the beef, served up in a 
 variety of ways, is made to do duty at five o'clock 
 every day from Monday until Saturday. Then it 
 is served up with silver, preceded each day with 
 the remains of yesterday’s soup. Every day a 
 lemon is squeezed and a cayenne cruet shaken into 
 a soup plate, and every day there is a pompous set 
 out of glass, linen, and silver. Finger glasses and 
 an apple follow, and in an hour afterwards dry 
 toast and coffee serve for tea and supper. The 
 poor old soul goes to bed hungry every night, but 
 she cannot afford to live better, her income being 
 chiefly expended in the rent of her elegant rooms. 
 Occasionally the widow has company, upon which 
 
120 TALES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 occasions the visitors eat and drink as much in an 
 evening as their hostess consumes in six months. 
 But then, what a triumph the widow enjoys through 
 all these sacrifices! She keeps up appearances, and 
 by the success which attends her efforts, makes her 
 world believe that she is the widow of a great man 
 who died rich enough to leave her a great fortune. 
 
 The widow has a daughter, who visits her 
 twice a year. The daughter keeps up appearances. 
 She is second nursery governess in an obscure 
 nobleman’s family, and she comes home and 
 talks of Lady Wimpleton with great familiarity. 
 The widow assists the daughter, by whisper- 
 ing to her nearest friend that she should be 
 very glad if her daughter and Lady Wimpleton 
 were not upon such intimate terms, for she 
 would rather have the dear girl at home with 
 her. ‘It is really a great sacrifice to give up one’s 
 old family residence in the north ; come westerly, 
 and live in rooms, because one’s daughter is so 
 deeply loved by the Wimpletons. But there, my 
 dear friend, I could not oppose her inclinations for 
 the world ; and, moreover, she is at an age when 
 the usages and pleasures of high society are 
 necessary to her!” What a dear good soul that 
 widow is, to be sure! 
 
 ‘¢ A noble lord, a friend of my family, has sent 
 me a hogshead of the celebrated old ale from the 
 cellars of Turnbury Castle ; call and taste it,” said 
 a most inveterate keeper-up of appearances to 
 me the other day. ‘It isa novelty, I assure you; 
 a little thick, perhaps, but attractive from its 
 associations.” I called accordingly. ‘‘ Master has 
 just gone out, Sir, in the Hon. Sydney Flumpington’s 
 
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 121 
 
 carriage.” ‘Is your mistress at home?” ‘* She is, 
 sir; will you take a seat in the reception-room, 
 sir ?” 
 
 I did take a seat in the ‘‘ reception-room.” The 
 lady of the house soon entered. After some ordinary 
 civilities I explained that, at the urgent request of 
 Mr. Pimpleton, I had called to taste his celebrated 
 Turnbury ale. ‘* Oh, certainly, by all means,” 
 said Mrs. Pimpleton, ringing the bell and darting 
 out immediately afterwards to give some instruc- 
 tions respecting the liquor. ; 
 
 In a few minutes the lady returned, and almost 
 simultaneously with that important event, the 
 youngest of the Pimpleton family rushed in with 
 the exclamation, ‘‘ Oh, ma! the servant from the 
 hotel has fallen down and spilt all the old ale you 
 sent for.” 
 
 I need not describe the consternation and fruitless 
 efforts of Mrs. Pimpleton to explain, but I will 
 venture to predict that the youngest of the Pimple- 
 ton family was beaten that day for her ‘‘ rudeness.” 
 
 Keeping up appearances isa pursuit in ‘which 
 we are all, more or less, engaged. To a certain 
 extent, the laws of society enforce it. Fashion 
 requires it, ‘Trade and Commerce demand its 
 observance, until plain simple Honesty is beaten 
 out of the field by the new virtue, which nothing 
 but the French word jinesse seems strong 
 enough and weak enough adequately to describe. 
 To take a position in society, aman without lineage 
 or wealth must seem what he is not. To insure 
 confidence in trade a man must appear well-to-do 
 when he is anything but well-to-do. Everybody 
 seems to be engaged in making the world believe 
 that they are that which they are not. A clerk, 
 
 Q 
 
122 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 with a hundred pounds a year, assumes the extra- 
 vagances of the manager in the counting-house, 
 and the manager apes the consequence of his 
 master. ‘The infection runs throughout society 
 generally, from the drawing-room down to the 
 kitchen. John tries to put on the dignity of his 
 master, with his left-off clothes, and Mary will 
 have her Sunday dress made and trimmed like her 
 mistress’s beautiful moire antique, even though 
 Mary’s be nothing more than a common bombazeen. 
 
 What a pity it is we cannot all live together in 
 this every-day world of ours, and be content to be 
 what we are. As far as happiness is concerned, I 
 am satisfied that the shortest way to anything like 
 an elysium on earth is to seem no more than we 
 are, and conduct ourselves honourably and honestly 
 in the station in which we are placed, always, of 
 course, with a laudable ambition, striving to 
 progress upwards. 
 
 This may not always be the road to earthly 
 fame. Indeed, there are many examples to the 
 contrary. But the man raised above his fellows 
 by a fleeting popularity, on a false basis, is not 
 an enviable man. Moreover, happiness seldom 
 associates with pomp, and noise, and glitter. It 
 is certainly not attended with a vain wretched 
 struggle at keeping up appearances. The Italian 
 Bishop who, in every change of fortune, first 
 looked up to heaven and remembered that his 
 first business was to get there; then looked down 
 to earth, and called to mind how small a space 
 he should fill in it ; then looked abroad, and saw 
 what multitudes were in all respects less happy 
 than himself, was a true philosopher, and found 
 real happiness. 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 
 I. | 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 High up in the Peak, amongst a hundred 
 clustering piles of broken rock, where, in the 
 mysterious past, the Titans might have been playing 
 *‘ duck-stone,” a brook, I used to know, had its 
 birth, and a noisy merry birth it was, too. The 
 thousand little pebbles which had fallen from the 
 Titans’ playthings rolled about in the bubbling 
 water, the trees bent down their heads to see what 
 was going on amongst their great straggling 
 roots, and the brook I used to know laughed and 
 shouted as he bounded away from the rocks and 
 the fir trees. 
 
 As the stream rolled on, crowds of hyacinths 
 nodded from curious nooks and corners, trying to 
 catch glimpses of their waving bells in his radiant 
 happy face, but the brook I used to know was too 
 boisterous, high up in the rocky Peak, to pa 
 attention to the flowers, not one of which could 
 reflect its pretty form in the stream, for the foam 
 and spray-he used to throw about him amongst the 
 stones and the tree-roots. Away he went, shouting 
 and laughing, and secretly longing to be down in 
 the Plain, which stretched away in verdant meadows 
 until the distant hills shut them out from the far 
 off country beyond. 
 
 Down in the Plain a little winding shining 
 
124 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 shingly brook, called, I think, the Rother, glided 
 through the meads, and its soft and gentle music 
 was sometimes wafted away, like a zephyr-breath, 
 to the young giant-brook of the mountain, until he 
 of the Peak had longings to join she of the Plain, 
 which made him dash onwards with redoubled 
 vigour. No obstacle could restrain the brook-born 
 torrent of the Peak. If a tree fell in his way or a 
 pile of rock interposed its rough front, the lithe 
 lover of the sweet little Rother would speedily over- 
 come them. Stopping for awhile as if to gather 
 strength, he would swell with his overpowering 
 efforts, until he bounded over the obstruction with 
 a shout of defiance, charging, like a white foaming 
 war-horse, at the next opponent, and bearing on, 
 with reckless rage, spoils of the noisy combat. 
 
 At last, maddened with the excitement of victory, 
 and urged on by the gentle daughter of the Plain, 
 he leaped headlong over.a precipice, and hill, dale, 
 and dell echoed with his shout as he alighted in 
 the broad open Plain below. 
 
 But the leap was a desperate one, and my brook 
 of the mountain became much calmer after his 
 first great ebullition of victory. He flowed 
 along with a quiet murmur, and buttercups 
 and primroses, and little trees and waving reeds 
 collected on his banks and bowed to their counter- 
 feits in the mirror he made for them. On he 
 wandered until the whisperings of the Rother 
 seemed to mingle with his subdued voice as though 
 they held sweet converse together. Then, as if to 
 carry out my simile of The Lovers, the Rother sud- 
 denly turned away and went off into the woods 
 laughing—yes, fairly laughing, as she entered the 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 125 
 
 glen, derisive laughter at he of the mountain, 
 with whose earnestness she sought to flirt and trifle. 
 ‘¢ T care not for you, rough son of the Peak,” her 
 voice seemed to say amongst the trees; but she 
 spoke not what she really felt, for she came back, at 
 the turn of the hill side, and made up for her coy- 
 ness by leaping into the arms of him of the 
 mountain. 
 
 Then the mountain - born son of the Peak mar- 
 ried the beautiful meandering Rother, and they 
 flowed on through the world, blending: their voices 
 together ; and their path, though often rough and 
 rugged, was sometimes strewn with moss and with 
 flowers. 
 
ice 
 THE OFFSPRING. 
 
 Two little winding rivulets soon branched off 
 into the meadows, intersecting each other’s course, 
 and flowing along in pretty intricacies, as though 
 they sported with each other in the sunshine, and 
 joined defiance to the shadow. They both gurgled, 
 and rippled, and trickled through a wood. 
 thousand velvety mosses spread out their soft arms 
 over the pebbles in their path, which was fringed 
 with water-lilies and forget-me-nots. In the Spring 
 time, the brooks kept up an incessant purling sound, 
 like the wind sweeping through a lyre. In Summer, 
 they scarcely whispered through the deep shady 
 grove. In Autumn, they became quite angry and 
 clamorous, In Winter, their voices were hushed: 
 they lay like the dead awaiting the resurrection. 
 
 When they came out of the wood they parted. 
 One went off over a bye-lane round the common, 
 and assisted the canal to carry barge-loads of iron- 
 stone. ‘The other ran on by the hedge-row, and 
 passed through the fields, not far from ‘ Our 
 School.” It was a brave little brook then, affording 
 frolicsome youth a source of endless amusement. 
 The boys played ‘‘ follow my leader” on its banks, 
 which led to many a ducking. I could take you 
 now, dear reader, to every particular jump by 
 which the brook was marked. The leap over the 
 sloe bush on the one side, and into the reeds on 
 the other, was the famous jump which made 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 127 
 
 ‘follow my leader” peculiarly exciting and 
 daring. Then there was the pole across the weir 
 near the silk factory. It was a treacherous piece 
 of timber, that. Besides being slippery, it was 
 rickety, and many a venturesome ‘follow my 
 leader ” has had cause to remember its peculiarities. 
 
 But a word about that little silk factory. ‘“ Work ! 
 Work! Work!” Men received money enough to 
 keep wives and families, and women enough to 
 keep husbands and families, and boys and girls 
 enough to have pocket-money and go into all the 
 shows on fair-days, for working here. Work! 
 Can this be work ? I used to ask myself, as I sat in 
 the summer sun, listening to the throbbing pulsation 
 of the machinery and the voices of the factory- 
 girls blending in vocal chaunt with the chatter of 
 the whirling bobbins. Could this be work ? The 
 sun shone upon a hundred windows, and gilded the 
 ivy-leaves which crept up the red brick building. 
 The smoke from the tall chimney mounted up into 
 the blue heavens, and made a cloud-land of its own, 
 which sunbeams deigned to visit and turn into gold. 
 Vocal strains, the voice of woman, came out from 
 the shining windows. Could that be work ? The 
 brook rolled on at my feet, and joined in the music 
 of the factory. Oh, to be in the mill! I sighed, and 
 send the sill worm’s webb spinning round yon 
 whirling reels! Oh, to be a factory boy in that 
 great brick palace of glittering wheels and singing 
 maidens ! 
 
 How terrified should I have been, had I suddenly 
 seen, in those boyish dreamings, the untimely ghosts 
 which had peopled the land of shades from that 
 shining palace of brick and glass. Where I, in 
 
128 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 my ignorant fancy, thought angels sat, demons 
 reigned and ruled. What a shock it was to my 
 feelings as the truth dawned upon me in after 
 years! Could that be work ? No; it was bitter, 
 heavy, killing toil. From early morning, when 
 the lark carolled to the sky, until night, when 
 the bat whirled through the dusky air, small 
 fingers guided and little eyes watched the dancing 
 threads until heads were giddy, and pulses low, 
 and brains were like to crack. From sunlight 
 until red garish gas gleamed along the whirligig 
 of shafts and straps, and made the air thick and 
 hot, stunted youth sat and toiled, until God, in 
 His mercy, looked down from His throne, and 
 stilled the heart of the wearied and toilworn. 
 Work! It was murder! 
 
 The offspring, which I traced through the woods, 
 had its troubles. Less than a mile past ‘‘ Our 
 School,” the great powers who ruled the little 
 town closely imprisoned the brook, and covered 
 it up with paving stones and dirt, beneath which, 
 if you listened attentively, you could hear it 
 roaring and dashing itself against its prison walls 
 until it bounded out of the viaduct into the town 
 reservoir. Here it mingled together with a host of 
 other little streams which, after contributing their 
 due share to a thousand water-pipes, were let out 
 along a smooth pebbly reen which led to The Old 
 
 Brook. 
 
ELE 
 
 THE OLD BROOK WHICH TURNED 
 UNDERWOOD’S MILL. 
 
 Old Brook ! It was in thy pellucid waters I 
 _caught my first fish, sailed my first miniature 
 man-of-war, had my first open air bath. It was on 
 thy verdant banks I first began to feel what poetry 
 was, and receive inspiration enough to understand 
 the beauties of the great Masters of Song. 
 Wandering, by thy side, I learnt my earliest 
 lessons of life and formed notions of what the great 
 world, into which I was one day to enter, was 
 like. As I watched thee, winding on into the 
 misty distance, I used to picture the great towns 
 through which thou passed ere thou joined the 
 mighty sea—imagine myself far away in one 
 of those bustling resorts of man, where, in a few 
 years, I, a dreaming boy, might be struggling in 
 the great battle of life to seize the undefined prize 
 of hope and ambition. And thou art fresh in my 
 memory now, Old Brook, as if I were again a child 
 on thy banks, laughing when thou wert boisterous 
 and merry, thoughtful and still when thou became 
 hushed and uncommunicative. I can hear thy 
 voice, like the rustling of a Spirit, haunting the 
 pictures which come and go at the magic touch 
 R . 
 
130 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of Memory. And thou tellest me what a mere atom I 
 am in this great world of ours. For centuries thou 
 hast rolled on thy ceaseless course. In a few short 
 years the boy who played on thy banks will be 
 nomore ; yet thou wilt go onwards still. Empires 
 may shake and totter to their foundation. Kings may 
 fall, and new princes wield new sceptres. Race may 
 strive against race, man against his fellow - man, 
 until war and rapine tinge thy little waves with 
 blood. Yea, even the mill on thy very banks may 
 fall to decay ; the weirs over which thou leapest 
 to sunny plains may disappear; the cottages 
 whence little ones dabble tiny hands in thy clear 
 bright waters ; all thy own immediate friends, as it 
 were, whom thou hast known for years, may 
 pass away ; yet Time will bring no change to thee : 
 thou wilt still go on to the sea, singing as thou 
 flowest— 
 *¢ For men may come and men may go, 
 But I flow on for ever.” 
 
