OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 823 T1431 I Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/talesforroadrailOOhall TALES FOR ROAD aid RAIL dram &§umhzx% f 8 pisullattg LONDON W. AND R. CHAMBERS 47 PATERNOSTER ROW AND HIGH STREET EDINBURGH 1855 Edinburgh : Printed by W. and R. Chambers. c, _ aW | Ztfou sl M ovU a(<£ *■ 'l4Sl Contents. 9 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. THERE IS NO HURRY ! — A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE, BY MRS S. C. HALL. QUINTIN MATSYS, THE BLACKSMITH OF ANTWERP A TALE. “DO YOU THINK I J D INFORM?” AN IRISH TALE, BY MRS S. C. HALL. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY A TALE. STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. POOR JOE A TALE. THE DESERTERS A TALE. A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES AN EDINBURGH TALE. LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. THE MAGIC FLUTE A MORAL TALE, FROM THE GERMAN. STORY OF JACQUARD. WOMEN’S TRIALS IN HUMBLE LIFE STORIES. MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. THE GUERILLA A STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR. JIM CRONIN AN IRISH TALE, BY MRS HOARE. III. STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. N the 1st of August 1809, a day I shall ever have ( cause to remember, I went on a pleasure excursion, in small vessel belonging to my father, from Marseilles to Nice. At this time the coast of France was strictly watched by English cruisers; and to elude these, we kept ffWjJ as much as possible close in-shore. This precaution was, ' unfortunately, useless. When off the isles of Hyeres, we were observed, and chased by an English cutter, which soon came up with us. Resistance was of course useless, and, foreseeing the result, we at the first shot yielded ourselves pri- soners. Before going on board the enemy’s vessel, I concealed about my person as much money and other valuables as I could ; and of this property I was not afterwards deprived. We were, indeed, treated with less severity than we had reason to expect. On the day after our capture, we were removed, with many other prisoners, into another vessel, with orders to make the best of our way to England. What my sensations were on being thus torn from my beloved country, my friends and relations, may be easily conceived. In a few days we arrived on the coast of England, and were immediately ordered round to an eastern port — Lynn in Nor- folk — whence we were forwarded, to the number of some hun- dreds, in lighters and small craft, to the depot of prisoners of war at Norman Cross — I think about fifty miles inland. Arriving at Peterborough — a respectable-looking town, with a handsome ca- No. 116. l STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND.. thedral — apparently a gay and thoughtless set, we were marched to our destination. On reaching Norman Cross, we all under- went the usual scrutiny by the inspecting officers ; and an exact description was taken of each individual as to his age, size, colour of hair and eyes, &c. which was entered in a book kept for that purpose. All these preparations gave a fearful presenti- ment of what we were afterwards to expect, and raised emotions in my breast of a nature I cannot define, but which several times, whilst the examination was going on, made me shudder with a kind of convulsive horror, not at all lessened on our admittance into, and review of our prison. The English had here upwards of seven thousand prisoners of war, of one nation or other, but chiefly Frenchmen. I will endeavour to describe a few particu- lars of the place, as well as I can recollect, which may at the same time also serve to illustrate my escape from it. The whole of the buildings, including the prison, and the barracks for the soldiers who guarded us, were situated on an eminence, and were certainly airy enough, commanding a full and extensive view over the surrounding country, which ap- peared well cultivated in some parts ; but in front of the prison, to the south-east, the prospect terminated in fens and marshes, in the centre of which was Whittlesea Mere, a large lake, of some miles in circumference. The high road from London to Scot- land ran close by the prison, and we could, at all hours of the day, see the stage-coaches and other carriages bounding along’ the beautiful roads of the country with a rapidity unknown else- where ; and the contrast afforded by contemplating these scenes of liberty continually before our eyes, only served to render the comparison more harrowing to our feelings. There was no apparent show about the place of military strength, formed by turreted castles, or by embrasured battle- ments ; in fact it was little better than an enclosed camp. The security of the prisoners was effected by the unceasing w^atch of ever-wakeful sentinels, constantly passing and repassing, who were continually changing ; and I have no doubt this mode of security was more effectual than if surrounded by moated walls or by fortified towers. Very few, in comparison of the numbers who attempted it, succeeded in escaping the boundaries, though many ingenious devices were put in practice to accomplish it. However, if once clear of the place, final success was not so dif- ficult. The space appointed for the reception of the prisoners consisted of four equal divisions or quadrangles; and these again were divided into four parts, each of which was surrounded by a high palisade of wood, and paved for walking on ; but the small ground it occupied scarcely left us sufficient room to exercise for our health, and this was a very great privation. In each of these subdivisions was a large wooden building, covered with red tiles, in which we ate our meals and dwelt ; these also served for our 2 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. dormitories, or sleeping-places, where we were nightly piled in hammocks, tier upon tier, in most horrible regularity. One of these quadrangles was entirely occupied by the hospital and medical department. A division of another quadrangle was allotted to the officers, who were allowed a few trifling indul- gences not granted to the common men, amongst whom I un- fortunately was included. In another division was a school, the master of which was duly paid for his attendance. It was conducted with great regularity and decorum, and there you might sometimes see several respectable Englishmen, particu- larly those attached to the duties of the prison, taking their seats with the boys to learn the French language. Another small part was appropriated as a place of closer confinement or punish- ment to those who broke the rules appointed for our government, or wantonly defaced any part of the buildings, or pawned or lost their clothes ; these last were put, I think, upon two-thirds allow- ance of provisions, till the loss occasioned thereby was made good ; and I must confess this part was seldom without its due pro- portion of inhabitants. The centre of the prison was surrounded by a high brick wall, beyond which were the barracks for the English soldiers, several guard-houses, and some handsome build- ings for both the civil and military officers ; whilst a circular blockhouse, mounted with swivels or small cannon, pointing to the different divisions, frowned terrifically over us, and completed the outside of the picture. With respect to the interior economy of the prison, we were not treated with any particular degree of harshness or of unne- cessary privation, further than the security of so large a number of men required. On Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, we had one pound and a half of bread, half a pound of beef, with a proportionate quantity of salt and vegetables ; or, if no vegetables could be procured, we had in lieu pearl barley or oatmeal. On Wednesdays and Fridays we had the usual quan- tity of bread, one pound of cod-fish or herrings, and one pound of potatoes. No ale or beer was served out to us, but we were allowed to purchase it at the canteen in the prison. To insure to us no fraud or embezzlement, each department or division sent two deputies to inspect the weight and quality of the provisions, which, if not approved by them and the agent to the prison, were invariably rejected and returned ; and if any difference of opinion existed between the agent and the deputies, a reference was made to the officers on guard at the time, and their decision was final. A regular daily market was held in the prison, where the country people brought a variety of articles for sale, and where every luxury could be purchased by those who had money. Our cooks were appointed from amongst ourselves, and paid by the English government, so that, in regard to diet, we had not much to com- plain of. The hospital, or medical department, I have heard- — for I was never an inmate of it, except to visit a sick comrade — was STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. amply supplied with every necessary and attendance ; the nurses being’ generally selected from the friends of the sick. For our amusement, among-st other tilings, we had several excellent bil- liard-tables, very neatly made by the prisoners themselves, which were attended by mail}'- English officers, and others off duty ; but, unfortunately, these were the sources of frequent quarrels and duels, two of which terminated fatally whilst I was there, both between Frenchmen. Having no arms, they affixed the blades of knives, properly sharpened and shaped, to sticks formed with handles and hilts, with which they fought as with small swords. I was a witness to one of these conflicts, and it sank deep in my memory for many months. It appeared, in some instances, as if confinement had deprived us of the usual huma- nity of our nature, and hardened our hearts ; for some shocking scenes of depravity and cruelty would occasionally take place, ■which even the counsel and presence of the good and venerable bishop of Moulines, who voluntarily attended to the religious duties of the prison, could not restrain. The distress of mind occasioned by my imprisonment did not so much arise from any one particular cause, as from a continual recurrence of the scenes of human misery which I daily wit- nessed, more especially those springing* from the men themselves. Many of our people were so lost to all sense of honour and shame, as absolutely to rejoice in the miseries of those whose feelings were not so callous as their own. I suffered much cruelty of this sort from them, particularly in not joining in their g-aming’, which was carried on amongst them to a most deplorable excess — many of them losing* not only their clothes, but their rations of provisions for a week beforehand. When reflection came across me, I *was almost distracted ; for there was but little hope of an exchange of prisoners, or of the termination of a war now carried on with redoubled animosity on both sides. Here I existed for a year or more ; but in that space of time how many did I see carried out to their graves, far from their homes, their parents, and those other dear relatives who could have smoothed and made easy the pillow of death ! It is very well to read of these things, but it is very different to experience them one’s-self. I had now been confined about a year and a half, when, seeing no other prospect of release, I determined to attempt an escape ; for death itself was to be preferred to the misery of delayed hope which I daily endured. It was not a very easy thing to lay a plan of escape, and it took me many weeks in arranging. The execution was difficult in the extreme. The high-paled en- closures of wood which I have before mentioned were of no great strength, and easily passed ; but on the outside of these was a belt of sentinels, at only a few yards’ distance from each other ; beyond these was the outer fence, or wall of brick, very high, which was to be surmounted by a ladder or rope, close to which was another belt of sentinels as before. The fences and 4 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. wall were not the greatest difficulties to contend with : it was the sentinels, close to each other, who, perpetually on the alert, scarcely left a chance for escape unperceived. Before anything, however, could be attempted, it was neces- sary to make a few preparations, and that, too, without giving any room for suspicion, even to my fellow-prisoners. With some difficulty, and by degrees, I exchanged part of my French gold for English money with those of my comrades who, by making toys and fancy-work in straw, which they were allowed to dis- pose of for their own benefit, had got a little together. Many of our men made large sums of money that way, and, had they been provident, might have returned home with more wealth than they could have gained in the same space of time had they been at large in their own country. One of them, a most ingenious fellow, had absolutely, during the many years of his imprison- ment, accumulated the sum of £300 of English money. Of this man I procured, for a louis-d’or, a good and correct map of Eng- land, of his own drawing, on which was pointed out a line of travelling as offering the best route for escape. The names of the towns, and of many of the villages, with their distances, to- gether with other useful remarks, were all written at length, and I found them exceedingly accurate. He sold several of these maps to many who never attempted their escape, but who, never- theless, had that hope often in their breasts. For some time after I had the map in my possession, I endeavoured to learn to pro- nounce the names of the places I was to pass through ; but find- ing* all in vain, I gave up the attempt as hopeless, for Russian itself is easy to this unpronounceable language. Well assured, if ever I endeavoured to speak English, I should betray myself, I determined, if once I got clear of the place, never to speak at all. The route pointed out as most preferable was to the eastern coast, a part of Norfolk, and there to bribe some fisherman or smuggler to carry me over to Holland. The name of one of these latter was given me, with ample instructions how to find him out, and to make myself known to him. One thing I was well aware of, and which, in fact, was almost everything in my favour ; namely, that in the land of liberty, as they call it — and in this instance deservedly so — no passport was wanted ; nor, as I was well informed, had any one a right to inquire whither I was going, or what was my business. To say the truth, they do not seem to require such safeguards in England. The ocean which girts it round acts far more effectually for security than passports or gensdarmes. I got together, I think, about five pounds of English money in silver, and a little copper ; I had also between twenty and thirty louis-d’ors, and other gold coin, and a few guineas, which I con- cealed in different parts of my clothing. I also procured a small pocket tinder-box, which I hid in the crown of my cap. I do not know how I came to think of this last article, as I had never STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. made any use of it. I also concealed, in different parts of my dress, several other things which I thought might be of service to me, particularly a French and English dictionary ; and being thus provided, I only waited for a favourable opportunity to make the attempt. After waiting day after day, and week after week, with emo- tions and impatience indescribable, the moment of liberation at length arrived in a dark and dismal night in the month of February. The rain had poured down in torrents all that day, accompanied with a heavy fall of snow, and the wind blew a most violent storm. Nothing could better answer my purpose, as in darkness lay the only chance I could possibly have of eluding the keen and vigilant eyes of my ever-watchful guards. Being now determined to make the attempt, I took from their places of concealment, where I had arranged all ready for the occasion, a strong knife to cut the wood paling, and a rope, which I had made out of wool, with a hook at the end, to surmount the wall. I also put a biscuit or two in my pocket, with a shirt and pair of stockings (which last I found exceed- ingly comfortable and refreshing to me), to put on dry when my others w^ere wet and dirty. I had no room for anything else ; in short, what I had filled my pockets, as my dress was only a sailor’s jacket and trousers, both of coarse blue cloth, but sound and warm. I had also a good strong pair of shoes on, another great comfort, and which ought always to be particu- larly attended to by every adventurous wanderer. My fellow-prisoner, of whom I bought the map, was the only one I acquainted with my purpose ; not that he might accompany me, for he had given up all thoughts of escape himself, but that he might answer to my name if called over, which sometimes was the case, or otherwise assist me as far as lay in his power, ^without rendering himself liable to suspicion. It was a regular custom in the prison to count us out of our lodging-places in the morning, and in again at night, so that, if any were missing, it was immediately discovered, and the alarm given. This ren- dered it necessary that the first attempt should be made from within, after we were shut up. As soon, therefore, as it was dark, I began my operations — my friend standing’ before me as I lay on the ground, and screening me from observation as well as he could by several artful manoeuvres, which w r ere much assisted by a long bench and table near us, on which he was apparently very deeply engaged at work. My object \vas to cut out one of the boards from the bottom of the building, which I had pre- viously prepared for removal. In this I succeeded better than I could possibly have expected ; and, creeping out on my hands and knees, silently replaced the board, and, unperceived by any one, concealed myself among a heap of fagots in the yard, which had been brought there during the day for firing. The rain and wind seemed, if possible, to increase as the night ap- STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. proached, and soon shrouded all around me in pitchy darkness. There were here and there, at long intervals, and at a great dis- tance from me, regular rows of lamps ; hut they only served to make the outer darkness more intense. As I crouched up in my hiding-place, wet and almost benumbed with cold — which nothing but the hope of ultimate escape could have enabled me to bear- — I could occasionally hear the clang of the arms of the sentinels at their post, notwithstanding the pattering of the rain, and the howling of the wind, which had now increased to a perfect hurricane ; nay, I could now and then even distinguish their voices. Their proximity did not at all tend to the encouragement of my hopes, or the exhilaration of my spirits ; but I was gone too far to recede. I continued in this horrid state of suspense till the clock struck eleven, which I had chosen as the most favour- able point of time, the sentinels being then, as I thought, more likely to be tired, and not so much on their guard, being changed at nine and twelve. Commending my soul to God, I left my hiding-place, but was at first so stiff and cramped with being so long confined in one posture, that I could scarcely stand; however, this soon went off, and I found my courage rise as my blood circulated more freely. The wood paling could scarcely be called an impediment ; and listening attentively for a moment, and hearing nothing to alarm, I silently cut a part out, and crept through on my hands and knees as far and as quick as I could. I was interrupted by no one, and the sentinels were undoubtedly sheltered in their boxes. My success so far inspired me with great confidence. I knew that I had passed the first line of the guards, and that there were no more obstacles on the inside of the wall. If anything at this moment, the hurricane blew with tenfold violence ; and justly thinking that no soldier would face it, but seek shelter, I jerked the hook, with the line attached, on the top of the wall, which, fortunately for me, caught the first time, and with but little noise to alarm. I, however, listened for a moment in great agitation; but all appeared quiet. I then tried the rope with all my strength, and it proving safe, I made the desperate ven- ture; and desperate indeed it was; but what will not a man attempt for his liberty ? Well, to proceed. With great difficulty I got to the top, and gently, and by degrees, peeped my head over. I listened most attentively, but could hear nothing ; and had just got my knee upon the wall in the attitude of ascent, when a door opened close by me, and a soldier passed along. In a moment I threw myself flat upon my face on the wall, and very plainly heard his footsteps directly beneath me. I con- tinued in this posture for some minutes, and had almost given myself up to despair, when, after passing and repassing several times — for I could hear him, though not see him — he again retired to his box, and I heard the door close after him. I seized the favourable moment, and pulling up the rope, descended in safety STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. on the other side. I then took off my shoes, and softly walked on tiptoe across the beat of the sentinel, till I had got to some distance, when I threw myself on the wet grass, and stopped to take breath. My gTeatest difficulties were now surmounted; hut as no time was to be lost, I soon started off again ; and had nearly approached some of the lamps, which I was obliged to pass, when I plainly saw a picket or patrol of five or six men across my very path. It was astonishing they did not see me ; but my good star predominated, and I remained unnoticed. The lamps were now, indeed, in my favour, as they showed me what to avoid, whilst I was myself shrouded in darkness. Choosing the most obscure places, and proceeding step by step with the utmost precaution, I at last reached, unmolested, the boundary ditch, w’hich I soon cleared ; and in a moment after found myself free of the prison, and on a high road, with nothing farther to obstruct my progress. Scarcely crediting my good fortune in succeeding thus far, I put on my shoes, and set off in a northerly direction, running with all my speed, notwithstanding the wind and rain continued for about an hour, when I came to a house situated at a point where four roads meet [Kate’s Cabin]. Lights were in the windows, and a stage-coach with lamps, and the words u London and York,” which I well remember, painted on it, was standing at the door. Shunning observation by keeping under the hedge, I took the left-hand road, though totally ignorant to what part I was going. Continuing my flight, I proceeded for two hours more, when my apprehensions of immediate pursuit being some- what abated, and also beginning to feel fatigued, I slackened my pace. I had passed through two or three villages, but had met with nothing to interrupt me, or indeed to notice. I kept on thus some short time longer, when I came to a toll-gate, situated at the foot of an extraordinary long bridge, which led to Oundle, a town of considerable size. The chimes of the church clock were just playing the hour of three, as I seated myself for a moment on the steps of the foot-gate. I was at first in doubt whether or not I should proceed straight on, or seek a by-road, one of which adjoined the bridge on the left hand. I determined, however, on the former, and continued my journey through dark, long, and dirty streets, without stopping or seeing any one, when I came to another bridge, at the farther extremity of the place, almost as long as the one I had before passed, so that the town appeared to be situated on an island. The moon had now got up a little, and afforded me light enough to discern, in a field just beyond the bridge, on the left hand, a small shed or hovel. I was now exceedingly fatigued, and I determined to rest here a short time at least, till I could collect my scattered senses, which had been so long in continual agitation. The door of the hovel was luckily open, and it afforded me an excellent shelter. I cannot express my mingled feelings of fear STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. and joy, hope and thankfulness, as I now stretched myself on the straw with which the ground was covered. No longer cooped up in what I may call a dungeon, where life itself almost ceased to be worth caring* for, I now had before me a fair pro- spect of succeeding in my enterprise ; and my energies being thus brought into action, I became a new man, and felt renovated accordingly : my mind, as it were, expanding and adapting itself to the occasion, called forth all its powers. In the hovel, tied to a manger, was a cow, and her calf was placed in a pen just by her. At first the cow gave tokens of alarm and uneasiness ; but humouring her by degrees, and treat- ing her gently, she suffered me to approach her more familiarly, which I took advantage of, by milking her in the crown of my cap. The milk, with part of a biscuit, afforded me a most delicious meal. I had taken off my shoes and wet stockings; and putting on the dry ones which I had in my pocket, I felt inexpressibly refreshed, though my wet clothes and fear of pur- suit prevented my sleeping. Indeed it would not have been prudent to have slept, for it was evident the owner of the cow would be there in the morning to milk her ; so, contenting my- self with the good berth I had obtained, for it still continued raining, I waited very patiently for the first dawn of day, when I intended to start again. Of course I had not yet been able to examine my map, which, being* enclosed in a case, was quite dry; but I thought that of little consequence, as, whether the road I had taken was right or not, a few hours would make up the difference. As the day broke, the w’eather cleared up a little, so far as to cease raining, but the road was very wet and dirty; however, there was no alternative, and leaving with regret the hovel which had so kindly sheltered me for the night, I continued my jour- ney. My wet clothes made me feel extremely cold and uncom- fortable at first, and I kept up a pretty good pace for some time, in order to warm me. It was not my intention to go far, and seeing a haystack in a retired part of a field some distance off on my left, 1 quitted the high road, and proceeded to it. It was farther than I expected ; but it appeared to be the very spot 1 should have chosen for concealment, there being no public path or road leading to it. Part of the stack had been cut, so that I easily gathered enough of the hay to make me a soft and dry bed ; and here I determined to stop and examine my map, and devise a plan for my future proceedings. After 1 had rested some time, the sun, to my infinite delight, suddenly broke forth, and gave every sign of a fine day ; and though a February sun in England is very different from a February sun in the south of France, yet the warmth I derived from it gave me great comfort, and refreshed me exceedingly ; so much so, that, after several vain attempts to keep my eyes open, I sunk into a sound sleep, which must have lasted for G4 9 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. some hours, as the height of the sun on my awakening showed it to be past noon. Having risen and looked around, and find- ing nothing to interrupt me, I took out my map to see where- abouts I was. 'This I accomplished with great ease; for the names of the places I had passed being' painted on the mile-stones and direction-posts, as I observed when I started in the morning, and corresponding with those on my map, I soon found out that I had come diametrically opposite to the road I had intended to have taken. But this was of no great moment ; and I now de- termined to pursue a direct easterly course, in as straight a line as I could, and to make for the coast in that direction. I may as well mention here, that, through the wdiole of my route after- wards, I could at any time find out the exact spot I was in by observing the names of the towns or villages painted on the mile-stones and direction-posts. This I found of great service to me, as I seldom wandered far from my way, and never had oc- casion to ask the road, even had I been able or inclined to do so. But to proceed. The clock of a neighbouring church was just striking one when I started again, in high spirits, my clothes beipg now quite dry, eating my last piece of biscuit as I went. How I was to get a fresh supply of provisions did certainly now and then strike me ; but it made no very deep impression, my chief object being to get on as fast and as far as I could, not doubting but I should make the coast in two or three days more at farthest ; but in that I was wofully out of my reckoning. The day continued fine, and I walked on at a pretty round pace, in as straight a line as I could, over hedge and ditch, care- fully avoiding any house or person passing, for about two or three hours ; and I was congratulating myself on the progress I had made, when, suddenly casting up my eyes, and looking around me, to my utter horror and dismay I saw, but a few fields off, and in the exact path I was taking, the very prison I had left ! I could not be mistaken ; its red tiles and striking appearance, with the numerous holes cut in its wooden walls for air by its unfortunate inmates, were too deeply imprinted on my memory to be forgotten. In short, not having any guide across the open fields, and there being no mile-stones to direct me, I had wandered back again to within half a mile or less of my former prison. I cannot express what I felt at that moment ; I seemed to have lost the very power of perception ; and, instead of turning back immediately, I absolutely continued for a little time walking on in the same direction — like the squirrel fasci- nated to its own destruction by the eyes of the rattlesnake. Fortunately for me, going thus without heed, I tripped and fell, which brought me suddenly to myself, when, turning round, I took to my heels, as if pursued by a whole legion of devils, and never stopped till I once more found myself in the very hovel, near the long bridge I have spoken of at Oundle, where I had before found shelter, and which remained in the same state as I 10 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. had left it ; with the exception that the cow and calf had been removed. Though nearly dark for the last mile or two, I found my way back without much difficulty ; but I was nearly exhausted by fatigue, and had nothing to refresh myself with; however, I did not as yet feel so much from hunger as from the disappoint- ment I had experienced in being obliged to retrace so many weary steps. On the other hand, I had much to congratulate myself upon, independent of the lucky avoidance of running my head again into the very bars of my prison, which I was cer- tainly in a fair way of doing ; for in a few minutes after my arrival in my old quarters it began to rain, and it continued throughout the night in torrents. Having a good roof over my head, I considered the rain in my favour, as it would doubtless prevent any one from interrupting me in my resting-place. The human mind, particularly in youth, soon reconciles itself to cir- cumstances ; so, making the best of the matter, I nestled myself snugly in the straw, and slept comfortably, and undisturbed, till morning. It still continued raining, and the floods had come down in the night with great rapidity, inundating the meadows around me, till they looked like a sea. A few qualms at breakfast-time flitted over unheeded, when of a sudden it struck me that my situation was too exposed for the day, as, should any one come into the hovel merely by accident, which was not at all impro- bable, I must inevitably be discovered ; and I appeared too like what I really was to be passed by unquestioned. I by no means wished to leave till I had laid out some definite plan to act upon, and some other route to follow. Looking, therefore, about me, I found a hurdle or two and an old gate thrown over the beams or rafters which supported the roof. On these I climbed, and with little trouble succeeded in making, in the most obscure corner, a sort of floor or landing-place. On this I carried some straw to lie upon, and was glad to perceive that, when looked up to from below, it by no means appeared calculated to excite sus- picion of concealment; and here I spent the remainder of the day. It was well I took this precaution, as will be seen pre- sently. I had constructed a small hole in the roof, through which I could see everything passing on the high road, which was not more than a few yards from me. I could also see the town, and the country round me on all sides. The church clock had just chimed the hour of noon, when, looking through the opening I had« made, I plainly saw three soldiers coming over the bridge within a hundred yards of me. They had their bayonets fixed, and I knew, at the first glance of their uniform, that it was the same as that of one of the regi- ments on duty at the prison. My heart now sunk within me, and I gave myself up for lost. They came exactly opposite to the place, as if they had intelligence I was there. I held my 11 «SS! STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. breath almost to bursting* as they got over the gate which led to the hovel. Two of them came in and looked around; but seeing* it an open stable, and not much like a hiding-place, they walked out again without stopping, but not till one of them had thrust his bayonet twice or thrice through the hurdles and straw upon which I lay ; they then, to iny inexpressible relief, slowly rejoined their comrade, and continued their journey. I was disturbed no more after this, but determined to leave so dangerous a situation as soon as possible. I found that, while so near my late prison, it was not so prudent or safe for me to travel by day, and that I should be continually liable to be retaken. I therefore, as soon as it w*as quite dark, sallied forth once more on my journey. I had studied my map so well, as to have in my memory every place through which I was to pass ; and my present plan was to go rather a circuitous route, in a northern direction, and endeavour to come into a more direct road by way of a bank bounding a navigable river running* to the sea ; in fact the very river by which I had, with so many fellow-prisoners, been conveyed from the coast on my first arrival in England. I was aware this would lead me through the town of Peterborough, which there were many reasons for avoiding, as it lay very near our prison, and was full of soldiers. However, there was no alternative, without going through a fenny coun- try, which my instructions told me particularly to avoid. I sallied forth, therefore, from my hovel about nine o’clock, and again passed the long* and dreary bridges of the town [Oundle], which I had gone over the first night of my escape. All was dark and gloomy, there being no lamps ; and so far it favoured me, as I was obliged to walk through the entire street, which I did as fast as I could, without exciting suspicion. Once, indeed, I stopped at a shop where some loaves of bread seemed inviting* a purchaser ; but my courage failed me, and I went on without any. I found my way very readily to a village about eight or nine miles distant, with another long and hig'h bridge, for which indeed this part of England appears celebrated. A large hotel, or inn, stood just by the bridge, the sign of which struck me as very curious, but which I could make nothing of, although I could very plainly see it by the light of two lamps just below [the Haycock Inn, Wansford]. However cheering the sight of a well-lighted inn may be to a benighted traveller, to me it afforded but little consolation. It offered no home or comfort to me. I therefore made the best of my way over the bridge, and turned into another road on my right hand, which, after walking a few miles farther, brought me to Peterborough, whose noble cathedral, in its dark mass of shade, rose full before me just as the clock struck three. Wishing by all means to pass the town before lierht, or I must lose another day, I continued on with- out stopping, entering the place with great trepidation. It was with much difficulty, and after several times bewildering myself 12 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. in what appeared to me a complete labyrinth of streets and lanes, that I at length found my way to the bank, and saw the road I was to take running 1 as straight as an arrow before me, as far as my eyes could trace it in the haziness of the morning. On my right, a noble river [the Nene], spreading into a spacious sheet of water, protected me from all danger on that side ; whilst on my left, and before me, was an immense tract of fen and level country, where I could for miles see anything to avoid. For the first time since my attempt at escape, I began to feel a con- sciousness of security. I had left for certain my prison behind me, and there now appeared nothing to interrupt my further progress. Every step I took led me nearer to the haven of my wishes, and I knew full well that the floods below me were rolling along to that ocean which was to waft me home. I felt myself comparatively happy, for the prospect before me was cheering. I rested myself for some time on a stile which crossed the bank, watching the clouds as they swept along from the west, in heavy and threatening masses, over the wide expanse of waters before me ; and at the same time contemplated my future journey with much satisfaction. But I was aware that I must have some- thing to eat before that journey could be accomplished ; for how*- ever heroes and knights-errant of old might wander without food, I found myself in that respect no hero at all. Still, there was no help for it at present ; but I determined to avail myself of the first opportunity, even at a little risk, to supply my wants. I had now been, I may say, eight-and-forty hours without food ; for I had never been fortunate enough to meet with a single turnip, or indeed anything to serve me for a meal. In truth it was a bad time of the year to travel in, as far as related to a supply of food from the fields. According to the plan I had laid down for myself, of not tra- velling by day, after proceeding a few miles along the bank, on the first dawn of morning' I concealed myself in a barn standing in a field on my left hand, the appearance of which gave every hope of effectual security for the day. Having covered myself with straw, I composed myself to rest, and slept uninterruptedly till the day was far advanced. Seeing no appearance of danger, I got up, and amused myself by walking to and fro in the barn, and occasionally chewing the straw for want of something better. In the course of the day an incident occurred which led me to fear that I was discovered by one of the people on the farm, and I felt that it would be necessary for me to shift my quarters ; therefore, after deliberating a few minutes, I continued my journey, keeping a g'ood look-out, and carefully avoiding too near an approximation to the few houses scattered along the bank. In truth I scarcely met with anything but the lighters or craft which navigated the river, drawn by horses. The extraor- dinary noise which the navigators made, always gave me notice STOHY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. of their approach, and time to avoid them ; for I could hear their hallooing 1 , which was a kind of loud singing* peculiar to these people, at more than a mile distant. This part of England has much the appearance of Holland, with its high banks and cause- ways, intersected with numerous drains and canals ; and, as far as the eye could reach, it was a perfect level of fens and marshes on one side, and water on the other. I particularly noticed the beauty of the church steeples, which stood towering majestically over the floods in different directions around me. The distance I had to travel to Wisbeach, another large town, and which I must of necessity pass through, was about sixteen miles ; and I ma- naged so well, as to get there about dark. This is a small ship- ping town, though at some distance from the coast; and as I passed over the bridge, I got a glimpse of some vessels, which set my heart in motion at the idea that I was approaching the sea. Several sailors, dressed much as myself, were passing through the streets, and I thought they more than once looked suspiciously after me ; but it might be only imagination. I had been flattering myself, as I walked thither, that I should be enabled to procure something to eat in the neighbourhood ; but I soon discovered that the best thing* I could do was to get through the town as quickly as possible. Had I had the least idea the place had been so large and populous, I should by no means have ventured into it at that early hour. By the light of the lamps I saw several soldiers, and began to be very seriously alarmed at finding my- self near them. My instructions for passing through the streets were, however, so very accurately laid down, that in a little time I found myself clear of immediate danger, on an excellent road, and in the direction I was ordered to take. My fear, nevertheless, still continued; and as soon as I had passed the toll-gate, which is placed at the extremity of the town, I ran on for some miles, till, what with fatigue, and what with hunger, I was obliged to slacken my pace, being unable to proceed much farther. I had now again, after passing several large villages, arrived at another bank, similar to the one I had travelled on from Peterborough, and bounded, as that was, on my right by a navigable river or canal, and on my left by fens and level country. It might be, I suppose, about nine or ten o’clock when I came to a small house, seemingly built on the acclivity of the bank on my left hand, so that the road was close to, and almost touched, the chamber windows. It was the last house in the village, and stood at some distance from any other ; but I did not so much admire it for its curious construction, as from its being a shop where candles, bread, and cheese, and other useful articles were kept for sale — chiefly, I believe, for the watermen who frequented the place. A light was in the shop, and I stood for some minutes looking in at the window, and at the, to me, tempting things spread upon the counter, and in devising some plan to appro- 14 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. priate a part of them to my own use ; for I would most willingly at that moment have given a louis-d’or for a loaf of bread. Whilst I was deliberating with myself how to act, a waterman, as I judged from his dress, passed by me in at the door, and throwing himself on a chair, made a sign to the person within, by drawing his hand across his face and chin, as if he wanted shaving. He never spoke a word ; but the shopkeeper appeared perfectly to understand his meaning, and placing a cloth, which was none of the cleanest, over the fellow’s shoulders, made pre- parations for performing that very necessary operation. By this I understood that the shopkeeper was a barber also ; and as I had a very suspicious beard myself, which I was particularly anxious to be rid of, I viewed all their actions with great interest. This tonsor was a little, thin, spare bodkin of a man — I think I see him now standing before me — about seventy years of age, with a most antique cast of countenance, and a face, when taken in profile, exactly like a half-moon, his nose and chin forming the horns. There could not possibly be a finer specimen of the taciturnity of the English nation than in the scene before me, exemplified as it was both in the operator and him operated upon. As to the former, he took no more notice of the automaton whom he was shaving than if he had been scraping a marble block ; and for the latter, he w r as as immovable as the marble block under the chisel of the statuary, and with much about the same degree of feeling. I kept my eyes upon them both, with the hope of profiting by what I saw, and carefully noted that, after being shaved, the man threw two copper coins upon the counter. He then walked to the window, took down a loaf of bread and two or three red herrings, then drawing a mark with his fingers across a piece of cheese, it was cut off, and weighed out to him. Eor these he threw down a silver coin, a half-crown, receiving some small change in return; and, tying up his purchase in an old handkerchief, departed in the same silent surly mood he en- tered. I thought I could never have a better opportunity ; for I certainly was more than a match for the shopkeeper, should he give any alarm ; and I determined also to make good use of my heels if necessary. Summoning’, therefore, all my resolution to my aid, I marched boldly into the shop, threw myself into the same chair, and made the same signs as my predecessor had done ; and, as I anticipated, the same silent scene followed exactly. The same cloth was put round my neck, I w T as lathered the same, and shaved the same, and the same sum of two copper coins was thrown by me upon the counter. I now began to feel very courageous, and went up to the window to lay in a stock of provisions, which I intended should last me the whole of my journey. Bread alone would not now serve me, and I looked about for a few minutes to see what I should take — spreading, however, some silver ostentatiously before me, that the good man might not be alarmed. At the same time I found out that my 15 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. friend was not dumb, which I had seriously begun to suspect; for, on my taking down some different articles from a shelf, he did speak, or rather made an attempt to speak. What he said I know not ; but on my continuing whistling, which I had been doing for some time — and which I did not from any want of respect to the old gentleman, but truly because I was unable to give him an answer — he withdrew his eyes from my face, and very resignedly turned back to the counter, holding the loaf I had reached down to him with both hands across his chest. Well, imagine my ecstacy on leaving the shop, which I did com- pletely unsuspected, with two loaves of beautiful white bread, some excellent cheese, and three or four herrings — for in this last I had the same taste as the waterman ; and, to crown all, some tobacco and a pipe. I do not exactly recollect what I paid, but I had some change out of two half-crowns, which I threw down. No mother ever hugged her first-born to her bosom with more exquisite delight than I did the handkerchief which held all these good things. I kept eating as I walked ; but that was no farther than to the first shelter I could find, which was, as usual, a barn or stable, where I made amends for my long* fasting in a supper in which nearly one whole loaf, two of my herrings, and a proportionate quantity of cheese entirely disap- peared. It was Saturday night when I thus provided myself, and I de-> termined to stop where I had been so fortunate the whole of the next day, Sunday, and rest my legs. The building in which I was being*, however, as I thought, too near the bank, after I had ate my supper I sought out another lodging, in a hovel which stood a little distance off, more in the fields, and which, having neither hay nor straw, nor anything else of the kind liable to occasion interruption, appeared admirably adapted for the pur- pose — it being about a quarter of a mile from the bank or road, and a mile at least from any house. Here, then, I removed with all my stores, and scraping together what little straw and rushes I could find, made myself a couch or bed. But I had another luxury yet to enjoy in my pipe and tobacco, the means of light- ing* which I was furnished with in a small pocket tinder-box, which I had concealed about my person for more important purposes, and which I have already mentioned. My sleep this night was indeed invigorating and refreshing*, and I awoke the next morning a completely new man, with the additional happy prospect of a good breakfast before me. The day was remarkably fine for the season, and the bells from the different churches, some of which I could hear a most astonishing distance, were quite in unison with my feelings. It might be called the first fine day of spring*, as the sun had really much warmth, and the birds, such as the pewit or lapwing, and others of the same kind, were dash- ing in playful evolutions about me. I took more notice of these things, perhaps, from being so long deprived of the enjoyment of STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. them ; but, though trivial in themselves, they diffused a kindly feeling through my whole frame, and cheered my spirits wonder- fully/ Nor could I help contrasting my present situation with that of the preceding Sunday, when, at the same hour, I was breathing the tainted and noxious atmosphere of an over-peopled prison-house ; and now inhaling the pure and animating breezes of a tine spring morning in the fields. A man must be confined as many months as I was, in the space of only a few square yards, to enjoy in an adequate degree the happiness I felt. I had no one to interrupt me, for the population of this part of the country appeared very contracted ; and I do not think, notwith- standing I kept a good look-out, that I saw during the whole of the day more than two or three persons, and these appeared a different race of beings to those I had before met with. The villages, too, were at a great distance from each other, with a farm-house now and then to be seen peering out amongst rushes and willow-trees : as to other trees, I do not recollect seeing any at all. In short, it appeared, on the whole, a most wild and deso- late district, more like an American morass than what I had sup- posed any part of England to be ; and this district, I have reason to believe, extends for many miles each way into the interior of the kingdom. I am sure I could see for thirty miles around me : but to my story. I took the opportunity, during the day, of washing’ a pair of stockings, which I hung in the sun to dry, and of cleaning myself, and making myself comfortable; indeed, having a clean-shaved face, clean shirt, shoes, and stockings, and brushing myself up a little, which every Frenchman knows how to do, I by no means looked the suspicious character I otherwise should have done ; and this was now particularly to be attended to, as I drew near the end of my journey. My map pointed out two routes to the coast, after arriving at Downham, a town which was situated at the end of the bank on which I was tra- velling — one by way of Lynn, which was represented as a con- siderable seaport town, which was by all means to be avoided, if possible; and the other, more in the interior of the country, through some smaller towns, Swaffham and Fakenham. Of course I selected the latter — with what success, the reader will learn. Having passed the day with much comfort and satisfaction, I resumed my journey about nine o’clock, and, without any in- terruption worth mentioning, arrived at Downham about mid- night. The weather turned out bad at this time, and it began to rain as I got to the bridge. I nevertheless continued on through the town, although so dark, that I was obliged to grope my way, taking the different windings as correctly as I could remember from my map; which instructed me, on getting through the place, to turn to my left, and afterwards to my right, and then to take the first road, and continue straight on. All this I did, as I presumed, very exactly, and prosecuted my journey with STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. great spirit ; and was rewarded for it, on tlie day breaking, by finding myself within a little distance of what appeared to me a fortified town. In short, I had taken the wrong turn of the road at Downham, and had got to the very place I was particularly cautioned to avoid — Lynn in Norfolk. From the success I had hitherto met with — although, it must be owned, chequered with trifling disappointments — I had become over-confident ; and so far from feeling this wandering from my direct road of any consequence, I rather rejoiced at it, and foolishly resolved to endeavour to get a passage to Holland at this place, without going any farther. Perhaps I was encouraged in this resolution by the sight of the harbour and shipping, now gilded by the rays of the morning sun, and the knowledge that it was the port we were brought prisoners to on our first arrival in England ; nay, the very smell of the pitch and tar, which was wafted to me by the wind, contributed, I think, not a little to confirm me in my purpose. Leaving the direct road I was on, after crossing several fields, I took up my abode for the day — for I still had sense enough not to think of doing anything till night — in a haystack which stood on a bank about a mile from the place. I passed the time rather impatiently, till the hour of action arrived. The plan I proposed to myself was, the first night merely to go and reconnoitre the place, and see what prospect of success was afforded. I therefore kept close till midnight, at 'which time, or a little before, I arrived at the gates, which pre- sented no obstacle whatever, no sentinel or guard of any descrip- tion being at that post ; indeed I believe, from their appearance, the gates were never shut. The inhabitants were all wrapt in sleep, in the most perfect security : and this was the more extra- ordinary, as it by no means seemed difficult for a single privateer to have sailed up the harbour and burned not only the shipping, but the town itself, for I could see nothing to prevent it. I walked from one end of the place to the other several times, and, with the exception of a few old watchmen, who cried the hour, saw only one soldier, who stood sentinel at a hotel in the square or market-place, and who, I supposed, was merely the guard on duty at head-quarters, as is usual in other towns ; and this, too, was during the most sanguinary period of the war. There was indeed a platform or fort at the entrance of the harbour, but it could have offered no effectual resistance. I was encouraged by this show of apparent negligence, and, keeping as near as I could to the seaw'ard part, I found myself, after several windings and turnings, at the northern extremity of the town. Here the fish- ing smacks and boats were collected together, many of them ag'round, in a sort of creek running up between the houses. No one was stirring, and the fishermen were undoubtedly as fast asleep in the low and miserable hovels (I cannot call them dwell- ings) which bounded one side of the creek, as were their more 13 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. fortunate fellow-townsmen in the nobler mansions I had passed in the streets. I could, with the greatest ease, have cut a vessel out ; but the risk was too great. I was no sailor, nor had I com- pass, sails, or oars ; the river, too, cut a very different appear- ance to what it did at high water, being full of sands and shoals ; so I very wisely gave up the idea. Nothing particular occurred during the following day. I ate but sparingly ; and my stock of provisions being now reduced to a compass not requiring the aid of a handkerchief, I thought it best to divide it into portions adapted to the size of my pockets. I had enough to last me, on a moderate allowance, for two or three days ; and if I did not succeed in my attempt to get away from where I was, it was sufficient to carry me to my original destination — I mean to that part of the coast pointed out to me on the map, and from which route I ought never to have deviated. I did not wait so long this night as the preceding one, but got into the town about ten o’clock, many of the shops being still open. What infatuation led me on I know not, but I wandered to the quay adjoining the square, in the centre of the town, though several people were walking about, and seated myself on a bench affixed to a building overlooking* the harbour. By degrees the people dropped away, and left me to myself. I had not, however, enjoyed my own reflections many minutes in soli- tude, when six or seven men in sailors’ dresses, with large sticks in their hands, headed by an officer in naval uniform and sword, passed close by me. They looked very earnestly in my face, and went on. The next minute they returned ; and one of them, tapping me on the shoulder, said something, of which I could make out no more but that I must follow them ; for I understood a little English, though I could not speak it. My heart sunk within me at the sound of their voices. I knew all was over, and that I was inevitably lost. Seeing me hesitate to accompany them, one of the most ruffianly-looking of the set seized me ,by the collar of my jacket to pull me along, which so irritated me, that, regardless of consequences, and the disparity between us, I struck right and left with a stout stick I had in my hand, and sent two of them on their knees ; at the same time receiving a blow myself on my hand, which twirled my stick into the air, and another on my head, which felled me to the ground. Seeing, therefore, resistance of no avail, I sullenly submitted to my fate, and suffered myself to be raised on my feet, the whole party abusing me all the way we went. Whether these men were police-officers, appointed for the appre- hension of runaway prisoners of war, as I suspected, or whatever other description of guards they might be, they were the most brutal set of fellows I ever met with — the officer who commanded being little better than his men. All the time this scene passed I never opened my lips, which seemed to enrage the officer much, 19 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. as he several times, on not receiving: any answer from me, flourished his cutlass over my head, as if he would cut me down. However, I will do him the credit to say that he never struck me with it. After we had passed through two or three streets, we came to a small inn, when the officer said something to one of* the men, who beckoned me to follow him into the house, which I very quietly did, whilst the officer and the other men set off in another direction. I was rather surprised at being taken to a decent inn instead of a jail ; but I thought that part of the tragedy was yet to come. As far as I could judge from the manner and behaviour of the fellow who was with me, he took my silence for a fit of the sullens, as he several times addressed me with the words, “ Cheer up, my lad ! Cheer up, my hearty ! ” words I had often heard aboard ship, and which I knew the meaning of. I also very well understood I was his prisoner ; and, seeing no alternative, I sat myself down, though in a very melancholy mood, by the fire, in a little room he took me into, he seating' himself on the opposite side. My companion, after several ineffectual efforts to draw me into conversation, at last gave up the attempt, and left me to my own thoughts, at the same time ordering some grog and a pipe to comfort himself with. Occasionally he would deign me a sour look, and now and then, eyeing me at the same time very con- temptuously from head to foot, would mutter something between his teeth, of which I could make out nothing. My reflections, as may be supposed, were not of the most con- soling kind. I every minute expected to be led in chains to some dungeon, preparatory to my final removal and return to my old prison ; and I started at every sound, imagining I heard the guards coming to conve}^ me away. I leant my elbow on the table, and rested my cheek on my hand, absorbed in the most bitter recollections. My head ached dreadfully from the blow I had received, and I felt my heart, as it were, almost bursting with vexation and disappointment. After being so near the accom- plishment of my wishes, to be thus in a moment again doomed to imprisonment and sorrow, and perhaps punishment, almost drove me mad. The room in 'which we were had no other furniture but the two chairs on which we were seated, and a large oak table, with leaves reaching to the ground. In observing this, I also saw that the window — which was a sashed one, and which opened into the street — was not fastened. The idea of escape had never left me, and I thought, could I but get to that window, some- thing might be attempted. My heart sprang to my lips at the bare suggestion, and hope, when I imagined it most distant, suddenly reappeared. I watched my companion for some time after this, with the expectation of his going to sleep ; but he knew his duty too well for that ; when a loud noise and quarrelling in an adjoining room gave me the opportunity I wished. There 20 STORY OF A FRENCH FRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. appeared to be a violent scuffle going 1 on ; and my guard, after being repeatedly called upon by name, looking round to see that all was safe, and saying something to me, snatched up his stick and rushed out of the door, taking care, however, to shut it after him. Now was the time to venture, or never. I flew to the win- dow, and threw up the sash, which offered no impediment, and was just on the point of getting out, when I heard him return- ing. It was of no use attempting any farther, and I immediately, and with a heavy heart, drew back ; but, fearful of the first vent of his anger, before he entered, and unperceived by him, I crept under the table, the large leaves of which concealed me. from his view. He shut the door after him, and looked round for me ; when, finding the window open, and I nowhere to be seen, he jumped out of the window, and set off in the imaginary pursuit of me. I could scarcely credit this wonderful instance of good fortune in my behalf, and hastening from my hiding-place to the window, kept my eyes on him till I saw him turn the corner of the street, w r hen 1 leaped out also, running with all my speed in a contrary direction. I had continued thus for some time through several streets, without in the least knowing where I was going, but with the hope of somehow or other finding my way to the gates of the town, and once more taking refuge in the haystack which I had so unfortunately left, when, turning the corner of a lane, I of a sudden, and most unexpectedly, came in sight of my guards again, all of whom were together. They at once discovered me, and, inflamed with rage and revenge, immediately gave chase. I must inevitably have been retaken, for I could have run but little farther, if, providentially for me, I had not observed, as I was running along, the door of a small house standing a little open. Unperceived by any one, I entered the house, and safely closed the door, holding, with breathless suspense, the latch in my hand. In a few minutes I heard my pursuers passing in full cry after me, clattering and shouting most terrifically. It was the last time I either saw or heard them ; and happily it proved for me that it was the last time ; for I verily believe, had I then been taken, it would have broken my heart : as it was, I sank exhausted upon my knees, almost fainting with agitation and terror. An aged female, of most prepossessing appearance, with a cat in her lap, was sitting at work by the fire when I entered. At first she seemed rather frightened at my intrusion, and had her hand on the wire of a bell which communicated with the adjoin- ing house to give the alarm ; but the next moment, from my action and manner, she appeared in part to comprehend my situation, particularly when she heard my pursuers after me ; for she held up her forefinger in the attitude of listening, and said very softly, “ Hush — hush!” two or three times. After waiting thus a little while, till she was convinced they were gone by, she came up closer to me, and looked in my face. I was 21 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. pale as death, and so spent with running*, that I could scarcely draw my breath. She spoke to me in the most soothing* accents of kindness and compassion, and made signs for me to rise and take a chair, for I was still on my knees. The voice of com- passion, let it be spoken in what language it will, is intelligible to all men and to all nations. I comprehended her accordingly, and looked thanks, for I could not speak them. However, she made amends for my want of tongue, by running on with great volubility, doubling* her little withered fists in the direction my pursuers had taken, as if she spoke of them, as she doubtless did, and repeating the word “ pressgang ” several times with great emphasis and anger. As she seemed waiting to hear me speak, and not knowing what else to say, I faintly answered, ce Press- gang, madame ; pressgang !” as well as I could, without in the least understanding what it meant. But this was quite enough for the old lady, who continued venting her anger against them for some minutes longer. It appeared afterwards that my kind protector took me for a sailor, who had escaped from a set of men denominated a “ pressgang / 7 who are employed by the British government to procure seamen for their navy, in which service many cruel and oppressive measures are resorted to. I was, as I have said, quite exhausted with the variety of sufferings I had undergone for the last few hours. The bene- volent woman on whose protection I had been so unaccountably thrown soon saw this, and poured me out a glass of brandy; but ere I could receive it from her hand, a film came over my eyes, the room appeared to swim round me, and I thought myself dying. I had only time to take off my cap, and point to my wounded head, which she had not before perceived, when I fainted away. I know not how long I remained in this state, but when I came to myself, my head was reclining on a pillow placed by her on the table for me, and she was bathing the contusion in the tenderest manner with some sweet-scented embrocation. Seeing me revive, she gave me the brandy, which I had scarcely strength to hold to my lips, so much was I re- duced by pain and fatigue ; but after I had swallowed it, I felt immediately relieved, and heaving a deep sigh, lifted up my head. She appeared greatly rejoiced at my recovery, which was, however, very transient and fleeting ; for, unable to hold myself up, my head sank again upon the pillow, when, as con- siderate as she was good, she made signs for me to keep my head down, and hold my tongue. I found no difficulty in comply- ing with this, and in a few minutes was fast asleep upon the table. I never awoke till next morning, when for some minutes my head was so confused, I neither knew where I was nor what had happened ; but my recollection soon returned, and with it came a train of hopes and fears. Although much revived, I was still in great pain from the blow on my head, and otherwise 22 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. feverish and unwell. My guardian angel, as I must always call the excellent creature who thus sheltered and nursed me, was at my side as soon as she saw that I was awake. She had sat up all night to watch me, and the Bible, which she had been reading to beguile the time, was still lying on the table. She did not appear by any means fatigued, but busied herself in getting breakfast ready, for it was past eight o’clock ; and in a few minutes more placed before me a basin of excellent tea, and some bread and butter. At these repeated instances of kindness and benevolence from a stranger, and at such a time, I could no longer restrain myself, but burst into a passionate flood of tears, which seemed to have a sympathetic effect upon the good woman’s heart, for she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron several times. I now found it to be both proper and prudent to say something, as she seemed surprised at my continued silence, which she expressed by several intelligent signs ; and as I felt myself too ill to continue my journey, it was necessary for me to endeavour to raise an interest in her feelings, that she might not withdraw her protection from me. I therefore, after many struggles between hope and apprehen- sion, summoned up resolution to throw myself entirely upon her compassion ; and I had no reason to repent my determination. In the best English I was master of, I told her I was “un foreigner, un stranger. Ah, madame ; good madame,” I said with tears in my eyes, “ a-ve pitie on me ! ” At the first word I spoke, she discovered I was not an Englishman, but took me to be a foreign sailor from one of the vessels in the harbour, who, she supposed, from what had happened on the preceding night, had escaped from a “ pressgang,” as I have already mentioned. She had seen much, and heard a great deal, of the cruelty of these men ; and that it was which made' her so inveterate against them, and prompted her so readily to conceal me. But when I told her that I was “ un pauvre Frenchman — un prisonnier Francis,” she started, and her countenance fell ; but it was but for a moment, the natural benevolence of her disposition getting the better of that national antipathy which even existed in this good woman’s breast. I took my dictionary from my pocket, and with its aid, and partly by signs, soon made her comprehend my situation and hopes. I also emptied my money on the table, and made signs for her to take it ; and, throwing myself on my knees, concluded by begging her not to betray me. The worthy creature caught my meaning much more readily than I could have expected, and at the same time, weeping as she spoke, made me understand that she had a grandson, an only child left of many, now a prisoner of war in Prance ; she likewise told me, with great emotion, that she would not betray me. “ God forbid that I should ! ” she said ; and added, that if I got away safe, all the return she asked was, that I would assist the escape of her grandson, who, the last time she had heard from him, was at 23 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. Verdun. As to my money, she insisted upon my taking it back again, and would by no means receive it. An intercourse being now established between us, I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast ; and as there was some danger to be apprehended to my kind hostess should it be known that she had assisted in the escape of a French prisoner, I was removed into a little back parlour, which opened into a small garden or yard about twelve feet square, surrounded by high walls, and where none could oversee me. For the time I was concealed there, I was nursed with the same care and attention that a mother would pay to an only son. My health and strength returned but slowly, the blow on my head having deranged my whole system, and it was some days before I could call myself completely restored ; but she managed everything with so much discretion, that none, not even her nearest neighbours, had any suspicion of her having an inmate. I always kept the door of the room locked, and could often hear her talking with her acquaintance, whom she made a rule of getting rid of as soon as possible. It would have amused any one to have witnessed our conversation of an evening. After she had made the doors and windows of the house fast for the night, which she generally did about six o’clock, she would come and sit with me, bringing her work, and make the tea and toast — which, I perfectly agree with the English people, is certainly a most refreshing meal, or com- fortable , as they call it. If she said anything which I did not understand, I would write it down, and translate it, word for word ; and the same by what I said to her; and it is surprising with what readiness we comprehended each other’s meaning. Often have the tears run down the good creature’s eyes as I told her of my sufferings in the prison ; and as often would she re- joice with me in the anticipation of my once more seeing* my parents. My kind hostess — whose name, for prudential reasons, I shall omit — was, as she told me, in her seventieth year. She was the widow of a captain or master of one of the vessels which sailed from Lynn, I think she said in the Baltic trade. Her husband had been dead some years ; and she told me, with some pride, that he had left her a comfortable competency, the fruits of his industry and economy, to maintain her in her old age. All her children and grandchildren, she said, were dead but one, who, as I have before-mentioned, was a prisoner in France ; having been captured in a voyage to St Petersburg in a ship in which he was mate, and from whom she had received no account for upwards of two years, which afflicted the old lady grievously. I promised her, should I succeed in reaching France, I would use all the interest of my family, which I assured her was not small, in effecting his exchange; and if I did not succeed in that, I would make him as comfortable as money could make him. We also talked, as you may suppose, of my future pro- ceedings; and as a first step towards their successful termination, 24 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. slie provided me with a complete dress of coloured clothes which had belonged to her deceased son ; and also with two fine linen shirts — my own being checked cotton, such as seamen wear — and a hat, and stockings, and other useful articles ; nor would she receive any payment whatever for them, but bade me place them to the account of “ her dear grandson, and do the same for him.’* The next morning, according to her wish, having discarded my old clothes, I put on my new ones, which fitted me exceedingly well; and I felt the change, as it were, through my whole frame. I appeared to myself at once, and most unexpectedly, restored to that station in life to which I had been so long a stranger, and to which I at one time thought I should never return. I had also the satisfaction of knowing that I might now pass from one end of the kingdom to the other without being suspected or in- terrupted — no small comfort to a man in my situation. My kind hostess, at first seeing me in my new dress, was visibly affected; the remembrance of her son rose in her bosom, and she sank on a chair overwhelmed with her feelings. After a few minutes given to silent sorrow, in which I felt for her as if she had been my own mother, she wiped away her tears, and taking my hand very affectionately, prayed God “ to restore me to my family again, and not leave my parents childless.” I re- collect her words well ; for the tone and manner in which they were delivered made an impression upon me I shall never forget. Being now perfectly recovered, and well aware of the incon- venience I must be putting* my inestimable friend to, I prepared for my departure. I had been her guest a week ; and having told her my determination to start next morning, once more requested her to allow me at least to repay her the expenses she had been put to on my account. But I could by no means prevail upon her to take a single farthing ; her constant reply to every thing I advanced upon that subject was, “ to give it to her grandson one way or other.” All I could induce her to accept was a ring of little value, but esteemed by me as given me by my mother, and having my name, age, and place of birth en- graven on it. I had concealed it about my person on being first captured by the English vessel, and had worn it round my neck by a ribbon ever since. I thought I could not do better than to present it to this, as I called her, my second mother ; and she re- ceived it with great pleasure, and promised always to wear it in remembrance of me. This, with four small Spanish coins as counters for whist, which I had seen her admire, was all I could get her to accept. The next morning, after partaking of a good breakfast, about eight o’clock I rose to depart ; when, with tears in her eyes, which she in vain attempted to conceal, she gave me a letter for her grandson, enclosing a bill of exchange. I endeavoured to smile, and told her u I trusted we should yet meet again in happier circumstances, her grandson with us.” But she shook 25 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. her head, and said, u No, no ; not in this world : never, never!” I then took her hand, and kissed it with great devotion several times, and thanked her repeatedly for the kind protection she had afforded me. But the good creature had not yet done. She brought me some provisions of bread and meat, neatly done up, to put in my pocket, with a small bottle of brandy ; and once more bidding' me not forget “ her poor boy,” we parted— and for ever ! The very mention, even after a lapse of so many years, of all this kindness and unexampled liberality, brings tears of grateful recollection to my eyes ; and think not, reader (and I may as well mention it here), that her goodness was forgotten by me. Imme- diately on the restoration of peace, I commissioned a friend to go to England to seek out this excellent woman, bearing letters from my mother and myself, saying all that grateful hearts could say ; and offering her, if she chose to accept it, an asylum with us in France for life ; or should she, as was more natural, prefer staying in her native country, we remitted the necessary funds for securing to her the payment of an annuity of £50. We also sent several presents, such as we thought might be acceptable to her. But, alas ! to our unspeakable sorrow, on our correspon- dent’s arrival at Lynn, he found she had been dead some years — an event, I have no doubt, hastened by the melancholy end of her grandson ; of whom I was obliged to write her the distressing account — which I did immediately after I had ascertained the fact — that he had been wounded in an attempt, with many others, to escape, and that he had died of his w r ounds. I had been fully instructed by my kind hostess how to get out of the town, and the route I was afterwards to take. It being market-day, the streets were full of people, whom I passed with much apparent unconcern ; and it gave me great confidence to see myself so unnoticed, as it more fully convinced me of my personal security. Having walked across the great square or market-place, beset with numbers of busy faces, I discovered I had come a little out of my way, but it was of no consequence ; and in a few more turns I found myself in the street I had been directed to, leading to the eastern entrance of the town. In a few minutes more I was clear of the place, and on an excellent road in the direct line to the coast. Everything conspired to make this part of my journey pleasant. The day was very fine, the sun shining bright, and the birds whistling around me in all directions ; nor was it the least pleasing part of my reflections that I was travelling by day instead of night ; in short, I was in great spirits, which, though they had been for the moment damped by the parting with my kind old friend, revived at the scene around me, and the animating thought of my approaching deliverance, to which every step I took drew me nearer. I passed through the pleasant village of Gaywood, and conti- nued my course at a gentle pace — for I had no occasion for haste- 28 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. for three or four miles farther, where, on the top of a high hill, I seated myself on a mile-stone, and, turning* my head back, took a final farewell of the town of Lynn, which I had so many rea- sons to remember, and where I had met with such a wonderful variety of adventures. But it is not my intention to relate every little incident of the remainder of my journey, which passed without any material interruption. I arrived at the neat market-town of Fakenham about six o’clock in the evening. I had walked leisurely along, occasionally stopping and refreshing myself, or I might have got there much sooner. Having found out a retired spot, about a mile beyond the place, I took up my abode for the night in a stable, and endeavoured to make myself as comfortable as I could — not forgetting, as may be supposed, my provisions and brandy bottle. The next morning at sunrise, or a little after, I started on my last day’s journey; for I had now, as my map informed me, only twenty-five miles farther to go, and in the track origi- nally pointed out for me. My intention was to get to the part of the coast I was bound to before dark, and to regulate my proceed- ings afterwards as might seem most advisable. A thousand fears now began to haunt me, that something or other might interfere and blast all my hopes at the very moment of their completion. Sometimes I thought the man I was directed to might betray me, or refuse to assist me — or he might be dead, or out of the way ; in the last instance (and which, indeed, was very probable to be the case), I had nothing left to guide me but my own dis- cretion. These, with many other reflections of a like nature, threw a damp upon my thoughts, which I could not at first shake off ; but as the day advanced, I felt a renewed confidence in my own powers, strengthened not a little by the good luck which had hitherto befriended me, and which I trusted would not forsake me; and I continued my journey in tolerable spirits accordingly. Without meeting any circumstance worth relating, after tra- velling for some hours over long and dreary sandy heaths, apparently barren and worthless, but abounding in game and rabbits, and occasionally pursuing my way through a finely-cul- tivated country, interspersed with some handsome seats of the nobility and gentry, I came at noon, though not without some little difficulty in finding my way, to Langham, a well-built, interesting village, the houses of which, from the neatness, not to say elegance, of their structure, and conveniences of their farm-yards and offices, gave a very flattering picture of the con- dition of English farmers as contrasted with those of other nations. Here it w^as, in passing through the place, I again, and unexpectedly, came in sight of the German Ocean, a few miles below me. It burst upon my view at once, and so sud- denly, as almost to overpower my feelings. Several fine ships, with their topsails set, were in the offing ; and the fishing-smacks 27 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. and other vessels were tacking* about in various directions. I stood for some minutes contemplating’ this sublime scene, mark- ing* the billows as they rolled along*, curling* with foam, and, as it were, chasing* each other to the shore; and listening to the hollow and lengthened roar of the waves breaking over a bar forming the entrance of a harbour about two or three miles dis- tant. I was always fond of the sea, and my emotions now were undoubtedly heightened by a perfect recollection of the coast — • the same we passed in our voyage as prisoners to Lynn. Being arrived within a few miles of my destination, my hopes and fears again returned. I continued my journey slowly and thoughtfully, revolving in my mind everything I was directed to do and say. I had a pass-word for the person I was to com- mit myself to, with a full description of his house, and indeed of every particular likely to be of service. I was also assured I might confide in him with safety ; nevertheless it was with a beating heart that I once more arrived in view of the ocean, which, from the direction the road took, I had for a few miles lost sight of. I was on the brow of a high cliff, which towered over a few fishermen’s cottages on the beach ; amongst which, but standing more by itself, at the entrance of a small creek, to which a boat was moored, stood the ultimate object of my hopes at present; namely, the house I was to go to. I knew it imme- diately, from the description I had of it, and could not be mis- taken ; but how' to arrive at it was a subject of some deliberation ; for I could see no road, and nothing* but a sea-mew or gull could get to it by the cliffs. I continued, therefore, my walk for nearly half a mile, keeping close to the edge of the cliffs, and had absolutely begun to despair of finding a way, when, on a sudden, to my left appeared a small opening, as if part of the cliff had fallen in, carrying with it an immense body of earth and sand, in gradual slope till it reached the beach ; and such, indeed, there is no doubt had been the original formation of the road, which I now began to descend, and which I immediately saw was the one I wanted. The road, if such it could be called, was not more than five feet wide, of a fine white sand, in w 7 hich I sank over the ankles every step I took. In some parts it was extremely steep and dangerous, and the high banks on each side being shadowed with stunted bram- ble and alder bushes, mingled with furze and ling, which almost met over my head, gave a sombre appearance to the whole, heightened as it was by the dusk of evening — congenial, perhaps, to the feelings of a Salvator Rosa, but certainly not to mine. After proceeding about half-w'ay down — for the road, from its windings, must have been a quarter of a mile at least — I began to perceive signs of approaching habitations. The sand on each side was scooped into little caverns, and betrayed where children had been at play ; and a half-starved ass, which I had some diffi- culty in making get out of my wav, was picking a scanty meal 28 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. from the short grass which here and there peeped out from the sides of the bank. I remember all these little occurrences well, and they helped to connect in my memory others of more im- portance. From a small projecting 1 eminence at a turn of the road, I discovered immediately below me the place I was looking for. It was merely a collection of a few scattered houses, or rather huts, to the number of five or six, inhabited by fishermen, and partly built at the foot of the cliffs, a little above high-water mark. At a small distance from these houses, more to the right, stood the one I was in search of. It was situated on the edge of a creek, about four yards from the cliff, w'hich here was quite perpendicular, and between which and the house was a vacant space where the road passed. A shrimp-net was hung on posts before the door, and a coble was moored within a few yards of it, as I had observed on first approaching the cliff ; and this struck me as a fortunate circumstance, and led me to hope the owner was at home. The house, though of much the same size as the others, had a cleaner and better appearance, and was evidently occupied by a different sort of inhabitant. This also w'as, I thought, another circumstance in my favour ; and I waited very patiently, concealed behind a projecting part of the cliff, till dark. I had as yet been seen by no one ; nor indeed, as far as I could judge, was I likely to be disturbed, for all seemed still and quiet. I kept my eyes fixed upon the window of the house, from which I was not far distant, till I saw a candle lighted and the shutter closed ; and it being* now quite dark, with a palpitating heart and high expectations, but allayed, as may be supposed, by corresponding fears, I approached the door. The well-remembered sign of three oyster-shells over the win- dow assured me I was correct as to the house; and a mark over the door, of which I had been particularly cautioned to take heed, told me the master was at home. Indeed, had not this mark appeared, I was to have turned away, and waited for a more propitious opportunity. Encouraged by all these signs in my favour, I lifted the latch, and, as I was instructed, stepped boldly in, and closed the door after me. A man in sailor’s dress, with a hair cap on his head, and huge boots turned over his knees, was sitting at a small round table smoking his pipe, with a can of grog before him. A woman, apparently superannuated by age and infirmity, was spinning flax with a spindle by the fire ; and close by her, on a stool, half-asleep, sat an arch-looking boy, about twelve years of age, also in a sailor’s jacket and trousers, and cap. I threw a hasty glance over them all, and, fixing my eyes on the man, was convinced all was right as to him ; for he had a scar, as I had been previously in- formed, reaching from right to left, deeply imprinted on his fore- head ; and he also wore a silver ring on his thumb, through some superstitious notion prevalent among seafaring people. As to the other inmates, I was not quite so certain. On my entrance, 29 STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. he eyed me very suspiciously from head to foot. I approached the table, and holding- up two fingers of my left hand over my head, made a sign, clearly seen and understood by him to whom it was addressed, though unperceived by his companions. He immediately gave me the countersign, and said, “ All’s right.” I replied boldly in words I had been taught, and which I had conned over so often as to have completely by rote. He under- stood me perfectly well, and told me in French, w T hich he spoke very fluently, to sit down and make myself easy. He then went to the door and wdndow, which he bolted with strong bars of iron. u There now,” says he, u we are safe from all disturbance ; yet it’s as well to be secure. Cant that into your hold,” con- tinued he, pouring me out a glass of excellent Hollands as he spoke, “ whilst I get something for the bread -room. Ah,” added he, with a knowing; wink, as I took his advice, and drank off the very acceptable gift, “ it’s genuine, I warrant it.” He then placed on the table some beef and bread, and other eatables, and seating himself by me, filled a fresh pipe, and bade me u tell him all about it.” I told him, in as few words as I could, the heads of my story, and that I would reward him with any sum to furnish me with the means, as I was well aware he had done for others, of escaping to Holland. He heard me very patiently to the end — during which time I think he smoked half-a-dozen pipes of tobacco, and drank as many glasses of grog — never speaking or interrupting me the whole time ; but evinced the interest he took in my tale by sending forth from his mouth a denser column of smoke, according as the various incidents ex- cited his feelings. After I had concluded, he shook me heartily by the hand, and told me again u All was right. He would do what he could ; but that we must act with caution, as c hawks were abroad.’ ” My host, whom I shall call Jack, a name he was usually de- signated by amongst his comrades, was about forty-five years of age ; and, notwithstanding the scar across his forehead — which, by the by, he told me he had received from one of my own country- men — might be called a fine-looking fellow. His complexion was deeply embrowned by the service he had seen, and the winds and weathers he had encountered, as he had been, he said, a sailor from the time he was no higher than a u marlinspike.” I need not say he was a smuggler ; but he carried on the u free trade,” as he called it, in a manner peculiar to himself, and never ran a cargo within a certain distance of his home. He was, he informed me, the sole agent of a house in Holland, connected with certain people in England, who placed implicit trust in him. While telling me this, he was tossing off glasses of grog one after another. The dose w T as repeated so often, that I began to find it was high time to go to rest. With some demur, on account of my refusing to take u just another drop,” Jack showed me to my apartment — a curious concealed place, which had defied 30 STOUT OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. discovery on divers occasions. Pointing- out a strong* iron bar, he directed me how to place it across the door, and which, for my further security, he told me not to open without a pass- word. At the same time he showed me a small and almost im- perceptible hole in the wall, by which I could reconnoitre every comer. Next morning he was with me betimes, and we entered into conversation about our future proceedings. He bade me remain in my room all day, and not show myself at the window, which faced the ocean, lest I should be seen from the beach; and to be sure to close the shutter as soon as evening fell, so that no light might be seen from without. At night, if I wished it, I might join them below, but I was not by any means to go out of the house. He assured me that these precautions were all necessary, both for his and my own security. The old woman, he said, was always on the watch to give notice of the least alarm; and that, under the appearance of being half-crazed and superannuated, she concealed the greatest cunning and vigour of mind ; at the same time he showed me another small aperture, through which I could see whatever passed in the room below. u For the last assurance of your safety,” said he, “ see this ; ” and, as he spoke, he discovered to me a recess in the wall, so artfully contrived as to elude the closest inspection. u If need be,” continued he, u conceal yourself there. One of your generals knows its dimensions well, for he was in it when every house in the hamlet was filled with red coats in search of him. They were within two inches of him,” added he, laughing heartily as he spoke, “ and the old woman held the candle ; but they might as well have been on the top of Cromer lighthouse.” He then left me. I remained in my hiding-place several days. Notwith- standing every attention was paid to my wants, and even wishes, by the whole household, my time passed very heavily. I had no books, nor anything to divert my thoughts by day, and I would sit for hours contemplating that ocean on which all my hopes were now centred. At night, indeed, I generally joined the party below, or my friend would come and spend it with me. During these times he would amuse me by relating several tales of daring hardihood, and of extraordinary escapes, in which he had been a party ; and of the incredible subtlety and invention with which he and his companions had circumvented the officers of the English customs. These last stories he always told with great glee, as if the very remembrance of them diverted him. At length the period of departure arrived. It was about twelve o’clock, on a fine star-light night, that, looking out of my window previously to undressing and going to bed, I saw a boat approaching the shore. I knew it in a moment to be the coble usually moored at the creek. Two men and a boy were in it. The boy, whose face was towards me, was steering, and I immediately knew him, notwithstanding the distance, to be my host’s son. They approached with great precaution and silence, and I scarcely STORY OF A FRENCH PRISONER OF WAR IN ENGLAND. breathed with hope and expectation ; but in a few minutes all was lulled into certainty by the appearance of Jack himself, who, without allowing’ me time to speak a word, which I much wished, to the old woman, hurried me to the boat, and jumping in after me, pulled away with all his strength, seconded by the other man, as if life depended on it. In about two hours or more we arrived on board a small sloop, which had lain-to for us ; and the skipper, a Dutchman, who spoke good French, re- ceived me with much civility, bidding me, however, be quick. Jack accompanied me into the cabin, and in a few words — for no time was to be lost — acquainted me the vessel was one in which he W'as concerned, and had run a valuable cargo not far off ; that the skipper readily consented to receive me on board, and had watched a favourable moment — communicated by signals from the shore — to run in and take me off. The master of the vessel having several times called to us to make haste, I satisfied the faithful fellow for his services to the utmost of his wishes, to which I added a guinea for the old woman, and another for his son ; and going upon deck, shook him heartily by the hand, and bade him farewell — he and his boy waving their caps several times to me as they pulled away to the shore. We immediately put the vessel about ; and having the advantage of a favourable breeze, we soon lost sight of the cliffs and coast of Norfolk — the last object in England which struck my sight being the fluttering and revolving blaze of Cromer lighthouse ; and this, too, having faded in the distance, I retired to the cabin, where the skipper was sitting’ with his mate over a good and capacious can of grog, of which they invited me to partake. At their request I related the heads of my escape, and they flattered me with the hopes of soon being at home. Notwithstanding the perilous voyage of a smuggling’ cutter, we met with nothing worth narrating, except being several times chased by English vessels, and having once narrowly escaped running aground by keeping too close in- shore, to avoid the smaller cruisers of the enemy. On the even- ing of the second day we arrived in safety in the Texel, when I paid my friend the skipper ten louis-d’ors for my passage, and gave five more to be divided amongst the crew. Little more now remains for me to say. Immediately on landing I wrote home the news of my escape; and the next morning started for Paris, where I was detained a day by the commands of the minister of the marine, to whom I rendered all the information in my power ; and without losing another moment, took my place in the diligence for Marseilles, where I arrived in safety, and the next minute was in the embraces Gf my dear and beloved parents.* * The above narrative, which is a translation from the French, appeared a number of years ago, and has been obligingly placed at our disposal by the proprietor. We believe we are warranted in saying that it is in every particular true. 32 THERE IS NO HURRY! A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE, BY MRS S. C. HALL.' Ijjjh DO not tell you whether the village of Repton, where ^ the two brothers John and Charles Adams originally g; resided, is near or far from London : it is a pretty % village to this day; and when John Adams, some ' flve-and-thirty years ago, stood on the top of Repton Hill, and looked down upon the houses — the little church, whose ^ simple gate was flanked by two noble yew-trees, beneath whose branches he had often sat — the murmuring river, in which he had often Ashed — the cherry orchards, where the ripe fruit hung like balls of coral : when he looked down upon all these dear domestic sights — for so every native of Repton con- sidered them — John Adams might have been supposed to question if he had acted wisely in selling to his brother Charles the share of the well-cultivated farm, which had been equally divided at their father’s death. It extended to the left of the spot on which he was standing, almost within a ring fence ; the meadows fresh shorn of their produce, and fragrant with the perfume of new hay ; the crops full of promise ; and the lazy cattle laving them- selves in the standing pond of the abundant farmyard. In a * This interesting little story appeared originally in Chambers’s Edin- burgh Journal , for which it was written by the amiable and gifted authoress. It has been issued in the present convenient form, for the purpose of universal distribution by all who are anxious to promote that most desirable practice — the insuring of lives for the benefit of surviving families. 118. 1 THERE IS NO HURRY ! paddock, set apart for his especial use, was the old blind horse his father had bestrode during the last fifteen years of his life : it leant its sightless head upon the gate, half upturned, he fancied, towards where he stood. It is wonderful what small thing’s will sometimes stir up the hearts of strong men, ay, and, what is still more difficult, even of ambitious men. Yet he did not feel at that moment a regret for the fair acres he had parted with ; he was full of the importance which the possession of a considerable sum of money gives a young man, who has been fagging almost un- successfully in an arduous profession, and one which requires a certain appearance of success to command success — for John Adams even then placed M.D. after his plain name; yet still, despite the absence of sorrow, and the consciousness of increased power, he continued to look at poor old Ball until his eyes swam in tears. With the presence of his father, which the sight of the old horse had conjured up, came the remembrance of his peculiarities, his habits, his expressions ; and he wondered, as they passed in review before him, how he could ever have thought the dear old man testy or tedious. Even his frequent quotations from “ Poor Bichard” appeared to him, for the first time, the results of common prudence ; and his rude but wise rhyme, when, in the joy of his heart, he told his father he had absolutely received five guineas as one fee from an ancient dame who had three middle- aged daughters (he had not, however, acquainted his father with that fact), came more forcibly to his memory than it had ever done to his ear — “ Eor want and age save while you may ; No morning sun shines all the day.” He repeated the last line over and over again, as his father had done ; but as his “ morning sun” was at that moment shining, it is not matter of astonishment that the remembrance was evanescent, and that it did not make the impression upon him his father had desired long before. A young, unmarried, handsome physician, with about three thousand pounds in his pocket, and u good expectations,” might be excused for building u des chateaux en Espagne.” A very wise old lady once said to me, u Those who have none on earth, may be forgiven for building them in the air ; but those who have them on earth should be content therewith.” Not so, however, w r as John Adams ; he built and built, and then by degrees de- scended to the realities of his position. What power would not that three thousand pounds give him ! He wondered if Dr Lee would turn his back upon him now, when they met in consulta- tion ; and Mr Chubb, the county apothecary, would he laugh, and ask him if he could read his own prescriptions ? Then he recurred to a dream — for it was so vague at that time as to be little more — whether it would not be better to abandon altogether 2 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. country practice, and establish himself in the metropolis — London. A thousand pounds, advantageously spent, with a few introductions, would do a great deal in London, and that was not a third of what he had. And this great idea banished all remem- brance of the past, all sense of the present — the young aspirant thought only of the future. * * * * Five years have passed. Dr John Adams was u settled” in a small “ showy” house in the vicinity of Mayfair; he had, the world said, made an excellent match. He married a very pretty girl, “ highly connected,” and was considered to be possessed of personal property, because, for so young* a physician, Dr Adams lived in “ a superior style.” Iiis brother Charles was still re- siding in the old farm-house, to which, beyond the mere keeping it in repair, he had done but little, except, indeed, adding a wife to his establishment — a very gentle, loving, yet industrious girl, whose dower w^as too small to have been her only attraction. Thus both brothers might be said to be fairly launched in life. It might be imagined that Charles Adams — having determined to reside in his native village, and remain, what his father and grandfather had been, a simple gentleman farmer, and that rather on a small than a large scale — was altogether without that feeling of ambition which stimulates exertion and elevates the mind. Charles Adams had quite enough of this — which may be said, like fire, to be u a good servant, but a bad master” — but he made it subservient to the dictates of prudence — and a forethought, the gift, perhaps, that above all others we should most earnestly covet for those whose prosperity we would secure. To save his brother’s portion of the freehold from going into the hands of strangers, he incurred a debt ; and wisely — while he gave to his land all that was necessary to make it yield its increase — he abridged all other expenses, and was ably seconded in this by his wife, who resolved, until principal and interest were dis- charged, to live quietly and carefully. Charles contended that every appearance made beyond a man’s means was an attempted fraud upon the public ; while John shook his head, and answered that it might do very w T ell for Charles to say so, as no one expected the sack that brought the grain to market to be of fine Holland, but that no man in a profession could get on in London without making u an appearance.” At this Charles shrugged his shoulders, and thanked God he lived at Repton. The brothers, as years moved rapidly on — engaged as they "were by their mutual industry and success in their several fields of action — met but seldom. It was impossible to say which of the two continued the most prosperous. Dr Adams made several lucky hits ; and having so obtained a position, was fortunate in having an abundance of patients in an intermediate sort of state - — that is, neither very well nor very ill. Of a really bland and courteous nature, he was kind and attentive to all, and it was THERE IS NO HURRY ! certain that such of his patients as were only in moderate cir- cumstances, got well long before those who were rich. His friends attributed this to his humanity as much as to his skill ; his ene- mies said he did not like “ poor patients.” Perhaps there was a mingling of truth in both statements. The money he had re- ceived for his portion of the land was spent, certainly, before his receipts equalled his expenditure ; and, strangely enough, by the time the farmer had paid off his debt, the doctor was involved, not to a large amount, but enough to render his “ appearance” to a certain degree fictitious. This embarrassment, to do him jus- tice, was not of long continuance ; he became the fashion ; and before prosperity had turned his head by an influx of wealth, so as to render him careless, he got rid of his debt, and then his wife agreed with him “ that they might live as they pleased.” It so happened that Charles Adams was present when this observation was made, and it spoke well for both the brothers that their different positions in society had not in the smallest degree cooled their bo}^hood ; s affection ; not even the money transactions of former times, which so frequently create dis- union, had changed them ; they met less frequently, but they always met with pleasure, and separated with regret. “ Well ! ” exclaimed the doctor triumphantly, as he glanced around his splendid rooms, and threw himself into a chaise longue — then a new luxury — “ well, it is certainly a charming feeling to be entirely out of debt.” “ And yet,” said his wife, “ it would not be wise to confess it in our circle.” “Why?” inquired Charles. “ Because it would prove that we had been in it,” answered the lady. “At all events,” said John, “now I shall not have to reproach myself with every extra expense, and think I ought to pay my debts first ; now I may live exactly as I please.” “ I do not think so,” said Charles. “ Not think so !” repeated Mrs Adams in a tone of astonish- ment. “ Not think so ! ” exclaimed John. “ Do I not make the money myself?” “ Granted, my dear fellow ; to be sure you do,” said Charles. “ Then why should I not spend it as pleases me best ? Is there any reason why I should not ? ” As if to give the strongest dramatic effect to Charles ? s opinion, the nurse at that moment opened the drawing-room door, and four little laughing children rushed into the room. “ There — are four reasons against your spending your income exactly as you please; unless, indeed, part of your plan be to provide for them,” answered Charles very seriously. “ I am sure,” observed Mrs Adams with the half-offended air of a weak woman when she hears the truth, “John need not be 4 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. told his duty to his children ; he has always been a most affec- tionate father.’ 