 The Old Brook came from the mountains. 
 Sometimes it was noisy, sometimes it was still. 
 There were many pretty rural pictures on its 
 banks. Now a cottage, with a rustic boat by the 
 brookside to gain the opposite bank in flood times, 
 lent its charm to the scene. Then a mill appeared 
 in front of a background made up of high wooded 
 hills. Anon a village would spring up, and away 
 in other regions of which I had little knowledge, 
 towns grew on its banks and made its waters 
 muddy and thick. 
 
 There, was not a prettier picture anywhere than 
 the water mill, where the country people brought 
 their corn to be ground. To see the Old Brook 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 131 
 
 turn the great wheel, and dance, in a thousand 
 glittering drops from every timber, was worth 
 walking miles for. And then to hear it after 
 it broke away from the task and darted off, 
 under the great black arch below, into the fields, 
 was to be deafened with wild turbulent music. 
 The Old Brook seemed glad to escape from 
 the mill, and free itself from the great flood-gates 
 where it was kept, a partial prisoner, as a guarantee 
 against its running away without turning the 
 wheel and grinding the corn. Well it might 
 like to get away from the broad deep lake 
 which the miller made it into! for there had been 
 strange things done at the Mill Dam, and ghosts, 
 all in white, had been known to glide over its deep 
 dark surface. 
 
 The Old Brook had its stories and its legends. 
 There is one connected with the mill and its 
 master, which I will tell you here, dear reader, 
 whilst we sit, in imagination, by the Mill Dam:— 
 
 Mark Underwood, who keeps that mill and 
 owns nearly all the country you can see around 
 you, including that fine new house on the hill 
 yonder, was once poor, and, paradoxical as it may 
 appear, was suddenly ruined by becoming rich. 
 All his boyish hopes and dreams had been frus- 
 trated by money. 
 
 When Mark was a young man, the pride of the 
 neighbouring village, the hope of the town a little 
 way down the brook, and the betrothed of Alice 
 Martin, who lived five miles above the mill dam, 
 an old uncle died and left him heir to a large 
 estate, in which was included the mill. This 
 turned the young man’s head, gave him proud 
 
132 _ TALES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 and extravagant notions, and made him forget his 
 youthful love. Soon, however, an unfortunate 
 speculation lost him his gold and his friends. 
 Those who thronged around him in his prosperity 
 scoffed at him in his adversity. The only being 
 who did not desert him in affliction was the sweet- 
 heart of his boyish days. She came to him, after 
 those who smiled upon him when he was rich knew 
 him no more, to breathe words of comfort and 
 remind him of days gone by. But she, poor 
 thing, fell a sacrifice to her devotedness and her 
 lover's insincerity. Scandal wove its meshes around 
 her and robbed her of the shelter of a father’s 
 roof. The blow fell too heavily for her weak 
 nature to bear, and a frozen corpse, taken from the 
 Old Brook a week afterwards, told too truly how 
 much she had suffered. 
 
 After this, Mark stcod alone in the world, a 
 friendless and almost heart-broken man. Having 
 interest and money enough left to obtain the mill 
 where his uncle had amassed most of his wealth, 
 he left the great town where he had been unfor- 
 tunate, and, as years rolled on, regained the lost 
 estate. Everything he touched seemed to turn 
 into gold. The country people said he had sold 
 himself to the devil. If he had done so, it was 
 certainly, regarded in a worldly light, a most 
 profitable speculation’ for the amateur miller. 
 
 Mark hated Christmas, and, indeed, every other 
 holiday which, in any way, interfered with his 
 worldly arrangements. He never went out at 
 Christmas time to see relations or friends, neither 
 did he entertain neighbour or relative at the mill. 
 
 Sarah, his housekeeper, although in everything 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 133 
 
 else she conformed to the odd notions of her 
 master, always went out, on Christmas Eve, to 
 drink tea with her nephew and his wife, who lived 
 in the little town of Oldbrook, with a family of 
 six fat and rosy romping youngsters, to whom she 
 took her annual Christmas boxes, and found ample 
 reward in being kissed, under the mistletoe, by 
 all the little ones. Sarah had herself once 
 looked forward to being the happy mother of a 
 host of little cherubs like these, but her ‘‘ poor 
 John” was lost on his return voyage from 
 Australia, and ever since she had been the faithful 
 housekeeper of Mark Underwood. 
 
 ‘To be sure,” she used to say, ‘master is 
 sometimes a bit fidgetty and crotchetty ; but he 
 has had his trials, and in the main he is very kind 
 to a poor helpless woman like me.” 
 
 The Christmas chimes were ringing in the 
 village, and came wandering through the air from 
 Oldbrook. The winter had been severe, and 
 hundreds of boys and men, were skating and 
 sliding on the mill dam. Enough water flowed, 
 however, to turn the mill, and round went the 
 wheel as of yore. 
 
 ‘‘ Stop that mill, ou’d oicicle,” said a rosy- 
 cheeked youngster, as he ran past on his way 
 to the village. 
 
 «A merry Christmas to thee, ou’d Underwood ; 
 tha looks as if tha’d been rear’d on sno’bolls ; tak’ 
 a boite at that,” said a daring young factory lad 
 from Oldbrook, dashing a snowball at the little 
 window where Mark had just presented himself 
 to see if the snow still fell. 
 
 ‘*Confound those brats,” exclaimed Mark, 
 
134 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 clenching his fist. And the bells rung merrier still. 
 Lights gleamed from the distant village, and the 
 laugh of happy youth filled the air. Mark’s head 
 man had stopped the wheel, as was his wont, by 
 special leave, on Christmas Eve, although Mark 
 entertained a great desire to set it going again after 
 tea. And the bells rung merrier still. 
 
 Mark sat down. Something seemed to trouble 
 him—thoughts, perhaps, of other days had been 
 awakened by the familiar sounds which broke 
 upon his ear. For an hour he sat rocking himself 
 to and fro in his chair. And the bells rung 
 merrier still. At length the night grew darker 
 and darker, until, save now and then, in the 
 flicker of the firelight, Mark could scarcely see 
 across his little room. The noise in the village 
 grew still, the bells ceased telling their “ tidings 
 of great joy,” and the regular tick - tack, 
 tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs became 
 more distinct. The fire was getting low, the wind 
 was getting high, and now and then a hiss in the 
 smouldering ashes told of the falling snow without. 
 
 Presently, old Underwood looked up and found 
 that he was not alone. A figure was seated 
 opposite him, watching him with a huge pair of 
 lustrous eyes, which, for a time, held him in 
 motionless fascination. But Mark had a stout 
 heart. He soon rallied and demanded the business 
 of his mysterious visitor. 
 
 The Shadow with the eyes then informed Mark 
 that he was the ghostly representative of his 
 uncle, who, when he died, fearing that his heir 
 might be a spendthrift, had buried a large amount 
 of treasure, near the oak tree on the common. 
 
 He felt now, that Mark had gone through the fire 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 135 
 
 of adversity, seen the result of extravagance, and 
 had turned out so excellent a speculator and so 
 good a saver since, that he could not rest in his 
 grave without Mark dug up the hidden treasure. 
 
 “ 1’1l do it, Dll do it, if it’s all fair and no 
 humbug, Mr. What’s-your-name,” said the Miller, 
 trembling before the Shadow. 
 
 ‘Then follow me,” said the visitor. 
 
 ‘‘ To-morrow,” replied old Mark, ‘ to-morrow 
 Pll dig it up.” 
 
 © To-night you'll do it,” said the spirit. 
 
 The window shook, a gust of wind rushed down 
 the chimney, the doors opened with a bang, and 
 Mark followed his ghostly leader into the freezing 
 Christmas air. But Mark was far from being cold. 
 He was hot and feverish. He saw nothing but the 
 glaring eyes of the ghost, and he followed them 
 until he stood by the old oak tree on the common. 
 
 A spade and pick-axe were lying by the tree, 
 and Mark, despite the coming infirmity of age, 
 went lustily to work. For an hour he turned up 
 the soil ; for an hour the spirit stood by glaring at 
 the gold finder. 
 
 Suddenly the axe struck against a hard substance. 
 
 “Tis there !” said the spirit. 
 
 ‘¢’Tis there!” went echoing over the common. 
 
 ‘*’Tis there !” was repeated by a thousand voices 
 in the air. 
 
 Mark would have fallen, all but speechless, had 
 he not suddenly discovered that his visitor had 
 departed. But he soon rallied again. The pas- 
 sionate craving for gold was upon him, and he 
 resumed his digging. The substance with which 
 his axe had come in contact was an old- 
 
136 _ TALES AND SKETCHES 
 
 fashioned urn full of guineas, notes on a local bank, 
 and precious stones. It was all Mark could do to 
 lift it. 
 
 “Oh, oh,” chuckled Mark, as he feasted his eyes 
 upon it. ‘I can satisfy my grudge against 
 Simpkins and Co. There shall be a run on the 
 Oldbrook Bank to-morrow. Why should I help 
 the poor,” he continued, as if answering a question 
 suggested by the inward monitor, ‘* I was poor 
 myself. Nobody helped me. The poor, indeed, 
 with their ‘Merry Christmas.’ No, no, Mark 
 Underwood must look after himself.” 
 
 Until the perspiration, in large drops, rolled 
 down his face, the Miller laboured to put the urn 
 and its treasure on his shoulder, and at last he 
 succeeded. But why does he tremble ? Why 
 do his eyeballs almost start from his head ? Why 
 does he sink to the earth and cry for mercy ? 
 
 The urn has changed. On the Miller’s shoulder 
 crouches a demon fearful to - contemplate. It 
 is peering into his face with a fiendish grin. 
 The old oak tree, too, is changed. Jabbering 
 sprites are swinging about in the creaking branches, 
 and swarming around the supplicating miser. 
 They hiss at him; and the air is filled with 
 hellish laughter. 
 
 At this moment Mark Underwood would gladly 
 have given up one-half of his wealth to have been 
 once; more at home at his mill. He prayed for 
 mercy, but mercy came not, and, hoarse with 
 crying, he fell senseless to the earth at the foot of 
 the old oak tree. 
 
 He had lain there for some time, when, some- 
 what recovered from his fright, he felt himself 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 137 
 
 raised from the earth. By his side stood the figure 
 which had first lured him from home, but 
 without that terrible appearance which it had at 
 first assumed. The tree had disappeared; the 
 common, too, was gone; and there was a weight 
 upon the back of Mark, which needed no care on 
 his part to keep it there. 
 
 ‘¢ Where are we?” asked the miller, turning to 
 his ghostly attendant. 
 
 ‘* Ask no questions, but pay attention to what 
 thou seest. I have driven hence the fiends who 
 terrified thee, and am now here, at the command of 
 my master Time, to show thee pictures of the past. 
 The veil of the future will also be partially lifted 
 to thy gaze, but it is in thy power to alter what I 
 shall there show thee. ‘Thy deeds in the past have 
 been judged. Thy yesterday, a furrow on the 
 sand, has been trampled on by the returning tide 
 of to-morrow. ‘lhe future alone is open to thee,” 
 said the ghost. 
 
 They were at the outskirts of a beautiful village. 
 There was a fragrant smell of newly-mown hay in 
 the air. Trees, clothed in all the beautiful verdure 
 of refulgent summer, stretched long leafy arms over 
 the spot where Mark and his companion stood. 
 The shades of evening hung a misty mantle around 
 them, which the pale moon, just rising, strove in 
 vain to disperse. A youth was walking in the 
 moonlight, anda gentle girl leaned, tremblingly, on 
 his arm. The light of love shone in their eyes. 
 The garb of a peasant set off the manly form of 
 the youth. The maid was clad in simple guise, 
 and her long brown hair fell in careless tresses 
 over her shoulders. 
 
 Ss) 
 
138 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 “Tt is! itis!” exclaimed Mark, much agitated. 
 
 ‘‘ Silence,” said the ghost. ‘ Listen!” 
 
 © Alice, dear Alice,” whispered the youth, 
 ‘¢ when we have money enough marriage shall free 
 you from his persecution. ear not, ere long I 
 shall earn more; and some day, when poor old 
 uncle leaves this world, I may be rich.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hush, dear Mark. We'll not build our hopes 
 on the dead. I have saved a little, and we shall 
 yet be happy. I would not we were rich.” 
 
 ‘* But, Mr. James is wealthy, and would marry 
 you to-morrow. He loves you, too, and could 
 make you happy. He can give you comforts 
 which you may never look to have with me, dear 
 Alice.” 
 
 ‘© Tf you love me, Mark, is not that enough for 
 me? Could I not suffer, if it were necessary, and 
 be happy still if you were by my side? A hut 
 with you, Mark, would be a palace.” 
 
 ‘“‘Bless you!’ exclaimed Mark, clasping the 
 hand of Alice with fervour, and pressing a hot 
 burning kiss upon her forehead. ‘‘ Never shall 
 you regret your love, Alice;” and they walked 
 slowly away beneath the elm trees. 
 
 “Oh, let us follow them. Good ghost, pray 
 let us follow them. I know them well. We are 
 in my native village. The beautiful girl is Alice.” 
 
 * And the youth is Mark Underwood,” replied 
 the ghost. 
 
 ‘¢ T would follow them,” said Mark. 
 
 ‘Tis useless; whoever you see, cannot see you. 
 We are to them no more than air; these are 
 shadows of the past,” said the ghost. 
 
 Mark, however, was about to follow the lovers, 
 but the weight on his back pulled him to the earth. 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 139 
 
 ‘Take it away; gold or diamonds, remove 
 the weight,” groaned the old man, but still it 
 pressed heavily upon him. 
 
 ‘¢ T meant to be true to her, I did, indeed,” said 
 the old man, as the scene changed again. 
 
 Mark Underwood, Hsq., once the peasant youth, 
 now the wealthy manufacturer, sat at the head of 
 his own table, in his own dining room. Around 
 him were a crowd of sycophants, male and female. 
 The master of the house was carrying on a pleasant 
 flirtation with a sighing beauty, but there was no 
 Alice Martin there. 
 
 Before Mark could speak the village was before 
 him again. He stood in the same spot where he 
 had seen the lovers only a few minutes before. 
 Alice, grown into womanhood, was there, alone 
 with her sorrows. 
 
 ‘‘T saw him, but he never heeded me. He was 
 handsome as cver; but he turned from me in 
 scorn, and the servants chid me from his door. 
 Til go no more! Tl go no more! Now that he is 
 rich it is not likely he can love a poor girl like 
 me. He has often said, however fortune might 
 treat us, he would still be true tome. But he was 
 poor, then, and now I might be a burthen to him. 
 No one loves me now. ‘Tired of asking me to 
 accept the hand of Mr. James, the richest farmer 
 in the parish, father scarcely speaks to me 
 save in anger; and when poor dear mother 
 died she would not have her broken-hearted Alice 
 near her.” } 
 
 Thus, between sobs and tears, spoke the beautiful 
 Alice, as she glided slowly past Mark and _ his 
 unearthly guide. 
 
140 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ‘¢Poor soul; God forgive me!” exclaimed Mark, 
 on his knees, ‘Take me away, I can see no more; 
 I’m going mad,” almost shrieked the old man; ‘ I 
 loved her again, I did, I did,” he continued. 
 
 Once more the scene changed. ‘They were 
 within the walls of a prison. Mark Underwood 
 was inadebtor’s gaol. And now by his side 
 stood Alice. 
 
 ‘“‘T could not desert you when I heard you were 
 in distress, although you drove me from you in 
 your prosperity,” said the girl. 
 
 The man groaned audibly, and big tears were in 
 his eyes. 
 
 ‘‘T repent; I repent; but ’tis useless now; you 
 can never love me again. You can never forgive 
 me.” 
 
 “‘T can,” said the girl. 
 
 ‘You cannot love a prisoner, a debtor, an 
 outcast from society.” 
 
 ‘** Ah, you do not know a woman’s heart. I can 
 love younow. Weare equal again. Weare both 
 poor now. Can you love Alice again?” 
 
 ‘‘T can; but I have said it before and proved 
 false. I hate myself; I am wretched, miserable, 
 mad—go home poor girl, go home,” said the man 
 in terrible accents. 
 
 ‘“‘T shall soon have no home except in heaven. 
 This visit to you, which has cost me a day and a 
 night of hard walking, may rob me of the last 
 spark of a father’s love. Think of our younger 
 days! Think of your promises! Think!” said 
 the girl, looking earnestly into the prisoner’s face. 
 
 ‘Ido, and am frantic ; but I may yet atone,” 
 said the man, squeezing her hand and kissing it. 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW... 141 
 
 At this moment a turnkey bade Alice depart. 
 
 ‘¢ Stop, stop,” cried Mark. ‘I loved her; I 
 loved her then; I meant to atone. Let her know 
 that, at least,” he said; but the prison and its 
 occupants vanished. | 
 
 Once again the village appeared. It was a cold 
 winter night. The snow was on the ground. 
 No living form save that of a woman was visible. 
 
 ‘¢ T cannot bear it,” said Alice, as she hurried by 
 the spot where Mark and the shost were standing. 
 
 ‘¢ Driven from home, footsore, disgraced by the 
 tongue of scandal, weak, cold, houseless. It is too 
 much for me, and how do I know that he will 
 even now love me again! Oh! no, no, lam going 
 mad.” 
 
 ‘* He will; he does;” cried poor Mark Underwood, 
 the miser miller. 
 
 ‘¢ Hollow her and see still more of the effects of 
 riches. Go, man, and see what thou hast done,” 
 said the ghost, and Mark hastened after the 
 wretched woman. 
 
 The noise of the Old Brook was heard in the 
 distance, as it fell from the mill dam, and roared 
 beneath the water-wheel. Louder and louder 
 became the noise of the torrent. Nearer and 
 nearer approached the woman towards the roaring 
 river. 
 
 ‘‘T could save her now but for this horrible 
 load,” cried Mark, satisfied of her wild intent. 
 ‘Take it away; take it away!” he shrieked ; but 
 the demon pressed still heavier upon him. 
 
 The ghost was by his side to taunt and to warn. 
 ‘Tis the gold you dug out of the common ; 
 you'll want it ; gold is your idol, old man.” 
 
142 . TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ‘¢ Not now; never again,” shrieked Mark. ‘* Oh 
 heaven, remove the weight.” 
 
 They were now close to the milldam. A gleam 
 of moonlight played upon the river. ‘The water- 
 wheel clicked in solemn regularity. Mark was 
 within reach of the flying maiden. He put out 
 his hand to save her; once more the load on his 
 back dragged him to ‘the eround. 
 
 ‘‘ Save her! oh, save her! dear, dear Alice!” 
 rung over the waters; but the Old Brook had 
 received the suicide, and the mill wheel went 
 round, and the water rolled on as before. 
 
 When old Mark looked up again he was by a 
 death bed. He saw himself die. He heard 
 exclamations of joy from many lips at the blessed 
 release the world had in such a death. He saw all 
 his riches wasted and sold by quarrelling relatives. 
 He saw the demons he had seen on the oak tree 
 filling the death chamber. ‘‘ This,’ said the 
 ghost, ‘isa glimpse of the future: be warned in 
 time, lest it be one of the past.” 
 
 ‘Take away the weight; it burns me; it 
 pierces my heart; I’m dying. Mercy! mercy!” 
 cried Mark. 
 
 “¢ Why, whatever’s the matter, Mr. Underwood ?” 
 said Sarah, his housekeeper, who had just returned 
 from her evening visit, and found Mark lying on 
 the floor gasping for breath. 
 
 ‘¢ Whatever have you been a doing, sir?” she 
 said, as she proceeded to lift him up. 
 
 a Oh, Sarah, Sarah! where am I? I’m not dead, 
 am 1? Take off the weight; take it off,” cried 
 the terrified Mark. 
 
SOME BROOKS I USED TO KNOW. 143 
 
 «Why, you're where I left you, sir. Dear ame, 
 where do you think you are?” 
 
 ‘‘ Light the candles, but don’t leave me,” he 
 said, seizing her by the arm. | 
 
 *¢ I'd sooner be poor Sarah Mages than rich Mr. 
 Underwood, after all,” muttered Sarah to herself. 
 
 The candles lighted, Mark shook himself, 
 pinched himself, stood upright, sat down, walked, 
 stamped, and went through other similar inves- 
 tigations into his physical position, and at last 
 came to the conclusion that he had been released 
 from the ghosts—for Mark would never believe 
 that he had only been dreaming. 
 
 Perhaps it wasall the better he should discard 
 the dream and adhere to the more terrible idea 
 that he had really been in ghostly company. For, 
 from that moment, he became a different man, and 
 he has now the credit of being the best and most 
 hospitable landlord in the neighbourhood. The 
 year after he went out with the ghosts, he built 
 that fine house on the hill yonder, where Christ- 
 mas now brings some of its happiest moments. 
 The Genius of Christmas Past presides there, 
 bringing every year its sirloins of beef, its pies and 
 puddings, its capons, its turkeys, its geese, its 
 wassail bowls, its yule logs, and its thousand other 
 good things, all to the big house of the old miller. 
 The great festival is observed in every detail, and 
 there are little presents for all who call there on 
 boxing day. Mark has no poor relations, and the 
 mill is not always at work as you see it now. 
 
 A neat tomb has arisen over the grave of poor 
 Alice Martin, five miles above the dam, and every 
 Christmas eve an old man is seen in the churchyard, 
 
144 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 some say, kneeling by the tombstone. Old Sarah 
 knows how true the story is, for ever since that 
 evening when she found her master in sucha dreadful 
 fright, Mark Underwood, the miller, has been 
 missing for several hours on every successive New 
 Year’s eve, and the white mare and the little 
 phaeton are always waiting for their master near 
 the turnpike at the village, five miles from the mill 
 dam, when the Christmas bells ring joyous peals 
 at eventide. 
 
 The Old Brook which turned Underwood’s mill 
 did a like service for other millers who dwelt on 
 its banks, and it assisted in other mechanical 
 operations as it wandered on to its destination. I 
 have seen it, when the floods came down from 
 the hills, rolling, and boiling, and surging like 
 an angry sea, and spreading itself out over the 
 country for miles, until trees, in the distance, 
 looked like ships on the ocean. At these times, all 
 the brooks I used to know were boisterous torrents. 
 The Old Brook was often my miniature Nile, and 
 the little ones Clydes, and Thames, and Trents, 
 and my fancy put ships on the torrents, and 
 manned and freighted them with men and cargoes 
 of the most imaginary and imaginative description. 
 
 Beautiful brooks I used to know! Yours is the 
 friendship that never changes, the companionship 
 that knows no guile. Sometimes even now I hear 
 your songs of peace and love and happiness, rising 
 above the noise and din of mighty cities, until the 
 dun atmosphere is filled with rural music, and the 
 roaring streets are ‘‘ Brooks I used to know.” 
 Blessed power of memory! thy pictures are 
 beyond all art; thy treasures are priceless. 
 
~~ GOING UP AND COMING DOWN. 
 \ 
 
 What erroneous ideas people have of their 
 neighbours; and yet how positively they speak of 
 their doings ; how closely they are posted up as 
 to all their worldly concerns. Mr. Johnson is 
 getting up in the world. Oh, there can be no 
 mistake about it. He visits at the banker’s. His 
 wife brought him money, wears pretty morning 
 dresses, goes to no end of evening parties, and 
 has bonnets direct from Paris. The Marshalls oppo- 
 site are poor to the Johnsons, Indeed, Marshall 
 was never anybody particular. He commenced 
 in a very small way, and there was never any 
 money in the Marshall family. He may have 
 saved a little. It was thought, at one time, that he 
 had an interest in some London concern, but that 
 was a ruse to improve his credit. Oh, bless you, 
 he’s not doing much. Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t 
 see Mrs. M. the last time she called. Well, of 
 course, people must maintain their position in 
 society becomingly. 
 
 Have you heard the news? You knew the John- 
 sons? Yes—the people belonging to the yellow 
 brougham and greys. ‘‘ Up a tree:” debts, 
 £30,000 ; assets, £200. Always thought it 
 would come to that. What else could they 
 expect ? The company they kept, the people 
 they visited, the dresses, the dinner parties— 
 nothing could stand it. What a contrast to the 
 
 4 
 
146 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Marshalls, at whom, it is said, Mrs. Johnson was 
 disgusted because they walked to the Infirmary 
 concert, and left their bonnets in the ante-room ! 
 Such paltry pride must come down. Now Mr. 
 Marshall is a steady, enterprising, industrious man, 
 and a successful man too: he has always been 
 getting up in the world. They say he has just 
 given £30,000 for the Banterton Estate. 
 
 Neighbourly gossip like this is not new to you, 
 my friendly reader—if you know any thing of life. 
 It is the way of the world, all the world over. 
 Your neighbours always know what you are doing 
 —how you are doing. If you get on in the world, 
 they knew you were doing so. If you go down, 
 they knew you were going; they knew your false 
 pride would have a fall some day or other. I am 
 acquainted with a man who used to dine regularly 
 at Johnson’s, the people mentioned in my opening 
 paragraph. Ihave heard him boast of their friend- 
 ship and talk of their dinners. ‘Two days after 
 Johnson had failed (or made an ascent up a parti- 
 cular tree, known in modern parlance as the friend 
 or enemy of gentlemen in all kinds of difficulties), 
 this same diner out was amongst those who kicked 
 the fallen man: ‘‘ What could Johnson expect ? 
 Why the fellow used to put seven or eight sorts of 
 wine on the dinner-table!” 
 
 There is all the difference between going up and 
 coming down the hill. It is hard to get up, if your 
 chain is a heavy one and you cannot carry the 
 dragging portion of it; for then nobody offers to 
 assist you. But get fairly hold of the links that 
 dragged at starting—get them thoroughly under 
 your own control, mount easily, and you will find 
 
GOING UP AND COMING DOWN. 147 
 
 many a hand held out to help you up. ‘We 
 must help one another, neighbour: mutual aid is a 
 duty.” Stumble in your ascent, get the chain 
 under your feet, and fall. Where are the 
 helping hands now? Assisting those who are 
 not guilty of stumbling. And oh! how fast 
 you go down the hill, though you cling, at first, 
 with the strength of Hercules and the patience 
 of Job. Everybody seems to have legs to kick 
 and arms to thrust you down where hands were 
 once stretched out to help. ‘‘ God helps those who 
 help themselves, neighbour.” Philosophy varies 
 with circumstances. 
 
 But persevere still, my friends, for all that. Get 
 up despite the kicks. Learn to do without the 
 helps. ‘The struggle may be severe after a fall, 
 and though your rising neighbour quotes it in 
 deprecation of your position, there is truth in the 
 proverb as to whom God helps. There is hope 
 for the patient and persevering if they continue to 
 hold on and to hope on. Lilly, the cowherd, was 
 knighted. Alfieri, trying to get up the hill for 
 twenty years, was thrust back by his own father, 
 but the poet got to the very top in the end. 
 Chatterton was trampled upon. Another effort, 
 one more clutch at the rock, and he might have 
 stood on a pinnacle next the sky. But he was 
 sorely tried, and his chain was a heavy one. 
 I never read Chatterton but I think of the 
 eagle which, chained to the earth by the sudden 
 spring of a trap, struggled with its relentless foe, 
 and at last carried it, chain, and stake, and 
 all, to a mountain top, and died. John Hunter 
 educated himself. Everybody tried to push 
 George Stephenson back, but he held on like a 
 
148 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 giant, and if he was bruised a little at first, he 
 constructed an engine that carried him up over 
 the mightiest obstacles. Voiture was the son of 
 a vintner. In early life Akenside was lamed by the 
 fall of his father’s cleaver. Rousseau was a 
 cobbler’s son. ‘Take heart, then, ye that are heavy 
 laden. Never mind the kicks. The scoffer says 
 true, though he thrust thee back with the proverb 
 in his mouth, ‘‘God helps the man that helps 
 himself.” 
 
 The most trivial stumble, at starting, will always 
 make the journey up hill one of considerable 
 trouble and difficulty. The mean and wicked 
 people are too numerous to make it otherwise. 
 They show their gorilla faces and their cloven 
 hoofs in all societies. When a man most wants 
 sympathy and friendship, they give him the cold 
 shoulder, served up with unkind nods and winks. 
 When he asks for bread, he is considerately treated 
 toastone. Iknew young Winterton. He was a 
 clever little fellow. He could write. His friends 
 admitted he had ability, and by their advice he 
 
 ublished. His work wasa failure. He fancied 
 
 e was getting up the hill so nicely, and just as he 
 seemed to be mounting, he fell. It was a sad blow 
 to genius. Winterton lay bruised of heart, and was 
 kicked down the hill, without a friend to save, or 
 whisper one sweet word of hope. He soon found 
 himself at the bottom of the hill. But there was 
 genius within him, and he started oncemore. This 
 time he was successful, and on his second ascent 
 his only stoppages were occasioned by the crowds 
 of ‘“ friends,” who would take him by the hand, 
 whether or not. 
 
 © All own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.” 
 
GOING UP AND COMING DOWN. 149 
 
 When my young friend fell, he was “a pre- 
 sumptuous fellow, who was sure to find his level.” 
 When he rose again, the same good citizens, with 
 upturned eyes, exclaimed something laudatory of 
 perseverance, and said, ‘‘ Virtue is its own 
 reward.” 
 