7 “ A father may he fond and foolish,” said Charles, who was peculiarly English in his mode of giving an opinion. “ For my part, I could not kiss my little Mary and Anne when I go to bed at night, if I did not feel I had already formed an accumulat- ing fund for their future support — a support they will need all the more when their parents are taken from them, as they must be in the course of time.” u They must marry,” said Mrs Adams. “ That is a chance,” replied Charles ; u women hang on hands now-a-days. At all events, by God’s blessing, I am resolved that, if they are beauties, they shall never be forced by poverty to accept unworthy matches ; if they are plain, they shall have enough to live upon without husbands.” u That is easy enough for you, Charles,” said the doctor, ei who have had your broad acres to support you, and no necessity for expenditure or show of any kind; who might go from Monday morning’ till Saturday night in home-spun, and never give any- thing beyond home-brewed and gooseberry wine, with a chance bottle of port to your visitors ; while I — Heaven help me — was obliged to dash in a well-appointed equipage, entertain, and appear to be doing* a great deal in my profession, when a guinea would pine in solitude for a week together in my pocket.” 66 1 do not want to talk with you of the past, John,” said Charles ; u our ideas are more likely to agree now than they were ten or twelve years ago ; I will speak of the future and present. You are now out of debt, in the very prime of life, and in the receipt of a splendid income ; but do not, let me intreat you, spend it as it comes ; lay by something for those children ; provide for them either by insurance, or some of the many means that are open to us all. Do not, my dear brother, be betrayed by health, or the temptation for display, to live up to an income the nature of which is so essentially precarious.” u Really,” murmured Mrs Adams, “ you put one into very low* spirits.” Charles remained silent, waiting his brother’s reply. “ My dear Charles,” he said at last, u there is a great deal of truth in what you say — certainly a great deal ; but I cannot change my style of living, strange as it may seem. If I did, I should lose my practice. And then I must educate my children ; that is an imperative duty, is it not ? ” “ Certainly it is ; it is a part of the provision I have spoken of, but not the whole — a portion only. If you have the means to do both, it is your duty to do both ; and you have the means. Nay, my dear sister, do not seem angry or annoyed with me; it is for the sake of your children I speak ; it is to prevent their ever knowing practically what we do know theoretically — that the world is a hard world ; hard and unfeeling to those who 5 THERE IS NO HURRY ! need its aid. It is to prevent the possibility of their feeling 1 a reverse.” Mrs Adams burst into tears, and walked out of the room. Charles was convinced that she would not uphold his opinion. u Certainly,” said John, “ I intend to provide for my children; but there is no hurry, and ” “ There should be no hesitation in the case,” interrupted Charles ; “ every man intends to provide for his children. God forbid that I should imagine any man to be sufficiently wicked to say, 4 1 have been the means of bringing this child into exist- ence — I have brought it up in the indulgence of all the luxuries with which I indulged myself ; and now I intend to withdraw them all from it, and leave it to fight its own way through the world. 7 No man could look on the face of the innocent child nestling in your bosom and say that ; but if you do not appro- priate a portion of the means you possess to save that child from the ‘ hereafter, 7 you act as if you had resolved so to cast it on the wild waters of a turbulent world. 77 “ But, Charles, I intend to do all that you counsel ; no wonder poor Lucy could not bear these words, when I, your own and only brother, find them stern and reproachful ; no wonder that such should be the case ; of course I intend to provide for my children. 77 u Then do it , 77 said Charles. u Why, so I whll ; but cannot in a moment. I have already said there is no hurry. You must give a little time. 77 “ The time may come, my dear John, when time will give you no time. You have been spending over and above your debt — more than, as the father of four children, you have any right to spend. The duty parents owe their children in this respect has preyed more strongly on my mind than usual, as I have been called on lately to witness its effects — to see its misery. One family at Kepton, a family of eight children, has been left entirely without provision, by a man who enjoyed a situation of five hundred a-year in quarterly payments. 77 u That man is, however, guiltless. What could he save out of five hundred a-year ? How could he live on less ? 77 replied the doctor. “ Live upon four, and insure his life for the benefit of those children. Nay,” continued Charles in the vehemence of his feelings, u the man who does not provide means of existence for his helpless children, until they are able to provide for them- selves, cannot be called a reasonable person ; and the legislature ought to oblige such to contribute to a fund to prevent the spread of the worst sort of pauperism — that which comes upon well- born children from the carelessness or selfishness of their parents. God in his wisdom, and certainly in his mercy, removed the poor broken-hearted widow of the person I alluded to a month after his death ; and the infant, whose nourishment from its birth had 6 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. been mingled with bitterness, followed in a few days. I saw myself seven children crowd round the coffin that was provided by charity ; I saw three taken to the workhouse, and the elder four distributed amongst kind-hearted hard-working people, who are trying to inure the young soft hands, accustomed to silken idleness, to the toils of homely industry. I ask you, John Adams, how the husband of that woman, the father of those children, can meet his God, when it is required of him to give an account of his stewardship ? ” “ It is very true — very shocking indeed/’ observed Dr Adams. “ I certainly will do something to secure my wife and children from the possibility of anything like that, although, whatever were to happen to me, I am sure Lucy’s family would pre- vent ” Charles broke in upon the sentence his brother found it diffi- cult to complete — “ And can you expect distant or even near relatives to perform what you, whose duty it is, neglect ? Or would you leave those dear ones to the bitterness of dependence, when, by the sacrifice or curtailment of those luxurious habits which, if not closely watched, increase in number, and at last become necessaries, you could leave them in comfort and inde- pendence? We all hope for the leisure of a deathbed — awful enough, come as it may — awful, even when beyond its gloom we see the risen Sun of Righteousness in all his glory — awful, though our faith be strong in Him who is our strength ; but if the consciousness of having neglected those duties which we were sent on earth to perform be with us then, dark, indeed, will be the valley of the Shadow of Death. I do not want, however, to read a homily, my dear brother, but to impress a truth ; and I do hope that you will prevent the possibility of these dear children feeling what they must feel, enduring what they must endure, if you passed into another world without performing your duty towards them, and through them to society, in this.” Mrs Adams met her brother-in-law that day (people five-and- twenty years ago did dine by day) at dinner with an air of offence. She was, of course, lady-like and quiet, but it was evident she was displeased. Everything at table was perfect, according* to its kind. There was no guest present who was not superior in wealth and position to the doctor himself, and each was quite aware of the fact. Those who climb boldly, sometimes take a false step, but at all times make dangerous ones. When Charles looked round upon the splendid plate and stylish ser- vants — when the children were ushered in after dinner, and every tongue was loud in praises of their beauty — an involun- tary shudder passed through his heart, and he almost accused himself of selfishness, when he was comforted by the remem- brance of the provision made for his own little ones, who were as pretty, as well educated, and as happy in their cheerful country home. 7 THERE IS NO HURRY ! The next morning he was on his return to Repton, happy in the assurance his brother had given him before they parted, that he would really lay by a large sum for the regular insurance of his life. “ My dear John,” said the doctor’s wife, u when does the new carriage come home ? I thought we were to have had it this week. The old chariot looked so dull to-day, just as you were going out, when Dr Fitzlane’s new chocolate-colour passed; cer- tainly that chocolate-coloured carriage, picked out with blue, and those blue liveries, are very, very pretty.” “ Well, Lucy, I think them too gay — the liveries I mean — for an M.D. ; quieter colours do best : and as to the new carriage, I had not absolutely ordered it. I don’t see why I cannot go on with the jobs ; and I almost think I shall do so, and appropriate the money I intended for my own carriage to another purpose.” u What purpose ? ” u Why, to effect an insurance on my life. There was a great deal of truth in what Charles said the other day, although he said it coarsely, which is not usual with him ; but he felt the subject, and I feel it also ; so I think of, as I said, going quietly on with the jobs — at all events till next year — and devoting this money to the insurance.” It is difficult to believe how any woman, situated as Mrs Adams was, could have objected to a plan so evidently for her advantage and the advantage of her family ; but she was one of those who never like to think of the possibility of a reverse of fortune — who thrust care off as long as they can — and who feel more pleasure in being lavish as to the present than in saving for the future. “ I am sure,” she answered in the half-petted, half-peevish tone that evinces a weak mind — “ I am sure if anything was to happen to you, I would break my heart at once, and my family of course would provide for the children. I could not bear the idea of reaping any advantage by your death ; and really the jobs are so very inferior to what they used to be — and Dr Leeswor, next door but one, has purchased such a handsome chariot — you have at least twice his practice ; and Why, dear John, you never were in such health; there will be no necessity for this painful insurance. And after you have set up your own carriage, you can begin and lay by, and in a few years there will be plenty for the children ; and I shall not have the galling feeling that any living thing would profit by your death. Dear John, pray do not think of this painful insurance ; it may do very well for a man like your brother — a man without refinement ; but just fancy the mental torture of such a pro- vision ! ” Much more Mrs Adams talked ; and the doctor, who loved display, and had no desire to see Dr Leeswor, his particular rival, or even Dr Fitzlane, better appointed than himself, felt A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. strongly inclined towards the new carriage, and thoug'ht it would certainly be pleasanter to save than to insure, and re- solved to begin immediately after the purchase of his new equi- page. When persons are very prosperous, a few ten or twenty pounds do not much signify, but the principle of careless expenditure is hard to curb. Various things occurred to put off the doctor’s plan of laying by. Mrs Adams had an illness, that rendered a residence abroad necessary for a winter or two. The eldest boy must go to Eton. As their mamma was not at home, the little girls were sent to school. Bad as Mrs Adams’s management was, it was better than no management at all. If the doctor had given up his entertainments, his “ friends” would have said he was going down in the world, and his patients would have imagined him less skilful ; besides, notwithstanding* his increased expenditure, he found he had ample means, not to lay by, but to spend on without debt or difficulty. Sometimes his promise to his brother would cross his mind, but it was soon dispelled by what he had led himself to believe was the impossibility of attending to it then. When Mrs Adams returned, she complained that the children were too much for her nerves and strength, and her husband’s tenderness induced him to yield his favourite plan of bringing up his girls under his own roof. In process of time two little ones were added to the four, and still his means kept pace with his expenses; in short, for ten years he was a favourite with the class of persons who render favouritism fortune. It is impossible, within the compass of a tale, to trace the minutiae of the brothers’ history : the children of both were handsome, intel- ligent, and, in the world’s opinion, well educated. John’s eldest daughter was one amongst a thousand for beauty of mind and person ; hers was no glaring display of figure or information. She was gentle, tender, and affectionate ; of a disposition sensitive, and attuned to all those rare virtues in her sphere which form at once the treasures of domestic life and the ornaments of society. She it was who soothed the nervous irritability of her mother’s sick chamber and perpetual peevishness, and graced her father’s drawing-room by a presence that w'as attractive to both old and young, from its sweetness and unpretending modesty ; her two younger sisters called forth all her tenderness, from the extreme delicacy of their health ; but her brothers were even greater objects of solicitude — handsome, spirited lads — the eldest waiting for a situation, promised, but not given ; the second also waiting* for a cadetship ; while the youngest was still at Eton. These three young men thought it incumbent on them to evince their belief in their father’s prosperity by their expenditure, and ac- cordingly they spent much more than the sons of a professional man ought to spend under any circumstances. Of all waitings, the waiting upon patronage is the most tedious and the most 66 9 THERE IS NO HURRY ! enervating' to the waiter. Dr Adams felt it in all its bitterness when his sons’ bills came to he paid ; but he consoled himself, also, for his dilatoriness with regard to a provision for his daughters — it was impossible to lay by while his children were being educated ; but the moment his eldest sons got the appoint- ments they were promised, he would certainly save, or insure, or do something. People who only talk about doing* something, generally end by doing nothing. Another year passed : Mrs Adams was still an invalid ; the younger girls more delicate than ever ; the boys waiting, as before, their promised appointments, and more extravagant than ever ; and Miss Adams had made a conquest which even her father thought worthy of her. The gentleman who had become really attached to this beau- tiful girl was of a high family, who were sufficiently charmed with the object of his affections to g*ive their full sanction, as far as person and position were concerned ; but the prudent father of the would-be bridegroom thought it right to take an early opportunity of waiting upon the doctor, stating his son’s pro- spects, and frankly asking what sum Dr Adams proposed settling on his daughter. Great, indeed, was his astonishment at the reply — “ He should not be able to give his daughter anything immediately , but at his death.” The doctor, for the first time for many years, felt the bitterness of his false position. He hesitated, degraded by the knowledge that he must sink in the opinion of the man of the world by whom he was addressed ; he was irri- tated at his want of available funds being known ; and though well aware that the affections of his darling child were bound up in the son of the very gentlemanly, but most prudent person who sat before him, he was so high and so irritable in his bear- ing, that the fathers parted, not in anger, but in anything but good feeling. Sir Augustus Barry was not slow to set before his son the disadvantages of a union where the extravagant habits of Miss Adams had no more stable support than her father’s life. He argued that a want of forethought in the parents would be likely to produce a want of forethought in the children ; and knowing well what could be done with such means as Dr Adams had had at his command for years, he was not inclined to put a kind construction upon so total a want of the very quality which he considered the best a man could possess ; so, after some delay, and much consideration of the matter, he told his son that he really could not consent to his marriage with a penniless bride. And Dr Adams, finding that the old gentleman, with a total want of that delicacy which monied men do not frequently possess, had spoken of what he termed too truly and too strongly his heartless want of forethought, and characterised as a selfish- ness the indulgence of a love for display and extravagance, when children were to be placed in the world and portioned — insulted 10 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. the son for the fault of the father, and forbade his daughter to receive him. Mary Adams endeavoured to hear this as meekly as she had borne the flattery and tenderness which had been lavished on her since her birth. The bitter, bitter knowledge that she was considered by her lover’s family as a girl who, with the chance of being penniless, lived like a princess, was inconceivably gal- ling ; and though she had dismissed her lover, and knew that her father had insulted him, still she wondered how he could so soon forget her, and never write even a line of farewell. From her mother she did not expect sympathy ; she w T as too tender and too proud to seek it ; and her father, more occupied than ever, was seldom in his own house. Her uncle, who had not been in town for some years, at last arrived, and was not less struck by the extreme grace and beauty of his niece than by the deep melancholy which saddened her voice and weighed down her spirits. He was evidently anxious to mention something which made him joyous and happy ; and when the doctor entered the library with him, he said, u And may not Mary come in also ? ” Mary did come in ; and her gentle presence subdued her uncle’s spirits. “ I had meant to tell the intended change in my family only to you, brother John; but it has occurred to me we were all wrong about my niece. They said at home, i Do not invite my cousin ; she is too line, too gay to come to a country wedding ; she would not like it : ’ but I think, surrounded as she is by luxuries, that the fresh air of Repton, the fresh flowers, fresh fields, and fresh smiles of her cousins, would do my niece good, great good ; and we shall be quite gay in our own homely way — the gaiety that upsprings from hearts grateful to the Almighty for his goodness. The fact is, that in about three weeks my Mary is to be married to our rector’s eldest son. In three weeks. As he is only his father’s curate, they could not have afforded to marry for five or six years, if I had not been able to tell down a handsome sum for Mary’s fortune. It was a proud thing to be able to make a good child happy by care in time. 1 Care in time ’ — that’s my stronghold ! How glad we were to look back, and think that, while we educated them pro- perly, we denied ourselves to perform our duty to the children God had given to our care ! We have not beerr as gay as our neighbours, whose means were less than ours ; we could not be so, seeing we had to provide for five children ; but our pleasure has been to elevate and render those children happy and prosperous. Mary will be so happy, dear child — so happy ! Only think, John, she will be six years the sooner happy from our care in time ! ” This was more than his niece could bear. The g'ood father was so full of his daughter’s happiness, and the doctor so overwhelmed with self-reproach — never felt so bitterly as at that moment — that neither perceived the death- like paleness that overspread the less fortunate Mary’s face. THERE IS JSO HURRY ! She got up to leave the room, staggered, and fell at her father’s feet. “We have murdered her between us,” muttered Dr Adams, while he raised her up ; “ murdered her ; but I struck the first blow ! God forgive me ! — God forgive me ! ” That night the brothers spent in deep and earnest converse. The certainty of his own prosperity, the self-gratulation that follows a just and careful discharge of duties imposed alike by reason and religion, had not raised Charles above his brother in his own esteem. Pained beyond description at the suffering he had so unconsciously inflicted on his niece — horror-struck at the fact that thousands upon thousands had been lavished, yet nothing done for hereafter, the hereafter that must come — he urged upon John the danger of delay, the uncertainty of life. Cir- cumstances increased his influence. Dr Adams had been made painfully aware that gilding was not gold. The beauty, position, and talents of his beloved child, although fully acknowledged, had failed to establish her in life. “ Look, Charles,” he said, after imparting all to his brother, absolutely weeping over the state of uncomplaining but deep sorrow to which his child was reduced — “ if I could command the necessary funds, I would to- morrow insure my life for a sum that w r ould place them beyond the possible reach of necessity of any kind.” u Do not wait for that,” was the generous reply of Charles Adams ; “ I have some unemployed hundreds at this moment. Come with me to-morrow ; do not delay a day, no, nor an hour ; and take my word for it, you will have reason to bless your resolve. Only imagine what would be the case if God called you to give an account of your stewardship ! ” But he checked him- self ; he saw that more was not necessary ; and the brothers separated for a few hours, both anxious for the morning. It was impossible to say which of the two hurried over breakfast with the greatest rapidity. The carriage was at the door ; and Dr Adams left word with his butler that he was gone into the city on urgent business, and Avould be back in two hours. u I don’t think,” exclaimed Charles, rubbing his hands glee- fully — “ I don’t think that, if my dear niece were happy, I should ever have been so happy in all my life as I am at this moment.” “ I feel already,” replied John, “ as if a great weight weve removed from my heart ; and were it not for the debt which I have contracted to you Ah, Charles, I little dreamt, when I looked down from the hill over Repton, and thought my store inexhaustible, that I should be obliged to you thus late in life. And yet I protest I hardly know where I could have drawn in ; one expense grows so out of another. These boys have been so very extravagant ; but I shall soon have the two eldest off ; they cannot keep them much longer waiting.” u Work is better than waiting ; but let the lads fight their way : they have had, I suppose, a good education ; they ought 12 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. to have had professions. There is something to me awfully lazy in your ‘ appointments a young man of spirit will appoint him- self; but it is the females of a family, brought up as yours have been, who are to be considered. Women’s position in society is changed from what it was some years ago : it was expected that they must marry ; and so they were left, before their marriage, dependent upon fathers and brothers, as creatures that could do nothing for themselves. Now, poor things, I really don’t know* why, but girls do not marry off as they used. They become old, and frequently — owing to the expectation of their settling — without the provision necessary for a comfortable old age. This is the parent of those despicable tricks and arts which women resort to to get married, as they have no acknowledged position independent of matrimony. Something ought to be done to pre- vent this. And when the country steadies a little from the great revolution of past years, I suppose something may be thought of by improved teaching — and systems to enable women to assist themselves, and be recompensed for the assistance they yield others. Now, imagine your dear girls, those younger ones par- ticularly, deprived of you ” “ Here is the patient upon whom I must call en route” inter- rupted the doctor. The carriage drew up. “ I wish,” said Charles, “ you had called here on your return. I wanted the insurance to have been your first business to-day.” “ I shall not be five minutes,” w~as the reply. The servant let down the step, and the doctor bounded up towards the open door. In his progress he trod upon a bit, a mere shred, of orange-peel ; it was the mischief of a moment; he slipped, and his temple struck against the sharp column of an iron-scraper. Within one hour Dr John Adams had ceased to exist. What the mental and bodily agony of that one hour w'as, you can better understand than I can describe. He was fully con- scious that he was dying, and he knew all the misery that was to follow. u Mary — my dear niece,” said Charles Adaihs as he seated himself by her side; “my dear, dear niece, can you fix your thoughts, and give me your attention for half an hour, now that all is over, and that the demands of the world press upon us. I want to speak about the future. Your mother bursts into such fits of despair that I can do nothing with her ; and your brother is so ungovernable — talks as if he could command the Bank of England — and is so full of his mother’s connexions and their influence, that I have left him to himself. Can you, my dear Mary, restrain your feelings, and give me your attention?” Mary Adams looked firmly in her uncle’s face, and said, “ I will try. I have been thinking and planning all the morning, but I do not know how to begin being useful. If I once began, 13 THEUE IS N O HURRY ! I could go on. The sooner we are out of this huge expensive house the better ; if I could get my mother to go with the little girls to the sea-side. Take her away altogether from this home — take her ” u Where ? ” inquired Mr Adams. Cl She will not accept shelter in my house.” “ I do not know,” answered his niece, relapsing into all the helplessness of first grief ; “ indeed I do not know. Her brother- in-law, Sir James Ashbrooke, invited her to the Pleasaunce; hut my brother objects to her going there, his uncle has behaved so neglectfully about his appointment.” “ Foolish boy ! ” muttered Charles ; u this is no time to quarrel about trifles. The fact is, Mary, that the sooner you are all out of this house the better : there are one or two creditors, not for large sums certainly, but still men who will have their money ; and if we do not quietly sell off, they will force us. The house might have been disposed of last week by private contract, but your mother would not hear of it, because the person who offered was a medical rival of my poor brother.” Mary did not hear the concluding observation ; her eyes wan- dered from object to object in the room — the harp — the various things known from childhood. “ Anything you and your mother wish, my dear niece,” said her kind uncle, (i shall be pre- served : the family pictures — your harp, your piano — they are all hallowed memorials, and shall be kept sacred.” Mary burst into tears. “ I do not,” she said, u shrink from considering those instruments the means of my support; but although I know the necessity for so considering, I feel I cannot tell what at quitting the home of my childhood. People are all kind ; you, my dear uncle, from whom we expected so little, the kindest of all ; but I see, even in these early days of a first sor- row, indications of falling off. My aunt’s husband has really behaved very badly about the appointment of my eldest brother ; and as to the cadetship for the second — we had such a brief, dry letter from our Indian friend — so many first on the list, and the necessity for waiting, that I do not know how it will end.” “ I wish, my dear, you could prevail on your mother, and sister, and all, to come to Repton,” said Mr Adams. “ If your mother dislikes being in my house, I would find her a cottage near us ; I will do all I can. My wife joins me in the determi- nation to think that we have six additional children to look to. We differ from you in our habits, but our hearts and affections are no less true to you all. My Mary and you will be as sisters.” His niece could bear no more kindness. She had been far more bitterly disappointed than she had confessed even to her uncle ; and yet the very bitterness of the disappointment had been the first thing that had driven her father’s dying wail from her ears — that cry repeated so often, and so bitterly, in the brief moments left after his accident — 61 My children ! My children ! ” A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. He had not sufficient faith to commit them to God’s mercy. He knew he had not been a faithful steward; and he could not bring himself, from the depths of his spiritual blindness, to call upon the Fountain that is never dried up to those who would humbly and earnestly partake of its living waters. It was all a scene as of another world to the young, beautiful, petted, and feted girl ; it had made her forget the disappoint- ment of her love, at least for a time. While her brothers dared the thunder-cloud that burst above their heads, her mother and sisters wept beneath its influence. Mary had looked forth, and if she did not hope, she thought, and tried to pray. Now, she fell weeping upon her uncle’s shoulder : when she could speak, she said, u Forgive me ; in a little time I shall be able to conquer this ; at present, I am overwhelmed. I feel as if knowledge and sorrow came together : I seem to have read more of human nature within the last three days than in all my past life.” “ It all depends, Mary, upon the person you meet,” said Mr Adams, u as upon the book you read. If you choose a foolish book or a bad book, you can expect nothing but vice or foolish- ness ; if you choose a foolish companion, surely you cannot expect kindness or strength.” The kind-hearted man repeated to her all he had before said. u I cannot,” he added, “ be guilty of injustice to my children ; but I can merge all my own luxuries into the one of being a father to the fatherless.” But to all the plans of Charles Adams objections were raised by his eldest nephew and his mother : the youth could not brook the control of a simple straight-minded country man, whose only claim to be considered a gentleman, in his opinion, arose from his connexion with “ his family.” He was also indignant with his maternal uncle for his broken promise, and these feelings were strengthened by his mother’s folly. Two opportunities for disposing of the house and its magnificent furniture were missed ; and when Mrs Adams complained to her nearest and most influ- ential connexions that her brother-in-law refused to make her any allowance unless she consented to live at Repton — expecting that they would be loud in their indignation at his hardness — they advised her by all means to do what he wished, as he was really the only person she had to depend upon. Some were lavish of their sympathy, but sympathy wears out quickly; others invited her to spend a month with them at their country seat, for change of air ; and one hinted how valuable Miss Adams’s exquisite musical talent would be now. Mary coloured, and said “ Yes,” with the dignity of proper feeling. But her mother asked the lady what she meant, and a little scene followed which caused the lady to visit all the families in town of her acquaint- ance, for the purpose of expressing her sympathy with u those poor dear Adamses, who were so proud, poor things, that really there was nothing but starvation and the workhouse before them ! ” Another of those well-meaning persons — strong-minded 15 THERE IS NO HURRY ! and kind-hearted, but without a particle of delicacy — came to poor Mary with all th e. prestige of conferring* a favour. “ My dear young’ lady, it is the commonest thing in the world — very painful, but very common : the families of professional men are frequently left without provision. Such a pity ! — be- cause, if they cannot save, they can insure. We all can do that, but they do not do it, and consequently everywhere the families of professional men are found in distress. So, as I said, it is com- mon ; and I wanted you to suggest to your mother that, if she w r ould not feel hurt at it, the thing being so common — dear Dr Adams having been so popular, so very popular — that, while every one is talking about him and you all, a very handsome subscription could be got up. I wmuld begin it with a sum large enough to invite still larger. I had a great regard for him — I had indeed.” Mary felt her heart sink and rise, and her throat swell, so that she could not speak. She had brought herself to the determina- tion of employing her talents for her own support, but she wms not prepared to come with her family before the world as paupers. “ We have no claim upon the public,” she said at last. “ I am sure you mean us kindly, but we have no claim. My dear father forwarded no public work — no public object ; he gave his advice, and received his payment. If w'e are not provided for, it is no public fault. Besides, my father’s children are able and willing to support themselves. I am sure you mean us kindly, but we have no claim upon public sympathy, and an appeal to it would crush us to the earth. I am very glad you did not speak first to my mother. My uncle Charles w r ould not suffer it, even suppose she wished it.” This friend also departed to excite new speculations as to the pride and poverty of “ poor dear Dr Adams’s family.” In the world, however — the busy, busy London world — it is idle to expect anything to create even a nine days’ wonder. When the house and furniture were at last offered for sale, the feeling was somewhat revived ; and Mary, whose beauty, exquisite as it was, had so unobtrusive a character as never to have created a foe, was remembered with tears by many. Even the father of her old lover, w T hen he was congratulated by one more w'orldly-minded than himself on the escape of his son in not marrying a portion- less girl, reproved the unfeeling speaker with a wish that he only hoped his son might have as good a wife as Mary Adams would have been. The bills were taken down, the house purified from the auction- mob — everything* changed ; a new name occupied the doctor’s place in the u Court Guide and in three months the family seemed as completely forgotten amongst those of whom they once formed a prominent part, as if they had never existed. When one sphere of life closes against a family, they find room in another. Many kind-hearted persons in Mrs Adams’s first A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. circle would have been rejoiced to be of service to her and hers, but they were exactly the people upon whom she had no claim. Of a high, but poor family, her relatives had little power. What family so situated ever had any influence beyond what they absolutely needed for themselves? With an ill grace, she at last acceded to the kind offer made by Mr Charles Adams, and took possession of the cottage he fixed upon, until something could be done for his brother’s children. In a fit of proud despair, the eldest son enlisted into a regiment of dragoons ; the second was fortunate enough to obtain a cadetship through a stranger’s in- terference ; and his uncle thought it might be possible to get the youngest forward in his father’s profession. The expense of the necessary arrangements w~as severely felt by the prudent and careful country gentleman. The younger girls were too delicate for even the common occupations of daily life ; and Mary, instead of receiving the welcome she had been led to expect from her aunt and cousins, felt that every hour she spent at the Grange was an intrusion. The sudden death of Dr Adams had postponed the intended wedding of Charles Adams’s eldest daughter ; and although her mother agreed that it was their duty to forward the orphan children, she certainly felt, as most affectionate mothers whose hearts are not very much enlarged would feel, that much of their own savings — much of the produce of her husband’s hard labour — labour during’ a series of years when her sister-in-law and her children were enjoying all the luxuries of life — would now be expended for their support. This, to an all-sacrificing mother, despite her sense of the duty of kindness, was hard to bear. As long as they were not on the spot, she theorised continually, and derived much satisfaction from the sympathising observations of her neighbours, and was proud, very proud, of the praise be- stowed upon her husband’s benevolence ; but when her sister-in- law’s expensive habits were in daily array before her (the cottage being close to the Grange) ; when she knew, to use her own ex- pression, “ that she never put her hand to a single thing ; ” that she could not live without port wine, when she herself never drank even gooseberry, except on Sundays ; never ironed a collar, never dusted the mantel-piece, or ate a shoulder of mutton — ■ roast one day, cold the next, and hashed the third — while each day brought some fresh illustration of her thoughtlessness to the eyes of the wife of the wealthy tiller of the soil, the widow of the physician thought herself in the daily practice of the most rigid self-denial. “ I am sure,” was her constant observation to her all-patient daughter — “ I am sure I never thought it would come to this. I had not an idea of going through so much. I wonder your uncle and his wife can permit me to live in the way I do — they ought to consider how I was brought up.” It was in vain Mary represented that they were existing upon charity; that thejr ought to be most grateful for what they received, coming THERE IS NO HURRY ! as it did from those who, in their days of prosperity, professed nothing*, while those who professed all things had done nothing. Mary would so reason, and then retire to her own chamber to weep alone over things more hard to bear. It is painful to observe what bitterness will creep into the heart and manner of really kind girls where a lover is in the case, or even where a commonplace dangling sort of flirtation is going forward ; this depreciating ill nature, one of the other, is not confined by any means to the fair sex. Young men pick each other to pieces with even more fierceness, but less ingenuity; they deal in a cut-and-hack sort of sarcasm, and do not hesitate to use terms and insinuations of the harshest kind when a lady is in the case. Mary (to distinguish her from her high-bred cousin, she was generally called Mary Charles) was certainly disappointed when her wedding was postponed in consequence of her uncle’s death ; but a much more painful feeling followed wfiien she saw the admiration her lover, Edwin Lechmere, be- stowed upon her beautiful cousin. Mary Charles was herself a beaut} r — fair, open-eyed, warm-hearted — the beauty of Kept.on ; but though feature by feature, inch by inch, she was as hand- some as Mary, yet in her cousin was the grace and spirit given only by good society ; the manners elevated by a higher mind, and toned down by sorrow ; a gentle softness, which a keen ob- server of human nature told me once no woman ever possessed unless she had deeply loved, and suffered from disappointed affec- tion ; in short, she was far more refined, far more fascinating, than her country cousin. Besides, she was unfortunate, and that at once gave her a hold upon the sympathies of the young curate. It did no more ; but Mary Charles did not understand these nice distinctions, and nothing could exceed the change of manner she evinced when her cousin and her betrothed were together. Mary thought her cousin rude and petulant ; but the true cause of the change never occurred to her. Accustomed to the high-toned courtesy of well-bred men, which is so little practised in the middle class of English society, it never suggested itself that placing her chair, or opening the door for her to go out, or rising courteously when she came into a room, was more than, as a lady, she had a right to expect ; in truth, she did not notice it at all ; but she did notice, and feel deeply, her cousin’s alternate coldness and snappishness of manner. “ I would not,” thought Mary, “ have behaved so to her if she had been left desolate ; but in a little time, when my mother is more content, I will leave Repton, and become independent by my talents.” Never did she think of the power delegated to her by the Almighty without feeling herself raised — ay, higher than she had ever been in the days of her splendour — in the scale of moral useful- ness ; as every one must feel whose mind is rightly framed. She had not yet known what it was to have her abilities trampled on 18 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. or insulted ; she had never experienced the bitterness consequent upon having’ the acquirements — which, in the days of her pros- perity, commanded silence and admiration — sneered at or openly ridiculed. She had yet to learn that the Solons, the lawgivers of English society, lavish their attentions and praise upon those who learn, not upon those who teach. Mary had not been six months fatherless, when she was asto- nished first by a letter, and then by a visit, from her former lover. He came to renew his engagement, and to wed her even then, if she would have him. But Mary’s high principle was stronger than he imagined. “No,” she said; “ you are not in- dependent of your father, and whatever I feel, I have no right to draw you down into poverty. You may fancy now that you could bear it ; but a time would come — if not to you, to me — when the utter selfishness of such conduct would goad me to a death of early misery.” The young man appealed to her uncle, who thought her feelings overstrained, but respected her for it nevertheless ; and, in the warmth of his admiration, he commu- nicated the circumstance to his wife and daughter. “ Refuse her old lover under present circumstances ! ” repeated her cousin to herself as she left the room ; “ there must be some other reason than that ; she could not be so foolish as to reject such an offer at such a time.” Unfortunately, she saw Edwin Lechmere walking by Mary’s side under the shadow of some trees. She watched them until the foliage screened them from her sight, and then she shut herself into her own room, and yielded to a long and violent burst of tears. “ It is not enough,” she exclaimed in the bitterness of her feelings, “ that the com- forts of my parents’ declining years should be abridged by the overwhelming burden to their exertions — another family added to their own ; it is not enough that an uncomfortable feeling has grown between my father and mother on this account, and that cold looks and sharp words have come where they never came before, but my peace of mind must be destroyed. Gladly would I have taken a smaller portion, if I could have kept the affections which I see but too plainly my cousin has stolen from me. And my thoughtless aunt to say, only yesterday, that ‘ at all events her husband was no man’s enemy but his own.’ Has not his want of prudent forethought been the ruin of his own children ? and will my parents ever recover the anxiety, the pain, the sacrifices, brought on by one man’s culpable neglect? Oh, uncle, if you could look from your grave upon the misery you have caused!” — and then, exhausted by her own emotion, the affectionate but jealous girl began to question herself as to what she should do. After what she considered mature deliberation, she made up her mind to upbraid her cousin with treachery; and she put her design into execution that same evening. It was no easy matter to oblige her cousin to understand what she meant ; but at last the declaration that she had refused her 19 THERE IS NO HURRY ! old lover because she had placed her affections upon Edwin Lechmere, whom she was endeavouring* to u entrap / 7 was not to be mistaken ; and the country girl was altogether unprepared for the burst of indignant feeling, mingled with much bitterness, which repelled the untruth. A strong fit of hysterics into which Mary Charles worked herself was terminated by a scene of the most painful kind — her father being upbraided by her mother with “ loving other people’s children better than his own / 7 while the curate himself knelt by the side of his betrothed, assuring her of his unaltered affection. From such a scene Miss Adams hastened with a throbbing brow' and a bursting heart. She had no one to counsel or console her; no one to whom she could apply for aid. For the first time since she had experienced her uncle’s tenderness, she felt she had been the means of disturbing his domestic peace ; the knowledge of the burden she was, and the burden she and hers were considered, weighed her to the earth ; and in a paroxysm of anguish she fell on her knees, ex- claiming, “ Oh ! why are the dependent born into the world? Father, father ! why did you leave us, whom you so loved, to such a fate ! 77 And then she reproached herself for having uttered a word reflecting on his memory. One of the every-day occurrences of life — so common, as to be hardly observed — is to find really kind good-natured people weary of well-doing. “ Oh, really I was worn out with so and so ; they are so de- cidedly unfortunate that it is impossible to help them / 7 is a general excuse for deserting* those whose continuing misfortunes ought to render them greater objects of sympathy. Mr Charles Adams was, as has been shown in our little narra- tive, a kind-hearted man. Estranged as his brother and himself had been for a number of years, he had done much to forward, and still more to protect, his children. At first this was a pleasure ; but somehow his “ benevolence / 7 and “ kindness / 7 and “ genero- sity 77 had been so talked about, so eulogised, and he had been so seriously inconvenienced by the waywardness of his nephew^, the thoughtless pride of his sister-in-law, the helplessness of his younger nieces, as to feel seriously oppressed by his responsibi- lity. And now the one who had never given him aught but pleasure, seemed, according to his daughter’s representations, to be the cause of increased sorrow — the destroyer of his dear child’s happiness. What to do he could not tell. His daughter, wrought upon by her own jealousy, had evinced under its influence so much temper she had never displayed before, that it seemed more than likely the cherished match would be broken off. His high- minded niece saved him any farther anxiety as far as she was concerned. She sent for, and convinced him fully and entirely of her total freedom from the base design imputed to her. u Was it likely,” she said, “ that I should reject the man I love lest I should drag him into poverty, and plunge at once with one I do not care for into the abyss I dread ? This is the common-sense 20 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. view of the case ; but there is yet another. Is it to be borne that I would seek to rob your child of her happiness ? The suppo- sition is an insult too gross to be endured. I will leave my mother to-morrow. An old schoolfellow, older and more fortunate than myself, wished me to educate her little girl. I had one or two strong objections to living in her house ; but the desire to be in- dependent and away has overcome them.” She then, with many tears, intreated her uncle still to protect her mother ; urged how she had been sorely tried; and communicated fears, she had reason to believe were too w r ell founded, that her eldest brother, feeling the reverse more than he could bear, had deserted from his regiment. Charles Adams -was deeply moved by the nobleness of his niece, and reproved his daughter more harshly than he had ever done before for the feebleness that created so strong and unjust a passion. This had the contraiy effect to what he had hoped for : she did not hesitate to say that her cousin had endeavoured to rob her both of the affection of her lover and her father. Tim injured cousin left Repton, bowled beneath an accumulation of troubles, not one of which was of her own creating, not one of wdiich she deserved; and all springing from the unproviding nature of him who, had he been asked the question, would have declared himself ready to sacrifice his own life for the advantage of that daughter, now compelled to work for her own bread. To trace the career of Mary Adams in her new' calling would be to repeat what I have said before. The more refined, the more informed the governess, the more she suffers. Being* with one whom she had known in better days, made it even more hard to bend; yet she did her duty, and that is one of the highest privi- leges a woman can enjoy. Leaving* Mary for a moment, let us return to Repton. Here discord, having once entered, w'as making sad ravages, and all were suffering from it. *It was but too true that the eldest of the Adamses had deserted : his mother, clinging with a parent’s fondness to her child, concealed him, and thus offended Charles Adams beyond all reconciliation. The third lad, who was walk- ing the London hospitals, and exerting himself beyond his strength, was everything that a youth could be ; but his de- clining health w r as represented to his uncle, by one of those whom his mother’s pride had insulted, as a cloak for indolence. In short, before another year had quite passed, the family of the once rich and fashionable Dr Adams had shared the fate of all dependents — worn out the benevolence, or patience, or whatever it really is, of their best friends. Nor was this the only con- sequence of the physician’s neglect of a duty due alike to God and society : his brother had really done so much for the be- reaved family, as to give what the world called just grounds to Mrs Charles Adams’s repeated complaints, “ that now her husband was ruining his industrious family to keep the lazy 21 THERE IS NO HURRY ! widow of his spendthrift brother and her favourite children in idleness. Why could she not live upon the ‘ fine folk ’ she was always throwing* in her face?” Their daughter, too, of whose approaching* union the fond father had been so proud, was now, like her cousin whom she had wronged by her mean suspicions, deserted ; the match broken off after much bickering' ; one quarrel having brought on another, until they separated by mutual consent. Her temper and her health were both mate- rially impaired, and her beauty was converted into hardness and acidity. Oh how utterly groundless is the idea, that in our social state, where one human being must so much depend upon another, any man, neglecting his positive duties, can be called only u his own enemy!” What misery had not Dr Adams’s neglect entailed, not alone on his immediate family, but on that of his brother ! Besides, there were ramifications of distress ; he died even more embarrassed than his brother had at first believed, and some tradespeople were consequently embarrassed ; but the deep misery fell upon his children. Meanwhile, Mrs Dr Adams had left Rep- ton with her younger children, to be the dependents of Mary in London. It was not until a fatal disease had seized upon her mother, that Mary ventured to appeal again to her uncle’s generosity. u My second brother,” she said, u has, out of his small means, remitted her five pounds. My eldest brother seems altogether to have disappeared from amongst us : finding that his unhappy presence had occasioned so fatal a separation between his mother and you — a disunion which I saw was the effect of many small causes, rather than one great one — he left us, and we cannot trace him. This has broken my poor mother’s heart ; he was the cherished one of all her children. My youngest brother has been for the last month an inmate of one of the hospitals which my poor father attended for so many years, and where his word was law. My sister Rosa, she upon whom my poor father poured, if pos- sible, more of his affection than he bestowed upon me — my lovely sister, of whom, even in our poverty, I was so proud — so young, only upon the verge of womanhood — has, you already know, left us. Would to God that it had been for her grave, rather than her destroyer ! — a fellow-student of that poor youth, who, if he dreamt of her dishonour, would stagger like a spectre from what will be his deathbed to avenge her. Poverty is one of the surest guides to dishonour; those who have not been tempted know nothing of it. It is one thing to see it, another to feel it. Do npt think her altogether base, because she had not the strength of a heroine. I have been obliged to resign my situation to attend my mother, and the only income we have is what I earn by giving lessons on the harp and piano. I give, for two shillings, the same instruction for which my father paid half-a-guinea a lesson ; if I did not, I should have no pupils. It is more than a month 22 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. since my mother left her bed ; and my youngest sister, bending beneath increased delicacy of health, is her only attendant. I know her mind to be so tortured, and her body so convulsed by pain, that I have prayed to God to render her fit for Heaven, and take her from her sufferings. Imagine the weight of sorrow that crushed me to my knees with such a petition as that ! I know all you have done, and yet I ask you now, in remembrance of the boyish love that bound you and my father together, to lessen her bodily anguish by the sacrifice of a little more ; that she, nursed in the lap of luxury, may not pass from life with starvation as her companion. My brother’s gift is expended; and during the last three weeks I have earned but twelve shil- lings ; my pupils are out of town. Do, for a moment, remember what I was, and think how humbled I must be to frame this supplication ; but it is a child that petitions for a parent, and I know I have never forfeited your esteem. In a few weeks, per- haps in a few days, my brother and my mother will meet my poor father face to face. Oh that I could be assured that reproach and bitterness for the past do not pass the portals of the grave ! Porgive me this, as you have already forgiven me much. Alas ! I know too well that our misfortunes drew misfortunes upon others. I was the unhappy but innocent cause of much sorrow at the Grange ; but oh ! do not refuse the last request that I will ever make ! ” The letter was blotted by tears. Charles'Adams was from home when it arrived, and his wife, knowing the handwriting’, and having made a resolution never to open a letter “ from that branch of the family,” did not send it after her husband, “ lest it might tease him.” Ten days elapsed before he received it ; and when he did, he could not be content with writing, but lost not a moment in hastening to the address. Irritated and disappointed that what he really had done should have been so little appreciated, when every hour of his life he was smarting in one way or other from his exertions — broken- hearted at his daughter’s blighted health and happiness — angered by the reckless wildness of one nephew, and what he believed was the idleness of another — and convinced that Rosa’s fearful step was owing to the pampering and mismanagement of her foolish mother — Charles Adams satisfied himself that, as he did not hear to the contrary from Mary, all things were going on well, or at least not ill. He thought as little about them as he possibly could, no people in the world being so conveniently for- gotten (when they are not importunate) as poor relations ; but the letter of his favourite niece spoke strongly to his heart, and in two hours after his return home, he set forth for the London suburb from whence the letter was dated. It so chanced that, to get to that particular end of the town, he was obliged to pass the house his brother had occupied so splendidly for a number of years ; the servants had lit the lamps, and were drawing the curtains of the noble dining-room ; and a party of ladies were THERE IS NO HURRY ! descending* from a carriage, which prevented two others from setting* down. It looked like old times. “ Some one else,” thought Charles Adams, “ running* the same career of wealth and extravagance. God grant it may not lead to the same results ! 77 He paused, and looked up the front of the noble mansion ; the drawing-room windows were open, and two beau- tiful children were standing on an ottoman placed between the windows, probably* to keep them apart. Pie thought of Mary’s childhood, and how she was occupied at that moment, and hastened onward. There are times when life seems one mingled dream, and it is not easy to become dispossessed of the idea when some of its frightful changes are brought almost together under our view. “Is Miss Adams at home ? 77 inquired her uncle of a woman leaning against the door of a miserable house. “ I don’t know ; she went to the hospital this morning ; but I’m not sure she’s in. It’s the second pair back ; it’s easy known, for the sob has not ceased in that room these two nights ; some people do take on so ” Charles Adams did not hear the concluding sentence, but soug’ht the room : the door would not close, and he heard a low sobbing sound from within. He paused ; but his step had aroused the mourner. “ Come in, Mary — come in. I know how it is,” said a young voice; “he is dead. One grave for mother and son — one grave for mother and son ! I see your shadow, dark as it is. Have you brought a candle ? It is very fearful to be alone with the dead — even one’s own mother — in the dark.” Charles Adams entered the room ; but his sudden appearance in the twilight, and evidently not knowing him, overcame the girl, his youngest niece, so much, that she screamed, and fell on her knees by her mother’s corpse. Pie called for lights, and was speedily obeyed, for he put a piece of gold in the woman’s hand : she turned it over, and as she hastened from the room, muttered, “ If this had come sooner, she’d not have died of starvation, or burdened the parish for a shroud : it’s hard the rich can’t look to their own.” When Mary returned, she was fearfully calm. “ No ; her brother was not dead,” she said. “ The young were longer dying than those whom the world had worn out ; the young knew so little of the world, they thought it hard to leave it and she took off her bonnet, and sat down ; and while her uncle explained why he had not written, she looked at him with eyes so fixed and cold, that he paused, hoping she would speak, so painful was their stony expression. But she let him go on, without offering* one word of assurance of any kind feeling or remembrance ; and when she stooped to adjust a portion of the coarse plaiting of the shroud — that mockery of “the purple and fine linen of living* days” — her uncle saw that her hair, her luxuriant hair, was striped with white. 24 A TALE OF LIFE-ASSURANCE. “ There is no need for words now,” she said at last ; u no need. I thought you would have sent ; she required but little — but very little ; the dust rubbed from the gold she once had would have been riches. But the little she did require she had not, and so she died. But what weighs heaviest upon my mind was her calling so continually on my father, to know why he had deserted her. She attached no blame latterly to any one, only called day and night upon him. Oh ! it was hard to bear — it was very hard to bear ! ” “ I will send a proper person in the morning, to arrange that she may be placed with my brother,” said Charles. Mary shrieked almost with the wildness of a maniac. 11 No, no ; as far from him as possible ! Oh ! not with him ! She was to blame in our days of splendour as much as he was ; but she could not see it; and I durst not reason with her. Not with him ! She would disturb him in his grave ! ” Her uncle shuddered, while the young* girl sobbed in the bitter wailing tone their landlady complained of. “ No,” resumed Mary; “let the parish bury her; even its offi- cers were kind ; and if you bury her, or they, it is still a pauper’s funeral. I see all these things clearly now. Death, while it closes the eyes of some, opens the eyes of others ; it has opened mine.” But why should I prolong this sad story. It is not the tale of one, but of many. There are dozens, scores, hundreds of in- stances of the same kind, arising from the same cause, in our broad islands. In the lunatic asylum where that poor girl, even Mary Adams, has found refuge during the past two years, there are many cases of insanity arising from change of circumstances, where a fifty pounds’ insurance would have set such maddening distress at defiance. I know that her brother died in the hospital within a few days ; and the pale, sunken-eyed girl, whose damp yellow hair and thin white hand are so eagerly kissed by the gentle maniac when she visits her, month by month, is the youngest, and, I believe, the last of her family — at least the last in England. Oh that those who foolishly boast that their actions only affect themselves, would look carefully abroad, and, if they doubt what I have faithfully told, examine into the causes which crowd the world with cases even worse than I have here re- corded ! Note. — The evil consequences of a neglect or postponement of life- assurance, such as • are portrayed in the foregoing tale, are very iar from being of uncommon occurrence ; and as much may arise from ignorance, we have, in a preceding tract (No. 44), presented every requisite information on the subject. — Ed. 25 ABBY’S YEAR IN LOWELL. ABBY’S YEAR IN LOWELL* A TALE OF SELF-DENIAL. I. " Mr Atkins, I say J Husband, why can’t you speak ? Do you hear what Abby says ? ” “ Anything* worth hearing*?” was the responsive question of Mr Atkins ; and he laid down the New Hampshire Patriot, and peered over his spectacles wuth a look which seemed to say, that an event so uncommon deserved particular attention. u Why, she says that she means to go to Lowell, and work in the factory.” “ Well, wife, let her go and Mr Atkins took up the Patriot again. “ But I do not see how I can spare her; the spring cleaning is not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys’ summer clothes ; and you say that you intend to board your own ‘ men-folks/ and keep two more cows than you did last year ; and Charley can scarcely go alone. I do not see how I can get along without her.” 66 But you say she does not assist you any about the house.” “ W ell, husband, she might” u Yes, she might do a great many things which she does not think of doing ; and as I do not see that she means to be useful here, we will let her go to the factory.” “ Father! are you in earnest? May I go to Lowell?” said Abby ; and she raised her bright black eyes to her father’s with a look of exquisite delight. u Yes, Abby, if you will promise me one thing; and that is, that you will stay a whole year without visiting us, excepting in case of sickness, and that you will stay but one year.” u I will promise anything, father, if you will only let me go ; for I thought you would say that I had better stay at home and pick rocks, and weed the garden, and drop corn, and rake hay ; and I do not want to do such work any longer. May I go with the Slater girls next Tuesday, for that is the day they have set for their return ? ” * Lowell is a manufacturing town in Massachusets, to which young women, the daughters of farmers and others, resort for employment in the factories. The generally excellent conduct of these HE scene of our story opens in a pretty country- > house near a village in France. The master of the Jjpt mansion, the venerable M. Grandville, has called in Jacque Denoyer, his gardener, with whom he desired [ to have some conversation. c Please to sit down, Jacque; take a chair ,* 7 said M. & Grandville. “ I want to have a little chat with you. Sit down, I tell you . 77 Jacque Denoyer seated himself near the door of the parlour where M. Grandville was breakfasting; he had a look of un- easiness, and a sudden blush gave a deeper colour to a face already embrowned by the sun. “ I am quite satisfied with you , 77 continued M. Grandville. “ If you go on the rest of the year as you have done this month of trial, I do not think we shall soon part with each other ; as far at least as depends upon me. And now, Deno3^er, are you quite satisfied here ? Have you not too much to do ? Can you manage both stable and garden ? 77 “ Why not, sir ? 77 replied Jacque Denoyer. “ If I had ten times as much to do, I would not complain. Can I ever do enough for you, sir, who have saved from misery myself, my wife, and our three children ? 77 “One thing astonishes me, Jacque, and that is the extreme No. 138. l STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. poverty in which I found you and your wife ; and now that I am better acquainted with you, I am still more astonished at it. At first I believed you to be indolent, or destitute of ability ; but I find you intelligent, quick, willing, a good gardener, and an excellent groom. I have even perceived that you are not with- out industry ; that you are ready to supply exigencies which often occur in a country place. Besides, you are not a bad mechanic, and you even know how to read and write. How comes it, then, that in a country like this, where there are rich proprietors, manufactures of all kinds, marble quarries, and forges, in which any one who has hands may get employment- how comes it, then, that at your age you were destitute?” The embarrassment of Jacque Denoyer visibly increased; he twisted and twirled his hat in his hands, without daring to raise his eyes ; and it might have easily been guessed that he would have preferred being* anywhere else than in M. Grandville’s breakfast parlour. “ Jacque Denoyer,” said he, in a tone full of kindness, “it is not as a master, it is as a friend I ask you these questions — it is as a man well convinced that it is never too late to endeavour at least to correct a defect or a vice which compromises both our own well-being and that of those who depend on us. Yes, my friend, let us have but the will, and we may at any age eradi- cate evil inclinations or pernicious habits. Come, speak openly. Tell me how you, w*ho seem to be so clever a man, should be so very poor a one ? ” Thus encouraged and spoken to by his master — a thing not unusual in France — Jacque commenced his story. “ I am the son of a decent, well-doing man, who followed the profession of a stone-carver in the town of Troyes. When still young, my father taught me a few things, and w T as quite pleased with my quickness of learning. M. Xmbert, who was acquainted with my family, and who was the best architect in the town of Troyes, desired to see me on my father’s report of me ; and he said to him before me, c You must put this child to school ; he will learn reading, writing, arithmetic, and drawing ; when he is thoroughly instructed in them, I will take him to my office, and if he continues to show talent, we will make a distinguished master mason of him, or else an architect, as X am/ “ You may suppose, sir, how delighted my father was and my mother also. I was the only one spared to them of ten children, and they caught eagerly at the thought of making a gentleman of me, like M. Xmbert. “ After I had attended school for about a month, the master began to take notice of me. No sooner did I wish, than I learned. But X never gave myself any trouble, and I did as much business in ten minutes as the others did for the four hours of school. But when I knew that I was a g'enius, it was then indeed I took matters easy. Yes, sir, the master, the neighbours, STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. the gentlemen of the town who examined me, said so to my father ; and the poor dear man did not know himself for joy at having a son a genius. u Although I did not very clearly know what a genius was, I was a good deal puffed up with the idea of being one, and on that account took things easily at school, learning only now and then when in the humour, but in the main passing ahead of my schoolfellows. At the last public examination I went through before leaving school, I distinguished myself by my answering ; and the master said to me, c You will get on, however little you may work/ “ M. Imbert, who was present at the examination, took me home with him according to promise, and thus was I most advan- tageously placed for making my way in the world. I was at first delighted at the thought of becoming an architect, so much the more as M. Imbert was goodness itself, and took great interest in me : but at the end of a year I had got enough of it. I felt a great desire to try something else. M. Imbert began to see my indifference, or rather my unwillingness, to stick steadily to his business. He remonstrated and scolded in a way far from pleasant. ‘ Jacque/ said he, c I am afraid you will never do any g-ood — Jack-of-all-trades, and master of none/ Tired of this sort of dog-life, and with a mind to be a soldier, I was more than half-pleased when I was drawn by the conscription. My parents, as you may well believe, were greatly grieved at it ; but so was not I. Ah, sir, at that time the uniform was so handsome ! and I, a youngster, already saw myself a captain, colonel, general, and what not beside. I seemed as if I had nothing to do but to put my foot in the stirrup. There were a great many raw recruits like myself, but then I had received a better education than most of them.” u Well, I hope you did your duty as a soldier?” observed M. Grand ville. II. u You shall hear,” proceeded Den oyer. u On entering* the army, I soon found that all is not gold that glitters. It is one thing to idle about the streets in a gaudy uniform, and another to endure fatigue, wounds, and starvation. The Russian cam- paign was destined to give me a trial of soldiering. I passed three months with the depot of the regiment, which was quar- tered in the environs of Mayence, on this side of the Rhine. I was one of five or six hundred recruits who were drilled every day, and all day long. I knew my business as well in a fort- night as the oldest veteran ; and our officers took notice of me already, and predicted that I should have epaulettes at the end of the campaign. As I wrote a good hand, and spelt well, my sergeant-major intrusted me with his business, which I per- STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. formed whilst he was amusing himself at Baden, on the other side of the Rhine ; and that obtained me some kindnesses on his part. “At this time my passion for books was stronger than ever. As one was never out of my hand, I passed for a very learned man, which did not at all make me a favourite with my com- rades, or even with our officers. For then, sir, people did not think so much of men of education as they do now. What is more, the emperor himself, great man as he w’as, did not much like his soldiers to be readers. All he wanted was, to see them do his bidding’ ; and he was furious at the notion of any one thinking for himself. Well, the order arrived for us to repair to Hamburg, to rejoin the Mareclial Davoust, Prince of Eckmiihl. Then we went through Prussia and Poland, and stood fire for the first time at Mohilow. Look, sir, one who has not seen a battle, and a battle like that, where nine of our cavalry regiments were cut in pieces, can scarcely estimate the truth of the Spanish pro- verb, c War is the feast of death.’ Surely it is the feast of wolves. I felt that day my blood boiling in my veins, and yet my courage was more in exercise in subsequent battles than on that day of Mohilow. Then I was like one drunk or mad, but afterwards I -knew the danger. “ I will say nothing, sir, of our horrible retreat, nor of the passage of the Berezina. It has been related by others in their books much better than I could do it. Surely the horrors of that time were sufficient to open the eyes of those who think that to turn the earth into a slaughter-house, and men into butchers of each other, is heroism ? If in every war the Chinese saying comes true — I long ago met with it in a book, when I didn’t believe it ; now I do — ‘ The most brilliant victory is only the light of a conflagration, which the tears of suffering humanity slakes into a smoke, the faithful emblem of its miscalled gloiy’ — if this be true of every war, what must be said of the horrors of this disastrous epoch, in which we had to contend at once with men, the elements — earth and heaven ? There are still times, sir, when I start up in my sleep, when in my dreams I am again in the midst of these terrors. No words could place before you the sufferings, physical and moral, then endured. All social ties were broken. Hunger, devouring hunger, reduced us to the brutal instinct of self-preservation ; while, like savages, the strongest despoiled the weakest. They rushed round the dying, and frequently waited not for their last breath ; and if some preserved enough of good in them to consult their own safety without injuring others, yet their virtue, save in some few rare instances, went no farther. Leader or comrade fell by our side, and we passed by him without moving a step out of our way, for fear of prolonging our journey, or even turning our head ; for our beard and our hair were stiffened by the ice, and every motion was pain. Often have I seen real tears of blood flowing from 4 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. eyes inflamed by the continual sight of the snow and the smoke of the bivouacs ; and then the poor creatures fell upon their knees, and then upon their hands — their heads moved for a little alter- nately to the right and left — some faint cries of agony escaped from their open mouth — at last they fell on the snow, and died. I saw, but even did not pity them ; for what had they lost by dying? u At Youpranoiii, the same village where the emperor only missed by an hour being taken by the Russian partisan Lesiawin, the soldiers burnt the houses completely as they stood, merely to warm themselves for a few minutes. The light of these fires attracted some of these miserable wretches, whom the excessive severity of the cold and their sufferings had rendered delirious ; they ran in like madmen, and gnashing their teeth, and laugh- ing like demons, threw themselves into these furnaces, where they perished in the most horrible convulsions. Their famished companions regarded them undismayed ; there was even some who drew out these bodies from the flames, and it is but too true that they ventured to pollute their mouths with this loathsome food ! But I must not talk any more of that dreadful time. u Only a few thousands, as you know, lived to come back to France. I was one of them ; but I was worn out, and having been badly wounded, I got my discharge. It was some time before I was like my former self, and had quite enough of mili- tary affairs. Instead of returning to Troyes a great general, I crawled into it a beggar. The hopes of returning to the house of my poor dear father had very much helped to keep me alive ; and what, therefore, was my distress of mind when I found that the good man was dead! M. Imbert, my former master, had left the country. My poor old mother, almost blind, was living in loneliness and poverty ; she who had always been so comfortably off. My return to her, sir, was truly a scene. We spent the first day weeping for our country, my father, and ourselves. The next day we began to try what I could do to earn bread ; but, alas ! everywhere an apprenticeship was necessary, even for six months ; and my mother had almost nothing more to sell, and there were two to be maintained now. “ For the thousandth time I was sorry for having been a genius. I wished I had been a plain blockhead, with only as much sense as could have learned a handicraft ; for now I should have been above starvation. I considered myself the most unlucky dog in existence ; I felt, as it were, that my education had been my ruin.” u Stop, J acque, I cannot agree to your reasoning,”* said M. Grandville. “ Nothing is wanting to him who has a determined purpose, who applies all the energy of his will, and steadily per- severes in the same object ; that is to say, he has an end, a single end, to which his every action, his every thought, refers.” u Well, sir, I had one. All my actions, and all my thoughts, STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. were occupied with my mother. I wished with all my heart to deliver her from poverty, and to make some provision for her old age, and I could hardly succeed in keeping her from absolute want. The rich, sir, little know how hard it is for poor people to gain a livelihood.” “ I know it, and that better than most people, Jacque Denoyer. If I now enjoy a competence, I only owe it to my perseverance in the profession my father obliged me to embrace against my will, and from which all my tastes revolted. But, like you, I had an aged and infirm mother, with no other support but my- self ; and, more than you, I had a sister also to provide for. My mother lived to a great age, surrounded with all the comforts of life. She had seen my sister and myself well settled, and she died in the midst of her grandchildren, blessing us with the fondest affection.” Jacque Denoyer made a motion as if going to rise ; he appeared greatly moved ; but remained in his place. u Sir,” said he, after a moment’s pause, u my mother blessed me also ! Notwithstanding, she died with great grief at heart ; she knew not what would become of me ; and in fact I knew not myself. I wished much to leave the town ; for in Troyes our equals had seen us well off and well clothed, and I was then so wretched. M. Deschamps, a solicitor, whom I knew by name, was at this time in want of a trustworthy man to carry money to Bar-upon-Seine. Some one mentioned me to him. He w'ould only pay my expenses there, but not back. I did not care for that, as I did not intend returning to the town. I knew that my mother had a brother who was living in the environs of Bar-upon-Seine, so I resolved to go to him. I knew of no other relation in the world, and so I set out. Ah, sir, my heart failed me when leaving Troyes! I had nobody belonging to me but this uncle, and if he did not devise some plan, what was to become of me ? u An excellent man, sir, was my uncle ; every one knew Father Mercier, for so he was styled, for the circuit of ten leagues round. He was considered a very learned man, having studied with the view of becoming a priest before the great Devo- lution ; and so much the more, as he had been professor of the French tongue at Bar-upon-Seine for some time. But for ten years he had lived quietly at Landreville, where he had opened a little school for children. He had no children, and his wife was dead; but Toinette Lerouge, his stepdaughter, lived with him. “ I was received like a son, sir ; and at the end of a week my uncle said to me, 1 If you will marry Toinette, I will make you my heir. The house and garden are not very large, but they are entirely my own. You know- enough to keep school and Toinette aiso, for she takes my place when I go to the mayor- alty to copy deeds. The mayor is fond of us ; for my sake he STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. will employ you when I am unable to work ; and if, my chil- dren, you do but put your minds to the work, things will go on well . 7 To say the truth, Toinette pleased me greatly ; she was neat and pretty, active at her work, and always in good-humour. The only thing I have never repented of in my life is having taken her for a wife. Yes, sir, if it was to do over again, I would do it again. I say so to her every day ; and I have said so to her at a time when we were so unhappy, that the greatest favour the good God would have done us would have been to take us out of this world. “We were now married. I became a schoolmaster, and filled my uncle’s place at the mayoralty. It appeared to me most strange at first, being obliged to bear so patiently with this little noisy set ; I who had been in the habit of seeing such strict discipline. I felt greatly displeased at it. There was one point upon which my uncle and I never could agree — it was upon education. He maintained that knowledge should be diffused as much as possible ; that we French were in this respect behind every other civilised nation ; that it was shameful to find so few knowing either how to read or write ; and that the ignorance of the people was in a great measure the cause of their wretched condition. But, sir, I maintained the contrary. My uncle tried to persuade me that my arguments came from a spirit of contra- diction ; that though I had lost my time, and was ready for everything, but good for nothing, the fault lay not in my read- ing and writing, but in my character — my love of change, and want of steady application, and many other things which I do not remember. Nor was my employer the mayor behind- hand in his arguments on the same subject. “ One day in particular, after having read me a lecture of an hour long, he said to me — ‘ Listen, Denoyer ; I will put a case to you which you will understand, since you have read scientific books, and have been in chemical laboratories. Let us suppose that you, an ignorant man, wished to make use of instruments which you have seen produce marvellous things in the hands of chemists and natural philosophers — what would happen? Not knowing how to make use of them, you would burst the retorts ; you would break the instruments ; you would hurt yourself, and indignantly exclaim, u All this is good for nothing' but to waste time and maim people . 77 But if you have lost your time and maimed yourself, is it the fault of the instruments or of those who make them work wonders, or rather yours, who do not know how to use them ? 7 u That was a famous argument, sir , 77 said Jacque Denoyer. u And what answer did you make to the mayor ? 77 demanded M. Grandville, smiling. u I do not remember, sir. I was more ready with an an- swer then than I am now. But the mayor, without yielding an inch of ground, said to me, i Well, Denoyer, both at school STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. and at M. Imbert’s you were given instruments whicli you did not know how to make use of, because you did not wish to do so. Knowing how to read, write, cipher, and draw, would have enabled you, with the advice of M. Imbert, to become a distinguished man, no matter in what career, if you had been resolved to work ; but you were not so resolved. Then M. Im- bert was glad to get rid of you, and let you go off as a soldier. In the regiment, your knowledge was of some little use to you ; but you did not try to increase it — to extend it — the only means of rendering it profitable. On your return, if you had not known how to read or write, you would not have been able to support your mother, not having any trade at your lingers’-ends ; for with your head, if even you had not known how to read or write, for all that you would not have been a stone-cutter, like your father, and you would not now be a schoolmaster. Your know- ledge, however slight it may be, has been of some use to you in the regiment, at Troyes, and here ; it is not that, therefore, which has injured you, but your not knowing how to make use of it — your carelessness, and the changeableness of your dispo- sition, which you have never endeavoured to overcome.’ This was very hard to hear, sir,” continued Jacque Denoyer. u Hap- pily, the mayor only spoke thus to me when we were alone together. I felt at times that he was right, but I asked myself afterwards — Who will answer for it, but that many of my pupils will be like myself? Instead of following a good trade, they will employ their time now at one thing and now at another ; and that in the end they also will only arrive at being ready for everything, and good for nothing. And then scruples of con- science arose, and I felt that, by instructing them, I was not well employed, because I was not at all persuaded of the utility of the instruction that I was giving them. However, sir, things went on pretty well till the death of my uncle ; then my disgust increased so very much, that I wandered all day like a troubled spirit. Toinette anxiously inquired what was the matter with me. Ah ! Toinette is a woman of sense, and of a kind heart. She entered into my scruples, and said to me, c Jacque, you must not follow a profession which troubles your conscience. See what you would like to undertake. Even if you should wish to quit the country, I am ready to go with you.’ She spoke to the mayor, who was kind enough to write to some person of his acquaintance at Bar- upon- Seine. This person procured me a place as overseer in the paper factory of M. Bonchamp. We bade adieu to Landreville, after having sold our house and gar- den ; and I went to reside with Toinette and Pierre, our first- born, at M. Bonchamp’s, at Bar-upon-Seine. u I should only tire you were I to tell you how from M. Bonchamp I went to M. Laville, from M. Laville to M. Blanche, from M. Blanche to M. Lafond, and from that to I know not how many places. I could not stay long anywhere.” a STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. “ How came that?” asked M. Grandville, who had listened to Jacque Denoyer with much interest. “ 1 do not know, sir ; if it was not that, continually thinking, in spite of myself, of what the mayor had said to me, I wished to make up for lost time, and laboured to increase my knowledge, so as to render me decidedly good for something. But I was discouraged at seeing how many things I had to learn ; and I thought that it was henceforth too late to become a really well- informed or good workman. Once discouraged, I neglected my duty, and thus got myself discharged. “ At first every one was good enough to be astonished at the quantity of things I knew ; at my finding a remedy for every- thing ; at my being able to supply, by my own invention, any- thing wanting in the workshops and in the house. But astonish- ment and praise were soon succeeded by their getting tired of the interruptions thus occasioned to that part of the business committed to me. They first became exacting, and then unjust. Ah, sir ! why did I learn to read and write ? Why was I not all my life a good workman, like my father ? An excellent man he was ! He never opened a book in his life, nor my mother either.” “And does Toinette know how to read and write?” inquired M. Grandville. “ Yes, sir, and to write also very nicely. At one time that, finding nothing to do, I left Bar-upon-Seine as a carrier, she took it into her head to open a class for little girls. During the two years I was absent, she earned enough to be enabled to show me, on my return, my three children comfortably clothed, and some articles of furniture in the house which was not there when I went away.” “ Was it you that prevented her from continuing it ?” “No, sir; it was the government. Toinette had no diploma, and you must have one to keep a school ; and she was not learned enough to pass an examination.” “ If you .had remained at Landreville,” said M. Grandville, “ could you have succeeded your uncle as schoolmaster?” “ Yes, sir ; thanks to the patronage of the mayor, who would have given me a diploma.” “ And would Toinette have been able to keep the class in your iabsence ? ” “ Without the least difficulty, sir.” “Jacque Denoyer,” said M. Grandville in a serious tone, “re- flect, I beg of you, on all you have just been telling me ; then de- cide yourself whose fault it has been if your lot, and that of your wife and children, have been marked by misfortune. By your own avowal Toinette is almost as well educated as yourself, and her knowledge, far from being injurious to her, has been useful both to herself and young family. How comes it, then, that what has, as you say, been utterly useless to you, has been to her a means of livelihood?” STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. Jacque Denoyer regarded M. Grandville with an air of as- tonishment, as he answered, “ I cannot tell, sir, and I have never thought of this difference.” “ Do think of it, I beg of you,” said M. Grandville, rising. “ When you have found out the cause of this difference, we will have another talk about it.” Jacque Denoyer rose with his master, and bowing respect- fully, returned to the garden. III. On entering the garden, J acque found that his children were employed with their mother in weeding the borders. He passed by them without speaking’, and taking his ladder and pruning- knife, went to tie up and dress the vine, which was beginning to shoot. As he worked, the mind of J acque Denoyer was occupied with more serious reflections than he had ever had in his life. For a moment a blush overspread his countenance, as he felt how in- ferior he was in all points to his courageous Toinette, who had never desponded as he had done, and who had contrived, with the little knowledge she possessed, to give bread to her children, and even to her husband. How was it that, endowed with many advantages, and aided by almost every one he met, he had all his life remained in ob- scurity and even in indigence, whilst many of his old companions, much less gifted by nature, and less favoured by circumstances, had contrived to gain, if not a competence, at least a livelihood ? How was it that he always found himself ready for everything, and good for nothing ? But it was in vain that Jacque Denoyer put these questions to himself for nearly two hours that day ; he could not solve the enigma. In the evening, when the children were in bed, Jacque Denoyer and Toinette found themselves alone together, as they usually were at the close of each day. * Living happily together, they sat up a little late at night, either to converse, or because Jacque had some interesting book to read to Toinette whilst she was at her work, “ What is the matter with you this evening ? ” inquired Toinette of her husband, seeing him dull and absent. “ Are you already dissatisfied with this place?” added she with inquietude. “If I were dissatisfied here,” replied Jacque, continuing to straighten the teeth of his rake, “ I should be unworthy of so good a master — a master who gives one such good advices.” “ What has he said to you?” “ Said ! Nothing at all. He wants me to tell him the reason of something, and I cannot find out the reason.” “The reason of what?” 10 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. “ The reason why I am ready for everything*, and g*ood for nothing*. I have been torturing* my brain the whole day. Sometimes I think I have the reason, and then I say, No, it is not that. It certainly was not self-conceit ; for though everybody told me I was a genius, I never believed it ; nor did I ever refuse any work that was offered to me, no matter of what kind. Nor was it ambition ; for, on the contrary, I have always regretted not having learned my father’s trade ; and I never aspired to more than to be able to support thee, Toinette, and to bring up our children properly ; and surely that was but my duty V 7 “ Did you tell him your story l 79 “ He obliged me to do so ; and now he cannot be made to believe that it was having learned to read and write that made me ready for everything, and good for nothing, as the mayor used to say ; and these words, which he repeated over and over again, seem to me ever flashing before me.” There was a few moments’ silence. “ Did M. Grandville say anything* abotit our children ? 77 said Toinette. “ Very little ; but I foresee that very soon he will be urging me to send them to school.” “ Well, and what will you do ?” inquired Toinette, after a little hesitation. “ Listen to me, Toinette,” replied Jacque Denoyer. “I have continually in my mind a thought of Rousseau, which struck me as so beautiful, that I have learned it by heart, and I repeat it to myself twenty times a-day : — ‘ Ignorance never does harm : error alone is fatal : and we do not go astray because we do not know, but because we fancy we know.’” “I am not learned enough,” replied Toinette, “to explain to you what seems to me absurd in this thought, apparently so beautiful. There is something* in it which I cannot get down. After all, it is a false position ; for surely he w'ho does not know the road from this to Troyes will go astray as soon as he who thinks he knows it, yet does not know it.” “ Yes, Toinette ; but he who does not know the road will ask it, and be told : he who fancies he knows it will not ask, and will go astray.” “That is all very fine, Jacque; but there is something not quite clear in it. It seems to me like something that looks true at first, but is not at all so in the end. I grant that only to know things by halves, and to believe that we know them, may lead us to commit folly ; but to know nothing at all ” “Is much better,” cried Jacque Denoyer, “because then one will inquire.” “ I have my doubts of that. Ignorant people are the worst off. They doubt nothing*, and they go straight before them, without disturbing themselves about where they are going.” “ As for me, I am not of your opinion, Toinette. If I had not STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. fancied I knew, I should not have missed my way as I have done, but should have arrived at something* ; and lest my children should do the same, I am determined that they shall remain in ignorance.” “ And become drunkards, and bad characters ; for what else can they then be?” exclaimed Toinette warmly. “ Ah, Jacque, Jacque! when my poor stepfather reproached you for having a spirit of contradiction, was he far from wrong? Whose is the fault, yours or your masters’, if the instruction which they have given you has not been of any use to you ? ” “ Come, here you are, like M. Grandville, demanding the why of the thing.” “ Not only do I ask you,” continued Toinette, “but I will tell you, if you like.” “ Oh, indeed you would do me a great service.” “Well,” cried Toinette, becoming more and more animated, “ I will only repeat what Father Mercier, worthy man, has said to me hundreds and hundreds of times with regard to you — i When a man goes through life without an aim, he travels far, and never arrives.’” “Oh!” exclaimed Jacque Denoyer, “there is, nevertheless, a place at which we all arrive, and that is the grave.” “Yes, undoubtedly,” replied Toinette; “but we arrive there more or less creditably according as we have ill or well dis- charged our duties in this world ; and it is the duty of every one so to conduct himself as to be useful to himself and others.” “ So then you mean to say that all that was wanting* to me to succeed was a steady purpose?” “ I only say,” replied Toinette, “ that we poor people, whose only wealth is in our labour, must have a trade.” “ Is not that the very thing I say ? ” “ Have a moment’s patience. It is true we must have a trade. But during those years in which we are not able to do much, it is well for our parents to have schools to send us to. Here we acquire, whilst young, the love and the habit of industry; we obtain the means of employing* hereafter our leisure hours in acquiring, without leaving our trade, knowledge relative to that trade, which will enable us to distinguish ourselves afterwards from workmen of the same kind ” “Unless, indeed,” added Jacque Denoyer, “that our only ob- ject is to amuse ourselves, and that we read simply for the pleasure of reading, like some one we know. You guess whom I mean?” Toinette was silent, and hung down her head over her work. Jacque Denoyer w*as silent also. What his wife had just been saying gave him much food for thought. In spite of himself, he felt not only that she might be right, but that she was right. Jacque Denoyer passed for a very learned man in the villag*e of Juilly le Chatel, only about a mile distant from the house of 12 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. M. Grandville ; and to say the truth, he knew a great variety of things, but, as has been seen, it did not make him wiser or richer, simply because in his youth, in spite of the advice of M. Imbert, who would gladly have pushed him on in the world, he had neither a determined aim nor perseverance enough to follow it. The day after his conversation with Toinette, Jacque Denoyer went to the orchard of old Thomas for some graffs, and as he went along, he thought of what his wife had said to him the evening before. “ Well, I really believe my wife has found out the answer to this droll sort of enigma,” said he to himself. u I see the thing which is meant. It is to have some distinct aim or end in view', and to bring the will to bear on it, so as not to fall through by the way. A very good idea this, no doubt ; but what can a poor fellow like me have to do with an aim or a will ?” And that in- ward voice, which seldom deceives us, answ r ered — “ Every man, having a will, may give himself an aim, and, by the persevering exertion of that will, he may reach it sooner or later.” Jacque Denoyer at this moment arrived at old Thomas’s door, and im- mediately entered the house. u You have come just in the nick of time,” said he. u Look ! here is a packet of papers which I have just received, and which I cannot read, for I am not more learned to-day, as far as reading goes, than I w*as in my cradle. Ah, if there had been a school in the village in my time, as there is now ! Decipher that for me, if you please. Well, I am determined nothing shall be spared in the education of my boy. I have charged the schoolmaster to give him extra lessons if necessary. I wish him to know how to read and write like a notary, even though I may have nothing to put by at the end of the year. Yes, Master Denoyer, not to know how to read or write is to be at the mercy of everybody — of the bad as well as the good, and there are but too many of the former. Education is a real treasure — it is useful everywhere, and at every age.” Amongst the papers that Jacque Denoyer was given to read, there were letters which gave great pleasure to old Thomas. “ Why do I not know how to write ! ” cried he ; “ I would inyself answer my old masters, who are so kind to our children.” u I will answer for you, if you like,” said J acque Denoyer. “ Ah, that is delightful ! You will do me a great service.” When the answers were finished, Jacque Denoyer read them out to old Thomas, who appeared at once pleased and dissatisfied. “ It is very well said,” exclaimed he ; “ much better than I could say it myself ; and yet, after all, Master Denoyer, it is not what I feel here” — and he laid his hand upon his heart — “no, nor exactly what I am thinking of here” — and he touched his forehead. “ It seems to me like another language ; but for all that, I am just as much obliged to you.” Returning home, Jacque Denoyer could not help thinking of STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. what Thomas had just been saying, and for the first time it occurred to him that persons who did not know how to read or write # were much to be pitied, that they were in the hands of others, and that, even with the best possible intentions, no one, when answering for them, could make them speak as they them- selves would speak. To this thought succeeded many others. At last Jacque De- noyer asked himself if he would wish to deprive his children of a knowledge the value of which he himself had felt so many times? — if he could condemn them to remain all their life in ignorance ? — if, in short, he would not be delivering them, bound hand and foot, to be imposed on by every quack, knave, and im- postor, at a time when means of instruction were held out on every side — at a time when men of intellect, the friends of human nature, were endeavouring, like the genial light of heaven, to dispel the clouds of ignorance, looking upon them as charged with every evil which can afflict mankind ? “ Yes; but, but ” said Jacque Den oyer, remembering the use he had made of his natural and acquired powers. For a moment he was ready to reproach his parents, his masters, and M. Xmbert, for not having been more strict with him ; but then he felt that he could blame no one but himself for not having become what he might have been. He had got enough of warning. “ We shall see,” said he, opening* the little garden gate. Some minutes after, he was at his work, and, with all the address of a first-rate gardener, was ingrafting* what he had brought from his old friend’s orchard. IY. u Sir,” said Jacque Denoyer to his master, who had stopped to look at his work, u surely no one would be in want if, as you and my wife Toinette wish to persuade me, it were enough to have an aim and a will ; for, after all, sir, the aim of every one is to gain a livelihood, and to live as well as possible.” u Undoubtedly,” replied M. Grandville. u But if a man’s will is less determined after the first few steps ; if he wavers at the first obstacles, and then turns aside to some path that appears to him more easy, and then again to another, and so on to the end ; that is to say, till he is no longer able to put one leg before , the other, he will certainly have travelled far, but without arriving anywhere ; and this is the history of more than three-fourths of mankind. The man, on the contrary, who has a determined aim and a firm will, does every day what ought to be done to attain this end : it is the one object of his thoughts. He does not permit circumstances, which have more or less influence over his lot, to discourage him. The path he has taken is the one which will conduct him to his end. He follows it obstinately, or rather perseveringly. The strength of his will sustains him. He closes 14 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. his ear to indolence as to the instigations of self-love. He makes use of his acquired knowledge to smooth the difficulties which he meets, and, distrustful of himself, keeps strict guard over him- self. If circumstances not to be controlled oblige him to change his path, he still carries with him, into his new career, the same courage, the same perseverance, till the end — which man, born to labour and to suffer, ought to place before him — is attained ; that is, till he arrives at the end of his career, without having been burdensome to any one, and after having been useful to those depending on him.” “It is quite true,” said Jacque Den oyer, shaking his head; “I must grant that ; but it is very difficult, sir, especially when one is young. ” “Jacque Denoyer, it is as the twig is bent the tree is inclined. It is in youth man receives those impressions, and that happy or unfortunate direction, the impress and feeling of which he pre- serves ail his life. We ought constantly to repeat to the child an aim and a will, and constantly point out to him that, without an aim and without a will, man is nothing, does nothing, and will attain to nothing. The trade, profession, or calling, is but the means of arriving at an end. But these means are all-powerful, if we perseveringly use them — if we endeavour to carry them out to the utmost extent. You must not fancy, Jacque, that after a cer- tain age it is not possible to acquire this will, in which consists all our strength. In youth, in order to form a will, we must obey. In riper age, in order to give ourselves a will, we need only will. You, for example, Jacque, have lost the season of your youth, and many opportunities which were presented to you ; now you can take warning by your past errors. Know how to will, and you and your family will enjoy the only true happiness which exists here below. Have a firm will, and you will employ your already-acquired knowledge in acquiring more. Books will give you new ideas on gardening. Books will place before you all that refers to the care required by that most noble and useful of animals — the horse. You will learn to improve my fruit and kitchen gardens. You will multiply the horses of the Norman breed that I have just got. By increasing your master’s revenue, you will enable him to do much more for you than his present fortune would permit. Your children will be brought up in the house. They will choose a trade ; they shall be assisted in their apprentice fee, and aided in their establishment when they arrive at a proper age. Toinette and you, grown old in my service, will find protectors for your old age, and friends for your boys, in my children when I am no more. Behold the end, Jacque! Now your own will is all that is wanting.” As he pronounced these words, M. Grandville went away and continued his walk. “The worthy man!” said Jacque Denoyer, gazing after him for some time ; then drying his moistened eyelids with the back 15 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. of his hand, began to cut the tree which he had just grafted, u If every one would speak in that way/ 7 added Jacque Denoyer,. u we should know the reason of things, and then they would become easy. Come, courage! The end is there, as M. Grand- ville said ; now only the will is wanting, and, with God’s help, it shall not be long so. 77 M. Grandville was kind enough often to converse with liis gardener. Their conversation always turned upon serious sub- jects — such, for instance, as the direction to be given to that early education which commences, if we may so speak, from the cradle ; and upon the profit which men may derive from the happy and unhappy circumstances which mark the course of a long life. “ In whatever condition our lot may be cast, 77 said M. Grand- ville one day, “ we shall always be able to get on if we have an aim and a will ; and we shall always be respectable if we respect ourselves, and if the seeds of a pure morality have been developed in our heart. Yes, Denoyer, I am, as you have been told, the son of a peasant ; and, thank God, I have never been foolish enough to be ashamed of it. A kind patron did for me what M. Imbert wished to do for you. Like you, I distinguished myself at the school where he had placed me. He was a notary at Bar-upon-Seine. He brought me home with him, and made me work in his study, which did not please me at all. He perceived my repugnance, and said to me, ‘ Grandville, now that you have received a certain education, and acquired a taste for a higher grade of life, you will find it hard to resign yourself to merely following* the plough. If the profession of the law does not suit you, look well around you, and see what you would wish to embrace ; but once having decided, let nothing induce you to change. Your father cannot leave you anything ; your mother is getting old ; you have a sister. If I am pleased with you, I will do more for you than you hope. Reflect, consider ; consult your father, and decide. 