 How many heart-aches might be averted did we 
 fall down less often before the idol of Success. 
 How much more happiness there would be in the 
 world if we cheered each other on, and (if we did 
 not help up), at least refrained from thrusting back 
 those who are striving for the upward way. There 
 is many a man, worthy of a crown, who falls and is 
 kept back because he has simply been unfortunate. 
 We should learn to sympathise with those who 
 need it. However much we disliked a man, if we 
 saw him fall in the street and wound himself, we 
 should feel more inclined to apply a plaister than 
 akick. The worst of us would not probe the 
 wound, and torture the fallen one. _ Let our grudge 
 be ever so old, ever so well founded, we should not 
 leave him to bleed and die unheeded. And yet 
 that is not exactly kindness. We don’t like to see 
 the blood. We sicken at the sight of the wound. 
 There is a sort of fellow-feeling which I cannot. 
 describe, that prompts us to put away the painful 
 sight and heal the wound. But what, after all, is 
 a bodily wound to the laceration of a sensitive 
 mind—to the wounding, by calumny, of an honest 
 and upright heart? Oh! that men could see the 
 wounds they make in a high, sensitive, noble 
 nature. Internal injuries, the doctors always tell 
 you, are the most painful and dangerous. 
 
 Let us think more about these social wounds! 
 
\ THE RUINED COTTAGE. 
 
 In a village, which I shall call Marshwood, 
 situated on the north-east coast of England, are to 
 be found the remains of a picturesque little cottage, 
 which never fail to attract the attention of lovers 
 of the beautiful. The roof has long since fallen 
 before the silent attacks of Time, and made way 
 for the aspiring foliage which creeps up through 
 the desolate rooms. The paneless windows are 
 filled with leafy parasites, through which wanders 
 the evening wind with murmurings not unlike the 
 music of an eolian harp. ‘The chimney, from 
 which in years gone by went up the smoky 
 messenger of life within, looks like a mourning 
 plume, set up in token of sadness, large masses of 
 ivy overhanging the crumbling stack in clustering 
 clumps of whispering leaves. The chimney itself 
 is occupied in summer by a tribe of martins, and 
 in the winter an old fashioned owl takes up his 
 quarters there, and makes strange sounds during 
 his midnight perambulations. 
 
 The villagers, however, give another version of 
 the nightly occupancy of the cottage. They assert 
 that it is haunted, and have long since settled any 
 doubts upon the matter by ocular demonstration : 
 they have seen the ghost, and one of the oldest 
 inhabitants knew the former occupier of the cottage 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 151 
 
 so well that she can trace a likeness in the shadow 
 which at night wanders through the crumbling 
 cottage. The spirit assumes the shape of a weeping 
 girl, and (if we believe the villagers, and not their 
 worthy pastor) has been seen, at one time or 
 another, by nearly every member of the rural 
 fraternity of Marshwood. And no wonder the 
 villagers should have conjured up the ghostly 
 image of the former occupier of the cottage : the 
 site of the old house, the story of its ruin, the 
 music of the distant sea, the romantic character of 
 the surrounding country—all tend to favour those 
 longings after the mysterious which exist in every 
 bosom. 
 
 On an autumnal evening, when the moon is 
 just spreading her silvery mist over the hazy 
 landscape, and tinging the rolling waves of the 
 distant sea; when Old Ocean softens his voice down 
 to a whisper, and scarcely moves the pebbles on the 
 beach; when the village is hushed and the last glim- 
 mering light has disappeared from the cottage win- 
 dow; when the ivy leaves rustle about the ruined 
 house, and the tall trees throw deep black shadows 
 over the footpath; when the crumbling walls of the 
 once happy cot receive the softened light of the 
 moonbeams, and that mysterious sensation of awe 
 and admiration which is created on contemplating 
 solemn scenes like these steals through the soul: at 
 such a time, who could not complete the mournfully 
 fascinating picture by introducing a fairy-like form 
 weeping over images of desolation? 
 
 Mabel Hedgeston, whose spirit the villagers say 
 haunts the ruined cottage, was the adopted daughter 
 of a Marshwood fisherman, who rescued her from 
 
152 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the wreck of a French schooner when she was an 
 infant. Who her parents were, or to what country 
 they belonged, was never ascertained; but the 
 child grew up as the daughter of the fisherman, 
 adopted his name, and was christened Mabel, after 
 his own wife. 
 
 ‘As she advanced towards womanhood, Mabel 
 became the pet of the village. The boys were all her 
 companions, ready to second her in any undertaking. 
 The girls (notwithstanding that she outrivalled 
 them all in personal charms) were her sworn 
 friends. The men loved her with the affection of 
 fathers, and the women extended to her an 
 undivided maternal watchfulness. In fact, al- 
 though, Hedgeston the fisherman, and Hedgeston’s 
 wife asserted a prior claim upon her affections, 
 Mabel was the daughter of the village. And well 
 did she fulfil her duties to her extensive parentage. 
 She nursed the sick, comforted the distressed, and 
 went about a very angel of peace and mercy; and 
 there was an elasticity in her gait, and an animation 
 about her manner withal, which brought sunshine 
 with her to every household. She was not what 
 would be generally considered absolutely beautiful 
 neither ; but there was such an unconscious 
 expression of benevolence in her fair face, such a 
 depth of love in her large blue eyes, such a grace 
 in all her movements, that left in the memory of 
 all who once beheld her an image of purity and 
 goodness. 
 
 Amongst the boys in the village, Mabel’s 
 constant attendant was George, the blacksmith’s 
 son, who had as honest a face as ever caught the 
 glowing radiance of welded iron, and as good a 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 153 
 
 heart as ever melted in the sunshine of the 
 softening influence of woman. 
 
 George and Mabel growing up together, almost 
 under the same roof, their sentiments and feelings 
 became nearly akin, and love, engendered by 
 sympathy, had in the progress of time united their 
 hearts as firmly as the glowing metal which George 
 joined every day on the ringing anvil. To be brief, 
 one fine May morning the rural rites of a village 
 wedding mingled with the joyous observances of 
 May-day, and the bells of Marshwood church 
 carried the tidings far out to sea that George and 
 Mabel were married. 
 
 Mabel’s cottage was the neatest and the prettiest 
 in the village, and there could not be a more 
 agreeabie sight than, on a summer evening, to 
 see George, fresh ae his daily toil, smoking his 
 long clay pipe, and watching his wife moving 
 amongst her beautiful shrubs and flowers—the Eve 
 of a little Paradise. 
 
 Time flew swiftly by with the young couple, 
 and soon brought a curly-headed youngster to 
 climb up George’s sturdy knees —a fresh link 
 in the love chain of the lovers—the crowning 
 consummation of their domestic bliss. Oh, from 
 what a dazzling height of joy they had to fall! 
 Truly the future is veiled from us in mercy. 
 
 Two years had passed away ; four-and-twenty 
 months of continual and continued happiness, 
 when, on a stormy night in November, a strange 
 vessel hove in sight of Marshwood, Although she 
 had every appearance of an English man- _of- war, 
 the fishermen could not make her out. In the 
 
 U 
 
154 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 darkness, she made signals of distress, and, 
 with the bravest in the village, George put out 
 to sea. Ina little while their cheering shouts, in 
 reply to the prayers which went up from the shore, 
 died away, and nothing was heard on shore but 
 the solemn booming of the minute-gun, like a 
 knell for departing souls. Then the cannon ceased 
 to mingle its dreadful tones with the moaning of the 
 sea, and the light which had glimmered from the 
 bow of the little Marshwood boat, like a star in a 
 clouded sky, disappeared in the darkness. But 
 the watchers watched and listened until long 
 after nought was seen but the black heaving sea, 
 and nought was heard but its dull heavy beating 
 of the shore. Daylight came, but it brought back 
 neither boat nor crew to the longing villagers, 
 Daylight came, but it disclosed to the anxious gaze 
 of wives, mothers, fathers, and brothers, neither 
 ship, nor vestize of ship, nor boat. 
 
 Months passed away, and Winter came with its 
 snows and misty vapours. The winds whistled 
 around Mabel’s cottage, and roared amongst the 
 trees, which swung to and fro in the storms like 
 creaking skeletons. Poor Mabel wandered about 
 the desolate place, carrying her boy and her load 
 of sorrow until she was fain to rest her weary 
 head at night and dream of phantom ships, whence 
 there was no escape for her faithful George. The 
 villagers tried to console the unhappy woman, but 
 she would not be comforted. ‘* Wait,” they said, 
 ‘until Spring, and there may be hope for George’s 
 safe return, when more ships come into the 
 
 neighbouring ports.” Wait she did, with peaceful 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 155 
 
 resignation, but she grew weaker and weaker as 
 Despair took possession of the region of Hope. 
 The ruddy glow of health left her cheek, and her 
 boy grew sickly and ill. Without the strong arm 
 of George to repair the cottage and defy the 
 searching storms, the once well-thatched roof gave 
 way before the rain, and little streams of water 
 made curious shapes on the white walls of poor 
 Mabel’s chamber, where the live long night burnt 
 a simple beacon of Hope to light the wanderer 
 home, should he ever return from his long, long 
 journey. Winter departed and Spring came, as if 
 to rescue nature from death and desolation. But 
 George did not return with the Spring, and his 
 boy died with Nature’s resurrection, and was buried 
 when the first primroses peeped forth beneath the 
 shady hedgerow. 
 
 Weeds grew up in Mabel’s garden and choked 
 the straggling flowers, and Mabel wandered 
 amongst them, drooping her-head, like a lily blasted 
 by an untimely frost. At all hours Mabel was 
 met on the sea shore, listening to the murmurings 
 of the water and gazing into vacancy; or seen 
 at her little chamber window, watching with 
 eager gaze any distant sail which chanced to 
 show its white wings against the blue hori- 
 zon. At all hours she was moving about the 
 scenes of her past happiness like a disconsolate 
 Peri, searching for that which should restore her to 
 lost delights. 
 
 For two long years, during which time the 
 neighbours contributed all their little luxuries of 
 food and raiment to her support, Mabel con- 
 tinued her earthly wanderings. In the second year 
 
156 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the poor woman’s mind gave way beneath its 
 weight of woe, and the good people, who had 
 adopted her in her infancy, took up their abode 
 in her untended cottage, to protect her in her 
 second childhood. But poor unhappy Mabel did 
 not long require their parental solicitude. One 
 Autumn evening, when the sun was declining 
 behind the tinted waves of the ocean, she sat at 
 the window of the little chamber (where she and 
 George, in happier days, had watched the declining 
 sun) looking away into the far off distance, <A 
 quiet serene smile played upon her features, and 
 the dawn of reason once more lighted up her 
 beautiful face. ‘* At last! at last !” she said, 
 motioning to the good, large-hearted woman who 
 had adopted her, ** At last he comes to his forlorn 
 Mabel,” said the poor lunatic, lifting up her thin 
 arms and staggering from her seat. ‘‘ Who said 
 he would not return? My dear, dear George! 
 Now we shall be happy again—dear, dear George |” 
 The sun sunk behind the billows, Mabel’s spirit 
 fled as the sunbeams departed, and her poor 
 worn out body fell into the arms of the sobbing 
 mother. 
 
 Many more summers came and went; the ruined 
 cottage fell more and more into decay, and the 
 weeds grew apace; the old men of the village had 
 rested from their labours, and the boys and girls 
 had grown up into men and women—when, at the 
 close of a summer’s day there came into Marshwood 
 a weak, infirm old man, attired in the garb of a 
 sailor, tottering upon a staff. As much of his face 
 as was visible from beneath his long grey beard 
 was sunburnt and tanned, and there were scars on it 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 157 
 
 which told of service in the wars. The old man, 
 unheeded by the poor, simple villagers, sought the 
 cottage of George and Mabel Hedgeston. The 
 next day the villagers were horrified at finding the 
 dead body of the stranger lying at the foot of the 
 gravestone of Mabel and her child. Upon the 
 person of the veteran was found an honourable 
 discharge from the King’s service of George 
 Hedgeston, third mate of one of his Majesty’s 
 men-of-war. The body, from other circumstances, 
 was proved to be that of poor Mabel’s husband, 
 George, the blacksmith’s son, who had been 
 impressed into the King’s service by a most dis- 
 graceful ruse on the night when the strange ship 
 stood off Marshwood bay. 
 
LOCKING UP. 
 
 It is pleasant to lock up your money box when 
 you feel that its contents have been well earned. 
 Locking the stable door when the horse is gone 1s 
 not quite so satisfactory. Locking up the counting 
 house, for the last time prior to your annual 
 summer holiday, has agreeable sensations. ‘There 
 is much that is gratifying about locking your 
 door on a winter’s night, and leaving cold and 
 damp and wind and dreary thoughts in the street 
 —if you don’t get troubled in your mind about 
 some poor wretch who may seek the shelter of 
 your door step. But the most interesting and 
 generally most agreeable locking up newspaper 
 people feel is a locking up about which the general 
 public know little or nothing. 
 
 One of the most important phases through 
 which a newspaper travels in the course of 
 production is its ‘locking up.” Youdont know 
 what I mean, Mrs. Partington? You think it 
 strange that a newspaper should be locked up prior 
 to publication, Mrs. P.? If you lived next door 
 to a publishing office which sent forth a newspaper 
 at an early hour in the morning, you would svon 
 know what locking up is. When you were 
 suddenly aroused from a refreshing slumber by a 
 knocking and a hammering and a clamouring, and 
 
LOCKING UP. 159 
 
 you asked your venerable Mr. P. what in the 
 world that dreadful noise was, he would tell you 
 (if he knows anything about such things) that 
 the printers were locking up. And when this 
 knocking was succeeded by a dragging about of 
 some heavy material and a shuffling of feet, and 
 then another knocking of a shorter duration than 
 the former, he would tell you the formes were on 
 the machine. [No, Mrs. P., the formes are not to 
 sit upon.| And when you were sensible of a 
 bumping and a rolling and a rattling of machinery, 
 he would tell you ‘‘ they are at press’”—one of the 
 very few blissful moments in the labour of those 
 who conduct newspapers. 
 
 When the editor has written his multifarious 
 ideas and supervised and edited the contributions 
 of his crowd of correspondents; when the reporters 
 have transcribed the last of their notes, and all 
 this has gone through the compositors’ hands, and 
 grown into columns of dull looking type; when 
 this has been read and corrected, and arranged 
 under its respective heads of foreign news, literature, 
 general, local, &c.; when some of it has been 
 printed off, and the last pages are being made 
 ready for the press; then comes the period of 
 locking up, which all concerned in the production 
 of the paper look forward to all the time between 
 each diurnal or weekly issue. This locking up is 
 the fastening safely together the columns of the 
 paper in iron frames, which printers call chases, the 
 completion of which operation releases what may 
 be called the thinking part of the establishment, 
 and leaves nothing to be done but the mere 
 mechanical work of printing the paper and sending 
 
160 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 it forth to the world. The process of locking up 
 is accompanied by much hammering with mallets 
 and much planing with planers, in order that the 
 type may adhere firmly together and be even on 
 the surface. Bells chiming on a summer evening, 
 the melody of birds, the whisperings of the wind 
 through trees in summer, the rippling murmur of 
 running brooks, make charming music, but after 
 the fatigues and anxieties of a publication day in 
 a newspaper office, the clamour and clash of 
 locking up is sweeter and more soothing than 
 either bell music, bird music, brook music, or any 
 other kind of music whatsoever. 
 
 To one uninitiated in the mysteries of the art 
 which Caxton did so much to perfect, the extra- 
 ordinary commands and inquiries of the overseer, 
 whose duty it is to ‘“‘make up,” as the final 
 arrangement of the type before going to press 
 is called, would be exceedingly puzzling, and 
 sometimes ludicrous. ‘* Who’s on that horrible 
 tragedy?” is a query somewhat startling in its 
 nature, as is also the command to ‘finish that 
 dreadful murder, which is keeping two galleys 
 waiting.” [Galleys, by the bye, are what I may 
 call frames, made sometimes of wood, but mostly 
 of metal, to receive the type before it is placed 
 in the iron embrace of the ‘ chases” — very 
 different sort of things, Mrs. P., either to ships, 
 or the galleys where crime is punished in France. | 
 But these are ordinary commands and interrogations 
 in a printing office, a short time before the locking 
 up. Yet Ihave seen a stranger stand in utter 
 bewilderment at a running fire such as this:—‘‘ Let 
 that ‘Colliery Accident’ be revised, and pull that 
 
LOCKING UP. 161 
 
 ‘French Ambassador in Turkey,’ and set up ‘ An 
 Outlawed Bankrupt’ in brevier caps ; finish that 
 ‘Great Battle between the Austrians and the 
 Allies,’” and a host of similarly inexplicable orders 
 from overseer to typos ; whilst the reader asks for 
 a proof of “The explosion in a Coal Mine,” as 
 though he wanted to see a collection of dead bodies 
 and mangled limbs ; and the editor, intent on his 
 leaders, demands another proof of ‘* The Settle- 
 - ment of the Hastern Question” (as though he very 
 much doubted such a desirable consummation), at 
 the same time suggesting that the ‘* cross head” of 
 Mr. Gladstone shall be replaced by a “ full head,” 
 which, by the bye, is anything but a reflection 
 upon the intellectual powers or congenial temper 
 of the distinguished statesman, however paradoxical 
 this statement may seem in connection with 
 the suggested re-arrangement of Mr. Gladstone’s 
 cranium. 
 
 I can assure my readers that this settlement of 
 Eastern questions, this finishing of murders, this 
 revising of accidents, and proofs of awful calami- 
 ties, is perfectly intelligible to the printers, and 
 means anything but the committal of dreadful 
 deeds, or the final arrangement of Huropean ques- 
 tions. And such commands and observations do 
 not create a laugh from their apparent extra- 
 vagance, but the work goes on amidst the blazing 
 glare of gas with wonderful speed, everybody 
 intent on what he has in hand, until those great 
 chases are put round the long leaden columns of 
 type, and the locking up begins. Then faces relax 
 from their previous sternness ; compositors wipe 
 the perspiration from their brows; editors, subs, 
 
 x 
 
162 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 reporters, put on their cloaks and take up their 
 walking-sticks, and light their cigars and go home, 
 and soon afterwards the newspaper—the history of 
 the world for a day or a week, as the case may be 
 —the story of our progress and civilisation, our 
 crimes, our charities, our battles, our victories, our 
 sins of omission and commission—is in the hands 
 of a crowd of readers, perhaps not one of whom 
 ever thinks about the labour of head and hand the 
 broad wet sheet has cost its producers. 
 
HOW I NEARLY LOST A FORTUNE. 
 
 Old Manton was a second uncle of mine, and, 
 being very rich, was a very interesting gentle- 
 man to his numerous relatives. Indeed, certain 
 important members of my own family, in the antici- 
 pation of fat legacies, fawned upon him most perse- 
 veringly, treating his eccentric humours, which were 
 not always pleasant, as exceedingly characteristic 
 and agreeable oddities. My brother Timothy was 
 especially sycophantish in his attentions upon the 
 old man, reading the newspapers to him, aiding 
 the housekeeper and the doctor in their necessary 
 administrations to his comforts, and doing any 
 servile drudgery which he thought might gain him 
 the rich Manton’s good golden opinion. 
 
 For my own part, I had neither the patience nor 
 the inclination to win the old man’s favour by studied 
 acts of assumed affection. I own to often entertain- 
 ing the hope that uncle Manton would remember 
 me in his will, but my feelings of independence 
 were of too wide and broad a character to enable 
 me to subject them to the restraint which was 
 necessary ere I could hope to compete with 
 Timothy. At the same time, I had longings 
 which money alone could compass, I was often 
 under the influence of that sort of boyish chivalry 
 
164 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which I dare say most people have felt at 
 some early period of their life. I had a sort of 
 Quixotish desire to see the world and be somebod 
 of importance amongst its citizens. That wish did 
 not extend to wandering about in a case of old iron, 
 seeking distressed maidens who sighed for freedom 
 in giants’ castles ; but it included that roving pro- 
 pensity which brought Don Quixote de la Mancha 
 into so much trouble in conflicts with windmills 
 and other imaginary foes to his greatness. I wanted 
 to see life ; not that I knew what seeing life really 
 meant, beyond getting away from the town in 
 which one was bred into the towns of larger 
 dimensions, mixing with strangers, and being 
 able some day to return home again a man of 
 importance— one who had seen the world. To do 
 all this I was practical enough and man enough 
 to know that money would be required; yet I 
 could not descend to mean obsequiousness to 
 procure this passport to the world’s high places : 
 Timothy could, and so, for a time, Timothy thrived. 
 
 Falsehood, however, does not always win. 
 Eventually Manton took the proper gauge of Ti- 
 mothy, and, not long before the old man’s death, 
 made his will in my favour. The housekeeper and 
 my cold calculating brother were bound in a com- 
 pact to serve each other, and the change in the old 
 man’s ideas and actions was soon discovered. They 
 worked upon the poor man (I call him poor, for 
 his very riches were his greatest burthens,) in 
 every possible way to win a codicil to that last 
 will and testament which left me heir to his pretty 
 little estate, with its farms and its fox covers. 
 
 In the meantime, securing the other string to 
 
HOW I NEARLY LOST A FORTUNE. 165 
 
 his bow, as he thought, Timothy—misguided silly 
 Timothy — suddenly exhibited great affection for 
 me, and I was exalted from the lowest stool in 
 the house to the highest and softest cushioned 
 chair. But Timothy was deep, as the dark sullen 
 river which ran through Mr. Manton’s estate, and 
 Mrs. Housekeeper as cunning as the anglers who 
 fished therein. 
 
 ‘¢ He will live until noon and no longer,” said 
 the doctor in a whisper to the housekeeper, who 
 had just given the sick man his breakfast. ‘‘ No 
 power can save him. Let him have whatever he 
 requires. Old age has lived its longest. I will be 
 here again at eleven.” 
 
 The doctor went his way, and then commenced 
 the working of as wickedly ingenious a plot as 
 could enter into the cogitations of the most 
 practised sinners. In reply to every message 
 that morning, relative to Mr. :Manton’s health, 
 cheering reports were given, so that nobody might 
 linger in the house. At ten o’clock the lawyer was 
 sent for, and told to wait in the library—‘ by Mr. 
 Manton’s directions” —until he was wanted. At the 
 same time an architect and surveyor was sent for, 
 with instructions to confer with me as to the most 
 desirable alterations which could be made in the 
 arrangement of the outhouses and grounds, espe- 
 cially with regard to the ornamental bridge over 
 the river in front of the house. 
 
 ‘| would rather see Mr. Manton myself,” I said, 
 ‘“before I presume even to listen to suggested 
 improvements of his property ; this may be merely 
 a whim of sickness, which ought not to be regarded 
 —besides, 1 am too young to know what “ought 
 to be done.” 
 
cae 
 
 166 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ‘It was his particular request that he should not 
 be disturbed for two hours ; and whim or no whim, 
 he desired me to do what I have done, and I leave 
 it to your own self, sir, whether you care to displease 
 him,” said the wily housekeeper. ‘* Hear what the 
 surveyor says, and then see Mr. Manton, 7f I may 
 be allowed to suggest,” continued the subtle 
 confidant of an undecided, weak master. 
 
 That seemed reasonable enough, and I assented. 
 Anxious, of course, to make as many alterations as 
 he could, whether they were improvements or not, 
 the surveyor brought his measuring materials, and 
 was soon busily engaged, with me by his side, 
 making calculations for a new bridge, a new 
 carriage drive, and other extensive changes in the 
 exterior of Manton House. So far the diabolical 
 plot of Timothy and his she-devil partner worked 
 well. 
 
 ‘*T tell you, sir—God forbid that I should say 
 anything against your own blood, my dear master; 
 but I tell you, sir, he is doing most outrageous 
 things.” 
 
 ‘¢ Well, well, Sarah, it is too late now,” the old 
 man muttered, turning uneasily in the bed. ‘ But 
 if I thought he was unegrateful—if I thought he 
 was other than he seems to be, I’d—I’d—— 
 
 The sentence remained unfinished ; the speaker 
 was exhausted. My brother Timothy listened at 
 the door ready to summon the lawyer, or be of any 
 other service to his comrade. Oh, what fiends 
 money can make of mortals! 
 
 The clock, on the heavy oaken staircase, marked 
 the waning moments in slow and measured strokes ; 
 the ivy tapped at the diamond-shaped panes of the 
 
HOW I NEARLY LOST A FORTUNE. 167 
 
 windows; the sound of child voices came up from 
 the distant village; a blackbird piped out its mellow 
 music in answer to its mate ; the scheming woman, 
 who waited fora return of the fading strength of 
 poor suffering Manton, held her throbbing heart as 
 though she feared it would burst ; my brother 
 Timothy’s breath came thick and fast, until his lips 
 were parched, and his mouth was dry. Oh, anxious 
 guilty moments, how slowly did ye limp away ! 
 
 The sick man revived, and the she-tempter 
 whispered in his ear that even now his heir was 
 surveying his property, and planning alterations. 
 
 ‘* No, no; not before the breath is out of my 
 body,” exclaimed the old man, feebly raising himself 
 in bed. 
 
 ‘‘ Where is he ? Let me see him,” he cried, 
 gaining strength by excitement. 
 
 ‘“¢ There! there!” said the woman, drawing aside 
 the bed curtains, and pointing to where I stood 
 with the surveyor. ‘‘ There is your favourite, 
 planning a new bridge over the river.” 
 
 “Oh, ingrate scoundrel! Oh, well painted 
 picture of innocence!” cried poor Manton, choking 
 with passion. ‘‘Send for my lawyer; quick, 
 there’s not a moment to lose; quick, quick, quick,” 
 almost shrieked the deluded dying man of wealth. 
 
 In a moment the legal gentleman was in the 
 room, and Timothy, with his handkerchief to his 
 eyes, leaned over the bed, and sobbed at the 
 ingratitude of his brother. — 
 
 ** A codicil—the will—my property—alterations 
 —the bridge—the will—surveyors—ingratitude— 
 mercy !” gasped the old man, in rambling repetition, 
 and gazing around him with the most appealing 
 glances. 
 
168 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The will was immediately produced. Pen and 
 ink were soon at work. The old man raised 
 himself once more, and commenced to speak. 
 
 ‘J will—I revoke—I leave'all my property— 
 the bridge — alterations — ungrateful—before the 
 breath was out of my body—could not wait-— 
 before I was—dead.” 
 
 As the last word escaped the lips of the poor 
 old man, he fell forward with his head upon his 
 breast. The clock struck eleven—old Manton had 
 died an hour before his time. 
 
pa LITTLE, .MILLY, 
 
 Somebody has described frost on the window 
 pane as a volume of Nature’s fairy tales. Hans 
 Christian Andersen, in his simple, modest way, has 
 told us the story of the Snow Queen, and this, 
 combined with the poetical description of the icy 
 filagree work which often adorns our windows in 
 Winter, has suggested to me the idea of writing a 
 little tale about Snow Fairies. With this acknow- 
 ledgment of my inspiration, I will now proceed to 
 relate something which, though it be fiction, has a 
 child-heroine not, I am sorry to say, altogether 
 untruthfully drawn:— | 
 
 In that undefined era, described by many an 
 ancient story teller as ‘“‘ once upon a time,” a Snow 
 Fairy came all the way to England from that cold 
 northern region called Lapland, in which country 
 fairies, in snow garments, glide to and fro, beneath 
 the northern lights, wearing crowns of frost crystals. 
 She chose the Winter season for her visit for 
 obvious reasons (she might have melted away in 
 Summer time), and took her journey in the chariot 
 of the North Wind, who leaves his icy abode during 
 several months in the year to breathe upon the 
 British isles. Methinks it were a grand sight 
 to see the giant wind, at home, driving moun- 
 tains of ice far out to sea, shouting over mighty 
 
 x 
 
170 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 plains of snow, shaking hardy fir trees, and scat- 
 tering the snow, in crystal showers, around the 
 Laplandevr’s sleigh. 
 
 The occasion of the visit of my snow fairy to 
 our country was this. A relative of hers had for- 
 feited her fairy home by becoming mortal, through 
 marrying an Hinglish seaman, who had penetrated 
 those far off regions. The fairy who had thus 
 given up her home beneath the northern lights for 
 a mortal one, sailed away in the seaman’s ship, and 
 lived in England. Soon, however, she became a 
 widow, and, in the course of two years afterwards, 
 died herself, leaving homeless one child, a sweet 
 girl, known as Little Milly. Eventually the orphan 
 fell into the hands of an impostor—an old beggar 
 woman, who used to let out and hire children for 
 the purposes of her trade of mendicancy. She was a 
 horrible sort of creature this same old woman, quite 
 a witch in appearance, and she lived in a wretched 
 dirty house in a gloomy back street, where officers of 
 the law were seldom seen, and when they did conde- 
 scend to visit the locality, never went away without 
 some miserable prisoner. Poor Little Milly used to 
 be sent out early in the morning with instructions to 
 return ata certain hour at night, and bring so 
 much money, or its value. If the child failed to 
 fulfil these commands, to the letter, she was sorely 
 beaten by her drunken mistress, Some how or 
 other my Lapland fairy heard of this-—perhaps the 
 North Wind told her of it—and she determined to 
 rescue her little relative and punish her tormentor. 
 But there is a higher power than that possessed by 
 fairies. 
 
 It was Christmas Day. Little Milly started 
 
LITTLE MILLY. PAL 
 
 early on her weary mission; for there was no 
 holiday for the beggar children. She begged and 
 begged; but being so much taken up with their 
 own affairs, so wrapped up in their own pleasures, 
 few people heeded the little sufferer. The bells 
 rung merry peals; people in fine clothes went. in 
 crowds to church; boys and girls ran to and fro 
 _ thinking of the Christmas pudding; but Little 
 Milly wandered along, weeping tears which were 
 nigh freezing as they fell. Night came; the sky 
 was thick with stars, and the Waits and the 
 Mummers were in the streets—as was also Little 
 Milly, but without the daily sum made up. When 
 the service at church was over, she went inside the 
 porch and sat down, trying to shield herself from 
 the cold. The North Wind knew she was there, 
 and he passed by the porch without entering, 
 although he shouted high up in the steeple, and 
 shook the church doors, and piled up heaps of 
 snow in out of the way corners, and then scattered 
 them about in white clouds, that looked like ghosts 
 in the churchyard. 
 