7 u I consulted my father; I reflected; I weighed the matter, 57 continued M. Grandville; u and courageously I laid aside those books of science which had made me so happy, and surrounded myself only with law books. At my hours of recreation only I studied botany and natural history, of which I was passionately fond, and I often said to myself, How happy the rich must be! They can read whatever they like, and have cabinets full of curiosities out of the three kingdoms of nature. Then I little suspected that books and knowledge are less valued by the rich than might be expected. But I knew by experience that books and scientific pursuits ought only to be used as a recreation by him who must have a profession, and that his daily studies ought to have reference only to that profession. At the time of the Revo- lution of 1789, for I date very far back, 77 continued M. Grandville, smiling, u I was the head clerk of M. Delaroche. This good old man perished in a riot, on account of the high price of corn. All Prance was fearfully convulsed. The notaries, with whom were 16 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. deposited the title-deeds of the nobility and the principal inhabi- tants of the provinces, ran g*reat risks. Mademoiselle Delaroche,. whom I was to marry, was obliged to take refuge with her rela- tions ; and I, after having by her desire collected all the most valuable papers which were in the study, retired to my father’s * and my lirst care on arriving there was to bury the title-deeds which I had saved under the floor of our cabin. The hor- rible tempest, in which so many families and properties were wrecked, ceased at last; order was beginning to be re-estab- lished ; peace and calm again returned ; and there were no more proscriptions. Some even dared to claim their rights, and re- gain their properties ; and the head clerk of M. Delaroche, up- held by public esteem, became a notary in his turn. Then it was that I felt happy at having overcome my youthful repugnance to the profession. I was able to offer a home to my aged parents and my sister. The comforts by which they were surrounded were all the fruit of my labour. Soon after, Heaven blessed my union with Adelaide; my sister married a rich farmer of Buseuil ; and at last the moment arrived when, without neglecting my business, and without extravagance, I could have a library com- posed of my favourite books. I also had a cabinet of specimens of natural history; a hortus siccus, shells, birds stuffed by my own hands ; and, to my great happiness, I soon was in corres- pondence with learned men, who condescended to think me worthy of sharing the pleasure of their discoveries. My son has as little taste as myself for the profession of the law. My fortune enabling me to allow him to choose, he became a physician ; and, residing at Paris, he has distinguished himself amongst the learned men of that great city. He is a member of several learned societies, and will one day perhaps be in the Academy. But, like his father, his daily studies have reference to the profession he has embraced ; so that his name is already celebrated in the annals of medicine. I can only repeat to you, Denoyer — an aim and a will ! With these you may attain to anything.” u Yes, sir, when one is young,” replied the gardener sighing; “ but at my age, and when one has wasted time and fair oppor- tunities ” u The loss of time and fair opportunities is irreparable, is irre- mediable,” replied M. Grandville. “ You have now no other re- source but to resign yourself to the obscure path which you have chalked out for yourself ; but you may still, as I have already told you, render yourself useful to your master, and labour for your children’s future good. It alone depends on you, Deno3^er, not to be an ordinary gardener or groom. Study! Give but very little, indeed, of your time to books of mere amusement, that your children, guided by your example, may early wish to have an aim — may early feel the power of perseverance. If they are destined only for labourers, you will have at least the certainty that they will be good workmen, good characters, and happy STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. men. Good conduct always carries its reward with it; and the well-merited esteem of honest people lighten, even to the very poorest, the burden of each day. You will find it in your turn, Denoyer. You will then understand that in every rank general esteem may be obtained; and you will find that this general esteem is, to the man who possesses it, the best earthly source of innocent pleasure and moral strength.” How far Jacque Denoyer profited by the lessons of M. Grand- viile may be judged of by his words to his son. u I was nearly forty years old when I entered his service ; and at forty I was fit for everything,- and good for nothing ; and so true is this, that had not M. Grandville taken pity on us, and received us into his house, we should have all died of hunger. His kindness did not stop there; he made me examine my past conduct — he showed me that to change one’s mind at every moment, if we may so speak, and to have no decided opinion, is the defect of persons w'ho suffer themselves to be governed by passion rather than by reason ; a defect which leaves them all their lives like so many grown children, and which proceeds from the want of the habit of re- flecting upon what they see, and upon what they ought to do. It is in youth that this habit must be acquired ; and then it becomes a safeguard against the commission of folly at an age when folly is inexcusable. Thus he taught me to reflect before I acted ; and only from this day out was I a man. My son, an aim and a will, never forget that it is this which makes the man, which prevents him from being burdensome to any one, and which ren- ders him useful to himself and to those who depend on him. You may one day be a father in your turn. Let your children learn from you what you now learn from me — that in order to attain the desired end, you must not wander from the path opened to 3 r ou by your parents or friends ; but that, on the contrary, you must concentrate on this one point all your faculties and all your powers : you must it nil one thing , and will it perseveringly.” STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. SECOND STORY. I. In the city of Nancy, in Lorraine, a district in the east of France, bordering on Germany, some time ago lived Hans Keller, a German by birth, who, after having spent some part of his life as a pedler, settled, with his wife Theresa, and his little daughter Florence. The family was obscure, and had few friends, but those who knew them respected them for their industry. By many they would have been considered poor ; but poor is a wrong 10 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. term to apply to persons who w'ork for their living 1 , and owe no man anything. When Hans first settled in Nancy, he was doubtful of w'hafc means he should resort to for a living, and he unfortunately, from the effects of rheumatism, was unable to undertake any very active pursuit. Where, however, there is a wfill, there is a way ; and those who maintain a good character have seldom any difficulty in getting some one to help them forward. Hans could sew well, and so could his wife Theresa ; to this accom- plishment, therefore, they resolved, after some consideration, to look for subsistence. Making his desires known to a merchant with whom he formerly had dealings, he was recommended to a tailor as being* an honest man, and from this person he and Theresa received employment. They w^ere not, to be sure, in- trusted with the principal articles of attire ; but although they confined themselves to the sewing of vests, and other light articles, they found in that a means of decent livelihood. Hans, as a German, knew the value of education, and he ac- cordingly took care, even by pinching himself of comforts, to give his daughter Florence a little schooling. When we say that, with this good end in view, he actually gave up smoking — a great sacrifice for a German — any one can judge of his anxiety to get his daughter forward. u Who knows,” said he to his wife, u but Florence may one day be a credit to us. At all events, if she is not educated, she must be a drudge all the days of her existence, and I am determined to give her a chance of being something better than I am. Nothing like looking a little up- ward. Those who look down, run their head into the mire.” Theresa, a lively Frenchwoman, had an immense reverence for Hans’s understanding, and cordially agreed in these wise observations. Hans, accordingly, had his daughter taught reading and writing at school, and he himself took pains to in- struct her in arithmetic. - He also spoke to her in German, so that, when only eight years of age, Florence spoke and read German and French with equal fluency. Florence was a promising child, and took so readily to learn- ing, that it was a pleasure to instruct her. Many a happy day did the father pass at his work, with his child by his side, con- versing with her ; telling her some of his old-w T orld stories, or sounding the depths of her arithmetic lore, or trying to astonish her with the exhibition of his, by asking her to write for him in figures eleven thousand eleven hundred and eleven. The little girl tried till her father’s smile told her she had succeeded. She had learned to sew, and thus was able to help her parents in their work ; and by degrees occupations grew upon her, for, gentle and obliging, all her neighbours came to her to write letters for them to their friends, and in the evening she taught some children to read whom employment in the day prevented attending school. Every spare moment she had, she gave to any books she could STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. borrow from a neighbour, or buy for the very few pence it ever was her lot to possess. II. The time at length came when Florence required to go out into the world, and the question was debated what she should be. She was quite ready to do anything that her parents suggested. “ Fll tell you what you must be,” said Hans to her one day; “ you must go as an apprentice to a mantuamaker. That is a respectable business ; and if you conduct yourself well, and show good taste, there is no fear of you.” Florence was delighted. She was apprenticed to a lady ; but it was only as an out-door apprentice, and she still lived at home. The duties of this situation were irksome ; but what line of life has not its petty troubles ? And the mind which shrinks from facing these troubles is g’ood for very little. One of Flo- rence’s troubles was the poverty of her attire : the other appren- tices affected to keep aloof from her on account of her not being so genteel as they were. Florence was fortunately able to dis- regard this silliness, and by her obliging and mild disposition made herself friends. Besides, she did not care much for keeping company with the giddy girls, her fellow-apprentices. Her resources for recreation were happily confined to a quiet walk with her parents, and a book. Had she had but a guide or encouragement — any one to put useful books into her hands — how profitable might have been her love for books! Nevertheless, under any circumstances, that love is a benefit. But whatever might have been the extent of the cultivation of her mental faculties, her affections had been fully developed ; for in her home, poor as it was, reigned love, and peace, and family harmony. Poverty was not rendered doubly bitter by that which makes the stalled ox a far worse portion than the dinner of herbs where love is. Florence had not to witness the mutual reproach, the angry taunt, that is too often the salutation or the welcome of the endurers of the same hardships. She had never to crouch beneath the rude rough blow, too often the only mode known to the poor man of disciplining his child — a mode debasing alike to both. Her principles, too, were gradually forming. From earliest childhood she had seen temperance, persevering industry, and strict honesty, and knew that the sure ground, the strong motive, was the fear of God. She had seen suggestions to un- lawful gain quietly and simply put away, as if such things were not to be dwelt upon for a moment. Such education as this is within the power, within the reach, of every parent. Let each try, as far as in him lies, to surround his child with an atmo- sphere of honesty, industry, truth, and love. Some parents speak of beginning the education of their children ; who can tell how early it has been begun by circumstances ? It has been well said 30 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. that u insensible education is to the intellectual and moral system the most important, as insensible perspiration is the most impor- tant to the physical system.” We have said that Florence’s course of reading was too desul- tory to suffer her to make much progress in actual knowledge, but still her mind was more or less brought into play ; and there was an intelligence in the expression of her countenance that drew from a lady, who saw her pass, the remark, u Would you not say that girl thinks?” The girl did indeed think. At that moment her thoughts were serious enough, for that morning she had found that her father’s failing sight wholly incapacitated him from his usual work, and that her mother, weakened by ill- ness, the consequence of daily increasing privation and anxiety, could no longer labour as formerly. She felt that she must noV be their sole support. She had just completed her term of appren- ticeship, and her employers were not very numerous, and the wages for a whole day’s work was but eightpence; and as she left them for that day’s work, her heart was heavy within her, and, with a feeling of utter despondence hitherto unknown to her, she cried, u Is there nothing but misery in the world?” She tried to dispel the thought by gazing after some young com- panions who passed her in gay laughter over some merry-meeting of the evening before, and the effort was successful. The happi- ness of her companions seemed like a hope for her. We are mistaken when we say u Look beneath thee, and thou wilt deem thyself happy.” No : more true consolation is in that belief in the existence of happiness which arises from seeing that there are more prosperous lots than our own. Florence felt what has been expressed in the old lines — “ But though I am sad, not so cold is my sorrow, That nature can’t waken a smile in my eye ; And this still warm heart a pure pleasure can borrow, From seeing another more happy than I.” Certain it is she was always sadder when she beheld any one more wretched than herself. But Florence’s beau ideal of happiness was not the merry- meetings of the young people of her own class. No : it lay rather in being able to learn everything that was in the books she daily saw in the hands of the pupils of a neighbouring school. If she had but money, she too might learn ; but there was less hope of this every day, for every day things were grow- ing* rather worse. For one month she could get no work, and her mother was weighed down under the pressure of a debt un- avoidably contracted during that month. One morning, as she passed by a hairdresser’s shop, while pondering how she could relieve her mother from this burden, the idea occurred to her of selling her hair, of which she had a profusion. She entered the shop, but the owmer did not want hair. However, he proposed 21 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. her coming*, on two evenings in the week, for his pupils to prac- tise on her long black hair, which she might thus preserve, while her object would be equally attained by the compensation for each sitting*. The girl hesitated; but the thought of handing to her mother even this small sum decided her, and the pro- posal was accepted. Twice every week did she lend her dark hair and pale face to have tried upon her all the gay ball head- dresses. Theresa’s debt was paid, and the little household again went on in its usual course. Florence, however, suffered from" her plan : she got violent headaches, and her hair began to fall off in such quantities, that at last even this slender resource failed her. One evening, while reading that verse of the New Testament, “Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God,” she was interrupted by a milk- woman of the next village, who wanted a letter written to her daug’hter. As she entered, the good woman displayed, with great delight, a little red shawl. “ See,” said she, too eager to wait for the customary salutations; “look here! It was my daughter who sent me this beautiful handkerchief. You must write a fine answer for me, Florence, and tell her that I was in great want of the money she sent. Indeed I do not know how I could live, only for her,” added the poor woman, as she turned to Theresa, who looked at Florence, and made no answer. “ What employment has your daughter, Dame Chariot?” asked Florence. “ She is a lady’s-maid at Lyons,” answered the mother exult- ingly ; “ and has fifteen pounds a-year wages, not counting per- quisites.” Florence neither stirred nor spoke ; but her eye had, in turn, sought that of her mother. They understood each other entirely, even before Florence had uttered the words — “ I, too, will be a lady’s-maid ! ” Theresa now laid her hand upon her daughter’s head, and whispered, with tearful eyes, “ You are right ; you may go, my child.” All being thus tacitly arranged, hope was once more an inmate of Florence’s heart. Her parents’ poverty constrained them to catch at as a hope what nothing else could have induced them to sanction — her leaving them. They eagerly grasped at the idea that she might not be obliged to go out of the town in which they lived, when they heard from a neighbour that Madame Hebert wanted a servant. Florence, dressing herself as neatly as her wardrobe would permit, and lifting up her heart in prayer, set off to look for the place. Her heart beat audibly as she rang the house-bell ; and when the door opened, she was so pale, that the servant held out her hand to support her. She asked to see Madame Hebert ; and being shown in, soon told the object of her visit. The lady had 22 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. often heard of Florence Keller from an old servant for whom she had written letters. “ You read a great deal, I believe ?” said she to Florence. “ I like to read sometimes, madame.” “ You know how to write ?” “ A little, madame.” “ Is it not you who write all Claudine’s letters for her ?” “Yes, madame.” “ And how much does she pay you for doing so ?” Florence blushed, and answered in a low but steady voice, “ She does not pay me anything, madame. The poor do not sell their little services to each other ; they have so little to give.” Madame Hebert now put some questions as to her knowledge of needlework, and whether she had done the whole work of the house at home. There was no possible good reason for de- clining to employ her; and, nevertheless, Madame Hebert did not wish to take Florence into her service. She felt that the young girl had more than ordinary intelligence and refinement, and she dreaded lest she should be above her business. Was she right or wrong? Are the most humble household offices, the greatest minutiae of feminine duty, inconsistent with everything that is elevated, everything that is intellectual ? Florence’s sub- sequent history must answer the question. Madame Hebert hoped that disagreement about wages would furnish a pretext ; but Florence was quite willing to leave them to be fixed by her employer, when a short trial should enable her to estimate the worth of her services. At last the truth came out. “I must confess, my good girl, that I should be afraid of your spending your time reading’, and neglecting your busi- ness.” Florence looked as if she did not quite understand. “ Does madame mean to say that I would wrong her?” “ Oh no, no,” replied Madame Hebert quickly. “ Oh no.” “ And yet, madame, I should consider I was robbing you if I employed my time in anything that could occasion the neglect of that which you paid me for doing.” “ I am glad you think so rightly ; but I assure you I have had servants who had no scruples in that y.” “ Believe me, madame,” said Florence respectfully, but firmly, “ it was because they did not read enough, or read to no pur- pose.” “Well, my good girl, I will let you know when I make up my mind.” And Florence curtsied, and withdrew. On her return home she tried to look cheerful, but her attempt at a smile made her mother weep. “ I see, my child, that you have not succeeded.” “ Not to-day ; but to-morrow, who knows what may happen.” “ Come, cheer up I God is where he was,” said Keller. “ Cheer up ! Whilst the good man rests, the fine weather comes back. 23 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. Better luck after supper perhaps. The soup and potatoes are ready, and excellent they are ; it was I who boiled them. But, wife,” added he, “ Dame Philippa has been selling* wood all day about the town, and could get nothing ready; a drop of this warm soup will do the old soul good. Go and call her.” Theresa ran olf with the invitation, while Florence laid another plate, and soon Dame Philippa took her place at the poor man’s table. “ It is scarcely fair I should take from you,” said their neigh- bour as she sat down. “ All quite fair, all quite right,” said Keller. “ When there is enough for three, there is enough for four. And, besides, if we are not the richer by it, depend upon it we shall not be poorer.” They now fell into conversation, and Theresa related Florence’s failure in her attempt to get a situation. “ Ah,” said the old guest, “ they think your daughter is too fond of you ; and depend upon it she will never get a place here, even if she did not know how to read.” “ Why not?” said Florence, who had no idea what she could mean. “Oh, just because they would suspect you of taking things out of the house to your parents. My niece Josephine could not get a place here, though she does not know A from B ; but they knew that she did her best to help her mother. So, as she had no chance here, she went to Paris, where she is now in a very good place. Ah, Florence, people are very suspicious. If they trusted us more, it might be better; but too many of us have given them cause for distrust. But Josephine writes to me that a lady was inquiring of her about a waiting-maid. What would you say to setting off to Paris, Florence ? I warn you that you will never get a good place here. Josephine says the wages are thirteen pounds.” Keller heard of Paris, and put his plate away : his dinner was spoiled for that day. But he said — “ After all, it is but rea- sonable. If I had a boy, it must have come to his turn to serve in the army, and he might have to leave me for the other end of the world : and then, too, we are old ; my sight is failing, and my work too ; and what can this poor child do for three with only her own two hands? Come, there is no help for it. Who knows but this is an opening of Providence for our good ?” Florence evinced neither pleasure nor grief : her whole mind was full of the one thought — “ how could she get to Paris?” Dame Philippa was thinking of the very same thing. “ You must have somewhat more than two pounds for the journey, and you must have something to live upon while you are looking for the place. Josephine has a friend, a workwoman, who will give you a lodging. Now, I think I have found a way of managing the matter. My niece sent me money to take me to see her ; you STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. shall go in my place, and tell her that I cannot go to her for three months to come. Before that time you will be able to return the money, and then I can go.” Grateful, indeed, was Theresa ; Florence could only press the good woman’s hand. Keller turned to his wife — - u I told you how it would be ; what we give at the door comes in again by the window ! If we had not thought of Dame Philippa this evening, where would the money for the journey be got? A little kindness is often not ill spent.” The preparations for Florence’s departure were not long in mak- ing. Some calico chemises were put into a small trunk, and a few pair of stockings, knit by a poor widow to whom Theresa daily ministered of her poverty, by taking her a little dinner. This is what Keller called “ God’s tithe.” How much do the struggling classes everywhere contribute of this tithe to neighbours ! When Florence took leave of the poor widow, tears were shed by both. “ Good-by, good-by, Florence ; God will bless you,” were the last words the young maiden heard as she departed from the door of her humble acquaintance. If we dwell on these details, it is because we know how much surrounding circumstances contribute to form the mind. The affectionate union between Keller and Theresa, their readiness to share with their poor neighbours their scanty store, their own cheerful resignation — all this accounts for the development of Florence’s mental faculties and affections ; for her being so de- void of selfishness, and for her practical good sense. Two days before her departure, all her relatives and friends flocked to bid her farewell ; and, with the tact which affection gives, every one had a story to tell : and it was always of some young girl who, having left her native village from poverty, had returned rich and happy — a kind of indirect prediction, for the fulfilment of which they trusted to time and to the good provi- dence of God. The young girl was sorry to part with these kind, good people ; she had often felt that there were thoughts which it would have been useless to have expressed to almost any amongst them ; but there was not one affectionate feeling that, had not its echo. III. Florence had arrived in Paris, and had gone direct to the house of Josephine’s friend. That very night Dame Philippa’s niece paid them a visit, and it was agreed that the next day should be devoted to showing' the lions of Paris to the young provincialist. Florence was not so much surprised as she expected to be. This is easily accounted for. When we leave our own little town, we know it all by heart — its whole extent — its every street is in our mind’s-eye at once ; whereas, of the large city into which we are for the first time introduced, we see now one street, then another, 25 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. but only one at a time, and in succession, as we walk along* ; so that, comparing’ it with the little town which we have taken^in as a whole, it is very natural that we should not at first think the large city quite so large. Six months after, when we can view it also as a whole, it is a different matter. The next day came, and she was shown the way to Madame Duhamel’s house. She was ushered into a room, and the lady began her inquiries. “ How old are you, my good girl ? 77 “ I am twenty, madame , 77 said Florence with a curtsy. “ You can do needlework, and iron, and do up linen ? 77 Florence replied in the affirmative. “ Can you read ? 77 At this question Florence turned pale, and seemed in evident embarrassment. The lady believed her agitation to arise from the shame of ignorance. “ It is no matter , 77 said she to the young girl ; “ you will suit me very well. I shall be quite satisfied if you can remember any message I may send by you . 77 “ I can read, madame . 77 “ Oh’, very well. You know the wages I g’ive ? 77 “Yes, madame . 77 “ What is your name ? 77 “ Florence Keller . 77 The appearance of Florence made a favourable impression ; her open brow, her black eyes sparkling with intelligence, and her demeanour — which, without the slightest degree of servility, was as respectful as possible — had already won the good graces of her new mistress. “ Your occupation will be altogether about myself , 77 said she. “The whole business of the household is divided between five servants, and any spare time you may have is at your own dis- posal ; with this restriction, however, that jmu are not to go out without my permission . 77 Florence drew a long breath. From past failure, she was al- most afraid that the confession of her knowing how to read would have been the signal for the breaking off the negotiation. She congratulated herself, however, that she was asked no question that would have drawn out the information of her being letter- and-petition-writer-general for her own little district at home. Had it been known, would she have been rejected ? We cannot tell. These were days — may we hope that they are altogether bygone days — when the education of the poor had to contend with the active prejudices, as it still has with the supine indif- ference, of the upper classes. Florence was now installed as lady’s-maid. Her fellow-ser- vants were four in number. A cook, who seemed to be of some- what hasty temper, but, on the whole, good-natured ; a footman ; 26 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. a coachman; and the nursery -maid. Rose could not always manage the three children, so that the two elder ones were very often with Florence. Eugene was thirteen, Frances eleven, and little Clemence two years old. Madame Duhamel pleased at first sight, so expressive was her countenance of kindness and benevolence. Her husband, some- what older than she was, and very well informed, undertook the education of his children himself. It is no great proof of the general kindliness of human nature, that a new arrival at a college or a boarding-school is usually regarded with some degree of prejudice. It is the same with a new servant in a house, and consequently Florence met but cold looks at first from the inmates of the kitchen. However, she was so polite at table, and made herself so agreeable by the many nice stories she had read, and was so obliging to them all, that she soon became a general favourite, notwith- standing what they called her fine lady look, and her really white hands. Florence’s room was near the drawing-room, and when in the evening there was music, the young girl thought of her dear father, who used to be so fond of it. u My poor father,” said she, u how happy you would be here ! ” Then she thought that she might one day be able to send for her parents, to live near her in Paris ; and the idea dispelled her sadness. Florence was in utter ignorance of the subjects in which the children w r ere instructed. She had read much, but, as w r e have said, without either guide or system. Yet nothing had been lost upon her heart, which, at once softened and enlarged by the education of love and tender- ness she had received in her home, learned something even from the most desultory reading*. Mind w r as developed in the developing of affection. Already had the young domestic been able to repay Dame Philippa the money she had lent for her journey, and even to send something to her parents. Madame Duhamel, who made the remittances for her, showed her growing approval of her by allowing her daughter frequently to study by her side. Frances was quick and intelligent, she liked reading aloud, and Florence liked to listen. Frances repeated to her the lessons in grammar and history; this was improving to both parties. Madame Du- hamel had the kindness and good sense to be pleased with this profitable intercourse. She not only chose books for them, but was often present at the readings, making Florence bring* her w r ork into her room, and sit with her. Florence felt at first a little constraint in her presence ; but when she saw that it was esteem for her character that induced her mistress thus to con- descend, she soon began to love Madame Duhamel as a friend, nay, almost as a mother. How did she long for an opportunity to show her she was not ungrateful, by doing something that wmuld indeed contribute to her happiness ! And she sighed as STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. she thought how little prospect such a poor creature as she was had of ever having it in her power. IY. Opportunities of well-doing occur in every situation of life. Florence, we have said, was desirous of showing her gratitude to her mistress, and an opportunity was at hand. Madame Duha- mel was not one of those mistresses who take a pleasure in tormenting servants with work, neither did she like to interfere with their ordinary arrangements. She wished to make those about her dutiful by the mildness of her government ; but this generosity was not reciprocated in a remarkable manner. Her kindness was taken for simplicity, and was accordingly imposed upon. Florence was distressed at perceiving the many little tricks which were employed to overreach her indulgent mistress ; and there was also much waste that ought not to have taken place. It was no easy task for a young girl to awaken con- scientious feelings in the minds of the domestics ; yet, by the mere force of gentle persuasion, and by performing some good offices, she actually abated much of the dilapidation in the family, without incurring any enmity for her pains. One thing struck her with respect to her fellow-servants, and that was, their general want of any aim. They seemed contented to be in the same circumstanced all their days — did not appear to entertain any idea of what they should do when too aged for their present situations. Plere was food for thought to Florence. She had read somewhere that domestic servitude might be to the poor a school of morality — a place for acquiring good manners, good language, and something of the intellectual superiority of the rich ; that it might be made a link between the two classes placed at the greatest relative distance on the social ladder. u But,” she said, u if these servants save nothing, and know nothing out of the routine of their present duties, their fate in the end must be very dismal.” These 'thoughts may seem rather grave for so young a girl, but she had early learned to think. They did not, however, make her gloomy ; she sang and laughed as merrily as any one in the house. One day she entered the kitchen with a news- paper, which she seemed to peruse diligently. u What is that you are reading so intently,” asked the cook. u An account of the lodgment of monies in the Caisse d’Epargne [Savings’ Bank] for the last year, with a list of the classes of persons who have been depositors ; and you will not imagine who has lodged the most?” “ Why, shopkeepers to be sure ; they make lots of money.” “ Not at all ; the class who lodge the largest sums are waiters 28 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. and house-servants. I. too, will become a depositor. Let us all make a trial. What say you ?” The notion of saving anything was new to all the servants, and they laughed heartily at Florence’s proposition. Florence laughed too ; "but after laughing, she again talked of beginning to deposit a trifle. “ Come, let us reckon up,” said she, “ how much we can muster as a commencement. I have got nine francs and a half, and will deposit six ; and will also take the trouble, without com- mission, of entering all your names ; that is to say, if you will trust me.” As much from the drollery of the thing, as with any serious idea of saving, each gave Florence a few francs to deposit in the Caisse d’Epargne, and that day she completed the transaction by entering all the names, and getting a small book for each. She likewise, on all occasions afterwards, carried small sums to be added to the different accounts ; and thus, by a little manage- ment, she put her fellow-servants in the way of accumulating something for their future use. Nor was this all that Florence did to render those about her happy. Let us follow her into the garden, where she has gone with a botanical book, examining* the flowers whose history she is studying with Eugene and Frances. Ambrose is there too ; not botanising, indeed, but loosening the earth about some shrubs, and thinning some beds of vegetables. “You are fond of gardening, Ambrose?” asked Florence. “ Oh yes ; while I was in the country, I used to work at it with my whole heart.” Florence put her hand to her forehead, as if a bright idea had occurred to her. “Well,” said she, “why not learn every day something of gardening? At your leisure time you could keep the flower- knots in order.” Ambrose rubbed his brow, and seemed to hesitate a little. “ I did not bargain for that, Florence : it is not my business. When I have dusted the sitting-rooms, and polished the furni- ture, my time is my own — at least when there is no company.” “ And it is for that very reason, because the time is your own, that I am anxious you should turn it to profit ; and in learning a trade, you would be working for yourself, and making a provision for the future. I have heard my master often say that he thought it his duty to allow his servants some time that they might call their own, and I am sure he would be much gratified to see it well employed.” “ Well, indeed — perhaps you are not so much in the wrong after all.” “ Listen to me, Ambrose. My master is going away for a month. I will ask him to leave out some books on gardening, and we can read them together. You know how fond he is of 29 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. flowers : let him find, on his return, his garden in better order, and you more learned.” “ I will try, at all events,” said Ambrose. And he set to work, and was soon bidding fair to be a good gardener. And Florence contrived to find occupation for Ber- nard also. He did not care about gardening ; but a basketmaker, a friend of his, came to settle in the neighbourhood, and Bernard was soon able to exhibit a straw-basket, his own handiwork. Florence was delig-hted. No more gambling, no more visits to the tavern, no more lounging and losing of time. Even Rose at last, seeing every one occupied, got tired of having no object; and one fine day she came with a petition to Florence to teach her to read. This was a great and unexpected conquest. M. Duhamel was not slow in perceiving the reform in his household. When he came into the garden with his children, he was glad to praise the labours of Ambrose, and to question him about the culture of particular plants. Ambrose showed both intelligence and considerable knowledge in his answers. Once M. Duhamel began grafting- a tree under the direction of Ambrose, and he was not a little proud of being thus a more learned man, on at least one point, than his master. But we must return to the special duties to which Florence devoted herself. She began as lady’s-maid, and for some time had little to do with the children, further than being a com- panion to the elder. An incident occurred which tended mate- rially to alter her position. Eugene, less studious than his sister, was at times a cause of great uneasiness to his father. He was very inattentive at his lessons ; he was quite tired of studying by himself, and wished for some companion with whom he might talk of the Caesars of Rome and the gods of Greece. Above all, he utterly disliked learning languages — he saw no use in it ; and it was only at the positive command of his father that he ever took a lesson. His absurd reasoning on this point, and his indolence, led to irrita- tion in his father, the expression of which did but increase the boy’s distaste to study. All this was g-reat grief to Madame Du- hamel. u His father and I wish him to learn Latin, and Ger- man, and English. No man can be a gentleman, or rise to distinction in France, without these languages.” This she said one day in Florence’s hearing. u Pardon, madame,” modestly observed Florence ; u if you like, I shall try to teach Eugene German ; for I speak that language the same as French ; it is the language of my father.” Madame Duhamel was delighted. u By all means, good Flo- rence, begin to teach Eugene German ; speak to him as much as possible in that tongue.” Here by an accident — and is human life not full of such acci- dents '? — Florence ag-ain found herself in a position to be useful. And never did poor girl exert herself with more patience or more 30 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. ingenuity. Eugene was one of those brisk boys who would not settle to regular study. Florence, therefore, did not at first trouble him with books ; she told him stories, excited his ima- gination, and gradually inspired him with a taste for learning. Constantly speaking to him in German, he soon learned that language, scarcely knowing how ; and, delighted with his new accomplishment, he fell to other languages with avidity. y. The Duhamels could not remain unconscious of the great service which Florence had done them ; and for this, we are glad to say, they were not ungrateful. Florence was no longer treated as the humble attendant. She had shown herself to be fit for being a permanent companion and governess of the children ; and to this honourable post she was accordingly promoted. In this new capacity Florence had many opportunities of improve- ment ; and these, with her usual good sense, she did not let slip. She acquired a moderate proficiency in music ; and, from being present at the lessons of the English master, she learned to speak and read English — an accomplishment valuable for its rarity among French nursery governesses. Step by step as Florence rose in the esteem of her employers, receiving from them at the same time solid tokens of their approbation, so was she the more able to show kindness to her parents, with whom she constantly corresponded. u How happy, my dear child, are we to hear of your advancement,’ 7 wrote old Hans to her ; “ and how still more happy to know that your heart is uncontaminated with the frivolities which beset you. Go on in the path of duty. Put your trust in God, and he will continue to bless you.” It would be a long story to tell how Florence rose in the world. There was nothing startling or surprising in any of her movements, taking them singly. And it is pretty much the same with every one in like circumstances, and with similar aims. One thing leads to another very tranquilly and naturally. “ Mademoiselle Keller,” said Madame Buhamel one day — for Florence had now got the length of mademoiselle or miss — i: would you like to go to Angleterre?” The idea of going to England almost took away Florence’s breath. u Yes, madame: but no — my father and mother; what would come of them ? Ah ! I cannot leave my father and mother ; they have nobody in the world but me.” 61 True ; but you need not do the less for your parents by being in England ; you may indeed do a great deal more. Listen. M. Tremonille is appointed to fill a high official situation in con- nexion with the embassy to the British court. His family, who 31 STORIES OF AIMS AND ENDS. are 3'oung, and go with him, require a governess who speaks English. Madame Tremonille has just been writing a note to me on the subject. If you like, I shall recommend you? 77 Florence’s bursting heart and panting bosom could not, for a moment, permit her to speak her thanks. She was overwhelmed with the magnificence of the offer, and the prospects it opened up ; and when she was able to speak, it was to pour out her gratitude, and state her fears of not being competent for the duties of this new and brilliant situation. Madame Duhamel, however, allayed these feelings, and in- terested herself so effectually, that Florence was accepted by Madame Tremonille. In a short time Florence left France with the Tremonilles; and London, like a new world, burst on her senses. Kind reader, you will not be able to guess where and who Florence now is ; and I fear I must not satisfy your very reason- able curiosity. The once poor girl of Nancy, by the force of her simple yet energetic character, rose to be the wife of a learned professor in one of our northern universities; and no lady is more esteemed or admired in the circle in which she has been received. Her parents, I believe, are still living in France, sup- ported in comfort by her munificence ; and old Hans is repeat- edly heard to say, that although all cannot rise in the world as his dear Florence has done, it may be g*enerally observed that those who aim well end well. POOR JOE. I. N the 15th of May 1801, a poor woman was breath- * n © ^ er ^ ast * n a ^ arre ^ °f one °f the highest houses || in the street of St Honore. She was still young, but she was sinking more under the effects of misery than illness. Laid on a little straw, and not having tasted QWn anything since the morning, her strength was quite ex- > hausted. She was already speechless, when the cries of her only son, then six years of age, attracted the attention of the neighbours. Their assistance was of no avail ; the object of their charity expired a few minutes after, without being able to utter a word — her dimmed eyes still fixed upon her child, whose tears had ceased to flow when he saw himself surrounded by people. One poor woman raised him up and kissed him. “ Poor little Joe ! ” said she. “ Poor Joe ! ” repeated the neighbours ; and they left the garret with the child, in order to assemble at Dame Robert’s, the mistress of a shop of six feet square, attached to the same house, where she worked at her trade of shoemaking. This was the wise woman of the quarter. An apron was never bought, or a pot put on the hre, without consulting Dame Robert ; and in this affair it was to her that they all hurried to decide on the fate of the poor orphan. Before we tell the result of this noisy conference, we must give the sad but very common history of the parents of Poor Joe. His father, born at Annecy, in Savoy, was called Joseph Berr, or Joe, according to the custom of the country. This name. No. 145. * 1 POOR JOE. thus disfigured, is so common there, that if you call a man Joe, you will rarely be mistaken, and at all events you are sure not to give offence. Joe Berr, like most of his countrymen, was honest, intelligent, and vigorous. He married, and not being able to get work enough to support his family in comfort, he had the folly to settle in Paris, after spending half of his little treasure in his long and tiresome journey. Honest Berr fully expected to make his fortune ; but he found that if many re- sources exist in a large city, obstacles are everywhere to be en- countered. He wished to stand at the corner of a street to carry loads; but he found rivals already in possession there, who threatened to do him an injury. No new-comer was desired; and it was only by spending a sum — for him a large one — in treating the whole troop at a tavern, that he would be received as a comrade. Unfortunately, the profits were small, and living in Paris very dear. His wife tried to work, but not being known, and having her baby to take care of, she picked up even less money than Berr. They struggled on in this manner for some time; Berr often repenting that he had quitted his country, where, though he might not have earned a great deal, he was still sure of being employed and assisted. At length, after a very severe winter, during which Berr had made renewed exer- tions for the support of his wife and child, he was seized with in- flammation of the lungs, and died in four days, for want of proper assistance. From that moment his unhappy w'ife languished ; and unable to support his loss, and the privations to which she was exposed, she at last sunk under her accumulated misfortunes. While the council of the neighbours held at Dame Robert's was deliberating, without coming to any conclusion, on the fate of little Joe, the poor little creature lay peaceably sleeping on the counter. The greater number of the women would willingly have taken charge of him for a week, but not more : one had a numerous family, another was in service. Some one mentioned the Foundling Hospital. Dame Robert was indignant. “ What ! 17 she exclaimed, “the only child of these good people. No ! thou shalt not go to the hospital, my little cherub,” continued she, catching up the sleeping boy. “ I have five children, but thou shalt share their bread ; and though I should work an hour more morning and evening, with the help of God I will feed thee until thou canst work for thyself." She remained alone with the child, after being overwhelmed by the praises of her neigh- bours, who envied her this good action without having the courage to perform it themselves. She carried little Joe to her boys' bed, and lay down to rest, satisfied with herself. There is more merit and difficulty in such goodness in people of the lower class than in any other : the rich may give from their super- fluity, but the charity of the poor must be drawn from what is necessary to them. Dame Robert was a widow ; her little trade was pretty good ; but to support a sixth child, it was necessary, POOR JOE. as she said, for her to work two additional hours, which she could only take from her time of rest. Little Joe was kindly treated, hut not spoiled : his share of potatoes was the same as the other children ; he shared the same poor bed; and when the six little ones made too much noise, broke anything, or drank the milk intended for the dame’s favourite cat, the distribution of reproofs and blows was equal between Joe and his adopted brothers. Joe was beloved by his little companions for his mild and obliging disposition ; but his greatest friend was Philip, the dame’s youngest child, who, being: something older than himself, defended him when he was assailed by others. At eight years of age J oe was a strong and active boy, although rather short. He was intelligent ; and if the dame could not give very exten- sive views of religion and probity, they were sufficient for his age and station. She was constantly repeating to the children the following four sentences ; and, what was still better for them, they saw that she always acted up to them : — u Be thankful to God for the bread that he gives you.” u Never say what is not true, even for bread.” u Earn your bread honestly, otherwise it will not profit you.” u When you are old enough, take care of your parents, as they have taken care of you.” II. One morning Dame Robert took Joe upon her lap and said to him, “ My boy, thou art now full eight years old ; thou mayst begin to work, and help me as I have helped thee. No idlers for Dame Robert. My elder boys have begun their apprenticeship ; Philip takes charge of my messages ; and of thee I am going to make a little shoe-cleaner, who will bring home every evening the pence earned during the day. Stay, here is a little footstool I have bought for thee.” Joe was delighted. What pleasure to be able to earn money at his age — to be of use to his good mother ! We must acknowledge the idea of being almost quite his own master added very much to his joy, and he ran to admire his little shoe-cleaning establishment. Nothing had been forgotten: the footstool, the scraping-knife, the soft and hard brushes, a pot of blacking, and a bucket of water ; these articles comprised Joe’s new possessions. The poor little boy was proud of them. They were the utensils of his industry, and as such could be viewed only with respect. The labour of cleaning shoes, it is true, is not by any means exalted ; still it is honest labour, and that is a great thing. No labour which is honest can be called dishonourable. Although Joe did not reason in this strain, his desire to earn a livelihood led him to look forward with delight to his career as a shoe-black. His brushes and other articles were handled and rehandled by him and the other children. Impatient to try his hand, Joe began to clean and polish all 3 POOR JOE. the dirty shoes in the house, assisted by the advice of all the brothers and sisters. The first pair was badly managed; Joe cut the strings; with the second he gave himself a great scratch on the hand, but that only proved the knife tvas good, and he did notciy; the third was pretty well done; the next better; and so on, until he came to Philip’s, which he had kept for last, and he turned these out a masterpiece ; and it was de- clared he might practise in public. Poor Joe could hardly sleep that night, and saw in his dreams various passengers stopping to ask for his valuable assistance. The dame’s kind anxiety for Joe made her careful to choose a - favourable spot in which to establish him. She decided on the Place du Musee, at the end of which was the street Froidmen- teau : at that time a narrow, low, and dirty street, which has since been much improved. It was the usual road for the artists who went for business or pleasure to the Louvre, where was then, as now, the exhibition of paintings, and other things which have since been taken elsewhere. It was an excellent place for the purpose, and unoccupied. It was on a Monday morning that Joe commenced his new trade. The whole family were up early, to take Joe to his stand. The dame herself carried the pretty footstool ; each of the children seized upon one of the tools ; J oe alone, as the hero of the party, did not carry anything ; he marched proudly at the head of the merry troop. Dame Robert, after much advice not to leave his place, and not to devour the day’s provision at once, which she gave him in a little basket, went away at last with the other children, not without often looking back. When she got to the end of the street, she again turned her head, and saw with great satisfaction that Joe was already busily occupied cleaning a pair of boots, which a lazy servant had just brought to him, to save himself the trouble. The good woman then, with a happy heart, quickened her steps, and was soon at her usual occupations ; but the day seemed long to her, and it was with difficulty that she could refrain from going to take a distant peep at the poor boy. On the evening of this day, so memorable for the little family, when Joe was seen dragging home his baggage, all the children ran to help him. Joe, throwing himself into the arms of Dame Robert, began a confused account of his adventures; then stop- ping suddenly, he pulled out of his pocket, and presented to her with the greatest pride, twelve pence, carefully wrapped up in an old rag. Encouraged by this first success, Joe’s exertions were redoubled, and he was soon the best shoe-boy in the quarter. As he grew older, he added to his earnings by going messages, calling coaches, &c. and his mildness and civility soon made friends for him of all his neighbours. He was exposed to two great temptations — one was a very attractive shop for ginger- bread, and the other a society of children, who would try to coax him to stop and play; but, to Joe’s credit, his daily treasure was 4 POOR JOE. regularly carried to the dame, and no passenger ever had to wait a moment for the little shoe-boy. Joe’s good conduct and reputation soon brought him good fortune. Besides many other shops, there was near Joe’s stand a warehouse for colours, canvas, and everything required for painting; it had been long established, and was well attended to by the master, named Barbe, a respectable person, who was much liked by the artists, to many of whom he had shown kind- ness when their circumstances were distressed. His wife, still young and well-looking, had great influence with her husband, and amused his numerous customers by her volubility. With many good qualities, she was unfortunately very fond of findings fault. Her greatest victims in this respect were her husband, her daughter, four years old, and a man of forty, named Gabri, the foreman of Mr Barbe, and in whom he placed great con- fidence. Naturally no great talker, Gabri had become still more silent since the marriage of his master; for, finding that the mildest answer was but throwing oil on the fire, when Mrs Barbe got into one of her fits of rage, he listened without saying a word, and she would then pass on to others. However, she esteemed him, as did everybody else ; and acknowledged that the prosperity of their trade was in a great degree owing to his intelligence and probity. But this good Gabri was unable to shake off a deep sadness, which was caused by severe affliction. He had lost in six weeks his three children and their mother by small-pox ; and after several years, this man, apparently so cold, shed tears when attempting to speak of his children. u They were three fine boys,” said he ; and he could not finish what he would have said. With a heart thus reduced to tenderness, and -without an object on which to expend his affections, Gabri soom became interested in and attached to little Joe; he watched his conduct and disposition, and at last determined to try to improve his fortunes ; and after having- talked the matter over with Mrs Legris, the seller of gingerbread, another friend of Joe’s, they arranged their plans accordingly. Mrs Barbe liked Mrs Legris, who, wishing to keep on good terms with her neighbours, was a patient listener, and used to* give cakes to the little girl, which even Mrs Barbe could not find fault with. Mrs Legris chose one morning to visit her friend r when she expected to find her in good-humour, with her shop filling with purchasers. They had been chatting away for a little time, when a customer told Mrs Barbe that her brushes were not of the best kind. Mrs Barbe was indignant. Just at this moment her eye fell upon Gabri carrying several parcels, and she called out, “ Take care, Gabri, or you’ll let all these things fall.” Whether it was her harsh voice that startled poor Gabri, we cannot say, but as she spoke, the whole cargo rolled into the middle of the shop. His mistress, furious, sprung from her place, but she was stopped just in time by the entrance of a 5 POOR JOE. distinguished artist, one of Barbe’s best customers, who had often amused himself by hinting that he would some day take Mrs Barbe’s likeness. a Oh, what a subject for a picture !” he exclaimed, seeing chalks and pencils floating’ in oil, Gabri standing with folded arms, and Mrs Legris trying to keep back the infuriated mistress of the house. “One might call it 6 The Broken Jar! ’ Don’t spoil your pretty face, my charming model ; my picture is just finished, and I want a panel to commence another.” This pacified the lady, but presently the artist said, “ How is it, Mrs Barbe, nobody brings what I want : why have you not more people to attend to so many customers ? ” Mrs Legris instantly seized the opportunity. “ Notwith- standing all your activity, neighbour, you do require assistance. In your place I would get a boy to help you, who would not be expensive.” “ Mrs Legris is right,” said Mr Barbe ; 11 Gabri has too much work. A boy would be of great use to us.” Mrs Barbe looked at her husband and Gabri, but as they said nothing more, the wish to contradict them passed away, and she replied, “ Since the matter is decided, tell me, neighbour, if you know a child likely to suit ? ” Mrs Legris tried to hide her joy. “ Yes, I know a poor boy ; but, no, perhaps his mother might not like it.” “ His mother not like it ! ” exclaimed Mrs Barbe, offended at such an idea. u What ! to enter such a house as this, to become my husband’s pupil, to be fed by us ? And for all that, what do we require ? Almost nothing — only to be intelligent, faithful, active, obedient ; neither lazy, nor greedy, nor awkward ! Explain these advantages, Mrs Legris, and I do not think the child’s family can hesitate.” “ They will not be so silly,” said Mrs Legris ; “ besides, he is only an adopted child. It is poor little Joe the Savoyard, whom you see established down there. His history is singular, and I am sure you will like him.” Kind Mrs Legris departed, satisfied with the success of her undertaking ; and if Gabri’s conversation was as laconic as usual, a curious observer might often that day have seen him rub his hands and smile, quite extraordinary for him. III. The day' after the above conversation, Dame Robert, in Sunday dress, visited Mrs Barbe with Joe, and after much discussion, it was settled that Joe should stay there for seven years without any pay, and that, after that time, if his conduct were good, he should receive a small monthly' allowance ; that he was to be fed and lodged by his new master ; and that Dame Robert should take charge of his clothing. POOR JOE. Joe sat no longer at the corner of the street blacking the shoes of passengers. He had been promoted from this desultory mode of existence to be a kind of apprentice in a colour-shop. Some will think this no great promotion; hut let it he remembered that the new situation, poor as it was, afforded an opportunity of getting forward in life. When people hesitate about accepting situations which seem of small value, they should recollect that any situation is better than idleness, and that that situation is preferable which affords the best chances of leading to something better. To be in the way of rising, is the first step towards worldly success. When Joe entered on his new profession of boy-of-all-work in the colour-shop, he was set to work immediately, and showed a degree of intelligence which delighted his good master, and surprised his more hard-to-be-pleased wife. He recollected won- derfully well the places where he was to find everything ; and if he hesitated, Gabri, from the back of the shop, where he was grinding colours, would make him a sign, which the smart child instantly understood. He dared not openly express his satis- faction, for fear the cross Mrs Barbe, to annoy him, would scold poor innocent Joe. When the evening arrived, the mistress of the house desired Gabri to take the apprentice to his room. It sounded grandly to poor Joe, who, until then, had possessed only the third part of the dark loft where his brothers slept. He was going now to sleep alone, and in his own room. After ascending gaily seven storeys, Gabri opened a little door, and went into a corner, reserved for examining the gutters on the roof, and which was next the loft of Mr Barbe. u A window ! — a window ! ” ex- claimed Joe on entering. u Mr Gabri, I have a window and he jumped about, clapping his hands. Gabri showed him his bed; it was a good paillasse, with a sheet; and his joy was so great, that his protector could hardly get him to lie down. The first dawn of day roused Joe from his slumbers, and he met with another agreeable surprise on seeing’ that the walls of his little den were smooth, and perfectly white ; for J oe, in the leisure moments that were left him by his old trade, had often amused himself scribbling with his blacking and brushes upon stones or boards. How delightful, then, for him to be able to ornament his room with drawings of horses and soldiers ! He was already about to commence his undertaking, when Mrs Barbe called, and he hastened to obey. For a whole week the echoes of the house repeated incessantly the name of Joe. The poor boy, watched and tormented by Mrs Barbe, was severely tried ; but his good disposition and inde- fatigable zeal gradually softened his mistress’s harshness. Gabri also, by his advice, saved him from many a giddy act ; and Mrs Barbe scolded so much, that her husband never scolded at all. J oe was then good, beloved, and happy. His taste for painting POOR JOE. increased from the conversations he was hearing* daily; but perhaps his taste would never have been developed without a particular circumstance, and his genius, like the fire from a flint, would never have produced a. spark, if it had not been struck. Amongst the numerous houses where Joe carried the orders given to Barbe, was one where he was received with much kind- ness, and which, in spite of his good sense, he found it very difficult to leave when his commission was finished. It was Mr Enguehard’s : he was a respectable man, but not rich ; passion- ately fond of the arts, and had practised that of the engraver, until the weakness of his sight obliged him to desist. Married late in life to an amiable woman, their constant occupation was the education of their only son, named Francis, about two years older than Joe. His parents intended him for a painter, for which he showed some talent, but was too volatile and fond of amusement to make much progress. Mr Enguehard was at first displeased at his son’s fancy for Joe, naturally fearing that he had not been carefully brought up, and might give Francis bad habits ; but the sweet expression of the little boy’s countenance induced him to make inquiries, the result of which was so satisfactory, that he permitted the intimacy to continue. Joe’s spare moments were therefore divided between Dame Robert and his dear Francis. His first friend, Philip, was not, however, forgotten ; but Joe was so well aware of the advan- tages he derived from the conversation of Mr Enguehard and his son, that he preferred it to being admired by . Philip. His ideas expanded, and he grieved for his ignorance, and coveted that instruction by which Francis profited so little. One day Francis, throwing down his book in one of his idle humours, said to him, “ How happy you are, who do not know how to read or write ; you are not obliged to learn lessons!” “Ah!” replied Joe, “ that is my misfortune, and it is you whom I think happy for being able to learn. Oh, if you would but teach me to draw ! ” “ Yes, yes,” exclaimed Francis, quite delighted. “ I will be your little master ; but look to }mur fingers, my friend, if you do not work well ! ” Joe smiled at this threat, and Mr Enguehard having given his consent, it was agreed that every evening that Joe was allowed out, he was to receive a lesson. The pupil advanced so rapidly, that his young master found that he must work hard to keep up that relation between them. Mr Enguehard neglected no oppor- tunity of keeping up an emulation so useful to both children. He often spoke to them of the ancient masters, and related the events of their lives. “ Almost all,” he said, “ showed their genius from childhood.” After mentioning various instances, he spoke of “ Claude Gelee, called Lorraine, who could not learn any- thing at school ; his parents apprenticed him to a pastry-cook, with whom he was even more unsuccessful. Not knowing what 8 POOR JOE. to do with himself, he went to Borne, and happened by chance there to go into the service of Augustine Tasse, to grind his colours and clean his palettes. His master, hoping* to make him more useful, taught him some of the rules of perspective; and Lorraine, giving himself up entirely to painting, passed whole days in the country, drawing and painting, and became the celebrated and almost only landscape painter whose works are now to be admired in the museum . 77 Joe listened with breathless attention. When Mr Enguehard ceased speaking, there was a dead silence, which was broken by Joe 7 s jumping up, exclaiming aloud, “Why not? — why not ? 77 then he blushed upon seeing Francis roar out laughing. Mr Enguehard sent them away to play, and reflecting upon Joe 7 s words, was tempted to push him forward in the career to which he seemed called. But the excellent engraver was poor ; it was impossible for him to take charge of Joe ; and was he not then to blame, in giving this child ideas so unsuited to his situa- tion ? “ What a pity ! 77 repeated he ; “ but if I only made him unhappy, without being able to assist him ! 77 From that day Mr Enguehard took no further notice of Poor Joe’s drawing*- lessons. But the precaution came too late. Joe was born a painter : Claude Lorraine was always before his mind ; and for want of fields, which he could not see, he drew horses and figures, and sought for subjects for composition in the historical events related to him by Francis. Attentively observing the habits of the painters to whom he carried parcels, his imagination was still more excited ; and he would grieve, when alone in his loft, that he had no colours or palette, and could only put black over white. Gabri was his sole confidant ; but an event happened which revealed the secret to Mrs Barbe, and cost Poor Joe many tears. IV. We have already mentioned Barbe 7 s kindness to young artists, who often left their pictures at his shop to be seen by the crowds constantly going there. Before being admitted to work for the grand prize in painting, which every year sends to and supports a young* artist at Rome, at the expense of the government, the competitors have first a trial at full-length figures, secondly at coloured sketches, and six or eight of the most skilful then com- mence the pictures for which the prize is given. It may be easily imagined what importance young and poor artists attach to these trials. One of the most promising pupils of the time had just gained the prize of figure-drawing ; and as Barbe had helped him in various ways, he wished him to share in his joy, and to leave with him his victorious study. He arrived at his shop, attended by a dozen of his companions and rivals, who, the first disappointment over, in general shared cordially in the 93 "9 POOR JOS. pleasure of the successful artist, particularly if they had studied with the same master. Joe was present, and became so agitated by the praises of the spectators, and the joy of the young people, that he would certainly have drawn upon himself a lecture from Mrs Barbe, had not Gabri dragged him away. “ My friend/ 7 said Joe sobbing, “ do you see that young man? He is only fifteen. Claude Lorraine was a pastry-cook ; and I — what am I ? There is something in me too ! 77 Gabri knew nothing of Claude Lorraine, but he succeeded in pacifying Joe, by promising that he should be gratified in one of his most anxious wishes. The exhibition was just opened, and the merits of the different paintings were the constant subject of discussion at Barbe 7 s shop. Workmen of all sorts, and soldiers, are not denied admittance to the exhibition; but Joe’s age, his clothes stained with all the colours of the shop, and outgrown, made him afraid to pass the great frowning porter with his stick. He confided his sorrows to his two friends. Francis, with his father’s leave, gave his little companion an old greatcoat and trousers, which Philip, who was bound to a tailor, promised to make fit ; Dame Robert bought a pretty piece of stuff, that her daughter cut out cleverly for a waistcoat ; and Gabri engaged to furnish a hat. J oe was most impatient to profit by the gifts of his friends ; but the preparations were of necessity tedious ; for the little workers had more zeal than capability, and their daily task must be done notwithstanding. Meanwhile Joe, happening to be alone in the shop, thought of amusing himself by looking at the new picture. Being hung up rather high, he climbed a ladder to take it down; but thinking he heard terrible Mrs Barbecoming, he hastily replaced it, when, in his hurry, the end of his sleeve rubbed the fresh painting, and took off part of the ground, and almost the whole of one leg. Nobody coming, Joe recovered his fright, and again looked up, and great was his grief upon seeing the accident. What was he to do ? What would become of him if the young painter came for his work? What should he say to Mrs Barbe? — for, if he were questioned, he could not say what was not true. The poor child was in despair, and already fancied himself dis- gracefully turned out. J oe could think of but one remedy ; he ran to hide the picture in his own room, and trusted to his own skill to repair the damage. This was daring indeed; but there have been many instances of the influence exercised on the minds of children by the objects of art to wilich they are early accustomed. Some years ago, at Florence, there was a great fall of snow, a very unusual circumstance in that mild climate. The children of the poor were seen to form it into statues, and even groups, remarkable for their imitation of the masterpieces by which they were surrounded. Joe possessed great natural talent; and we must recollect that the work he POOR JOE. wanted to touch up was only that of a pupil of fifteen years of age. Having often seen painters at work, he was at no loss for the management of the palette ; but he wanted colours and brushes; and although placed in the centre of such things, he dared not make use of one. Unfortunately, Gabri had gone to his own country for some days, the first time for fifteen years that he was absent from Mr Barbe’s. In this dilemma he had, therefore, only his friend Francis to whom he could apply for assistance : he was as much frightened by the intended repairs as by the accident ; however, Joe’s intreaties were so urgent, for he was afraid of being missed, that Francis gave him what money he had. This was sufficient for what Joe required; and his purchases were made and hidden with such rapidity, that he was in his place before Mrs Barbe asked for him. Joe was disturbed all day by the idea of his daring enterprise, and his mind was so distracted, that he could not half enjoy his new clothes which Philip brought home that evening. The poor boy was disappointed by Joe’s indifference, and returned, think- ing he must be sick, or that something was seriously the matter with him. Joe, up with the dawn, at first only thought of the pleasure of possessing colours and brushes ; but when all was ready, he was struck by the difficulties before him, and remained motion- less, not daring to take up the brush, when a happy idea suddenly restored his courage. “ I have half of a leg to do,” said he to himself. u Well, why not copy from my own? Great painters draw from nature, and I can arrange my foot so as to draw from it without inconvenience. By this means I shall certainly suc- ceed.” After carefully examining the figure, the legs of which, luckily for him, were stretched out, he turned one of his own nearly into the same position, and gave the first trembling touch. By degrees his hand gained freedom and facility, and he never rested until the mischief w'as repaired. The study completed, Joe went down stairs to watch for a favourable moment to hang it in its place. It was late, and the family were going out to walk, and Mrs Barbe was in such good- humour, her husband having made her a present of a pretty cap, that she readily gave Joe leave to go to the exhibition, provided that he returned early to put everything in order. No sooner were they out of sight than the picture was hung, and Joe, looking up, smiled at the fine effect of his labours. Peeling then only the joy of a new dress, and proud of his brass buttons, he went to the exhibition at the Louvre, and passed the great porter. The splendid staircase was not then built : still, the one which met J oe’s unaccustomed gaze was that of a palace. Those wide stone stairs — the walls covered with pictures — the tumult of the crowd that pushed him along — no wonder that poor Joe’s head n POOR JOE. should become giddy. He looked without seeing*, walked without hearing*, until he reached the grand gallery of the museum con- taining the old pictures. At the sight of this immense gallery, beautiful even to those accustomed to such scenes, Joe was indeed astonished. Fewer persons being in this part of the museum, Joe breathed freely, and being no longer pushed about, he began to enjoy the happiness he had so often longed for. Several pictures attracted his attention, but too ignorant to under- stand the subjects of them, his pleasure was thereby considerably diminished. When he reached that picture of Raphael's known as the “ Virgin in the Chair," the figures were easily recognised. Joe found himself, as it were, in the midst of old acquaintances: he could even make comparisons : having seen other church pictures, his taste was naturally so correct, that the sight of this masterpiece created emotions in his mind hitherto unknown to him. The longer he looked, the greater w^as the illusion. The head of the infant Jesus seemed to become animated, and to smile upon him. Joe, leaning* over the balustrade, stretched out his arms, smiled in return, and in the charm of his new sensations forgot everything else, when a noise near him made him start up and shake off the fit of abstraction. He turned his head, and saw a man who w r as watching him attentively. He was still young, with a face remarkable for expression; his ani- mated eyes were fixed with kindness upon Joe, who, notwith- standing his usual timidity, answered the questions put to him without embarrassment. The stranger wished to know his name, what he thought of Raphael's picture, w r hat were his ideas, his occupation, &c. The natural expressions of Joe, through which his precocious genius might be easily perceived, warmly interested the stranger. “ Thou art born a painter, child," said he, gently touching Joe's forehead; “thou knowest already what no master could teach thee; but thou requirest guidance, and I will give it thee. Here is my address. I am called G : come to my house ; I will do something for thee." Joe recognised wdth rapture the name of one of the most cele- brated artists, and clasped his hands together without being able to utter a word. Mr G gave him another kind look, and w r ent away. Joe could not for some time recover from his agitation, and it was late when he recollected that he was still in Mrs Barbe's service, and that he w 7 as in some risk of not remaining in it from the accident that had happened. Extremely uneasy, he hurried back to Barbe’s. Everybody had returned, and the manner in which he w^as received, forewarned him that the storm was about to burst over his devoted head. V. Barbe was walking up and down the warehouse ; he advanced towards Joe. as if to question him, and then turned sorrowfully 12 POOR JOE. away. Joe began muttering some excuse, when Mrs Barbe, whose violent anger bad hitherto deprived her of speech, at last recovered the faculty to launch the abuse at the poor criminal. “ Ah, there you are, sir ! ” said she : “ how very exact ! Indeed you could not well be in any great haste to show yourself.” “Iam very sorry, ma’am/’ replied Joe. But Mrs Barbe did not give him time to finish. “ Don’t in- terrupt me, you little viper, whom we have nourished to turn upon his benefactors. But I would pardon your being lazy and ungrateful, if you did not injure the reputation of my house by spoiling the pictures in our care. Yes ! ” continued she with still more vehemence as she saw Joe turn pale, “you thought, little wretch, that your folly would not be discovered ; but we know all : not satisfied with having completely spoiled a superb piece, you have stolen from us what you wanted for your mischievous plans!” A cry of horror broke from Poor Joe, and springing towards the implacable Mrs Barbe, who w^as still continuing her invectives, he protested his innocence of at least the latter part of the accusation ; but his tears and intreaties had no effect upon the prejudiced minds of his employers. It had happened that when Barbe came in with a light, it had fallen full upon the mended figure, and as Joe was by nature a good colourist, a quality in which the young artist was defi- cient, the difference was easily perceived. Besides, poor Joe, in his difficulties, had drawn from the left foot, which was more convenient to him, and, without noticing that he had joined it to the right leg, had placed it so as to turn the big toe outwards. His loft had been searched, and the palette, with the fresh colours, left no doubt of the fact. Barbe would have pardoned the daub- ing of the study, but the idea of the theft disgusted him, and it was impossible not to suspect J oe of it ; for Francis’s friendship for him was not known, and it was certain that he had not any- thing of his own. It was in vain that Poor Joe related the exact truth : he was not believed : and Mrs Barbe, after a second explo- sion of abuse, was taking him by the arm to turn him out, but her husband stopped her, and insisted upon his remaining for that night in the house. Obliged to yield, she made up for it by collecting some of her neighbours, who came with malicious eagerness to look at the left foot put to the right leg, and to stare at the unhappy Joe, who was trying to stifle his grief in a corner. The visitors taking care to speak loud and distinctly, so ns not to spare him any ill-natured remarks. “ Certainly,” said one, “ his poor mother did not deserve such a son as that.” “ I always predicted it,” said another. “ There is what it is to pick up vagabonds ! but Dame Robert was always obstinate.” At last their cruelty was so great, that poor Joe could no longer smother his sobs ; and Mr Barbe, hearing him from his room, came to the assistance of the child, and sent him to bed. 13 POOR JOE. Joe passed a dreadful night. In a few hours more he would be driven out dishonoured, returned to his adopted mother with- out the means of support, with an accusation of robbery hang- ing over him. One ray of hope yet remained to him — Francis could bear witness to the truth of his story. He resolved to in- treat Mr Barbe, who was more humane than his wife, to go and question Francis; but this resource failed the unhappy child. Barbe, who was fond of him, had gone early to Mr Enguehard’s. Unwilling to expose his favourite, he only begged Francis to tell him if he had lent any money to Joe. The latter, not aware of what had happened, and afraid of injuring his friend, and of his father’s displeasure, committed a very great fault — he told an untruth, thinking to save Joe, and completed his ruin by deny- ing to Mr Barbe that he had lent money to his apprentice. Mr Enguehard knowing nothing* of the affair, Barbe returned, con- vinced of the necessity of turning off poor J oe. He pushed him away crossly when the boy came to make his request, and told him to pack up his effects. But Mrs Barbe was not the person to lose such an opportunity for a scene; she wished, before Joe’s departure, to make him apologise to the young artist, for whom she had sent. Joe, almost glad at this unexpected respite, set down his bundle, and looked round sorrowfully at all that he was going* to leave for ever. The vacant place of Gabri made his tears flow afresh ; would that faithful friend believe him any more than the others, when there were so many proofs against him? At that moment a man came in and presented a letter to Mr Barbe. u Oh,” said he, “ this is from our friend Gabri, from Nogen t- sur-Marne; what has he to write about?” and he read the letter to himself, apparently much surprised. Mrs Barbe impatiently snatched it from his hands, exclaiming, “ This piece of folly will not be accomplished ! Here, you little wretch ! ” said she, turn- ing to Joe; “ here is a just punishment for your infamous con- duct ! ” and she thundered forth the following letter : — “ From my country , Nogent-sur- Marne, 7 th September . Mr Barbe — Although I intend returning on the day after that you named, I write to you notwithstanding, as the most authentic and convenient manner of informing you of my decision with regard to your apprentice Joseph Berr, called Joe. Mr Barbe, I have lost my wife and three children. God has taken from me three fine boys ; but perhaps I have already told you so. I have a nice little property, owing nothing (good seven thousand francs, placed here in honest hands). Now, being my own master, I wish to devote a portion of this to assist the said Joe, who is dear to me, and enable him to cultivate the art which he prefers — that of painting ; and I engage myself to that effect by my signature to the deed which I enclose. I request that it may be read to young Joseph, and I remain, Mr Barbe, your very affectionate servant — Sebastian Gabri.” 14 POOR JOE. The deed enclosed contained an engagement for Joe’s support and instruction by “ a famous master” for four years. Poor Joe’s agony whilst these papers were being read may be imagined: what would have overjoyed him the day before, was now his severest punishment. In reward for his sacrifice, this tender and generous friend would learn the unworthiness of the object of his care. However, Joe was not guilty, and his painful trials were yet to end happily. Francis, unhappy as people must always be who know that they have done wrong, and uneasy for his friend from Mr Barbe’s visit, confessed the whole affair to his father, who easily convinced him of the seri- ousness of his fault, and the great inconvenience it might cause the innocent Joe, who might be accused of stealing the colours from his master. Francis, much alarmed, intreated his father to take him without delay to Barbe’s ; and there, without pay- ing attention to the number of spectators, courageously avowed his fault, and thus completely cleared his friend. Whilst Mrs Barbe pursed up her lips, repeating, “ How sin- gular ! — how strange ! ” the good Barbe was wiping* his eyes, and the two children, warmly embracing, enjoyed the happiest mo- ment of their youth. Immediately after Joe received a tribute flattering to his vanity, but which could not equal in value the noble friendship of Francis. The young pupil whose picture was injured was with his master when he received Mrs Barbe’s in- distinct account of the adventure, which she had tried to turn to Poor Joe’s disadvantage. The master happened to be Mr G , who, recognising in the hero of the tale the child who had so excited his interest at the museum, accompanied his pupil to Barbe’s. He examined for some time in silence the performance which had cost the poor boy so dear, then turning to his pupil — “ You must make haste,” said he, “ or, on my honour, he’ll over- take you.” This man, distinguished for his warmth of heart as much as for his genius, could appreciate the generous action of the excellent Gabri ; he read his letter with emotion, then taking up a pencil, drew it across the sum destined for the studio. “ I do not set up,” said he, smiling at Joe, “ to be the c famous master ’ mentioned by Gabri ; but at least he will give me leave to teach you all that I know.” Matters were now easily arranged. Mrs Barbe, restrained by the presence of Mr G and Mr Enguehard, was silent. She accepted without hesitation the fifty francs offered as compensation for Joe’s services, but she murmured when Barbe presented to the boy his first box of colours. Dame Bobert, consulted upon all important arrangements, at first regretted Joe’s choice, but she could not refuse anything to her dear child. “And after all,” said she, u one trade is as good as another : I am only sorry that the apprenticeship is so long.” Her happiness was rendered complete by his returning to live with her. Shortly after these occurrences, Mr Enguehard requested Mr G to receive his son 15 POOR JOE. as a pupil. The two friends were thus again united ; they pursued the same career with equal ardour, although with different suc- cess, but their friendship never changed. Here may be said to end one epoch in the life of our hero, and the commencement of another. VI. Francis and Joe studying together, as we have already told, with a celebrated painter, led a life most suitable to their tastes ; but Joe was particularly happy, placed thus in a situation so much higher than he could ever have expected. He was no longer the poor child, supported by the charity of a good woman, but a line young man, the honour and the hope of Mr G ’s studio ; and what w'as still better, so simple and modest, as almost to be ashamed of being distinguished, and his care and attention to his first protectors increasing with that success, which ren- dered their support less necessary to him. Gabri kindly hired a room in Dame Robert’s house, where his young friend could work comfortably. Joe rose early, and began by composing all that came into his head, or copied drawings lent to him by his master. After breakfast he repaired to the studio, worked there until five o’clock, and returned slowly with Francis, talking over their plans and hopes for the future. Mr Enguehard often made Joe stay to dinner, and took pleasure in adding to his stores of useful knowledge. His own quickness, with the kind assistance of Mrs Enguehard, had soon enabled him to learn to read and write, and Mr Enguehard took particular pains to make him study history and fable — acquirements indispensable to a painter, who ought indeed not to remain unacquainted with any others of which he can obtain a knowledge. Everything that he sees or hears may add to his progress in his art ; travels, reading, science, the manners of various societies, absolute solitude, joy and sorrow, all are of use to him who seeks to represent the actions and passions of mankind. During the winter evenings, the two friends used to draw, by lamplight, from seven until ten o’clock, as is the custom for most pupils. Every artist’s pupil in Paris pays a small sum for the hire of a room, models, and lights. The young people from the different schools assemble there, and their masters often visit them for an hour, and give their advice. One would suppose that such constant occupation might fatigue, but there is something so attractive and varied in the study of the arts, that weariness is seldom complained of : besides, it is not always hard work ; they rest, and talk, and exchange their ideas. The disposition is even improved in those studious so- cieties where, although the rules of college do not exist, there is the wholesome influence of companionship : there is the emula- tion, and some of the honours which attend the full-grown man, 16 POOR JOE. without the drawbacks to which he is exposed. The cross, the ill-inclined, and the foolish, fare but badly : there, as elsewhere, the most distinguished lead, and it is easily understood how those studies, whose principal aim is to represent the good and the beautiful, may elevate the mind, and strengthen generous senti- ments. Joe rejoiced in the assured prospect of an honourable existence acquired by great talents. Joe may one day become rich ; he may hear the name of Berr pronounced with respect, and see his pictures carefully placed in the cabinets of the most critical ama- teurs, but never can he forget those happy days whilst these brilliant successes were only the dreams of his youthful imagina- tions. Deeply grateful to Dame Robert, and to Gabri, Joe made it a rule never to miss a day during his four years of study. Always the first, he never left until the lesson was over : still, he was not without temptation, the g'ames and tricks of his com- panions were attractive ; but he rarely yielded, and tried also to guard his volatile young friend, who would throw away his hours without scruple. Natural facility, and some occasional weeks of study, however, generally maintained Francis in the second rank amongst his companions. At the end of a year, Joe painted from nature sufficiently well to try some portraits, and eagerly seized this means of lessening his cost to his friend Gabri. At his request Dame Robert persuaded one of her relations to have her face drawn in colours, assuring her that her boy understood his trade very prettily. Joe luckily was not present to hear this unartistic language, which was so successful, that the cousin consented, on condition that she was to be painted with two eyes, her lace-cap, and her coral ear-rings. Joe re- turned then a little earlier every day from the studio, and as the face was very like, with little shade, staring eyes, and ear-rings that you might raise with your finger, the work was very suc- cessful ; and the young painter received many compliments, twelve francs, and several orders for portraits, which so aug- mented his little treasure, that at the end of the year he was able to reimburse Gabri for the hire of his room, and to Dame Robert the expense of his food. He had also the good sense, like many other poor pupils, not to be ashamed to paint signs for the warerooms of Paris, which are thus ornamented with what might be called almost pretty pictures. The lessons of Mr G- were listened to with much attention by Joe, who wrote down in the evening the principal passages. One phrase especially had struck him as being the true definition of an artist. “ There are.” said this clever master to his pupils, “ three things necessary for him who devotes himself to the fine arts — genius to imagine, taste to choose, and talent to execute.” Joe wrote this maxim in large characters on his easel. The conditions are equally applicable to musicians and poets ; but how few possess these three faculties ! 17 POOR JOE. Joe did not flatter himself with the idea of being* a genius, but taste and talent may be acquired, he thought, and he did not despair. Excellent Gabri was rejoiced with Joe’s success; he often came to visit him when he was at work in his room ; and, for fear of disturbing him, remained standing behind his chair without saying a word, then embraced him, and returned to listen to Dame Robert’s gossip. Gabri could never weary of hearing Joe’s praises ; but when the subject was changed, u Good evening, neighbour,” said he ; “ Mrs Barbe will be waiting, and you know that would be no joke.” One morning, at lesson time, Mr G said to his pupils, a Gentlemen, to-morrow you will have a new companion. I recommend him to you ; and I beg you will not try too many tricks and jokes. He is very young, and unaccustomed to your habits ; so be good boys. He comes from the town of Angers. Berr, my friend, thou wilt place him near thee ; and Enguehard, I request that thou wilt not play the Parisian too much.” Francis smiled without answering ; but Mr G ’s speech had the usual effect, one of which he was well aware. The desire of tormenting the new-comer was general, and Francis was de- termined to lead the attack. il Ah,” said he, “ a pupil from the provinces ! How strange that we have not had one before ; and does any one suppose that I will not amuse myself at the expense of this Raphael from Angers? Bah ! our master is quite alive to the value of such recommendations.” And Francis, encouraged by the laughter of his listeners, commenced a sketch upon the wall, which he assured them was a portrait of the Angerin. “ That shall be his name,” said another young man, the usual companion in the follies of Francis ; “ you know how that makes one fret.” u Ah,” replied Francis, “ we all have our nicknames. Am not I the Setting-dog, and Berr the Phoenix ? But stay, and I will tell you what we will do ; ” and the two giddy youths went to whisper in a corner. Joe ventured a few words for the pro- vincial, but he was laughed at by the others, and at last joined in the laugh, although determined, when the time came, to do his best for the new pupil. This young man had been chosen by the professors of the academy of Angers, as their cleverest pupil, to complete his studies with a celebrated master. This was not, however, saying much for him ; for the departmental schools are usually far behind those of Paris, and that under the direction of the old master at Angers was no exception to the general rule. To add to his misfortunes, the poor candidate was short, with a bad figure, and poorly dressed, and had, in his general appearance, a slight resemblance to the caricature sketched by Francis. The moment he entered, the poor student was received with 18 POOR JOE. noisy acclamations, and two pupils advanced to meet him with ironical politeness. “ Your reputation has come before you, sir,” said they ; “ the admiration of your native town was insufficient for your merit. You will obtain that of Paris, and have already acquired ours.” “ The name of the Angerin is already celebrated,” added another. “ But, gentlemen,” said the sad youth, drawling out his words in the fashion of his province, “ I am not called the Angerin ; my name is Valentine la Grimandien.” The name, coupled with the accent, caused fresh bursts of laughter ; and Francis added with great gravity, mimicking his pronunciation, “ Allow me to observe to you, sir, that great painters are hardly ever known by their real names. We hear of Dominichino and Guercino, instead of Boxninico Zampieri and Barbieri da Cento ; and certainly there is nothing* strange in calling you the Angerin.” “ But, gentlemen, you are too good ; I do not deserve this,” replied the simple young man. “ You deserve it all, illustrious companion ! ” interrupted Francis. “ Gentlemen, I present to you the boast of the Angerin academy : and permit me to introduce to you, sir, my comrades, the Censor, the Quarreller, the second Rubens ; and I myself, the Sefcting-dog, am your very humble servant. Now, my friend, to your place, and let us see what you can do.” The unfortunate Angerin had come early, hoping to be the first, but his tormentors were before him. Like most studios of high reputation, the pupils were numerous, and very much crowded around the model in the centre of the room. The first row were seated on low wooden benches, the second on chairs, the third on high stools, and the fourth on yet higher, or standing. The place chosen for the poor victim was the lowest seat, where those above him could rest their drawing boards on his head, and shake over him the crumbs of bread used for rubbing out. His neighbour at one side pretended to be deaf, at the other he could only speak Latin, and a sly push at the portfolio at last scattered the drawings all over the floor. The poor boy’s anger had nearly overcome his timidity, when the door opened, and Joe appeared. He had gone out, and been detained much later than usual at a portrait which he was anxious to finish. One glance was sufficient to show him how matters stood, and persuading the pretended deaf man to give him his place, he addressed a few kind words to the new-comer, who soon recovered himself. At rest time, however, Joe perceived a new attack was about to commence, and walking straight up to the group, “No, no, gentlemen,” said he, “enough of that; leave this poor boy alone ; I request an exception in his favour. He is not a native of Paris, ’tis true, but I am of a race much more foreign to you than his, and I have found in you very kind 19 POOR JOE. companions.” Joe was a favourite, and the jokes ceased, except the nickname, by which the Angerin was always known. VII. It is now our duty to relate an incident in Joe’s life which may serve as a warning to young persons in his situation. During the summer, Joe’s companions used to make occa- sional excursions to the country, returning home in the even- ing, the expense of which was trifling. Joe enjoyed them greatly, but seldom went, as his time was precious. How- ever, the feast of St Cloud was approaching-, and Francis pro- posed to go to see the waters play there. Twelve of the young men agreed to go together, having persuaded Joe this time to make one of the party. Dame Robert did not like to offer any opposition to what seemed likely to afford him so much pleasure, but she gave him much good advice, to keep out of quarrels, and to take care of his purse. The young people were much amused by the crowds on foot, on horseback, and in all sorts of cars and carriages, going the same road. On arriving at St Cloud, they visited the shops, ran to admire the cascades, the orchestras, the jugglers, and even to laugh at the smart sayings of Punch, like the rest of the nume- rous spectators of this feast, which takes place every year at this period. They met several times a troop of young people, pupils of another master, and their rivals in glory and talent. The jealousy of the two studios had been already manifested upon more than one encounter ; not that there was any personal enmity — it proceeded from party spirit, and their attachment to their different masters. On the present occasion they passed each other with only a few scornful looks and words. Joe and his friends returned to the inn to dine. Their table was laid in what was called the “garden” — a small space enclosed, the walls being covered with a trelliswork, to which the wood- bine and vine were trained. There was room for five or six tables, partitioned off by trelliswork; and although it was very warm there, the air was fresher than in the house, and the young men were well pleased with their accommodation. The dinner was a dainty one to those accustomed to more frugal fare, and at first they were all too busy to talk. At length Francis called out to the Angerin, who had been in- cluded in the party to please Joe, “ Well, Angerin, what do you think of this pickled meat ? Better than your usual fare, is it not ? ” “ Ah, yes ! ” replied the Angerin, holding out his plate for a third or fourth helping. “ A fig for the paste ; I will not touch it to-morrow ! ” “What do you mean by the paste ?” exclaimed the young people laughing*. 