 At length Little Milly lay down to rest, and 
 gradually the wind was lulled into soft murmurs that 
 stole amongst the bells and made sweet music where 
 before was heard nothing but moaning and wailing. 
 The church doors opened, and a light shone round the 
 altar. The organ was pealing a requiem for the dead, 
 and angels were singing songs of joy for souls which 
 had safely passed through the Valley of Death. The 
 antique heads that had previously grinned at Little 
 Milly in the porch became living faces, radiant with 
 glory, some of them cherubs, who joined in the 
 chaunts of the angelic choir. ‘ How beautiful,” 
 
172 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 whispered Little Milly, and angels wafted her spirit 
 to Heaven. 
 
 Soon after the wind moaned about the church 
 as before; the heads in the porch grinned again, 
 and looked hideous; darkness brooded over the 
 graveyard, covering, like the snow, the last homes 
 of rich and poor, without regard torank. But the 
 wind had no more cold, old carvings no more 
 horrors, darkness no more terrors for Little Milly. 
 
 It was not until morning that the Snow Fairy 
 discovered where her infant relative had spent the 
 night, and the North Wind brought her to the 
 spot just in time to see the dead body of a child 
 removed from the church porch by the parish 
 beadle, and followed to the nearest public house by 
 a crowd of boys. Nobody but the Snow Fairy 
 saw that, in death, Little Milly smiled beneath a 
 wreath of icicles, as her mother had smiled, in life, 
 with a brow encircled by Nature’s fairy frost work. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold day that on which poor 
 Milly, to whom the angels had been so kind, was 
 found dead in the church porch. ‘The North 
 Wind blew his hardest, and the Snow Fairy filled 
 the air with sharp particles of ice that cut the faces 
 of all who went out into the streets. Snow was 
 piled up in great hills, into which coaches and 
 carriages were deluded and upset; men and women 
 were frozen on the highway roads; ships were 
 wrecked at sea; chimneys fell and trees were 
 torn up by their roots. For the North Wind 
 was in his most boisterous mood, and the 
 Snow Fairy, in the height of her revengeful 
 passions, tempted him into deeds of death. 
 Sweeping her long garments over the town, she 
 
LITTLE MILLY. 173 
 
 breathed freezing breath upon it until the whole 
 place was almost as cold as Lapland. She passed 
 over the house of the old hag who had s0 ill 
 used Milly, and there cast down handsful of 
 snow crystals from her crown, shook her long 
 snow robes, and breathed upon the windows 
 until they were darkened. ‘That night the sinful 
 woman, in the midst of her lonesome drunken 
 revelry, was bound to her chair with icy bonds 
 sealed by the hand of Death. 
 
 But people kept their holiday all the same, 
 laughing, singing, and making merry ; for they 
 knew not of the story of Little Milly—how she 
 had suffered, how she had died, and how she had 
 been revenged. Indeed, it is little they know in 
 large towns of the moving stories and tragedies 
 which are daily enacted by living men and women 
 and starving children. Surely it is some con- 
 solation to think that, if there really are no fairies, 
 there are good angels about us, for the world has 
 much need of them. And oh! whata blessing it is to 
 remember, during the great festival of Christmas, 
 the peculiar claims which children have upon us : 
 it was our Saviour who said “‘ Suffer little children 
 to come unto Me, and forbid them not.” 
 
A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE. 
 
 Should you ask me whence these stories ? 
 
 Whence these legends and traditions, 
 
 With the odours of the forest, 
 
 With the dew and damp of meadows, 
 
 With the curling smoke of wigwams, 
 
 With the rushing of great rivers, 
 
 And their wild reverberations, 
 
 As of thunder in the mountains, 
 
 I should answer, I should tell you, 
 * * * * *% * 
 
 Longfellow’s Hiawatha. 
 
 Should you ask me of the burthen, 
 Of the burthen of my story, 
 In the metre of the poet, 
 Longfellow, the mighty songster, 
 What I dreamt, and where I dreamt it, 
 In my bedroom, in the garret, 
 Lodging of most literatz, 
 Where the sparrow and opechee 
 Flutter ’gainst the little window? 
 
 I should answer, I should tell you, 
 There are places more attractive 
 When the sun shines in the meadows 
 Round about the noisy city, 
 ‘In the green and silent valleys 
 By the pleasant water courses,” 
 Where the wind plays with the flowers, 
 
A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE. 
 
 Ripples on the murm’ring river, 
 
 Gilds the noble rocks St. Vincent, 
 
 Gilds the tree tops in the Leigh Woods, 
 *¢ White in Winter, green in Summer,” 
 Where the wind is ever sighing, 
 Singing songs, /Molian music— 
 
 Grand in Winter, sweet in Summer. 
 
 ‘¢ Tf still further you should ask me,” 
 Saying, Oh! where did you dream this? 
 Tell us ere you write a line more, 
 
 ‘¢T should answer your inquiries 
 Straightway in such words as follow.” 
 
 In a hayfield, near a river, 
 By a cot, bedeck’d with roses, 
 By a murm’ring silv’ry river, 
 Where the silent water lily 
 Nods its head among the sedges, 
 And the drooping weeping willow 
 Weeps bright dew drops in the waters— 
 I, a rural rambler, sleeping, 
 Sleeping on sweet smelling hay mow, 
 Saw in Fancy’s fairy bowers 
 The strange vision which now follows, 
 Vision of a Fast vast Future. 
 
 "T'was Bristol a thousand years hence, 
 Bristol, birthplace of genius, 
 Great in mighty money makers, 
 Great in mighty merchant princes: 
 Oh! it was a changéd city— 
 Man nor maid I knew not in it, 
 Streets, and houses too, were alter’d, 
 
 Chang’d as if by mystic magic, 
 
 1 
 
 5 
 
176 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Chang’d by Time, the great magician, 
 He who decks ‘ stone walls with mosses,” 
 Wastes away the old Cathedral; 
 
 He the mighty warring conq’ror, 
 
 Heels of iron, breath of fire, 
 
 Crumbling, crushing, blasting all things, 
 Crumbling rocks, mouldering steeples; 
 Time, great Time, Almighty Presence, 
 Tender with the Fame of Poet, 
 
 Tender with most words of wisdom, 
 Making what seems nothing live long, 
 Cutting down things seeming greater. 
 
 Upon the sands of yesterday 
 Time had left few lasting furrows, 
 All was a fleeted yesterday; 
 
 Men and manners, all were changéd, 
 A new race ruled o’er the city, 
 Driven by the tide of Progress, 
 Rushing onward like a torrent, 
 Making ‘‘ wild reverberations 
 
 As of thunder in the mountains.” 
 
 North, East, West, South, new streets had ris’n, 
 Broader than the broad Old Market; 
 And people hurried to and fro, 
 
 Not in broughams drawn by horses, 
 
 But going along, fleet as Shaw-shaw, 
 Shawshaw, the long winged swallow, 
 Steaming, flying down the broad streets, 
 In cabs, driven by the fleet winds, 
 Kabibonokka the North wind, 
 Keewaydin, which is the Home wind; 
 Upon horses, fiery horses, 
 
 Steaming, puffing, snorting fireworks; 
 
A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE. 
 
 In the clouds were aerial cars, 
 Flying swift as the Omeme, 
 
 Omeme, the cooing pigeon— 
 Progress was not barr’d by turnpikes. 
 
 People liv’d, not in the bustle 
 All day long and through the night time— 
 The city was the mart of trade, 
 Great shop, with its mighty counters, 
 Hammers ringing, voices shouting ; 
 But, when night came o’er the toilers, 
 Gushkewou, the sombre darkness, 
 Then the workers went to Clifton, 
 Westbury, and old Shirehampton, 
 Thornbury, and little Keynsham, 
 Flying, steaming in their swift cars, 
 To enjoy the country pure air. 
 For they could not always live long 
 In the city fumes and stinkings ; 
 Suburbs were the spots to live in 
 And enjoy the leisure Sunday ; 
 City was to toil and strive in ; 
 Country to live, rest, and die in. 
 
 There were docks, at mouth of river, 
 Wider river than it now is, 
 Sparkling, gleaming in the sunshine, 
 Crowded with ten thousand steamers, 
 Gliding gently o’er the waters, 
 Gitchee Gumee, Big Sea Water, 
 Propell’d by steam, air and water, 
 Loaded by fast machinery, 
 Unloaded by mechanism. 
 
 There were docks throughout the city, 
 Z 
 
 177 
 
178 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Bridg’d sometimes by mighty bridges 
 Upon which I stood bewilder’d, 
 Look’d upon as foolish creature, 
 Strange, mad being, not of those days, 
 Fit for some big wild asylum ; 
 
 Till I wishéd that I were not, 
 
 Long’d to jump into the river, 
 
 When a voice unto me whispered :— 
 
 See how vain are human wishes, 
 Human hopes and aspirations; 
 Men who liv’d a thousand years back 
 All are dead, past and forgotten, 
 Men of money not remembered 
 While the grave had scarce clos’d o’er them; 
 Now and then sweet words of wisdom, 
 Words of beauty, grand and thrilling, 
 And the names of they who utter’d 
 Thoughts that live and breathe for ever, 
 Still are reverenc’d, remember’d, 
 Though the haunts and costly villas 
 Of the wealthy, rich and pompous, 
 Churches, towers, steeples, town-halls, 
 All are moulder’d, crumbl’d, wither’d: 
 One grand instance will I give you— 
 Yon tall, monumental warning, 
 Tells of the death, in days long past, 
 Of the legendary lifetime __ 
 Of a sweet boy-poet singer, 
 Rich in mind though poor in pocket ; 
 Tells of wild and wayward legends, 
 Thoughts of sweet and touching beauty, 
 Which he utter’d, in his boy-days, 
 How men who were great in his days, 
 
A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE. 
 
 Fat and mighty money getters, 
 Petty scrawlers, snarling critics, 
 All are gone and quite forgotten, 
 While the name of the boy-poet 
 
 Is inscrib’d in golden letters— 
 Thus it reads on yon bright tower, 
 Monument to cheer the lowly 
 
 And induce the rich to good deeds 
 And tell us of mortality— 
 
 Thus it reads on yon bright tower 
 “ To THE Boy-PoET CHATTERTON.” 
 
 Thus departed my strange vision, 
 “‘ In the glory of the sunset 
 In the purple mists of evening ;” 
 On the soft sweet-smelling hay mow 
 I awoke and heard the river, 
 Singing o’er the stony pebbles, 
 And I thought it might all come true, 
 All that strange bewild’ring dreaming ; 
 And the river seem’d to say so, 
 The river that had for ages 
 Flown along its bed of pebbles ; 
 Pointing back and pointing onwards 
 To the Past and to the Future, 
 « To the land of the Hereafter,” 
 To the land of Evermore! 
 
 179 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 
 
 Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, 
 The beggars are coming to town, 
 Some in rags, some in tags, 
 Some in silken gowns. 
 
 If you have ever lived in the market square of 
 a little country town, or were brought up in a 
 small borough just large enough and grand enough 
 to boast a mayor and corporation, you will perhaps 
 understand something of our feelings when we tell 
 you that the nursery stanza with which we com- 
 mence this article has always been associated, in our 
 mind, with Statute Fairs. 
 
 As a child we always listened to the ‘‘rhyme” 
 with something like awe, when once a year there 
 came into our little town a company of that ragged 
 army of strollers—which keeps up a perpetual 
 march, through the highways and byeways of 
 England, to and from country fairs, village wakes, 
 and races—including dry land sailors, kilted bag- 
 pipers, children on stilts, Punch’s theatre, perform- 
 ing dogs following men in belcher neckerchiefs, 
 tumblers, beggars bewailing fictitious ills, and all 
 the other members of the highway fraternity— 
 
 Some in rags, some in tags, 
 Some insilken gowns. 
 
 As a boy they have given us many an hour’s 
 amusement, and asa man we hold them in much 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 181 
 
 higher estimation than do magistrates and church- 
 wardens. 
 
 A country fair is full of curious interest as an 
 exhibition of quaint English character, and after 
 all, the porcelain of society need not be so very 
 much scandalised at the silly amusements of the 
 common clay when we find Tom Thumb’s Talking 
 Fish, Sensation Dramas, and Tight Rope Dancers 
 attracting immense audiences from amongst the 
 highest and noblest in the land. | 
 
 The Statute Fair is a holiday which is long 
 looked forward to with pleasure in country places, 
 not only by the rural population, but also by the 
 inhabitants of the town in which it is held. From 
 the adjacent villages come streaming into town 
 servants, male and female, dressed in their finest 
 clothes, and masters and mistresses jogging along on 
 all kinds of beasts of burthen, and in all manner of 
 carts, gigs, and waggons. ‘The servants whose 
 periods of hiring terminate that day mostly want 
 new masters, and the masters new servants, and so 
 they all congregate at certain places in the market 
 place, and stare at each other. When a farmer 
 thinks he likes the looks of a man he opens a 
 negotiation for his services, and the same process is 
 adopted by the farmer’s wife with regard to her 
 assistants—only that in the latter case a great deal 
 more examination, on both sides, seems to be con- 
 sidered necessary. Well, if the terms suit, and 
 both parties are agreeable, a bargain is struck, and 
 it is considered thoroughly binding by the accept- 
 ance, on the part of the servant, of what is called 
 ‘¢ the fastening penny,” which is received and pre- 
 sented on the principle of the recruiting shilling. 
 
182 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The “ fastening penny,” however, is represented by 
 any amount the hirer may think proper to give ; 
 ‘‘a waggon wheel,” as the five-shilling-piece is 
 denominated in some parts of the country, is ge- 
 nerally considered a tolerably liberal ‘‘ fastening 
 penny.” As soon as the money is accepted the 
 engagement between the contracting parties is as 
 binding, for a year, as if half a dozen lawyers had 
 been employed to set forth the contract on as many 
 skins of parchment. And all this matter-of-fact busi- 
 ness goes on amidst the noise and bustle of the fair; 
 yet it is seldom that mistakes of terms, or breaches 
 of contract, arise out of the statute engagements, 
 clumsy as the system certainly appears in these 
 days of educational progress. 
 
 But it is towards night when the revelry of sight- 
 seeing, the excitement of gingerbread buying, the 
 fun of putting pennies into lotteries and getting 
 nothing for your pains or your pence, are at their 
 height. Itis when the naphtha begins to blaze and 
 splutter, fillig the atmosphere with a sort of illumi- 
 nated mist, that the fair is ‘‘in full go.” The ‘* pale 
 moonlight,” which Sir Walter Scott recommends as 
 such a powerful adjunct to the beauty of Melrose 
 Abbey, would be fatal to the effect of our fair. The 
 darker the better for the glory of naphtha lamps and 
 tinselled queens and magicians. It is quite invigo- 
 rating to watch the fierceness of the competition 
 between the rival showmen, although, with the 
 neighbouring inhabitants, one would be glad if it 
 were accompanied with a little less noise—‘** but no 
 matter” (as the good old heavy dramatists say). 
 First, there is the dwarf, perpetually ringing his bell 
 out of the first storey front, and his proprietor 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 183 
 
 bawling the proportions of ‘ the wonderfulest 
 fe-nomenah as ever appeared afore the British 
 public, at the low charge of one penny.” Then 
 there is the red-faced gentleman, belonging to 
 the wax-work, who seems to be shouting him- 
 self into a fit of apoplexy, in his anxious desire 
 to make known to those who are waiving 
 betwixt ‘‘ Daniel in the lions’ den, as nataral 
 as life,” and ‘‘ the wonderfulest dwarf halive,” 
 that “ this hexhibition of mechanical figures chal- 
 lenges the world for variety and perfectness, avin 
 ad the honour of happearin afore nearly all the 
 crowned eads of Hurope.” Thenthere is Bumwell’s 
 Royal Collection of Animated Nature, towering up 
 into darkness, with florid delineations of lions, 
 tigers, birds, and reptiles, occupied in the amuse- 
 ments of their native woods, or being mildly in- 
 spected, in a semicircle of cages, by the Queen of 
 England, ina pink bonnet, and the Prince Consort, 
 in a court uniform, with two children at his heels. 
 Bumwell’s have a band of music, which the pro- 
 prietor of ‘‘ The Temple of Magic” is endeavouring 
 to drown with a drum and barrel organ, being 
 assisted by the band belonging to the giant and the 
 boa constrictor—two trombones, a cornet, and a 
 drum, who appear to be fully determined to drown 
 everybody else or perish in the attempt. Whenever 
 the cornet evinces the slightest uncertainty in the 
 melody the first trombone dashes in and carries it 
 off in triumph, the cornet sinking into a humble 
 second, until the trombone has soared so high that 
 the natural compass of his instrument stops his 
 further flight, and then to his rescue comes in the 
 cornet, with a double shake and warbling variation, 
 
184 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 that is quite refreshing to the crowd below, 
 who, tantalised by the half-drawing of a curtain 
 exhibiting a sort of perpetual Catherine wheel 
 spinning before a piece of looking glass, dash 
 up the steps, and disappear behind two very 
 ereen doors, ornamented with a very bright 
 knocker. In the midst of these exhibitions, 
 surrounded by a host of other equally noisy 
 establishments, including peep-show delineations 
 of Waterloo and the latest murder, is situated the 
 booth of the ‘‘ Nottingham Pet,” a gentleman of 
 somewhat short stature and battered aspect, who, 
 elevating himself on a temporary platform, pro- 
 claims, in a husky voice, ‘* You’ve the real thing 
 here, gents—no infernal drums an trumpets to 
 dror yer in, and ease yer of yer money—its the nut 
 —the nut, gents, wot you has here in all its perfect- 
 shun—the nut, gents, the nut.” This choice oration 
 is accompanied by beating the head every time 
 that piece of human anatomy is alluded to as the 
 nut, and by the time the ‘“ pet” has exhausted his 
 speech, and made himself much hoarser than when 
 he commenced it, another of the same calibre of 
 ‘ nuts,” and rejoicing in a similar ‘‘ gin and fog” 
 organ, invites ‘‘ them as lovs the noble skience of 
 self-defence” to lose no time in witnessing ‘‘ a set-to 
 atween the renowned Nottenam Pet, which is 
 backd for a undred pund aside to fight the 
 ‘Tipton’ and‘ Jimmy, the Black,’ which as had 
 the honner of oldin the champion belt of the light 
 weights, and which is also backd to fight a battle 
 in the ensooin munth.” 
 
 Leaving ‘‘ the real thing,” with its gloves, and 
 its flat and bloody noses, we come to something of 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 185 
 
 a more imaginary character—‘‘ The Theatre Royal.’’ 
 The performers, in a variety of stage costume, are 
 pacing the platform, and just as we arrive at 
 the steps it is announced that the company will 
 have ‘one dance at the exterior of the house prior 
 to the commencement of Shakspeare’s im-mortal 
 tragedee of King Richard the Third, by the whole 
 streneth of the company, after which a Grand 
 Magical, Tragical, Comical, Laughable Pantomime, 
 —only twopence to the Gallery ;” all this being 
 accompanied with the most positive assurance that 
 there will be only three or four more perform- 
 ances this evening, and that the house is 
 elegantly illuminated, and heated with a patent 
 stove. Thereupon the whole strength of the com- 
 pany—a humpbacked individual in a black velvet 
 coat and feathers ; two or three royal looking swells 
 of a past age, in various stages of seediness ; two 
 children (who were shortly to be murdered in the 
 tower), shivering in scanty garments and buckled 
 shoes ; and divers ladies, in long robes of all colours, 
 together with short robes for the pantomime of the 
 most gauzy and gaudy character, begin to dance ; 
 and after a few fantastical turns, the men severally 
 fold their arms, the women raise their dresses, and, at 
 the pantomimic beckoning of a clown, who tumbles 
 head over heels across the stage, and then runs back 
 again, they all disappear to commence their inter- 
 pretation of Shakspeare’s ‘* Life and death of King 
 Richard the Third.” . 
 
 Following the actors inside—as we did only a 
 short time since—we were somewhat astonished to 
 find that the orchestra was made up out of the 
 performers, who, whenever it came to their turn to 
 
 2A 
 
186 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 appear, leaped over the footlights, struck their 
 attitudes, made their speeches, and, as soon as 
 possible, returned to their orchestral duties. Thus 
 it appeared somewhat paradoxical to find some 
 royal personage, immediately after being murdered, 
 quietly enter the orchestra and play a fiddle accom- 
 paniment to the murder of the two Princes in the 
 Tower. But we soon got used to these incidents, 
 especially when we found the tragedy condensed 
 into a couple of acts, and about halfa dozen scenes, 
 into which were thrust as many horrors as possible, 
 including, of course, a terrible broad-sword en- 
 counter between Richard and Buckingham, as to 
 the result of which the audience exhibited consi- 
 derable partizanship, urging the two on with a 
 variety of encouraging remarks. ‘The scene had 
 no sooner fallen on the panting ‘‘ corpse’ of Richard 
 than that royal personage, seeing us in the two 
 seats petitioned off as the boxes, came straight to 
 where we sat, and expressed a hope that, for the 
 credit of the travelling drama, we would not form 
 our judgment of the company by what we had 
 seen that day, as it was impossible to do justice to 
 any legitimate play when it was necessary to perform 
 a matter of a dozen tragedies, and as many farces and 
 pantomimes, in the course of one day, as they were 
 accustomed to do at fair times. We assured the 
 courteous manager of our willingness to make every 
 allowance, and accordingly waited to see the Clown 
 twist about his friend ‘* Joey,” half kill a police- 
 man, and make love to a Columbine, who was 
 perpetually in company with a gentleman dressed 
 in tight patchwork. These several feats being 
 accomplished we departed, leaving one of the rising 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 187 
 
 generation lighting his pipe at the footlights, and 
 Columbine and two other females, one in a highly 
 interesting situation, bending themselves into a 
 variety of shapes, with Harlequin standing on his 
 head on the Clown’s shoulders, and Pantaloon 
 lighting a pan of blue fire at the wing, prior to 
 taking his position in the ‘‘ Grand Finale.” 
 
 Getting a little way from the noise of the shows, 
 we find ourselves in a maze of stalls, shooting 
 galleries, roundabouts, swinging boats, bazaars, and 
 ‘‘ good stuff” booths, and, wherever we go, ginger- 
 bread and nuts seem to be the staple. luxuries ; 
 indeed the fair is redolent of gingerbread, and in 
 whatever other occupation they may be engaged, 
 girls and boys, and men and women, are all 
 cracking nuts, which are offered and sold to them 
 as ‘¢ real Barsalonies.” Here a group throngs round 
 a ballad singer, who sells his ditties by the yard. 
 Close by, a bustling individual, with a sort of dumb 
 clock, painted in stripes of fed and blue and black 
 and green, with a perpetually moving long hand, 
 cries, ‘‘ Now, gents, try yer luck again—faint heart 
 never won fair lady—nothin ventur, nothin win 
 —one down, who make’s two—I’ll bet even on the 
 red ;” and smock-frocked fellows gape at his 
 volubility, and volubility pockets their pence. In 
 close proximity, all who are suffering from pains in 
 the back or bowels, nervous debility, spasms, wind, 
 the black vomit, gout, or any other complaint, are 
 requested to try the infallible pill, the recipe of 
 which was procured from an officer in her Majesty’s 
 Army, who had been in the habit of curing whole 
 regiments with the recipe, and who had only been 
 induced to part with the same on account of the 
 
188 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 humble individual who now possessed it having saved 
 that officer’s life when set upon by four Sikhs in the 
 great Sikh war—two night and morning would be 
 found efficacious in all disorders of the blood, and 
 the charge for one box was about one-third of the 
 price which would have to be paid for a single pill 
 in any respectable druggist’s in town—and why ? 
 because the seller was not compelled to pay rent 
 and taxes, and because he gave the public the 
 benefit of his not keeping a large shop with nume- 
 rous assistants. These arguments are found to be 
 irresistible, especially with the women, as are, 
 with numerous men, the jokes of ‘‘ Cheap Jack,” 
 who is continually trying to break a joiner’s saw, 
 and expressing it, as his opinion, that nobody ever 
 saw such a saw as that saw, and that if the axe 
 he now held in his hand—and which he would 
 neither ask five, four, three, two, nor one shilling 
 for, but. would sell at once at the low and ruinous 
 figure of ten pence-—was placed at the root of a 
 tree that night, the timber would be found felled 
 and ready for carting the next morning. Above 
 all this you hear a mingled hubbub of cries, made 
 up of ‘three a penny, three a penny,” ‘* taste em 
 and try em afore you buy em,” “‘ try your weight, 
 gents, try your weight,” ‘strong leather laces,” 
 ‘‘only a penny in the lucky bag,” ‘the real 
 Turkey rhoobarb, only four pensh de ounsh, two- 
 pensh de half ounsh, and as low as a penny de 
 qvarter of an ounsh,” ‘‘ now, my little dears, who 
 rides, who rides ?” “real Grantham gingerbread, 
 only sixpence a pound,” ‘‘ here you are, the real 
 brandy snap, the real brandy snap,” 
 
 ** We are poor folk from Manchesteer, 
 An we've go’ttn no work to do,” 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 189 
 
 and a hundred other inducements to buy or give, 
 interspersed now and then with a deep bass en- 
 treaty to ‘* Pity the poor blind.” 
 
 It is a treat to watch the children, amongst. all 
 the noise and glitter, and to see them struggling 
 home under their load of toys, blowing their 
 trumpets and beating thei drums, and talking 
 about their ‘‘ fairings,” and bedaubing their cheeks 
 with the everlasting gingerbread ; and to see the 
 rough country lovers taking their sweethearts to 
 the shows, and buying them nuts ; and to see the 
 tradesmen busy in their shops, round the market 
 place ; and to hear, as you may sometimes, the 
 parish bells ringing joyous peals, that fill up the 
 smallest lull in the noise of the fair, and make the 
 holiday clamour complete. 
 
 Such are the chief features of the Statute Fair— 
 an institution which will doubtless ere long be 
 numbered with the things of the past. For it is 
 deemed but a cumbersome and degrading system 
 for the hiring of agricultural labour, and we must 
 confess that, with all its picturesque incidents, 
 like the work of some old Dutch master, when 
 stripped of its varnish we discover accessories 
 which time and custom have clothed in a coat of 
 comparative obscurity. If we look deeper into the 
 painting, investigate the background, and rub 
 away the varnish, we find men and women reeling 
 through the streets in helpless drunkenness, and 
 Vice, with all her demoralising train, holding high 
 carnival in the market-place. We also see, it is 
 argued, the fair turned into a sort of English slave 
 market, in which our fellow creatures are bought 
 and sold, for certain periods, to the highest bidders 
 
190 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 —a fact which is somewhat incompatible with the 
 advanced notions of the age in which we live. 
 Therefore the institution is doomed. Before it is 
 superseded, however, we have a few words to say 
 upon the movement for its suppression. 
 
 Speakers and writers will generally agree with 
 Sir John Pakington, who recently described these 
 statutes as ‘* clumsy and inconvenient contrivances 
 with regard to the object of engaging agricultural 
 labourers, while, on the other hand, with regard to 
 the other branch of the question, there could be no 
 doubt that these gatherings had a very demoralising 
 tendency. He believed it to be the fact that very 
 bad and infamous characters were in the habit of 
 attending these statutes, and that they imposed on 
 the employers of labour, and inflicted great moral 
 injury on those who came to be hired.” Of late 
 these evils seem to have become more and more 
 apparent, and at last we have an earnest movement 
 to blot out of the national statute book the ancient 
 Statute Fair. 
 
 There are, however, some important considera- 
 tions, which we would strongly impress upon the 
 movers in this social reform. First, the old 
 machine must not be thrown aside until the new 
 one, which is to supersede it, is fixed and in 
 working order. In the next place, the employers 
 of agricultural labour must be provided with 
 another plan for obtaining the labour they require, 
 and some arrangement must be made whereby the 
 servant may dispose of his labour to the best advan- 
 tage. It is proposed to accomplish this by a 
 system of general registration throughout the rural 
 districts, with offices centrally situated, where 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 191 
 
 masters and men may be in constant communi- 
 cation with each other. This plan, properly 
 carried out, would doubtlessly be both effective and 
 successful. But the most important of all consi- 
 derations is one which is generally forgotten by the 
 advocates of the abolition of ‘* The Mop” (as the 
 Statute Fair is called in the West), and it is the one 
 which we desire to fix. 
 
 ‘There is a time to laugh,” says King Solo- 
 mon, and every succeeding poet and. philosopher 
 has extolled the benefits accruing to mankind from 
 recreation and enjoyment. Now the mop is, with 
 many of our hewers of wood and drawers of water, 
 the principal, and, with some, the only holiday in 
 the year. Itis their “time to laugh.” It is the 
 time when they shake off their load of daily toil. 
 It is the time when, for a few hours, the shackles 
 of servitude fall from their shoulders, and leave 
 them in the full enjoyment of freedom. It is the 
 landmark in their year of travel at which they 
 pause for breath and recreation, the oasis in the 
 desert of labour, the sunshine after the cloud. 
 Accompanied with our description of the fair 
 these similes may appear too strong for the 
 subject ; but we can assure our readers, from a large 
 experience of rural life, that they but inadequately 
 depict the importance of this holiday to thousands 
 of agricultural servants. The projectors of the new 
 system should pause ere they take away this 
 holiday without replacing it. The rural peasantry 
 cannot afford to lose it—they ‘‘ need all the 
 counter-weights they can muster to balance the sad 
 relations of life.” 
 
 The rich, and we who inhabit large cities, can 
 purchase amusement daily, and do not feel so much 
 
192 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the want of public holidays. It is very different 
 with the poorer classes in the country, who would 
 feel the loss of a holiday as keenly as a labouring 
 citizen would feel the loss of a daily necessary. 
 There are far too few holidays now-a-days, and 
 especially holidays in which the rural classes may 
 participate. The abolition of most of the old 
 Church festivals has robbed the village green of 
 many agambol. Village rulers should have a care 
 that the mechanical spirit of the age and the march 
 of reformation do not sweep away the holidays now 
 remaining. ‘There must be recreation for young 
 people of all classes, and recreation there will 
 always be of some sort or other. Not even the 
 greatest army of practical misanthropes that could 
 be raised throughout the civilised globe could drive 
 mirth and laughter from amongst us. Matter-of- 
 fact as you may be, ‘ fun will give you a forcible 
 hug, and shake laughter out of you whether you 
 will or not,” and, after all, fun is the greatest of 
 life’s panaceas ; it is a surer prolonger of life than 
 the most cunning elixir that leech can administer. 
 Let us not then narrow its circle, but since all 
 classes must have recreation and amusement, let us 
 set about increasing their holidays rather than 
 diminishing them. There are, undoubtedly, abuses 
 of recreation, and the mop-holiday is one of them. 
 Purge it of its evils, but leave the holiday. 
 