20 POOH JOE. “ Oh, nothing* — nothing*,” replied the Angerin, regretting his indiscreet speech. His companions, however, Joe amongst the number, pressed him to explain himself; and he laughingly told them that, as he could only support himself in Paris by living in the most economical manner, after trying various plans, he had bought a large pot of earthenware; he filled it once a-week with turnips, potatoes, and some pieces of bacon, which he boiled together ; and this ragout, wliich was hot only the first time, served for his dinners for eight days. He was so accustomed to call it his paste, that he had let the word slip before his compa- nions. “ Poor friend ! ” said Joe, taking his hand. u Poor Angerin ! ” repeated the others ; and instead of laughing, there was a mo- mentary silence. “ Gentlemen,” said Francis, whose conscience was twitched by the recollection of his own murmurs at what he called his father’s useless economy, u I propose a toast to the success of our good comrade — May he gain the prize, even were he to pass before myself ! ” The young men rose, touched their glasses eagerly ; and the Angerin, much moved, repeated, “ Ah, Berr, Berr ! it is to you I owe all this.” The conversation then turned upon the hopes of Francis and Joe, who intended to start this year as candidates for the prize; not with any expectation of obtaining it yet, but it was an ad- vantage to be received, and they might obtain honourable notice. Whilst discussing similar subjects, they were disturbed by a great noise, proceeding from a room on the first floor, just above where they were sitting, and they ceased talking*, to listen to their merry neighbours. “ What a capital caricature ! ” said a voice. u It must be ex- hibited in Barbe’s shop ; the most stupid must recognise it.” “ Yes,” said another, u that is his platter face exactly ! Ah ! gentlemen of the Green-and-yellow school, you think you will carry off the prize from us : we shall see, boys — we shall see.” Our young people looked at each other indignantly, and drew closer to the window, for it was evident these were their anta- gonists, who were unconscious of their close vicinity. “ As for me,” said one of the rival pupils, “I am not afraid of Rivol, nor Enguehard, nor even their famous Berr, about whom they make such a fuss. It is true he has some facility, but that is all. Enguehard is a good-for-nothing idler ; and Rivol is too rich ever to be more than an amateur ; so away with the Milk- and-water school ! Huzza for the Colourists ! ” te Huzza for the Colourists ! ” shouted the young people. And many still more biting jokes succeeding, Joe and his companions, inflamed by the wine they had drunk, and to which they were unaccustomed, soon sent flying into the room plates, knives, and 21 POOR JOE. whatever else first came to hand. The party within rushed to the windows, and recognising their adversaries, they were enraged still further by their shouts of laughter. A decanter, thrown by Joe, struck one of the Colourists on the forehead, and these hur- ried to revenge the injury by scrambling down by the trellis- work to attack their assailants. A grand battle ensued ; the women at the neighbouring tables screamed, the children cried, and the men ran to separate the combatants, whose abuse of each other, under the names of Colourists and Milk-and-waterists, was quite incomprehensible to them. The innkeeper and the waiters came running to the scene of disturbance, and succeeded in parting the greater number, but the leaders would not easily submit on either side. Enguehard was held down by a vigorous Colourist, and Joe, almost out of his senses with rage, was kneeling on the young man who had spoken of him with such contempt. Force was required to separate them; but Joe, in his struggles, slipped on a heap of broken plates, and sprained his foot so badly, that he was unable to rise, and was obliged to remain sitting on the ground in great pain. As it was proved by the spectators that the party in the garden had been the aggressors, the host was satisfied with a small sum from the Colourists, who had broken the trelliswork in getting down; but the others had done considerable damage, and as they had only enough of money to pay the expenses of their dinner, the landlord threatened to send for the guard if he were not paid. Suddenly Joe heard his name pronounced by a severe voice, and Gabri appeared. Fearing that Joe’s inexperience might lead him into a scrape, this kind friend had followed him at a distance during the day, and did not reach the inn until one of the latest guests, and thus was one of the last on the field of battle. “ Sir,” said he coldly to the innkeeper, “ make out your bill ; I will pay for these giddy boys, who are acquaintances of mine; we can settle it together afterwards.” This affair was soon arranged, and Gabri desiring Francis and the Angerin to help Joe to a coach in waiting, stepped in after him, saluting the troop of young pupils, who were still so stunned by these events, that they did not even think of thanking him. During the drive, Gabri never looked at or addressed the poor sufferer, notwithstanding his moans from the jolting of the uneasy vehicle. They arrived at Dame Robert’s. u Here he is,” said Gabid to the terrified woman ; “and now good evening; I will see him again when he has reformed his errors,” and he walked away without saying another word. Joe was put to bed, his sprained foot and his numerous bruises were dressed ; but the wine that he had drunk, and the violent rage which had suc- ceeded an excess so unusual for him, brought on a severe illness for some days, and when he had recovered that, he was unable to move for six weeks with his sprained foot. One may imagine POOR JOE. what was his grief and remorse ; many circumstances occurred too to increase them. Gabri, softened by his repentance, had consented to see him, but he was melancholy, and Dame Robert uneasy; and Joe’s heart was pierced when he saw her one day, when she thought she was unobserved, take a bottle of brandy which happened to be near him and lock it up. Pie had another cause for annoyance. The time of trial ar- rived ; Francis was received amongst the candidates for sketch- ing; Joe was only just able to walk, and his studies having been too long interrupted to enable him to put in for the prize, he had the mortification of seeing those far his inferiors pass before him. Francis, although sincerely afflicted at his friend’s misfortune, was fully alive to the advantage of having so dangerous a com- petitor out of the way. He made great efforts to keep up the honour of the school; but he only gained the second prize, which did not send to Rome. The first was carried off by the chief of the Colourists, who had made game of Joe: thus the poor boy had the bitter reflection of two months’ suffering, a triumph lost, and a serious error. We may be disposed to lament his humiliation, but reason tells us that he was only receiving the appropriate punishment of his transgressions. No immoral act, such as the outrage he committed, escapes with impunity. VIII. For some time after these events, Joe remained in a prostrated state of feeling. He was heartily ashamed and repentant, and it was only when he became quite well that his courage rallied. Resolving to avoid all such follies in future, he now made up for lost time by redoubled energy. His progress was now so decided, that Mr G — — permitted him to appear as a candidate at the next trial, as well as Francis and Rivol. The place where the young people at that time worked at their prize pictures was in the upper storey of the museum, which w^e have already mentioned. It was divided into several little rooms or cells, in each of which a pupil was shut up, without permit- ting him to have any communication with his comrades, still less with his master, or with strangers. The subject of the picture was chosen by the professors of painting of the Institute ; a programme of it was distributed to the candidates ; and their sketch being made and received, they were all to commence their pictures at the same time ? according to the sketch, and without making any change in it. On their arrival every morning they were carefully searched, in order to make sure that they had neither drawing nor engraving to assist them. Left thus solely to their own powers, they remained in their cells for two months ; the pictures were then publicly exhibited for three days before the prizes were adjudged. Although the 23 POOR JOE. pupils were expressly forbidden to see each other’s works, lest the more clever should help the unskilful, or that the author alone might enjoy the benefit of any happy idea that might occur to him, the students found means to visit each other undiscovered. The windows opened on the roof, and the giddy boys, at the risk of breaking their necks by a fall from a prodigious height, scrambled along the leads from one cell to another. The most sensible had their windows closed, to prevent visits ; but two days before the period fixed for departure, every one allowed his companions to see his work ; and the little Areopagus, with re- markable sagacity and impartiality, judged beforehand, like the great, and pointed out the first and second prize ; and there was rarely an instance in which this judgment was mistaken. Joe, for the first time received amongst the sketchers, pre- pared himself for this difficult trial, so important to him. Mr G had recommended the reputation of his studio to his young men ; three examinations had passed without his pupils obtaining a first prize ; this disgrace must be repaired, and the late success of the Colourists surpassed. Joe, besides two dreaded competitors from the rival school, had also to excel his friends Francis and Rivol, who had already put in for the prize, and had the advantage of him besides in years. Joe was then only fifteen and a half years old; but in nowise daunted by these circumstances, and fired by that true love of art which overcomes so many obstacles, he commenced, not without emotion, the re- quired picture, the subject of which was the death of Hippolitus. Dame Robert, as may be supposed, was in a state of great an- xiety with regard to her dear child’s undertaking. Certainly, had her opinion been taken, Joe would have had nothing to fear; but her kindness, and Gabri’s affection, were now of no avail ; they must wait the result with patience. “ Even if I could see what they are doing,” said the dame, “ I am sure I should know if Joe’s were the best; but they are like so many cloistered monks ; and when my boy comes home in the evening’, he will not even tell me a word about it.” Gabri’s anxiety was equally great, but he asked no questions : if Joe seemed out of spirits, he was grieved, and he rejoiced if the young candidate seemed satisfied. The good-natured Angerin, who was not yet sufficiently skilled to put in for the prize, most sincerely wished his friend well ; but he was less uneasy, for he was convinced of Joe’s great superiority to his rivals. Six weeks passed away ; the pictures were advancing ; and as the competitors were from different studios, except Joe and his comrades, he had only seen their works, and his own so far sur- passed the others, that his heart beat high with hope. The other pupils were all inferior to Francis ana Rivol, so his mind was quite at rest about them. He was looking* complacently at the group of terrified horses that he had just finished, when Francis, 24 POOR JOE. first tapping at tlie window, jumped into the room, exclaiming with a dismayed countenance that he was in despair, for that he never could succeed with the figure of Aricia, which was required in the programme given for the pictures. In general, subjects are chosen in w r hich few female figures are introduced, that being the most difficult part for young artists without a model ; and this one of Aricia, which they had almost all reserved for the last, had completely made shipwreck of the courage and talent of Francis. He admired the Aricia of Joe, for the latter had quite succeeded in his sketch. Joe, wishing to soothe poor Francis, returned with him by the leads to his cell, to examine the unfortunate figure. Francis had already rubbed it out, and repainted it several times ; still it was awkward, badly drawn, and in bad style, and Joe could not deny that it was very bad, which drove Francis into a new fit of despair. He threw down his palette, broke the brushes, and ended with w T eeping from vexation. Joe embraced him, consoled him, and pointed out that all was not spoiled, and that he might repair this figure during the remaining eight days. He showed him what he must avoid, and roused his courage by his praises of the rest of the picture. At last, after two hours, he quitted his friend, sufficiently recovered to return to his work. The following days Francis repainted this unlucky figure, but he failed ; he effaced it, recommenced, and effaced it again, and finished it at last in so inferior a manner to the other parts, that it injured the general effect of the com- position. This was the general opinion of his companions when they visited it according to their usual custom. Four days yet remained ; the pictures were not entirely finished ; but they were so far advanced, that it was agreed by all that the prize would be gained by Joe if he completed the figure of Aricia as well as the group of Hippolitus and the horses. The second-best was that of Francis ; the third was Rivol’s ; the others were far beneath them, and could not give them the least uneasiness. Francis, deprived of all hope by the judgment of his comrades and his own, returned to his cell, and shut himself up in it, without allowing Joe to go in. He would not give any answer to his friendly intreaties, and his disappointment made him so unjust, that to avoid seeing Joe, who remained clinging to the narrow window-sill, he hung up a cloth between them. Joe waited for some time, but finding that his perseverance was use- less and importunate, he retired, feeling deeply for his friend’s grief. He passed a sleepless night, and the next morning, no sooner had he reached his cell, than he hurried to that of Francis ; but he was not there; his picture was on the easel, and it instantly occurred to Joe to touch up the Aricia; but a moment’s reflection sufficed for the truth-loving Joe to drop a scheme of such mani- fest deceit. Besides, Francis would never consent, he was sure, 25 POOR JOE. to triumph by so disgraceful an expedient; so Joe replaced the brushes which he had snatched up, and returned sadly to his cell. Whilst painting the figure which had proved so fatal to poor Francis, he vainly endeavoured to think of some mode of serving him, and his tender friendship led him almost to wish that his Aricia should not surpass his friend’s. He worked so negligently, that this would have been the case with any other ; but as it sometimes happens to artists, that what is taken least pains with turns out the best, this figure was so successful, that a professed painter would not have been ashamed of it. Joe’s mind was so fixed upon his reflections, that he painted on, scarcely looking at what he was doing; and it was only when he rose after the finishing touch, that he perceived that the last strokes were more from the hand of a master than that of a pupil. His first sentiment was extreme joy, but the remembrance of Francis clouded it immediately. Joe felt that the prize was his, when a noble idea occurred to him. When in Barbe’s wareroom, he had heard of an ancient rule of the professors, of which, he was sure, Francis was not aware ; namely, that any picture with a figure erased could not compete for the prize. Could he summon courage to take out his figure of Aricia, Francis w'as without a rival. He gazed upon his work ; he thought of the honour of being crowned at the age of sixteen, of the pleasure of going to Italy, of the advantage to his studies. “But,” said he, turning- his back upon the picture, “ Francis wants it as much as I do ; his parents are exhausted by their efforts for his education ; his mother requires a warm climate ; if Francis wins the prize, his family will follow him. He is nearly twenty, and his age will soon prevent his making more trials. Besides, he once spoke of the smallness of his fortune being the only hindrance to a happy marriage, which he might otherwise have hoped to obtain.” Again Joe looked at his charming head of Aricia. “If I were to spoil it a little,” thought he; “but even then it would be better than that of my poor friend’s.” But his irresolution soon vanished ; he remembered how his friend had boldly avowed the truth when he was on the point of being disgracefully driven out of Barbe’s establishment. From that moment Joe might date his bright career : all that he ifr, all that he yet may be, was due to the generous confession of Francis. Joe hesitates no longer ; with a firm hand he takes off all that he has just painted, the' sketch alone remaining, and thus munificently repays the debt of friendship formerly contracted to Francis, He kept the secret until the day before the exhibition, and then allowed Francis, who knew nothing of the law of exclusion, to suppose that he had also failed in the figure of Aricia, and had erased it in despair. Francis, who had quite recovered his momentary vexation, pitied and blamed his friend, but still believed him sure of the prize. 26 POOR JOE. IX. The exhibition of pictures commenced, and they were freely -commented upon, even in the presence of the young* authors. The pictures of Joe and of Francis were much admired, but the exclamation was often heard of — “A figure erased! What a pity ! — what madness ! ” The fourth day arrived : the professors, after a secret conference, summoned the candidates to appear; it was not in vain that Joe had made so noble a sacrifice. Francis Enguehard was proclaimed to have obtained the first prize, Rivol the second ; and so g*reat was Joe’s delight, that he was scarcely conscious of the honour- able notice of his own, although the fatal figure excluded it from the competition. He hurried Francis, who hardly knew what he was doing, to his home, and on witnessing the raptures of his parents, felt fully rewarded for what he had done. Leaving Francis with his happy mother, Joe returned home, and per- ceived at a distance the dame and Gabri watching for him. “ Congratulate me, my friends,” said Joe, running up to them; “ I am happy in my failure; Francis has won the prize !” “Francis !” exclaimed the dame, her hands falling by her sides; “and thou nothing! — nothing? There must have been some horrid injustice.” “No, my kind mother,” answered Joe laughing. “Be com- forted: I am neither sad nor discouraged. Next year you will see your child crowned.” “ But,” asked Gabri in a vexed tone, “ who has gained the second?” “ Rivol,” answered Joe; “ and I should have had it perhaps, if ” he looked timidly at Gabri — “ if I had not rubbed out my figure of Aricia.” “ Yes !” Gabri muttered to himself, “ I was sure of it; I sus- pected it at the exhibition. Joe, Joe ! embrace me, my son, and I will no longer grieve for my three fine boys ! ” Gabri was so constantly in the society of artists, that he had easily guessed the motive of Joe’s conduct, and his was a heart formed to value it ; but Dame Robert, in her ignorance, gave free course to her ill-humour. Joe soon coaxed it away from himself, but she pouted for a long time at Gabri, whose un- accountably triumphant air enraged her. Gabri was far too discreet to divulge the secret ; he had no explanation with his young friend; but he multiplied his marks of affection, and repeated frequently, “ My son Joe ! ” In the course of another month, Francis was on the road to Italy with his parents, and Joe returned to his studies with renewed zeal, and the consciousness of having* greatly increased the happiness of three persons. Another year passed away, and upon again entering his cell for POOR JOE. the prize, Joe wrote to his friend to expect him in three months, dating- from that day. He was sure of himself; he had improved so much, that notwithstanding the merit of seven competitors, all much older than he was, his picture w'as unanimously judged the best. It surpassed those usually presented at these meetings to so great a degree, that it was exhibited for some days beyond the time to gratify the crowd of amateurs. Dame Robert fully enjoyed the triumph of Joe, and perhaps still more the satisfac- tion of telling the story to’ her neighbours. Gabri would rub his hands, and bow when he heard the praises of his adopted son: even the honest Barbe was proud of having furnished for this boasted picture the finest and best canvas in his wareroom. The happy Joe departed for Rome, where he was received by Mr and Mrs Enguehard as a second son. Pie lived in their house, and enjoyed with Francis the pleasures of a life devoted to friendship and study, in that delightful country so favourable to the arts. Several years have passed since these events. Mr and Mrs Barbe have become rich and old, and have given up their trade to the excellent Gabri, who has removed to a better situation, and has his warerooms filled by a new generation of young artists. Francis Enguehard has become steady, and is happily settled, having married the daughter of a rich antiquary, the object of whose anxiety was to have a man of talent for his son- in-law. Dame Robert has been succeeded by her eldest son in business, and rests her fingers, but not her tongue ; for she never ceases relating to any one who will listen, how Joe was a poor orphan, how she took pity upon him, &c. &c. Philip, a good man, but an indifferent tailor, is also comfortably established at the Marnes. The Angerin, notwithstanding all his efforts, is far from being a first-rate painter, and has returned to Angers, where he has become director of the school which had formerly sent him to Paris. u Poor Joe !” as he was once called, is one of the most dis- tinguished artists in France. He possesses a competent fortune, acquired by his talents ; and what is of greater value, he is held in high estimation for his noble disposition and irreproachable conduct. Faithful to true and delicate friendship, Francis has never been made acquainted with the sacrifice which obtained him his crown. That of Joe is suspended in his fine studio, near his first palette, and his shoe-boy’s knife, an object which reminds him of what he has been, and useful in keeping him from being too proud of the success which, under God’s blessing, he has honourably achieved. Such is the story of one of the most eminent painters at present in Paris — once a shoe-black. If it be read by any youth pain- fully struggling in secret, let him assure himself that by earnest perseverance in the line suitable to his faculties, he can scarcely, like Poor Joe, fail of success. THE KIDNAPPED BOY.* A short time ago a respectably-dressed man walked into a working-jeweller’s shop. He was about the middle age, of dark, or rather sun-burnt complexion, of easy manners, and of a gentle- manly appearance. The proprietor of the shop was engaged in transacting business with an elderly lady, who was attired in mourning ; she had called respecting some repairs to be done to her watch, which was on the counter, and the subject of conver- sation between her and the jeweller. The strange gentleman, too well-mannered to interrupt the business, amused himself by examining several articles in the shop ; but the master, after requesting the lady to excuse his leaving her for a moment, accosted the stranger, and inquired his pleasure. The stranger then drew from his bosom, suspended from his neck by a black ribbon, a small pocket-case, which he opened, and took therefrom an ancient-looking crimson-velvet cushion : this cushion might have formed a model for a Cupid’s heart; it was, moreover, encased in silver filigree-work, which traced the outlines of several similarly-shaped hearts, and many other devices. On presenting the cushion to the jeweller, the stranger observed, that althoug'h the article appeared a trifle, its value to him was above price, and that, as it had sustained a slight injury, he w r as anxious to have it carefully repaired. The lady in black had not seen the face of the stranger, but when the jeweller left her to wait upon him, she occupied herself with looking at the bijouterie in a glass-case on the counter. While the gentleman w^as address- ing the jeweller, he held out the cushion in his fingers, and as he was about to pass it from his hand, the lady turned round, and instantly fixed her eyes upon the cushion : she seized the gentleman’s arm, her whole frame trembling from agitation ; she uttered a shriek, and then fell lifeless into the arms of the stranger. She was immediately removed into an adjoining parlour, and in a short time kindness had successfully applied the required restoratives. Now followed exclamations, and ques- tions, and explanations, in rapid succession. In a word, a mother had found a long-lost son ! The tale is brief. Some five-and-thirty years ago, a gentleman and lady, with two children, a boy and girl, took up their residence in a small village in Monmouthshire ; the spot was one of those delightful ones for which this county is justly celebrated ; the varieties of hill and dale, wood and water, were here beheld in prospects that combined the soft with the picturesque, and were never gazed upon but with pleasurable emotion. The income of this couple * The above little story of romance in real life was lately communicated, by a credible authority, to the editor of the Hereford Times, from which paper we copy it, in the words of the writer. 29 THE KIDNAPPED BOY. was not large, but ample for the exigencies of comfort and even elegance, though inadequate to an ostentatious style of living. The gentleman had a share in a mercantile house in London, in which concern he was a sleeping partner ; this establishment was the destination he intended for his son. He had also some pro- perty in the funds, with which he purposed portioning off his daughter. After he had thus provided for his children, he would still have sufficiency to insure to him and his wife ease and com- fort in their old age. The daughter was now seven years of age, the son five, and the parents were at that time of life when an increase of family is not common. Both boy and girl were edu- cated by the father, whose chief pursuits were of a literary cast. It was usual for the youngsters to have a holiday once a-week, when they either went to spend the day at the house of a neigh- bour, who had a family of two boys, and a girl of a similar age, or their playmates came and spent the day with them at their father’s house. It happened on one occasion the boy made one of those weekly visits alone, his sister having, from some cause or other, been detained at home. It was in the month of Sep- tember, and the boy left his friend’s house at the close of as fine an autumnal evening as ever glowed in the western heavens, and beautified the face of the earth. But the quiet loveliness of the scene was a faithless harbinger to the parents of the boy, for it betokened not the sweet serenity of a contented mind, but the wild fitfulness of despair — they never saw their boy again ! Dili- gent inquiries in every corner of the county, the searching of woods, the dragging of ponds and a river, rewards for restora- tion, and prosecution for detention : in fine, all that parental love could devise — and what will it not devise in so hapless an emer- gency ? — was put into action 5 but, alas ! without success. Year rolled after year, but no tidings of the lost child ever reached the ears of the fond and mourning parents. The father was observed always to carry about him an air of abstraction that made him appear solitary in the midst of a crowd, and he never looked upon a child but his eyes were seen reading the lineaments of its face. Ten years after the fatal event, he witnessed the death of his daughter, who died by the hand of that fell destroyer of youth and beauty — pulmonary consumption. This second shock he survived but a few years ; but he left behind him a wife who had developed all those virtues of her sex which enable a woman, albeit of keener sensibilities, to comfort and help the hus- band in the hour of sorrow and of sickness. She survived him, and bore her bereavements with the meekness of a Christian and the gentleness of a woman ; she never afterwards appeared but in the sable habiliments of grief, and thus her outward person har- monised with her sorrowing heart. She lived in close retirement, and seldom went beyond the boundaries of her wonted walks, for they wooed her into a musing recollection of the infant days of her children. Her distant friends urged her to forsake Mon- 30 THE KIDNAPPED BOY. mouthshire for ever, for their hopes were, that a total change of scene would produce a change of habits, and a more lively enjoy- ment of life. But no : she loved to linger on the spot sanctified by her endearments as a wife and mother, and she fondly indulged a hope that her boy lived, and would some day be restored to her longing arms. Her hope was attached to the heart by one of those imperceptible threads which the mind almost unconsciously weaves when surrounded by despair ; for if that thread were visible, it would appear frail indeed, and quite unable to sustain the slightest shock ; nevertheless, its texture is of that elastic tenacity which, while it yields to the severest strain, never breaks, but recovers its wonted position, and retains its firm hold on the heart until death severs the cord that life could not break. But the boy, now the man — hear his own tale. He has a dim recollection of the events of his childhood. He well remembers the evening when he was returning home from the house of his playmates ; he remembers walking along with a man, and a woman in a red cloak, and that when he cried, he was threatened to have his head cut off if he did not keep silent and go along quietly, as he would not be hurt, for he was being taken to see his papa and mamma, who had gone out visiting, and had sent the man and woman for him. Some such narrative is vividly impressed on his remembrance, and has ever been floating in his mind. He also remembers residing for several months in a large seaport town, but was never allowed to go out from the little house where he lived, except at night, and then only in company with the man or woman : he recollects very well the person who saw him frequently in that house, because he was very kind to him, and at length took him on board a ship. The first town lie remembers abroad was Kingston in Jamaica, wdiere, he be- lieves, he remained about nine years with the person who took him out. This individual was the owner of a large store, and the lad was employed in its business. During this time his education was not totally neglected, as his patron took some pleasure in improving his reading and writing. Having frequently expressed a desire for the sea service, our young hero was bound apprentice to a merchant captain, whose vessel traded between the West India Islands and the ports of the United States and South America. In this vessel he re- mained eight years, and had become so far a favourite of the captain, that the last year he kept his accounts, acted in some manner as his secretary, and was rapidly advancing in his affec- tions, when death broke the connexion. The captain died in New York. He now thought of visiting England, but not with any special intention of seeking his parents, as he had been assured by the person who took him to Jamaica that he was an orphan, but had been taken care of in early infancy by the bene- volence of a lady and gentleman, and that he had been sent to sea to get a livelihood as he best could. However, as he could THE KIDNAPPED BOY. not readily obtain a suitable situation on board a British vessel, for which, moreover, he was not very anxious, as the times had been, and were likely to continue, very troublous, he succeeded in getting into a merchant’s office in New York, where he began at a very subordinate post. Being of temperate and persevering habits, he became in live years a corresponding clerk. He was rising’ high in the scale of advancement, when one of his brother clerks married a daughter of the merchant, and was immediately taken into partnership. His elevation caused the new partner to assume consequential airs, which discomfited the peace of the establishment, and ended in our hero’s separation from the house. He afterwards filled another responsible situation in New York, when, after two years’ service, he accepted a lucrative offer to superintend a merchant’s office in New Orleans, and subsequently he became a partner in the concern, and accumulated a moderate fortune. For these last ten years he had had a growing desire to visit England, and at length he resolved on its gratification. About three months ago he landed in Liverpool; and after sojourning in that town and London some six weeks, he visited Bristol. From the appearance of some of the public buildings in Bristol, particularly the Exchange, he was convinced that Bristol was the port whence he sailed from England. After spending a fortnight at Clifton, he determined on returning to Liverpool, through South Wales, by way of Monmouthshire; and it was in this county that accident threw him in the path of his mother. The recognition has been described ; but the history of the means, namely, the cushion, remains to be told. When the hapless boy was kidnapped from his home, he had the cushion case in his pocket ; he knew it was dearly prized by his mother, and he had often heard her say it had been given to her by his grandmother. In the silver filigree-work that en- closed the cushion, was traced in a circle the Christian name of his grandmother, and the words, u Keep this in remembrance of me.” The boy managed to preserve the cushion, and as he grew to manhood, his affection for the relic became stronger. This little memento of the days of his childhood perhaps served to fix the remembrance of them more firmly in his mind. Of late years he wore it in his bosom, suspended from his neck by a black rib- bon. On ascending the steps of the far-famed Wind Cliff, his foot slipped, he fell against one of the stone steps, and damaged the filigree that encased the cushion. On his arrival at the first town in his route, he hastened to the shop of a working-jeweller. The reader already knows the sequel ; his mother cast her eyes upon the relic, read her mother’s name, and the never-forgotten words, u Keep this in remem- brance of me.” She felt as none but mothers can feel, but as no mortal can describe ; and the evening of her old age will be smoothed by the affectionate attentions of a beloved but long-lost son. 32 THE DESERTERS. I. N the summer of 1812 , a fine ship was holding her m? course in solitary pride through the blue waters of the (fuJ® j$S?\ South Atlantic. Though her sides were lofty, and she carried a heavy battery of guns, with a numerous crew, neither had her canvas the cut, nor her yards the squareness, of those of a man-of-war. She was, in truth, one of the V richly-freighted barks belonging to those merchant princes Mr of the East, of whom it may be truly said that few monarchs rival them in power, and fewer still in wealth. Every sail was set below and aloft, with studding-sails on each side, to take ad- vantage of the favourable breeze which was sending her along at the rate of nine knots an hour from the shores of England. Her course was towards that surge-beaten rock which rears its lofty summit, dark, rugged, and alone, from amid the ocean depths -—the island of ?t Helena — a spot which was afterwards to be- come famous throughout the world as the prison and the tomb of the great wonder of his age, Napoleon. It is difficult clearly to describe the scene which the Indiaman presented, with her crowded cabins supplied with every article of luxury: the rich merchandise below; the stores of provisions; the dark berths of the seamen; the carpenters, blacksmiths, and tailors’ shops ; the cow-house ; the sheep-pens and hencoops ; the kitchen, with its ever-active cook ; the butcher and baker following their avocations ; people moving in all directions ; and the hum of voices heard from every part ; these, with the dark No. J 47. l THE DESERTERS. line of guns lashed to her bulwarks on each side, the snowy hammocks in the nettings, the numerous boats, the clean decks, the ropes fastened down, the tall masts, the outspreading yards, the white sails, and the intricate tracery of the rigging, the whole forming a defined and familiar picture to a seaman’s eye ; but to a landsman, who has never beheld the like, appears an almost incomprehensible mass of confusion. The glowing sun of the tropics, now approaching the horizon, was casting his burning rays from an unclouded sky in a shower of golden refulgence upon the dark blue waters w T hich rose and fell in gentle undulations, merely rippled over by the playful breeze, but unbroken save where they curled and leapt round the bows of the majestic ship as calmly she parted them asunder, or where her steady track was marked by a lengthened line of snowy whiteness. Her decks were crowded with people: the after-part with the officers and cabin passengers, while on the forecastle were collected the greater part of the crew; a few women — some natives of India, servants of the cabin passengers — and a considerable number of soldiers, mostly fresh recruits, for the service of the Company. The latter were raw youths, collected from all parts of the United Kingdom, of every sort of character and disposition, possessed of various degrees of educa- tion, and intended originally for different trades and professions, which many opposite motives had induced them to quit for the profession they had now adopted ; and it was the duty of the older soldiers to amalgamate these very incongruous materials — a task not easy of accomplishment without the strictest discipline, firmness, and discretion, which latter quality was too often ne- glected, with the most fatal results, as the following narrative will show. In those days it was the custom of the Company frequently to disembark their newly-levied troops at St Helena, both to drill and discipline them, and to inure them to a tropical climate, before they were exposed to the hardships of actual warfare, as well as to make them take their turn in garrisoning the island ; a duty which appears always to have been distasteful and irk- some to the young soldiers, from the unvaried routine, the constant parades, and rigid subordination to which they were subjected, instead of beholding the wonders of the East, which they had been taught to expect. n. Two young men were pacing together the short space afforded them for a walk on the top-gallant forecastle — a small deck raised above what is called the upper deck, at the fore-part of a ship. They wore the military cap and undress uniform of the other recruits, though the manner in which they trod the deck 2 THE DESERTERS. showed that they were accustomed to the sea, and there was that in their air and appearance which distinguished them from the rest of their comrades, and betokened them to be possessed of superior education. There appeared to be a slight difference in their ages, and the eldest therefore claims the first description. His figure was about the middle height, strongly built, with well-knit limbs, which gave promise of great bodily activity; his complexion was florid, with light closely-curling hair, while his features were not only well-formed, but would have been considered decidedly handsome and pleasing, had not fierce and unrestrained passions already stamped them with their indelible traces. His full gray eyes, when his feelings were unexcited, looked so calm and soft, that they appeared beaming with almost a woman’s tenderness, but on the slightest opposition to his will, they instantly flashed with the angry blaze of his fiery temper ; and his mouth, that more certain index of the disposition, betokened him to be a firm and fearless character, more likely to attempt leading others, than tamely to submit to dictation. The physiognomist examining his countenance would at once have pronounced him to be possessed of qualities which, if well- directed, might raise him to the most elevated position, but which, were he left to his own devices, would too probably prove the cause of his complete destruction. Such was William Halliday. He was the second son of a wealthy farmer in the north of England, whose property bordered the sea-coast. He had been sent to various schools, as well as to one of the northern univer- sities, but had, although possessed of good abilities, been expelled from each on account of his determined resistance to all autho- rity. At the same time that young Halliday was pronounced an incorrigible reprobate by his masters, he was beloved by his companions of the same age as himself for his kind and generous disposition. He was at all times the champion of those who were oppressed and unable to defend themselves : often, too, would he bear the punishment due to the faults of another boy, rather than betray him to his superiors. He was always the first to be accused when no other culprit could be found. The behaviour of his masters by degrees hardened his temper, and made him alike indifferent to punishment or applause. How little did his instructors imagine the ruin they were working in a noble fabric ! whereas, by judicious management from the first, his faults would have been corrected, and his disposition unim- paired. Notwithstanding his general idleness, he had contrived to gain a considerable amount of information, and his indulgent father had hopes of his reformation. He listened calmly and leniently to his son’s excuses for his behaviour, forgave him, and told him that he must henceforth make amends for his former wildness by assisting him diligently in his business. William promised, and intended to perform his promise,, but the THE DESERTERS. dull routine of a farmer’s life was not at all to his taste ; and though for a time he attended with tolerable regularity to his duties, he gladly flew to other pursuits on the slightest pretext. Living close to the sea-shore, he had from his boyhood been accustomed to pass much of his time upon the ocean, and had be- come, by constant practice, a bold and dexterous boatman. His delight w'as to steer a light skiff he claimed as his own, at early dawn, far out to sea, where, miles from land, he would remain all day, delighting in the wild solitude of the ocean, nor return till the sun warned him that evening was approaching. And often wmuld he, in mere sport, dart through the heaviest breakers, 'where few would venture to follow. By his courage and experience, indeed, the crew and passengers of a large ship wrecked on the coast were preserved — a gallant act, which gained him the applause and respect of all who heard of it, as w r ell as the gratitude of those whose lives, at the risk of his own, he had preserved. As yet, William Halliday, with all his errors, had been free from crime. His trials had not yet come. He was not to escape the fiery ordeal of temptation ; and who, without firm principles — guardian angels, ever watchful by his side — can hope to escape unscathed. Unhappily he possessed not these ; yet his thirst for excitement, and his love of enterprise, were the primary causes of his fall, rather than a vicious disposition. Had his father, instead of attempting to bring up one of his ardent temperament to the regular routine of his own profession, sent him at an early age to sea — where, while his peculiar failings would have been corrected by strict discipline, his desire for change would have been fully satisfied before it had gained overpowering strength — he might have escaped the peculiar temptations to which he was subjected. But such was not to be. Let his example prove a warning to others ; and let other fathers and masters remember his fate, when they discover similar dispositions in their sons or pupils. His love of the excitement to be found on the ocean caused young Halliday to become acquainted with all the seafaring men in the neighbourhood, some of whom were very bad characters. At that time the loose enforcement of the revenue laws gave en- couragement to an extensive system of smuggling along all the coasts of England, and with many of the persons engaged in this illegal traffic he was consequently thrown in constant contact. Among the worst was a man of the name of Derrick, the owner of several smuggling craft. This man had long fixed his eye on young Halliday, calculating that he would be, from his intrepid character and social position, an able coadjutor in his plans. It was not long before he had an opportunity, of which he failed not to make use, of enticing the young man on board his cutter, and offering him a cruise to the coast of France. This offer was too willingly accepted, and frequently repeated ; so that, although THE DESERTERS. Halliday took no part in their business, he was completely com- mitted with the smugglers, and very soon not only forgot the lawlessness of their proceedings, but by degrees, from assisting*, he lent a hand in landing* the goods from the vessel. Young Halliday knew he was doing wrong, but he tried to persuade himself that, as he did not take any of the profits of these illegal transactions, he was not distinctly implicated. In this delusion, he continued to associate with the contrabandists, and, as may be expected, was led from one thing to another, till he brought himself within the direct grasp of the law. Early one morning the party, in landing a cargo of goods, were attacked by the revenue officers ; a scuffle ensued ; blood was shed ; several were wounded on both sides : and one man was cut down by Halliday, who forthwith fled from the fray — • a murderer. Hurrying from the scene, he crossed the country on foot, met the mail going northward, and taking a seat on it, was carried to York. From this place he found his way to Hull, where he intended to ship as a seaman on board the first vessel about to sail ; to what part of the world he cared not. As it happened, not one foreign-bound ship was likely to be ready for sea. Fie, however, found a vessel ready to sail for London, and in this he took his passage. The voyage lasted several days, during which young Halliday became acquainted with a person of indifferent character, who introduced him to parties still worse in London. Once put on a wrong track, it is inconceivable how quick is the progress to destruction. Halliday could not be called deliberately bad ; but his impulses and his heedlessness had been equally injurious. Ere he had entered life, in the ordinary sense of the term, he was a ruined man. The consciousness of being a homicide, and that his character was altogether gone, impelled him to sink the deeper in guilt. He scarcely cared what came of him. In this state of mind, it is not to be wondered at that he took part in an enterprise which had for its object to rob a gentle- man on his way home at night, and who was known to carry a considerable amount of valuable property on his person. This affair proved less advantageous than had been reckoned on. The gentleman to be waylaid was well armed, and on being suddenly set upon, shot one of the robbers in the breast. The others immediately fled. The wounded man was taken into an adjoining cottage, which, strange to say, proved to be one inhabited by his wife, whom he had cruelly deserted ; and the scene which ensued may be more easily imagined than described. The now doubly guilty Halliday felt that his life hung by a single hair. Perhaps the wounded man, if able to speak, would reveal his name and residence. In this conjuncture he did what is probably done in many similar circumstances. Having ex- changed his apparel for a common working-dress, and otherwise disguised himself, he enlisted into the army, or, as it chanced to be, the East India Company’s service. In those days few ques- 5 THE DESERTERS. tions were asked about previous character, and a fine youth was not to be rejected. He was at once enlisted under a feigned name, and before many days elapsed, had joined the depot of the Company’s regiments, whence in a few weeks he embarked for India. III. The young man whom we have mentioned as being Halliday’s companion on board the ship had enlisted about the same time, but from different causes. Of a much less robust frame than Halliday, his figure would have conveyed the idea of activity, and no small power of endurance. Henry Hastings, as this youth was called, was the son of a clergyman, the rector of a small living* on the south coast of England. Mr Hastings, after taking a high degree at Oxford, became a fellow of his college, where he continued to reside for some years, till he accepted the first living* which fell in. Naturally of retiring manners, and possessing a poetical temperament, he had at no time mixed much in the limited society of the university, and with the world at large he was unacquainted. On his entering on the duties of his profession he married an amiable young lady, who died in a few years, after giving birth to two children — a son and a daughter. So completely were the thoughts of Mr Hastings occupied with his scientific and literary pursuits, and with what he considered the duties of his calling, that he ap- peared totally to forget the necessity of attending to his worldly affairs, and to the education of his children. Fortunately for them, on the death of his wife a widowed sister came to reside with him, and by her judicious management so corrected their failings, and excited their best qualities, that few more amiable or engaging children could be found. Julia Hastings grew up in time to be a lovely and charming girl, endued with good sense and talent, and a firmness of character which neither her father nor brother appeared to possess. Henry, though her senior by a year, had not, unfortunately, the settled principles, nor the determined spirit of his sister, though equalling her in amiability and a desire to do right, with even a more enthusiastic and romantic tempera- ment. He had no vices, and many virtues, but they were all of a passive rather than of an active nature. Though books were his delight, his reading was too desultory and irregular to lead to any useful results; nor did any great improvement take place during* the short time he was at the university. The only amusement in which, like most men of his age, he indulged, was sailing ; and from his boyhood he had been accustomed to steer his light skiff over the dancing waves, and to manage her with considerable dexterity. It suited his romantic dispo- sition. He loved to make excursions along the beautiful shores of his native county, to sail up its rivers, and visit its sheltered THE DESERTERS. bays, till he almost fancied himself the explorer of new regions fertile and wealthy. On Henry’s return home after keeping his first university term, he brought with him to the vicarage a friend, whom he had known from his boyhood ; and certainly Lionel Raven- hurst did full justice to his discrimination of character, for a more attractive person in mind, manner, and appearance could scarcely be met with. He came to enjoy a few days’ yachting, which "Henry had promised him, but his visit was prolonged for several weeks. Each day that the weather was favourable, the friends spent upon the water, when Julia was their frequent companion ; nor did her beauty and amiability fail to make a deep impression on the heart of their guest. At last he was compelled to leave them, to join his family abroad ; and Julia only then began to discover how essential his presence was to her happiness. Scarcely had young Ravenhurst gone, when Mr Hastings was taken alarmingly ill, and before many days had passed, he died, bestowing a blessing on his children, and expressing a hope that they would be in some manner provided for. What a blow was this to Henry and his sister ! Both were thrown suddenly on new resources, and with little hope of successfully overcoming the difficulties that presented themselves. One of the first things which Henry did was to examine into the state of his father’s affairs. To his consternation they were found in a very con- fused and embarrassed condition. His father had not consulted a rigorous prudence in giving him an expensive university education ; and it would have been greatly more judicious, in the circumstances,' had he placed his son in some useful profession. But regrets on these points were now useless. All that could possibly be realised for the family, including the aged aunt, was fifty pounds a-year. Henry w*as overwhelmed with grief on his sister’s account. For himself he felt not ; but to leave one of so gentle a nature, and so gently nurtured, to the indifference of the world — to compel her to seek for subsistence in the capacity of a governess, to the irritating annoyances of unmannered children — the very thought was misery. For some days his mind was in a state of anguish and uncer- tainty. At last his resolution was taken. He would devote all that remained of their father’s property to the support of his sister, and he would seek his fortune in the world, and perhaps soon restore to her the luxuries she had lost. She, with her aunt, might thus in the meantime exist with some little comfort and independence. The next morning, having packed up his clothes, he left a letter to his sister on the table in the sitting-room of the little cottage to which they had removed, detailing his intention, and what he had done for his support, and bidding her and his aunt farewell. He then, with an almost breaking heart, hurried from THE DESERTERS. the door. Carrying his portmanteau on his shoulder, he walked some way to meet a coach going to London, where he purposed first to look out for employment. Weary and tired, he arrived there the next day, and then began to consider w'hat he should do. He had already written to the few friends he possessed for introductions to people who might be of service to him in the metropolis. Some paid no attention to his request, others for- warded the introductions to the address he fixed on, but few expressed any great regret at his loss. At last, having received the letters, he set out to deliver them, but most of the people on whom he called were from home, and the rest asserted they had no means or influence to assist him. He then offered his ser- vices in various directions, and in various capacities for which he thought himself fitted ; but from all those to whom he applied he received the same answer — the truth being, that in London there are always thousands of young persons needing situations, so that a new-comer cannot, or ought not, to expect an opening for his services merely on making himself known. Besides, Henry had never been previously employed ; and this of itself was enough to prevent him from being taken into any house of business. At length, driven to desperation, and too proud to descend, as he considered it, to any humble kind of employment, he did that which was worse — he enlisted as a soldier in the service of the East India Company. A hurried and half-frantic note to his poor sister only informed her that he was about to leave the country for some time, and that she must not be alarmed if she did not hear from him for several months. It appears to be customary for lads to change their names when they enlist. According to the feelings of educated Eng- lishmen, there is a degradation in becoming a common soldier — a being sold, it may be said, for the best years of life to a state of privation, and with the most slender hopes of improvement in circumstances. Following* this practice of entering the army under a feigned name, young Halliday called himself Hall, and Hastings adopted the name of Hardy. IV. Such were the two youths whom circumstances had degraded from their position to be soldiers, bound for a foreign clime. W e left them walking on one of the higher decks of the vessel. What was their conversation ? 1 rate annuity settled on her for life. Fortunately, her family was not large, consisting of only a son and daughter, who O engaged her attentions, and to whom she looked for com- fort in her old age. N othing particular marked the character of young Charles Grinton in his early years ; but on his approach- ing the age at which it is usual to make choice of a profession, it was found that he was disinclined to settle steadily to any line of life. He was fond of trifling away his time on the Castle Hill, gazing at the soldiers on parade, or playing on the streets with any idle lads who were as inconsiderate as himself. Among his various juvenile acquaintances, there was a boy, George Macqueen by name, whose character was really worthy of serving as an example. George was the son of persons in exceedingly humble circumstances. His father had been a gar- dener in the employment of a nobleman in Fife, and having been dismissed when past the prime of life, to make room for one who was younger, and more able to endure fatigue, he removed to Edinburgh, and gained a livelihood by dressing the flower plots and small gardens of gentlemen’s houses in the outskirts of the town. His residence was in the cellar floor of the same tenement No. 148. l A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. in which Mrs Grinton and her family occupied an upper storey ; and hence a slight degree of intimacy grew up between their children. Little George Macqueen, on his first coming to Edinburgh, and being put to the school at which Charles Grinton was already placed, was much laughed at for his country manners and pecu- liar accent ; but, luckily, he did not much regard the shouts or sneers of his companions. He was told frequently by his father and mother that he must soon depend on his own exertions, and that if he were scrupulously careful in acquiring all the useful knowledge he possibly could, both at school and from books, there would be no doubt of his gaining a respectable livelihood, and perhaps of advancing himself in the world. u Kemember,” would his mother sometimes say, u although we are poor, your grandfather was for seven-and-twenty years a respected elder of the kirk, and you are come of honest people. See that you do nothing to hurt the good name of the family .” Admonitions such as these sunk to the bottom of George’s heart. He pursued learning with avidity, and stored his mind with what might afterwards prove useful to him in life. As a humble acquaintance of Charles Grinton, he derived an advan- tage which could scarcely have been anticipated. Charles’s father had left a tolerably good selection of books, and occa- sionally, by the permission of Mrs Grinton, one of these was lent to George Macqueen, a boon which was repaid by his assist- ing Charles in mastering his lessons at school. In this way our young hero read through the greater part of a voluminous Encyclopaedia before he was fourteen years of age, and treasured up a mass of information on many useful subjects. Now came the time for George doing something for himself. As the age of fourteen approached, the nature of his future em- ployment w r as the cause of much cogitation. Applications were made to the heads of divers establishments, mechanical as well as mercantile ; and at last an opening was found at Mr Cairnie’s, a respectable dyework, where an apprentice was required. George at once prepared himself for entering the situation. The occu- pation of a dyer w T as not by any means cleanly, but that he did not mind. He wished to earn a wage, and when he carried home to his mother, at the end of the first week of his engage- ment, the sum of half-a-crown, the first money he had ever realised by his labour, there was not a happier boy betwixt the Castle Hill and Holyroodhouse. It was some time before George was of much use to his em- ployer, who, however, esteemed him for his diligence and trust- worthiness. When put in charge of anything, he was conscien- tiously careful of his trust ; and when sent on errands, he exe- cuted them with despatch and satisfaction ; and nothing would tempt him to spend his master’s time in his own gratifications. Eor all such excellent moral qualities, he was greatly indebted to A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. the advices and Lints of his mother, a woman who well knew that her boy’s means of living' would depend on the manner in which he exerted himself. 66 If George be honest and steady,” she would sometimes observe to her friends, iC I do not fear for what may happen to him. He may never be anything else than a workman; but he may be as happy in that con- dition as in any other, provided he do his duty, and that I hope he always will ; at least it shall not be my fault if he do not.” Would that every boy in humble life had so good a mother ! Let us now leave George for a while, till we give a view of Charles Grinton’s outset In life. When Charles heard that his late schoolfellow, George Mac- queen, was turned dyer, and that he was now seen going to and from his work with a coarse blue woollen apron, and that his hands and nails were as dark indigo could make them, he thought he had done a low thing ; though, as his parents were poor, he considered that hardly anything better could have been expected from him. From this time, therefore, a coolness sprung up between the two acquaintances ; and as their walk in life was different, they forthwith had no communication with each other. The choice of a profession formed an exceedingly difficult matter of consideration for Charles. His mother frequently importuned him to settle upon some line of life ; and at length he decided on becoming a bookseller, which he was informed was a genteel, easy profession. His mother, therefore, made interest with a gentleman in that business to take her son as a junior apprentice, and with him he was immediately installed behind the counter. A few days, however, saw the termination of Charles’s career in this profession. He was disgusted with the duty 6f sweeping out the shop, a thing he had not calculated on, and so threw up his place, and came home once more to his mother. What was now to be done ? Another kind of shop business was thought of. He took a fancy to be an ironmonger, because ironmongers sold gunpowder, and clasp-knives, and other articles that boys are fond of ; and also because ironmongers keep shop-porters, who do all the dirtiest and heaviest work. So he was placed with, an iron- monger in the High Street, and here he seemed more inclined to remain. But, alas ! here he also foundered on his pride or false shame. One day he was ordered by his master to carry home a frying-pan to the house of a customer in George’s Square, an order which he could by no means shift from his shoulders, for the porter had gone to dinner ; all the other lads were engaged ; and there were strict injunctions given that the frying-pan should be home at the customer’s by a certain hour now near at hand. Seeing there was no help for this misfortune, Charles plucked up courage, and tucked the culinary utensil under his arm; and to save the risk of meeting with any of his Lawn- A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. market acquaintances, slunk away on his errand by one of the least frequented lanes of the city. By this precaution, and a degree of good luck, he escaped the observation of any one who knew him till he was within a few yards of the house to which he was proceeding ; when, oh horror of horrors! out there poured, from an adjacent pleasure-ground, a long’ string of young ladies composing a boarding-school, to many of whom he and his family were well known. The approach of a wild beast ready to devour him could not have been more appalling to the poor distressed genteel young’ ap- prentice than this band of harmless young women. In an agony of pride and confusion, he hastened to conceal the luckless frying-pan, by thrusting the flat part up between his back and his coat, leaving the long’ handle to project out below, but in a way he hoped would not be observed, especially as he calculated on sidling along with his face to the ladies as they passed him. Had Charles not shuffled in this ineffectual manner to conceal what he had no reason to be ashamed of, he might have escaped detection — for who heeds an apprentice boy whatever he be carry- ing ? As the case was, his gestures caused some of the ladies to look towards him ; and one seeing who he was, stopped with her companions to inquire how his mother was in health, as she heard she had been poorly. While Charles was mumbling out some sort of answer to this interrogatory, the time had elapsed when the utensil he carried should have been home, and the cookmaid, losing all patience, ran to the head of the area steps to see if she could discover any appearance of its approach. What a blow to Charles’s gentility ! As he was making a stiff bow to the ladies, the enraged cook came up, and seizing the handle of the frying-pan, which stuck out like a tail behind, flourished it aloft with one hand, while with the other she gave the luckless apprentice a shake w r hich almost deprived him of his senses. At the same time a laugh from the ladies, w’ho were amused with the incident, made him ready to die of shame, and taking to his heels, he fairly fled down one of the walks of the Meadows. So ended Charles’s experience as an ironmonger. No persuasions could cause this infatuated youth to return to what was in every respect an eligible employment. It was in vain that his mother added threats to admonition to move him from his purpose ; and as she was, like many mothers, foolishly over-indulgent to her children, and wanted firmness to compel obedience, her son was permitted to grow up without any settled pursuit. By the exertions of a friend of the family, he was taken into the employment of an accountant, who gave him some occu- pation as a clerk ; but this was a precarious means of subsistence, and he had to depend in a great measure on his mother for his clothing, board, and lodging. It is a true saying that idleness is the mother of all mischief. 4 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. It was so in the case of young 1 Grinton. He had too much idle time on his hands, and this he spent chiefly in two ways. Dur- ing* the day he frequented stable-yards and repositories for the sale of horses ; in the evening* he attended clubs and glee-singing* societies. It is instructive to mark his declension from this point. He had long been anxious to make the acquaintanceship of the famous Ealph Petersham, a young gentleman of first-rate abilities as a horse-jockey. Ealph was the only son of a wealthy and respectable clergyman, and, we believe, had been bred to the pro- fession of a writer or attorney ; but this was a business not at all to his liking. Nature seemed to have intended him for a groom ; and he therefore, at an exceedingly early age, showed his love for horses, saddles, whips, spurs, and all the other furniture of the stable-yard. Instead of applying himself tQ the legal profession, he devoted nearly the whole of his time to shows and sales of horses, and thus became acquainted with many of the nobility and landed gentry in various parts of the country. Being light in weight, he also used to ride a horse at the annual races, and hence was enrolled one of the most celebrated characters in the sporting world. Charles’s career in folly was pretty hurried after he had been initiated into the craft of jockeyship by the well-skilled Mr Petersham. Even now, however, he was not past being saved from the effects of his behaviour, had he made an effort to free himself from the trammels of his idle associates. This effort he never made ; and sinking into intemperate habits, was finally lost to all the decencies of life, notwithstanding the prayers and in- treaties of his broken-hearted mother. That mother, alas ! did not live to witness the concluding scene in her son’s career. Her decease shot a pang through his heart which the deceitful glass could not assuage. His sister having some time previously been established in a distant part of the country as a governess, Charles now found himself not only deprived of the means of consolation, but without the means of support ; for, as may be supposed, he had already been dismissed from the situation in which he had latterly earned a pittance of wages. In this condition, and under the loss of Mr Petersham’s friend- ship, which soon followed, we behold the conceited and impo- verished Charles Grinton reduced to a state verging on desti- tution. To procure employment in Edinburgh was impossible, for his character was known to be bad. No one would trust him, notwithstanding his professions of amendment. Nobody would employ a being who had behaved with such heedless- ness, when young men of the best character could be procured. As a last resource, therefore, and on the strength of a small subscription, he was compelled to go forth to seek bread as an emigrant beyond the Atlantic. While he is pursuing his voyage on board of a vessel bound from Greenock to New York, let us take up the history of the industrious youth who 5 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. had seven or eight years before been his humble and despised acquaintance. George Macqueen, in the course of his apprenticeship, was not less distinguished for his laborious exertions than his shrewd in- telligence on points connected with his profession. He had the tact to perceive that there are two ways of fulfilling the duties of a workman at the employment in which he was engaged : the first, he observed, consisted in pursuing the business by habitual routine, without a single thought as to principles, and which leads to unvarying manual labour through life ; the second, he remarked, consisted in a close attention to the principles upon ■which the craft is founded, and which, when attended to practi- cally, as well as theoretically, will have the tendency to lead the artisan to superior . modes of working, and consequently to honour and profit. He therefore devoted a certain portion of his spare time, during the evenings, to the study of different branches of natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, often practising experiments at home, in order to render himself per- fect in the elementary principles of that exceedingly important science. And how much to be commended were these rational pursuits, in comparison with those of the infatuated Grinton ! While the one was gaining a knowledge of some of the grandest operations of nature, the other w r as mbst likely engaged in the undignified occupation of worming the tongue of a dog, or trim- ming a horse’s tail. Whatever was the character of George’s studies, it is certain they proved advantageous to him in a pecuniary sense. He acquired the regard and confidence of his master, which in itself was a great point gained ; and on the expiry of his seven years’ apprenticeship, was considered one of the most expert and valu- able workmen in the trade. He had not wrought more than twelve months as a journeyman, cheering the declining years of his parents by his filial attentions to their comfort, when an opening occurred for him of a lucrative description at an exten- sive dyeing and calico-printing establishment in the neigh- bourhood of one of the large manufacturing towns in the west of Scotland. Here, by the recommendation of his master, he was installed chief superintendent, a situation which he held for about two years, when a still higher promotion awaited him. His intelligence and professional skill having been noticed by a gentleman from New York, who was proceeding on a tour through the different manufacturing districts, with the view of picking up a knowledge of some of the principal branches of the cotton and silk trade, and of procuring some good hands, in order to improve the manufacture of these fabrics in his own country, George received from him the handsome offer of being made manager in a large concern in New York, which was already set on foot, and in a flourishing condition. “ We only require a few skilful individuals, and the knowledge they would A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. bring ’/ 7 said Mr Yanderlin to George, 11 in order to rival British fabrics ; and to such men as you we do not hesitate to offer the most liberal terms. Name your price, and we shall endeavour to meet your wishes . 77 To so gracious an offer, other circumstances concurring, George, or, as we should now call him, Mr Macqueen, gave his willing consent. He sailed from Scotland under auspices the most flattering to his feelings ; and what was equally pleasing, was conscious of carrying along with him the respect and esteem of all who knew him. How unlike all this was to the expatriation of the wretched Grinton ! How different were the prospects of each, on seeing before them the wide-spread world of waters which intervene betwixt the brown hills of their native land and the fertile shores of the states of New England! We have not now much to tell of our two heroes ; but in the little which remains to be mentioned, lies not the least striking part of the moral which the story unfolds. Mr Macqueen could hardly fail in the enterprise in which he had engaged. To a thoughtfulness and activity, which few exhibit in combination at his years, he joined a perfect knowledge of his business, both theoretically and practically. He modelled the establishment in which he was placed on the plan of that of the extensive concern he had formerly superintended in Britain ; introduced a number of those extraordinary mechanical processes which formerly were almost entirely confined to some of the great Glasgow and Manchester factories; and finally, as we are told, raised the character of the goods produced to very nearly a level with that of the productions of England and Switzerland. For these great services Mr Macqueen was duly rewarded. From being manager, he was elevated to the condition of master, being given a share in the business ; while a liberal allowance was still made to him for his continuing to exercise the functions of director. Thus, from less to more — from being a poor toiling boy at a wage of no more than half-a-crown a-week — did this persevering young man rise, before he was thirty years of age, to be one of the first and most respected men in New York, now one of the most populous and wealthy cities in the world. And you will perceive there was no witchery, no magic, in the manner of his elevation. His success, under the blessing of God, was unde- niably owing to his own conduct. Other young men who had started in life at the same period, in the same profession, and who had had precisely similar opportunities, still remained in almost their original condition. They had neither cultivated their moral nor intellectual faculties, nor resisted the petty temptations which on all sides assail the youth on his entrance into the busy scenes of life. But where was the luckless Charles Grinton, that he did not appear to congratulate his fellow-townsman upon his good for- tune? He had, as we have mentioned, sailed for New York in 7 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. quest of employment, however abject it might happen to be. Where, then, was he now ? — how had he fared in this new theatre of exertion? A word or twrn will explain. From New York, w T here he landed, he had proceeded along with a band of emi- grants to Canada. At Montreal, by a singular piece of luck, he had received employment as a clerk in the office of a merchant, one of whose assistants had the previous day met with an acci- dental death when bathing in the St Lawrence. Charles’s ap- pearance was not prepossessing ; but there was no choice. Here, then, was he once more in the w T ay of well-doing. But it was useless. He subsided into irregular habits — was dismissed from his situation — wandered into the agricultural settlements, where he occasionally wrought at different kinds of severe manual labour — and at last pushed down to New York, with the hope of procuring employment in that quarter. By a remarkable coincidence, the house in which Mr Mac- queen had become a partner at this time required a person to act as truck-porter, and the advertisement announcing the fact brought Charles Grinton to seek it. The humiliation of feelings which agitated the miserable applicant, when, in one of the masters of this flourishing concern, he recognised his old associate George Macaueen, can be more easily imagined than described. George’s heart, however, overflowed Avith tenderness towards his early companion. He interested himself to the extent of procur- ing him a situation somewffiat superior to that which had been applied for; and we are glad to say that, by the exercise of proper discipline, and now and then a word of advice, he at length pro- duced the happy effect of leading his prodigal friend from thoughts and deeds of folly to those of sober well-doing. friendly hints to young people. The preceding story, showing the advantage of industry over idleness, cannot but suggest to the minds of youth the necessity for self-exertion and self-dependence, along with a spirit of well- doing. On these, and some other points, we propose offering a few hints. SELF-DEPENDENCE. Limited as your experience may have been, you can hardly have failed to learn the important truth, that nothing is to be obtained, no comfort procured, no luxury or convenience pos- sessed, without being previously purchased by exertion. Young as you are, you will have noticed that your parents do not get money wherewith to purchase the necessaries of life, without giving something in return. Your father has fed and clothed a A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. vou from infancy, he has given you an education suited to Lis means, he has bestowed upon you an infinite degTee of atten- tion, in order to fit you for the busy scenes of life ; and when he has done all this, at a great expense both of his substance and his feelings, he cannot be expected to do more, farther than to give his best advice for your welfare. Being now nurtured up to that point at which you are able to endure to a certain extent the withdrawal of* parental support, you must not think it hard to be obliged to begin to do some- thing for yourself. You only find yourself placed in the con- dition of every living creature. By a universal law of nature, the young of all animals are thrust forth from the parental nest on attaining sufficient strength to glean their own livelihood. Such, modified by human feelings and human customs, must likewise be the conduct of rational parents in pushing forth their families into the world, and so must young men commence the process of depending on their own faculties for subsistence. Judging from what we see around us, too little regard is paid to the moral lesson demonstrated by nature for our guidance in this respect. We find parents committing the error of allowing their families to hang about them long past the time at which they should have seen them placed out in the world in some honest calling or profession — a course of policy calculated to produce lasting regret even among the tolerably opulent classes of society. But we much more frequently see the young endeavouring to avoid incurring the responsibility of self-dependence, and inhumanely leaning for support on those parents whose means have already been in a great measure exhausted both by mis- fortunes and the unavoidable expenses incurred in feeding, educating, and clothing their children. It must always be con- sidered an exceedingly mean thing for a young man to continue exacting support from parents, after he was fully able to think and act for himself. There is, besides, an unfeeling cruelty in such conduct, for it is working on the benevolent affections of those who gave him birth, and committing a robbery, with the knowledge that its perpetration will not be visited either by rebuke or punishment. It seems to be difficult to convince the young of the urgent necessity for dependence on themselves. Long after they are placed in a way of earning a livelihood, they often think it all little enough that they can take from the parental home. As long as a mother or father exists, and retains a dwelling for the junior or female branches of a family, they are apt to suppose that there can be no harm in taking a little of that which is required by others less capable of ministering to their own necessities. Even although the burden of supplying the general wants should have devolved upon an elder brother, who has been prematurely invested with the character of guardian of the family, there are instances in which voung men think 96 * 9 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. lightly of exacting subsidies and assistance, in various ways, from a household so circumstanced, for no other apparent reason than that they happen to be connected with it by birth, or because their demands cannot, without indelicacy, be withstood. We earnestly and affectionately warn you against lapsing into a line of behaviour so ungenerous and unbecoming as that here hinted at. You are now called upon to exert all your faculties in the noble object of self-dependence. You are endowed with a power to think, hands to work, and a frame to endure labour — why, then, depend- on any one but yourselves? You will not suppose that we wish you to be thrown all at once on your own resources. That would most likely be only abandoning you to certain moyal destruction and much painful suffering. What we propose is, that you should make up your mind to enter on some trade or profession, and follow up your inclinations by a steady attention to whatever calling you may attach yourselves. You may not be able at first, or for a little time, to do much in the W'ay of supporting yourselves, but then you are in the fair way of well-doing. There is a pleasure in knowing that the money which we spend has been earned by our own exertions. One shilling gained by our own industry is always said to be worth twenty procured from friends. What we get for nothing is thought lightly of ; but we know well the value of what has come in the shape of a remuneration for our labour. CHOICE OF A PROFESSION. Some young persons entertain ridiculous notions as to the choice of a profession. Carried away by the glitter of uniforms and the splendid pageantry of the soldier’s life, nothing will please them short of entering the army; or, perhaps, carried away by the narration of maritime adventures, they resolve on following the hazardous profession of the sailor. But a very little experience of the realities of life generally banishes these idle dreams. Others pitch upon the clerical profession as most suitable to their ideas of living an easy and dignified existence, and enjoying the reverence of those around them, without reckon- ing on whether their parents or guardians are able in the first place to procure them the necessary course of education, or if they would subsequently have the good fortune to find a benefice. Many more equally delude themselves with regard to what are called professions. As a matter of course, they must be some- thing better, though only in appearance, than their father ; and so they frequently turn their attention to occupations which to them look remarkably genteel, but which all the world besides know to be superficial and unprofitable. The young in the middle and lower ranks of society should by all means be go- verned in these matters by their seniors, for they are certainty the best judges with respect to w T hat particular department of industry they should attach themselves. 10 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. From our own experience of the world, it does not appear that it is of much consequence what the trade or business is to which the young may be put after leaving school. The main thing to be acquired consists in habits of industry and self-denial ; and if these be secured by a certain course of probation, all other advan- tages follow naturally. It is by diligence and integrity alone that fortune and fame arise, and both can be exerted upon a thousand different objects of pursuit. It is nevertheless certain that many boys have a peculiar turn or genius for particular businesses. One displays a mechanical turn ; another is inclined to a mercantile pursuit ; and a third is of a studious disposition. These, and other similar tendencies, will of course govern both 3murselves and your parents in the choice of professions ; all that we can do here is to give you a few hints for your consideration. In the first place, try to attach yourself to a business that is of extensive application, and promises to last long. Avoid profes- sions that will fasten you to a spot, or to a country. Let it be one that will give you support wherever you may chance to proceed. Avoid also sinking professions : catch the tone and tendency of society, and seek to float down the stream of general utility. You can never go far wrong in following a trade, the assistance of which all mankind require ; for instance, every branch of business connected with education and literature is at present rising, and will still farther be extended all over the world. All the useful arts are likewise extending themselves ; while those of a contrary nature are becoming more limited. The two least promising professions which can now be followed, it will be allowed, are the clerical and legal. It is clear that there will very soon be a complete reformation in the law both of England and Scotland ; and what now’ costs us many pounds, will most likely by and by be executed for a few shillings. We therefore consider the law a very bad profession, and that not only prospectively, but at the present moment ; for it is greatly overdone, and too limited in its scope. The profession of a clergyman is still worse. No one can foresee how this profession is in time to be regulated : that is to say, on wdiat footing an aspirant is to stand in relation to his settlement in a charge. But allowing that there will be no change in this respect, please to remember how many probationers are in a state approaching to destitution. It is calculated that in Scotland there are seven or eight hundred young men educated for the church, and ready for situations in it, while the vacancies are somewhere about thirty in the year. In England, there is a similar disparity between the number of church aspirants and livings. WILLINGNESS. We shall suppose that at the age of fourteen or fifteen you are at length fixed in some line of business. Your situation is now exceedingly critical. You are the servant of a master ; and it is 11 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. necessary you should go through this course of servitude, to fit you for being some day a master yourself. You will perhaps be called on to perform some unpleasant, it may be undignified work, not agreeable to your pride. But go through all with alacrity and cheerfulness. Show ivillingness to do what you are hid ; for, next to honesty and steadiness, there is nothing which masters like so much as willingness. If ever you show unwillingness, you are undone. If you be honest, steady, and willing, there is no fear of your success. We often hear a great many complaints about people not being able to find employment. A number of these complaints are certainly too well-founded ; but rest assured of the fact, that masters have usually greater difficulty in getting trustworthy servants and assistants, than servants and assistants have in getting* good masters. Men in business in large towns generally prefer apprentices from the country. The reason for this is, that country boys are considered to be more honest and steady than town boys. They possess at least greater self-denial. They have not the misfortune to be known by genteel people, and therefore they do not u think shame ” to be seen doing their masters’ work. This gives country boys an immense advantage over town boys ; for an acquaintance with the higher ranks is often as dangerous to a boy as association with the dregs of the community. On the critical subject of acquaintances w r e must say a few words. ACQUAINTANCES. One of the most important concerns of young people is the management of themselves in respect of what are called “ ac- quaintances.” To have many friends is desirable, in a world where men are generally thrown so much upon their own resources. But there is a distinction between the friendship of a certain number of respectable persons, who are only ready to exert themselves for us when called upon, and the acquaintance of a circle of contemporaries, who are perpetually forcing themselves upon our company for the mere purpose of mutual amusement. Taking the w T ords in their usual signification, a young man ought to wish for many friends, but few acquaintances. There is something in the countenance of a companion that cheers and supports the frailty of human nature. One can speak and act more boldly with a friend by his side than when alone. But it is the good fortune of men of strong character, and it ought to be the object of every one, to act well and boldly by himself. One thing young people may be assured of ; almost all the great services which enlightened men have done for their race were performed alone. There was but one man, not two, at the dis- covery of the compass, of the Copernican system, of the loga- rithms, and of the principle of vaccination. To descend to lesser things, ask any man who has risen in worldly fortune, from small beginnings to great wealth and honour, how he contrived 12 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. to do so, and you will find that he carved it all out for himself with his own hand. He will in all probability inform you that he has reached the honourable station in society which he now maintains, chiefly by narrowing* the circle of his “ private ac- quaintances,” and extending* that of his “ public relations ;” most likely adding*, that had he on all occasions iS consulted” the per- sons with whom he happened to be acquainted as to his designs, he would, by every calculation, have been still in the same obscure insignificant situation he once was. The truth is, it is only when alone that we have the ability to concentrate our minds upon any object; and it is only when things are done with the full force of one mind qualified for the purpose, that they are done well. It is the misfortune of young people, before they become fully engaged in the relations of life and business, that they look too much to u acquaintances ” for encouragement, and make the amusement which u acquaintances” can furnish too indispens- able. The tender mind of youth is reluctant or unable to stand alone ; it needs to be one of a class. Hence, the hours which ought to be spent in the acquisition of that general knowledge which is so useful in after-life, and which can only be acquired in the vacant days of youth, are thrown away in the most inglo- rious pursuits; for “ acquaintances” are seldom the companions of study, or the auxiliaries of business, but most generally the associates of a debauch, the fellow-flutterers upon the Mall, the companion-hounds in the chase of empty pleasure. There is a possibility, however, that the u acquaintance ” may be no worse than his fellow, and yet the two will do that together which they could not do singly. Virtue is, upon the whole, a thing of solitude ; vice is a thing of the crowd. The individual will not dare to be wicked, for the responsibility, he knows, must be concentrated upon himself ; while the company, feeling that a divided responsibility is hardly any responsibility at all, is under no such constraint. There is much edification to the heart of the thoughtless and wicked in the participation of com- panions ; and even in large associations of honourable men for honourable purposes, there is often wanting that fine tone of feeling which governs the conduct of perhaps each individual in the fraternity. Thus an excessive indulgence in the company of “ acquaintances” is to be avoided, even where these u acquaint- ances” are not inferior in moral worth to ourselves. There is an easy kind of morality much in vogue among a great body of people, that u what others do we may do,” as if higher standards had not been handed down by God himself from heaven, or con- structed in the course of time by the wise and pure among men. This morality comes strongly into play among youth in their intercourse with contemporaries ; and as it is always on rather a declining than an advancing scale, it soon leads them a great way down the paths of vice. 13 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. It will be found, in general, that a considerable degree of abstinence from this indulgence is required even to* secure the most ordinary degree of success in life. But if great things be aimed at, if we wish to surpass our fellows by many degrees, and to render ourselves honourably conspicuous among men, we must abjure u acquaintances ” almost entirely. We must, for that purpose, withdraw ourselves from all temptation to idle and futile amusement — we must, in the words of a great poet, u shun delights, and live laborious days.” INTEGRITY. Another guiding principle is integrity . Be perfectly honest, neither abusing your employer’s time nor his property, and avoiding everything like deceit. Dishonesty, you must under- stand, can be practised in various ways besides stealing. The property of others, though not taken by violence, as in the case of theft and robbery, may be taken fully as fraudulently by lying, cheating, or overreaching. To lie or to cheat is therefore as bad as to steal : you may commit as great a sin the one way as the other. We regret to say that many people whom you are likely to come in contact with in society think very lightly of either lying or cheating. Every day we hear persons of respectable exterior, and who are living in good houses, or keeping fine shops, deliberately telling falsehoods to their friends, and servants, and customers, in taking advantage of them by a thousand shabby tricks. Now, all this is highly blameable. Although the people who practise such vices often escape punishment from magistrates, still their crime is not the less heinous on that account. They have a conscience within them which will sooner or later sting them for their unworthy conduct. Acts of honour and honesty, which add so much grace to life, though not attended with any special reward, are in themselves productive of the highest satisfaction. The way of transgressors is bitter — very bitter. But the life of the virtuous man, who has manfully resisted temptations, is even sweet in adversity. He who habitually squares his actions by the moral and divine law, is rewarded with the delightful glow of self-approbation : he feels he has done his duty ; he knows his hands are clean ; no one can accuse him of doing wrong; he has cherished no cankering care to gnaw him at the heart, and for ever spoil his efforts at happiness. Surely in these pleasurable sensations there is a reward far transcending mere pecuniary gifts. SPENDING MONEY. Study to be economical and self-denying. What money can be spared, let it be deposited in a savings’ bank till it has accu- mulated to a sum sufficiently large for some useful purpose. It A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. is inconceivable what a deal of money is thrown away by young* people in what are called “ trifling* sums” — in shillings, six- pences, and even pennies. Much more, indeed, is expended by them in this small way than in sums of larger amount ; mostly, too, in a way that tends to no real good, generally on mere superfluities, sight-seeing, things which might by the least pos- sible exertion of self-denial be dispensed with, and never missed. Spending money uselessly is, in some, merely a bad habit ; in others it is matter of vanity. In all, however, it originally pro- ceeds chiefly from thoughtlessness and want of calculation as to the amount of all the little items spent when added together ; and how deeply, though almost imperceptibly, they eat into the amount of a weekly wage or annual revenue. The sums, viewed separately, appear very insignificant; yet how fast they run up to something of consequence ! Truly might Poor Richard say — “ Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.” It is very important for all persons in humble circumstances to remember, that if they spend all they earn, laying by nothing, they can scarcely expect to be ever in better circumstances than they now are. Opportunities may occur for their bettering their condition; but if they have nothing, they may not be able to take advantage of these circumstances. For want of a small sum to buy respectable clothing, they may lose a good situation. For want of a few pounds, which they might have saved, they may be fixed to a place where there is little means of improve- ment, while others possessing more self-denial and foresight are able to embrace that advantage. ECONOMY OF TIME — SELF-IMPROVEMENT. There may be economy in employment of time as well as in spending of money. Time, in fact, is money, or money’s worth. Few reflect deeply on this truth. Young persons, in particular, throw away a vast deal of leisure time in a way often worse than useless. Much they spend in silly gossip with acquaintances, much on frivolous amusements, much in perfect vacancy of thought. In many country towns, an incalculable amount of time is spent in lounging at doorways or on the street. If all this idle time, exclusive of what should be properly enough de- voted to open-air exercise, were spent in the acquisition of some kind of useful knowledge, what a difference there would be in the lot of many young persons ! We say to the young, devote your leisure hours to some useful purpose. And what are your leisure hours ? Spare hours in the winter evenings, after the labours of the day are over, and also hours in the morning, particularly during summer. Rising at an early hour — as, for instance, at four or five o’clock — may be made the means of self-culture to a very considerable extent. Science or history may be studied ; languages may be learned. 15 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. Early rising* is perhaps considered by many to be a very vulgar practice. Those who say so have perused the biographies of great men with little attention. It is indisputable that few ever lived to a great age, and fewer still ever became distinguished, who were not in the habit of early rising. You rise late, and of course get about your business at a late hour, and everything goes wrong all day. Franklin says “ that he who rises late, may trot all day, and not have overtaken his business at night.” Dean Swift avers “ that he never knew any man come to great- ness and eminence who lay in bed of a morning.” We believe that, with other degeneracies of our days, history will prove that late rising is a prominent one. There seems to be now a ten- dency to turn day into night — to breakfast late, dine late, and go to bed late, and consequently to rise late. All this is most pernicious both to health and morals. To a certain extent, people must do as others do : nevertheless, every one is less or more able to act with something- like independence of principle ; the young — those who have everything to learn and to win — can at least act upon a plan of rising at an early hour. In order to rise early, we would recommend an early hour for retiring. There are many other reasons for this. Neither your eyes nor your health are so likely to be destroyed. Nature seems to have so fitted things, that we ought to rest in the early part of the night. A professor used to tell his students “that one hour of sleep before midnightis worth more than two hours after that time.” Let it be a rule with you, and, if possible, adhered to, that you be home and have your light extinguished by ten o’clock in the evening. You may then rise at five, and have seven hours to rest, which is about what nature requires. It may be most confidently affirmed, that he who from his youth is in the habit of rising early, will be much more likely to live to old age, more likely to be a distinguished and useful man, and more likely to pass a life that is peaceful and pleasant. Read the life of Franklin, and see what he accomplished, both as respects econo- mising of time and the cultivation of his own capacious mind. In connection with self-improvement, let us say a word on the duty of professional diligence. It is a fact which you cannot be too well made aware of, that a man may distinguish himself, or at least attain great respectability, in any profession which is really honourable and socially useful. Whatever you do, learn to do that well. Do not be discouraged by difficulties, nor vex your- selves with what may be the final results of your efforts. Just go on quietly and diligently, seizing hold of every occasion for improvement, and acquiring habits of industry, which will form your character and stick to you through life. The likelihood is, that by this simple but persevering course — a course unmarked by any great effort — you will pass the idle, the dissipated, and the timorous, realising those rewards which usually wait on well- directed enterprise. 36 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. GOOD MANNERS. It is very true that a man may be honest, industrious, and well-meaning*, yet will not advance himself in the opinion of the world, if he be not at the same time courteous in his manners, and show a general good-naturedness of disposition. We recom- mend you, therefore, to cultivate civility or politeness of manner. Speak kindly and considerately to all. Avoid everything like rudeness in addressing any one, even although you have reason to be displeased. Ask respectfully for what you wish ; give what you have to offer mildly; make no offensive reply to those who speak harshly to you. Remember that “a smooth word turneth away wrath. ” Never be afraid to speak the truth, but do not obtrude unpleasant truths when it is not desirable. Be slow in believing ill of any one ; and try rather to make friends than enemies. On no account imitate those who use vicious or slang phrases in their discourse. The use of slang, like swearing, is a habit exceedingly easy to be acquired, and most difficult to be eradicted when once fixed and cherished. It is a habit which assuredly endangers moral principle, and at the very least gives a low grovelling turn to the character of those who indulge in it. When spoken by cheats, thieves, robbers, and every other species of livers on plunder, it betokens a mind sunk in vice, and perhaps hopelessly ruined. In endeavouring to avoid giving offence to those about you, it will be necessary for you to learn to listen with consideration and patience to the person who is addressing you, particularly if the speaker be a female. Let your answers be couched in civil, obliging language ; and although you have reason to dis- believe that which you hear, do not contradict the speaker rudely or warmly. Merely observe that what is said “ is remarkable ; ” “ that it may be so, but you heard otherwise or, “ there may be some mistake in the report, 7 ’ and so forth; never, at anyrate, flatly contradict, for that might give serious offence to one who most likely means no harm, and who might be convinced of his error by your politely explaining your reasons for thinking differently from him. When you speak in company, do it with ease and without affectation ; do not hum, and ha, and stammer, or appear to be seeking for fine words wherewith to embellish your discourse. A simple straightforward form of speech, using the words you are best acquainted with, and without any desire to show off, is always the most commendable, and will be the most pleasing. Avoid also the use of those vulgar expressions which you hear continually in the mouths of under-bred, clownish persons, such as — “ says she,” u says he,” u you understand,” and u you know;” likewise such phrases as — “Mr What-d’ye-call- him,” “ Mr Thingumbob,” and so on. It is true that all have not the same ability to speak elegantly or well ; but all have it in their power to please by simplicity of 17 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. manner and purity of verbiage. It is quite possible to render your conversation acceptable, although you use very common words. One of the principal means of pleasing in discourse, consists in not using any terms which can raise disagreeable ideas or recollections in the minds of those whom you are ad- dressing, and this requires the exercise of good taste, as well as a perception of the degree of refinement of the party listening. Moreover, the ideas which it may be legitimate for you to raise in matters of business, or in a particular description of society, must not be brought forward amidst circles or in places entirely inappropriate for their development. Persons in the humbler orders of society are generally too much inclined to sneer at all conventional arrangements of this nature. They say that these ceremonious rules, however much they may be suited to the habits of u fine people,” are not for them. We regret that any one should look upon good-breeding in this erroneous light. We regret that any class of persons should think so meanly of themselves, as to say that they are unworthy of enjoying every possible amenity of cultivated society. If there be anything agreeable in good manners, why may not the poor as well as the rich partake of the blessing? Civility and politeness one to another do not cost a great deal. They are the cheapest luxuries which can be purchased ; and why not, therefore, let them give dignity and delight to the dwelling of the labourer and artisan, as well as to the drawing-rooms of the titled and wealthy? The truth is, the poor have it in their power to soften greatly the asperities of their situation, by establishing and enforcing rules of civility and politeness among themselves. To what but to the absence of simple, unexpensive courtesies, have we to attribute many of the miseries of the humbler orders ? PREJUDICES — OPINIONS. Young persons who remain in a state of comparative ignorance from want of proper mental cultivation, usually possess many absurd prejudices and evil propensities. They have the most ridiculous fears, the most narrow-minded notions. Education at school is understood to be beneficial in stripping away the natural or previously-acquired errors of the pupil ; but unless the usual routine of school studies be followed up by the perusal of the works of intelligent authors, and unless the young man learn to judge of the actions of mankind by the extensively applicable rule of Charity, elementary education does not completely fulfil the end for which it is designed. One of the first prejudices which a boy acquires, is one of self- love. It is the notion that he is the best, the cleverest, the most knowing’, and, if chastised for misconduct, the worst used of all boys whatever. He has an idea that all mankind should bow down and worship him, or at least minister to his desires without regard to either one thing or another. His next prejudice is, ]8 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. that the place where he was born and dwells is superior in excellence to all other places in the country. His third great leading prejudice is, that the country to which he belongs is the greatest and most-to-be-lauded country in the whole world : he believes that there is no country like it ; that it could fight and beat any two nations on the globe ; that the people of other countries are a poor, shabby, ignorant race, not nearly so strong or so wise as the people of his country, and are only fit to be despised ; and that his country, in short, is the essence of every- thing that is excellent and admirable. Now, all this is the result of narrow-mindedness and want of knowledge. If the boys who think so foolishly would reflect a little, or read a little, or knew a little more of mankind, they would perceive that such notions are weak and absurd. They would know that there are boys cleverer, and boys much worse used, than themselves. They W'ould know that the place of their birth or residence is not only no better than hundreds of other places, but perhaps very much inferior in many points. They would likewise know that their country is not the best of all possible countries : that there are nations who are as virtuous, as courageous, as wise, as worthy of esteem as their own, if not a great deal more so. There is another prejudice which young people are apt to acquire : it is the prejudice of class or rank. Country boys affect to despise town boys, because they are ignorant of many things connected with the country ; and town boys similarly look down upon country boys, because they are perhaps less neatly dressed, or know less of some kind of public or city amusements. Poor boys also affect a contempt for boys who belong to wealthier parents ; a prejudice which is repaid by the contempt which the sons of the rich have for those who are in poverty. All this is exceedingly bad. Every such prejudice has a tendency to in- crease in virulence, till at length whole classes of grown men are found holding mean and unworthy opinions of each other. Accustom yourselves to suspend your opinions of anybody or any class, or of the people of any country, till your minds are matured by reading and experience of the world. We remem- ber, while boys, of believing, according to popular prejudice, that the French were a puny race of men, not nearly so strong or well-dressed as the English. A visit in after-life to France dis- pelled this foolish notion. The people who crowd the streets of Paris are as good-looking and as well-dressed as the people of London or Edinburgh. It is time, therefore, that these aspersions and prejudices should be done away with, both among young and old. Every one among us is also told what a bad class of men the Turks are : they are believed to possess no good quali- ties whatever. Now, this is likewise an aspersion on national character. A late enlightened traveller, who was not carried away by prejudices, describes the Turks as possessing many excellent qualities. He says they are remarkably charitable, not 19 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. greedy of wealth, honest, pious, and innocent in their enjoyments, delighting chiefly in the contemplation of nature and the attri- butes of the Deity. They have, it seems, no great hospitals for the poor, or for education, as in this country — their rich men preferring to go about relieving the needy with their own hands, rather than leaving money for the erection of splendid edifices. They likewise seek out poor old distressed slaves, whom they pur- chase, and kindly treat for the remainder of their existence. All this, you see, shows fine traits of feeling ; and should convince you, that even among Turks, and what are called heathens, there exist principles of virtue, and a sense of moral responsibility. By reading the works of travellers and historians, and com- paring the facts detailed one with another, you will, we have no doubt, purify your minds from many such prejudices as we have here exemplified. Without reading, you will remain in a hopeless state of ignorance. Make a point of occupying a portion of your leisure hours in reading — not reading frivolous trashy novels, but the productions of respectable travellers, historians, and other writers. Of the various branches of literature which may thus engage your attention, and raise generous emotions in your mind, we consider that you will reap most benefit from the reading of books of history. Unfortunately, most historians dwell too much on descriptions of battles and other military achievements : all such matters, however, you will pass over, in sorrow for the mass of suffering which has from first to last been endured, and devote your attention principally to the causes which conspired to effect the rise and decline of empires, kingdoms, and states — the gradual improvement of the human mind — the origin, pro- gress, and influence of arts and sciences, literature and commerce — the manner in which the privileges you enjoy were established — and how the civilisation and refinement displayed in cities, courts, and senates, rose from small beginnings to their present condition. The reading of these matters will furnish you with a large fund of entertainment and instruction, and will have a wonderful tendency in clearing away those illiberal prejudices which narrow the mind, deaden the feelings, and cloud the understanding. The leading point in good manners is so to act and speak as not to offend the feelings of others. At first sight, this would seem to be of easy accomplishment ; yet it is very difficult. One can give pain, or offend, in so many different w^ays — for instance, by being boisterous, noisy, talkative, saucy, pert, vain, self-con- ceited, and opinionative, by speaking on subjects disagreeable to the listener, by speaking too much of one ? s-self, by staring rudely, and by committing many other absurdities of behaviour in company — that you require not only to be well-grounded in rules for good manners, but continually on your guard, lest you give offence, and by doing so, render yourself hated and despised. In order to render yourself agreeable, you must, as a matter of 20 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. course, give up a little of vour natural independence. You must not go upon the principle implied by the exclamation — u I shall do as I like — I care for nobody — I will not be trammelled by any set of rules for no one has a right to live in society, and enjoy its blessings, unless he is prepared to yield up a small por- tion of his self-will as the price. If he will not conform to the established rules for governing society, he had better retire to the fields, and live like a wild beast or a savage. The distin- guishing feature in the conduct of a well-bred person, is the doing and saying of everything with perfect ease, quietness, and decorum. He allows nothing to rufile his temper, or to discom- pose his quietude of behaviour. He enters a room quietly, though by no means stealthily — he sits down or rises up quietly, speaks with suavity and gentleness, and conducts himself in every other particular in a way calculated to please. The point worthy of your notice here is, the quietness of manner, the re- pose, the decorum, which is associated with the behaviour of the person of good-breeding. You will never fail to remark the reverse in the case of individuals who are heedless of the rules which are observed in cultivated society. Look at the conduct of an ill- bred man. He enters a room with noise, sits down and rises up with noise, speaks with noise, and everything else he does is done with noise. It would seem that he can do nothing quietly. When he sets down a chair, he causes it to knock against the floor ; when he sits at table, he makes a noise with his knife and fork ; when he blows his nose, the action is accompanied with noise ; when he speaks, it is with noise ; when he shuts a door, it is with noise ; when he walks, every tramp of his foot is pro- ductive of noise. Noise is thus the characteristic of the ill-bred, as quietness is that of the well-bred man ; and it is scarcely necessary to inform you that this noise is productive-of anything but agreeable sensations. Nobody can possibly like it: it mars every one’s comfort. AMBITION. Though it is proper that young men ought to be stimulated to as great exertions as may be consistent with their health and immediate happiness, in order that both themselves and society may be done justice to by the greatest possible use being made of their talents and acquirements, it must never be overlooked that all cannot rise — that this felicity is only destined for the few who are required by society in its more elevated walks, and who possess the requisite qualifications, or stand in the necessary circumstances, for attaining elevation — the rest being confined to exertions which, though tending to the benefit of both the individuals and the community, and in themselves highly praiseworthy, do not tend greatly to alter the situation of those who make them. In most civilised countries, after we make allowance for the exceptions occasioned by certain institu- 21 A PHESEIS'T TO APPRENTICES. tions and by education, society is found to be constituted pretty nearly in accordance with the diversity of faculties given by nature to her children. Some occupy situations of command, of trust, and of dignity, and enjoy the advantages attendant upon such situations. A much greater number act under direc- tions, and in obedience to orders. And it is a fact acknowledged by all who have carefully studied human nature, that in general, intellects have been created in reference to the tilling of a variety of situations. It is not perhaps so difficult to urge young minds to their full utility, as to impress them with the necessity of their squaring their ambition with the means which may exist for its prudent gratification, and with their ability. Far be it from us to en- deavour to check those generous and ambitious emotions in the minds of youth, which in all ages have had the effect of raising the poor to wealth, and the humble from obscurity to distinction. We feel it to be our duty, however, to warn those who may be actuated by such feelings, that, to be successful in the object of their pursuit, something more is necessary than mere ambition. Along with this passion, exercised in moderation, there must be, first, ability for the task, whatever it may be ; and second, soundness of judgment, or a great degree of prudence and self- denial. Ambition without skill seldom leads to any beneficial result ; yet even with skill, even with all the excellences of the mind, the aspiring individual, unaided by favourable circum- stances, frequently lives to deplore the entire ruin of his hopes. Young men of an ambitious turn of mind are exceedingly apt to be heedless of the qualifications which are necessary for their rising to fame or fortune. They err chiefly in miscalculating the nature of the obstacles they have to encounter, and their power of overcoming these obstacles. u Can I submit to contumelies ? Can I endure patiently the sneers of my companions, not to speak of absolute privations ? Can I forego many indulgences ? Can I act on my own judgment throughout, under all the embarrassments that may occur ? Am I not liable to go wrong from self-conceit ? But, above all, have I, in reality, the neces- sary qualifications for the adventurous course I design to pur- sue?” These are a few of the questions which the ambitious youth has to put searchingly to his conscience. It is by abstaining from putting, and satisfactorily answering, this description of inquiries, that so many young men founder in their career. They have the ambition to rise, but they do not possess the measure of qualification necessary for their success ; or they possess the qualification — they are clever, ingenious, and well-disposed, but they want judgment, sufficient balance , or some such steadying ingredient, and they are WTecked on the first breakers that come in their w T ay. Shakspeare has said that u there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, bears on to fortune;” but the grand difficulty consists in know- 22 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. ing when the tide is at the flood : there are false flowings of the tide as well as true ones ; and he is a fortunate, as much as he is a w T ise man, who takes that which will bear him favourably forward. Unless with a just knowledge of one’s own capabilities, and a power of endurance, painful endurance for years, it is always dangerous for any one not advantageously circumstanced to try to rise out of the sphere in which he has chanced to be placed. Rising by anything like a violent exertion is not to be thought of. It is by a course of perseverance, little by little, and by seizing every convenient and proper means of elevation, that the end is ultimately to be attained. How have the greater propor- tion of distinguished men raised themselves in the world’s esti- mation ? By possessing, in the first place, the necessary qualifi- cations ; and in the second, by taking advantage of circumstances favourable to their views. After all, however, for one who has attained distinction, perhaps a thousand have failed. It is like the prizes and blanks in a lottery : we hear only of the prizes and their lucky holders, the blanks are judiciously kept out of sight. Another matter is worthy of attending to. Because certain individuals have attained distinction by following a par- ticular course, it will not do for others to attempt precisely the same mode of advancing. Circumstances are daily differing, tastes are changing, society is ever altering its disposition. For want of attention to these points, w T e have a host of unfortunates — unfortunate soldiers, unfortunate authors, unfortunate lawyers, unfortunate merchants, and so forth, without end. These unfor- tunates have stumbled as imitators : they had not the wit to be original in their designs, or to be original to a good purpose. Without originality, no great rise is to be expected. Any dull fellow can follow on a path already beaten and commodious ; but he w'ho follows must ever be behind. From what falls under the eye of a common observer, it appears that not a little of the want of success in many of the ordinary departments of occupation is caused by what has already been adverted to — an incompetency of judgment, or what may be significantly called force of character. We see men who attain the utmost respect within the limits of their circle as long as they remain in the character of subordinates, having then persons to think for and direct them; but no sooner are they emancipated, no sooner are they thrown upon their own resources, and have to think and act for themselves, than they sink into insignificance. They have made a false move. Their ambition prompted them to be their own masters, but it was without calculating the consequences of the step. Formerly, they were invisibly supported all round by the system of which they formed a part, now they stand aloof from all such aids, and, like the wrecked mariner on the desert island, they are astonished at the solitude which prevails, and the energy which 23 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. is required to gather the means of their subsistence. It is evident that such persons have not the force of character to think and act boldly on their own responsibility ; and if they consult their own comfort, they will be contented with playing an inferior part in the great "drama of existence, leaving the chief characters in the piece to be tilled up with those who have the ability and fortitude to act a conspicuous part. PERSONAL APPEARANCE. Young persons usually form false estimates of the value of personal strength and outward appearance. As they grow up, notions on these points undergo a material change. They dis- cover that a man may be tall, short, bulky, or puny; but it matters not, unless he has to depend on his strength for his daily bread. The standard by which people are measured is not by anything that is seen in outward appearance, but by their skill, their conduct, their behaviour, their private character. Soldiers, footmen, and such-like, w r ho are hired to stand in rows, may perhaps find it advantageous to be a certain height in inches. The soldier who is an inch taller than his companions has the privilege of being put in the front row, and consequently the honour of being shot first; but this is, on the whole, not an object of temptation worthy of your regard. Mere height, then, is of little consequence to people generally ; and at anyrate it is not made a standard whereby to judge whether any one is worthy of personal respect. Nearly the same thing may be said of bodily strength. It is useful and convenient, it is agreeable, to be able to execute any labour we may be called on to perform ; but be3 r ond this, strength is of no rational value. Remember, we say rational value ; for by some there is an irrational value placed upon tallness, muscular strength, and even on the ability of jumping, running, and hopping on one leg. You will remark, as you grow up, that skill is always far better remunerated than mere bodily strength — that the artisan who executes an inge- nious piece of work receives much higher payment than the man who has muscles of the strongest texture, and whose em- ployment consists in the lifting of large stones, carrying heavy burdens, or any similar labour; and the reason is, that while plenty of men can be got to perform such drudgeries, few are to be obtained who have the skill of the ingenious artisan. While recommending’ you to study neatness, we would wish to point out the folly of aiming at foppish elegance. Fops are usually , weak-minded coxcombs. We have known many instances in which elegance of appearance in men operated seriously against their advancement. There is a general want of confidence in eleg’ant or handsome men, which is to be traced to the number of swindlers and knaves who habitually impose upon people by a specious dashing appearance. Such a feeling, no doubt, also arises from the well-known instability of young men, who seem 24 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. to bestow much pains on the cultivation of their animal qualifi- cations, while they are to a corresponding* degree heedless of their mental endowments. When such individuals are, for in- stance, observed to study the nourishing of whiskers, the train- ing of curls, the neatness of cut of trousers and boot-straps, the peculiar fashion of a coat, or the handsomeness of their legs, it is reasonably concluded by rational thinkers that they are un- fitted for the serious affairs of life, and are therefore set aside in favour of others who show less of the animal, and more of the reflecting being. In losing the countenance of one class of per- sons, they most likely gain that of another ; that other, how- ever, is of a very inferior stamp : it is not a front-rank class : it is an order composed of the servile, the idle, the silly, and the vicious — a class whose flatteries and whose favour are alike in- substantial and injurious. It is only by young men emancipat- ing themselves from this yoke of animalism and frivolity, that they can expect to win the favour of that portion of society, including individuals of both sexes, whose approbation is alone worthy of being prized. Look around you, and observe who are the persons who are most esteemed in public and private life ; who are those that are the managers — the front-rank men — of the world ; who are those that are in the enjoyment of wealth, rank, and honours. Are they all “ fine-looking men?” By no means. Worth is not testified by the turn of a leg or the fashion of a frill. Many of them are plain in features, few of them are tall, some are deformed, some are puny in figure, some are what might be called ugly. And where, then, you may ask, are the handsome men to be found — those splendid lordly animals, each of whom might serve as a model for a statue? We will tell you where they often are, for we have seen them. Too many of them are to be found lounging in the courtyards of jails. Go to the prison of the Court of Queen’s Bench, and there, surrounded by dark brick walls fifty feet in height, you will find them “ killing time” — playing at ball — playing for a penny or a pot of porter the game. What a pity it is that men of such elegance of limb and feature cannot carry their handsomeness to a better market ! But so it is : their occupation has been one of great gentility — namely, smoking cigars, wearing spurs upon their boots, culti- vating a mustache, and attending horse-races, while their means of support have consisted in defrauding tradesmen, and in draw- ing upon the resources of fathers, brothers, uncles — in short, every one they could induce to minister to their vile wants. If the youths who read this happen to be handsome in person, do not let them presume on such an unimportant, though it be pleasing, qualification. It is a qualification which in all proba- bility will not do them the smallest good when they come to depend upon themselves for support. Rather try to counteract the general bad impression regarding handsome young men by gentle courteous behaviour, along with the manifestation of a 25 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. spirit of regular industry. At the same time study to be neat and cleanly, taking such exercise as will conduce to health, and avoiding all approach to slovenliness, for that would be to exceed in a way almost as reprehensible as we have described the reverse to be. On the other hand, if this meet the eye of any boys who are either deformed or plain in appearance, we beg them to understand, that though perhaps scoffed at by their playmates in youth, they need be under no apprehension whatever of receiv- ing insult when they become men, or of being in anyway looked down upon on account of their personal inferiority. If deformed to such an extent as to prevent them earning a livelihood, that is truly a misfortune, and will call forth a lively sympathy in their favour : if simply plain in appearance, they will find that not only not an obstacle to their advancement, but something’ in their favour, provided their behaviour will stand the test of examination, and their manners be agreeable. Affability is the true passport to favour both in man and woman. If you be affable, you will be liked wherever you go ; if a lady be affable, though ever so plain in features, she will gain all hearts, while the merely beautiful or the handsome may fail to make a favour- able impression. Affability, therefore, whether in man or woman, along with moral and intellectual worth, ought to be the great object of cultivation. Alexander Pope, an English poet of last century, has pithily said, that ’tis “ Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunello.” By which he means, that a man without moral and intellectual worth is a mere animal — a fellow; and that external appearance is as valueless as a piece of leather or worsted stuff, or, as you may hear people say, a toy of gilt gingerbread. RELIGION. The last, but not the least subject to which we would draw your attention, is that of religion. Without ostentation, but in all sincerity of heart, be regular in the performance of those religious duties to which parents or clerical advisers may direct your attention ; and seeking in all things the blessing of God, without which neither success nor happiness can be expected to be realised. JAMES WALLACE.— A STORY* u How far is it from here to the sun, Jim V 7 asked Harman Lee of his father’s apprentice, James Wallace, in a tone of light rail- * We extract the above tale from an American newspaper, in which it purports to be written by T. S. Arthur. 26 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. lery, intending* by the question to elicit some reply that would exhibit the boy’s ignorance. James Wallace, a boy of fourteen, turned his bright intelli- gent eyes upon the son of his master, and after regarding him for a moment, he replied, “ I don’t know, Harman. How far is it?” There was something so honest and earnest in the tone of the boy, that much as Harman had felt disposed at first to sport with his ignorance, he could not refrain from giving him a true answer. Still, his contempt for the ignorant apprentice was not to be concealed, and he replied, “ Ninety-five millions of miles, you ignoramus ! ” James did not retort, but repeating over in his mind the distance named, fixed it indelibly upon his memory. On the same evening, after he had finished his day’s work, he obtained a small text-book on astronomy, which belonged to Har- man Lee, and went up into his garret with a candle, and there, alone, attempted to dive into the mysteries of that sublime science. As he read, the earnestness of his attention fixed nearly every fact upon his mind. So intent was he, that he perceived not the flight of time, and was only called back to a consciousness of where he was by the sudden sinking of the wick of his candle into the melted mass of tallow that had filled the cup of his candlestick. In another moment he was in total darkness. The cry of the watchman had told him that the hours had flown, until it was past ten o’clock. Slowly undressing himself in his dark chamber, his mind recurring with a strong interest to what he had been reading*, he lay down upon his hard bed, and gave full play to his thoughts. Hour after hour passed away, but he could not sleep, so absorbed was he in reviewing the new and wonderful things he had read. At last wearied nature gave way, and he fell into a slumber filled with dreams of planets, moons, comets, and fixed stars. The next morning the apprentice boy resumed his place at the work-bench with a new feeling ; and with this feeling was mingled one of regret, that he could not go to school as did his master’s son. “But I can study at night while he is asleep,” he said to himself. Just then Harman Lee came into the shop, and approaching J ames, said, for the purpose of teasing him, “ How big round is the earth, Jim?” “ Twenty-five thousand miles,” was the unhesitating answer. Harman looked surprised for a moment, and then responded, with a sneer — for he was not a kind-hearted boy, but, on the contrary, very selfish, and disposed to injure rather than do good to others — “ Oh dear ! How wonderfully wise you are ! And no doubt you can tell how many moons Jupiter has ? Come, let’s hear.” 27 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. “ Jupiter has four moons,” James answered, with something of exultation in his tone. “ And no doubt you can tell how many rings it has ? ” “Jupiter has no rings. Saturn has rings, and Jupiter belts,” James replied in a decisive tone. For a moment or two Harman was silent with surprise and mortification, to think that his father’s apprentice, whom he es- teemed so far below him, should be possessed of knowledge equal to his, and on the points in reference to which he had chosen to question him ; and that he should be able to convict him of an error into which he had purposely fallen. “I should like to know how long it is since you became so wonderfully wise,” Harman at length said with a sneer. “Not very long,” James replied calmly. “ I have been read- ing one of your books on astronomy.” “Well, you’re not going to have my books, mister, I can tell you ! Anyhow, I should like to know what business you have to touch one of them ! Let me catch you at it again, and see if I don’t cuff you soundly. You’d better, a great deal, be minding your work.” “But I didn’t neglect my work, Harman; I read at night after I was done with mv work ; and I didn’t hurt your book.” “ I don’t care if you didn’t hurt it. You’re not going to have my books, I can tell you. So do you just let them alone.” Poor James’s heart sank in his bosom at this unexpected obstacle so suddenly thrown in his way. He had no money of his own to buy, and knew of no one from whom he could borrow the book that had all at once become necessary to his happiness. “ Do, Harman,” he said appealingly, “ lend me the book ; I will take good care of it.” “ No I wont. And don’t you dare to touch it,” was the angry reply. James Wallace knew well, enough the selfish disposition of his master’s son, older than he two or three years, to be convinced that there was now but little hope of his having the use of his books, except by stealth ; and from that his natural open and honest principles revolted. All day he thought earnestly over the means whereby he should be able to obtain a book on astro- nomy, to quench the ardent thirst that he had created in his mind. And night came without any satisfactory answer being obtained to his earnest inquiries of his own thoughts. He was learning the trade of a blind-maker. Having been already an apprentice for two years, and being industrious and intelligent, he had acquired a readiness with tools and much skill in some parts of his trade. While sitting alone after he had finished his work for the day, his mind searching about for some means whereby he could get books, it occurred to him that he might, by working in the evening, earn some money, and with it buy such as he wanted. But in what manner to obtain work he 28 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. knew not. It finally occurred to him that, in passing 1 a house near the shop, he frequently observed a pair of window-blinds with faded hangings and soiled colours. “ Perhaps / 7 said he to himself, “ if I could do it cheap, they would let me paint and put new hangings to their blinds . 77 The thought was scarcely suggested when he was on his feet moving towards the street. In a few minutes he stood knocking at the door of the house, which was soon opened. “ Well, my little man, what do you want ? 77 was the kind salutation of the individual who answered the call. James felt confused, and stammered out, “The hangings of your blinds are a good deal faded . 77 “ That 7 s a very true remark, my little man , 77 was the reply, made in an encouraging tone. “And they very much want painting . 77 “ Also very true , 77 said the man, with a good-humoured smile ; for he felt amused with the boy 7 s earnest manner and novelty of speech. “ Wouldn 7 t you like to have them painted, and new hangings put to them ? 77 pursued James. “ I don’t know. It would certainly improve them much . 77 “ Oh yes, sir; they wmuld look just like new. And if you will let me do them, I will fix them up nice for you, cheap . 77 “ Will you indeed ? But what is your name, and where do you live ? 77 “My name is James Wallace, and I live with Mr Lee the blind-maker . 77 “Do you indeed? Well, how much will you charge for painting them and putting on new hangings ? 77 “ I will do it for two dollars, sir. The hangings and tassels will cost me three-quarters of a dollar, and the paint and varnish a quarter more. And it will take two or three evenings, besides getting up very early in the morning to work for Mr Lee, so that I may paint and varnish them when the sun shines . 77 “ But will Mr Lee let you do this ? 77 “ I don’t know, sir ; but I will ask him . 77 “Very well, my little man. If Mr Lee does not object, I am willing . 77 James ran back to the house, and found Mr Lee standing in the door. Much to his delight his request was v granted. Four days from that he possessed a book of his own, and had half a dollar with which to buy some other volume, when he should have thoroughly mastered the contents of that. Every night found him poring over this book ; and as soon as it was light enough in the morning to see, he was up and reading. Of course there was much in it that he could not understand, and many terms the meaning of which was hidden from him. To help him in this difficulty, he purchased with his remaining half dollar, at a second-hand book-stall, a dictionary. By the aid 29 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. of this he acquired the information he sought much more rapidly. But the more he read, the broader the unexplored expanse of knowledge appeared to open before him. He did not, however, give way to feelings of discouragement, but steadily devoted every evening, and an hour every morning, to study ; while all the day his mind was pondering over the things he had read, as his hands were diligently employed in the labour assigned him. It occurred just at this time that a number of benevolent indi- viduals established, in the town where James lived, one of those excellent institutions, an Apprentices’ Library. To this he at once applied, and obtained the books he needed. And thus — none dreaming of his devotion to the acquirement of knowledge — did this poor apprentice boy lay the foundation of future eminence and usefulness. We cannot trace his course, step by step, through a long' series of seven years, though it would afford many lessons of perseverance and triumph over almost insurmountable difficul- ties. But at twenty-one he was master of his trade; and what was more, had laid up a vast amount of general and scientific in- formation. He was well read in history; had studied thoroughly the science of astronomy, for which he ever retained a lively affection ; was familiar with mathematical principles, and could readily solve the most difficult geometrical and algebraic problems ; his geographical knowledge was minute ; and to this he added tolerably correct information in regard to the manners and cus- toms of different nations. To natural history he had also given much attention. But with all his varied acquirements, James Wallace felt, on attaining the age of manhood, that he knew com- paratively but little. Let us now turn for a few moments to mark the progress of the young student in one of the best seminaries in his native city, and afterwards at college. Like too many tradesmen whose honest industry and steady perseverance have gained them a competence, Mr Lee felt indisposed to give his son a trade, or to subject him to the same restraints and discipline in youth to which he had been subjected. He felt ambitious for him, and determined to educate him for one of the learned professions. To this end he sent him to school early, and provided for him the best instruction. The idea that he was to be a lawyer or a doctor soon took possession of the mind of Harman, and this caused him to feel contempt for other boys who were merely designed for trades or storekeeping. Like too many others, he had no love for learning, nor any right appreciation of its legitimate uses. To be a lawyer he thought would be much more honourable than to be a mere mechanic ; and for this reason alone, as far as he had any thoughts on the subject, did he desire to be a lawyer. As for J ames Wallace, he, as the poor illiterate apprentice of his father, so A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. was most heartily despised, and never treated by Harman with the smallest degree of kind consideration. At the age of eighteen, he was sent away to one of the eastern universities, and there remained — except during the semi-annual vacations — until he was twenty years of age, when he graduated, and came home with the honorary title of A.B. At this time James Wallace was between seventeen and eighteen years of age, somewhat rough in his appearance, but with a sound mind in a sound body — although each day he regularly toiled at the work- bench, and as regularly returned to his books when evening released him from labour, and was up at the peep of dawn, to lay the first offerings of his mind upon the shrine of learning. But all this devotion to the acquirement of knowledge won for him no sympathy, no honourable estimation from his master’s son. He despised these patient persevering efforts as much as he des- pised his condition as an apprentice to a trade. But it was not many years before others began to perceive the contrast between them, although, on the very day that James completed his term of apprenticeship, Harman was admitted to the bar. The one completed his education — as far as general knowledge and a rigid discipline of the mind w'as concerned — when he left college. The other became more really the student when the broaier and brighter light of rationality shone clearly on his pathway, as he passed the threshold of manhood. J ames still con- tinued to work at his trade, but not for so many hours each day as while he was an apprentice. He was a good and fast workman, and could readily earn all that he required for his support in six or eight hours of every twenty-four. Eight hours were regularly devoted to study. From some cause, he determined he would make law his profession. To the acquirement of a knowledge of legal matters/ therefore, he bent all the energies of a well discip- lined, active, and comprehensive mind. Two years passed away in an untiring devotion to the studies he had assigned himself, and he then made application for admission to the bar. [Young Wallace passed his examinations with some applause, and the first case on which he was employed chanced to be one of great difficulty, which required all his skill ; the lawyer on the opposite side was Harman Lee, who entertained for his father’s old apprentice the most profound contempt. 1 The cause came on within a week, for all parties interested in the result were anxious for it to come to trial, and therefore no legal obstacles were thrown in the way. There was a profound silence and a marked attention and in- terest when the young stranger arose in the court-room to open the case. A smile of (Contempt, as he did so, curled the lip of Harman Lee, but Wallace saw it not. The prominent points of the case were presented in plain but concise language to the court ; and a few remarks bearing upon the merits being made, the young lawyer took his seat, and gave room for the defence. 31 A PRESENT TO APPRENTICES. Instantly Harman Lee was on his feet, and began referring to the points presented by his “ very learned brother’ 7 in a flippant, contemptuous manner. There were those present who marked the light that kindled in the eye of Wallace, and the flash that passed over his countenance, at the first contemptuous word and tone that were uttered by his antagonist at the bar. These soon gave place to attention, and an air of conscious power. Once on his feet, with so flimsy a position to tear into tatters as that which his u learned brother ” had presented, Lee seemed never to grow tired of the tearing process. Nearly an hour had passed away when he resumed his seat with a look of exultation, which was followed by a pitying and contemptuous smile as Wallace again slowly rose. Ten minutes, however, had not passed when that smile had changed to a look of surprise, mortification, and alarm, all blended into a single expression. The young lawyer’s maiden speech showed him to be a man of calm, deep, systematic thought — well skilled in points of law and in authorities ; and, more than all, a lawyer of practical and comprehensive views. When he sat down, no important point in the case had been left untouched, and none that had been touched required further elucidation. Lee followed briefly, in a vain attempt to torture his language and break down his positions. But he felt that he was contending with weapons whose edges were turned at every blow. When he took his seat ag’ain, Wallace merely remarked that he was prepared, without further argument, to submit the case to the court. The case was accordingly submitted, and a decision unhesi- tatingly made in favour of the plaintiff’s, or Wallace’s clients. ,From that hour James Wallace took his true position. The despised apprentice became the able and profound lawyer, and was esteemed for real talent and real moral worth, which, when combined, ever place their possessor in his true position. Ten years from that day Wallace was elevated to the bench, while Lee, a second-rate lawyer, never rose above that position. In the histories of these two persons is seen the difference between simply receiving an education, as it is called, and being self-educated. This fact every student, and every humble appren- tice with limited advantages, should bear in mind. It should infuse new life into the studies of the one, and inspire the other with a determination to imbue his mind with knowledge. The education that a boy receives at colleges and seminaries does not make him a learned man. He only acquires there the rudiments of knowledge. Beyond these he must go. He must continue ever after a student, or others will leave him in the rear — others of humbler means and fewer opportunities ; the apprentice of the handicraftsman, for instance, whose few hours of devotion to study, from a genuine love of learning, have given him a taste and a habit that remain with him in all after-time. 32 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. I. AM the son of a negro, and was born in Mary- land in the year 1781. My grandfather, father, and l jjS^ mother were slaves, and I was born in the same hopeless condition. While still a child of four years old, I was separated from the other members of my family, and sold to a planter in a distant part of the country. Being the youngest child of my mother, my forcible sepa- foT ration from her produced a scene of lamentation and dis- tress. Her cry of agony as she got the last look of me has ever since rung in my ears. I was informed that my name was Charles Ball. It is all a chance who a slave is sold to ; he may be cruel and avaricious, or he may possess a share of benevolent feelings. Fortunately, I fell into the hands of a humane man, by whom I was designed for a house slave when I should be old enough ; but this was frustrated by the death of my proprietor, and I passed into less considerate hands. I was sent to the city of Washington, where I spent about two years as cook on board the Congress frigate, having sufficient to eat, and being pretty well clothed. Still, a spirit of freedom frequently arose within me at the sight of long trains of fellow-negroes, chained to- gether, who were driven through Washington on their way to the southern states ; and even at that early age I determined to attempt an escape to Philadelphia, the haven of runaway slaves. A fresh sale of me prevented this, and I next resided with a farmer for three years. While in this man’s possession, No. 149. l LIFE OF A NEGRO SLATE. I married a girl of colour, house slave to a lady in the neigh- bourhood. The lot of my wife was easier than my own ; for my master was a discontented, ill-tempered man, always ready to find fault, and did not afford his slaves proper clothing or suffi- cient food. This was bad enough ; but there was worse treat- ment in store for me, for I was told one day that I was sold to a Georgian slave-dealer, and that I was to be marched imme- diately to the south. At these words the thoughts of my wife and children rushed across my mind, and my heart sank within me. I saw at once that resistance was vain, as there were upwards of twenty persons present, all of whom were ready to assist the wretch who had seized me. My hands were bound strongly behind me, and I was told that we were to set out that same day for the south. I asked if I could not be allowed to see my wife and children, but I was refused. My new master took me across the Patuxent river, where I joined fifty-one other slaves, whom he had bought in Maryland; thirty-two were men, the rest women. The women were merely tied together by a rope, which was passed like a halter round the neck of each ; but the men, of whom I was the stoutest and strongest, were very differently caparisoned. A strong iron collar was closely fastened, by means of a padlock, round each of our necks. A chain of iron, about a hundred feet in length, was passed through the hasp of each padlock, except at the two ends, where the hasps passed through a link of the chain. In addition to this, we were handcuffed in pairs, with iron staples and bolts, with a short chain about a foot long, uniting the handcuffs and their wearers in pairs. In this manner we were chained alternately by the right and left hand ; and the poor man to whom I was thus ironed cried like a child when the blacksmith, with his heavy hammer, fastened the ends of the bolts that kept the staples from slipping from our arms. As for myself, I felt indifferent to my fate ; it appeared to me that the worst had come that could come, and that no change of fortune could harm me. Thus was our miserable gang marched away from our home country, the master riding by our side, and hastening our march, sometimes by encouragement, and sometimes with threats. Our food was corn bread, sour milk, and mush, which is Indian meal boiled with water. We were clothed in rags, and slept all together on the floors of such houses as we chanced to stop at. Occasionally we received a salt herring, and on Sunday a quarter of a pound of bacon was allowed to each. We crossed successively the Potomac, the Matepony, and the Anna rivers ; and having traversed Virginia, we entered North Carolina, where I first saw a field of cotton in bloom. I was at this time about twenty-five years old, strong and healthy ; and the first feeling of despair at having been driven away from my wife and children, gave way to a sense of the necessity of 2 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. making the best of my present situation. I had endeavoured through the whole journey to make such observations upon the country and the towns we passed through, as would enable me at some future period to find my way back to Maryland. By repeatedly naming the rivers we came to in the order in which we had reached them, I was able, on my arrival in Georgia, to repeat the name of every considerable stream from the Potomac to the Savannah, and to tell the position and bearing of the ferries by which we had crossed them. From North Carolina our party passed to South Carolina, where, remembering all I had heard of the dreadful treat- ment of slaves in that state, I lost all courage, and for the first time felt weary of life. I had now no hope of ever again seeing my wife and children, or the scenes of my youth ; and I apprehended long pains from hunger, for I had often heard that in South Carolina the slaves were compelled in times of scarcity to live on cotton seeds. Self-destruction is more frequent among slaves in the cotton region than is generally supposed ; but as a certain degree of disgrace falls upon the master whose slave has committed suicide, and as it is a dangerous example, all means are taken to deter the negroes from it ; not allowing’ the suicide the small portion of Christian rites which is awarded to the corpses of other slaves. It was long after midnight before I fell asleep ; but the most pleasant dreams succeeded to these sorrowful forebodings. I thought that, after dreadful sufferings, I had made my way back to Maryland, and was again in my wife’s cabin, with two of my little children on my lap, while their mother pre- pared supper. This dream was so vivid, that I awoke, con- vinced that it would one day be realised ; although at starting the next morning the master addressed us, telling us that we might now give up all hope of returning to our native places, as escape through North Carolina and Virginia was quite impos- sible ; that we had better be contented, as he would take us to Georgia, a fine country, where we might live in the greatest abundance. He also sold two of the women for a thousand dol- lars, with the condition that the purchaser should pay a black- smith for taking the chains off the rest of us. Before this could be done, a dispute arose, and the stranger declared that all the “niggers in the drove tvere Yankee niggers adding, that he once had two Yankee nigg’ers, who were running away every day. He gave them a hundred lashes, he said, more than a dozen times, but they never quitted running away till he fastened them together with iron collars round their necks, and chained them to spades, and made them do nothing but dig ditches to drain the rice swamps. They could not run away then, unless they went together, and carried their chains and spades with them. In this dreadful state he kept them two years, and said he never had better niggers \ but one of them died, and the other LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. was never good for anything after he lost his mate. He never ran away afterwards, but he also died after a while. The man then told the two women he had bought, that if ever they ran away, he would serve them the same. Our irons were taken off ; the women parted from us in tears and despair; and we pro- ceeded on our way, having ten miles more to go that evening-. When first relieved from my iron collar and chains, which I had worn for four weeks and five days, I felt a kind of giddiness in my head, from which I recovered after the first night. The next day we passed by cotton and rice fields, and crossed the Catawba river. The rice swamps were covered with water, having cause- ways raised through them ; and they swarmed with frogs and thousands of snakes. The day before we arrived at Columbia we had for breakfast corn meal boiled in water, with a small piece of bacon to give the soup a taste of meat. For dinner we had boiled Indian peas, with a small allowance of bacon ; which unusual liberality was no doubt to make us look fat and hearty, as we were to be sold at Columbia. About three miles from the town, we stopped at the house of a kind of tavern-keeper, who invited my master to remain a few days with him, in order to be introduced to the gentlemen of the neighbourhood as a merchant of respectability. In Mary- land my master had been called a negro buyer or Georgia trader, sometimes a negro driver ; but here I found that he was elevated to the rank of a merchant of the first order — no branch of trade being more honourable than the traffic in us poor slaves — or servants , as the negroes are called by people of fashion in the slaveholding states. We remained here two weeks, and I saw a great deal of the customs of South Carolina. We also washed our skins and our clothes ; and soap not being allowed us, we used a kind of oily clay resembling fullers’ earth, which entirely cleaned us. We lived and slept all together in an old decayed building about forty feet square, without either doors or windows, and with no other floor than the earth. Our provisions were regularly distributed — a pint of corn and a pint of rice to each, and about three or four pounds of rancid butter divided amongst us. The rice we boiled, the corn we ground, and made the meal into bread. The butter was to recruit us after our long march, and give us a healthy appearance at our sale. We did no work ; but gentlemen and ladies came every day to look at us, with a view to our purchase. We were minutely examined as to ages and capacity for labour, and our persons were inspected, espe- cially the hands, to see if all the fingers were perfect, and capable of the quick motions necessary in picking cotton. Our master visited us once a-day, and declared to all visitors that he had purchased us in Virginia, either of ruined masters, or at public auctions, assuring them that not one had been known to steal or run away — the highest crimes of which a slave can be guiltv. 4 * LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. II. It was about the middle of June, the weather excessively warm, and from eleven o’clock a.m. till late in the afternoon, the sand about our residence was so hot, that we could not stand on it with our bare feet in one posture more than one or two minutes. I went into the cotton field, to see the labour in which I was to pass the remainder of my life ; but I found that the slaves were not allowed to speak to me, as the master was present. After having* been at this place between two or three weeks, we were marched to Columbia one morning* before sunrise, and drawn up in a long* line in a street opposite the court-house. After having been kept here about an hour to be looked at, we were removed into the jail-yard, where we were fed, and slept in the jail that night. The next day the town was extremely full ; and about ten o’clock the jailor came to us, and after a long address to the crowd, he announced the most valuable lot of slaves that had ever been offered in Columbia — young, of good habits, healthy, and all purchased of tobacco planters in Virginia. A young lad was first sold for three hundred and fifty dollars, and he was led away, weeping bitterly. A young girl was the next sold, to a lady who attended the sales in her carriage, and made the biddings out of the window. In this manner the sales were continued throughout the day. The next was the 4th of July, and a day of general rejoicing. Cannon were fired, drums and fifes were played in the streets, and a great crowd of people gathered round the jail, many of whom w'ere intoxicated, and sang and shouted in honour of free government and the rights of man. A table w'as spread in the street, at which several hundred people sat down to dinner at noon, and continued to eat, drink, and sing songs in honour of liberty for more than two hours. Gentlemen made speeches, in which they said it was an acknowledged principle of our free government that all men were born free and equal. About five o’clock the jailor pro- claimed the sale of the slaves ; and in a few minutes the whole dinner party, and hundreds of others, being assembled round the jail door, the jailor proceeded with his auction. The best of us had been kept back till the last, and the prices were higher this day. In three hours all were sold except three, of whom I was one. An old gentleman bought me, and desired me to follow him to a tavern, where I was left standing before the door, or sitting upon a log of wood, till ten o’clock at night, while my master and his companions were drinking toasts in honour of liberty and in- dependence. Having sat down on a bench, I was driven from it by a gentleman in military clothes, who imperiously demanded how I dared to sit there. u Did you not see white people sit upon that bench, you saucy rascal ?” said he. I excused myself LIFE OF A NEGRO SLATE. by saying 1 it was near night when I came to the house, and I had not seen any white gentleman sit on the bench. I remained on the log till the termination of the festival in honour of liberty and equality, when my master ordered me into the kitchen to sleep. He gave me no supper; but the people gave me a piece of meat and wheaten bread — the first I had tasted since I left Maryland. The next morning I ran by the side of my master’s gig to his plantation, twenty miles from Columbia, through a region which had been pine forest, but was now partially cleared, and where I first saw the most beautiful of all trees — the southern magnolia. The foliage is splendid, the flower magnificent, and so fragrant, that the scent of a grove may be perceived at sixty miles’ distance. My master was a wealthy planter, and had two hundred and sixty slaves. The house was of brick (an uncommon thing), and the gardens and hothouses were beautiful. The huts of the slaves were a quarter of a mile distant, in rows, and built of hewn logs, roofed with shingles, and floored with pine boards ; these houses had chimneys, and were dry and comfortable. I was put to live with a middle-aged man, who had a wife and five children. The only furniture of the cabin was a few blocks of wood for seats, a short pine-wood bench for a table, and a small bed in one corner, composed of a mat made of common rushes, spread upon corn husks, and confined by a narrow slip of wood fastened to the floor by wooden pins. A common iron pot stood by the side of the chimney, and several wooden spoons and dishes hung against the wall. Several blankets also hung on wooden pins, and an old pine box stood in a corner. As I entered, a naked child, of four years old, ran from the corner, where it was watching' a naked infant, to its father, and clasping him round the knees, said, “ Now we shall get good supper.” The father laid his hand upon the head of his naked child, and stood silently looking in its face, which w'as turned towards his own for a moment, and then turning to me, said, u Did you leave any children at home ?” The scene before me, the question, and the manner of this poor man and his child, caused my heart to swell ; and my thoughts returned to my wife’s lowly dwelling in Maryland, where I had so often been on a Saturday evening wdien I paid them my weekly visit, and to my own little ones, who clung to 'hay knees for protection and support, even as the poor little wretch now before me seized upon the weary limb of its hapless and destitute father, hoping that, naked as he was (for he had only the tattered remains of a pair of old trousers), he would bring with his return at evening its customary scanty supper. I was unable to reply, but stood leaning by the wall of the cabin, while my children seemed to flit by me in the dim twilight. My reverie was broken by the entrance of the mother with her three eldest children. She wore an old ragged shift ; but the children, the eldest of whom appeared to be about twelve, 6 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. and the youngest about six years old, were quite naked. Her husband told her that the overseer had sent me to live with them ; and she immediately began to prepare supper, which was corn bread, and the leaves of a plant called lambs’-quarter, boiled. The overseer sent me about half a pound of bread, and they gave me some of their greens ; after which I went to sleep in the loft of the cabin, with only the blanket I had brought from Maryland for a bed. The next morning I went to work with the rest at hoeing and weeding cotton. There were about a hundred and sixty-eight slaves. There was not an entire garment among us, nor a bonnet, cap, or head-dress of any kind, except my old straw- bonnet, which my wife had made for me ; and this I soon laid aside, to avoid singularity. Some of the men had shirts, some ragged trousers ; but no one wore both. Several of the women had petticoats, many shifts; but not one had both these gar- ments. The overseer had a horn in one hand, and a whip in the other ; under him were captains, who overlooked the other slaves. About seven in the morning, the overseer had his breakfast of bread, butter, cold ham, and coffee ; and we had ours of corn- cake and water. Our dinner was the same, with a little salt and a radish. At night we returned home ; and on Sunday evening each person received a peck of corn, which he might grind and bake as he chose. The women who had young children laid them by a fence, or under shade of the cotton plants, while they were at work, occasionally going to feed them. One poor woman loitered behind, to speak to me while we were returning from work; and not being present when her name was called, although but a few steps behind, the overseer called her, and me, and two others into the yard. Lydia (that was the woman’s name) fell on her knees before him, begging forgiveness. u Where have you been?” said he. u Lie down.” She was compelled to do so, and to remove her old tow-linen shift, so as indelicately to expose her, when he gave her ten lashes with his long whip, every touch of which brought blood and a shriek from the suf- ferer. The other culprits were then flogged ; and the overseer, calling me to him, said, “Boy, you see how things are done here; I never whip a new negro unless he be an outrageous villain, when I anoint him a little at first. I settle every Wednesday and Saturday evenings for the conduct of the last few days. Do not repeat this offence.” This method of flogging is much practised in the south ; and I have seen men and women nearly cut to pieces by it, though it does not sprain the thumbs and wrists like tying up. The staff of the whip is about twenty inches in length, with a large heavy head, loaded with about half a pound of lead. The lash is ten feet long, of strips of buckskin, tanned hard and dry, and plaited closely together, about the size of a man’s little finger, tapering to the end, to which is fastened a cracker, nine inches 7 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. long*, of stout sewing* silk, twisted and knotted till it is as firm as the hardest twine. This whip, w’hen adroitly used, is one of the keenest instruments of torture ever invented by man ; it has- superseded the cowhide and hickory, which bruise and mangle the flesh ; while this cuts as sharply as a knife, and does not injure the bones. Sunday came. We were not called out to work ; but here, as everywhere in the south, the slaves are discouraged by all possible means from going to any place of public worship on a Sunday. This is to prevent their associating together, and plotting mischief. No slave can leave a plantation without a written order from the master or overseer ; and any white man who meets a slave off the plantation without a pass, has a right to take him up and flog him. Passes are granted only on the most urgent occasions ; and a cotton planter has no more idea of permitting his slaves to go at will about the neighbourhood on a Sunday, than a farmer in Pennsylvania has of letting his horses out of the field on that day. The planters also fear lest, by listening to preachers, and attending religious meetings, their slaves should imbibe the notions of morality and liberty contained in the gospel. For the same reason the cotton planters prevent the slaves from learning to read ; and most of them are, in consequence, extremely ignorant and superstitious. Not the slightest religious regard is paid to Sunday; but the slaves, are allowed to work for wages, and by this means the overseers who have no slaves get their field-work done. Many slaves work for other planters on a Sunday, and others work at their 'patches — little bits of unprofitable ground given them in some remote part of the estate, generally in the woods, where they plant corn, potatoes, pumpkins, &c. for themselves: this must be done on a Sunday. I must remark, that when slaves go out to work on a Sunday, they are never flogged, and they are honestly paid. Sunday is also the customary washing-day on cotton plantations ; and the few clean garments among us were reserved for Monday morning. The earnings are spent in clothing, sugar, molasses, coffee, or tobacco ; and some money may also be made in the rainy days, when the slaves do not work, by making baskets, brooms, horse-collars, and other things, which are sold among the planters. I could make wooden bowls and ladles, and I added my earnings to those of the slave Nero and his wife, with whom I lived, on condition that I should be allowed to partake of the proceeds of their garden. Before Christmas I had enabled Nero to buy blankets for us all, which Dinah made up into coats. III. About ten days after my arrival, we had a great feast at the quarter . I was sent with a boy into a swamp to find a bullock. 8 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. This was killed and cut up into quarters, the hindquarters being kept for the family, and the rest cut into small bits, and salted for the slaves. At night each family took a bowl to the house and received two gallons of soup, made of the tripe and offal, with bacon, green corn, onions, tomatos, and squashes boiled in it ; this, with our bread, and peas from our garden, gave us an ample meal. It was Saturday evening; we had finished one grand division of the labours on a cotton plantation — the laying by the corn and cotton — and we had a good dinner, for which the slaves were extremely grateful to their master. We were also to spend the whole of Sunday in rest and banqueting, as the two forequarters were to be dressed for dinner ; and we were permitted to send to the orchard for some early peaches, which were now ripe. At one o’clock we received two gallons of soup, about a pound of beef, a small piece of bacon, and nearly two pounds of corn-pudding, mixed with lard. This, with some molasses which we had at home, made a 'good second course to our meat and vegetables. On Sunday afternoon w'e had a meet- ing, at which a man from Virginia sang and prayed. This was a day of uninterrupted happiness ; and seeing all about me im- mersed in pleasure, I forgot for the time all the wrongs I had endured, and enjoyed the happiness of our community. At this time the rice was ripe, and we proceeded to gather it, which is a healthy employment compared with the weeding it. The latter operation is performed while the fields are laid under water, and the people live for several months in the mud and water, subject to unwholesome vapours, under the rays of a summer sun, as well as the chilly dews of an autumnal night. At the time of cutting the grain the field is dry. After getting in the rice, we were employed in making cider, and were allowed a good share of the apples. After our feast, we had no meat for several weeks. In August we had to store the fodder — next to working in the rice swamps, the most unhealthy labour of the * whole year. The tops are cut from the corn, as in Pennsylvania, but the blades below the ear are pulled off by the hand, dried, and bound into sheaves ; all which must be done before the morning- dew is dried up, or in the night, at the most unhealthy season of the year. Hence arise agues and fevers; which, however, might be mitigated by giving the slaves proper provisions at this period. Early in August disease made its appearance among us. Several were attacked with ague; a complaint so much dis- regarded, that I have seen our poor people compelled to pick cotton when they were so shaken by ague that they could scarcely hold it ; and many slaves are thus lost by dropsy and consumption who might have been cured at first. The sick slaves were well attended to in the sick-room — a large airy apart- ment, with straw-beds, and everything necessary for their situa- tion. If a part of the attention shown here were bestowed upon the slaves in health, they would never be ill. 97 9 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. We had scarcely completed the securing of the fodder, and working up apples and peaches, when the cotton was ready for picking ; a business which forms about half the labour of the year on a large plantation. In Carolina it commences about the 1st of September. The manner is this. The cotton having been planted in straight rows, each picker, provided with a bag tied round his neck, proceeds from one side of the field to the other, picking all the cotton from the open burs, on the right and left, as he goes ; thus he takes half the cotton from each of the two rows. Others do the same, and thus the field is picked. A day’s work is not estimated by the rows picked, but by the ^weight of cotton brought into the house at night ; this, from a good field fully ripe, should be sixty pounds ; but of an inferior quality, or not in full blow, fifty pounds is a day’s work, and often much less. The work continues from August till January. On all estates the standard of a day’s work is fixed by the overseer : if more be gathered, the picker is paid for it ; if less, he is sure to be whipped. I now entered upon a new scene of my life, in which my true value would be determined by my ability to pick cotton ; an art which it requires some time to acquire. I soon found that, though a match for the best hands on the plantation at the hoe, the axe, or the flail, I was excelled in picking cotton by a boy of fifteen ; and besides my shame at this, I well knew that the lash of the overseer would soon make itself familiar with my back if I did not perform as much work as other young men. But the overseer said, that from the appearance of my hands, I . should make a good picker; and in fact, before the end of a week, there were but three slaves who could pick more than I could. At the end of a month I was able to return every evening a few pounds over the daily rate, for which I received my pay ; but it was irksome labour, to which I never became reconciled. As the Christmas of 1805 approached, we hoped for a holi- day of three or four days, as in Maryland ; but the overseer declared, w T ith accusations of idleness and bad conduct, that we should have but one day, with a meat dinner and a dram. Accordingly, we each received a dram of peach brandy, and two hogs were cut up amongst us. I went and picked cotton all day, for which the overseer paid me. Such was my first Christmas on a cotton plantation. On the 1st of January we received our winter clothes. A new blanket was given to every one above seven years of age; shoes to those who picked cotton; and woollen stuff for a petticoat and short-gown to each of the mothers of small children. During this winter our family en- joyed roast meat twice a-week — racoons, opossums, or other game of my trapping. In the spring I made a small net of twine, and proceeded to the river to fish. I made a weir, and caught a half- bushel measure of fish, which I gave to my master and the over- seer. My skill and success were praised, but I did not even get 10 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. a, dram. However, on the next Sunday my master sent for me, and after inquiring* about my knowledge of fishing, said that he intended to put me at the head of a fishing party. I was sent to clear the river of all the old trees and brush ; and with the assist- ance of five other hands, I built two canoes, hoping that I should make some advantage of being head-man at the fishery. But on the day we launched the canoes, an ill-looking stranger came to take charge of the business, with the same authority over us as an overseer in the cotton field. We caught common river fish, of which we might keep as many as we could eat ; but all the shad we caught were taken away by a black man, who came three times a-day for that purpose. The fish-master was to have a tenth part of all the fish we caught, and for a few days he did very well for his employer ; but after a week, he began to relax in his discipline, as, to compel us to work all night, he must sit up and watch us. To this he could not submit ; and one night he told me I was to be overseer that night, and he had no doubt I should keep the hands well at work. He then went to bed, and we worked hard all night. At sunrise I called him to divide the fish, but he did not come, and therefore I did it ; at which he was so well satisfied, that the next night he again went to bed, leaving all to me. He had been very severe to us, making free use of a hickory gad which he carried ; and we were all well pleased when he proposed leaving the night management of the fishery entirely to us, as we knew then that he was as much in our power as we were in his. One evening a merchant-boat moored opposite our landing, and I rowed over to it, having a great desire for some bacon, of which I had never enjoyed a full meal since I came to Carolina. Upon inquiring of the captain if he had any in exchange for shad, he said he had a little ; but that, as there was great risk in dealing with a slave, I must pay above the usual price. He offered me a hundred pounds of bacon for three hundred shad, which was twice as much as the bacon was worth ; but he ran the hazard of being prosecuted for dealing with slaves — a high offence in Carolina. We delivered the fish, and received the bacon, the captain telling me that he should be down the river again in two weeks, when he would buy anything I had for sale, and give me half as much for cotton as it was worth in Charleston. We now lived sumptuously on our bacon, which we boiled, lest our master should find it out — as he would have done had we fried it. We spent two weeks thus, and were expecting the return of the boat, when the man who was with me when I received the bacon told me that he had laid a plan by which we could get thirty or forty dollars, if I would join him. He then reminded me of the captain’s offer about cotton, and said that he intended to go one night to the cotton-house and fetch two bags : all he asked of me was, to make an excuse for his absence to the other hands, and help him to get the cotton into the LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. canoe when the boat came. I disliked the scheme ; hut my com- panion was not to be discouraged by anything I said, answering, that if I would not help him, he would do it alone. The next night Nero was missing. To the inquiries of the other people I said nothing, and it passed over. A few nights after, the boat came, and Nero was again absent for a short time; saying, on his return, that he had been to collect pine wood. 'When the man came in the morning to take away the fish, he said there was great trouble on the plantation ; for that two bags of cotton had been stolen in the night, and the overseer had threatened to flog all the slaves on the plantation, in order to discover the thief, who he suspected had sold the cotton to a poor white man who lived in the pine woods, and was believed to be a receiver of stolen goods. As I was known to be well acquainted with these woods, I was sent for to assist in the search tor the cotton ; and before I left the fishery, I advised the master to be very careful not to let the overseer or master know that he had left the fishing' to us at night. I said this, remembering that I was guilty as to the bacon, though innocent of the cotton business. When I arrived at the quarter , as the slaves 7 huts were called, I observed that the overseer looked at me attentively, and then whispered my young master. We went to the white man’s hut in the pine woods, where we found him and his wife, with two little children, eating roasted potatoes. They denied all knowledge of the cotton ; and after having searched the cabin, the gentlemen and myself set out to scour the woods. Finding nothing, we returned to the cabin, which we found deserted, this lonely family having fled in haste. My young master forced open the door. The few articles of miserable furniture were thrown into a corner, and the dwelling was set fire to by the overseer — my young master boasting how he had routed one receiver of stolen goods out of the country. When we returned home, a strange gentleman, looking hard at me, said, “ Boy, you appear to live well; how much meat does your master allow you in a week ? 77 I was confounded at this, but replied that we had plenty of river- fish ; but that, if our master would give us a little meat now and then, we should be very grateful for it. The gentleman said no more ; but the overseer, declaring that I looked fat and greasy, and unlike the other slaves who lived upon river-fish, said if I told where I got the meat, I should not be whipped. Many words ensued. One gentleman advised a flogging ; and it might have been done, but I proposed their taking me to the landing, and if the people there did not look like me, he might flog me. When we got to the landing, I appealed to the fish-master whether we had any meat ; and he answering in the negative, and praising us as excellent hands, the gentlemen were satisfied; but the overseer ran about swearing at our being so fat, while the hands on the plantation were as lean as sand-hill cranes. Fortunately, the bags of cotton were not mentioned; but Nero 12 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. was so much alarmed, that I believe the least inquiry would have led him to confess the whole. We left the fishery about the middle of April, when we found the corn and cotton had all been planted, and the latter trans- planted. I had been a loser at the fishery, having 1 been com- pelled to work for my master on Sundays, and thus losing all I could have earned on that day at the plantation. IV. After the first ploughing and hoeing of the cotton, thirty acres of rice swamp were to be hoed and weeded. No stranger can work for a week in a rice swamp at this season of the year without being* ill ; and the three new hands, with myself, were taken ill within the first five days. Bleeding* and cooling medicine recovered me in about a week. Copperas was a part of my medicine : it is usually given to deter the people from complaining, until they can work no longer ; but skill is required in administering it. We had this year ten acres of indigo, which plant is worked nearly like rice, except that it is planted on high ground. The culture is disagreeable, as it requires constant weeding ; and it impoverishes the land more than any other crop. The plants are steeped in water, and pounded; and the water having then been let off, the sediment which remains at the bottom is gathered into bags and hung up to drain. It is afterwards pressed, dried in cakes, and packed in chests for market. Washing and pound- ing* is extremely unpleasant, on account of the filth and the stench arising from the decomposition of the plants. In the early part of June, the salted shad which we had received every Sunday was discontinued, and we received only a peck of corn and a pint of vinegar. I therefore resorted to my own expe- dients to procure animal food. This was considered a fortunate season, as no exemplary punishment had been inflicted for several months : there was some whipping every week, but not more than twenty lashes. One Sunday, as I was seeking for turtles, this being the time of year at which they lay their eggs, I heard, in a very solitary part of the swamp, the sound of small bells. At first I was alarmed, and crouching down, I presently heard footsteps among the leaves, while the noise of the bells approached nearer. I was seized with horror, as I knew that a murder had been committed near the spot, and my horror was not abated by the sight of a famished-looking black man, entirely naked, his hair shaggy, and his eyes wild, bearing over his head something in the form of an arch, on which three bells were suspended. Upon a closer examination of this frightful figure, I saw an iron collar about his neck, with a large padlock hanging behind ; he carried a LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. stout staff, with an iron spear at one end. I gave myself up for lost, and began to pray aloud, when the figure rushed into the water, beseeching me, in a piteous tone, to have mercy upon him, and not carry him back to his master. All my fears vanished at the sound of a human voice, and I perceived that he was only a poor African negro, and more wretched than myself. I persuaded him to come out of the water, offering him all the aid I could give ; and we went to an open part of the wood, where he desired me to look at his back, which was seamed with the scars of the whip and hickory, from his neck to the lower extremity of his spine. The natural colour of the skin had dis- appeared, and was succeeded by a streaked and speckled appear- ance of dusky -white and pale flesh colour. He said his name was Paul ; that he was a native of Congo in Africa, and had been a slave five years ; that his master was often drunk, and that his chief delight was in whipping his slaves; that he had run away two years ago, after having been whipped with hickory switches till he fainted ; that he concealed himself in a swamp for six months, but at last was betrayed by a woman who saw him. When taken, he was again whipped till he was unable to stand, and a heavy block of wood was chained to one foot, which he was obliged to drag after him at his daily labour for more than three months, when, having found an old file, he cut the irons, and again fled. He was again retaken a week after, and again whipped ; and then the iron collar he now wore, with the iron rod extending from one shoulder to the other over his head, were put upon him. I had no implements to release him with, and all I could do was to give him some terrapius (a kind of small turtle), which I had found, and all the eggs I had gathered dur- ing the day. I lighted a fire for him ; and having promised to bring a file and remove his fetters on the following Sunday, I re- turned home, terrified at the adventure. I often thought of the forlorn African during the week ; and on the next Sunday, having procured a large file from a blacksmith’s shop, I repaired to the swamp, but he was not there. The ashes of the fire showed that it had been kept up for several days, and the bones of the terra- pius and of several frogs were scattered about ; but no one had been on the spot since the rain which had fallen on the previous Thursday. While standing on the spot, I heard the croaking of ravens, and saw a turkey-buzzard, pursued by an eagle, come from the quarter in which I heard the ravens. I knew that the eagle never pursued the buzzard for the purpose of preying upon him, but only to compel him to disgorge himself of his own prey, for the benefit of the king of birds. I therefore concluded that some dead animal was near me, and thought that Paul might have killed a cow with a pine knot, and removed himself to where she lay. My curiosity was roused ; but I had not advanced many yards when I felt a sickening stench. The trees swarmed with birds of prey, and clouds of carrion crows were flitting 14 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. about after their manner when they perceive some object of prey. I presently beheld the cause of all this in the putrid body of the unhappy Paul, suspended from a tree by a cord made of twisted hickory bark. It was plain that he had climbed the tree, fastened the cord to the branch, and sprung* off. The bells had preserved the corpse from being* devoured, the birds being alarmed as soon as they touched it. The body was never taken down, and I saw the bones on the tree several months afterwards. About this time my master’s eldest daughter was married to a planter of great wealth near Columbia ; and the second, after some difficulties, was also married to a young gentleman, her inferior in rank and wealth. As he had no slaves or land of his own, he was to reside with his wife on a large tract of land belonging to my master in Georgia; and in September 1806 , I was told that I, with eight other men and two or three women, must set out the next Sunday with our new master for Georgia, to make the place ready to receive our new mistress in the spring. I was much pleased with the manners and appearance of the young man, who appeared about twenty-eight years old. I was to drive the six mules which were to draw the wagon. Before we set off, my young mistress gave each of us two full suits of clothes, one of woollen, the other of hemp ; a hat, and two pairs of shoes, with a trifle in money, enjoining us to do our duty. This conduct was so different to that I had been accustomed to witness, that I thought myself very fortunate in being her slave. We departed: when we reached Augusta, my master pushed forward with the men, leaving me with the team to bring on the women, children, and goods ; and on the sixth day I reached the settlement in a heavy forest. My master gave me three dollars and twenty-five cents for my good conduct, and I hoped now that all my troubles were ended, as I did not consider labour any hardship, if I was well treated and cared for. We made two cabins, with glass windows, which I had brought ; two other cabins, and a stable ; and then began to clear the land. After a few days my master took the wagon and two boys to the settle- ments to buy provisions, leaving me to superintend the work. We all worked very hard ; and at the end of a week our master returned, bringing' meal, bacon, salt, and other things ; and the day following, a white man drove to our station several cows, and above twenty hogs ; all which required no feeding at this time of the year, when nuts and grass are abundant. We now lived very differently from what we had done, having plenty of bacon, with bread and sweet potatoes. But a few days before Christmas, a messenger came wflth news of the death of my old master, and that difficulties required the presence of our young one. We had in these two months cleared forty acres of land ; and my master, taking an account of everything, placed the whole under my charge, and departed, promising to return in a month. We heard nothing of him till late in January, when the eldest son of LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. my old master came to the settlement with a strange gentleman, and we heard, to our surprise and sorrow, that our young master had been killed in a duel by one of the suitors my young mis- tress had refused, who had combined together to revenge them- selves on both husband and wife. In all parts of the cotton country there are taverns for gam- bling and drinking, frequented by all classes of planters, and kept for g*ain by men utterly without character. In these sinks of iniquity are assembled all the profligate, the drunken, and the idle. In a country where the white man never works, not even to oversee the labour done on his own plantation, the number of those who frequent these gaming-houses may be imagined. My young master kept aloof from the tavern ; but the conspira- tors invited him there on some pretence about his property, and having succeeded in quarrelling w'ith him, challenged him to fight over the table at which they sat. He had no pistols, but a pair was offered to him ; and the result was as might have been expected — he was killed at the first fire, while his antagonist escaped unhurt. My mistress became immediately delirious ; she recovered her reason at times, but died in the summer follow- ing of fever, leaving an infant a few days old. The estate on which I now resided was let immediately to a man from Savannah, who would not have been a bad master, had he not been as much a slave as I was. I saw many families in the south ; but my new mistress was the worst woman I ever saw there. Her temper was as bad as that of a speckled viper ; and her language, when she was enraged, was a mere vocabulary of profanity and virulence. When left to himself, my master was kind and humane towards his people ; and if he had possessed courage to whip his wife two or three times as he whipped his slaves, to compel her to conduct herself in a manner befitting* her sex, I should have had a tolerable time of servitude with him, and should probably have remained a slave in Georgia till this day. Before my mistress came, we had plenty of meat ; but after her arrival, we had no meat, a very short supply of bread, with badly-cooked sweet potatoes, and a very small quan- tity of sour milk ; while my mistress gave the slaves she brought with her both meat and milk. However, my master sometimes gave us a flitch of bacon, which he stole from his own storehouse, telling us not to let his wife know it. This woman hated me, because my master placed confidence in me, and treated me as the foreman of his people. Wages were high in this country, and I could sometimes earn a dollar and a half on a Sunday. My master gave me an old gun, which I g*ot repaired, and became a hunter, in which I soon was expert, shooting the deer at salt-licks* which I made in the w r oods, and thus living well. Serpents of various kinds swarmed in this country ; and I have * Salt-licks — spots of natural salt, to which wild animals instinctively resort in herds, lti LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. killed more than twenty rattlesnakes in a day. Copper-heads were innumerable ; but the worst snake is the moccason, which is quite as venomous as the copper-head or rattlesnake, and much more active and malicious. Vipers, and other poisonous reptiles, were also very numerous. In the swamps was a mon- strous serpent ; it is brown, with ashy-white spots, and lives by catching* rabbits and other animals, and I have no doubt would attack and swallow children several years old. I once shot one more than eight feet long, and as thick as a man’s leg ; when coiled up, it was as large as a small calf lying in its resting- place. Panthers, w'olves, and other beasts of prey were common in the woods. Snakes congregate either in groups or pairs; and if one be killed, another soon appears near the place. I one day killed a rattlesnake full six feet in length, of a corresponding* thickness, and with fangs an inch and three-quarters long. A few days after, in jumping from the top of a fence near the spot where I had killed this one, I alighted close to another rattle- snake, quite as large, lying at full length. To my surprise it did not attempt to bite me, nor even to throw itself into a coil : it only sounded its rattles, loud enough to be heard a hundred yards off. I killed this also, and found the body so stuffed with corn meal, that it could not coil itself, and thus my life -was saved ; for the bite of such a snake is almost certain death. Being in the woods one Sunday, my dog showed fear at some- thing he saw in the cane-brake. I had my axe with me, but not my gun, and after vainly endeavouring* to induce my dog to enter the cane-brake, I started on my way home, my dog keeping a little in advance of me, but frequently looking back. I had not proceeded far, when the cause of the dog’s alarm became mani- fest ; for, looking round, I saw' a huge panther creeping along* the path after me, like a cat stealing on its prey. I endea- voured to urge my dog to attack him ; but in vain. When I stood still, the beast lay down, his eyes fixed upon me ; when I moved forw'ard, it moved also : in this way I proceeded, the panther sometimes within tw*enty paces of me, until I came within view of my master’s clearing, when it turned off into the woods. When I told my master of my adventure, he sent for some dogs, and immediately started off in pursuit of the animal, which, near daybreak the next morning, they shot in a tree, having hunted it nearly ten miles. It measured eleven feet ten inches from the end of the nose to the tip of the tail. In the autumn, I accompanied my master into the Indian country to purchase horses : an expedition v 7 hich, I believe, yielded him a handsome profit. He now fell into bad health, and the temper of my mistress became daily worse. I went to Savannah with my master to purchase groceries, and on a plan- tation v'here v r e rested I saw a slave punished by cat-hauling. The cat was placed on the bare shoulders, and forcibly dragged by the tail down the back and along the thighs of the prostrate LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. slave, tearing* the skin and flesh with its claws and teeth. It is the most excruciating punishment I ever saw inflicted, and very- dangerous : the claws of the cat being poisonous. The cat was drawn thus twice down the backs of three slaves. Soon after my return from Savannah, two slaves on a neighbouring planta- tion were hanged for murdering their master ; and another slave was whipped nearly to death, only for having been in the house when the murder was committed, and not having given imme- diate information of it : the guilty couple themselves declaring his ignorance of their intention. All the slaves were ordered to attend this execution ; and it was estimated that fifteen thousand persons were present, half of whom were blacks. After the bodies w r ere cut down, drinking, gambling, horse-racing, dancing, and fighting took place. Booths and tents had been erected ; and every species of amusement and excess to which the southern people are addicted, was carried on from the day of execution (Thursday) till the following Monday. My master became worse ; and in March two brothers of my mistress came to reside with her. About three weeks after their arrival, they told me they were going to whip me, as they thought it would be good for me. Resistance was vain ; I was tied to a tree in the yard, and drawn up by my hands till my feet no longer touched the ground. The first strokes of the hickory were like scalding water running along my back; but after a hundred or more lashes, a dead, painful aching seemed to penetrate my very bones. As I hung by the rope, I swung round, and saw my master, as pale as death, standing by the door, and commanding his brothers-in-law to desist. Finding his words disregarded, he made his way to me, leaning on his stick, and placing his skeleton form beside me as I hung, threatened to send for a lawyer if they struck another blow. This stopped my punishment : they cut me down, and carried my poor master into the house. My mistress compelled me to have my back washed with brine, and I was then per- mitted to go to bed. The next day I could not turn myself ; my shirt adhered to my back, and could not be removed till after my mistress had me washed in warm water, and warm grease rubbed over me. She was afraid I should die ; as it was, she lost a month of my labour, and me in the end. As soon as I could walk, my master sent for me, and with tears beseeched me to remain faithful during his short life ; which I promised, though I deter- mined to attempt my escape as soon as he should be in his grave. My master had an old sword, which I thought would be useful to me ; I therefore secreted it. I was uneasy at robbing so good a man, but I knew he would never want it again. My master died in May, and I followed him to the grave with a heavy heart, for I felt that I had lost the only friend who could protect me against the tyranny and oppression to which slaves on a cotton plantation are subject. Had he lived, I should never have left him, for he had promised to purchase 18 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. me of my owners in Carolina ; but when he was gone, I felt the parting of the last tie that bound me to the place where I then was, and my heart yearned for my wife and children, from whom I had now been separated more than four years. I held my life in small estimation, if it was to be worn out under the dominion of my mistress and her brothers ; though, since the death of my master, she had greatly ameliorated my condition, by giving me frequent allowances of meat and other necessaries. I believe she entertained some vague apprehensions that I might run away, and betake myself to the woods for a living — perhaps go to the Indians ; but I do not think she ever suspected that I should make the hitherto untried and hazardous attempt to find my way back to Maryland. My purpose was fixed, and now nothing could shake it. I only waited for a proper season of the year to commence my toilsome and dan- gerous journey, as I must procure my own subsistence on my march. I furnished myself with a tin case containing flint, steel, and tinder. In one side of the greatcoat which my master had given me I quilted a scabbard of old cloth, in which I could safely carry my sword. I also procured a small linen bag, which held more than a peck, and filled it with the meal of the parched corn, which I ground at night. I had the boots repaired which my master had given me ; and before the 1st of August, I had completed all my preparations with such secrecy, that no one suspected my design. I only waited the ripening of the corn. On the 8th of August, I perceived that nearly half of the ears were so far grown, that, on being roasted, they would afford a food on which a man could live pretty well ; and I resolved that the next day I would take leave of this plantation for ever. After having taken an affectionate leave of my poor dog, whom I was obliged to leave behind me, as the success of my attempt depended on secrecy and silence, I went to work as usual, and worked till one o’clock, when, having tied my knap- sack with my bag of meal on my shoulders, I went off towards the forest, keeping as nearly as I could a northern course all the afternoon. At night I lay down and slept soundly, without kindling a fire or eating anything. When I awoke, and could see my way, I walked on until about eight o’clock, when I came to a river that I knew must be the Appalachie. I sat down on the bank and made my breakfast, using my meal very sparingly, as my most valuable treasure, and though I had in my pocket three Spanish dollars, which, however, could not avail me any- thing. The morning was sultry, and the thickets along the margin of the river teemed with insects and reptiles. After taking my breakfast, I 'prepared to cross the river, which was here about a hundred yards wide, with a sluggish and deep current, too deep to be waded ; so I prepared to cross it by swimming, which in my youth I had learned in the Patuxent. 