 We can trace a time, far back amongst the dust 
 of departed years and good old customs, when 
 harvest time came to the tiller of the land as an 
 annual festivity ; when after the last load had left the 
 stubble field, ‘‘the glowing landscape” presented 
 
 ‘“ A scene of jollity and social glee ;” 
 when man and master, maid and mistress, joined in 
 
THE STATUTE FAIR. 193 
 
 happy demonstrations of joy, and did not forget to 
 tender their thanks to ‘‘ the Lord of the Harvest.” 
 At last the good old custom died. The harvest 
 came as before. The sun rose on fields of golden 
 wheat ; the pale light of the harvest moon 
 succeeded the crimson tints of the sunset as it 
 did *‘ when the minstrel-king wandered through 
 the solitudes of Paran, or fields reposing at the feet 
 of Carmel.” But alas! the Harvest Home proces- 
 sions had vanished, and the sounds of ‘ revelrie 
 and joye” were no longer heard in the meadows. 
 Time moves on his ceaseless course, until he makes 
 another cycle in the whirpool of eternity, and once 
 more we have our Harvest Home. It is a good old 
 custom, and, we trust, will never again be allowed 
 to fall into disuse. 
 
 We have introduced this little picture of a 
 modern revival that, in setting it forth as an illus- 
 tration of the character of some of the old customs 
 which have somehow or other lain dormant for. 
 so many years, we may induce some good advocate 
 of the abolition of the Statute Fair to rummage 
 over the old calendars for a disused festival to 
 replace it. In nearly every village in England 
 there is some field or locality called The Butts, 
 and it is pretty clear that the title has come down 
 from the days when British bowmen exercised 
 themselves with rigid perseverance in the national 
 arm. ‘The Butts are being revived in the shape 
 of rifle targets. Could not some old precedent 
 be found for festivals (in the place of Statute 
 Fairs), which should combine some of the best 
 features of the old English pleasure fair with the 
 resuscitation of old-fashioned games and_ prize 
 
 28 
 
194 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 shooting ? It would be a grand consummation if 
 our national amusements could be pressed into the 
 service of our national advancement. The man 
 who invents a new and better holiday as a sub- 
 stitute for the Statute Fair, will confer a boon 
 upon the great rural population of England, and 
 do a public service. 
 
FIRE PICTURES. 
 
 On a winter’s night, when the wind has been 
 rattling your window-shutters, have you ever sat, 
 with your feet on the fender, and made: pictures in 
 the fire? If you have, sit down with me at my 
 fire. Some of the pictures, which I can trace there, 
 may awaken associations powerful enough to kindle 
 a set of fresh firelight fancies in your own imagina- 
 tion. If you have not, sit down all the same, and 
 should all your efforts to see anything more than 
 blazing coals and cinders prove fruitless, leave me 
 to what you may be pleased to call my “ stupid 
 ravings.” If all the men who button-hole you, and 
 bore you in the streets, at the club, at your hotel, 
 by your own fireside, would let you off as easily, 
 you would have cause to be thankful. 
 
 But here I am with my fire and my fancies, and 
 whether I have an audience or not, I will draw the 
 curtains close, reduce the illuminating power of 
 my lamp, and set about a particular series of fire 
 pictures, which have the additional charm of being 
 illustrations of boyish memories. 
 
 A nice, clear, ruddy fire it is too, bright and 
 brilliant, but with enough of dark patches in it and 
 unburnt coals to give variety to the pictures. There 
 they are, the dear familiar scenes of old, rocks and 
 hills, and dales and dells, and towns and cities, 
 and villages, and everything and anything else I 
 
196 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 choose to imagine the glowing cinders. There 
 they are, trees, and towers, and spires ; and there’s 
 Baron Munchausen’s horse hanging to the top of 
 the steeple, the result of the sudden thaw. And 
 yonder is Sinbad, the sailor, with the Old Man of 
 the Sea on his back ; and the City of the Dead, 
 people turned into stones, enchanted castles, 
 enchanted palaces—the whole of the Arabian 
 Nights condensed into a living, moving story, 
 illustrated by a burning coal, and surrounded 
 by a thousand happy associations. Close by are 
 Napoleon crossing the Alps, Moscow burning, 
 Captain Cook attacked by savages, and the red, 
 burning, smoke-clouded Field of Waterloo: ‘* Up, 
 Guards, and at ’em!” Oh! how well I remember 
 the old pensioner, who used to smoke so much 
 tobacco, drink so much beer, and tell such grand 
 stories of the great fight—about Shaw, the Life 
 Guardsman—forming into squares, and the glorious 
 coming of Blucher. How happy I was; how 
 I expressed my determination never to be anything 
 but a soldier ; how we boys used to play at French 
 and English ; how I never would be on the French 
 side; how the French used to be twice as 
 numerous as the English ; and how the smallest 
 number used always to be the conquerors notwith- 
 standing. Stop! There’s Nelson and the Battle 
 of Trafalgar, at which the old Captain, who lived 
 in the house with the two cannons in front, close 
 by the school, lost his leg. Oh, what a glorious 
 story that was! And the song about it:— 
 
 “Twas in Trafalgar’s bay.” 
 
 No! I would not be a soldier; I would plough 
 the briny ocean and fight until [ was an Admiral. 
 
FIRE PICTURES. 197 
 
 What is that peculiarly-shaped bit of fuel in the 
 ‘centre of the fire? Robinson Crusoe. Yes, it is 
 poor Robinson, all alone by himself, without a soul 
 to speak to or cheer him up, liable to be attacked 
 by savages, and with no prospect of ever seeing his 
 dear native land again. And yet I used to think I 
 should like to have been Robinson, even before I 
 had read so far as his sail with Friday. What’s 
 the next picture ? Gulliver, with an army marching 
 through his legs. That monster piece of coal, 
 towering above the hollow I made just now with 
 the poker, is Gulliver, and there are the pigmy 
 horses and the palace where Gulliver put the fire out. 
 Down it goes! I thought that lump would fall. 
 Never mind, it is Gulliver again; Gulliver at 
 Brobdignag. What a fright I was in, I remem- 
 bered, when the dwarf, Glumdaclitch, pushed him 
 into the marrow-bone which the Queen had left on 
 her plate. The attack of the wasps, too, and the 
 monkey. Wouldn’t I like to have twisted that 
 monkey’s neck !_ All this was accompanied by the 
 inward hope that if ever | was wrecked it might be 
 on the shores of Lilliput, in preference to Brob- 
 dignag, or the land of the Honyhunms. Now I 
 see Daniel in the lions’ den ; Shadrach, and _ his 
 companions in the fiery furnace; the Pillar of 
 Fire which went before the children of Israel ; the 
 parting of the waters of the Red Sea; David 
 killing Goliath ; and I remember well vowing a 
 determination to say my prayers—and look towards 
 the East, too, if I thought proper—for all the Kings 
 in Christendom. Next, come incidents in the 
 Pilgrim’s Progress, and I see myself commencing a 
 pilgrimage along the long white road over the hills 
 which shut in the world of my youth. 
 
198 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Now I will stir the fire and change the pictures, 
 as I used to turn the kaleidoscope and watch its 
 vivid, varying combinations. Here are a new set 
 . of fancies, bright ones, too, most of them. Ivanhoe 
 and the Swineherd, knights with waving plumes, 
 monks with sombre cowls. There are the ancient 
 cavaliers in all their grand array of -mail, and 
 yonder is the tournament. That etherial looking 
 bit of ash, which is about to fall, is the beautiful 
 Jewess. in the gallery of spectators, and that 
 blackish coal, on the other side, the strange 
 knight who overthrows everybody. Then there’s 
 Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye— 
 
 *“ Who checks at me to death is dight ;” 
 and, close by, is the Last Minstrel, telling his long 
 changing tale of chivalry, which I follow through 
 a thousand changing scenes. Then comes the Last 
 of the Moichans. 
 
 What a host of remembrances crowd upon me 
 at the sight of this last fire picture! At the last 
 school | went to we used to spend the Saturday 
 half holiday m being North American Indians. 
 We had willow bows and lances, wood arrows, the 
 timber for the latter being obtained by the coach- 
 maker’s son. We had wooden scalping knives, and 
 tufts of dry grass fastened on our heads for scalps, 
 which were to be taken and slung in the belts of 
 the conquerors. We went on “trails.” We lay in 
 ambush. We sent out scouts. We crouched 
 beneath hedgerows, and went on long happy 
 expeditions through great woods and luxuriant 
 mowing grass. We called each other fanciful 
 names, and most of us were chiefs. I was Hawk 
 Eye, and a long-legged fellow, who came from 
 
FIRE PICTURES. 199 
 
 a farm in the country, and brought a greasy lunch 
 in a greasy bag every day, was the Bounding 
 Elk. ‘The red-headed son of the tallow chandler 
 was something else—the Fox, I think—and he 
 used to taunt me by saying that he never wrapped 
 a Mingoe in his blanket. How well I remember 
 once, when out on an expedition against the tribe 
 to which the Fox belonged, I shot him, and he 
 would neither die nor be scalped; how we fought 
 in real earnest; how Hawk [Eye's nose bled, and 
 how the Fox’s nose bled too; how Hawk Eye 
 obtained the contested tuft of grass notwithstanding ; 
 how the two great chiefs made friends, and smoked 
 the pipe of peace (a piece of ignited cane) ; and how 
 the two tribes came to the unanimous decision 
 that, in future, all who would not die and be 
 scalped fairly, when hit with an arrow, should not 
 be allowed to go on another war trail, but should 
 remain at home, in inglorious ease, with the squaws. 
 To the fire again. At the back of the grate I 
 see Peter the Great at work im a dockyard; 
 Cromwell clearing out the British House of Com- 
 mons ;~ Hans, of Iceland, drinking out of a skull ; 
 and the Witches in Macbeth performing their 
 mystic dance around the cauldron. And now 
 comes up in the firelight the little country theatre, 
 where first I saw Ophelia, a young lady in white 
 muslin, and Hamlet, a melancholy individual in 
 black hose. If it isnot a sacrilege on his memory 
 to imagine the likeness in that dull, rotten piece of 
 coal, 1 could fancy that dying ember near the 
 bottom bar like the paintings of the Great Bard 
 himself. With the thought, what a crowd of 
 pictures flit across my brain, and people the fire-lit 
 
200 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 room—fays and fairies, kings and queens, lords and 
 ladies, dukes and earls, soldiers and serving-men. 
 But, brightest of all the shadowy forms, stand out 
 the burly Falstaff, the hump-backed Richard, the 
 philosophic Hamlet, the sweet Ophelia, the bully 
 Bottom, the nimble Puck, the merry Wives, the 
 loving Juliet, the baffled Cardinal, the spiteful 
 Jew, the pretty Jessica. I see them all, and many 
 more, and they mingle together, in fancy, until they 
 seem to make a play of their own, and enact it for 
 me in the firelight. 
 
 A few cinders fall, and fresh combinations are 
 made between the bars, where a monster ‘ stranger” 
 flaps and flutters, as if 1t waited to be clapped off, 
 to tell its supernatural tale of the advent of a 
 visitor. But I will not stir whilst Iam so happy 
 with the red glowing coals beyond. ‘The one 
 nearest the second bar, with a small flame in the 
 centre, is certainly like a fire temple. Yes, and 
 there’s a crowd of Ghebers at the burning shrine, 
 and now I see turbaned heads in the fire, and now 
 the sudden blaze bursts o’er Osman’s sea, and Hafed 
 isno more. The Giaour lying on a hard couch, 
 and pointing to the “‘ blood upon that dinted sword ;” 
 Evangeline amongst the hay-makers; Pompei, 
 and the burning Mountain ; and a hundred other 
 book-thoughts, made into fire pictures, follow on, 
 each with its happy thoughts, each with its pleasant 
 memories. 
 
 Now back again I go to earlier years, and see 
 myself standing on a wall, with a loving arm 
 around me, watching the first railway train that 
 appeared in my little world at home. The picture 
 leads me to another. That bit of half-lit coal at 
 
FIRE PICTURES. 201 
 
 the back of the fire is a Park where I used to play 
 as a boy; and, by the side of the line of railway 
 which skirts the little wood at the bottom, stands 
 George Stephenson, the Great George, with his 
 hands in his pockets, looking at the trains. ‘‘ Does 
 tha see that gentlemun yonder?” ‘‘ Ah, au do.” 
 ** Wele, that’s him as fust made Puffin Billies.” 
 ‘¢'Tha doesna say soa?” ‘* But ou do.” I see the two 
 juveniles now, hear their simple chatter, and see 
 the great man watching a railway train go roaring 
 into the cutting below. Yes, and I remember (I 
 was a very small fellow too) how he used. to pretend 
 to chase the boys when he found them _birds- 
 nesting in his grounds, and how he used, as I after- 
 wards learnt, to laugh at the consternation of the 
 youngsters, and tell of his own boyish freaks and 
 boyish struggles. 
 
 Now I see a funeral, a grand country funeral, 
 attended by the mayor_and corporation, and a 
 crowd of people. LEverybody is sorry ; working- 
 men are sorry ; rich people are sorry ; the shops are 
 shut; we have a holiday at school, and the great 
 passing bell, which hangs high up in the church 
 steeple, is booming slowly and sadly, as though it 
 was sorry too. And who is the man, think you, 
 they are going to bury ? The fine old gentleman I 
 used to see watching the trains, the great engineer, 
 who was pronounced mad when he dared to say 
 that he could make a locomotive go at the rate of 
 fifteen miles an hour! 
 
 There is another funeral now in the fire. I wish 
 I had not seen the other. I meant only to see 
 pleasant, happy, merry, joyous, sunny things. I 
 must shake off the sombre thoughts which are 
 
 2C 
 
202 4 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 thickening around me, stir the fire, anything rather 
 than grow sad. Still, still, I see the second funeral; 
 it is less grand than the first, but there are dark 
 nodding plumes, and the great bell is sobbing in the 
 steeple, and people are weeping and looking. sad, 
 and (with watching the fire I suppose) my own 
 eyes are growing very dim. Now the fire itself 
 has disappeared ; but the funeral—there it is still. 
 The mourners fill the room. I see the old solemn 
 church, and the great cold pew, and hear the 
 service for the dead, awakening the echoes of the 
 ancient place, like a voice from the tomb. I see 
 an open grave, and a child weeping bitterly by the 
 newly-turned earth, and I hear the night cry of the 
 orphan, weeping for her they have put in the 
 ground. 
 
 The fire has no more pictures for me to-night. 
 For you, dear reader, I may have more in the 
 future. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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