19 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. X stripped myself, bound my clothes on the top of my knapsack,, with my bag* of meal above my clothes, then drawing* the knap- sack close up to my head, I threw myself into the river. I kept in a straight line to the opposite bank, and when I had reached it, I turned round to view the place from which I had set out on my aquatic passage ; but my eye was arrested by an object nearer than the opposite shore. Within twenty feet of me, in the very line I had pursued, was a large alligator moving in full pursuit of me, with his nose just above the surface, in the posi- tion which that creature takes when chasing his prey. The- alligator can swim more than twice as fast as a man, and had I remained ten seconds longer in the water, I should have been drawn to the bottom. After adjusting my clothes, I again took to the woods, and bore a little to the north-east, having deter- mined to turn down the country, so as to gain the line of roads by which I had come to the south. I travelled all day in the woods, but a short time before sunset came within view of an opening in the forest, which I supposed to be cleared fields ; but on a closer examination, finding* no fences or other enclosures round it, I advanced into it, and found it to be an open savannah, with a small stream of water creeping slowly through it. At the lower side of an open space were the remains of an old beaver dam, the central part of which had been broken away by the stream. Around the margin of this former pond I observed several decayed beaver lodges, and many stumps of small trees ; these had been cut down by this industrious little nation, which had fled at the approach of white people, and had gone to seek refuge in the deepest solitudes of the forest from the glance of every human eye. As it was growing late, and I thought I must be drawing towards a settlement, I determined to encamp near the beaver dam. I again took my supper from my bag of meal, and made my bed among the canes which grew in the place. I slept but little, for it seemed as if all the owls in the country had assembled : their hooting and chattering commenced soon after dark, and continued till dawn. Owls are very nume- rous in all parts of the south, especially in the low grounds with which the waters are bordered. Although I had passed many nights in the w*oods at all seasons, I had never before heard so deafening a chorus of nocturnal music. In the morning I arose from my couch, and proceeded cau- tiously along the woods, keeping a continual look-out for plan- tations, and listening attentively to every noise I heard among* the trees. When the sun had been up two or three hours, I saw an appearance of blue sky before me, which showed that the trees had. been cleared from a spot at no great distance ; and as I advanced, I heard the voices of people in conversation. Sitting down among* the palmetto plants, I soon perceived that they were coming nearer to me. I now heard the tramp of horses, and soon saw two men on horseback, with rifles on their shoul- LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. ders, riding through the wood at the distance of about fifty or sixty yards from me. Perceiving that these men were hunters, I remained perfectly silent, listening to their conversation. When I could distinguish their words, they were talking of the best place to take their stand for the purpose of seeing the deer ; from which I inferred that they had sent men with dogs to some other point to rouse the game. After they had passed near me, and were beginning to recede, one of them asked the other if he had heard that a negro had run away the day before yesterday from Morgan county, to which his companion answered in the negative. The first then said he had seen an advertisement offering' a hundred dollars reward for his recovery, and that his name was Charles. The conversation was interrupted by a cry of hounds, and the horsemen soon rode out of my hearing’. It was necessary now to be doubly vigilant. I resolved to travel no more in the day-time, as I was very likely to be dis- covered by the hunters in the forest. I was extremely hungry ; but being unwilling to encroach further on my bag of meal, I crept through the low ground to a fence, beyond which I saw a plantation of cotton, and at the distance of half a mile tassels of corn in a field. Being sleepy, I crept into the bushes, and hungry as I w~as, fell asleep. From the position of the sun when I awoke, I thought it might be one or two o’clock. At this time of the day the heat drives every one from the forest ; therefore I cautiously approached the fence opposite the corn field, and after a careful examination, I ventured to cross it, and pluck about a dozen good ears of corn, with which I crept back to the thicket in safety. Not daring to kindle a fire in the forest, lest the smoke should betray me, I ventured to a swamp which I knew to be near by the appearance of the timber ; and when a quarter of a mile within it, I collected some dry wood, and kindled a fire for the first time on my journey. After I had roasted and eaten as much of my corn as I could, I lay down and slept for three or four hours, when, it being evening, I thought it prudent to leave the swamp. I had learned to distinguish the north star and the seven pointers, and as soon as these were visible, I began my march through the woods as nearly due east as I could, in order to gain the road leading from Augusta to Morgan county, deeming it more safe to travel the high road than the open country by night. With the north star on my left hand, and taking care to keep at a great distance from the houses belonging to the plantations which I passed, I travelled at least twenty-five miles that night, passing through a peach orchard, with the fine ripe fruit of which I filled my pockets and hat, and in crossing a corn field I pulled a supply of roasting ears, with which, and my peaches, I retired at daybreak into a large wood, where, in a thicket of high whortle bushes, I breakfasted, and lay down to sleep. In the evening I commenced my march, and travelled till 21 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. about one o’clock in the morning, when I came upon a beaten road, which I determined to pursue, supposing it led to Augusta. At daylight I turned into the woods, and concealing myself in a thicket of young pines, I remained undisturbed during the day. At dark I again returned to the road, travelling as silently as possible, and listening to every sound that I heard. After about an hour, I heard the approach of horsemen, to avoid whom I con- cealed myself behind the trunk of a large tree. As they passed, I heard one of them ask another if it was not about five miles to the Oconee, which satisfied me that I was on the high road leading down the country. I waited until these horsemen were out of hearing', and then followed them at a brisk walk. In less than an hour I came to a river, which I supposed to be the Oconee ; and having previously found that river fordable with a wagon and team, I prepared to ford it now. I procured a long stick from the shore, and entered the river with all my clothes on except my greatcoat and pan- taloons, which I carried on my back. The river was not more than four feet in depth ; and I had proceeded beyond the middle of it, when I heard horses in front of me, and presently several horsemen advanced into the stream towards me. I stooped down, leaving only my head and the top of my pack above the surface, and waited while the strangers had given their horses water. They then entered into conversation together ; and one said it was his opinion u that that fellow had not come this way at all.” The other then asked what his name was, and the first replied u that he was called Charles in the advertisements, but that run- away negroes always took a false name.” I now knew that I was within a few feet of a party patrolling the country in search of me, and that the obscurity caused by the fog alone saved me from them. After a pause of a few minutes, the gentlemen rode on, and were soon out of hearing. I remained in the water a quarter of an hour; then, after wringing the wet from my clothes, I left the road, and ascended an eminence which was clear from fog, and from which the stars were visible. It was now certain that the whole country had been advised of my flight ; but it was equally certain that no one knew the course I had taken, as these were the same men who had passed me early in the night, and from whom I learned the distance to the river. From the hill I saw that the road which I had left led through a plantation, the house and other buildings on which appeared to be such as I had before seen ; and from an open space in the thicket, I became satisfied, after the sun had risen, that this was the residence of the gentleman who had so kindly entertained my master and me as we went to and returned from Savannah with the wagon. Although this gentleman had told me to come and see him if I passed this way again, I knew, notwithstanding the benevolence of his character, that to see a runaway slave on his premises, and not cause him to be appre- 22 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. bended and sent home, was held to be one of the most dishonour- able acts to which a southern planter could subject himself. I stood and looked at the house of this good planter for more than an hour after the sun had risen. I saw the overseer and hands proceed to the field, the black women go to the cow-pen with their pails, and the smoke rise from the kitchen chimney. I saw two young ladies and a brother come to the door ; and at last I saw the gentleman himself leave the house and walk towards the stables. It was like throwing one’s-self in the way of a lion, who is known sometimes to spare those whom he might destroy; yet I resolved to approach this planter and tell him my story. I did so, meeting him in one of the yards. At first he did not know me ; but I reminded him of having been at his house. I told him I was a runaway ; that my master wasAead ; that my mistress was so cruel I could not live with her, showing him at the same time the scars on my back. After a short silence, the gentleman said, u Charles, I will not betray you ; but you must not stay here. It must not be known that you were on this plantation, and that I saw and conversed with you. How- ever, as I suppose you are hungry, you may go to the kitchen and get your breakfast with my house-servants.” Going into the kitchen as he ordered, I was soon supplied with a good breakfast of cold meat, warm bread, and as much butter-milk as I chose to drink. The lady of the house, with her two daughters, came in and gave me a dram of peach brandy, which did me more harm than good, though I drank it thank- fully ; and a black man brought me a dollar and a package con- taining at least ten pounds of bread and meat, saying that his master desired me to quit his premises as soon as I had finished my breakfast. I obeyed, and left this truly hospitable house with my most fervent blessings upon the head of its inhabitants. It was yet early in the morning when I regained the woods on the opposite side of the plantation. I could not believe it possible that the white people whom I had just left would give information against me ; but still I thought it prudent to travel some distance in the woods before I stopped for the day : I also resolved to quit the road, and travel by woods and fields for two or three nights. In the after- noon it rained, but I was kept tolerably dry by a large mag- nolia. It cleared in the evening, and I continued my journey on that and the two following nights : on the third night I en- countered a danger that had nearly proved fatal to me. I had been on my road two or three hours, when I entered a plantation that lay quite across my way. All seemed to be quiet, and I went into a peach orchard, the fruit of which was of a fine large kind, called the Indian peach, one of them being often as large as the common quince. I had filled all my pockets with this delicious fruit — which is of a deep red — when I heard the loud growl of a dog near the house. I stood still, but he 23 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. growled on ; at length he approached me, and barked out. I started off for the woods ; but he barked louder, and was fol- lowed by another dog', also barking*. Being* light of foot, I was able to escape into the woods, by keeping* the dogs at bay with my stick ; but now I heard the shouts of men encouraging them, and it was clear that I must be taken in a few minutes. I thought of my master’s sword ; and snatching it from the sheath, I cut at the head of the largest and fiercest of the dogs, laying it open from the neck to the nose. Pie gave a loud yell, and fell dead upon the ground. The other escaped over a fence into the field, where he set up a clamorous barking. I made the best of my way through the woods for an hour without stopping. I had lost almost all my peaches in this affray, and tore my clothes sadly in running through the woods — a disaster not easily repaired ; but I had proved my judgment in putting up the sword as the best part of my travelling equipage. It was now necessary to travel as fast as possible, and I cer- tainly lost no time ; but I believe I went in a zig-zag* or circular route ; though, when daylight appeared, I was moving towards the south, as I intended. I lay down to rest in a thicket of low white oak bushes, and slept till ten or eleven o’clock, when, having eaten my breakfast, I again lay down, but felt an unusual sense of disquietude and alarm. I arose and looked for a more secure retreat, but not seeing any, I lay down a third time, still uneasy. Finally, I removed to the side of a large black log, intending to go to sleep ; but before I had been here more than twenty minutes, I heard the voices of men and the trampling of horses. I lay with my back to the log in such a position that I could see the place where I had been in the bushes. Two dogs w'ent into this little thicket, and three horsemen rode over the very spot — seventy or eighty yards from me — where I had lain in the morning. Horses and voices were immediately at my back, around me, and over me. Two horses jumped over the log by the side of which I lay — one a short distance from my feet, and the other within two yards of my head. The horses saw' me, took fright, and started off; but fortunately their riders — w r ho were probably looking for me in the tops of the trees, or expecting to see me start before them in the w'oods, running for my life — did not perceive me, and attributed the alarm of their horses to the black appearance of the log ; for I heard one of them say, “ Our horses are afraid of black logs : I wonder how they would stand the sight of the negro if we should meet him.” There must have been twenty horsemen ; and there were more dogs than I could count ; but, fortunately for me, they had not been trained to hunt negroes in the woods. If some of the kept dogs, as they are called, had happened to go into that thicket instead of these, my race would soon have been run. Long after the enemy w'as gone, I lay still, trembling* in 24 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. every joint ; and when I arose, I found myself so completely bereft of understanding-, that I could not tell north from south, east from west. I could not even disting-uish the thicket ; the sun, moon, and stars seemed out of their places. I had sense enoug-h not to leave the spot ; and I remained here three wretched days, oppressed with alienation of mind, and conscious of the infliction. My joy on the third morning at seeing the sun rise in his proper place cannot be described. When I recovered, I proceeded along* a broad road, and crossed the Savannah river into South Carolina. In the afternoon of the next day rain came on, with a high wind, and continued through the night.. I took shelter in a hollow tree, whence I perceived that the country around was well inhabited, and that the wood was sur- rounded by plantations. I therefore made my w^ny at night to a large forest, where, not being able to kindle a fire, on account of the wet weather, I passed the night wretchedly. Next day I penetrated the forest, and choosing a spot of high ground, I erected a sort of rude booth by cutting„the bushes with my knife. Here I remained for eleven days, during which time the sun scarcely showed himself. I procured corn from a field about a .mile and a half from my camp ; but my patience was worn out at being thus weather-bound. At length the wind arose, the sun shone, and the fleecy clouds assured me that the rains were over. At nightfall I returned to the road, keeping the north star always on my left hand. This road must have been that leading* to Charleston ; and as many people travelled it by night as well as by day, my progress was very slow. At the end of a week I found myself in a flat sandy country, and concluded I was ap- proaching the sea instead of Columbia ; in order to be certain of which, I passed several nights secreted by the roadside, to listen to the conversation of travellers. At length, from the drivers of some wagons, I found that it was as I feared ; that it was sixty miles to Charleston, and that I had completely mis- taken my course. Not knowing what to do, I retraced the road for several nights, and then determined to travel due north, trusting to Providence to guide me to some road which might lead me to Maryland. I made my way pretty well the first night ; but then a dense fog came on, and I was compelled to remain for a week in a swamp, during which time I was exposed to the equi- noctial gales, which raged for four days with a fury that I had never witnessed before. When the weather had become clear again, I set forth, and came to a broad road, which I pursued cautiously, crossing many small streams, and one narrow, but deep river. I had as yet fallen in with no considerable towns, and going round by the woods, I had avoided small hamlets ; but on the fourth night, after crossing the river, I came to a considerable village, with lights burning in many of the houses. I knew the 25 LIFE OF A NEGIiO SLAVE. danger I was in from the patrols, with which all southern towns are provided, and endeavoured to avoid the place by going round it ; but I was prevented by a broad river, and after wandering a long time in swamps and pine woods, I found I could not pass the village that night. I was therefore obliged to remain in a swamp during the day. On the following night I soon found myself in an open country of cotton and corn fields, with nume- rous houses, from which the barking of dogs was incessant. I felt that I was in the midst of dangers, and that I was entering a region very different from the wilderness through which I had lately passed. At length I perceived a large town, which, the country being open, I despaired of passing at a distance, and of finding the road again. I therefore determined to run all risks, and attempt to pass it in the dark. I came to a broad river between me and the town, and finding several small boats, I seized one, and was quickly on the opposite shore. I entered the silent town, and reached its centre without seeing even a rat in motion. Finding myself in an open space, I stopped to examine the streets, and recognised the jail of Columbia, and the tavern in which I was lodged the night after I was sold. This discovery made me feel almost at home with my wife and children. Hastening to the extremity of the town, running rather than walking, I took shelter in the pine woods at dawn. I had now been travelling two months, and was still so near the place whence I had departed, that I could have walked to it in a week by daylight ; but as I knew the customs of South Caro- lina, and the usual movements of the night patrol, and as I had travelled the country before, I now hoped my progress would be more rapid. I once narrowly escaped a band of patrollers ; but knowing that they never remain out all night, except in times of apprehended danger, and the country appearing to be quiet, I felt little fear of them. There was plenty of corn in the fields, and the sweet potatoes had not yet been dug, so there was no scarcity of provisions, and my health and strength were good. Thus did I persevere in my almost hopeless attempts to regain that liberty of which I had been -so unjustly deprived. At length my bag of meal was exhausted. I could not always procure fresh corn, and when I did, I dared not make a fire to roast it. I was therefore often in great misery from want of food ; besides which, my clothes were torn by the thickets through which I was obliged to pass, and my strength began to give way under the violent extremes of wet and cold. Once I was entangled in a swamp, from which I had just extricated myself with great difficulty, when I saw a large alligator crawl- ing through the mud towards me, ready to devour me. Had it been in the night, I could not have escaped. At another time hunger made me venture into a barn stored with corn ; here I sheltered myself for several nights under the husks, leaving it 26 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. in the morning when the men came to work. Occasionally I was able to kill an opossum or a wild hog ; but I dared scarcely make a fire to dress them, lest the smoke should be seen. The weather was becoming cold ; snow fell for days together, and my clothes did not protect me ; besides wdiich, I was twice nearly drowned in crossing the rivers, being too much benumbed to swim. In such dangers the winter passed away. March came, and I calculated that I had entered Virginia. I passed through Bichmond, the capital, in the night, and I may call this my boldest exploit ; for it must be remembered that any one might take up and whip a slave who could not show his master’s passport. Near Bichmond I had a narrow escape from a mulatto, who endeavoured to knock me down. I had no doubt this man was one of those wretches employed to kidnap people of colour, to sell them in the southern states. I reached the Matapony river ; and knowing that I was near Maryland, I travelled till daybreak, when I found no shelter near, and was compelled to pass a house by the roadside, in order to reach a wood. I w T as seen, and a white man called to me to stop ; which order being disregarded, the dog was set upon me, and a gun fired. I was wounded in the legs, taken, ironed, and carried to prison, after having been so beaten with sticks and stones as to be almost senseless. In the jail my wounds were dressed, food given me, and I remained there a month, recover- ing health and strength, but. seeing no means of escape. At length, by accident, I discovered one of the door-posts of my cell to be unsound, and at night I contrived to wrench away my irons, to force the hasp out of the door-post, and thus to get into the jail-yard, whence I easily escaped to the road, and by great haste and caution crossed the Patuxent into Maryland. About one in the morning I reached my wife’s cabin, and rap- ping lightly, was asked u Who is there ? ” I replied, “ Charles ; ” but even when she saw me, she could scarcely believe it was her long-lost husband. The children had forgotten me, though they knew they once had a father : however, we were soon very happy. I felt no longer hunger or fatigue, and my wife seemed to forget all except that I was at home again. But when the first happi- ness was over, I began to dread the future, as I was a runaway slave. I went to my wife’s master, who advised me to conceal myself for a time, which I did ; and the war breaking out soon after, I went on board one of Commodore Barney’s barges in the Patuxent river as cook. I was present at the blowing up of the British vessels in the Patuxent, and afterwards marched with the troops to Bladensburg. I could not but admire the handsome manner in which the British officers led on their worn-out soldiers. General Boss was one of the finest -looking men I ever saw on horseback. I took part in the war on the shores of the Chesapeake and Patuxent. In this and the following summer, several thousand slaves deserted to the British men-of- 27 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. war which came up the river. A Mrs Wilson, who owned more than a hundred slaves, lost them all in one night. Ransom was offered for them ; and I went on board the English frigate as servant to one of the gentlemen. The black people were pro- mised freedom and lands in Trinidad, and I was offered this also, but I refused, and a sloop took away the fugitives to sea, while I found myself in the enemy’s hands without a chance of getting home ; for we had sailed out of the river, and they dared not land me and my master on the coast just yet. While I was on board, tw*o prisoners made their escape, which enraged the captain very much ; and he repaid it by landing on the shore, burning three houses, killing cattle, and carrying away a great deal of plate. I saw many such atrocities in the summer and fall of 1813. I continued with the army after the sack of Washington and defence of Baltimore ; but in 1814 I quitted the army, and went to work at the latter place as a free man. My wife died in 1816. I enjoyed good health, and by labour as a market-gardener, I had, in 1820, built a small house, purchased twelve acres of ground, a yoke of oxen, cows, and saved three hundred dollars in money. I had married again, had four children, and looked forward to an old age of comfort, if not of ease. Y. In June 1830, as I was ploughing, three gentlemen came up to me with a wish to take me to Baltimore. Unconscious of any offence, I prepared to go, when I was knocked down, bound, and carried away without being allowed to speak to my wife. I was lodged in the jail, and next day I was claimed by the youngest brother of my mistress, who had whipped me before my master’s door in Georgia. I Avas strongly ironed, and a fortnight after was driven, with a number of other black people, to Washington, where, in the grounds fronting the president’s house, I saw an old gentleman who I was told Avas the president. In four weeks we reached Millidgeville in Georgia, Avhere the man who kidnapped me resided. I was put to work : but I had enjoyed liberty too long not to think of a second escape. August Avas a good season to travel, as there Avas food in the fields and orchards ; but, remembering my former sufferings, I resolved to escape to some seaport, and get on board a vessel bound to a northern city. I put on an appearance of contentment, to deceive my master; but having learned from the family affairs that my master had no right to me as his sister’s slave, I went to a lawyer at Millidgeville to try to get my freedom. He told me that, b} r the law of Georgia, every man of colour Avas presumed to be a slave until he could prove that he was free ; but that if I would sign a paper to serve him for a year, he would endeavour to get me freed. HoAvever, on the next Wednesday I was Avhipped 28 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. with the long* neg-ro whip, for no fault, till I was insensible, and could not appear before the judge who was to decide my cause. Two weeks after, it was decided that, by the law of Georgia, every negro was presumed to be a slave till he could prove his freedom, and the white man in whose custody he was found was declared to be his master. From this time life was a torment ; I was whipped in the field, compelled to cut wood after field hours, and locked up at night. Even on a Sunday I was under the charge of an African negro. But fortune once more befriended me. Late in September much rain fell, and my door being clumsily fitted, and swelled with the damp, the overseer left it a little open, and I forced it sufficiently to get out. I set off quickly, passed through Millidgeville, gained the o^en country, and hid myself in a swamp. But next morning live or six men rushed upon me, crying*, u Kill him ! kill him ! 19 They bound me, and carried me to their companions, who were drinking, singing, and playing cards. Among them was my master, who, after much abuse, sold me to a planter for five hundred and sixty dollars. I was taken fifty miles down the country, and eighty miles from Savannah. Here I was again a slave on a cotton plantation, twenty years after my first flight. After about a week, my master told me he never flogged, but that if I came to the house in the evening, he would show me a more effectual punish- ment. I saw a pump, the spout of which was about thirteen feet above the ground ; the water was cold, and descended in a large stream upon the head of the poor woman who was to be punished. She had been stripped naked, and tied to a post directly under the spout. When she had been under the stream about a minute, she began to scream piteously ; she then became convulsed ; and in another minute her head sank upon her breast in silence. She was then removed insensible ; but recovered her faculties in about an hour. Those who have endured this punish- ment say that at first the water is not painful ; in a short time it feels like the heavy blows of large rods ; and that, by degrees, becomes more and more painful, until the skull and blade- bones appear to be broken in pieces. Finally, the breathing is oppressed, and sensibility ceases. This scene of torture deter- mined me to make my escape immediately ; and on the Sunday evening following, I stole softly across the cotton fields, taking with me a bag containing my allowance of food. I kept on steadily all night, and carefully avoiding every appearance of a road, I proceeded for four days, when I came to a broad high- road, near which I concealed myself, that I might judg’e, from the people I saw, to what country it led. By the number of horse- men, carriages, and cotton wagons, I guessed that I was near some large town. I therefore descended to the road at night, and travelled it till daybreak, passing many houses, and much well-cleared country. As I was resting by the fence, a wagon 29 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. laden with cotton passed me, and the driver, a black man, offered me a lift to Savannah. I accepted this, and accompanied him to the wharf, where I assisted him to unload, for which he gave me a good breakfast. I then hired myself to help in loading a ship with cotton, bearing in mind the chance of thus escaping. They were three days in loading, during which time I had com trived to pack the cotton bags so as to leave a space in the centre of the hold large enough for a man to conceal himself. My wages being paid, I bought two jugs — the large one I filled with water, the small one with molasses — also twenty pounds of pilot bread ; and at night I went on board, and watching an oppor- tunity when the man on duty had gone forward, I glided down amongst the cargo with my jugs and bread. The ship sailed the next morning ; and very glad was I when I felt the waves of the ocean break against her. I was in total darkness, and knew nothing of time till I heard a man call out, “That is Cape Hatteras.” At length I felt the ship strike against some solid body, succeeded by much noise and bustle, and at length the hatches were opened. At night I crept up, and seeing no one about, I left the hold, and stepped upon a ship alongside. A man seized me for a thief, but I persuaded him to let me go ; and stepping upon the wharf, I once more felt myself a free man. I concluded I was in Philadelphia, as I had heard the ship was bound thither. Meeting an old gentleman in the street with drab clothes on, I asked him if it were so, and he civilly answered in the affirmative. He seemed concerned for me, either because of my wretched and ragged appearance, or because I was a stranger, and did not know where I was ; and he led me to the house of a black man, whom he told to take care of me till morning. He then brought me an entire suit of clothes, and gave me money for a hat and shirts. He then said, u I perceive that thou art a slave, and hast run away from thy master. Thee can now go to work for thy living ; but take care that they do not catch thee again.” I told him my tale. At first he seemed incredulous ; but when he had heard all, he became more than ever interested in my fate. This gentleman, whose name I must not publish, has always been a kind friend to me. After remaining in Philadelphia a few weeks, I resolved to visit my little farm in Maryland, to sell my property, and return with my wife and children to Philadelphia. On arriving at Baltimore, I went to a tavern-keeper who had bought vege- tables of me ; he was extremely surprised to see me, and advised me to leave Baltimore directly, showing me a handbill in his bar-room offering one hundred and fifty dollars for my appre- hension. I left the house directly, and Baltimore that night. When I reached my former residence, I found a strange white man living there, who said that a runaway slave had formerly lived there, but that his master had come the summer before and carried him off ; and that the wife was also a slave ; and that 30 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE, her master had taken her and her children, about six week& before, and sold them at Baltimore to a slave-dealer from the south. This man also told me that he was not in the neighbour- hood when the woman and her children were carried away, but that he had received his information from a black woman who lived half a mile off. I went directly to this woman, whom I knew well : she had been set free some years before, and re- sided, under the protection of her former master, on his land. She could scarcely believe her sight when I entered the door ; and her first words were, “ Lucy and her children have all been stolen away !” At my request she gave me the following account of the manner in which my wife and children, all of whom had been free from their birth, were seized, and driven into southern slavery : — u A few weeks after they took you away,” said she, a and before Lucy had sufficiently recovered to be alone with her children, I went to stay with her. We went to bed about eleven o’clock, and after some time, were awakened by a knock at the door. This being repeated, Lucy asked who was there. She was then told, in what seemed to be the voice of a woman, to get up and open the door, for that the person had something to tell her that she wished to hear. Lucy, thinking it was a black woman whom she knew, rose and opened the door, when five men rushed in, closed the door, made a light in the fireplace, and proceeded deliberately to tie Lucy with a rope. The bed was then searched for the children ; and I was found, and dragged out. This seemed to alarm the men, whose faces were all black, but whose hair and features were those of white men. A con- sultation was held about me, and at length it was agreed that it would be dangerous to take me, lest my old master should cause them to be pursued ; but one of them said, that if I were left at liberty, I should give intelligence of the affair ; and that if it were discovered by the Abolition Society before they had time to get out of Maryland, they would certainly be detained and punished. They therefore tied me with cords to one of the logs of the house, and gagged me by tying a rope on my mouth, and confining it closely at the back of my neck. They then took the children from the bed, tied the eldest boy to his mother, and drove them out of the house together ; and I never saw nor heard any more of Lucy or her children. For myself, I remained in the house, the door of which was carefully closed and fastened, until the second night" after, without anything to eat or drink. On that night some unknown persons came and cut tjie cords that bound me, when I returned to my own cabin.” This intelligence almost deprived me of life ; it was the most dreadful misfortune I had suffered. It was now clear that some slave-dealer had come in my absence, seized my wife and chil- dren as slaves, and sold them to such men as I had served in the 31 LIFE OF A NEGRO SLAVE. south. They had passed into hopeless bondage, for ever beyond my reach. I was myself advertised as a fugitive slave, liable to be arrested at any moment, and dragged back to Georgia. I rushed out of the house in despair, and returned to Pennsylvania with a broken heart. For the last few years I have resided about fifty miles from Philadelphia, where I expect to pass the remainder of my days in working hard for a livelihood, without the least hope of again seeing' my wife and children ; fearful at this day to let my place of residence be known, lest, even yet, it may be supposed that, as an article of property, I am of sufficient value to be worth pursuing in my old age.* Such are some of the horrors of slavery, described by one who had suffered deeply from this atrocious and unnatural system. The personal inflictions which the system authorises, are suffi- ciently dreadful to raise our horror. Some of the punishments are, as we have seen, little short of murder ; ruining the consti- tution of the victim, and inducing disease, if not death. This goes even beyond any legal power which man may exercise towards his fellow -creatures. Hitherto, when slaves escaped from the southern to the northern or free states, they were re- claimed by law, and, as in the case above narrated, have actually been sent back to their former condition. It would appear that this at least shall not take place again in reference to the state of New York. A poor slave boy having escaped on board a vessel to New York, was reclaimed; but the case being brought before the competent tribunal, it was determined that the runaway should be set at liberty. The scene at the court-room on the release of the boy slave was very tumultuous — ladies bursting into tears, crowds huzzaing, gentlemen making congratulatory speeches to the negroes outside, &c. The newspaper which men- tions this circumstance goes on to say, that in the border states the abolition spirit is so active, that slavery is gradually giving way, from the insecurity of slave property. Other circumstances tend to the same result ; and it could not, in the nature of things, be otherwise. No powers which slave-owners can employ are able to prevent the spread of intelligence respecting the senti- ments and movements of the northern abolitionists. The press, that marvellous engine of civilisation, has latterly also been more than usually active in impressing correct view's as to the con- tinuation of slavery within the bounds of the republic. Every- thing, in short, concurs in demonstrating that the days of this iniquitous system are numbered. * This account of the Life of a Slave is abridged from a lengthy narra- tive published in New York in 1832. 32 THE MAGIC FLUTE. A MORAL TALE FROM THE GERM A?ST.* I. SLY OLD NICHOLAS. N a rich and pretty village, which stands in the ' celebrated kingdom called u Somewhere,” and which in summer - time produces the finest cherries and blackberries in the world, dwelt an old farmer named Nicholas, who never troubled himself with any very nice distinctions between his neighbours 7 property and his own. ^ night he would go out into the fields, dig up the finest plants he could find in his neighbours 7 farms, and trans- plant them into his own ; and the next morning, when the theft was discovered, and when he was taken to task regarding it, he would say: u What do you mean? I went to bed early yesterday evening, and I know nothing about it. It must have been some wicked goblin who did it. However, as the plants are now in my field, there they shall remain, and no mistake . 77 Thus there arose trial after trial between him and his neighbours ; but * This lialf-serious, half-comic tale, and the tale which succeeds it, are translated from an interesting German Christmas -book, entitled “ Der Zauber-Garten ” — “The Magic Garden.’’’ The author is Heinrich Smidt, a writer well known to the lovers of this peculiarly German school of popular fiction. We have taken the liberty of paraphrasing a few passages. No. 156. 1 THE MAGIC FLUTE. Farmer Nicholas laughed at them all, for he managed matters so cleverly, that no one could convict him of the fraud. There was one individual who had seen him, and this was an orphan boy called Love-Truth, whom the farmer had taken in for chari ty’s-sake — that is to say, whom he fed on scanty fare, and kept at work from morning till night. But little Love-Truth never murmured or repined ; for he was firmly convinced that all would go right with him some time or another. You may per- haps inquire whence he had this conviction? Before he came to the farmer, he had been adopted by an old woman called Martha, who was now dead, but who, upon her deathbed, had predicted that there was happiness in store for him yet ; and he telt so assured of this, that he was often even tempted to feel proud in the prospect of his future greatness. It happened at last that the old farmer one night carried off several fine heads of cabbage out of one of his neighbours’ fields. Love-Truth was witness of the transaction, and the next morning he declared that he would not hold his tongue any longer, but would tell everybody what a wicked man his master was. At first the old farmer was terrified, and tried to prevent him ; but Love-Truth ran out into the village and told it to the first person he met, and then to a second, and a third, till every one knew it. Meanwhile, however, Farmer Nicholas, who was not long in devising his plan, ran to the village magistrate, who was not very particular about the sort of justice he dealt out, and promised him a few broad dollars if he would help him out of the scrape. “ That I will ! ” cried the magistrate ; and he summoned little Love-Truth before his court. He interrogated him very sharply ; and as the poor boy could give no proof of the transaction beyond the simple statement — “ Indeed, indeed I saw it myself,” the farmer was acquitted, and poor Love-Truth sent away from the court to the house of correction as a malicious calumniator. The old people went home to their houses, and said to their children, u Lay well to heart this bad example which Love-Truth has given you. Farmer Nicholas was his benefactor, and yet he tried to ruin his reputation and good name ! He is a bad boy.” “ This is a bad business for me,” thought Love-Truth, as he sat in his prison, and looked at the water-jug which stood beside a piece of coarse bread. “ All this comes for my telling the truth ; while sly old Nicholas, who has told lies, sits over his beef and his beer in his comfortable parlour, and laughs at me. But no matter. Mother Martha told me that truth was a good thing. In christening me c Love-Truth/ my parents had no object but to make me always tell the truth ; and that I shall surely do, even were I to suffer far more for it than I am now doing.” Everything in this world, bad as well as good, has an end. Little Love-Truth’s term of imprisonment at last expired, and the jailor brought him before the magistrate once more. There, THE MAGIC FLUTE. in the presence of the whole parish, he was again sharply repri- manded, and with this reproof discharged from prison. There- upon Farmer Nicholas stood up, and after lecturing him se- verely, forbade him to set foot over his threshold. The neigh- bours all applauded this, and declared, one and all, that they would never give a morsel to so unprincipled a young repro- bate, much less take him into their house. All this filled the poor innocent boy with grief ; he burst into tears, and cried in a piteous voice, “ Where am I to go to then?” u What do I care?” said the magistrate, who heard this, with a brutal laugh. “ As far as I am concerned, you may go to the land where ‘ Good-for-Nothings ’ grow !” And they all retired, and left him to his fate. “ But how shall I ever find my way there?” thought Love- Truth, sobbing as if his heart would break : just as if the land of 1 Good-for-Nothings ’ were a country, the road to which might be read upon the finger-posts, or travelled in a postchaise ! Many of my readers, both old and young, will wonder that Love-Truth took the magistrate’s words so literally ; but they must recollect that the magistrate passed for the best of men, and one whose word no one would venture to question ; and, besides, the poor boy himself had been trained all his life to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth. II. love-truth’s wanderings. Love-Truth now began his travels ; that is to say, he marched straight out of the village, and followed the high road, without ever thinking where it should lead him. And a very long journey indeed it did lead him ; till in the evening, when he could walk no farther, he stopped at a cottage door and begged a crust of bread and a night’s lodging. u We will bring you to the innkeeper,” said the people of the house ; “ and if he should ask you any questions, tell him you fell in with robbers, and were plundered by them. This will excite his compassion, and he will be kind to you.” “ No, no,” said Love-Truth; “I shall not say that, for it would be a falsehood. The truth is always the best ; and you should be ashamed to try to make me tell a lie.” The cottagers took this exceedingly ill; called him a saucy young fellow ; and after cudgelling him soundly, turned him from their door. He was thus forced to sleep in the open air, and would have died of hunger, had he not found some berries upon the bushes under which he slept, which stayed his hunger a little. As for thirst, he was at no loss for a draught of water from the spring. In this way he travelled onwards through this strange country 3 THE MAGIC FLUTE for a considerable time. In tlie daytime he journeyed on without ever resting ; and in the evening he had to contend with the people whom he asked to give him a lodging, for they always wanted, in one shape or another, to make him tell a falsehood; when they failed in this, they would grow angry, and drive him out of their house, declaring that they would have nothing to do with so obstinate a youth, who, notwithstanding all their advice, would persist in knocking his head against the wall. Love-Truth was sadly cast down at this. He avoided almost altogether all intercourse with men. The want of his ordinary nourishment was beginning to waste his strength away ; his hair hung wildly about his temples ; and his dress w*as so tat- tered, that he was ashamed to let himself be seen. It was well for him that at last he reached a house where a better reception awaited him. This house lay in a delightful country of alternate hill and valley, amid rich pasture and tillage lands, intersected by silvery rivulets. The little wayfarer stood still for a while, to enjoy the beauty of the prospect, which at that time bespoke all the rich promise of an abundant harvest ; and then proceeded towards the house, the master of which advanced to meet him, and asked him what he wanted. As soon as he learnt the poor boy’s wishes, he made him sit down on a shady bank, and desired a maid-servant to set a little repast of delicious milk and fruit before him. Love-Truth en- joyed it heartily; and when his meal was finished, the man asked him who he was, and whither he was bound. The soft and gentle voice of the stranger won so completely upon the boy, that he told him his whole history from the be- ginning to the end. The stranger listened very attentively, and when the tale was ended, took a little flute out of his pocket, upon which he played a beautiful air. The boy listened to the air for a few moments ; but he soon became unable to restrain himself, and unceremoniously exclaimed, “ Do not take it ill, kind, good sir, that I interrupt your music, but my heart is oppressed by keeping silence, and I cannot help repeating to you that I have told you nothing but the truth, and that I am not capable of uttering a falsehood.” “ Very good, my dear boy,” said the gentleman in a caressing voice, putting* the flute into his pocket. “ I am not a bit angry with you for interrupting me. However, it is now' late, and I shall only say that I am most happy to receive you into my house. You shall be taken care of.” The gentleman went back to the house, and sent out a servant, who took charge of the boy. He was first of all placed in a bath ; and after he had bathed, and had his hair dressed, the servant placed several suits of clothes before him, telling him that his master had given orders that he should select one for himself from among them. The poor boy was thrown into the utmost embarrassment, for he had never seen such rich clothes in all his 4 THE MAGIC FLUTE. lifetime, and was at a loss where to turn his choice. At first he fixed upon a suit of light-blue velvet, trimmed with silver lace ; next he thought of a second, which was crimson embroidered with gold ; a third was white, a fourth violet, and each was trimmed either with gold or silver. At last he found one which pleased him more than all the rest, though it had neither gold nor silver. It was green — a fresh lively green — the very tint of the early leaves when, in the first days of spring, they return to deck the naked branches, and seem, as it were, to sport with the dazzling sunbeams. “This is the one which I shall ask from your kind master,” said he to the servant, who immediately assisted him to dress, and then brought him back to the gentleman. Upon their way down they passed a large mirror, in which Love-Truth saw himself reflected from head to foot. He could not believe that it was really himself, so entirely different was his guise from what it had been, when, that very noon, he had seen himself in the neighbouring mill-pond, and was almost horrified at his filthy appearance. His host placed before him a variety of dainties, the names of which the poor youth scarcely knew, but which, nevertheless, he found extremely palatable. During his meal he chatted kindly with him, and at last dismissed him to his bed, which was pre- pared in a quiet, retired apartment. “ This is pleasant,” said Love-Truth to himself. “ For the first time in my life I have been kindly treated because I told the truth. I see it is not yet quite banished from the world, as that hateful old woman told me last night when she was trying to get me to tell a lie ! ” There is no doubt that our little friend would have said a great deal more, had he not been overpowered by weariness, and fallen asleep in the midst of his reflections. However, in a dream he saw old Mother Martha, who looked tenderly on him, and in her own sweet voice said to him, “ You must not grow tired of doing what is right, my child ; in the end, be assured you will reach your destiny, and all will be happy.” With these words she disappeared, and the little boy saw (still of course in a dream) a vast plain, planted with trees, spread out before him. When he looked more closely, however, he saw that Farmer Nicholas was perched upon the first tree, and his old enemy the magistrate upon the next. “ Do tell me,” said the boy, “ what brings you upon this tree, so far away from home? Come down, I beg of you .’ 7 “ Alas ! ” cried the farmer and the magistrate both together — u alas, that we cannot ! We are stuck fast here ! ” u How is that?” asked Love-Truth. “ Is it possible, then,” said the two old wretches, “ that you don’t know that this is the land of 4 Good-for-Nothings,’ to which we banished you? They grow here upon the trees, as THE MAGIC FLUTE. pears and apples grow elsewhere ; and you may see us here in our full bloom and splendour ! ” “ Well, well,” thought the hoy, u you have just met with your deserts ; and if there be an autumn in this country, and you fall off the trees, as the fruits do elsewhere, you can go home again, and resume your malpractices ! ” He went onward, and saw plainly that there was a person upon every tree, and that they all cut a very rueful figure. There were people of all classes, high and low, growing promis- cuously together ; for in this mysterious region — which, by the way, is not to be found in any book of geography — the distinc- tions of rank are not in use. These things, and much more, Love-Truth saw in his dreams, which kept him fully occupied till the bright morning awakened him. u What a heap of nonsense is all this that I have seen in my dreams ! ” said he to himself while he was dressing. a And yet it is very curious, after all, that the features of all the people whom I saw growing on the trees, from old Nicholas and the magistrate downwards, are so impressed on my memory, that I shall know them again after a year and a day. I must actually have been, therefore, in the land where c Good-for-Nothings’ grow — and grow high up in the air too, where every one can see them — not in the ground, like potatoes or turnips. It is an ex- cellent plan ; and it is a pity it is not so everywhere, that people might be better able to be on their guard against wicked men.” III. THE FLUTE. The servant now returned, carrying him a most delicious breakfast ; and when he had breakfasted, conducted him to his host, who invited him to take a walk. He asked him how he had passed the night, and laughed when his young friend told him all the absurd things which he had been dreaming during his sleep. u It is always so,” he said after some time — u it is always so in life. In our dreams we often see what we cannot comprehend ; and however true and certain what we have seen may be, yet if we relate it, people will not believe us, but will call us fools and deceivers. Do not speak of this, therefore, to any one ; nobody would thank you for it, and it is no one’s business where you have been. Nevertheless, it was the land where c Good-for- Nothings’ grow which you saw.” u And so plainly too! ” said Love-Truth. cc So distinctly did I see the people growing on the trees, that I almost think I should know them again, were I to meet them in the streets.” u That is a most important point,” said the stranger ; u keep it in your mind, and it will be of use to you. A dream is a dream ; THE MAGIC FLUTE. but it is different in real life. There is no country where c Good- for-Nothings’ actually grow upon the trees ; but the good and bad are intermingled everywhere with one another. It is important, therefore, to be able to distinguish them, in order to be on one’s guard against the bad ; and I advise you to do so when you shall resume your journey, or it will be worse for you.” “ Alas ! ” cried Love-Truth sadly, “ must I then continue my journey farther ? Heaven help me ! where shall I ever find so "good a gentleman ? Oh keep me with you ! I w r ill gladly labour all I can for you ; and I will be most grateful for the love you have shown me.” “ It cannot be, my son ! ” was the reply. There is no post in my household which you could fill ; and, besides, you should not then have an opportunity of advancing in the world, as I am sure you will do one day or other. I wo*ild advise you, therefore, to resume your journey without delay, and not to return to my house till you shall have succeeded. Your equipment is now r sufficiently respectable, and here is a silk purse full of gold pieces; for without these, people do not get on in the w r orld, whether they tell truth or falsehood.” “ Farewell, then, my kind host ! ” sobbed the boy. “ I shall follow your advice.” “ One wmrd more,” continued the stranger. “ Do you see the little flute which I played yesterday when you were speaking to me ? Keep it carefully, and prize it beyond the richest treasure in the world. Should you ever meet any one of whose disposi- tions in your regard you are not certain, you need but begin to play on this flute, and you shall see something wonderful.” Love-Truth received this new gift with the greatest gratitude. u I shall now take leave,” said he ; a but first give me your blessing, as though you were my father, for as such I love and honour you.” “ That I will,” replied the stranger ; u and you shall see me in my true form, for you are worthy of this favour.” With these words the kind old man disappeared, and a tall female figure stood before him, on whose forehead blazed a light, dazzling as the sun, while her eyes shone like the evening and morning star. Her robe was pure and white as the falling snow ; in her hand she held a golden mirror. As the boy gazed upon her in amazement, and fell on his knees in wonder and reverence, she smiled tenderly upon him, and laying her hand upon his head, said to him — u I am Truth, and I bless thee as my beloved son. Go thou forth into the world ; withstand evil, do good, and thou shalt be happy all thy life long.” As she spoke, a golden cloud descended from heaven, and en- veloping this glorious being completely, yet so as to leave her still visible, bore her slowly aloft. But before she disappeared altogether, she called out once more in a loud voice, “ Be on thy guard, that thou thyself mayst not fall into the snares of false- 7 THE MAGIC FLUTE. hood. If so, thou art lost for ever, beyond the power of man t© rescue thee.” As she uttered these words, she was hidden amid the clouds from every human eye. “ Never, never!” cried the boy, stretching* forth his hands, as if to grasp the retreating form. IV. NEW ADVENTURES. Love-Truth started up, and resumed cheerfully, and with lightened spirits, the wanderings thus agreeably interrupted. In a morning fresh and lovely, and in a country so charming and so retired, it would be hard for any one with an innocent heart to feel otherwise than happy in his journey. The birds were warbling their merry lays, and hopping lightly from bush to bush, and from spray to spray. Love-Truth drew out his flute without thinking* of it, and began to play, in order to while away the time. But the little birds sang on unconcernedly, and without interruption, for the birds of the air tell no lies. Love-Truth now entered a wood; and after he had walked about a mile, he began to feel tired. He turned aside, there- fore, from the main path, and soon found a quiet spot, entirely surrounded by bushes, where he could rest himself without fear. He laid himself down, therefore, on the mossy turf, and fell into a pleasing sleep. In a short time he was awakened by a loud noise. He sprang up, and looked through the bushes to ascer- tain the cause of the confusion. What a sight met his eyes! On a large open space a multitude of huntsmen, in rich hunting- suits, were hurrying about in groups; each of them carried a well-filled game-bag, and wore a silver hunting-horn at his side ; and the more distinguished had horns of pure gold. A large tent was already pitched, and an enormous fire w*as blazing, on which were roasting a buck, together with several fawns and hares ; an immense cask, too, was rolled into the centre, and a spigot had just been inserted into it, to give free vent to the rich red wine which it contained. At last a stately man, in a dress richly embroidered with gold, made his appearance. He was evidently the chief of the party, for every one stood up and made a profound reverence to him, whereas he merely touched his hat, and stood bolt upright as before. Every sound was hushed : you might hear the quiver- ing of the leaves upon the trees : and thus Love-Truth was able to catch every word which was spoken. “ Call my cup-bearer,” cried the stately personage. Presently there appeared an officer in a rich uniform. He approached with a low reverence, and with every expression of deferential submission. 8 THE MAGIC FLUTE. “ I am thirsty,” said the stately gentleman ; “ bring me a cup of my favourite wine.” “ I am literally in despair, may it please your majesty,” replied the cup-bearer. “ The chest in which the wine destined for your majesty was packed, has been broken by the carelessness of the servants, and it will be some time before I can get any more. But this awkwardness shall meet w r ith exemplary chastisement.” “ That will do me no good,” said the king angrily (for it was himself) ; “ and my thirst will be as bad as ever. It is too bad that I, who am obliged to pay so much for the expenses of my cellar, cannot get as much as will satisfy my thirst. Bring me some water at least.” Meanwhile Love-Truth had been looking sharply at the cup- bearer. “ Aha, my good friend ! ” thought he, “ have we not met somewhere before now ? Can it have been in my dream, and not far from old Nicholas and the godless magistrate?” In an instant he seized his flute, and put it to his lips. The instrument began at once to give forth the most delightful music ; and in a moment the cup-bearer, from whom the king had turned angrily away, commenced to speak a second time. “ Yes, your majesty,” said he ; “ the wine which I bought for you is no longer to be had ; but do not believe that it was spilled through the awkwardness of the attendants. God forbid that it should be so wasted! No, no; I drank it all myself, with the help of a few good friends, thinking that the other wine was quite good enough for your majesty.” The unfortunate cup-bearer, as he spoke thus sorely against his will, was in a cold perspiration with anguish and vexation. The king turned sharply round upon him. “Ha!” said he; “what is this? Confess, you scoundrel; and. repeat what you have said, I suppose, in your drunken uncon- sciousness ! ” The cup-bearer, out of his wits with terror and anxiety, flung himself upon his knees before the king*. “Oh, your majesty!” he faltered, “it was not I who uttered these ill-natured words. It was some mischievous goblin, in order to get me into a difficulty. I am as honourable a man as any in your empire, and am incapable of anything dishonest.” “ Stay a moment !” thought Love-Truth ; “ my time is come now, and I must put an end to this.” He stepped briskly from his concealment in the bushes, and bowing low before the king', addressed him aloud. “ Do not believe him, your majesty. What he says as true, is false ; and what he represents as a falsehood, is the downright truth. I know this man perfectly well; and I know that he grew in the land where ‘ Good-for-Nothings’ grow ! ” The cup-bearer cast a savage look upon the boy, and would have choked him on the spot had he dared. 2 E 9 THE MAGIC FLUTE. “What silly fellow is this we have got now?” said the king* fixing his eyes upon him. “ My name is Love -Truth, my lord king,” he replied. “ I am the son of Truth, and have received from her her best blessing. I am therefore an enemy of all lies, and I delight in bringing them to light, however they may try to skulk into concealment. Put your question once more to this man, and ask him whether he has not often been at these tricks before, and you shall hear what will astonish you.” The king followed the boy’s advice, which indeed he could not disregard. The cup-bearer crossed himself, as if against the Evil One, protesting that he was an honourable man, and that the king had not in all his dominions a more faithful servant. Meanwhile Love-Truth began to play upon his flute, when, on a sudden, a change came over the cup-bearer. u Ah, your majesty,” he sputtered out, “ do not place any con- fidence in what I was saying ! It cannot be concealed any longer that I am one of the greatest cheats to be found in your whole court, although the chief cook, the court tailor, and the first hairdresser, are not bad in their way. You pay for good wine, it is true ; but it is only in the bills it makes its appearance, for I always purchase miserable stuff ; and whatever good wine remains since my predecessor’s time, I drink myself.” As he spoke, the unhappy man’s hair stood on end in horror : but he could not help himself — he was irresistibly compelled to speak these words. The king’s immediate attendants, who did not feel their own consciences clear, and who were afraid of a similar fate for themselves, began to run about in all directions. They declared that the youth with the flute was a great conjuror, who had conspired against the welfare of the country, and whom it would be necessary to render powerless for evil, else all order should be overturned in the state. Luckily for little Love-Truth the king thought otherwise. He had taken a great fancy for the boy, and the pieces which he had played upon his flute charmed him exceedingly. He therefore ordered the courtiers to be silent, and the cup- bearer, who had confessed his knavish practices, to be arrested. He then called the boy to his side, and began to question him about his history, which Love-Truth told most naturally and without the least reserve. “ It is a very wonderful story,” said the king, “ and one which might well be doubted, did it not come from one who claims to be the son of Truth. But at all events, whoever you are, you may be of great use with your precious flute, and may lead to a great deal of good. What would you think, therefore, of enter- ing my service at once ? ” Love-Truth did not reply immediately, but put the flute once more to his lips. Instantly the king, quite involuntarily, re- sumed his discourse. 10 THE MAGIC FLUTE, “ You may trust me, my son/’ he said ; u I mean honestly by you : nor am I angry with you for putting’ myself to the test, whether I were speaking the truth. Truth is a good thing, and no one ought to despise it. I now, therefore, repeat my pro- position, that you shall enter my service.” As the king spoke, Love-Truth threw himself at his feet. “ You are truly a noble king,” he exclaimed ; u and it shall be the greatest happiness of my life if I can attain to your friend- ship.” The king now ordered dinner to be served ; and when it was over, the horns began to play gaily once more. The tent was then struck, and all the service packed up; for the king was returning from a long journey, and yearned anxiously for another sight of his princely home. Y. OLD NICHOLAS ONCE MORE. The party proceeded joyously from the forest; and after a day or two they reached a country which appeared familiar to Love- Truth. By and by he saw the spire of a village church. u Beyond a doubt,” said he, u that is my native village. How I should wish to let the people see what has befallen me! I should like, too, to make Farmer Nicholas and the magistrate confess, before the assembled parish, that they have accused me wrongfully.” When he had resolved upon this, he begged of the king to grant him a short leave of absence. The king not only granted his request, but also gave him a number of attendants to accom- pany him to his destination, and conduct him back to the royal train. You may be sure it caused no little excitement when Love-Truth made his entiy into his native village with this stately train of attendants. Old and young ran together in crowds to see the youth who arrived with so splendid a retinue. But when they saw' at last that it w'as little Love-Truth, their astonishment knew no bounds ; they clapped their hands together in amazement, and ran after him with loud shouts ; whilst he, without noticing them in the least, marched straight to the village court-house. Now it so happened that just as the procession arrived, the magistrate and old Nicholas were standing together in front of the court-house door, engaged in an earnest conversation. They also recognised the boy immediately, and looked at each other, as if to ask, “ What is the meaning of all this?” The magistrate was the first to regain his self-possession. “ Let him alone ! ” said he ; “I shall soon get rid of him.” Little Love-Truth approached the pair, and demanded of them that, in the presence of his attendants, and of the inhabitants of the village, they should publicly declare his innocence. n THE MAGIC FLUTE. “ Do you hear,” cried the magistrate in a violent rage — “ do you hear what the little rascal says? Is it possible that auda- city could go to such lengths ? He left this without a penny — now he returns, splendidly attired, and with his pockets full of gold. He must be a most finished robber, and the fellows whom he has along with him are his accomplices in roguery.” But in the meanwhile Love-Truth had pulled out his flute, and began to play his old air upon it. “ Oh lie ! oh lie ! ” interrupted the unlucky magistrate. “ What is this ? What words are those which are forcing them- selves into my mouth, and which I cannot restrain ? My good neighbours, don 7 t believe what I said to you about this bo} r — it’s all a falsehood ! 77 The villagers were all struck dumb with wonder; and the amazement became still greater, when the speaking mania fell on Farmer Nicholas also. “ Yes ! 77 they cried, both in one breath, “the boy is innocent : we invented a pure calumny against him, because he brought our knavery to light. For you must know, and we freely and honestly confess it, that we are the greatest knaves to be found in the whole world. There is not a man in the entire parish whom we have not robbed of some portion of his property, to till our own coffers with his money and substance ! 77 This was enough for his purpose. Love-Truth therefore put up his flute once more. “ You see now ! 77 said he to the multitude. “ They have freely confessed of what spirit they are the children, and what kind of broth they have been brewing for you all this time, and making' you eat. Whether you will be satisfied with this any longer, is your own affair : it is no concern of mine. Fare-you-well, then, and drink my health, I pray you ! 77 He gave them a few of his gold pieces, and retired along with his train. You will be anxious perhaps to hear what the villagers did with the dishonest magistrate and his accomplice. I am sorry that I cannot precisely tell you ; for when I asked young Love- Truth the last time I saw him, he told me that he did not himself exactly know, but that the punishment cannot have been a trifle, for w T hen he had left the village, and was on his way to overtake the king, he heard a loud cry of pain behind him, such as would bespeak very rough treatment indeed. Such folks, I am sure, deserved no better. YI. INVOLUNTARY CANDOUR. Very soon after the king reached the capital, and took up his quarters in his palace, Love-Truth also arrived. The king, how- 12 THE MAGIC FLUTE. ever, at the moment, could not pay much attention to him, and merely nodded familiarly as he entered, being* engaged with very important business; for he was just giving audience to his prime minister, who was laying before him an account of his administration during the absence of his majesty. This account, however, was not a very gratifying one. The country was represented as u exceedingly impoverished ; the people refused to pay the taxes which had been imposed ; and the expendi- ture was becoming more and more heavy. In these circum- stances, he could offer his majesty but a small sum of money, and must beg* of him to diminish his expenditure as much as possible.” So far all went well: but what was the amazement of the bystanders when a few notes of a flute were heard, and the minister was observed, of his own accord, to resume his state- ment. “ I must own,” he said “ that it is very simple in your majesty to believe all that I and my colleagues say to you. Your subjects, you must know, do pay the taxes freely ; and even if they did not, we have ways and means to compel them to pay the last dollar. The fact is, that we do not hand you over the receipts, but keep them for ourselves. It is with this money we pay for our splendid fetes, and our costly collections of works of art; and we expend a portion in purchasing estates in foreign countries, that we may have a secure place of refuge should you, sooner or later, discover our villany, and banish us from your court — a consummation, however, which we do not at all fear ; for you are far too kind, not to say too simple, for that.” While he was telling these fatal truths, the premier was en- during the most excruciating anguish, and a cold perspiration trickled down his face ; but do as he would, he could not hold his tongue. When at last he ceased, he fell down in a swoon, and gasped for breath. The indignation of the king was beyond all expression. <£ Drag out the unprincipled traitor,” he cried, starting up from his seat, “ and cast him into chains. Throw him into the deepest dungeon in the prison, and scourge him without mercy ! ” The guards executed his commands without delay. “ It was no one but Love-Truth who did this,” said the king ; “ I heard his flute distinctly. Come hither, my son, till I clasp your hand, and thank you for the service which you have rendered to me and to my kingdom.” He advanced to the king, who clasped him affectionately in his arms. The courtiers were all out of their senses with astonishment about the unknown youth, who had so speedily attained to the favour of the king ; for as yet they were not in possession of the true state of affairs. From that day forward, life at court was entirely a new thing. Love-Truth was never suffered to leave the king's side; and 13 THE MAGIC FLUTE. even when he had to hold an important and strictly confi- dential conference with a distinguished embassy or a foreign prince, Love-Truth was always present — though generally con- cealed behind a screen or a cabinet — and never failed to play his flute at the critical moment. You may well believe that in this way many a strange reve- lation was effected, and many a treaty was broken off ; for the ambassadors were forced to declare, in despite of themselves, that their intentions were not honest, and that they looked only to their own interest. And when they were thus obliged to retire in confusion, they could have torn their hair in rage at their conduct ; for they knew that they had but a sorry reception to expect at home, and could not for their lives conceive how it happened — the history of the flute being to them a secret The whole court, too, underwent a thorough purification. Almost all the old courtiers were dismissed, and their places filled up by new officers, who had been tried beforehand, without being aware that they were subjected to the test. There was only one in the whole court whom Love-Truth never could reach, and that was the court-fool. It is an old proverb, that u children and fools tell the truth ; 99 but it was not so with this fool. A more thorough liar never breathed ; and it was his boast, when among the friends whom he trusted, that he had never told the truth in his life. This, though he did not advert to it, was true ; and thus arose the anomaly that a falsehood may become the truth. This fool was so cunning, however, that he never would come near Love-Truth and his flute when there was a third person present. On the contrary, when he was alone, he went to him without the least apprehension, and would banter him on his love of truth. u You are a fool,” he would say to him, “ to be so exact in sticking to the truth. You thereby expose yourself to a thousand annoyances ; you never can enjoy yourself heartily ; you have not a single friend but the king ; and even he, too, will get rid of you, as soon as he shall be able to dispense with your ser- vices. On the contrary, look at me : I never tell the truth, and yet every one flocks to me, and seeks my society. I tell them what they like to hear, and what flatters their vanity ; or I make jests for them, at which they laugh. They invite me to their entertainments, feast me with their choicest delicacies, send me wine and dainties to my own house, and recommend themselves to my patronage. You might be equally fortunate if you chose, instead of moping through the world like a hermit as you do.” These suggestions, and a thousand similar ones, made not the slightest impression on Love-Truth. But still he thought that it was hard (and could not help saying to himself that it was so) to live for the truth alone ; and that one must have great firmness of purpose if he would adhere strictly and undeviat- ingly to it. 14 THE MAGIC FLUTE. VII. THE YOUNG PRINCESS. I have hitherto abstained from telling 1 that the king* did not live alone in his palace. He had a most charming daughter, a very miracle of beauty, who not only had been brought up with the tenderest care, but, as the sole heiress to the throne, was possessed of wealth almost beyond calculation. It may well be believed that, in these circumstances, there was no lack of suitors — and these, too, of the highest rank — who aspired to the hand of the princess, and would fain have borne away so precious a prize. But Princess Boseleaf, for this was her name, manifested no disposition to yield to their addresses ; for as yet, among* all who had presented themselves, there was not one for whose sake she could be induced to leave her father. At length, however, a young prince arrived whose merits were the theme of universal admiration. This was Prince Fair- hair — so called from his rich golden locks, which hung in luxu- riant masses over his neck and shoulders. The proposals of this youthful prince were of the most earnest kind ; he was resolved to win the hand of the princess, and did not apprehend any refusal, as he was himself a rich and powerful sovereign. It is hardly necessary to say that he was received at court with all conceivable honours, and that the king himself presented his dis- tinguished guest to his daughter. The prince had been staying above a month at the court, and in the society of the princess. He had already pleaded his affection for the lady, and he now pressed her father anxiously for an answer. But the king was unable to give him any ; for whenever he mentioned the matter to the princess, she remained perfectly silent. She was exceed- ingly modest and pious, and became alternately red and pale when her father pressed her to say whether she would marry the fair-haired prince. “ There is no help for it,” said the king to himself at last. “ I must make her speak, even against her will. The prince is becoming importunate, and I have no right to keep him any longer here without an answer. I shall speak to Love-Truth : he will come to my aid.” % Love -Truth accordingly was summoned to the king ; and they both repaired to the apartments of the princess, who received them very affectionately. Her father once more introduced the subject of the prince, praised the nobleness of his character and the excellence of his heart, as well as the exceeding beauty of his hair ; and concluded by saying that it was absolutely and indis- pensably necessary that he should receive his answer on that very day. But now also, as on all former occasions, he had been but talking to the air : he received not a word of reply. The princess blushed over and over again, and looked straight 15 THE MAGIC FLUTE. before her, never raising her head, and playing with her pe%rl necklace. Hereupon the king, who had indeed anticipated this result, gave a sign to Love -Truth. He produced his flute, and drew a few exquisite notes from it. I wish you could have seen what a change was instantaneously produced in the princess. She arose from her seat, and looked around with perfect self- possession; and at length she advanced a step nearer to her father. “ Dear father ! ” said she in a firm voice, “ I do not know what has come upon me, nor whether the music is the cause of my present sensations ; but I feel that my whole nature is completely changed. Of all the princes whom I have seen until now, there is not one who made the slightest impression on me, and I was always rejoiced when, one after another, they took their departure. It is not so with Prince Fairhair : he is an elegant and accomplished man, and if you command me, I shall not refuse to marry him ; but I implore you not to command me to do so, for there is another w'hom I love yet more dearly.” “ Ha!” thought the king. 11 And who can this be?” But it was in vain that he ransacked his brains to discover whom his daughter could possibly mean ; for wise as he was, he was not clever enough to penetrate her secret. u Yes, my dear father ! ” she continued w ith the utmost com- posure — for Love-Truth was still playing on his flute — “ what I have said is the truth, and the person whom I mean is not far from us at this moment.” This was a fresh cause of amazement to the king ; for in the entire court he knew no suitor of the princess but Prince Fair- hair, nor could he guess where else she could have met any one. He therefore begged her to explain herself more distinctly, and to tell him explicitly of what prince she w r as speaking. u I know nothing of any prince,” replied Princess Roseleaf. u The person whom I mean is no other than our own -Love- Truth, who is playing so beautifully at this very moment ! I love him dearly, and I should most willingly take him as my husband.” At this point she suddenly stopped short; for Love-Truth, when he heard the princess’s declaration, had dropped his flute in terror, and was creeping' about on the floor in search of it ! The king was excessively surprised at this announcement. What w*as to be done ? He commanded his daughter, in a tone of great severity, never to utter such silly stuff again ; ordered Love-Truth to “ begone, both himself and his flute;” and then went out in a rage, to give free vent to his ill-humour. His first care, of course, was to dismiss Prince Fairhair with the best possible grace under the circumstances ; for he felt that for him there w T as not the least shadow of a hope. It was an affair of great delicacy; the king was quite delighted when it 26 THE MAGIC FLUTE. was arranged ; and in the joy of his heart, he presented a silver post-horn to the postmaster, who supplied the prince with horses for his home journey. Meanwhile Love-Truth had fled from the palace in the great- est affliction, and ran to the gardens, where he sought out the most private arbour, in order to meditate on what had just oc- curred. The w'ords of the princess had tilled him with excite- ment. What he never could have had courage to think of before, he now acknowledged to himself — that the princess was a young lady of such extraordinary beauty and accomplish- ments, that the man who should be fortunate enough to obtain her hand could not fail to be the happiest of mortals. It was now that, to his deep mortification, the recollection of his humble birth forced itself upon him : a poor peasant boy as he was, he never could aspire to such an alliance. Above all, he was afflicted to think that he must leave the court immediately, for he was accustomed to unqualified obe- dience ; and the king had ordered him to go away. Here, too, was a new anxiety ! Where was he to go to ? VIII. THE TEMPTER. On a sudden, while he was in this mood, the fool presented himself. Now I must inform my readers that this fool was not a fool in reality, but only adopted the disguise of one, in order to be ad- mitted to the court ; for fools are freely admitted for the sake of the amusement they afford. This fool, then, was no other than Falsehood in disguise ! She delighted in disseminating her stories everywhere, and produced endless mischief thereby : for when have falsehoods done anything but mischief, to put out of view altogether the evil conscience which every liar carries about with him in his breast ? Now, Falsehood had all along known very well that Love- Truth was in reality the son of her sister Truth, who had sent this youth into the world in the hope of restoring, if possible, her credit, which had been somewfflat on the decline. And as the two sisters, Truth and Falsehood, had long been living in con- stant hostility, and mutually took advantage eagerly of every opportunity of injuring one another, Falsehood conceived that it would be a most excellent joke if she could seduce into her own service young Love-Truth, whose office it should have been to disseminate truth. “ My poor lad ! ” said this crafty lady, completely dropping for the time the character of the fool, and putting on the semblance of the liveliest sympathy, “ people tax us fools with insensibility, and say that our hearts are but hearts of straw ; but I can assure THE MAGIC FLUTE. you that I feel the most sincere interest for you, and that I would most gladly do all that lies in my power to serve you. But no physician can apply a remedy till he has been informed of his patient’s ailment. Tell me, therefore, what is the matter with* you ? ” Love-Truth could not find heart to tell about the princess ; and — so dangerous is the very presence of Falsehood — he was on the point of assigning a different cause ; luckily, however, he recol- lected himself in time, and said nothing at all about it. He told, therefore, with great sorrow, that the king had ordered him off. u Ah, my poor young man !” cried Falsehood, bursting into a loud laugh; “you, Love-Truth, to be ordered away! That would be a sad affliction to your mother! Still, the king must be obeyed, at all times and in all circumstances. But where will you go?” “ Alas ! unfortunate that I am, I do not know,” said Love- Truth, who was again affected almost to tears. “ But I am lucky to have fallen in with you at this moment. Fools are always very cunning people, and I have no doubt you can tell me where I shall find a home.” “ Fla ! ” cried Falsehood with a knowing look, “ do you think so? Well, I think I could recommend a comfortable place of residence, where people who follow my advice are always very acceptable : it is the habitation of a pleasant-spoken gentleman. But there are different modes of travelling to different places. You cannot climb up a mountain in a vessel under full sail ; nor can you drive across the sea in a coach-and-four. In the same way you cannot visit the gentleman I speak of with the pipe of Truth in your hand. If, therefore, you set out on your journey, and I advise you to do so without delay, give me your flute to keep for you. It will be most secure in my hands, for who would come to a fool to search for a thing so important and so valuable ? ” “ And would you be so good as to keep it safe for me ? ” asked Love-Truth. a You may depend upon me,” said Falsehood. u And will you promise not to make any bad use of it ? ” added Love-Truth. cc I will not touch it even once,” replied his companion hastily. “ If so,” replied the youth, “ I may venture to intrust this rare and precious treasure to you. But I have not yet heard how I am to make my way to this great and hospitable personage?” u It is the easiest thing in the world,” Falsehood assured him. a You have but to place yourself under my g-uidance ; I shall put you upon the road, and then you need only act the part of a hypocrite.” “ What is that?” “ It is only to disguise your real feelings, and seem to be what you are not. Many people are highly accomplished in THE MAGIC FLUTE. this art, and by that means obtain a respectable character with very little trouble. In some countries which I could mention, hypocrisy is quite the fashion, and it is a fashion I am rather fond of en cour aging ; for those who follow it, are under the agreeable delusion that acting a lie is not the same thing as telling one. Now surely you can put on a little hypocrisy as well as everybody else?” “That I will never do !” exclaimed Love-Truth indignantly; “ and I will never speak a word to you more if you dare pro- pose such a thing to me again ! ” “ Just as you please,” said Falsehood, turning away in a pet; and she was on the point of going off, when a breathless mes- senger arrived from the king, to order Love-Truth immediately to the presence of his majesty, who desired to speak with him. “ Now we shall have it ! ” said Falsehood. “ You will now get your passports and travelling charges, and then you can travel merrily over hill and dale. But without my aid you cannot get out of the difficulty. Be on your guard, therefore, what you do. I shall be on the watch till the close of your audience, in order to be ready to advise with you. Only take care that you are permitted to escape at all ! ” IX. A NEW TEMPTATION. With a heavy heart Love-Truth repaired to the royal presence. But his audience turned out to be very different from what he had anticipated. The good-natured king took him affectionately by the hand, told him he had been a little hasty when he saw him last, but that he did not mean all that he had said. He had since calmly considered the matter, he said, and was now convinced that Love-Truth was not responsible for what Princess Boseleaf had said ; and as for his ordering’ him to begone, he had entirely forgotten it ; a decision which was very grateful to our young friend, if it were not for the preliminary lie which he had been required to tell. “However,” continued the king, “what I wished to say to you further is, that I love my only daughter more than all the world, and am not able to refuse her any wish, however slight, which she expresses. Since the fatal adventure with the E rince, I have again spoken very seriously with her, and she as solemnly assured me that she will not have any one but you as her husband.” “ Alas, alas ! ” thought Love-Truth, “ how could it ever come to pass that I should be a king’s son-in-law?” “ I have not forgotten,” continued his majesty, “how much I owe to you. I know that it is through you my kingdom has 19 THE MAGIC FLUTE. become the happy land it now is, and that for all this you have received no reward beyond my bare gratitude. This is a proof of your great disinterestedness; and besides, I know that both your head and heart are in the right place. But at the same time you must see that I cannot permit the princess to marry a peasant youth, and therefore you must first make a figure in the ’world before there can be any idea of the marriage at all. c Out of nothing, nothing can be made.’ He who would build must first dig a foundation, for there are no such things now-a-days as castles in the air. Now, all these embarrassments would be re- moved if you were of noble blood. Examine well, therefore, whether it may not be so. It is quite possible that, by some mischance, you were carried away from your parents, and placed at nurse in the village. I know that you are Truth itself, if I may so speak. If, therefore, you tell me that you are of noble birth, I shall at once believe you, and ask no further evidence. I will then ennoble you at once, get you adopted by some foreign power, and, under the title of £ Prince So-and-so’ you shall marry my daughter. Go, therefore, for the present ; consider well what I have said, and return to me to-morrow, 6 Count Love-Truth.’ ” Poor Love-Truth never dreamt of such a turn to the con- ference. He was taken completely by surprise, and did not know whether his head or his heels were uppermost, when he found himself in the garden, and his former companion, False- hood, by his side. “ Well!” she eagerly inquired; “ how did it end? Have you your passports in your pocket? When are you to set out?” “ Passports indeed ! ” cried Love-Truth. “ This is a very different affair from passports.” And he detailed to his eager companion every word that he could recollect ; and that was no trifling matter, for he remembered the whole conversation almost word for word. “ Well,” replied Falsehood with a roguish smile, “ did I not know you to be such an extraordinary lover of truth, I would at once pronounce this to be a lie; whence you may infer how incredible all that you have been telling me must sound. How- ever, I do believe you ; and you now see plainly that you cannot get over telling the falsehood. After all, it is only once in your life ; and then how much depends upon it ! The king has made the thing easy enough to your hand, and you cannot think of not complying with his wish.” “ Alas ! ” cried poor Love-Truth, trembling from head to foot with agitation — “ alas ! I never could bring rny lips to pronounce it, no matter how much I might desire to do so ! ” “ Poor youth ! ” said Falsehood in a compassionate tone, u you are, indeed, in a pitiably helpless condition ; but I will come to your aid, and will support your first tottering foot- steps.” 20 THE MAGIC FLUTE. She began and told him one of the prettiest stories you can imagine about an unfortunate young prince who was kidnapped by an old gipsy wife in his early childhood. It was one of those tales which have not a single word of truth in them, but which are, nevertheless, so interesting and delightful, that you are led to believe them even unconsciously. Even Love-Truth suffered himself to be taken in by this tale ; and when he parted from his companion, and retired to his bedroom, he appeared all but resolved to allege this, or some similar story, on his own behalf, in the audience of the following day. X. WAKING AND SLEEPING DREAMS. While Love-Truth was preparing to retire to rest, his imagi- nation became more and more excited. Regarding himself now as a prince, and the husband of the princess, he could hardly calm the wild beatings of his heart. He did not touch his flute for an instant ; nay, he would not venture even to cast a look upon it, as though an evil spirit had taken up its abode in it ; whereas it was really himself, and his own heart, that were under such influence. He was vacillating between the lie and the truth ; but the scale was considerably inclined towards the former ; and when he drew the coverlet over his head to compose himself to sleep, he had almost taken the resolution. But I must go on to tell what befell Love-Truth during the night. He little knew that Falsehood spent the night upon his very threshold, in order to be as close as possible to him ! He had hardly fallen asleep, when he found himself in an entirely unknown land — the Land of Dreams. Old Mother Martha appeared to him here, but she did not look tenderly on him as she had done in his dream on the night that he spent in the house of Truth ; but she wore a dark and scowling look, and repelled him harshly from her, crying out in a most reproachful tone, “ Lying villain ! ” Love-Truth was so terrified at this, that he actually took to flight, and never stopped running till he was completely ex- hausted. “ She called me a ‘ lying villain/ ?? thought he ; “ and well might she scowl darkly upon me, since I have deceived my king ! ” for in his dream it seemed to him that he had actually told the lie which he had contemplated. But what was his amazement when, on looking around, he discovered that he was once again where he had been before in a dream — in the land where “ Good-for-Nothings” grow. Of the reality of this dream he never doubted. After a while he perceived four trees, on which were growing, as he had seen them before, old Nicholas, the magistrate, the 21 THE MAGIC FLUTE. cup-bearer, and the prime minister. They were looking at one another, and had many a droll story to tell about the schemes and the knavish tricks which they had played ; and they seemed to employ themselves in relating them. In the midst of these four trees, with these living fruits upon them, stood a fifth, which was still unoccupied. No sooner did the four worthies see Love- Truth approach, than they burst into a hearty lit of laughter. “We have him! — we have him!” they cried. “ He is come among us also — the rascal who caused our ruin ! Welcome, young Good-for-Nothing, to the country of hypocrites and liars ! Come, climb up and take your place amongst us ! ” Scarcely were these words uttered, when Love-Truth, whose eyes were ready to drop out of his head for shame, felt such an excruciating pain in his legs, that he roared aloud with torture. $ At the same moment he felt himself whisked suddenly aloft ; * and when he attempted to resist the invisible power which over- mastered him, he became conscious that he w r as perched upon the tree, and had grown firmly to its branches. “ Have mercy on me!” cried Love-Truth almost distracted, and his heart ready to burst with sorrow and remorse; “this is the con- sequence of telling a lie ! All my life-long I shall continue to grow, stuck fast upon this tree, a laughing-stock for the whole world, and an object of remorse to myself! How shall I ever endure it? But I have deserved it richly; why did I allow myself to be seduced ? ” While he poured forth these and similar lamentations, the tears streaming down his cheeks, his neighbours mocked and tormented him without mercy, for they resolved to repay him doubly and trebly for what he had brought on them. At last, to fill up the measure of his misery, Falsehood made her appearance, and now no longer in the shape of a fool, but in her own natural form. She appeared as a female — one moment tall, the next moment short ; now beautiful, now hideously ugly. You never could be sure of her, for she was perpetually assuming new shapes, just as lies do. And it was the same with her dress as with her figure : to one the colour of her gown appeared j^llow, to another black ; a third thought it red, and a fourth white ; and yet when you looked close at it, the black had turned green, and the red was blue ! This singular figure, so well calculated to inspire terror, advanced with a watering-pot in her hand, and commenced watering the trees on which the Good-for-Nothings were vegetating, in order that they might grow and increase in falsehood. And when the liquid made its way through the roots into the branches, and thence to the unlucky fruits which grew above, it burned them right sharply, and caused most excruciat- ing pain — the punishment of the crime which they had com- mitted. “ I have deserved it ! — I have deserved it ! ” sobbed Love-Truth. “ I will bear all patiently, as indeed I must. If I dare venture 22 THE MAGIC ELUTE. to clierisli any wish, I have but one ; and that is, that I might be able to return to that noble lady the flute which she intrusted to me with her own hands, now that I am no longer worthy to use it ! ” But lo ! on a sudden, a loud peal of thunder was heard ; sheets of lightning flashed from heaven to earth; everything* around was enveloped in flame, and trumpets echoed upon every side. From the clouds above there issued a mighty voice. “ Away, thou wretched phantom of Falsehood!” it cried; “ away from earth with thee ! The kingdom of Truth draweth nigh ! ” Scarcely were these words uttered, when the whole grove sank down, and a deep abyss was formed, into which Falsehood plunged headlong with a fearful yell ! The light clouds began to descend, and a radiant mist was diffused over the earth. The voice from on high cried out, “ Look up ! ” Love-Truth — who, in the crash of the fall from the tree, had been flung senseless on the earth — awoke, and arose uninjured from the ground. He looked around, and saw upon a resplendent throne the goddess of Truth, in precisely the same guise in which he had seen her before, at once solemn and affectionate. She beckoned to him to approach. “ Thou hast here seen,” she said, “ whither a lie leads. Take warning, therefore, for the time to come ! But as thou hast been betrayed into one false step, I shall take away from thee the flute which I intrusted to thy keeping, for this precious talisman must be borne by no mortal hands but those of one who is free from every stain, and w'hose soul has never admitted even one prevari- cating thought. Thou, nevertheless, hast, as man, done according to thy best ability ; and therefore I release thee now with my full pardon and my best blessing ! ” The goddess of Truth then placed her hands upon his head, and with tears of joy he fell at her feet; and at last, imagining that in the features of the goddess he could recognise those of his own old Martha, he uttered a loud scream, and awoke from the dream w T hich had caused him so much anguish and terror ! “ God be praised ! ” he faltered, clasping his hands — u God be praised that it is all a dream, and that I have not told the lie ! ” XI. THE REWARD OE TRUTH. Love-Truth sprang out of bed, and hurried on his clothes. He saw that it must be late, for the sun shone brightly and cheerily into the window, and the birds sang and twittered merrily in the branches. His first thought was to search for his flute; but it was nowhere to be seen, though he had a perfect recollection of the place where he had left it the night before ; and as the door 23 THE MAGIC FLUTE. had been bolted inside, it was a clear proof that no one could have entered the room during: the night. “ I have not been deceived in my dream, therefore ” said he. “ Oh sacred Truth ! forgive me, I pray thee, for hesitating even for one moment whether I should adhere to thy service. I humbly accept the punishment which thou hast sent me, and I vow that, from this moment forward, I shall be true to thee until death.” It was with a lightened heart that he now followed a mes- senger, who came at this moment to summon him to the king. He entered the throne-room, where the king w'as seated with his daughter, surrounded by the lords and ladies of the court. The king bowed graciously to him, and proclaimed in a loud voice — a Be it hereby known to all whom it may concern, that it is our royal will to do honour to this youth, who now stands before us, and who calls himself Love-Truth, in consider- ation of the services which he, beyond all who had gone before him, has rendered to our kingdom. For this reason, and seeing, furthermore, that the heart of our daughter is affectionately fixed upon him, we are purposed to offer for his acceptance the fairest gift which it is in our power to bestow — the hand of our beloved child. Let him therefore stand forth, and declare to us, upon his honour and credit, that he is sprung of a respectable, noble, and distinguished family, and we will forthwith embrace him in presence of our court as our chosen son-in-law.” Love-Truth bowed low before the king. “ With deep emo- tion,” he said, and the tears glistened in his eyes, u I acknow- ledge the honour which your majesty deigns to destine for me. It is a gift precious and enviable beyond what any monarch on earth has it in his power to bestow. But great as is the temp- tation to venture, in the hope of securing so precious a treasure, all that man could do to obtain it, yet must I freely renounce what my generous king offers for my acceptance; my birth gives me no title to a palace. I am neither the son of a prince nor nobleman, but of a simple peasant.” As he made this confession, his heart grew light and his spirit free, and he looked around with conscious dignity. Princess Boseleaf burst into tears. The king advanced to the youth where he stood. “ If by thy birth,” he said, “ thou art the son of a peasant, yet by thy spirit art thou a great man, and worthy to be a king’s son! Well hast thou stood the test! We are well acquainted with thy parentage. Hadst thou attempted to de- ceive us in the least particular, we should have driven thee for ever from our presence ; as now, on the contrary, we take thee to our bosom ! The external rank which is wanting to thee, we shall ourselves bestow. Kneel down ! ” Love-Truth obeyed the command, and knelt down. The king drew a golden sword, touched the youth’s neck three times with its blade, and cried out with a loud voice, “ As Love-Truth, the peasant’s son, didst thou kneel down ; arise, ‘ Sir Love-Truth of 24 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. Trueburg,’ our most trusty friend and councillor, our son-in-law, and the husband of our beloved daughter ! Herald, make pro- clamation of this joyous event throughout the land ! ” The king placed the princess’s hand in that of the young knight of Trueburg. A loud shout of joy resounded through the palace ; the people all crowded in to congratulate the king and the bridal pair; but it was never known which of these congratulations were sincere, and which the contrary, for the flute was not at hand to test them. The trumpets sounded ; the drums beat; in a word, every sound of jubilee was heard. The only exception was, that no gunpowder was fired off on the occa- sion ; and for this simple reason, that gunpowder had not yet been invented. The heralds sprang upon their steeds, gallopped away far and near, through town and country, and proclaimed the glorious event to all who listened to them. We could have wished to close here our veritable history ; for, as to what remains — the wedding, and the festivities which at- tended it — pleasant as it is to take a part in such gaieties, yet it is very tantalising merely to hear or to talk about them. All this, therefore, we pass over in silence. But there is one thing' which we cannot omit to mention before we close — the flute has never since been found ! And, after all, when we consider the matter closely, perhaps it is as well ; for, not to speak of the multitudes of people nowa- days whom its notes would consign to the land where u Good- for-Nothings” grow, we fear it would be hard to find any one in these times who could play upon it ; and it would be necessary to lay it up in a corner of some museum, as a curious relic — a relic, too, whose genuineness there would be many found to question. WHY THE SEA IS SALT, OR THE ADVENTURES OF SILLY NICHOLAS. Once on a time there lived a rich and extensive merchant, who was preparing to despatch a large ship to a distant country. When she was just ready to sail, he called the whole crew to- gether. “ My good fellows ! ” said he, u you are going on a long and difficult voyage in this ship, and will have to work hard to earn money for me; it is only fair, therefore, that you also should have your opportunity. In the country to which you are bound there is plenty of money to be made, if a man only knows how to turn his purse and his wits to good account. I give you all permission, therefore, to take with you whatever WHY THE SEA IS SALT. wares you may be able to purchase, and all that you make by the transaction shall be your own. And moreover, whoever, on your return, shall turn out to have been the most successful, shall receive a premium from myself ; for it is always right to encourage industry and enterprise. There are still two days at your disposal ; turn them, therefore, to good account, for on the third morning from this you shall set sail.” The sailors, it need hardly be said, hastened on shore, and each, according to his own views, endeavoured to invest his little capital profitably. Among the number, however, there was one poor friendless lad, who had just been bound apprentice in the ship, and as he had received no wages as yet, was of course without a single penny to make a purchase. The poor fellow was greatly dejected, and could not help envying his shipmates, as they re- turned on board, panting* under their burdens, and gloating over their dreams of future treasures. At last it occurred to him that he had an old aunt in the city who had the character of being a very wise woman, and had helped many a one out of a difficult}" by her counsel. He betook himself to her, therefore, and bade her good-morning. “ Good -day, Silly Nicholas,” she replied; for this was the name her nephew commonly went by, not being supposed to be very much over-burdened with sense. He sat down upon an old stool opposite his aunt, and told her a long roundabout story of all that had occurred, and how he was the only one who was obliged to let the golden opportunity pass. “ I don’t wonder at it in the least, my son,” she replied. “ It was often your poor father’s case before you, and is no novelty in my family. But you might have saved your visit to me, for I am poor, and have nothing to give you. There is small store of either goods or money in this poor little house.” Silly Nicholas began to cry. “ They are making game of me already on board, even without this,” said he ; “ and if I now go back without anything, I shall never have a moment’s peace the whole voyage.” The old aunt was struck by this. “ For once in his life,” said she, “the poor wight has spoken sense. Well, then, never mind. I have no gold nor diamonds, it is true, to give you ; but I have a very valuable article, which, if you only use it as you ought, will make a man of you ; and this I will give you.” “What can it be?” thought Nicholas, when she went out to fetch it ; and what was his amazement when she returned with an old coffee-mill, so rickety, that it was almost falling to pieces ! The old dame read his disappointment in his looks. “ My son,” said she, “ you must not despise a gift because its exterior is un- promising. This mill contains, and will supply to you, every necessary of life (I do not mean gold or jewels), if you only em- ploy it judiciously, and do not abuse it.” “ And how am I to use it?” he inquired. 26 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. “ I will show you,” replied his aunt. “ Is there anything* which you would particularly wish for at this moment ? ” “Ah, my dear aunt,” said Nicholas, “I have not eaten a morsel to-day ; and I should like of all things a couple of penny rolls.” The old dame set the mill upon the table, and said very slowly and deliberately — “ Mill, mill ! grind away Some fresh penny rolls, I pray ! ” In an instant the mill was in motion, and before long a roll, fresh from the oven, came forth, and then a second, and a third ! But when a fourth made its appearance, the old dame suddenly cried — “ Bravo, mill ! rest thee now ; Thou hast ground enough, I trow ! ” And in a moment the mill was at rest! Silly Nicholas had looked on in silent wonder ; but silly as he was, he at once per- ceived the use to which it might be turned ; and therefore, while he was eating his penny rolls, he learned very accurately from his aunt both the rhymes which were to be employed. He then shook her affectionately by the hand, took his mill under his arm, and went aboard ship in the highest spirits. When his shipmates saw the old coffee-mill, they burst into a loud laugh, and ridiculed him without end. Silly Nicholas, how- ever, let them enjoy themselves, stowed his mill away in a quiet corner, and for the rest of the voyage they were all so occupied with their plans of future operation, that they forgot it altogether. At length they reached their destination ; and Silly Nicholas, who had been thinking, the whole voyage through, how he could best turn his capital to account, went to the captain and asked leave to go on shore for the purpose of transacting a little business. “ I will give you leave certainly, my boy,” said the captain ; “ but I fear you will make no great hand of it.” “Time will tell,” replied Nicholas; “but, as a specimen, I engage to produce for you, at a moderate price, within four- and-twenty hours, any sort of merchandise you may desire.” “A bargain!” said the captain, resolved to amuse himself with the lad’s (as he believed) simplicity and silliness. “All my poultry have been eaten during the voyage, and I am longing* for some fresh chickens. Bring me, therefore, to-morrow, a couple of dozen, and I shall not only give you the leave, but pay you well for the fowl.” Silly Nicholas cheerfully took his mill under his arm, and sauntered leisurely through the city, till he reached a quiet and retired spot fitted for his operations. He first made a large 27 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. wicker-cage, and placing his mill before the door, repeated his rhyme — “ Mill, mill ! grind away Fine fat poultry now, I pray !” The mill began to turn, and in a few moments out popped a beautiful chicken, and flew, crowing and clapping its wings, into the cage. Nicholas watched closely, and when the full number of two dozen was completed, cried out — “ Bravo, mill ! rest thee now ; Thou hast ground enough, I trow ! ” As soon as this task was finished, he lay down on the grass beside his birds, and fell asleep perfectly happy. Next morning he presented his poultry. The captain kept his word honour- ably, paid him a dollar for each of the chickens, which were a rarity in that country, and gave him a month to employ for his own private advantage. Silly Nicholas had observed in the market-place a large wooden booth, where some itinerant jugglers had held their exhibition. This he hired, and he got a painter to print over the entrance in large letters — “ ALL SORTS OF GOODS SUPPLIED HERE FOR HALF-PRICE AT A day’s NOTICE.” Having made these preparations, he placed his mill in a quiet corner, and sat down to abide the result. Next morning a cus- tomer presented himself. “ Is it true, sir,” said he, “ that on a day’s notice you supply goods at half-price ?” “ Certainly,” said Nicholas ; for we must henceforward drop the prefix which he deserved so little. “ If so,” said the stranger, “ I request you will supply me to- morrow with six wagon-loads of corn. There has been a great dearth this harvest, and I shall pay you a hundred gold dollars for it on the spot.” “Agreed!” cried Nicholas. “Let your horses be here to- morrow.” He kept his word ; and when the wagons were loaded, the horses could scarcely move them from the door. The man gladly paid the hundred dollars, and something over, and went his way. By this transaction Nicholas soon established a character, and his mill was seldom allowed to stand idle. He was in a fair way of soon being a rich man ; but what pressed most upon him was, that his month’s leave was nearly out, and the captain was not willing to extend it, for he expected to be able to turn his apprentice’s talents to his own private advantage. This fact was quite notorious, and every one in the city pitied the poor young man, that, with such prospects, he should be 28 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. compelled to return to his former degrading occupation. They advised him to run away ; but he was too honest to follow the advice, and resolved to submit to his fate if he could find no honourable means of avoiding it. In this crisis of his fortunes the minister at war came to him one day, and told him that, having heard of his great fame, and of his extraordinary resources, he had come in the hope of being released from great embarrassment. The sultan, his master, had suddenly commanded a grand review of the army, and they were all in the greatest perplexity, as, in consequence of the non- arrival of cloths ordered from England and Leipsic, the body- guards -were not all provided with their new uniforms. u If, therefore,” said he, “ you can produce within two days two thou- sand scarlet caftans with white facings, of this pattern, you shall share the profits with myself, and I will get you named Army- Contractor to his Majesty the Sultan. This appointment will free you from your present obligations, and will be but a step to hig'her promotion.” Nicholas promised to do his best; and before the end of forty- eight hours, the two thousand caftans were punctually delivered. The minister kept faith honourably, and three hours before the expiration of the captain’s leave, Nicholas received a large parch- ment patent, whereby he was named u Court -and -Army Con- tractor to the Sultan.” No one was more indignant at this than the captain. lie could no longer reclaim his apprentice, now that he had been created a nobleman, nor compel him to share his wealth with himself. He therefore tried every means to discover Nicholas’ secret, and was constantly spying about his workshop. At last an opportunity offered. Nicholas had gone out to a neighbour’s house, and had omitted to close the door as carefully as usual. The captain went in, and searched every imaginable spot ; but that day’s goods had all been removed, and there was nothing to be seen but the four bare walls. At last, just as he was going* to retire, he spied a little recess, and, on examination, discovered in it the old coffee-mill which Nicholas had brought on board, and which had been the subject of so much ridicule. Pie recollected, too, that Nicholas had taken this with him when he came on shore. “ Beyond a doubt,” said he, u this mill must be the work of some great conjuror, and does everything the silly fellow wishes to have done. I had better seize on it at once, and hereafter, by force or stratagem, I shall discover the way to use it, and then I am a made man ! ” As he spoke, he stretched out his hand to seize it. But at this moment Nicholas, who had come in meanwhile, and overheard his old master’s soliloquy, cried out suddenly — “ Mill, mill! grind away Stout oak cudgels now, I prav !” 59 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. when lo ! the mill began to turn furiously, and a multitude of cudgels issued from it, and belaboured the unfortunate captain’s back till they left it black and blue, and in a most melancholy plight. He shouted and stormed, alternately threatening and imploring for mercy ; but in vain. The castigation continued, and indeed became more violent ; for the mill was constantly setting new cudgels in motion, and when the early ones fell off, there were ever new recruits to take their place. “ Ah my dear, sweet Master Nicholas ! ” sobbed the unfortunate captain, “ do, pray do, stop this cudgelling, or I shall expire. Oh — oh — oh ! Why did I ever call this stupid young rascal, who by right should be my servant — why did I call him ‘ sweet Master Nicholas?’ Stop this moment your infernal tricks, you worthless scoundrel, or I shall hang you up at the mast-head like a weathercock ; there you shall dangle while there is breath in your body ! Oh murder ! murder ! ” Nicholas, instead of answering him, pointed to the blue caftan — his uniform as an officer of the court — which sheltered him from all the captain’s menaces. “ Yes, yes ! ” the wretched man replied ; u I was wrong when I spoke so disrespectfully to your excellency. I regret it bitterly ; and if you will only have pity on my wounded back, I shall never forget myself so again.” u Well, I am beginning myself,” said Nicholas, “ to think that you have got quite enough to teach you never to lay your hand on another’s property again. I shall open the door for you there- fore, and you may go about your business ; but be sure never to attempt such a trick again, else you shall not escape so cheaply.” The captain flew, as if he had wings, through the open door, and all the cudgels pursued him merrily. But as soon as he was a short distance away, Nicholas cried — “ Bravo, mill ! rest thee now ; Thou hast ground enough, I trow !” The cudgels ceased, therefore, and the unfortunate captain was left to pursue his way in peace, as well as his pains would permit him : but from this day forth he entertained a deep grudge against Nicholas, and vowed and declared that he would leave no stone unturned to get possession of this magic mill, and, if pos- sible, to revenge himself some Other way. For a long time he planned and planned, but in vain, till at length a thought occurred to him which appeared very feasible. He could not set about it at once, however, for he was obliged to wait till the traces of the cudgelling had disappeared. But the delay only made his hatred the more deep and bitter, and the very moment he was well, he went straight to Master Nicholas, offered him his hand, told him that they should mutually forgive and forget, and in evidence of the sincerity of his reconciliation, invited Nicholas to a splendid entertainment at the principal hotel, to which he had asked a number of his friends, so WHY THE SEA IS SALT. Nicholas, who was naturally a good-humoured youth, at once accepted the invitation. The wine proved very attractive, and in a short time Nicholas had taken quite enough for the captain’s purpose. He would gladly have sliced off the poor fellow’s ears as he lay, but the presence of Nicholas’s friends compelled him to bridle his revenge ; and while they were engaged in convey- ing Nicholas to bed, the captain hastily repaired to the poor youth’s house, having’ previously abstracted the key out of his pocket, and began to search for the mill. He found it without difficulty, concealed it carefully under his cloak, flew like light- ning to the ship, and lest, when Nicholas had slept off his drunken fit, he should raise an alarm about the robbery, ordered the ship to put to sea without a moment’s delay. Late in the evening Nicholas awoke, and was greatly surprised to find himself in bed in a strange place. After a little, however, calling to mind the occurrences of the day, he was dreadfully alarmed ; for he saw that what had happened with the captain and his friends was a concerted plan, and that they had availed themselves of his insensible condition to play a villanous trick upon him. He flung on his clothes, and hurried without delay to his house ; but found, to his indescribable affliction, that his pre- cious treasure, the origin and foundation of his wealth, was gone. Still he resolved to do his best, though he feared it was too late, to recover his treasure. Summoning his neighbours to his assistance, therefore, he went down to the river where the ship had been lying. But alas ! she had long since set sail, and now had reached the open sea, where it was hopeless to attempt pur- suit. Sick at heart, and deeply downcast, he returned to his house, and from that moment he was of course compelled to leave his orders unexecuted, and to break up his establishment. The people in the city said he had speculated too far, and had run out his capital. But Nicholas himself knew where the shoe pinched, and quietly betook himself to the country, where he had time, in his cooler moments, to reflect that he was better off than he thought at first; having contrived, while his trade lasted, to lay up a considerable sum, sufficient to purchase a very nice property, on which he lived till a good old age, pouring blessings on his old aunt and her still older coffee-mill. Meanwhile the thief was sailing over the deep sea, and chuck- ling at his good fortune. He indulged himself in thinking what a multitude of speculations he would embark in, till he should at last be the first man in the land. u And then,” said he, “ I shall break the old mill to pieces, lest any one else should grow as rich as myself. Luckily I still recollect, since that cursed cudgelling, the words which set the mill in motion.” During this soliloquy he had begun to feel hungry, and ordered the cook to serve dinner without delay. The cook soon presented himself. “ A nice dinner it will be ! ” said he with a countenance full of ill-humour. u Where am I to find it, pray ? 31 WHY THE SEA IS SALT. We set sail in such a hurry, that we have not a fortnight’s pro- visions on board ! And this moment, when I went to put some salt in your soup, I found to my horror that there is not a grain of salt in the ship ! ” “ Well, well!” said the captain in great good-humour, “ make your mind eas} r about it. Be assured we shall want for nothing; and in the first place, I must get you some salt for the soup.” He took the coffee-mill down from the shelf as he spoke, and said with great solemnity — “ Mill, mill ! grind away ; Let us have some salt, I pray ! ” The mill, according to its wont, began to turn, and, to the captain’s great delight, forth came a thick stream of salt. The cook opened his mouth and eyes, but could not for his life conceive how this came to pass, till at last, when there was already a large heap of salt lying before them, he said, “ That may do for the present, and the mill, if it pleases, may grind us something else.” The captain also, who saw that they now had salt enough to last for a year and a day, was disposed to stop the working of the mill ; but, alas ! to his horror, it now struck him for the first time that he did not know the words necessary to stop it ! In his terror and anguish of mind he grasped it for the purpose of stopping its revolutions ; but it struck him such a blow upon the fingers, that the blood spouted out furiously, and he drew back screaming with pain and affright. “ It must be some devil or hobgoblin we have got on board ! ” cried the cook, who, as the heap of salt continued to increase, ran away to the fore-deck, and told the sailors what the captain had done. Meanwhile the captain tried every species of prayer, and every form of exorcism ; but to no purpose. At last he flew into a rage, and drew his sword. “Worthless thing that you are!” he cried with fury, “ I will knock you to shivers, and put an end to your magic at once ! ” He aimed a terrific blow at the mill, and struck it with such effect, that it flew into two pieces. At first he was delighted with his heroism ; but what was his horror when he saw both halves stand erect, and both begin to grind away as busily as the one mill had ground before ! He was struck dumb with terror, and could make no farther effort to relieve himself. Meanwhile the mills continued to grind away busily, and at last they ground such a quantity of salt, that the ship could not float any longer under the weight, but sunk to the bottom with the captain and the crew ! From that time forth — as the story-books go — the sea has been salt , and it will always continue so ; for both the mills are still at work , and never fail to maintain the supply! STORY OF JACQUARD. L ^ a ^ a y au tumn, * n the year 1795, in an upper ^IB&P SSI? apartment of a wretched house situated in one of the ’ _ ' ’ “ ’ ’ ' ’ * - * ’ ■ ’ the sun cast a feeble and doubtful light, owing to the Mi numberless patches of paper which supplied the place of m glass, four persons were engaged weaving the gold and » silver tissue for which that town is so celebrated. Though c V L the movement of the machine itself was brisk, yet a painful silence reigned in the small apartment, no sound being heard but that of the shuttle and cords as they were put in motion. In front of the loom, seated on a high bench, w r as a man of about forty years of age, working his feet to the right and left, as a means of action to the treadles or footboards of the cum- bersome and ill-constructed machine. Near him sat a young* woman, pale and emaciated, preparing the reeds on which the silk was rolled previous to being placed in the loom ; whilst two young* girls, in forced and painful attitudes, put the cords in motion. At the time of which we speak, fearful were the sufferings of those who worked at this employment. Though badly remu- nerated, necessity obliged a continued and wearying application. It was painful to see the contrast of the rich stuffs, thus side by side, with the wretched clothing of the pale and miserable beings, whose knowledge of the gold, silver, and silks, alas ! only con- sisted in the additional labour which the varied and elegant No. 158. l STORY OF JACQUARD. patterns entailed! Loud were the complaints of the canuts , or weavers, as to the smallness of their wages, and frequently had they committed outrages on this much-contested point. They alleged that the manufacturers could afford to give larger pay- ments for work, without recognising the fact, that wages depend on the demand and supply of labourers ; and therefore, that if wages are low, the only way to heighten them is by a reduction of the number of hands. Yet, to he substantially beneficial, this would require to he done in all countries ; for manufacturers, pressed on by competition, would naturally emigrate with their capital to places where wages were on the lowest scale. These principles, unhappily, were not understood by the silk weavers of Lyons, among whom the person now introduced was a fair sample, both as respects toiling industry and an. ignorance of the true causes of his excessive toils. “ Antoinette, do you know where Joseph has gone to ?” at length asked the man, Jacquard byname, in a voice which spoke of fatigue. u He went to the shopkeeper for some silk,” replied his wife. u It is a long time since he went out.” “ Hardly two hours ; still he is invariably obliged to wait. But, Marie, you appear to be in pain,” added she, addressing one of the young girls before alluded to. “ It is nothing, mother,” replied the girl ; “ it will soon be time for sleep, when we can forget all our fatigue.” u Yes, to recommence again to-morrow,” said the man. u What would you wish, Charles?” asked his wife, with a look in which affection and resignation were mingled. “ Is not this season better than the last, when I have often seen you draw the belt tighter around your body, the more easily to support the pangs of hunger which exhausted your strength ? Though the work at present is hard, yet we have, thank God, enough to eat. Cheer up, my children ! if the dinner has been meagre, we have at least a good supper of boiled chestnuts and lard, and as much bread as you wish to eat, my little ones. ” A slight expression of anguish, uttered by the youngest and most wretched-looking of the girls, attracted the attention of the woman, who, turning towards her, asked if she was ill. “ No, aunt,” slowly replied the child, whose languid smile sadly belied her words. " Would you wish to change with me, cousin?” asked Marie : u my work seems easier than yours.” “ No ; I am very well here,” feebly answered Josephine, her dim and sunken eyes, and her pallid countenance, expressing lassitude more than suffering, but apparently unconscious of the attention of her cousin. Another interval of silence ensued — a repose for the lips, but not for the body. But Josephine having again unconsciously moaned, the canut ceased his work as he gazed on her. STORY OF JACQUARD. ct Poor little one!” muttered he; then, as if to drive away thought, he applied himself more vigorously to his labour. “The wife of Jaubert the canut died yesterday. Were you aware of it, wife?” resumed the weaver. “ Heaven protect us ! No. Of what did she die?” asked An- toinette. “ Of what did our daughter die last year ? Of what did the sister of Jean die last week? What caused the death, five years since, of my sister Marion, the mother of your poor cousin Josephine? Of what do all the canuts die before their time? What but of misery and exhaustion ! Look at these children, wife!” continued he in a milder and lower tone, looking towards the young girls, who, fatigued by the unnatural position in which they were obliged to remain while moving the cords, had paid no attention to the conversation. “ Oh dear ! ” again sighed the feeble voice of little Josephine. “ Ay, wife, it is easy to see that she will soon follow her poor mother,” continued the man in a whisper, as he wiped the per- spiration from his forehead. “ Do not speak thus, Charles,” said Antoinette with an invo- luntary shudder. “ Have you not perceived how cramped and deformed her limbs are ? Even rest and quiet at night do not restore their shape.” “ Josephine has been always weak and sickly,” replied An- toinette, as if seeking to delude even herself. “ When this piece is finished, I shall make her rest for some days, and she will be better after it. With Marie it is different; her paleness does not arise from sickness, but from confinement in this close and ill- aired room; a little out-door exercise will reinstate her health and good looks, for she has a naturally good constitution.” “ Yes, as a young mulberry-tree decayed at the root,” an- swered the weaver, without ceasing his employment. “ We shall not be able to preserve her any more than we could her sister and my cousin Marion : she will die, and her brother also, my dear little Joseph, and we shall have no one left to close our eyes, my poor wife ! ” “ God is good, Charles ! ” answered Antoinette with resigna- tion, and forcing her pale lips to smile, as if to raise her hus- band’s courage. “ He will not leave us childless. Do you feel unwell, Marie ?” continued she, as her smile faded before the sad countenance Of her daughter. “ No, mother; only a little fatigued,” replied the young girl. “ It is Josephine who is ill.” A slight knock at the door interrupted the conversation. II. The family of hard-working weavers was surprised at a visit during work hours from any one, and they were more surprised STORY OF JACQUARD. still, when they opened the door to the visitant, on the present occasion. The mother and daughter both rose somewhat disconcerted as a tall and handsome young man entered the apartment. He was about twenty-live years of age, and dressed in the height of the then reigning fashion : silk stockings, and shoes with large silver buckles, the buttons of his satin dress being embossed in the centre with a butterfly, and wearing a sword and three- cornered hat. “ M. Brechet!” exclaimed Antoinette, as she offered the stranger a chair. “ You have, then, come to see us?” “ As you see, Madame Jacquard ; but. do not let me disturb you, or I shall be off again. How is your health, Pere Jac- quard ? ” “ Hum ! Workmen have no time to think of it, M. Brechet ; but I thank you, notwithstanding, for your inquiries.” “ I have been taking some pieces of satin to M. Guinar, and on my return, finding myself in your street, I did not wish to pass your door without seeing* how you all were ; so, stepping from my gig, here I am, Pere Jacquard.” “ It is a poor place for such as you to come to,” said the weaver. “ That is little thought of when friends are to be seen. But how is Mademoiselle Marie?” added he, turning towards the young girl. Marie, blushing, did not raise her head from her employment. u As you see, M. Brechet,” hastily answered the mother. “ And the little Josephine ?” u Just as usual,” replied Antoinette. “ Where is my little friend Joseph ? I do not see him.” “ He is out at present, monsieur, but will soon return.” “ M. Brechet,” said Jacquard abruptly, “ you are come, I suppose, to demand the three crowns I owe you?” “ What an opinion you must have of me ! For shame ! On the contrary, if you want two or three more, you have but to ask for them.” u I feel myself too much indebted to you already, sir.” “ Do not think about it, Pere Jacquard.” “ But I do think about it, M. Brechet : it is my duty to think about it.” “ What folly ! Besides, there are other means by which you may not only liquidate what you already owe, but gain much more.” “It is perhaps by becoming a satin weaver, M. Brechet? But I am only a silk weaver, and I daresay shall die one.” “ I do not allude to that,” -replied the young man, who, while speaking, directed his look towards Marie. “ Then I cannot divine what you mean.” The satinaire for a moment hesitated, then added in a firm voice, “ You have a daughter, Pere Jacquard.” STORY OF JACQUARD. u And a good girl she is, M. Brechet; one of whom a father may be proud.” “ Well, I have two -workshops — one for satin, the other for velvet. I am equally well known either as M. Brechet the veloutier, or M. Brechet the satinaire ” “ I cannot quite understand you,” interrupted Jacquard. “ Allow M. Brechet to speak, Charles,” said Antoinette mildly to her husband. “ This, then, is what I would say. I have already told you that I have two workshops, in each of which there are twenty workmen. Well, there is still something wanted in these two workshops, Pere Jacquard.” u There are always workmen to be found, M. Brechet.” “ But it is not workmen I want; it is a female I speak of.” i( Ah ! she must, I suppose, be clever?” u No, Pere Jacquard; I seek a companion — in fact, a wife.” cc I understand you now, M. Brechet.” “ And if you consent.” u To what, M. Brechet?” “ Say that you consent, Pere Jacquard — say that you consent; and you also, Madame Jacquard.” u Is it that you should marry our daughter, M. Brechet?” asked Antoinette, whose expressive smile told that since his arrival she had divined the cause of his visit. u If Mademoiselle Marie has no objection,” said the satinaire. “ But,” said Jacquard, “ recollect that our daughter is poor, M. Brechet.” u She is mild and uncomplaining.” u She is not even pretty ! ” u She pleases me, Pere Jacquard; and if I possess her good opinion ” “ There is no doubt of that, M. Brechet,” said the weaver briskly. u She must indeed be hard to please if she does not like you, but I do not wish to give a promise.” “ And wherefore not?” “ Because you are rich, and we are poor; because you are a satinaire, a veloutier, in fact, a gentleman wearing a sword, and we are nothing more than poor canuts ; you ride in your car- riage, while w*e walk on foot ; you can order your clerk to carry your pieces of velvet or satin, while we are obliged to take our work to the shop, and wait the pleasure of those who employ us ; and for a thousand other reasons, M. Brechet.” u Each one worse than the other, Pere Jacquard : however. I do not wish to take you by surprise. Reflect on what I have said, and all I ask at present is, to be allowed to repeat my visit.” u I am not proud, M. Brechet ; we shall always be happy to see you : but I promise nothing — remember, I promise nothing.” u Well, I am contented; to-morrow, then, Pere Jacquard,” 5 STORY OF JACQUARD. said the satinaire, as he rose and took leave, accompanied to the street door by Antoinette. III. The visit of M. Brechet, with its very remarkable revelation, roused many varied emotions in the minds of the poor family. After the departure of the handsome and fair-spoken suitor, the limbs of the weaver moved quicker than was their wont, while he slowly hummed a plaintive and monotonous ballad. “ A sure sign that father is out of humour / 7 whispered Marie to her cousin. “ Yes ! 77 replied Josephine in the same tone. “ Do you suffer more than ordinary to-day, that your voice is so feeble ? 77 asked Marie. “ Yes ! 77 again whispered the young girl. u I also am ill, Josephine ; but is not M. Brechet an engaging young man? Is he not, Josephine ? 77 “ Yes ! 77 w^as still the only response. “ Listen, J osephine. Father will not always be so proud and distant to M. Brechet ; he will not refuse him when mother speaks on the subject. It is true that women do not understand these things as well as men ; but he will consent at last, and then I shall take you with me, and then you will not have to work any longer. Does not that give you pleasure ? But you do not reply, cousin ? 77 The poor child again muttered “ Yes ! 77 but without taking any seeming interest in what was told her. “ Then my father ,’ 7 continued Marie, “ shall not be killing himself with overwork, and in the slack season he shall not suffer from hunger ; and then mother shall not any longer de- stroy her health by fretting, nor blind herself making canettes : she will be able to recruit herself from time to time. And my brother, my little Joseph, shall not be a canut — he shall be a satinaire or veloutier, whichever he pleases ; but for you, my little Josephine, I see that you must be a lady, and if my hus- band does not wish to support an idle girl, why, I shall work for you myself. But why do you weep, Josephine; you are not well? Why do you not answer me ? 77 “ I am very weak . 77 “ Your work is too hard for you . 77 “ I shall get used to it . 77 “ What are you both singing in such a low tone ? 77 asked the weaver, interrupting his ballad to listen to the children. “We are not singing, father: in my opinion it is yourself , 77 replied Marie with an affectation of gaiety. “ Yes, I sing to drive away care, Marie ; but you never sing now as you were wont to do . 77 “ Ah, father, I have no voice now, and I cannot tell why . 77 STORY OF JACQUARD. “ I know well ! ” muttered the canut, as he brushed away a tear which mingled with the perspiration that rolled down his face. u I see,” continued he half aloud, u that it will not do to be too proud ; but what a pang it would cost me to have a son- in-law who might perhaps look with scorn on me when he has once got my daughter ; but ” and he continued his ballad. “ Here is my brother ! ” exclaimed Marie, as a flush of pleasure passed over her pale countenance. The weaver raised his head as the steps were heard on the stairs. Josephine alone stirred not. There soon entered a tall, delicate lad of thirteen years of age. It was Joseph, the son of Jacquard. Like the generality of the children of the canuts, he had a subdued and sad expression of countenance, which, when at rest, spoke of nothing remarkable, yet when his pale features were lit up by excitement or some sudden emotion, it changed his entire appearance. The truth is, Joseph was no ordinary boy. God had given him good natural faculties, which he had exerted himself to cultivate by reflection. Joseph was always thinking on some useful subject or other; but, silent and modest, his own family did not know the extent of his capacity. And is this not always the case with genius ? The world, with its eyes turned to the clouds, does not see the great men in embryo who are lying at its feet, u Where have you remained such a length of time ? ” asked the weaver of his son. u First of all, here is the silk,” replied J oseph, handing a bundle to his mother ; u and now to tell you what detained me, father. In returning from the shop of M. Guillaume, I met Touissant, the son of Francois the canut; perceiving that he had been crying, I inquired the reason. 1 My mother/ replied he, c has broken the loom ; father is from home, and I have been with Martel the joiner to try and get him to repair it, but he is so busy that he cannot come : the piece must remain unfinished ; and when my father returns to-night, he will be very angry about it. Oh dear! what shall I do? ? Then, father, finding, from what he told me, that the loom was not much injured, I went home with him, and succeeded in mending it, so that his mother is now at work again.” “ You ! all alone ?” asked the weaver, surprised. ci It did not require to be very clever, father, to do so. What a pity that the looms are so badly constructed ! ” u You think so !” said his father ironically. u I should like to know what you see so bad about our looms?” u Every portion of them, father,” replied the boy with anima- tion. “ Must it not be ill-constructed when it requires so much exertion to put it in motion? Is it not a machine which actually kills the workmen ? Do I not see yourself covered with perspi- ration ? Look at Marie, who has lost her rosy and healthful appearance; observe Josephine ” The little canut ceased 7 STORY OF JACQUARD. speaking ; he could not find words to express his feelings at the decay of the poor little flower. “ It is a horrible machine ! ” added he a moment after. “ You had better invent another ! ” said his father roughly. “ And wherefore not?” asked Joseph; “that would indeed be a happy idea.” “ Go, foolish boy ! ” said Charles, shrugging his shoulders ; “instead of criticising and finding fault with what has been the means of livelihood to your father and all his family, you had better throw aside your hat and coat and come to work.” “ If you have no objection,” replied the boy, “ I shall take Josephine’s place for a while, father, as she seems unable to work. See, mother, her hands can scarcely ply the cords. Come, Josephine, what is the matter with you ?” added he, as the poor child ran towards him, and was caught in his arms. “ Nothing! ” replied the young girl in a feeble voice, endeavour- ing at the same time to return to her employment ; but, as if the exertion had been too much for her, she leaned on the shoulder of the little eanut. “ Josephine ! How pale she is ! ” exclaimed Marie, rising from her seat, and running towards her cousin. “ Josephine, why do you not tell us when you are suffering?” “ Do not weep thus, Marie,” said her mother, as she held some vinegar to the nostrils of Josephine ; “ this will be nothing — nothing, I hope.” But the terror depicted in her countenance evinced that she had not that hope which she wished to inspire in others. “ Nothing ! ” repeated Marie, weeping and pressing her cousin’s hands in hers. “ Nothing! see how pale she has become, and her hands are damp and cold as ice. Josephine! Oh, mother, she is surely dying ! ” “ Charles, run and seek the doctor,” said Antoinette to her husband, who, overcome by emotion, had remained a silent spec- tator. “ Go quickly, I intreat you. My God, take pity on us ! ” ejaculated the poor woman in an agony of grief. Charles immediately left the room without replying. “ Josephine, speak to me ! ” exclaimed Marie ; “ for pity’s sake, speak to me!” Josephine answered not, but remained motionless, supported in the arms of young Jacquard, who gazed on her in sad and silent grief. Her eyes were closed, and a slight breathing alone told that she existed. Not a word was spoken by any of the unhappy family as the step of the weaver was heard on the stair- case ; sobs alone betrayed their sorrow ; and as they looked on the deathlike features of the young girl, each seemed to read in her countenance a fate which awaited themselves. The respira- tion of Josephine, which had become every moment less per- ceptible, ceased altogether as the doctor entered the room. “Is there, then, no hope?” asked Charles, as the doctor, after 8 STORY OF JACQUARD. examining the dying girl’s pulse, sadly shook his head in con- firmation of their fears. “ You have sent for me too late, my friend,” replied the physician, letting fall the arm of Josephine. As he left the apartment, how difficult did the members of this sad family find it to bring the reality of his words home to their minds ! And yet the truth was there, terrible and striking — the poor little creature was no more ! A burst of sobbing succeeded ; and then, as if imperious ne- cessity had imposed a law to grief, the eyes of each were dried; and silently, and with one accord, removing the body of the dead child into a corner of the room, and covering it with a wretched counterpane, the family resumed their employment. Joseph, as if it had been a matter of course, seated himself in the place which had been occupied but a few minutes previously by his cousin, crouching himself up in the same painful and forced attitude that had caused her death. “ Marie!” said Jacquard abruptly; and then, as if the sad event which had occurred had silenced all his objections, added, “ I shall no longer oppose your marriage with M. Brechet.” IY. What a dismal evening was passed by the poor family — so poor, that they dared scarcely to intermit their labour to spend a moment on sorrow. As seven o’clock sounded from a neigh- bouring church, they sat down to their meagre supper, composed of fried chestnuts, which were distributed by Antoinette, along with a piece of bread. Joseph sat seemingly plunged in his own sad reflections, without touching his supper. “ Why do you not eat ? Are you unwell, Joseph .?” asked his mother. u No,” replied he ; “I am thinking of something.” “ What is it?” asked all together. u I think — but you must not be angry with me, or suppose that it is a childish caprice on my part — but I have reflected well, and I cannot be a canut.” u A wise thought, certainly!” exclaimed his father, striking his knife against the part of the loom which served him as a supper-table. “ Have I not told you, Antoinette, that your son’s brain was touched ? But tell me, foolish boy, what has put this idea into your head ?” “ It is the sight of the miseries wffiich the canuts endure, father. If they had other looms, and ” “ Are not these good enough?” interrupted the weaver. u See their effects ! ” replied the boy, casting a look of grief towards the body of his cousin. “ It is our fate !” said the weaver in a subdued voice. “ It is our fate to work for the rich ; that is but just,” an- STORY OF JACQUARD. swered J oseph. “ Of that I do not complain ; but of the loom, father — the loom, which kills the workmen.” “ You are foolish, Joseph ! ” said his mother. “ How can you think to change a machine which has served the canuts for centuries ? ” “ It is precisely, my dear mother, because it is the same ma- chine which has served for such a length of time, that it seems possible to me that another might be invented. Ho not inter- rupt me, father, but allow me to finish. Tell me, are not your stuffs finer and better finished than those made by your father?” “ My father was not a canut ; he was a stone mason at Couzon.” “ My granduncle Kive then was one ? ” “ Yes,” replied his mother. “ Very well ; did Uncle Kive make as fine stuffs as my father?” “ Certainly not,” said the weaver. “ Then, since the stuffs have been improved, why should not the looms be improved also ? ” “Why? — why?” repeated the routinier workman pettishly. “ Because they cannot.” “ Say rather because no one has thought of doing so, father,” replied the boy ; adding with a sigh, as he looked towards the place where the little Josephine lay, “ and one would do well to think of it.” “What, then, would you wish to do?” asked his father, touched at the silent appeal. “ To enter as an apprentice with Master Pinet the bookbinder, father.” “ Be it so ; though it would be better to follow the trade of your father. To whom can I bequeath my loom, if not to you?” “You can bequeath it to the husband of my sister, as my mother’s father bequeathed it to you, father. However, I do not say that I shall always refuse to work as a canut ; but that must be when another loom has been invented by some one, and that person may perchance be myself.” V. Poliowing the bent of his inclination, young Jacquard passed from the workshop of his father into that of a bookbinder, but his active and inventive spirit prevented him from remaining long in the inferior regions of labour. Mechanics had for him a peculiar attraction; but, unfortunately, his limited means did not allow him to put into immediate execution the products of his busy brain. His talents were but slowly developed : for the man who possesses a happy and useful idea, resembles the earth containing some hidden treasure : it requires, in the first instance, some occasion for its development ; and secondly, some accidental 10 STORY OF JACQUARD. circumstance or opportunity for its discoveiy. The following* were the simple means which brought Jacquard’s abilities to light : — A short time previous to the Peace of Amiens, the Boyal Society of London offered a considerable sum of money to any one who should invent a mechanical apparatus applicable to some peculiar process of thread-making. An extract of the society’s programme, copied into a French paper, fell under the eye of Jacquard, who immediately set his brains to work, and after many fruitless essays, at length succeeded in finding the secret. Being* as simple as it was useful, he imagined that he could not have been alone in the discovery ; nevertheless, this did not prevent him from making a model of the machine; but once made, he put it in his pocket, and thought no more of the matter. One day, however, while with some of his acquaint- ances, who had also read the programme, the conversation turned on the filet or thread-machine. “ Here is the difficulty solved,” said he, taking the model from his pocket. “ Have you not made known the discovery, and demanded the sum offered ? ” asked one of his acquaintances. “ Nonsense ! Do you imagine that I am the only person who has discovered it ? ” “Will you confide it to me?” asked his friend, taking up the miniature filet. " With all my heart,” replied Jacquard; and in an hour after- wards he had forgotten his model in reflecting over an idea which had engrossed his attention for a length of time — the means of meliorating, by some new description of loom, the miseries of the canuts of Lyons, as that class of weavers are called who manufacture the gold and silver tissues. Some weeks afterwards, Jacquard was summoned before the prefect, and without being able to form the slightest conjecture why he was sent for, immediately obeyed the order. “ Monsieur,” said the magistrate, “ I have heard of your ability as a mechanic, and have therefore sent for you.” u It must be some person who wishes to pass off a joke at my expense, Monsieur le Prefect,” answered Jacquard confused, and bowing to the magistrate. “I assure you that it is not: have you not lately made an admirable discovery?” “ Very simple, sir — very simple.” ec But very useful to humanity.” u I have not been so vain as to suppose so, sir.” “ The mechanism is most ingenious : you are indeed a clever workman, M. Jacquard!” “Monsieur is very good to say so.” “ You must have studied deeply, to have gained such an insight in the art.” 11 STORY OF JACQUARD. “ 1, monsieur ! In truth I know nothing*.” “ And this filet ! ” said the prefect, as he took from his desk the model which Jacquard had given to his friend. “ It certainly is mine, sir ; but I had altogether forgotten it until a few minutes since,” replied Jacquard with naivete. “ But your friend has not forgotten it, nor I either ; and I have got the orders of the First Consul to send the model to Paris.” Jacquard thanked the kind magistrate, and withdrew. After the lapse of a few weeks, he was again sent for. On his entrance into the office, the prefect addressed him. “ You must immediately set out for Paris, M. Jacquard.” “ For Paris !” replied Jacquard. “ Set out for Paris, sir! And by whose orders, may I ask ?” “ Those of the First Consul.” “ It is impossible : there must be some mistake as to the name, sir. What have I done ? What can the First Consul want of me — a poor, unknown workman ?” “ The orders of the First Consul admit of no delay, my dear M. Jacquard : they must be obeyed. I shall let your family know of your departure. A postchaise waits for you at the door of the Prefecture; and further this man (the prefect pointed to a gendarme) has orders to accompany you, and not lose sight of you.” “ But I have never done injury to any one. I declare solemnly that I am neither a robber nor a criminal. Believe me, sir, there must be some error as to the name,” said Jacquard in extreme agitation. “Calm yourself, M. Jacquard,” said the prefect, as he con- ducted him to the courtyard. “Be assured that the First Consul is a man who knows how to appreciate talent wherever it is found. Even if he never does anything for you,” continued the prefect, “ would it not be worth your while to leave your family and affairs for a short time for the sake of seeing* Paris?” “ Indeed, sir, I should not think so.” “Well, no matter; you will find that he has good reasons for acting thus. Come, get into the chaise, M. Jacquard ; I promise that no harm shall befall you : and as it is most likely that on such short notice you may not be provided with money, the gendarme will take care that you want for nothing. Good-by, sir, and a pleasant journey to you.” Jacquard had never before been in Paris; and the first place they stopped at on their arrival in the capital was at the Conser- vatory of Arts. The first persons whom he met with were Bonaparte, then First Consul, and Carnot, the prime minister. “Is it you who call yourself Joseph Jacquard?” demanded Carnot in a brusque tone. “ Is it you who pretends to do what no one else can accomplish — to form a knot on a stretched cord?” Surprised by the tone of the speaker, and awed at finding 12 STORY OF JACQUARD. himself in the presence of such high personages, the youth did not immediately reply. But Bonaparte, with that suavity he could so well assume, having asked Jacquard a few trivial ques- tions, led him by degrees into an animated conversation, and one which might be considered the foundation of his after-success in life. Jacquard was at once installed in the Conservatory; all the secrets of mechanics, which till then he had been unable to study, were laid open to his inspection. In the midst of these and other wonders of industry, all difficulties seemed to vanish as he thought on his long-cherished idea of constructing a loom which would meliorate the condition of the canuts of his native town. The first task to which he was put to work, was the constructing a full-sized machine after the model that had been of such service to him, and which, when completed, gave general satisfaction. A magnificent shawl, destined for Josephine, the wife of Bona- parte, wrought in a loom that had cost more than twenty thousand francs, made him form the idea of applying to these works of luxury a less complicated, and at the same time a much less expensive machinery, in which he succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations. While thus employed for the emperor, he had steadily perse- vered in his endeavours to perfect the machine which had en- grossed his thoughts from boyhood, and in 1801 completed the one known as the u Jacquard-Loom,” which was exhibited at the Exposition of Arts in Paris the same year. VI. We shall now see how the Jacquard-loom was received by those for whose benefit it was expressly intended. Having re- ceived from the French government a pension of a thousand crowns for his discovery, Jacquard expected that, with such tes- timonials of its value, he should have no difficulty in establishing the loom in his native city. Filled, therefore, with the hope of meliorating the condition of his fellow-townsmen, Jacquard returned to Lyons. Alas ! these hopes were quickly dispelled. Having, at his own expense, constructed one of the machines, the Conseil des Prud’hommes* were invited to inspect it, and give their opinions. Great was Jacquard’s dismay when he found that they not only opposed the introduction of his loom, but g'ave orders that it should be publicly destroyed; which w^as accordingly done in the Place , amidst the shouts and rejoicings of the populace ; and his invention excited such an enmity against him amongst the weavers, that he three times narrowly escaped with his life. A few years elapsed, during which the English had made * A body appointed to watch over the interests of the Lyonese trade. 13 STORY OF JACQUARD. rapid strides in the manufacture of gold and silver tissues, and it was only when the French began to feel the effects of foreign competition that their prejudices gave way ; and in self-defence, they adopted the loom which they had previously rejected and despised. The inventor, altogether forgetting the ignominious treatment he had received, gladly came forward, and under his superintendence looms were rapidly constructed, and were soon employed in most of the silk manufacturing districts of France. Many improvements were made from time to time by him; yet though the recompense was scarcely commensurate with the services rendered, Jacquard, happy in the thought of being instrumental not only in adding to the comforts of the work- men, but also in furthering the interests of the employers, lived modestly and retired, without desiring anything more. His dis- interestedness was only equalled by the uprightness of his heart. Many magnificent offers were made to him by strangers ; but with firmness, devoid of pride, he refused them all, and preferred engaging himself, at a moderate annuity given by the municipal council of Lyons, “ to consecrate all his time and abilities to the service of the town, and to perfect, as far as lay in his power, his former inventions.” In a great measure owing to this machine, the canuts have acquired almost a new existence. If the w'ork is not always plenty, at least it does not kill them. In the schools and in the workshops, instead of the pale and emaciated beings who formerly earned a scanty subsistence with their very life-blood, are to be seen well-dressed and ruddy-looking children ; and men, no longer wearing that heartbroken and timid look which was then a cha- racteristic feature of their profession, appear at the present day the most healthy and well-disposed class of artisans in Lyons. The fabrication of the stuffs has also wonderfully increased. In 1788 there were but two hundred and forty looms in Lyons for the manufacture of stuffs; in 1801, at the time of Jacquard’s discovery, there were two thousand eight hundred ; at the pre- sent day there are thirty-two thousand looms at work, of which number the ingenious machines invented by Jacquard count nearly one-third. After the Exposition of Arts in 1819, he received the deco- ration of the Legion of Honour ; a recompense justly due to the humble workman through whose instrumentality a suffering and unhappy population had been regenerated. Towards the close of his life, Jacquard, wishing to enjoy the society of his sister and her children, retired to a small villa at Duillons, a few leagues from Lyons, where M. Brechet had established a factory. Here he w r as visited by many illustrious foreigners, anxious to converse with the man whose name had spread over all Europe, and frequent were the expressions of surprise at finding in so modest a retreat one who had diffused so much opulence around him. 14 STORY OF JACQUARD. “ The manufacturers, through you, have all grown rich/* remarked a visitor. “ So much the better/ 7 replied Jacquard. “I have retired on a moderate competency, and I have no cause to complain ; it is sufficient for me that I have been of service to my fellow- citizens. 77 “Your townsmen, 77 said a stranger of distinction, “have not treated you with proper respect. 77 “ I have received more than I sought, 77 replied Jacquard; “ and I desire no further. 77 This useful man, born of obscure parents, and who were not forgotten by him in his prosperity, ended his days peaceably at Duillons, in August 1834, and was interred in the village ceme- tery. A subscription was opened by the Conseil des Prud 7 hommes of Lyons, for the purpose of raising a monument suitable to the memory of him who had justly merited the appellation of the benefactor of mankind. Lyons continues to be one of the principal seats of the silk manufacture in France. Unfortunately, however, the Jacquard- loom, though benefiting 1 the workmen in various ways, has not prevented differences as to wages. In recent times there have been various unions and strikes among' the weavers, which have led to insurrections of a serious nature (See Tract, No. 38). The last of these outbreaks was quelled only after much blood was shed, and great damage done to the town. To guard against a recurrence of these disasters, the town is now overawed by forti- fications, whose cannon are seen bristling on the different heights around. Thus subdued, the operative silk-weavers confess the hopelessness of bettering themselves by violence, and look for an improvement in circumstances to other means than intimidating their employers. With this unhappy tendency to quarrel with the ordinary routine of labour, many of the silk-weavers of Lyons are a superior class of men. Among them there is a class called chefs d? atelier , or chiefs of the workshop. In the private residences of these men the weaving is carried on. The chef receives the work from the manufacturer, puts it into the loom, and superintends the weaving, besides working on a loom him- self. Lyons is built like Edinburgh. A building consists of several floors, each inhabited by a separate family, and the fami- lies reach their respective dwellings by a common stone stair. In the summer of 1844 we had the pleasure of visiting the establishment of one of these chefs. It was situated on the fourth floor of a tall building. On being conducted into the weaving apartment, the scene was curious. We had never seen any mechanism half so intricate, and apparently unintelligible. 15 STORY OF JACQUARD. The process was by Jacquard cards, hut the patterns to he wrought embraced such variety of detail, that the apparatus was an inextricable maze of bobbins, strings, and other parts incom- prehensible to a stranger. The chef, doffing his cap, received us with great politeness, and took pains to explain — vain thought — the mechanique of the looms under his charge, three in number. Lifting up a piece of paper carefully pinned over the parts woven of the fabrics in hand, he showed the beauty of their designs. One of the pieces was magnificent. It was a gorgeous assemblage of colours finely harmonised in tone, with gold and silver thread in different combinations, and was in- tended, he said, for church banners. Another piece, the ground- work of which was white satin, interwoven also with gold and silver, was designed for priests’ vestments in the church service. The chef mentioned, that such was the complexity of one of these pieces, that he was occupied three months in arranging it in the loom, and that the workman employed upon it could not weave more than a yard in the week. The price which it would cost the manufacturer was to be a hundred francs per yard. The operatives engaged in weaving such articles realise from twelve to fifteen francs for their weekly labour. That they do not earn much less, is clearly owing to the introduction of the Jacquard-loom. WOMEN’S TRIALS IN HUMBLE LIFE. STORY OF PEGGY DICKSON. J^HAT a neat-looking* girl Peggy Dickson was when we saw ^ er ? a great many years ago : active, a nd obliging, everybody thought well of Cfj^? ^ her, and said she deserved to be happy. Peggy was brought up as a domestic servant from about her twelfth year, when she had the misfortune to lose both r) X her parents, and in the course of time she went through a number of respectable places. Peggy had received little or no education, but she possessed good principles, and was liked by her employers. In more than one of her situations she might have lived for any length of time in a state of comfort, being kindly treated, and receiving the highest wages that were paid ; but like many others in her class, Peggy was a little too fond of changes. She never liked to stay long in any place ; fidgetted about from term to term, always seeking better situations, or leaving those she was in from the most trifling excuses. In one house, she was not allowed to let a number of acquaintances call upon her ; in another, she was scolded for spending time needlessly when sent on errands ; and in a third, she was only allowed to have every alternate Sunday evening, not the whole day, to herself. These, and the like of these, she considered sufficient reasons to shift her situation, with a view to bettering her condition. Peggy’s fate verified the old proverb, that “ an unhappy fish often gets an unhappy bait.” By one of these luckless removes, she got into No. 163. l women’s trials in humble life. a situation where she had the liberty of going out every alter- nate Sunday from morning till night; this seemed to her a most delightful arrangement, for it permitted her to carry on a more extensive system of gossiping with persons in her own rank of life at houses where servants are in the habit of meeting each other, to talk over their own affairs and those of the fami- lies with whom they are connected ; by which practice a steady- flowing under-stream of scandal is kept up through society. Whatever may have been the pleasure derived at the time from these gossipings, they paved the way to a very serious disaster, which was neither more nor less than Peggy’s marriage with a workman in the town, Peter Yellowlees by name. This would have been a commendable and prudent enough step, had she taken a little care to ascertain beforehand that her proposed hus- band was a man of steady industrious habits and sound moral principles. But this never entered into her mind ; like too many women in humble life, she persuaded herself that it was her fate to marry the person who thus addressed her, and therefore neither sought advice, nor made any kind of investigation what- ever. Behold Peggy Dickson now transformed into Mrs Yellowlees, and her residence in a gentleman’s family exchanged for a house of her own, consisting of a single apartment in an upper storey in one of the meaner kind of back streets ! Peggy was, however, a girl of some taste and tidiness ; and although her domicile was humble, she did everything in her power to make it agreeable and acceptable to her husband. To the small stock of furniture she made some useful additions, and both by her exertions and her good-will, promised to make a really excellent housewife with the limited means at her command. But most unfortu- nately she had married a person who in no respect appreciated her efforts. Her husband was a man not decidedly bad; he would do nothing that would bring him within the scope of judicial punishment. But a man may be an utter wretch, and yet avoid the chance of coming under the hands of even the police. Peter was one of this description. He was addicted to indulge with companions in taprooms, and to loiter away his time with associates at the corners of the streets, or in anyway that did not involve anything like steady labour. In short, he was an idle, dissolute person, who married Peggy for what he considered a tolerably large fortune — something that would minister to his abominable gratifications. Peggy’s dowry was, alas ! but a small affair to have tempted any one to destroy her comfort for life. It consisted of about twelve pounds sterling, saved from her half-yearly wages, besides a blue painted trunk containing a tolerable wardrobe, not to speak of a brown silk bonnet with a veil worth five-and-twenty or thirty shillings. All this appeared an inexhaustible mine of wealth to Peter, who was not long in developing his real character. 2 women’s trials in humble life. For two or three weeks all went smoothly on, and he attended pretty regularly to his employment ; but towards the end of the fourth week, his propensities could no longer be restrained. On the pretence of purchasing some articles necessary for their per- sonal comfort, he wheedled Peggy out of the remains of her little savings. He went forth with some seven or eight pounds in his pocket— more riches than he had ever before had in his possession at one time — and did not make his appearance for a fortnight. This was a dreadful blow to Peggy’s expectations of happiness in wedded life. It opened her eyes to the horrors of the condition she had brought herself into ; but it is somehow difficult for a woman all at once to give up her attachment to the object who has gained her affections. A good and discreet wife will submit to a lengthened repetition of contumelies and ill-usage before she can think seriously of parting from a hus- band whom she has vowed to love, cherish, and obey, whatever may be his errors, however great may be his crimes. The idea always predominates in her mind, that his follies are but tem- porary, that he will repent of his misdeeds, and again be the worthy being which she once pictured him to be in her imagi- nation. This is a delusion — a hope that is rarely realised. Few badly-disposed husbands are ever altogether reclaimed, or become better than they have been. Such at least was the case in the present instance. Peggy’s silent tears, and bosom heaving with distress, her pitying and beseeching looks, or her few words of remonstrance, were alike disregarded. In a short space of time her husband abandoned all regular employment, abstracting from her little household any portable article he could carry off* from time to time, to pledge at the nearest pawnbroker’s for an insig- nificant sum, and which he squandered on liquor in the com- pany of his reckless associates. In the meantime want pressed upon the humble dwelling, and Peggy only saved herself from starvation by making her necessities known to some of the families whom she had previously served, and who commiserated her deplorable fate. At length, in the midst of her distresses, she brought an infant into the world, to share in her sufferings, and to call upon her to put forth additional exertions for the family’s support. But for the kindness of a lady who had known her in better days, she must now inevitably have sunk under her calamities ; this benevolent individual, however, interested her- self so far, as to procure some employment for her, for which she expressed her thankfulness in terms of untutored eloquence. Poor Peggy, however, still clung to her home, miserable and desolate as it was ; and still, in the warmth and sincerity of her unfortunately-placed affections, continued to hope that her heart- less husband would see the folly and wickedness of his ways, and would return to her and her child a penitent and reclaimed man. Yain hope ! Idle anticipation ! One evening, as she was sitting by her little carefully-econo- 3 women’s trials in humble life. mised fire nursing- her little one — on whom, to add to her misery, the hand of sickness was pressing* heavily — sometimes reflecting* on the painful contrast which her present and former condition presented, sometimes brooding over disappointed prospects and vanished dreams of happiness, mingled — for when will hope desert us ? — with visions of future felicity, grounded on a fond anticipation of her husband’s amendment — one evening, as we said, while thus employed, she was startled by a loud and bois- terous knocking at the door. Her heart leaped from its place with terror, and in an instant her face grew deadly pale. She knew who it was that knocked — she knew it was her husband; but this, instead of allaying, only served to increase her fears ; for she knew also, from the rudeness with which the wretched man assailed the door, that he was in that state when neither reason nor sympathy can reach the brutalised heart ; she knew that he was intoxicated. The unhappy woman, however, obeyed the ruffian’s summons. She opened the door, and Peter stag- gered into the middle of the apartment. Partly through fear, and partly from a feeling of affection for the lost man, which even his infamous conduct towards her could not entirely sub- due, Peggy addressed him in the language of kindness, and endeavoured to soothe and allay the sullen and ferocious spirit which she saw gleaming in his reeling eye ; for he was not in the last helpless stage of drunkenness, but just so far as to give energy and remorselessness to the demon spirit which the liquor he had swallowed had raised within him. “ Peter,” she said kindly, and making a feeble attempt to smile as she spoke — “ Peter, you’re all wet, my man ; sit down here near the fire,” and she placed a chair for him with one hand, while she sup- ported her child with the other, “ and I’ll put on some more coals,” she went on, “ and bring you dry clothes, and get some supper ready for you, for I’m sure you must be hungry. Poor little Bobby’s very unwell, Peter,” she added. “ I don’t care whether he’s well or ill,” roared out the drunken wretch; u nor do I want clothes from you, nor a supper either! I want money,” he shouted out at the top of his voice ; “ and money I must have ! ” “ Money, Peter ! ” replied the terrified wife in a gentle tone; cc you know I have no money. There’s not a farthing in the house, nor has there been for many a day.” “ Well, though you have no money, you have a shawl, w r hich we can soon turn into money.” Saying’ this, he forthwith went to a chest of drawers, and endeavoured to pull out that in which he knew the article he wanted was deposited; but the drawer was locked. This, however, was but a trifling obstacle. He seized a poker, smashed in the polished mahogany front of the drawer, and in an instant had his prey secured beneath his jacket, and was in the act of leaving the house with it, when his unfortunate wife, having laid her sick child down on the bed for 4 women’s trials in humble life. a moment, flew towards him, flung* her arms about his neck, hurst* into a flood of tears, and imploringly besought him to think of her and her infant’s condition, and not to leave the house, or deprive her of the only remaining piece of decent apparel that was left to her. And what was the reply of the monster to this affecting appeal? His only reply was a violent blow on the breast, by which he stretched his unfortunate wife senseless on the floor ! Having performed this dastardly and villanous feat, he rushed out of the house, hastened to a pawnbroker’s shop, and from thence to the taproom, to rejoin the abandoned asso- ciates whom he had left there, until, as he himself said, he should u raise the wind.” Leaving the heartless ruffian in the midst of the fierce debauch which the basely-acquired means he now possessed enabled him to resume, we return to his miserable wife. Extended on the floor by the hand that ought to have protected her, the unhappy woman lay for a considerable time without either sense or mo- tion, until recalled to consciousness by the piercing cries of her helpless infant, who lay struggling on the bed where she had placed him. But the consequences of the cowardly blow did not terminate with the restoration of her faculties. On the day following, she became alarmed by the acutely painful sensations she felt in the breast on which the ruffian’s blow had alighted. This pain gradually increased from day to day, until it at length became so serious, and exhibited symptoms so alarming, that the unfortunate woman, urged by her neighbours, submitted her case to a surgeon at one of those friendly medical dispensaries which are established in different parts of the town. But it was too late — not, however, to save her life, but to save her from mutilation ; for a dangerous cancer was already at work on her frame. Unwilling to expose her husband, she had delayed too long. Cancer had taken place, and had already made fearful progress in her breast. The surgeon who attended her recommended her instant re- moval to the infirmary, whither she accordingly went ; and in two or three days after she entered that beneficent institution, the unfortunate woman, as the only means of saving her life, was subjected to the appalling operation of having her breast amputated. In six weeks afterwards, Peggy, with a dreadfully shattered constitution and emaciated form, left the infirmary, and returned to her own cold and desolate home, now ten times more desolate than it was before ; for the callous brute, to whom in an evil hour she had united her destiny, instead of soothing her bed of affliction, had availed himself of her absence to strip the house of every article of the smallest value it contained, and with the money thus raised, had continued in an uninterrupted course of dissipation during the whole time of his wife’s confine- ment in the infirmary. During all that time, too, he had never once visited her, or ever once inquired after either her or his women’s trials in humble life. child. His days, and the greater part of his nights likewise, he spent in public-houses, and only visited his home to commit some new act of robbery. When Peggy left the infirmary, her first care was to visit the kind neighbour who had taken charge of her child during her confinement, and it was some alleviation to her misery to find, as she now did, that her little innocent had been carefully tended, and was at that moment in excellent health. But the unfortunate woman was not yet aware of the state of utter deso- lation to which her home had been reduced by her worthless hus- band ; when, therefore, she saw its bare walls, its naked apart- ments, and comfortless hearth, her heart sunk within her, and she wept bitterly. It was now that she felt the full extent of her misery, and saw, with unprejudiced eyes, the melancholy and striking contrast between her present and former condition. She could no longer conceal from herself the appalling fact, that she was now fast verging towards the last stage of destitution, and was absolutely without a morsel of bread. Even hope threatened to desert her, and leave her a prey to a distracted mind and broken spirit. Poor Peggy, however, determined to make yet another effort for the sake of her child, and on his account to endeavour to fight her way a little farther through the world. With this view she sought for, and at length, though not with- out great difficulty, succeeded in obtaining employment as a washerwoman. But here a serious obstacle presented itself. How was she to dispose of her child ? She could not both work and nurse ; yet work she must, or both must inevitably starve. From this painful predicament she extricated herself by deter- mining on putting the child out to nurse, and devoting to its maintenance whatever portion of her little hard-earned gains that duty should demand. Poor Peggy, however, did not come to the resolution which stern necessity imposed upon her, of parting with her infant, without feeling all that a tender and affectionate mother must always feel in taking such a heart- rending step. It is true that she knew she could see her child at any time ; for she resolved that, wheresoever she placed it, it should be near her ; but then she foresaw, also, that she must necessarily be often many hours absent from it, and a mother’s fears pictured to her a thousand accidents which might befall the infant, when she was not near to save or protect it. It was, how- ever, impossible for her to do otherwise with the child than put it out to nurse, and she accordingly began to look out for a suitable person for that duty ; and such a one, at least she thought so, she at length found ; but she did not resign her infant to the charge of this person without having previously made the most minute and strict inquiries regarding her character, and being perfectly satisfied, or at anyrate so far satisfied as the testimon3 r of those who knew the woman could make her; but, as the sequel will show, she was, after all, cruelly deceived, and so women's trials in humble life. probably were those who had spoken to her good name. Having made arrangements with this woman regarding her child, ana having put the latter under her care, Peggy commenced the laborious life to which she was now doomed : for her husband appeared to have wholly deserted her, as he had never looked once near the house after he had completed its spoliation. For about twelve months after this, nothing occurred in Peggy’s obscure and humble life worth recording. She toiled early and late with unwearying assiduity to support herself and her child, and felt a degree of happiness which she had not hoped ever again to enjoy, from the consciousness of being in the discharge of a sacred duty, and from a belief that her infant was sharing in the benefits of her exertions, by receiving all those attentions which the dearly-won earnings she appropriated to its maintenance were meant to procure for it. But at the end of the period above-named, a circumstance occurred which showed how basely and wickedly she was deceived in the latter particular. One day, when washing in a gentleman’s house where she was frequently employed, Peggy, in the temporary absence of the household servants, happened to answer a knock at the door, when a beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, wrapped closely up in a wretched cloak which she wore, pre- sented herself, and solicited charity. Peggy, partly urged by curiosity, and partly by her parental feelings, gently removed the cloak to have a peep of the mendicant’s child ; but what was her amazement, her horror, on discovering that the child was her own ! She uttered a scream of mingled surprise and terror ; distractedly tore her infant from the wretch who had possession of it ; and pressed it to her bosom with an energy and vehemence that seemed to indicate a fear of its being again taken from her. The mendicant in the meantime endeavoured to make her escape, but was seized and conveyed to the police-office upon a charge of child-stealing. From the examination which followed, how- ever, it appeared that the child had not been stolen, but bor- rowed, or rather hired at so much per day, by the infamous woman in whose possession it was found, from the still more in- famous person to whose care it had been confided by its mother ; and it further appeared that the latter wretch had long* been in the practice of letting out poor Peggy’s child in the way just mentioned, which, we need not add, is a method frequently adopted for exciting charity and imposing upon the humane. Peggy of course lost no time in seeking out another guardian for her child, and was at length fortunate enough to find one on whom she could place full reliance. With this person the child remained a twelvemonth, at the end of which period Peggy suc- ceeded, though not without great difficulty and much pleading, in procuring her little boy to be admitted into an orphans’ hospital. During all this time her worthless husband never once looked 7 women’s trials in humble life. near her, or took the smallest interest either in her own fate or that of her child. She indeed for a long time did not know even where he was, or what he was about, but at length heard that he was working in a quarry in the neighbourhood ; and she was soon made aware of his vicinity, by his frequently coming to her in a state of intoxication to demand money of her ; and she was often compelled to give it to him, to prevent him affronting her, or probably depriving her of her employment by his obstreperous conduct. Such torments, however, cannot last for ever. Peter was at length found to be somehow implicated in a drunken scuffle at Cramond, in which one of the parties was deprived of or lost a few shillings. Whether Peter was guilty or not in this affair, is of little consequence. He was seized by a sheriff’s officer, and removed to the county jail at Edinburgh. Up to this point of Peter’s career he had been simply a worthless wretch, and perhaps not past being reclaimed ; but being now lodged in one common receptacle with twenty villains more or less criminal, for a period of about three months previous to trial, he embraced the opportunity of becoming a thoroughly confirmed blackguard. A notorious swindler, who happened to be con- fined in the same ward, acted as instructor in crime to the party, and Peter was a most apt scholar. On his trial, he was not con- victed, and was therefore set at liberty ; but his excellent school- ing in jail soon led him into a desperate affair of housebreaking, for which he was in due time tried and despatched to Botany Bay. In the midst of these troubles and trials, something like better fortune smiled on poor Peggy. A respectable elderly gentleman, a bachelor, to whom she had been warmly recommended by one of the ladies who were in the habit of employing her, took her into his service : and here for two years she found a peaceful and comfortable home : but at the end of this period the old gentleman died, and Peggy was again thrown upon the world, friendless and houseless; and to add to her misfortune, the changes which even a very short period rarely fails to bring about, had, during the two years of her service, effected such alterations in the families by which she was formerly employed, that they were no longer open to her. It is true she had saved a few pounds during her service ; but this sum, she felt, would soon disappear ; and before it was all gone, she fortunately ob- tained some employment in the way of washing shop-floors, three of which she cleaned out at sixpence a-week each, and a writer’s office at a shilling, and this was now pretty nearly all she had to live upon. Inadequate as these means were, Peggy was thankful of them. Half-a-crown, however, was but a miserable sum to live upon for an entire week, to clothe her, feed her, and pay house-rent. It could procure her none of those comforts to which she had been accustomed when in service, and it was a sum on which she 8 women’s trials in humele life. would not then have placed much value : but times were changed with her, and poignantly did she feel this, and bitterly did she regret the unhappy step which had at once taken her from a comfortable and happy position, and plunged her into that miser}^ with which she was now struggling. As she thought on these things, poor Peggy’s heart sunk within her, and she began to despair of ever again enjoying happiness in this world. Reflections such as these preyed so much on the unfortunate woman’s mind, as nearly to unfit her for the little work she had to do, and threatened to lay her on a bed of sickness ; and added to all this, what a change had taken place in her personal appearance ! Her once neat and well-shaped form was now thin and emaciated : her dress, though still clean and tidy, bore but too evident indications of the extreme poverty which had over- taken her; and her once ruddy and cheerful countenance was pale, haggard, and deeply marked with the grave melancholy lines of thought. No one, in short, could now have known the once pretty Peggy — the little, lively, handsome servant girl. But although poor Peggy had now begun to despair of ever being better, Providence had not deserted her. On passing through the market-place of the city on a day when it is frequented by people from the country, Peggy was suddenly accosted by a decent elderly man in such a dress as is generally worn by the smaller order of farmers. This person was Peggy’s uncle. He was in easy circumstances, but having been highly displeased with his niece’s marriage (against which he had remonstrated in vain), in consequence of his having heard very unfavourable but too well-founded reports regarding the character and habits of her husband, he had withdrawn his countenance from her, and she, aware of this, had never once thought of seeking* his assistance in her distress. Although of a somewhat stern temper, Peggy’s uncle was yet a worthy and kind-hearted man, and his unfortunate niece’s sadly altered ap- pearance, w r hich his keen eye at once detected on thus acciden- tally meeting her, instantly excited his sympathy, and banished all his resentment, and determined him in the step he now took. “ How are ye, Peggy ? ” said the old man, taking her by the hand, and looking earnestly but kindly in her pale ema- ciated face. “ Dear me, lassie,” he went on, “ what’s the matter wi’ ye ? Ye’re sairly changed sin’ I saw you last ; ye’re no like the same woman. Are ye well enough?” Peggy made no reply, but burst into tears. “ Come aw r ay, lassie,” said her uncle ; “ this is no a place for giein’ vent to feelings o’ that kind; come in by here, and tak some kind o’ refreshment, and we’ll speak owre things at leisure, and away frae the public eye.” Saying this, he led Peggy into an adjoining public- house, and there learnt the whole story of her w T edded life. The old man’s feelings gave way before the recital of the humble but affecting tale ; a tear started into his eye ; he took women’s trials in humble life. Peggy by the hand, and told her that his house was open to her whenever she chose to enter it ; and added, that he thought, under all the circumstances, the sooner she did this the better. In short, before the uncle and niece parted, it was fixed that Peggy should, on the very next day, repair to Braefoot, her uncle’s farm; which she accordingly did; and as he was a widower, and without any daughters of his own, she soon showed herself to be worthy of all the kindness shown her by her relative, by the activity she displayed in the superintendence of his dairy and household affairs, of which she obtained the sole and uncontrolled management, and thus once more found herself in the enjoyment of comfort, and of, at least, comparative happiness. With a due consideration for her maternal feelings, as well as for the u credit of the family,” Peggy’s uncle speedily removed her child from the charitable institution in which he had been placed, and brought him home to his own house, greatly to the delight both of mother and son. Only one cankering care now preyed on Peggy’s mind, and that arose from the possibility of her husband returning to his native country to blight her pro- spect of future quietude. Even from this unlikely occurrence, however, she was at length happily relieved, by intelligence of Peter’s death. For repeated misdemeanours in the family of a respectable settler near Sidney, he underwent summary trans- portation to the penal settlement at Macquarrie’s Harbour. Here, among a gang of desperate felons, loaded with chains, and labouring ten hours a-day to the knees in water, he was not long in sinking under the effects of a broken moral and physical constitution. The report of her husband’s unhappy death was not unfelt or unwept by our humble heroine, but the load of uneasi- ness which was now removed from her mind, soon led her to be grateful for the relief ; and she was with little difficulty brought to agree with her uncle and the sympathising neighbours around, that her loss was, on the whole, “ a light dispensation.” Such is the story of Peggy Dickson ; but let it be recollected by those of her class who may read it, that while all of them are liable to the miseries which she endured, by entering into a rash and inconsiderate marriage, few have such an uncle to rescue them from the last consequences of that unhappy step as she had the good fortune to be blessed with. STORY OF ISBEL LUCAS. A number of years ago, a woman of the name of Isbel Lucas kept a small lodging-house in the southern suburbs of Edin- burgh. She was the daughter of a respectable teacher in the city, who, at his death, had bequeathed to her, as his sole sur- 10 women’s trials in humble life. viving relation, about three hundred pounds, together with the furniture of a house. The latter part of the legacy suggested to her the propriety of endeavouring to support herself by keep- ing lodgings, while the part which consisted in money promised to stand effectually between her and all the mischances that could be expected to befall her in such a walk of life. She accordingly, for several years, let one or two rooms to students and other persons, and thus contrived to live very decently, without trenching upon her little capital, till at length she attained the discreet age of two-and-forty. Isbel had at no period of life been a beauty. She had an iron-gray complexion, and a cast of features bespeaking rather strength of character than feminine grace. She was now less a beauty than ever, and for years had tacitly acknowledged her sense of the fact, by abandoning all those modes and materials of dress which women wear so long as they have any thoughts of matrimony. Where, however, is the woman at that, or any more juvenile period of life, in whose bosom the spark of love lies dead beyond recall ? If any such there be, Isbel’s was not of the number. Among her lodgers was an individual of the name of Fordyne, who kept a grocer’s shop of an inferior order in the neighbour- hood. This person gave himself out for a native of the Isle of Man, and stated that he had made a little money as mess-man to a militia regiment, by which he had been enabled to set up in business. He w'as a large, dark, coarse man, of about five-and- thirty, with a somewhat unpromising cast of face, and a slight twist in his left eye. Fordyne seemed to be a man of great in- dustry and application, and used to speak of his circumstances as agreeable in every respect, except that he wanted a wife. This, he said, was a great want. There were many things about his shop which no one but a female could properly attend to. Without such a helpmate, things were continually going w T rong ; but with her, all would go right. One point, however, he must be clear about: she who should be his wife would require to bring something with her, to add to his stock, and buy the necessary house-furniture. He cared little about good looks, if there was good sense ; and indeed a woman of some experience in the world would answer his purpose best. Honest Isbel began in a little while to turn all these matters in her mind. She one day took a steady look at Fordyne, and discovered that he had a good upright carriage of body, and that though his mouth was of the largest, yet his teeth were among the best she had ever seen. Next time she visited his shop, she took a glance at the room behind, and found that it had a nice out-look upon Salisbury Crags. Fordyne, observing that she glanced into his back-shop, invited her to come in and see what a fine house hn had, for such in reality it was, though unfurnished. Isbel very quickly saw that there was one capital n women’s trials in humble life. bedroom, a parlour, a kitchen, and a vast variety of closets, where things could be “put off one’s hand.” One press, Mr Fordyne showed, was already furnished, being tenanted by a huge dram-bottle, and a server full of shortbread, which, he said, had been lately required to treat his customers, on account of the New-Year. Of this he made Isbel a partaker, drinking in his turn to her good health, and a good man to her before the next recurrence of the season. This exchange of compliments did not take place without some effect. Isbel ascended the stair in a kind of reverie, and found herself entering the next door above, instead of her own, before she was aware. In a month there- after the two were married. Three days after the nuptials, Mrs Fordyne was sitting in her little parlour, waiting supper for her husband, and reflecting on the step she was about to take next day — namely, the transference of her household furniture to the apartments behind Fordyne’s shop, and the surrender of her little fortune into his hands. Her eye happened, in the course of her cogitations, to wander to a portrait of her father, which hung opposite ; and as she gazed on it, she could hardly help thinking that its naturally stern and even sour features assumed an expression still sterner and sourer. No doubt this was the mere effect of some inward pleading of conscience, for she could not but acknowledge secretly to herself that the step she had taken was not of that kind which her parent would have approved. She withdrew her eyes with a disturbed mind, and again looked musingly towards the fire, when she thought she heard the outer door open, and a person come in. At first she supposed that this must be her husband, and she began, therefore, to transfer the supper from the fire to the table. On listening, however, she heard that the footsteps were accompanied by the sound of a walking -cane, which assured her that it could not be Fordyne. She stood for a minute motionless and silent, and distinctly heard the sound as of an old man walking along the passage with a stick — sounds which at once brought to her recollection her departed father. She sunk into her chair; the sounds died away in the distance; and almost at that minute her husband came in to cheer her, calling to the servant as he passed, in his loud and boisterous way, that she had stupidly left the outer door open. Though Isbel Lucas had committed a very imprudent action, in marrying a man who was a perfect stranger to her, neverthe- less the predominating feature of her mind was prudence. The impressions just made upon her senses were of a very agitating nature ; yet knowing that it was too late to act upon them, she ■concealed her emotions. There could be no doubt that she had received what in her native country is called a “ warning’ ; ” yet ■conceiving that her best course was to go on, and betray no sus- picion, she never faltered in any of her promises to her husband. She was next day installed in Mr Fordyne’s own house, to whom, 12 women’s trials in humble life. in return, she committed a sum rather above four hundred pounds ; for to that extent had she increased her stock in the course of her late employment. For some time matters proceeded very well. Her husband professed to lay out part of her money upon those goods which he had formerly represented himself as unable to buy. His habits of application were rather increased than diminished, and a few customers of a more respectable kind than any he had hitherto had began to frequent the shop, being drawn thither in consideration of his wife. Among the new articles he dealt in was whisky, which he bought in large quantities from the distil- lers, and sold wholesale to a number of the neighbouring dealers. By and by this branch of his trade seemed to outgrow all the rest, and he found himself occasionally obliged to pay visits to the places where the liquor was manufactured, in order to purchase it at the greatest advantage. His wife in a little while became accustomed to his absence for a day or two at a time, and having every reason to believe that his affairs were in a very prosperous state, began to forget all her former mis- givings. On one occasion he left her on what he described as a circuit of the Highland distilleries, intending, he said, to be absent for at least a week, and carrying with him money to the amount of nearly a thousand pounds, which he said he would probably spend upon whisky before he came back. Nothing that could awaken the least suspicion occurred at their parting ; but next day, while his wife superintended matters in the shop, she was surprised when a large bill was presented, for which he had made no provision. On inspecting it, she was still further sur- prised to find that it referred to a transaction which she under- stood at the time to be a ready-money one. Having dismissed the presenter of the bill, she lost no time in repairing to the counting-house of a large commission-house in Leith, with which she knew her husband to have had large transactions. There, on making some indirect inquiries, she found that his purchases, instead of being entirely for ready money, as he had represented to her, were mostly paid by bills, some of which were on the point of becoming due. It was now but too apparent that the unprincipled man had taken his final leave of her and his creditors, bearing with him all the spoil that his ingenuity could collect. Isbel Lucas was not a person to sit down in idle despair on such an event. She was a steady Scotchwoman, with a stout heart for a difficulty ; and her resolution was soon taken. She instantly proceeded to the Glasgow coach-offices, and ascertained, as she expected, that a man answering to the description of her husband had taken a place for that city the day before. The small quantity of money that had been collected in the shop since his departure she put into her pocket ; the shop she com- women’s trials in humble life. mitted to the porter and her old servant Jenny; and having* made up a small bundle of extra clothes, she set off by the coach to Glasgow. On alighting in the Trongate, the first person she saw was a female friend from Edinburgh, who asked, with sur- prise, how she and her husband happened to be travelling at the same time. u Why do you ask that question ?” asked Isbel. u Because,” replied the other, “ I shook hands with Mr Eordyne yesterday, as he was going* on board the Isle of Man steamboat at the Broomielaw.” This was enough for Isbel. She imme- diately ascertained the time when the Isle of Man steamboat would next sail, and, to her great joy, found that she would not be two days later than her husband in reaching the island. On landing in proper time at Douglas, in Man, she found her purse almost empty ; but her desperate circumstances made her resolve to prosecute the search, though she should have to beg her way back. It was morning when she landed at Douglas. The whole forenoon she spent in wandering about the streets, in the hope of encountering her faithless husband, and in inquiring after him at the inns. At length she satisfied herself that he must have left the town that very day for a remote part of the island, and on foot. She immediately set out upon the same road, and with the same means of conveyance, determined to sink with fatigue, or subject herself to any kind of danger, rather than return without her object. At first the road passed over a moorish part of the country ; but after proceeding several miles, it began to border on the sea, in some places edging on the precipices which overhung the shore, and at others winding into deep recesses of the country. At length, on coming to the opening of a long reach of the road, she saw a figure, which she took for that of her husband, just disappearing at the opposite extremity. Im- mediately gathering fresh strength, she pushed briskly on, and after an hour’s toilsome march, had the satisfaction, on turning a projection, to find her husband sitting right before her on a stone. Eordyne was certainly very much surprised at her appearance, which was totally unexpected ; but he soon recovered his com- posure. He met her with more than even usual kindness, as if concerned at her having thought proper to perform so toilsome a journey. He hastened to explain that some information he had received at Glasgow respecting the dangerous state of his mother, had induced him to make a start out of his way to see her, after which he would immediately return. It was then his turn to ask explanations from her; but this subject he pressed very lightly ; and, for her part, she hardly dared, in this lonely place, to avow the suspicions which had induced her to undertake the journey. a It is all very well,” said Fordyne, with affected complaisance ; u you’ll just go forward with me to my mother’s house, and she will be the better pleased to see me since I bring women’s trials in humble life. you witli me.” Isbel, smothering her real feelings, agreed to do this, though it may well be supposed that, after what he had already done, and considering the wild place in which she was, she must have entertained no comfortable prospect of her night’s adventures. On, then, they walked, in the dusk of fast-approach- ing night, through a country which seemed to be destitute alike of houses and inhabitants, and where the universal stillness was hardly ever broken by the sound of any animal, wild or tame. The road, as formerly, was partly on the edge of a sea- worn precipice, over which a victim might be dashed in a moment, with hardly the least chance of ever being more seen or heard of, and partly in the recesses of a rugged country, in whose pathless wildernesses the work of murder might be almost as securely effected. Isbel Lucas, knowing how much reason her husband had to wish her out of this world, was fully alive to the dangers of her path, and at every place that seemed more con- venient than another for such a work, regarded him, even in the midst of a civil conversation, with the watchful eye off one who dreads the spring of the tiger from every brake. She contrived to keep upon the side of the road most remote from the precipices, and carried in her pocket an unclasped penknife, though almost hopeless that her womanly nerves would support her in any effort to use it. Thus did they walk on for several miles, till at length, all of a sudden, Fordyne started off the road, and was instantly lost in a wild, tortuous ravine. This event was so different from any which she had feared, that for a moment Isbel stood motion- less with surprise. Another moment, however, sufficed to make up her mind as to her future course, and she immediately plunged into the defile, following as nearly as possible in the direction which the fugitive appeared to have taken. On, on she toiled, through thick entangling bushes, and over much soft and mossy ground, her limbs every moment threatening to sink beneath her with fatigue, which they would certainly have done very speedily, if the desperate anxieties which filled her mind had not rendered her in a great measure insensible to the languor of her body. It at length became a more pressing object with her to find some place where she could be sheltered for the night, than to follow in so hopeless a pursuit ; and she therefore experienced great joy on perceiving a light at a little distance. As she approached the place whence this seemed to proceed, she dis- covered a cottage, whence she could hear the sounds of singing and dancing. With great caution she drew near to the window through which the light was glancing, and there, peeping* into the apartment, she saw her husband capering in furious mirth amidst a set of coarse peasant-like individuals, mingled with a few who bore all the appearance of sea-smugglers. An old woman, of most unamiable aspect, sat by the fireside, occasion- ally giving orders for the preparation of food, and now and then addressing a complimentary expression to Fordyne, whom Isbel women’s trials in humble life. therefore guessed to be her son. After the party seemed to have become quite tired of dancing, they sat down to a rude but plenteous repast ; and after that was concluded, the whole party addressed themselves to repose. Some retired into an apartment at the opposite end of the house ; but most stretched themselves on straw, which lay in various corners of the room in which they had been feasting. The single bed which stood in this apart- ment was appropriated to Fordyne, apparently on account of his being the most important individual of the party ; and he there- fore continued under the unsuspected observation of his wife till he had consigned himself to repose. Previous to doing so, she observed him place something with great caution beneath his pillow. For another hour Isbel stood at the window, inspecting the interior of the house, which was now lighted very imperfectly by the expiring tire. At length, when every recumbent figure seemed to have become bound securely in sleep, she first uttered one brief, but fervent and emphatic prayer, and then undid the loose fastening of the door, and glided into the apartment. Care- fully avoiding the straw pallets which lay stretched around, she approached the bed whereon lay the treacherous Fordyne, and slowly and softly withdrew his large pocket-book from beneath the pillow. To her inexpressible joy she succeeded in executing this manoeuvre without giving him the least disturbance. Grasp- ing the book fast in one hand, she piloted her way back with the other, and in a few seconds had regained the exterior of the cottage. As she had expected, she found the large sum which For- dyne had taken away nearly entire. Transferring the precious parcel to her bosom, she set forward instantly upon a pathway which led from the cottage, apparently in the direction of Douglas. This she pursued a little way, till she regained the road she had formerly left, along which she immediately pro- ceeded with all possible haste. Fortunately, she had not ad- vanced far, when a peasant came up behind her in an empty cart, and readily consented to give her a lift for a few miles. By means of this help she reached Douglas at an early hour in the morning, where, finding a steamboat just ready to sail, she im- mediately embarked, and was soon beyond all danger from her husband. The intrepid Isbel Lucas returned in a few days to Edinburgh, with a sufficient sum to satisfy all her husband’s creditors, and enough over to set her up once more in her former way of life. She was never again troubled with the wretch Fordyne, who, a few years afterwards she had the satisfaction of hearing had died a natural death of an epidemic fever in the bridewell of Tralee, in Ireland. 36 women’s trials in humble life. STORY OF NELL FORSYTH. Nell Forsyth was in our young days a handsome and good-looking lass, who acted as only servant to a small family in a country town, and was well known beyond the circle of her master’s home for her discreet and steady character. Like all other lasses, Nell had had sweethearts of various orders; but it did not happen that she came within the danger of matri- mony with any of them till about her thirtieth year. She was then courted by a man named Smail, who had recently inherited a little property, and though of vulgar manners and appearance, was looked upon by individuals in Nell’s rank of life as a rather eligible match. This man had not been remarkable in his early years for industry, or good conduct of any kind. While it was generally admitted that his prospects were such as to have entitled him to enter into society a little higher than that in which he had been reared by his parents, he coveted rather the distinction which his little patrimony of old houses gave him in the eyes of those who had no such advantages, and liked nothing so much as to sit smoking and drinking for whole evenings with low wretches, who, in addressing* him, would use the term “ laird,” and, for the sake of a free share in his base indulgences, did not scruple to applaud everything he said as the height of wisdom. When it was understood that Laird Smail was to get Nell For- syth, the general feeling was that Nell was a fortunate lass ; but one or two, who reflected more deeply, expressed their dissent from that conclusion. Smail, they allowed, had almost enough to support him without work ; but then his habits were not good ; and if he should run in debt, and require to sell any part of his property, as was by no means unlikely, there was little reason to expect that he should be able to supply the deficiency by his labour. Nell, they thought, though apparently the humbler of the parties at present, was likely to be the soonest to complain of the bargain. Nell, who in this alliance had rather yielded to the advices of a few ordinary-minded relations than acted from her own good sense, soon found that five or six old thatched cottages, producing a rent of from two to four pounds each, were but a poor compen- sation for the decent behaviour which was wanting in her hus- band. The very second evening of his married life he spent in a low hovel in the neighbourhood, with a few coarse companions, from whom he did not part till near midnight. It may be con- ceived with what feelings poor Nell saw the maudlin wretch enter the home which she had that night spent two hours in bur- nishing and arranging for his comfort. There are many erring natures which it is possible to correct, many uncultivated natures which may be improved, and a vast number which are neither particularly good nor particularly bad, and to which the wife may, 17 women’s trials in humble life. without great difficulty, accommodate herself. But with a truly low and ungenerous nature, all the feminine merits on earth are of no avail. Such was Smail’s. The man was utterly incapable of feeling 1 that he was doing wrong ; he could neither perceive nor appreciate the force of his wife’s remonstrances ; he neither cared for her love nor for her anger. “ Will you speak to me?” such was his answer to every rebuke ; u you who had nothing, and whom I have made a lady ! You are the last person on earth that should complain.” He seemed to think that gratitude for his having married her was the only sentiment she was entitled to entertain. Not long after his marriage, the branch of manufacture in which Smail had been engaged began to decline, and he deemed it expedient to enter into trade. He therefore converted his pro- perty into about four hundred pounds of ready money, and set up a grocery shop and public-house. For this line of life his wife was well qualified ; and if success had depended upon her alone, it would have been certain. Smail, however, marred all by his irregular and absurd habits. He only appeared in the shop to give offence to customers, to consume, to break, and to spoil. Into every festive company he would intrude, whether the indi- viduals might be above or beneath him ; and all alike he dis- pleased by his behaviour. It soon became almost the sole business of the wife to keep her husband from doing harm ; and not- withstanding all her exertions, much, it may well be believed, was done. He delighted in her occasional in-lyings, for then, without the least feeling for her situation, he would indulge for a week in unrestrained debauchery ; while “ the lass,” the only surviving minister of good, would vainly endeavour to keep matters square in the shop, and at the same time pay some attention to her mistress. To every complaint, his only answer was, “ What ! isn’t it all mine — all my property ? Didn’t I make you Mrs Smail, Nelly?” The monster had fixed the idea in his mind that his half-dozen old houses, inherited from an indus- trious father, had given him a perpetual immunity from all labour, as well as all control ; and nothing could convince him of the contrary. Even when ruin came, and the whole proceeds of u the property ” were found dissipated, he had the hardihood to tell his forlorn wife that she was well off in having connected herself with a man so much superior to herself in station. He had been “ the laird,” he said, and nothing could divest him of the title, or her of the respectability of being his wife. With the wrecks of their little stock, and some small assistance from Nelly’s friends, they removed to a small village a few miles off, and commenced the same line of business in a humbler way. Smail was full of promises of well-doing. He was to work at whatever came in his way, while his wife should attend to the business. He would also make all her markets. As for his drinking any more, that was entirely out of the question. He women’s trials in humble life. had hitherto been led away solely by his acquaintances ; and as he had none at the place where they were to set up, he would be quite free from temptation. In fact, taking* everything* into account, they would be better now than ever. The place was on a much frequented road, and he should not wonder but they would do more business there than even in a town. The fellow had a sanguine way of looking at things, and a plausible, boasting man- ner of speaking of them, which was very apt to impose on those who did not know him well. Nell was quite aware of his tempe- rament, but nevertheless could not help encouraging a hope that poverty would work some change in him for the better. What- ever might have been her thoughts, she knew that there was no alternative. She already had four children, who, wanting her protection, would have wanted everything ; and for their sake she felt that she must still struggle on, let her husband behave as he might. For a short time Smail did seem a little steadier in his new situation. As soon, however, as the first difficulties were over, he grew as bad as ever. Old acquaintances found him out, and he was at no loss in forming new ones. Even the passing vagrant found a friend in Laird Smail. It was, by the way, one of his peculiarities, that he liked the company of vagrants. Under the pretence of studying men and manners, he would descend to the society of the most vicious, and many a person whom others would have passed by as an outcast wretch, he respected as “ a man who had seen something of the world,” and would entertain gratuitously with the best he had. “ They often cheat me,” he would say carelessly ; “ but then it is always seeing life.” The man was, upon the whole, more absurd than wicked, and his principal faults seemed to arise from a kind of intellectual imperfection, which prevented him from seeing his duty to his family anil to the world. Even when his wife was working like a slave amidst a complication of household and mercantile duties almost sufficient to overturn her reason, he — who was sitting coolly all the time with his tankard, enjoying a newspaper or a friend — would remark, in reply to any complaint she might make, “ Nelly, you know I am the head of the concern. I think for you, you know. You’re a very active woman ; but it would be all in vain, if you had not some one to plan for you. You can sell ; but it is I who buy, lass. I meet with the merchants, you know.” “ Ay,” she would remark — for the poor woman was not above making a tart reply — “you like to get among the samples — fient else you’re fit for.” “Nelly,” he would say quietly, “you are very wrong to disrespect the head of the concern. This gentleman here” — and here he would turn to his crony, perhaps a poor travelling Irish labourer — “ this gentleman here will tell you that, without the head, the hands — that’s yourself— are useless.” J9 women’s trials in humble life. “ Tut, sit about till I put on the pot,” she would say, “ or faith the hands will come owre the head wi’ the ern tangs ! ” Such violence on Nelly’s part may seem derogatory to her character, and take away some of the sympathy which would otherwise be felt for her situation. If we were to pursue the usual practice in fictitious writing, we would represent her all submis- sion and gentleness, while her husband was all wickedness. In the actual world, however, characters are invariably found com- posed of many various and perhaps hardly consistent properties. Nelly was a most worthy, respectable, assiduous woman, devoted to the interests of her children, and who executed every duty of life in a creditable manner; but her temper had been broken a. good deal by her husband’s conduct and its consequences — and no result could be more natural. A constant mild submission to a series of harrowing wrongs and troubles was not to be ex- pected of a woman of her education and habits. The Smails spent several years in this situation, without mak- ing matters any better. Their debts grew larger, their family more numerous, the habits of the father more indolent and self- indulgent. Nelly’s heart was almost broken. “Oh, ma’am,” said she one day to a lady who took some interest in her circum- stances, “I daresay, if it werena for the bairns, I would just lie down at some dike-side and die. Mony a time, when I gang to rest, I wish that I may ne’er waken again ; but yet when I do waken, and hear their little voices spunking up in the morning about me, this ane for a piece, and that ane for his claes, and another ane, maybe, gaun yoving and lauchin through the house wi’ mere senselessness, I just get up and begin again, and think nae mair about it.” They at length lost their license, through, the ill-will of a neighbouring gentleman, who had seen Smail carrying the bag for a shooting customer, and enjoying the sport with too much of the appearance of a practised relish. Hereupon their creditors, finding there was to be no more traffic, seized upon their furniture and stock, and sold off the whole by auction, leaving them with seven helpless children to seek a new habitation. They took the course which is generally pursued by destitute and ruined people — they hid themselves and their shame in one of the dens of the neighbouring city. Smail commenced labour at a public work, but soon tired and withdrew. The mother was then compelled to come forward once more as the breadwinner. By the recommendations of some individuals who knew her, she obtained employment in washing. She also got her eldest son, as yet a very tiny creature, hired as an errand-boy at a small salary, the whole of which he brought every week, and placed in his mother’s lap. For another series of years she persevered in this course of life, suffering incon- ceivable hardships of almost every kind, and daily struggling, whether well or ill, through a quantity of hired labour and do- mestic drudgery, under which the strongest constitution might women’s trials in humble life. have been expected to sink. Smail would occasionally work a little, but he invariably spent his earnings on the indulgence of his own base tastes. Nelly made many ingenious attempts to wile a little of his money from him, but seldom with any con- siderable success. She had instructed one of her children, who was a favourite with him, to watch his movements on the pay- day, and try to save a little from the general wreck. This child would follow him to all his haunts, and use every kind of expedient that could be devised for bringing him home with a pocket not altogether exhausted. The little shivering creature was heard one night saying to him — and it was the pure lan- guage of nature — “ Oh, father, get fou as fast as you can, and come away, for mammy will be wearying for ye!” Nothing, however, could melt the hardened heart of this man. His selfish and uncontrollable desire for exciting liquors had deadened every good feeling within him, if any such ever existed. He could, without the slightest sympathy, see his wife work sixteen hours a-day within a week of her confinement. If a shilling of his own gaining could have spared her the necessity of such exertion, it would not have been given — to the tavern it must go. She, on one occasion of exigency, was obliged to employ him on an errand for some medicine, which was necessary for herself ; and instead of hastening back with what was wanted, as it is to be hoped the most of husbands would have done, he spent the money on the gratification of his own base appetite, and did not reappear till next day. Under every humiliation, and though living the life of a very dog, or worse, he would still talk loftily of his house, his wife, and his children ; and still he kept up his visionary title of “ the laird.” He would take his seat as majes- tically at a meal as if he had provided it himself ; and if any- thing of an irritating nature was said by his wife, he would, with one sweep of his arm, drive every article that stood upon the table into the fire. This he esteemed a grand discovery for the exaction of civility, and no consideration of the deplorable poverty of his household could prevent him on any occasion from putting' it in practice. One of the very few things which the unfortunate woman had saved from the last wreck of her household was a hen, which she designated Peggy Walker, out of respect for the person who had given it to her. Peg'gy was a remarkably decent, orderly, motherly-looking hen, of uncommon size, and so very good a layer , that for whole seasons she would produce one egg a-day, and on some occasions two. Even in the straightened purlieus of a low suburb, Peggy found it possible to pick up a livelihood : the neighbours indeed had a kind of respect for the creature. They knew of what service she was to Mrs Smail, in enabling her to support her family, and not only would abstain from hurting or persecuting her, but would throw many crumbs in her way, which they could not well spare. It was seldom that Pegary 21 women’s trials in humble life. Walker did not contribute a shilling 1 in the fortnight to the poor family who owned her ; and the value of a fortnightly shillings in such a case, who can estimate ! Many a time did Nelly acknowledge that, if it were not for “ that dumb creature,” she did not know what would come of her family ; for it was almost the only source of income upon which she could depend. The laird was one day on the ramble, as he called it, with some -of those low abandoned acquaintances in whom he took so much delight. The party had exhausted all their pecuniary resources, but not their appetite for that base fluid upon which they fed their own destruction. Already they were a sixpence short of the reckoning, and till that was settled, the landlord told them peremptorily they could get no more. What was to be done ? “ I say, laird,” quoth one of the wretches, “ haven’t you a fine chucky at hame ? What’s to hinder you to thraw its neck and sell’t in the market there ? Ye’ll get at least eighteenpence for’t. That wad answer finely.” “What! Peggy Walker?” said Smail, not relishing the idea much at first. “ Man, the gmdewife wad never stand that — it . w r ad break her very heart.” “ Gae wa’ ? ” said the other ; “ aren’t ye master ? isn’t the hen yours ? ” “ Oh yes, everything’s mine,” cried the tipsy fool. “ Nelly must not get everything her ov/n way. Od, I’ll do it.” And away he went, seized the meritorious Peggy as she was stalk- ing in her usual quiet respectable manner up the close, and in half an hour rejoined his companions, having sacrificed, for another hour of infamous enjoyment, what would have helped, for years to come, to put bread into the mouths of his children. The loss of Peggy Walker was a severe blow to Nelly, but it was nothing to another tragedy which soon after took place. During one of Smail’s rambles, and after he had been absent for rather more than a week, his favourite child, the youngest but one, was seized with a severe illness, under which he quickly sunk, notwithstanding all the exertions of the mother. This fair-haired child was the first that Nelly had ever lost, and not- withstanding the distressing number of her family, she could not see him stretched out in the miserable bed where he had died, without the usual bitterness of a bereaved mother’s grief. It was not her least distress, however, that her husband was absent, and would neither see his darling before the interment, nor render the assistance in that ceremony which was so nearly indispensable. A poor sick joiner, who lived next door, rose out of his bed to make a coffin, which he gave her upon credit — for he was poor. The gravedigger required his fee, but she con- trived to obtain it. A sum would have also been necessary to hire a man to carry the infant to the grave ; but this she could not furnish. She was therefore obliged, after dressing herself in something like mournings, to take the coffin in her apron, and, 22 women’s trials in humble life. with fainting steps, proceed with it through the crowded streets of the city towards the place of sepulture. Many an eye turned with wonder to follow her, as she pursued her melancholy walk — for in Scotland women are never seen in funereal matters — but the bustle of a large city teaches the eye to treat every extra- ordinary thing with only a transient curiosity. No one inter- fered to help her, or to procure her help. She passed on with the coffin in her lap and the tear in her eye, and laid her child in a grave where none was present besides herself and the sex- ton, to do honour to the common form of humanity, as it was consigned to kindred dust. When the mournful duty was done, she was seen returning through the same crowded streets, bear- ing, amongst the figures of the gay and unreflecting, as sad a heart as ever beat in mortal bosom. Three days after the burial Smail came home — quite sober, for a wonder — and had no sooner sat down, than he called as usual for his darling son. “ Where is the dear boy ? Bring my sweet Harry ! ” such were his exclamations ; and the rest of the chil- dren stood aghast at what they saw and heard. “ Dinna tak the name o’ the deid, Johnie,” said his wife at length ; “your Harry is lying in the kirkyard, puir lammie, these three days past/’ Smail, who at the same time saw confirmation of the words in the black ribbon, she wore in her cap, and in the tear which was beginning to glisten in her eye, was struck speechless by the in- telligence. He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly, while his wife, in as gentle terms as possible, related the circum- stances of the child’s death. From that day he was an altered man. He sat pining by the fireside, apparently without an aim in life, or a power of action, only now and then asking his eldest daughter to read a “ chapter ” to him — it is needless to say out of what book. He survived his child little more than a month, and truly was his death described by a neighbour as “ a light dis- pensation.” When relieved from the oppression of her husband, Nelly became comparatively prosperous. By dint of incredible exer- tions, she gathered enough to buy a mangle, and furnish a room as a lodging for a single man ; in both of which concerns she was successful to admiration. Her children also, as they grew up, got into employment, and contributed to their own and her support. Nothing, however, can compensate the twenty prime years of her life spent in utter misery, or repair the damage which sorrow and poverty have wrought upon her frame. She is evidently one of those beings — alas, how numberless are they ! — who seem born only to the worst that life can give, who spend the whole of their days in bearing ills through and for others, and are unusually blest if they can only find a little quiet space at last, to enable them to prepare for another, and, it is to be hoped, a happier state of existence. 23 women’s trials in humble life. JERRY GUTTRIDGE, A TALE OF THE EARLY AMERICAN SETTLEMENTS.* “ What shall we have for dinner, Mr Guttridge?” said the wife of Jerry Guttridge in a sad, desponding tone, as her husband came into the log hovel from a neighbouring grog-shop about twelve o’clock on a hot July day. “ Oh, pick up something,” said Jerry; “ and I wish you would be spry and get it ready, for I’m hungry now, and I want to go back to the shop ; for Sam Willard and Seth Harmon are coming over by an’ by to swap horses, and they’ll want me to ride ’em. Come, stir round : I can’t wait.” a We haven’t got anything at all in the house to eat,” said Mrs Guttridge. “ What shall I get?” “ Well, cook something,” said Jerry ; “ no matter what it is.” “ But, Mr Guttridge, we haven’t got the least thing in the house to cook.” “ Well, well, pick up something ,” said Jerry rather snappishly, “ for I’m in a hurry.” “ I can’t make victuals out of nothing,” said the wife : “ if you’ll only bring anything in the world into the house to cook, I’ll cook it. But I tell you we haven’t got a mouthful of meat in the house, nor a mouthful of bread, nor a speck of meal ; and the last potatoes we had in the house we ate for breakfast ; and you know we didn’t have more than half enough for breakfast neither.” “ Well, what have you been doing all this forenoon,” said Jerry, “that you haven’t picked up something? Why didn’t you go over to Mr Whitman’s and borrow some meal ?” “ Because,” said Mrs Guttridge, “ we’ve borrowed meal there three times that isn’t returned yet ; and I was ashamed to go again till that was paid. And besides, the baby’s cried so, I’ve had to ’tend him the whole forenoon, and couldn’t go out.” “Then you a’n’t a-goin’ to give us any dinner, are you?” said Jerry with a reproachful tone and look. “ I pity the man that has a helpless, shiftless wife ; he has a hard row to hoe. What’s become of that fish I brought in yesterday ?” “ Why, Mr Guttridge,” said his wife with tears in her eyes, “ you and the children ate that fish for your supper last night. I never tasted a morsel of it, and haven’t tasted anything but potatoes these two days ; and I’m so faint now, I can hardly stand.” * This lialf-serious half-comic tale appeared in the Knickerbocker, an American monthly magazine, for May 1839. Slightly abridged, we have thought that it will form an appropriate conclusion to the subject of the present sheet — sufferings from imprudent marriages. 24 women’s trials in humble life. “ Always a-grumblin’,” said Jerry; “ I can’t never come into the house but what I must hear a fuss about something or other. What’s this boy snivelling about?” he continued, turning to little Bobby, his oldest boy — a little ragged, dirty-faced, sickly- looking thing, about six years old — at the same time giving the child a box on the ear, which laid him at his length on the floor. “Now get up!” said Jerry, “ or I’ll learn you to be crying about all day for nothing.” The tears rolled afresh down the cheeks of Mrs Guttridge; she sighed heavily as she raised the child from the floor, and seated him on a bench on the opposite side of the room. “ What is Bob crying about?” said Jerry fretfully. “ Why, Mr Guttridge,” said his wife, sinking upon the bench beside her little boy, and wiping his tears with her apron, “ the poor child has been crying for a piece of bread these two hours. He’s ate nothin’ to-day but one potato, and I s’pose the poor thing is half-starved.” At this moment their neighbour, Mr Nat. Frier, a substantial farmer, and a worthy man, made his appearance at the door, and as it was wide open, he walked in and took a seat. He knew the destitute condition of Guttridge’s family, and had often relieved their distresses. His visit at the present time was partly an errand of charity ; for, being in want of some extra labour in his haying-field that afternoon, and knowing that Jerry was doing nothing, while his family was starving, he thought he would endeavour to get him to work for him, and pay him in provi- sions. J erry seated himself rather sullenly on a broken-backed chair, the only sound one in the house being occupied by Mr Frier, towards whom he cast sundry gruff looks and surly glances. The truth was, Jerry had not received the visits of his neigh- bours of late years with a very gracious welcome. He regarded them rather as spies, who came to search out the nakedness of the land, than as neighbourly visitors calling to exchange friendly salutations. He said not a word ; and the first address of Mr Frier was to little Bobby. “ What’s the matter wdth little Bobby?” said he in a gentle tone ; “ come, my little fellow, come here and tell me what’s the matter.” “ Go, run, Bobby ; go and see Mr Frier,” said the mother, slightly pushing him forward with her hand. The boy, with one finger in his mouth, and the tears still rolling over his dirty face, edged along sideways up to Mr Frier, who took him in his lap, and asked him again what was the matter. “ I want a piece of bread ! ” said Bobby. “And wont your mother give you some?” said Mr Frier tenderly. “ She han’t got none,” replied Bobby; “nor ’taters too.” Mrs 25 women's trials in humble life. Guttridge’s tears told the rest of the story. The worthy farmer knew they were entirely out of provisions again, and he forbore to ask any further questions, but told Bobby if he would go over to his house he would give him something to eat. Then turning to Jerry, said he, “ Neighbour Guttridge, I've got four tons of hay down, that needs to go in this afternoon, for it looks as if we should have rain by to-morrow, and I've come over to see if I can get you to go and help me. If you'll go this afternoon and assist me to get it in, I'll give you a bushel of meal, or a half-bushel of meal and a bushel of potatoes, and two pounds of pork." “ I can't go," said Jerry ; “ I’ve got something else to do." u Oh, well," said Mr Frier, “ if you’ve got anything else to do that will be more profitable, I’m glad of it, for there’s enough hands that I can get ; only I thought you might like to go, bein’ you was scant of provisions." “ Do, pray go, Mr Guttridge ! " said his wife with a beseech- ing look ; “ for you are only going over to the shop to ride them horses, and that wont do no good; you’ll only spend all the afternoon for nothing, and then we shall have to go to bed without our supper again. Do, pray go, Mr Guttridge; do !" “ I wish you would hold your everlasting clack !" said Jerry; a you are always full of complainings. It’s gcrt to be a fine time of day if the women are a-goin’ to rule the roast. I shall go over and ride them horses, and it’s no business to you nor no- body else ; and if you’re too lazy to get your own supper, you may go without it ; that’s all I’ve got to say." With that he aimed for the door, when Mr Frier addressed him as follows : — “ Now I must say, neighbour Guttridge, if you are going to spend the afternoon over at the shop, to ride horses for them jockeys, and leave your family without provi- sions, when you have a good chance to ’arn enough this after- noon to last them nigh about a week, I must say, neighbour Guttridge, that I think you are not in the way of your duty." Upon this Jerry whirled round, and looked Mr Frier full in the face, and grinning horribly, he said, “You old meddling vagabond ! who made you a master over me, to be telling me what’s my duty? You had better go home and take care of your own children, and let your neighbours’ alone ! " Mr Frier sat and looked Jerry calmly in the face without uttering a syllable ; while he, having blown his blast, marched out of doors, and steered directly for the grog-shop, leaving his wife to “ pick up something" if she could, to keep herself and children from absolute starvation. Mr Frier was a benevolent man, and a Christian, and in the true spirit of Christianity he always sought to relieve distress wherever he found it. He was endowed, too, with a good share of plain common sense, and knew something of human nature; and as he was well aware that Mrs Guttridge really loved her 26 women’s trials in humble life. husband, notwithstanding his idle habits, and cold brutal treat- ment to his family, he forbore to remark upon the scene which had just passed ; but telling the afflicted woman he would send her something to eat, he took little Bobby by the hand and led him home. A plate of victuals was set before the child, who devoured it with a greediness that was piteous to behold. u Poor cre’tur ! 77 said Mrs Frier ; “ why, he 7 s half-starved ! Betsy, bring him a dish of bread and milk ; that will sit the best on his poor empty starved stomach . 77 Betsy ran and got the bowl of bread and milk, and little Bobby’s hand soon began to move from the dish to his mouth with a motion as steady and rapid as the pendulum of a clock. The whole family stood and looked on with pity and surprise until he had finished his meal, or rather until he had eaten as much as they dared allow him to eat at once ; for although he had devoured a large plate of meat and vegetables, and two dishes of bread and milk, his appetite seemed as ravenous as when he first began. While Bobby had been eating, Mr Frier had been relating to his family the events which had occurred at Guttridge’s house, and the starving condition of the inmates ; and it was at once agreed that something should be sent over immediately ; for they all said, “ Mrs Guttridge was a clever woman, and it was a shame that she should be left to suffer so.” Accordingly a basket was filled with bread, a jug of milk, and some meat and vegetables, ready cooked, which had been left from their dinner; and Betsy ran and brought a pie, made from their last year’s dried pumpkins, and asked her mother if she might not put that in, “ so that the poor starving cre’turs might have a little taste of something that was good ?” “ Yes,” said her mother, u and put in a bit of cheese with it. I don’t think we shall be any the poorer for it ; for i he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord . 7 77 u Yes, yes,” said Mr Frier; u and I guess you may as well put in a little dried pumpkin ; she can stew it up for the little ones, and it’ll be good for ’em. We’ve got a plenty of green stuff a-growin 7 to last till pumpkins come again.” So a quantity of dried pumpkin was also packed into the basket, and the pie laid on the top, and George was despatched, in company with little Bobby, to carry it over. Mr Frier’s benevolent feelings had become highly excited. He forgot his four tons of hay, and sat down to consult with his wife about what could be done for the Guttridge family. Something must be done soon ; he was not able to support them all the time; and if they were left alone much longer they would starve. He told his wife he u had a good mind to go and enter a complaint to the grand jury ag’in’ Jerry, for a lazy, idle person, that didn’t provide for his family. The court sits at Saco to-morrow ; and don’t you think, wife, I had better go and do it ? ” 27 women’s trials in humble life. His wife thought he had better go oyer first and talk with Mrs Guttridge about it ; and if she was willing, he had better do it. Mr Frier said he “ could go over and talk with her, but he didn’t think it would be of the least use, for she loved Jerry, ugly as he was, and he didn’t believe she would be willing to have him punished by the court.” However, after due consultation, he concluded to go over and have a talk with Mrs Guttridge about the matter. Accordingly, he took his hat and walked over. He found the door open, as* usual, and walked in without ceremony. Here he beheld the whole family, including Jerry himself, seated at their little pine table, doing ample justice to the basket of provisions which he had just before sent them. He observed the pie had been cut into two pieces, and one half of it, and he thought rather the largest half, was laid on Jerry’s plate, the rest being cut up into small bits, and divided among the children. Mrs Guttridge had reserved none to herself, except a small spoonful of the soft part, with which she was trying’ to feed the baby. The other eatables seemed to be distributed very much in the same propor- tion. Mr Frier was a cool, considerate man, whose passions were always under the most perfect control ; but he always confessed, for years afterwards, “ that for a minute or two he thought he felt a little something like anger rising up in his stomach ! ” He sat and looked on until they had finished their meal, and Jerry had eaten bread and meat and vegetables enough for two common men’s dinners, and swallowed his half of the pie, and a large slice of cheese, by way of dessert ; and then rose, took his hat, and without saying a word, marched deliberately out of the house, directing his course again to the grog-shop. Mr Frier now broached the subject of his errand to Mrs Guttridge. He told her the neighbours could not afford to sup- port her family much longer, and unless her husband went to work, he didn’t see but they would have to starve. Mrs Guttridge began to cry. She said “she didn’t know what they should do : she had talked as long as talking would do any good ; but somehow, Mr Guttridge didn’t seem to love to work. She believed it wasn’t hisuatur’ to work.” “Well, Mrs Guttridge, do you believe the Scriptures?” said Mr Frier solemnly. “ I’m sure I do,” said Mrs Guttridge ; “ I believe all there is in the Bible.” “ And don’t you know,” said Mr Frier, “ the Bible says, 1 He that will not work, neither shall he eat ?’ ” “ I know there’s something in the Bible like that,” said Mrs Guttridge with a very serious look. Mr Frier now represented to Mrs Guttridge the impropriety of her husband’s behaviour — cruel towards her and her family, and unjust towards her neighbours. In short, though some- 28 women’s trials in humble life. what against her will, he reconciled her to a plan he had in view for bringing Jerry to his senses; namely, that of suing him before the court. Mr Frier returned home, but the afternoon was so far spent, that he postponed his visit to the court till next morning. Ac- cordingly, next day, as soon as breakfast was over, he wended his way to court, to appear before the grand jury. “Well, Mr Frier, what do you want?” asked the foreman, as the complainant entered the room. “I come to complain of Jerry Guttridge to the grand jury,” replied Mr Frier, taking off his hat. “Why, what has Jerry Guttridge done?” said the foreman. “ I didn’t think he had life enough to do anything worth com- plaining of to the grand jury.” “ It’s because he hasn't got life enough to do anything,” said Mr Frier, “ that I’ve come to complain of him. The fact is, Mr Foreman, he’s a lazy idle fellow, and wont work, nor provide nothing for his family to eat ; and they’ve been half-starving this long time ; and the neighbours have had to keep sending in something all the time to keep them alive.” “ But,” said the foreman, “Jerry’s a peaceable kind of a chap, Mr Frier ; has anybody ever talked to him about it in a neigh- bourly way, and advised him to do differently ? And maybe he has no chance to work where he could get anything for it?” “ I’m sorry to say,” replied Mr Frier, “ that he’s been talked to a good deal, and it don’t do no good ; and I tried hard to get him to work for me yesterday afternoon, and offered to give him victuals enough to last his family almost a week ; but I couldn’t get him to ; and he went off to the grog-shop to see some jockeys swap horses. And when I told him calmly I didn’t think he was in the way of his duty, he flew in a passion, and called me an old meddling vagabond ! ” “Abominable ! ” exclaimed one of the jury. “ Who ever heard of such outrageous conduct?” “ What a wretch ! ” exclaimed another. “ Well,” said the foreman, “ there is no more to be said. Jerry certainly deserves to be indicted, if anybody in this world ever did.” Accordingly the indictment was drawn up, a warrant was issued, and the next day Jerry was brought before the court to answer to the charges preferred against him. Mrs Sally Gutt- ridge and Mr Nat. Frier were summoned as witnesses. When the honourable court was ready to hear the case, the clerk called Jerry Guttridge, and bade him hearken to an indictment found against him by the grand inquest for the district of Maine, now sitting at Saco, in the words following; namely: — “We present Jerry Guttridge for an idle person, and not providing for his family ; and giving reproachful language to Mr Nat. Frier, when he reproved him for his idleness.” women’s trials in humble life. “Jerry Guttridge, what say you to this indictment? Are you guilty thereof, or not guilty ? ” “Not guilty,” said Jerry; “and here’s my wife can tell you the same any day. Sally, haven’t I always provided for my family ? ” “Why, yes,” said Mrs Guttridge; “I don’t know but you have as well as ” “Stop, stop!” said the judge, looking down over the top of his spectacles at the witness ; “ stop, Mrs Guttridge ; you must not answer questions until you have been sworn.” The court then directed the clerk to swear the witnesses; whereupon he called Nat. Frier and Sally Guttridge to step for- ward and hold up their right hands. Mr Frier advanced with a ready, honest air, and held up his hand. Mrs Guttridge lin- gered a little behind ; but when at last she faltered along, with feeble and hesitating step, and held up her thin, trembling hand, and raised her pale blue eyes, half swimming in tears, towards the court, and exhibited her careworn features, which, though sunburnt, were pale and sickly, the judge had in his own mind more than half decided the case against Jerry. The witnesses having been sworn, Mrs Guttridge was called to the stand. “Now, Mrs Guttridge,” said the judge, “you are not obliged to testify against your husband anything more than you choose ; your testimony must be voluntary. The court will ask you questions touching the case, and you can answer them or not, as you may think best. And in the first place, I will ask you whether your husband neglects to provide for the necessary wants of his family ; and whether you do, or do not, have comfortable food and clothing for yourself and children ? ” “ Well, we go pretty hungry a good deal of the time,” said Mrs Guttridge, trembling ; “ but I don’t know but Mr Guttridge does the best he can about it. There don’t seem to be any victuals that he can get a good deal of the time.” “ Well, is he, or is he not, in the habit of spending his time idly, when he might be at work, and earning something for his family to live upon?” “ Why, as to that,” replied the witness, “ Mr Guttridge don’t work much ; but I don’t know as he can help it : it doesn’t seem to be his natur’ to work. Somehow he don’t seem to be made like other folks ; for if he tries ever so much, he can’t never work but a few minutes at a time: the natur’ don’t seem to be in him.” “ Well, well,” said the judge, casting a dignified and judicial glance at the culprit, who stood with mouth wide open and eyes fixed on the court with an intentness that showed he began to take some interest in the matter — “ well, well, perhaps the court will be able to put the natur’ in him.” Mrs Guttridge was directed to step aside, and Mr Nat. Frier was called to the stand. His testimony was very much to the 30 women’s trials in humble life. point — clear and conclusive. But as the reader is already in pos- session of the substance of it, it is unnecessary to recapitulate it. Suffice it to say, that the judge retained a dignified self-pos- session, and settling back in his chair, said the case was clearly made out; Jerry Guttridge was unquestionably guilty of the charges preferred against him. The court, out of delicacy towards the feelings of his wife, refrained from pronouncing sentence until she had retired, which she did on an intimation being given her that the case was closed, and she could return home. Jerry was then called, and ordered to hearken to his sentence, as the court had recorded it. Jerry stood up and faced the court with fixed eyes and gaping mouth, and the clerk repeated as follows : — “ Jerry Guttridge ! you having been found guilty of being an idle and lazy person, and not providing for your family, and giving reproachful lan- guage to Mr Nat. Frier, when he reproved you for your idleness, the court orders that you receive twenty smart lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails upon your naked back, and that this sentence be executed forthwith by the constables at the whipping-post in the yard adjoining the court-house.” Jerry dropped his head, and his face assumed divers deep colours, sometimes red, and sometimes shading upon the blue. He tried to glance round upon the assembled multitude, but his look was very sheepish ; and, unable to stand the gaze of the hundreds of eyes that were turned upon him, he settled back on a bench, leant his head on his hand, and looked steadily upon the floor. The constables having been directed by the court to proceed forthwith to execute the sentence, they led him out into the yard, put his arms round the whipping-post, and tied his hands together. He submitted without resistance; but when they commenced tying his hands round the post, he began to cry and beg, and promise better fashions, if they would only let him go this time. But the constables told him it was too late now ; the sentence of the court had been passed, and the punish- ment must be inflicted. The whole throng of spectators had issued from the court-house, and stood round in a large ring, to see the sentence enforced. The judge himself had stepped to a side window, which commanded a view of the yard, and stood peering solemnly through his spectacles, to see that the cere- mony was duly performed. All things being in readiness, the stoutest constable took the caW-nine-tails and brought them heavily across the naked back of the victim. At every blow, Jerry jumped and screamed, so that he might have been heard well-nigh a mile. When the twenty blows were counted, and the ceremony was ended, he was loosed from his confinement, and told that he might go. He put on his garments with a sullen but subdued air, and without stopping to pay his respects to the court, or even to bid any one good-by, he made for home as fast as he could. 31 women’s trials in humble life. Mrs Guttridge met him at the door with a kind and piteous look, and asked him if they had hurt him. He made no reply, but pushed along into the house. There he found the table set, and well supplied for dinner ; for Mrs Guttridge, partly through the kindness of Mr Frier, and partly from her own exertions, had managed to “ pick up something,” that served to make quite a comfortable meal. Jerry ate his dinner in silence, but his wife thought he manifested more tenderness and less selfishness than she had known him to exhibit for years; for instead of appro- priating the most and the best of the food to himself, he several times placed fair proportions of it upon the plates of his wife and each of the children. The next morning, before the sun had dried the dew from the grass, whoever passed the haying-field of Mr Nat. Frier, might have beheld Jerry Guttridge busily at work, shaking out the wet hay to the sun ; and for a month afterwards, the passer-by might have seen him, every day, early and late, in that and the adjoining fields, a perfect pattern of industry. A change soon became perceptible in the condition and cir- cumstances of his family. His house began to wear more of an air of comfort outside and in. His wife improved in health and spirits; and little Bobby became a fat hearty boy, and grew like a pumpkin. And years afterwards, Mrs Guttridge was heard to say, that “ somehow, ever since that trial, Mr Guttridge’s nature seemed to be entirely changed ! ” MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. ™?T was the Easter of the year 1635, and amidst a crowd assembled in one of the churches at Paris might llW' seen a y° un §: apparently about twelve or _ thirteen years of age. Her countenance was interest- ing for the mildness and sweetness of its expression, more even than for its beauty, which was remarkable. Her dress indicated extreme poverty ; the miserable rags scarcely sufficing to cover her, though, with instinctive modesty, she endeavoured to gather them around her as she knelt. The service over, she was still lingering in the porch, when another girl, as miserably clad, but somewhat older, appeared at the door, and was advancing on tiptoe, as if awed by the sanctity of the place, till suddenly perceiving* the young creature first de- scribed, she ran forward, and catching her impatiently by the shoulder, said, “ What are you about so long, Alice?” u Hush, Sarah ! ” replied the other in a tone of intreaty ; but without heeding the caution, she ran on, u They have been looking* for you everywhere. The old mother has been crying out for you this hour, and if you do not get a beating when you go back, I wonder at it.” “ I cannot help it, Sarah,” said Alice. u I have been praying, and asking for grace and strength to be patient to bear all ! ” t{ Alice,” said Sarah, with a look that might almost be called No. 165. i MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. grave, “ I do not know what has come over you this some time. Instead of playing’ or going to beg with the rest of us, you are weeping 1 and praying in every hole and corner, or talking to me of a whole heap of things of which I can make neither head nor tail . 77 “ Oh, sister , 77 said Alice, “ if you but knew how wretched we are, we g'ipsy children ! 77 Sarah went off into a fit of laughter, which Alice endeavoured to suppress by putting her hand on the mouth of her com- panion. “ I think you might find a fitter place to laugh in than a church, you pair of little beggars , 77 cried an old woman who was also waiting in the porch, and whose costume marked her out as a housekeeper in some family of distinction. “ Indeed, madame, if we thought it was any offence to God to laugh, we would not do it , 77 said Sarah, assuming at once the whining tone of the mendicant. “ You are a young hypocrite , 77 said the housekeeper, as she adjusted her spectacles on her nose. “ You are not doing right now, Sarah ; you know you are not , 77 whispered Alice. “ If you had been at the sermon, you would have heard the preacher say 77 “ Really, Alice, if you go on this way, no one will believe that you are a gipsy no more than that I am a princess ; but perhaps I know more about you than you think. But be this as it may, to look at you and your ways, would be enough to convince me you were not a gipsy . 77 “How so ? 77 said Alice. “Would that you were right; but what makes you think so ? 77 “ Everything , 77 answered Sarah. “ True, you are dressed like the rest of us; but your petticoats, though not always whole, are never dirty. Your hair is more tidily arranged than ours, and I verily believe that you comb it out every three or four days . 77 “ Every day, Sarah , 77 interrupted Alice. “ Well, you see it is even oftener than I thought , 77 replied Sarah : “ then you actually wash your face and hands, I do not know how many times in the day ? 77 “ Only twice, I assure you , 77 said Alice in a deprecating tone. “ Is that all indeed ? 77 retorted Sarah. “And pray how much oftener would you wish to do it? I doubt if her majesty the queen pretends to do more than that! No, no; any one in her senses w'ould know } T ou cannot be a gipsy child ! 77 “ Would to God I were not ! 77 said poor Alice sadly. “ But, I tell you , 77 said Sarah, “ we had better get back as quick as we can to the Court of Miracles. If the old mother knew that I was all this time in a church, she would say you have been spoiling me ; and indeed, Alice, do you know that I THE LITTLE GIPSY GIHL. have been good for nothing ever since you began to preach to me, and that you have been crying and breaking your. heart ail day long, and all night too, when we are lying together on the straw. I have got so much in my head, all your talk about the good God, that I am afraid of everything now.” “ Oh, Sarah ! thinking of Him makes me afraid of nothing but doing wrong ; and X know He is so good, that X tell Him when any evil grieves or terrifies me, and it gives me such courage! I am a poor ignorant girl: I cannot read myself; but the first day I heard the preacher read the words of love from the Book of God, I felt as if my heart told me I could never be happy in the ways of sin, and that is now more than a year ago.” “ You have told me often enough about it, Alice,” said Sarah. “ Come, come, it is getting late ; I tell you we are in for a beat- ing. Come along.” In quitting the church, they passed close by the old lady, who had just been searching her pockets several times, and was now exclaiming, “ Where is my pocket-handkerchief? I lay any- thing these little rogues have carried it off ! ” u You are mistaken, madame ; you dropped it, and here it is,” said Alice, picking up a bright red handkerchief, and presenting it to the woman. “ Well, what luck I am in ! They did not take it. Thank you, little girl ; ” and the old lady left the church. “ What a fool you are, Alice ! ” whispered Sarah. u Why did you give it to her ? ” “ Simply because it belonged to her, and did not belong' to me,” answered Alice. II. Hastening as rapidly as possible through several streets, the young girls soon entered a very large court, known from time immemorial by the name of the Court of Miracles. It was a long, muddy, filthy, unpaved, blind alley, at each side of which were a range of wretched dark hovels built of earth and mud. The two young girls, who seemed perfectly well acquainted with the locale, made their way directly to one of these hovels, hardly distinguishable from the ground, and entered without any apparent fear for their heads, upon which, nevertheless, it seemed threatening to fall. On the instant that the two young girls crossed the threshold of this uninviting abode, they were greeted by a vast number of maimed, blind, and lame ; of persons who, after having feigned ail kinds of diseases and infirmities, were now busied in getting rid of all their paraphernalia of falsehood. Some were throwing up in the air the crutches, without which it was before supposed to be impossible they could walk ; some were opening eyes which MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. they had protested were for ever shut to the light of day ; others were getting* rid of their hunch, or rubbing off their skin the livid dye which gave their faces a corpse-like hue, that extracted from the beholder alms as for the dying. Others, again, were once more resuming an upright position, and suddenly recover- ing the use of their limbs, so that any one who, standing at the entrance of the court, had seen pass that legion of lame, blind, paralytic, and aged, and afterwards looked into their place of assemblage, and beheld, instead of all that mass of decrepitude, a set of strong, healthy young people, must certainly have great temptation to believe that the court well deserved its name, and was indeed a Court of Miracles. The two young girls, however, seemed not at all astonished at the transformations, and making a sig*n to those nearest the door not to notice their arrival, they glided timidly into the farthest corner of the room. That room, into which the light of day was admitted only through the door opening* into the court, was at that moment illuminated by a large turf-lire, upon which ligured an immense caldron, in which were boiling and hissing whole quarters of beef and a quantity of cabbage, which an old woman kept stir- ring with a huge pot-ladle, grumbling as she did so. In the middle of the room were ranged here and there tables of black wood, the legs of which did not seem much more firmly attached to them, though somewhat more needed, than the wooden legs of some of those who were crowding* round them. “ Mother Fragard, are not the girls come home ? ” cried the cook to another old woman who was cutting up large slices of bread into porringers of green earthenware. “ Flow do I know, Mother Verduchene?” answered Mother Fragard. “They have been here these two hours, good girls as they always are,” cried an ex-paralytic, pointing to the children, who by their silence lent themselves to this falsehood. “ Why do they not come, then, and show themselves, and tell what they have been doing to earn their dinner?” cried the two old hags at once. The young girls came forward, evidently in great trepidation. “ Nothing in your hands — nothing in your pockets?” said the old women, as each seized upon a girl and searched and shook her roughly. “Nothing*, indeed,” said they both with tears in their eyes. “ So much saved, then, of to-day’s dinner,” replied the two furies ; “ no work, no bread.” And as several of the pauper band were beginning to intercede for the children, to the great displeasure of the two old women, there suddenly arose above all the din of voices — some intreating, and some threatening — a “ Hush ! ” so authoritatively uttered, that it instantly produced, as if by magic, a profound silence of the whole assembly. 4 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. III. The personage who, hv the single word 11 hush ! 77 had so in- stantaneously imposed silence on the riotous conclave, appeared at first sight to be a fine old man, to whom long white hair gave a most venerable appearance ; one of his coat sleeves was unfilled by the arm, which hung uselessly by his side, and one of his legs, bent at the knee, was fastened to a wooden supporter. But after uttering the word that had such magic power over all who heard it, the seeming old man threw his wooden leg to one side, and his white wig to the other, and quickly releasing his arm from the confinement in which it had been for the day, sat down at a table, and with a blow of his fist that made all that was on it rattle, he cried — “ Hush ! Bring me my dinner, and listen to me. We are ruined; all is over with us ! 77 This preamble was not very encouraging, and every one lent an anxious ear. “ Oh, it is soon told,” resumed he. “ You may bring dinner; before it has had time to cool, I shall have said my say. This very day, the 5th of May, in the year 1635, my lord the king, Louis XIII., has sent letters patent to parliament to this effect: ‘We hereby command that all vagabonds, all who cannot give a good account of themselves, such as gipsies, sturdy beggars, deserters from the army, shall be taken up, and sent, without any form of trial, to the galleys. 7 Now, boys, there is little doubt that in this precious document our lord the king has had an eye to our worthy selves. 77 “ And there can be no doubt that the best thing we can do is to pack up, bag* and baggage, and be off with ourselves as soon as we can, 77 cried several of his auditors, rising and looking for their sticks, to go that very moment. “ Stay a little, 77 resumed he who seemed to be the head of the band. “There is no such violent hurry, so eat your dinners quietly. You know well, comrades, that so long as we are in our own quarters here, we have nothing to fear. No commissary, no officer of justice, no policeman, dare show his face in this court, either night or day, unless he has a fancy for being torn to pieces ; and I have my doubts whether any of these gentlemen would like that the least degree more than we should like being hanged. However, as we cannot stay here for ever without going out, for the simple reason that the court affords none of the necessaries of life, there is no help for it — we must leave Paris ; but let us leave it like true gipsies, and do as much good for ourselves, and as much harm to those who are hunting us out of it, as we can. For example, there exists at the Hotel des Porcherons a certain individual of the name of Barbier. This Barbier is the keeper of the royal treasures, commonly called Comptroller of Finance to his majesty King Louis XIII. Now, MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. my boys, I have got an idea in my head, and not a bad one either, you will say. It is only to get a loan from our beloved monarch, through the hands of his treasurer ; in short, just to take with us some of the money-bags when we are going. 7 ’ “An admirable idea, my son!” cried Mother Verduchene. “Yes, indeed; Jean Verduchene’s idea is a capital one,” said several voices. “ But how is it to be carried out — how is it to be done?” asked a little old man with a monkey face, who, as member of the band, had usually the part allotted to him of amusing the crowd, while his comrades were picking pockets, and lightening them of everything superfluous. “I have thought of that too,” said Jean Verduchene, after a moment’s reflection. “The Hotel des Porcherons is situated, you know, in one of the most retired, lonely parts of Paris. One of us must gain admission, disguised either as a mendicant, as a pilgrim, or as a monk, whichever his rogue’s phiz will suit best. He need only ask hospitality : it is never refused. He will be let into some part or other of the hotel ; and once in, he must be a bungler indeed if he cannot find some way of opening the door in the middle of the night for a band of his friends. Well, I do not think I have planned it badly ; I hope not, at least.” “ It is planned well enough — no fault in that,” was echoed on all sides. “But which of us is to play the pilgrim?” “ Let me see,” said Jean Verduchene, as he examined, one after another, the faces around him. “ I must own, here is a diffi- culty; you are all more like devils than pilgrims. I want a youthful, mild, hypocritical face — a voice with tones to reach the very heart ; in short, I must have an honest face, and I do not see a single one here.” “Nor do I,” said Mother Pragard, “unless, indeed, that of Alice would answer.” “ Yes ; Alice, Alice, Alice ! ” was enthusiastically shouted by all present. “ Very well then, let it be Alice,” said the stentorian voice of the captain ; and pale and agitated, the poor child came forward from the corner, in which she had been lying upon some straw. After surveying her for some moments with a complacent air, Jean Verduchene said, “Yes, she is the very thing*; air of decency, poor, but honest, and genteel-looking enough to pass for a decayed duchess. Then, too, a soft, timid voice, and tears coming to her eyes just at the right time. Her age, too ; who could suspect a girl of twelve ? It is all settled : Alice will play the part of beggar to perfection ! ” “What part?” asked the young* girl, raising to the speaker two large black eyes, hitherto veiled by their long lashes. “ The child is becoming every day a greater fool,” said Mother Verduchene, shrugging her shoulders in great ill- humour. 6 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. “ Gentle mother, I beg 1 of you not to speak so very roughly to the child,” said the chief. “ Listen to me, Alice,” added he in the mildest tone : “ your costume is perfect ; it could not be better ; so you can leave that as it is. But your hands are rather too clean. I cannot conceive your mania for never having them dirty; hands were intended to touch everything. You must do me the favour of not washing them from this till night, and in every other respect you will do very well. But now, listen to me attentively. This evening, at dusk, you are to station yourself close to the gate of the Hotel des Porcherons, and then ” “ Do not give her too difficult a part, Jean,” said Mother Ver- duchene. “ Alice is a born fool, when you think that in her whole life she never arrived at stealing a pocket handkerchief ; and yet, I am sure, it was neither for want of teaching nor opportunity.” “ You are right,” said Jean; “but a child of two years old could do what I am going to tell her. Listen to me, Alice; that pale face of yours will suit admirably. You are to be out- side the hotel gate as if you were dead ; that is all you need do ; I shall take care that you get in. But once inside ” “ Well,” said Alice ; “ once inside, what am I to do then?” “ Only to try to rind out where the key of the street door is kept, and to come and open it for us. This is all you are wanted to do.” The young giiTs face flushed crimson to her forehead. “ I will not do any such thing,” said she determinedly. “ What ! ” cried the chief; “you will not pretend to be dying?” “ That I may do,” said Alice, to whom some new thought seemed suddenly to occur. “ But once inside, will you open the door for the band?” asked Mother Fragard. “ No ; that I will never do ! ” Mother Fragard aimed a blow at the poor child, but her arm was arrested on its way by Jean Verduchene. As to Alice, she had made no attempt to avoid the meditated violence. “ Alice,” said the captain mildly, “ you do not love us, since you will not do so much for us.” “And why should I love you?” answered Alice, with still' greater vehemence. “ Who am I? Have I a mother here? Have I any one belonging to me in the whole world ? Was I stolen from my parents, or am I a foundling ? I know nothing of all this ; but I know that you are all carrying on a dreadful trade ; that you are robbers, plunderers, liars ; that you are provoking God every moment of the day, and that He will yet surely punish you.” At this violent outbreak on the part of a child, addressed to a troop of banditti, there arose such a storm of murmurs, threats, and imprecations, that poor little Alice believed her last hour 7 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. was come, and, terror-struck, she fell on her knees, and with the remains of strength, which was fast failing her, she raised over her young head her slight and delicate hands, crying, “ For pity ? s sake, if you are going to kill me, do it at once ! ” At this moment she felt a friendly arm around her neck, and clasping it convulsively, “ Let them kill me, Sarah,” she whispered ; “ I had rather die than stay with them.” But it seemed as if the chief had taken a fancy to her: there is a secret attraction in the exhibition of innocence and purity of heart. By an imperious gesture he restored silence, and then addressing Alice, he asked — “How is it that you talk of God? Who told you anything about Him ? AVho taught you to care about Him ?” “ A good clergyman, who has often given me alms, and who preaches such tine words about His justice, and such sweet words about His love.” “ And to whom, doubtless, you have told all the secrets of the band?” interrupted Yerduchene impatiently. “Perhaps this is the very cause of our being hunted down now.” “ I never spoke to him but of myself and my wretchedness,” said Alice meekly. “ How can we be sure of that?” asked Mother Fragard. “ I now have known him a year, and I see him every day at the chapel door. Only ask himself,” said she with great sim- plicity. “ Hid you ever see such a little fool?” interrupted Mother Yerduchene. “ She is indeed a little fool,” resumed the chief. “ However, as she has known him a whole year, we should have been all hanged before this if she had ever ’peached about us ; so I think we may trust her. But now, Alice, say yes or no. Will you go, or will you not, to the Hotel des Porcherons?” “ Why need you beg and pray so much?” said Sarah, before Alice had time to answer. “ You want a cunning, clever girl, who knows how to faint properly. I can do it to perfection, so as to deceive a whole college of physicians. Send me to the Hotel des Porcherons, and I engage that before midnight all the doors shall be open for you.” “ Indeed ! ” said the captain. “ Oh, Sarah, surely you will not be so wicked ! ” whispered Alice. “ Be quiet, I tell you,” said Sarah in the same low tone. “ This is a bold stroke to make us all rich.” “ It is all settled,” cried Jean : “ I fix upon Sarah.” Suddenly, as if actuated by some thought that had that mo- ment struck her, Alice cried, “ No, no; not Sarah. Send me.” “What strange things children are!” said Mother Yerdu- chene; “ they are all alike. If you want them to do a thing, they won’t do it ; forbid them, and they are all agog for it.” 8 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIP„L. <£ I certainly should prefer Alice,” said the chief ; u she looks so much more honest than Sarah.” “ Cannot they both go?” said Mother Fragard, u as it seems they are now both so anxious to do so.” Alice was about to speak, but checked herself; while Sarah, clapping* her hands for joy, said, u Oh yes, let us both go.” Well, then, let it be so,” said the chief. IV. The Hotel des Porcherons, situated in the Faubourg St Honore, was a vast building of great antiquity, in which Louis XI., con- secrated king at Eheims the 14th August 1461, lodged the last day of that month, when making his public entrance into Paris. At the period of which we are writing, this hotel was inhabited by Barbier, Comptroller of Finance to his majesty. On the very evening of the day in which the plot was hatched in the Court of Miracles, the curfew-bell had just tolled, when a loud knocking was heard at the street gate. u Do not open on any account, Jacquand,” said an old woman, whom we have already introduced to our readers in the porch of the Chapel des Porcherons, addressing herself to the porter of the hotel, to whose lodge she sometimes went to have a little gossip : “ do not open ; it can be for no good that any one knocks at such an hour as this.” u Bad people seldom knock, Dame Matliurine,” remarked the porter ; “ they get in without knocking. Perhaps it is our young master. Young men are not always at home at regular hours — such as seven, or half-past seven at latest : they seem to think the curfew intended to tell them the hour to go out, whereas curfew means, Go in, shut yourself up, put out your tires, blow out your candles ” “ And do not open the doors to those who knock after proper hours,” said Dame Matliurine, completing the sentence. “ They are actually knocking still,” said the porter, now be- ginning to look rather grave. At this moment the door of the lodge opened, and a gentleman, tall, pale, and still young, though study, toil, and, it may be, care, had marked his brow with premature furrows, entered, exclaiming, “ Jacquand, you must be deaf. Somebody has been knocking this hour.” “ But, sir,” said the porter as he got up, u who can it be at this time of night ? ” “ Instantly go and see,” said the gentleman, in a tone so decided, though mild, that it permitted no reply ; and Jacquand went to the gate. “ As I have had the honour of having you in my arms the day you were born, sir,” said Dame Mathurine very respectfully, 2 l o MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. “ perhaps I may be permitted to observe that any one who knocks at so late an hour can be only some vagabond, or some person who has been assaulted . 77 “ In that case it is the duty of every Christian to do anything in his power to help . 77 This last word was echoed from without. It was the porter calling out, “ Help, help ! 77 “What is the matter? What ails you ? 77 cried Monsieur Barbier and the tw T o women, as they came out into the front yard. “ I have got here two young creatures, one dead, and the other not far from it , 77 answered the porter. “ I want help to bring them into the house . 77 At eight o’clock at th^t season of the year, it is not too dark to hinder objects in the street being distinguished perfectly, so that, as he w'ent forward, M. Barbier beheld two young girls lying upon the ground apparently almost insensible; the face of one of them bearing the undoubted stamp of inno- cence and modest purity. “ But surely it could not have been either of these children that knocked* at such a rate ! 77 said M. Barbier. “No, your honour , 77 answered the porter; “it was a man who was passing' by, and who, wdien I opened the door, just said as he w'ent away, ‘Will you see what is the matter with these two poor creatures? I must be off for home, for the curfew has tolled, and the streets of Paris are not safe . 7 But what are we to do with these poor young things, your honour ? 77 “ Bring them into the house, and let the women take good care of them . 77 “ Take them into the house ! 77 exclaimed Mathurine ; “ surely, sir, you will not think of it. Only consider all the horrible things that go on at night in the streets of Paris, all the rob- beries, the assaults, the murders 77 “ The greater reason for not exposing these two poor young girls to them, Mathurine . 77 “ But, sir, who told you that they are two poor young crea- tures ? 77 “ I rather think, woman, you need only look at them to know so much , 77 said M. Barbier, by this time quite losing patience. “ A thousand pardons, my dear master, for thus seeming to stand in the way of any good action of yours , 77 persisted Mathu- rine ; “ but such extraordinary things have been done by the band of gipsies, under the command of Wboden Leg, as they call him. These wretches take every form they please; they are old, young, ugly, handsome, hunchbacked, lame, blind at will. Take your old nurse’s advice, sir, and let us manage these crea- tures. Let them stay outside, and we will take to them any- thing you like — broth, wine, covering; but, for the love of Heaven, do not bring them into the house ! 77 10 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. “ Oh, for the love of God, my good lady, do not leave ns in the street, I implore you ! 77 These words were uttered in a very faint voice by the young girl with the least prepossessing appearance. “ Come, Jacquand, you must not mind Mathurine ; do what I order you. 7 ’ And as he said these words, the Comptroller of Finance stooped, and took up in his arms the young girl who had not yet spoken, and earned her into the hotel. Jacquand lifted the other, and fol- lowed his master, while his wife went on grumbling, “ What a piece of folly ! 77 and Dame Mathurine chimed in with, “You are quite right, Madame Jacquand; it is absolutely mad impru- dence. God grant that my master may not have cause to repent of it ! 77 Y. “Who are you, and whither were you going ? 77 Such were the first questions addressed by M. Bar bier to the girls, as soon as he deemed them sufficiently restored by the nourishment administered to them to be in a condition to answer. The one who had already been spokeswoman took upon her to reply. “ My sister Alice and I are two poor orphans without relations or friends, or any one in the world to take care qf us ; we live by the charity of the public. In the day we wander through the streets, and at night we sleep where we can, often under the porch of churches, or the pent-houses over the market- places ; but this evening our strength was entirely exhausted, and we could go no farther than your gate ; we had eaten nothing since morning . 77 While Sarah was speaking — we need scarcely say it was she — M. Barbier could not take his eyes off Alice, who, pale as death, with her head bent upon her breast, seemed quite overwhelmed by grief ; and at every word uttered by Sarah, the big tears fell slowly down her emaciated cheek. Grief thus quiet and yet deep, at so tender an age, had something in it that went to M. Barbier 7 s heart. “ Where do you intend to put them to sleep ? 77 he inquired of Mathurine. “ I am sure we need not be very particular, sir , 77 answered the housekeeper; “ any of the out-offices, the stable, or the barn . 77 “ Is there no closet near your own room, Mathurine, which would be a better place for them ? 77 “ Oh, your honour, the stable will do quite well , 77 said Sarah eagerly ; “ my sister and I are not accustomed to sleep upon beds . 77 “ Oh the closet ; if you will be so good, madame, as to allow us to sleep there , 77 said Alice in a tone of such earnest intreaty, and with a look of such agonizing appeal to M. Barbier, that he instantly answered — “ It shall be in the closet, my poor child . 77 11 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. “ In the closet, close to raj own room, that I may be the first to have my throat cut !” muttered Mathurine. “ And why are you to have your throat cut?” asked Sarah. “ How do I know ? — how can I tell?” said the old woman. “ If you be afraid of us, madame,” said Alice submissively, “ lock the door upon us ; 77 and she turned to Sarah with a beseech- ing’ g-lance, which was returned by a look so threatening, that M. Barbier, who was watching the two girls, was quite surprised. “ It is very singular , 77 thought he; but as looks continued to be exchanged on both sides, still more supplicating on the part of Alice, and more threatening’ on that of Sarah, he determined to elicit an explanation. “ The point is easily settled , 77 said he ; “we will lock up the one that wishes to be locked up, and the other can go to the stable . 77 A flash of joy passed over Sarah’s face, whilst Alice at the moment became still paler than before, and exclaimed, in evident consternation, “ Oh, sir, for mercy’s sake, do not separate us ! 77 The astonishment of M. Barbier was at its height. His eyes seemed fascinated, so rivetted were they upon Alice. “ How you do look at that little creature, sir ! ” observed Mathurine. “ It is very singular, very singular,” said M. Barbier musingly; “ methinks that face is not strange to me, and I could almost fancy the tones of her voice were familiar.” “ I know them now myself,” said the housekeeper ; “ they are the two little beggars I saw so often at the door of the Church des Porcherons.” M. Barbier now left them, saying, “ Mathurine, put them both into the closet next to your own room, and do not let them go away in the morning* till I have seen them.” Mathurine had no alternative but to obey, and taking up a light, she desired them both to follow her, and led the way through several corridors and up a long stone staircase to a small closet, in which was a bed. As she was retiring, taking with her the light, Sarah cried, “Are you going to leave us in the dark, madame ?” “ The moon is up,” answered the housekeeper, “ and what more do you want ?” At the moment she was passing out of the room, Alice whis- pered to her, “ Lock the door upon us.” But these words had no other effect than to increase Mathurine’s fears to such a de- gree, that she ran off as fast as she could, forgetting to take the precautionary measure suggested to her. YI. “ So you want to ruin us all, Alice?” said Sarah, as the steps of the old housekeeper died away along the passage. 12 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. 44 On the contrary. I want to save you,” answered Alice gently; and then added, “ Is there nothing in what you have seen — a master owing his authority to love and respect, instead of fear, and so good and kind to us : is there nothing to touch your heart, and make you desire virtue, and shrink from all the terrible things we have around us every day?” “ It is certain, Alice, I would rather spend my life here than in the Court of Miracles : but that is nothing to the purpose ; I promised the captain I would open the gate and let in the band ; and do it I will.” “Oh no, Sarah, you will not — you will not be so wicked : but you shall not do it! ” said she vehemently; “ for if you attempt to move or leave this room before to-morrow morning without me, I will alarm the house, and tell the whole dreadful plot. Sarah, my sister, my own Sarah,” added she, throwing herself on her knees at the feet of her companion, while tears streamed down her cheeks — “ are we not both children stolen from our parents? Oh let us not make ourselves unworthy to be received by them. Something tells me we shall yet discover them. There is a God in heaven, Sarah, a God both just and good, and who will reward those that seek Him and love ITim : but you are not heeding me, Sarah ? ” “ I promised to open the gate,” repeated Sarah, in precisely the same tone as before. “But a promise to do wrong, Sarah, ought never to be kept,” urged Alice. “ I only know I promised,” persisted Sarah doggedly. In utter despair at her obstinacy, Alice turned to the window and looked out of it for a few moments, while deliberating how she could prevent the threatened mischief, without criminating Sarah. The height of the casement from the ground led her to conclude that the room was in the third storey of the hotel ; and she soon satisfied herself that the walls around it were so high, as to preclude all ingress but by the gate. Somewhat reassured by having ascertained this point, she now turned to survey the little room. Narrow and low, its only furniture the bed, upon which Sarah had thrown herself : it had no outlet but the window and the door, which Mathurine had left open. Alice turned to Sarah to make one last appeal. “ Oh, Sarah, remember the eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good. He sees all the good of the kind master of this house, and all the evil, too, we are plotting against him. Oh, if you have no gra- titude for him — no pity for him, when he has pitied us — have mercy on me, have mercy on your own soul!” Sarah, who had been just dropping asleep, now looked stupidly up in her face ; and Alice, seeing that it was hopeless to think of prevailing upon her, resolved upon putting into execution a plan that for the last few moments had been floating in her brain. She seized the moment when Sarah had sullenly turned from 13 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. her, and bounding 1 out of the room, and shutting* the door with some violence, double-locked it. All was the work of an instant ; and she was flying along the passage before Sarah had leaped from the bed. She heard her calling loudly after her, but this served but to quicken her flight. Suddenly, as she turned round a corner, she came upon Mathurine and M. Barbier. “Now, sir, will you believe me again ? 77 cried Mathurine; “ here is one of them actually trying to make her escape ; 77 and she seized Alice by the arm. Thus wholly taken by surprise, the poor child knew not what answer to make. She stood silent, with drooping head and down- cast eyes. “ Speak, child / 7 said M. Barbier; “where were you going ? 77 And as Alice did not answer, Mathurine broke in — “ And where else can you think she was going, my dear master, but to open the gate to the gang of robbers to which the dreadful little wretch belongs, and who at this moment, I would lay any wager, are lurking about the hotel ? I consent to have my hand cut off if I did not already hear three times the signal for the massacre of us all. You must only shut her up in the dungeon till we can give her up in the morning into the hands of the Provost Mar- shall, who, I warrant, will make short work with her . 77 “ Why do you not speak, unhappy child ? Answer me — Where were you going now ? 77 repeated M. Barbier, whose heart resisted even the evidence of his eyesight. “ Deal with me as you please, sir , 77 said Alice, in tones so soft, so sad, that the good man, deeply affected, exclaimed — “No! it is not possible that those tones, that sweet face, can belong to anything capable of such vileness ! 77 “ Deal with me as you please, sir , 77 again said Alice ; then clasping her hands in an agony of terror, she added, “ but oh, do not let her out of the room ! I have locked the door upon her . 77 “This girl is a perfect mystery to me , 77 said M. Barbier. “ But tell me, child 77 “ I can tell you nothing till to-morrow, sir, 7 ’ said Alice. “To-morrow, indeed ! ;J interrupted Mathurine. “We are much obliged to you. By to-morrow all our throats will be cut . 77 “ Shut me up in a dungeon, or anywhere you please, ma- dame, 7 ’ answered Alice ; “ but let nothing induce you to open the gate to any one, under any pretence whatever, until morning, and no harm can happen . 77 Threats and promises alike failing to extract anything more from Alice, M. Barbier determined to confine her for the night in one of the dungeons ; and then, after placing a guard at the gate of the hotel, he went to bed. But finding it impossible to sleep, he got up before day, and feeling an irresistible desire to question the little girl again, nay, to look upon her once more, he resolved to pay her a visit. The look, the voice of that child, 14 THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. strangely revived memories long buried in his heart. Eleven years had elapsed since he had lost a little girl of about two years of age, in the most unaccountable way. It had been sent out to nurse in the environs of Paris. And when the alarm was given that the child was missing, it was discovered that the nurse was deranged; and it was impossible to ascertain whether her insanity was the cause or the consequence of the loss of the child. Had the nurse, in a paroxysm of madness, destroyed the infant? This was the general belief ; but the sorrowing parents could not elicit, by the most diligent inquiry, anything that could serve to throw certain light upon the fate of their child. The mother survived her loss but five years, and M. Barbier was left a widower with an only son. But now the poor little girl so strangely introduced to him recalled vividly the memory of his^vife. It was her very look, the expression of her face, na}^ more, the very tones of her voice. What wonder, then, that M. Barbier felt his heart stirred within him by hopes and fears the more agitating from their very vagmeness. Unable to shake off thronging thoughts, so as to obtain any sleep, M. Barbier, as we have said, got up, and providing him- self with a lantern, descended to the place where he had locked up Alice. Hearing no noise as he entered, he for a moment thought, u Is it possible she has made her way out of this also ? 77 but soon the light fell upon a heap of straw in a corner, and he beheld Alice in a deep sleep. He could not bear to wake her, and sitting down on a stone at a short distance from her, and contriving to throw the light full upon the head of the sleeper, he began to examine every feature. Even in sleep, the face of the child bore the subdued expression of extreme suffering : deep sighs burst from her little heart, and from her parted lips came, from time to time, a wailing sound that fell sadly on the listener's ear. As he watched her feverish slumbers, he suddenly perceived around her neck a green silk string, to which was hanging a little locket. To see it, and to grasp it, was the act of the same instant ; but the motion awoke Alice, and she started up with a cry of terror at the sight of the nocturnal visitor. 66 Where did you get this ?" asked M. Barbier, as he pointed to the locket. Without answering, Alice took it off and handed it to him. u You will give it back to me, sir?" said she with somewhat of uneasiness. u It is the first time it has ever been off my neck." “ And what is the inscription upon it ?" demanded M. Barbier, as if not daring to trust his own eyes. “ 1 Never part with it/ " said Alice ; u and I never do. I wear it always." “ Oh, my God ! thy ways are indeed past finding out. After so many years of sorrow and unavailing search, "am I now to 15 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. find my child!” And scarcely able to articulate, he turned to Alice — “ Speak, speak ! In mercy say where you got this locket ! Who gave it you '? ” “ It is my own, ” said Alice ; “ and I had a great many more things — so Sarah tells me — but they were gold, and they took them aw'ay from me : this was worth nothing*, so they left it with me.” “ Sarah! Who is Sarah?” asked M. Barbier. “ The young girl I locked up. She knows all about me, I am sure, though she would never tell me.” “ Come with me,” said M. Barbier, suddenly taking the arm of Alice, and drawing her out of her dungeon. It was now day- light ; and no sooner did she perceive it, than she involuntarily exclaimed, “ Thanks be to God ! all danger is now* over.” “What danger?” inquired M. Barbier, still rapidly moving onward. “ Oh, you shall know ail, sir, now*. But pardon for Sarah ; pardon for me, I beseech you.” While still hurrying on in the direction of the closet, he was met by Mathurine, who, receiving no answ*er to her question of where he was going*, thought she might as w*ell follow*, so that all three arrived together at the closet door, and on opening it, found Sarah w*eeping bitterly. M. Barbier at once advanced towards her, and pointing to Alice — “ Sarah,” said he, “ w T ho is this child? Speak, and speak the truth; and whatever may be your answer, you are at liberty to go where you please.” “ The sun is risen, my friends are gone, and I am alone in the world, so there is nothing* to prevent my speaking out,” said Sarah : “ you are now the disposer of my fate.” “ In mercy speak quickly,” said the agitated M. Barbier. Sarah went on, still weeping. “ Alice and I are part of a gang of gipsies, who were to leave Paris last night, and for whom w*e w r ere to open the gate of your hotel; and I would have done it, but that Alice locked me up in the room. There’s the truth for you.” “ Did I not say so?” cried Mathurine ; and there is no know- ing how she might have gone on to evince her triumph in her sagacity, had not her master silenced her somewhat angrily. “ But Alice — Alice! who, and what is she? Speak, girl; I care for nothing else.” “She is like myself — a stolen child, sir,” answered Sarah; “ with this difference, however, that I can tell the place she was stolen from, whereas the only person that knows anything about me is gone.” “ Well, girl — w r ell! ” interrupted M. Barbier, now* nearly frantic from suspense. “About eleven years ago,” said Sarah, “I was on an excur- sion with Mother Verduchene in the environs of Paris. I used to beg, and I was never refused, for I had a pretty face, and I THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL. had learned sweet words and winning* ways, that interested people for me. Well, one day as we were passing* a cottage, Mother Verduehene went in to ask for a drink of milk, and there was no one in the cottage but a child asleep in a cradle. She was dressed in the finest cambric and lace, and had, I well remember, a gold chain round her neck. Mother Verduehene caught up the child, and ran off with her so fast, that I did not overtake her till she had got into a wood, where I found her stripping the infant. But when she began to untie a green string, to which a locket was suspended, the little one screamed at such a rate, and then lisping, 4 Never part with it! — never part with it! ? that Mother Verduehene thought she might as well leave it with her. The next day we left Paris, and the gipsies thought it best to take the child with them.” “ My daughter! — my daughter!” exclaimed M. Barbier, as he pressed her fondly to his bosom. u Well do I remember that your mother used so often to repeat the words which she had engraved on the locket when fastening it round your neck, that at last your young* lips had learned to form the sound ; and no one could touch it, not even myself, without your trying to say, £ Never part ! — never part ! ’ But how shall I thank the gracious Being who has so wondrously preserved my child, innocent, pure, and virtuous, amid such a gang of wretches ; and who, in inspiring her with the determination not to be instrumental in betraying a stranger, has, to reward her, permitted her to find in that stranger a father ! My child ! — my child ! ” But wonder and joy had been too much for Alice, and she had fainted in the encircling arms of her father. Tender cares, fond soothing, and words of love, to which she had been long a stranger, hailed her returning senses ; and her father, eager to present her to her brother, now cried, u Come with me, mv child ! I am impatient to show to the whole world my recovered treasure.” “ But — Sarah — my father ! ” said Alice hesitatingly, yet im- ploringly. “ Sarah shall always stay with you, if you like it, my child.” u And can you trust her, my young lady ? ” said the old house- keeper. “ She may trust me,” said Sarah, “ if I once promise ; and I do promise to try to be good, like herself.” “ And we will ask God to make us both good,” said Alice, u and to take out of our minds all the bad things they used to try to teach us ; and I know nice words for asking him — £ Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me ! ? ” “ Surely His providential care over you, my sweet child,” said M. Barbier, u is a proof that there are no possible circumstances in which the way of duty is not open to us, if we have but honest, truthful purpose of heart to walk therein.”* 17 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. THE TWO BROTHERS. There lived in a small town in the High Alpes a poor man named Marcel ; he had been early left a widower, with two young boys, the elder called Jerome, the younger Louis. Having much good sense, he felt the deficiency of his own education, and deeply regretted that his poverty deprived him of the power of affording a good one to his sons : he did his best, however, to instil pious and virtuous principles into their youthful minds. J erome was giddy, and when his father was absent, would amuse himself with all the young scamps of the village. Scrambling over garden walls to rob the fruit, beating dogs or cats, and throwing stones at the fowls, were their favourite occupations ; and when the younger brother attempted to remonstrate, he not unfrequently received a blow in return. As Louis grew older, his naturally gay disposition was saddened by the reflection that he could not find any mode of acquiring information ; there was not any village school ; and at last, after much hesitation, he went to the curate, and expressing all his grief for his ignorance, he earnestly intreated him to teach him to read. This worthy man was surprised, and much pleased, at this request from so young a child, and willingly acceded to it. The close attention of the pupil so gratified his kind master, that, not satisfied with teaching him to read, he taught him to write, to keep accounts, a little Latin, history, and geography ; at the same time care- fully attending to his religious education. Jerome ridiculed his brother for his assiduity to his studies ; and his faults increasing as he grew up, at the age of fourteen the youth had succeeded in making himself feared and thoroughly detested by the whole village. When the two boys had attained their fifteenth and sixteenth years, their father called them to him, and said, “ My dear children, you are both old enough to seek some profitable occupation. I can give you no assistance, for you know that it is with difficulty that I have hitherto supported you. I have saved two pounds ; here is one for each of you. Go to the city, try to earn your bread, and let me often hear from you. For thee, my dear Louis, I have no fear ; I am truly grateful to the curate for the instruction he has so kindly given thee ; it will serve thee everywhere, and thou wilt get on well. As for thee, my poor Jerome, I cannot see thee depart without much anxiety: thou hadst the same opportunities as thy brother, but thou hast not availed thyself of them; thou hast preferred idleness and dissipation, and I greatly fear thou wilt have cause to repent it. My heart forms the same wishes for both of you. Go, my chil- dren ; may every happiness attend you ! ?? and Marcel tenderly embraced his sons, and wept over them. Just then the curate came in. Louis threw his arms around his benefactor, and w r as 18 THE TWO BROTHERS. so overcome by his feelings, that he could not utter a word to express his gratitude. Jerome likewise shed tears, for even the most corrupted cannot completely shake off all natural feeling. At last the two boys walked away, their father and the good curate gazing after them whilst they remained within sight. The two boys walked for some time sadly and in silence, which was at length broken by Louis asking his brother what occu- pation he meant to follow. u Oh,” said Jerome, u it will be time enough to consider that when our money is exhausted.” u That will not take long, Jerome. I have read somewhere that children and fools think that twenly years and twenty shillings never come to an end.” u No more sermons, brother, I beg.” u Well, I shall say no more.” Towards evening, our two pedestrians came to an inn, where they stopped for the night ; it was about fifteen or eighteen leagues from Lyons, which they hoped to reach within two days. There were a good many people at the inn ; amongst others was one whose rakish air attracted the notice of Jerome. He was a fourrier (a petty officer attached to each company in the French army), returning to the garrison of Grenoble. Jerome soon began to talk freely to this man, who, as soon as he discovered that the poor boy had some money, proposed a game at cards. At first, Jerome’s purse filled so fast, he thought it quite inex- haustible. The wiser Louis vainly tried to dissuade his brother from the dangerous amusement. He was so rudely received, that he was forced to desist. Another game commenced, and now Jerome’s purse was completely emptied. “ Lend me some money,” said he to Louis, “ that I may recover what I have lost.” “ No,” said his brother firmly ; “ you refused to listen to good advice, and now I must keep my money.” The friendship of the fourrier was singularly cooled when he found that Jerome had not a penny left; he soon retired, wish- ing him a good-night and better luck. When the two boys were alone, Louis said, u I see, brother, that we can never get on together ; our tastes and inclinations do not agree, and it is much better for us to separate. I will pay our expenses at this inn, and we will then equally divide what money remains.” The plan of Louis was adopted ; and early the next morning they started on different roads. Jerome took the road to Gren- oble, and walking slowly, was soon overtaken by the fourrier. u What are you doing here ? ” exclaimed the latter. “ I thought that you were off to Lyons this morning ? ” u Oh, I have changed my mind. I am going with you to Grenoble ; I wish to serve in your regiment.” u Indeed; you are a capital fellow ! We can go together, and I will present you to my captain.” They arrive at Grenoble; Jerome is presented and enlisted! 19 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. he puts on the uniform, shoulders the musket, and commences drill. For a time this was all well enough. He had touched the bounty, and had won a little money at cards from his com- panions ; but this was quickly run through in dissipation and drunkenness on those days when he was not on duty : and how was he to obtain more? Not liking to work, and tired of sol- diering*, he resolved, although at the risk of being taken and shot, to rob his fellow-soldiers and desert. Knowing that some of them had saved a little money, or earned it in the town when off duty, he watched his opportunity, and searched the knapsacks of these poor men in their absence. In this way he picked up nearly £10, and hastily quitting the barracks, he exchanged his uniform for the dress of a countryman, and left Grenoble, choosing the by-roads, for fear of pursuit. He crossed the country at a brisk pace, sleeping many nights in the open air, and in about ten days reached Chalons-sur-Saone. Here he imagined himself safe; and, emboldened by his success, deter- mined to continue a trade which he found so lucrative and con- venient, totalty forgetting that justice never sleeps, and that although he may escape detection once, or even oftener, yet in the end discovery is certain, and the culprit pays a heavy penalty for all his crimes. With such a love of play, Jerome’s funds were soon at a low ebb, and he looked around for some other favourable occasion. A band of strolling players was at this time performing at Chalons, and Jerome had made the acquaintance of one of them, named Bernardin, who acted the part of a brigand chief. He tried to induce Jerome to join the party; but there was one great obstacle — the youth did not know how to read. This, however, he did not acknowledge, but said that he had so bad a memory, that he never could recollect a line by heart. “ Oh, that does not signify,” replied Bernardin; u we can give you what we call a dumb part.” Matters were quickly arranged. The manager being satisfied with his appearance, engaged him ; and, dressed as a brigand, he joined the troop of his friend Bernardin. The expression of his countenance was well adapted to his performance, which was partly caused by the circumstance that, in going to the stage, he passed the pay-office, and caught a glimpse of the money-box, quite full enough to excite in his mind sentiments analogous to those he was to represent. For two months he pondered upon the means of acquiring this treasure. He sounded the cash- keeper, and thinking his probity doubtful, he invited him to a tavern, and imparting his plan over the bottle, easily persuaded the foolish creature to join him. They fixed upon a day when a popular piece was to be acted ; and no sooner had the cash- keeper received the money for the tickets, than he hastily joined Jerome, who had absented himself from the representation on the plea of indisposition. 20 THE TWO BROTHERS. That night they walked on, without resting*, until morning*, when they stopped at an inn to obtain some refreshment. Imagine Jerome’s horror upon entering* to perceive two gen- darmes, who observed him with such attention, that he could not doubt but that he was recognised. Recollecting his deser- tion, he instantly quitted the room without a word. He had noticed that the horses of the gendarmes were left in the court- yard ; and now coolly walking up to them, plunged his knife into one, so as totally to disable it, then snatching the bridle of the other, he sprang into the saddle and gallopped off, carrying the booty along with him, and mocking at the vain menaces of the gendarmes. We shall hear by and by what became of his wretched accomplice, who was thus left without a penny in the hands of the enraged gendarmes. Jerome never pulled up until the poor horse sunk under him exhausted with fatigue. He then turned off from the road, and sat down in a wood to rest and count his ill-gotten gains : they amounted to £25. Jerome had never seen so much, and was rejoicing over his riches, when two men of fearful aspect walked up, and presenting a pistol at his head, demanded his purse or his life. For a moment he thought that it was all over with him; but rallying his courage, “ Eh, sirs!” said Jerome, “I have always heard that wolves never devour one another. I am one of yourselves ; it would be a villanous action to rob one of the fraternity.” “ That may be ; but have you never heard that stolen goods never profit ? ” “No more jokes,” replied Jerome. u I tell you I am one of the trade. These monies are the receipts of the players of Chalons, which I have contrived to appropriate. I am ready to share with you, but you cannot expect all.” “ Well,” said one of the robbers, “ if you will really be one of us, you may enroll yourself in our band. So come along.” “ Willingly, sirs ; I know of nothing better to do.” Jerome followed the two thieves to a thick part of the wood, where their comrades, seven or eight in number, were assembled. “ We bring a new member,” said the wretches. “ Is he a safe man?” demanded the leader of the gang. “ Yes, yes ; he brings money to the general fund.” “ All right ; hand it over, comrade.” For four years he continued to lead this shocking life ; but just when he least expected it, his crimes were brought to light, and received their due reward. As the most intelligent of the gang, he was the one selected to hire himself as a servant in a neighbouring chateau, in order to smooth the way for the others to commit an extensive robbery. An officer happened to dine at the chateau whom Jerome did not recollect. Whilst the latter was attending at table, the officer remarked him, and looking* at him more attentively, suddenly called out, “Arrest that man ! He 21 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. is a deserter and a thief!” Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, Jerome could not have been more horrified : he dashed the plate he held upon the ground, and rushed to the door : but it was too late : he was seized, and carried off to prison. It happened that one of his escort was the gendarme upon wdiose horse he had escaped from the robbery at Chalons. He w^as soon convicted, and sentenced to the galleys; but in less than a week after his arrival at Toulon, he was called upon to pay a heavier penalty. A galley slave came up to him one day in the harbour and stared at him for a moment; then exclaiming, “Wretch! I have long waited for my revenge. To you I owe all my misfortunes. It was you who tempted me to commit my first crime — to rob the players of Chalons. My last crime is that of murder ; ” and so saying, he gave Jerome one desperate blow, that laid him dead at his feet. Thus was terminated this wicked young man’s career, after passing through every gradation of crime. The vengeance of the laws and of Heaven is sometimes long delayed, but sooner or later, retribution is certain : the guilty never remain un- punished. Let us now return to a more pleasing subject. When the brothers parted, Louis chose the road to Lyons, and walked on, full of misgivings for Jerome’s future fate. He began then to reflect upon his own prospects ; he thought that the situation most easy to obtain was that of a servant in some house ; but he preferred a country life, in which he hoped to turn his good education to a better account. Whilst considering thus, night came on, and he found it necessary to seek a lodging till the morning. Fortune directed him to a cottage inhabited by an old gardener, who was employed on the grounds of a neighbour- ing chateau, and from whom our young hero received a hearty welcome. The evening was destined not to pass over without an adventure. The old man became suddenly ill, and having fallen to the floor in a species of swoon, Louis, with the greatest kind- ness, attended to him, and did not leave him till he had recovered. This was a melancholy duty, but it met with its proper reward. The aged gardener, grateful for the attentions shown him, re- commended Louis to a neighbouring farmer as w'orthy of con- fidence. On presenting himself to the farmer, Louis found that the only situation vacant was that of herdsman : this was not exactly to his taste ; but recollecting that there is a beginning to eveiy- thing, and that he might rise to something higher, he gladly accepted the employment; and being forthwith installed, we behold him early on the following day driving his flocks to the fields. After a little time, he greatly felt the want of books, and in order to be able to procure them, saved his wages, and tried various ingenious devices to add to his little store. His attention to the cattle intrusted to his charge was unremitting, and he was careful to keep everything belonging to them in the highest 22 THE TWO BROTHERS. state of order and neatness. His character was thus soon so well established, that he might easily have obtained higher wages elsewhere ; but he remembered the old proverb, u A rolling stone gathers no moss ; 77 and besides, he was too grateful to the master who had first given him an asylum to desire to leave him. As soon as he could, he wrote to his father and the curate, detailing all his hopes and plans, whereupon this kind instructor imme- diately sent him a few books upon agriculture which he hap- pened to have; a present that quite overjoyed poor Louis, who applied himself to their study with the utmost ardour. Some time had thus elapsed, when the following conversation occurred. “ My dear Louis / 7 said Farmer Berthand, “ I am much pleased with you ; my cattle have much improved whilst in your charge. I know that many advantageous offers have been made to you, which you have declined. You have done well; but you must not be a loser : I will make up the difference to you . 77 u I am most grateful for your kindness, Monsieur Berthand, 7 ' replied Louis ; “ but I have another plan to propose . 77 u What is that, my friend ? 77 u Have you confidence in me ? 77 (C The greatest . 77 “ Well, I could greatly increase the revenue of your farm, if you will make me superintendent for one year. I ask for no w*ages ; feed me only ; and if I succeed, you can then do as you like . 77 u How could you imagine such an idea, boy ? You are much too young . 77 u Then you have not confidence in me ? 77 u Oh yes ; but to give you the management of everything ! 77 a You will watch over me . 77 u Such a thing was never heard of. Well, after all, I will try it — I will grant your request . 77 “ I promise you that in a year hence your neighbours will envy you . 77 u Well, I depend upon you. You see what confidence I re- pose in your knowledge and merit . 77 The joy of Louis cannot be described. In the space of two years his good conduct had thus raised him to the rank of superintendent, and enabled him to put in practice those im- provements in agriculture which he had learned from his books. Henceforth no part of the.ground was left untilled ; all was in- dustriously turned to account ; the best manures sought out, and the whole carefully cultivated. He also formed artificial mea- dows, which were hitherto unknown in the country. Farmer Berthand, having always pursued the old routine, could not witness these innovations without anxiety ; still, his opinion of the talents of the young agriculturist was so high, that he allowed him to take his own course, notwithstanding his fears and the raillery of his neighbours. But at the end of the 23 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. year, the triumph of the new system was complete ; the revenue of the farm had increased by a third or fourth, and the sur- rounding’ farmers looked on with admiration not unmixed with envy. “ You may easily enjoy the same advantages,” said Louis to them : “ you possess a rich soil, which will yield all you need, if you will only manage it with judgement. The industry of her husbandmen constitutes one of the greatest sources of the wealth of France; and if her people were wise, they W'ould give more attention to agriculture. It would advance them far on the road to power and riches. Attend to the advice of enlightened men, and do not sacrifice your fortune to old prejudices and ancient routine.” Farmer Berthand knew not how to testify his gratitude to Louis. At the close of the year’s trial he gave him a handsome salary, the greater part of which Louis, like a good son, trans- mitted to his father, to whom he wrote regularly, as well as to the curate, from whom he had received the good education whence arose all his prosperity, the only drawback to w r hich was, his uncertainty with respect to his brother’s fate, of whom he had heard nothing since their separation. The farmer’s substance continued gradually to increase ; but who was to inherit it? His only child was about the age of Louis, a pretty and amiable girl, but without education ; and she, with her father’s permission, gladly availed herself of the young man’s assistance in her studies. Thrown so much into each other’s society, the young people soon formed an attach- ment, which neither of them, however, ventured to avow; never- theless it was quite apparent to the clear-sighted farmer, who thus addressed Louis one day, after he had been more than five years in the management of the farm: “ Louis, you have ren- dered me such services, that I have known no way of acknow- ledging them save by treating you as a son. Will you now, in reality, become one to me? My daughter and you love each other, and I willingly give her to you.” At these words the rapture of Louis was extreme, and he almost smothered honest Berthand with his embraces. Annette not only consented to the arrangement, but seemed not to think it at all necessary to conceal the pleasure it afforded her. Old Marcel was sent for to the wedding, and the worthy curate could not be left behind. This completed the joy of the good son, who, now that he had once obtained possession of his father, refused to allow him to depart, and was warmly seconded in his intreaties by Berthand. “ We are both old men, Father Marcel,” said the latter; “ let us live together and enjoy the happiness of our children; they will remind us of our young days. Besides, Marcel, it is not at my house that you will reside ; we must both live with your son, for everything here belongs to the young people. I have given all up to them ; and 24 VICTOR DACHEUX. I can tell }mu I leave it in good hands. Your Louis is a famous, fellow for activity and merit;” and how could Marcel resist an invitation urged with so much warmth and delicacy? But in this world perfect bliss is not to be found ; and the report of the tragical death of Jerome had spread far and wide, and at last reached the ears of his family, clouding* their enjoy- ments with grief and shame : but we will not dwell on those days of mourning. Louis, having now become sole master, made many new ex- periments, the greater number of which proved successful. He visited Lyons occasionally, and there formed acquaintance with many enlightened men, whose conversation and advice were of great benefit to him ; and by unceasing study and exertions, he gained the reputation of being a first-rate agriculturist. As Louis rose in the world, he never forgot his former condition in life, and never failed to show the utmost respect to both Berthand and his father. Even when distinguished guests were enter- tained at his table, the most honourable places were always reserved for the two old men. Having been chosen to fill the office of mayor to the commune, Louis showed that his integrity and judgment as a magistrate were quite on a par with his skill in other pursuits. At last Louis obtained the highest honour which a citizen can arrive at : his merit having well deserved the confidence of the inhabitants of the department in which he resided, they elected him to be their representative in the Chamber of Deputies, where he has set a noble example of disinterested and devoted patriotism. His children, carefully brought up in the same honourable principles which have guided him through life, inspire their parents with the highest hopes for the future. How truly precious is a good education ! How inexcusable is the neglect of it, when every facility now exists for its acquire- ment ! Teach children early to have the fear of God before their eyes, to respect the laws, and to love their fellow-creatures. With such guides, they seldom grander ; without them, they are sure to go astray. VICTOR DACHEUX. Not many years ago there lived in a little wooden house on the banks of the Seine at Paris a poor man named Victor Dacheux. This individual had placed himself in this hampered and un- pleasant abode, with the sole view of rescuing persons from drowning. In England, no poor man would think of devoting himself to such an occupation ; but in France, there are instances of this species of practical benevolence extremely agreeable to 25 MORAL TALES; FROM THE FRENCH. reflect upon. Victor was not employed by any one. He volun- tarily took up his residence in his booth, and his only chance of gaining a subsistence consisted in the petty rewards which might be given by persons rescued by his intrepidity. This worthy man had been thus engaged for a number of years : misfortunes of different kinds had overtaken him, not the least troublesome of which was an infirmity from rheuma- tism ; but he was still cheerful, and kept a constant outlook on the river. One day, while sitting at the door of his hut, he perceived the body of a man drifting slowly down the Seine. In two minutes he had doffed his clothes, and was in the middle of the stream, grasping the object he vainly hoped to save : but, alas ! the decomposition of the body proved it to have been long the prey of the waters — a late rise of the river having disen- gaged it from some obstacle which prevented its earlier appear- ance on the surface. All that Dacheux could do was to note down any discernible particulars respecting* the evidently aged sufferer ; but on removing his decaying garments, no clue to his name or residence could be found, nothing but an old leathern pocket-book, containing* twenty-four bank bills for one thousand francs each. These Dacheux dried with the utmost care, and replaced them in the pocket-book, in a secret drawer of his little desk, unknown even to his wife and children, so much did he fear lest their extreme destitution should tempt them to infringe on the sacredness of the deposit. He had, besides, little doubt that the advertisements he intended to insert in the public papers would quickly bring forward the owners or heirs of so consider- able a sum, which he promised himself no small pleasure in handing over to them. He lost no time in conveying the dead body to the Morgue — a place for the reception of bodies found in the river — and here it remained exposed during the whole time prescribed by the law; but no one came forward to recognise or claim it. He continued to intimate in the papers, for months together, that such a person, whom he described, had been found by him (appa- rently carried off by apoplexy, and fallen by accident into the river) between the Pont des Arts and the Port Royal ; and that his valuable effects remained with the finder, only awaiting any owner who could prove his title to their possession. Nay, he went so far as to declare, that though no scrap of writing affording a clue had been discovered on the deceased, there were sufficient effects in his hands, and particularly in his memory, to lead to an identification. There was enough here to move both cupidity and curiosity, and bring forward swarms of pseudo-relatives ; who found their match, however, in the wary as well as faithful trustee. Many bona Jide mourners for missing individuals came also with better founded hopes and proofs of identity ; but none would tally with the no less eager hopes and wishes of good Dacheux. He was 26 VICTOR LACHEUX. therefore compelled, notwithstanding' all his disinterested exer- tions, to retain in his possession the twenty-four bank bills, about which he still thought it his duty to maintain inviolable secrecy. Lest, however, sudden death amid the perils of his vocation should carry him off from his family, he placed beside the old pocket-book a paper in his handwriting', solemnly en- joining' his wife and children, should no owner have pre- viously appeared, to hand over the contents to some competent authority. Three years passed away, and no relative, or even acquaintance, had come forward to lament the deceased. Times, meanwhile, had gone harder than ever with Dacheux. A bitter winter covered the Seine with blocks of ice, which partly destroyed his humble cabin, shattered nearly all his furniture, and left his family all but destitute. His wife and faithful associate in acts of humanity was seized with a serious illness, requiring constant nursing and expensive medicines ; while he himself was attacked with acute rheumatism, which crippled him for a time in every limb. In the midst of all this distress, it was little the labour of his children could add to the small income of the suffering house- hold ; but if even the sick man’s glance rested for a moment with a wishful expression on the desk which contained the twenty -four bank bills, its upward direction would immediately seem to say, “ Please God, whatever may be the extent of our trials, I will keep sacred to the last the charge He has intrusted to me l” His eye rested upon it with a proud and delighted conscious- ness of integrity rewarded, when, shortly after (in a ceremony at which the writer was present), a deputation from the free masons of Paris, in presence of more than twelve hundred spec- tators of all ranks and ages, waited upon him with a voluntary subscription, sufficient to replace on its original footing his benevolent establishment, and conferred upon him, amid shouts of applause and admiration, the unfading title of I? Homme du Rivage ! (“ Man of the Shore !”) But it was not only as an asylum for the resuscitated from drowning that this good Samaritan’s house was gratuitously restored. It had long been the resort of every wounded work- man on the banks of the Seine. If, by the collision of two unwieldy wood rafts, a poor fellow got a bruise on the arm or a jam of the leg, he would hobble as best he might to good M. Dacheux, and have his hurts dressed as skilfully and more kindly than in any hospital. If a poor female fagot-seller stumbled under her burden, while climbing the steep steps of the Quai de L’Ecole, and got, as may be supposed, an ugly fall, her legs would still drag her to Madame Dacheux, where the softest bandage and most healing ointment were set off by motherly sympathy and Christian charity. Among the many wounded persons thus claiming the good 27 MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. offices of “ The Man of the Shore,” there came one fine spring* evening a young man, whose right hand ha.d been grievously crushed by a barrel of saltpetre, which had slipped from him a few minutes before, while rolling it on the quay. The thumb seemed well-nigh destroyed, and two lingers terribly lacerated ; and the agony of the sufferer was so intense, that, spite of his bodily strength, tears were trickling down his face. The skilful Dacheux, after washing, according to his custom, the formidable- looking wound with warm wine, declared there was no fracture. But the hurt w'as of a nature to require the greatest care and attention, and having* bandaged it up with the proper applica- tions, and prepared a sling, he strongly advised the youth to return twice a-day to have his hand dressed, as long as it re- mained unhealed. This was not an invitation to be despised, and the lad failed not to avail himself of it, night and morning, for several fol- lowing days. The wound, serious as it was, soon did credit to the skill of the well-known cottage practitioners ; and the jolly young workman, one of the handsomest specimens of humanity among his companions, soon recovered his naturally high spirits. No sooner was his cure completed, than he came one Sunday, in his holiday attire, to salute his physician, and asked, with well- meaning abruptness — “ What do I owe you, Monsieur Da- cheux ?” u And what do you mean by that, my good friend?” “ Mean ! why, to pay you your dues. Five-and-twenty dress- ings, and all that linen and ointment, must come to ” “ Neither more nor less than a shake of the hand, my dear fellow ! Show me you can bear a squeeze of the one I cured, and we are quits. I never take money from any one.” u Oh, that will never do ; and though I am but a porter on the quay, and have both my mother and grandmother on my hands, I have wherewithal to pay, I assure you.” u And I assure you once more that you owe me nothing. But tell me what coun- tiyman you are V 9 u I come from Villeneuve le Roi, near Sens. My father was killed at Austerlitz ; they say he was a gallant fellow'. I never knew him. My mother, left a w r idow at nine- teen, w r ith no child but me, went to live with her father, who was a dealer in wines, and had, I may say, as pretty a bit of land on the banks of the Yonne, and as snug a house at Ville- neuve, as you could see. Well, we’ve had to sell it all !” u And for what "reason ?” “ D’ye see, Monsieur Dacheux, my poor grandfather, one of the honestest men in the world, had but one fault — he liked his glass. I’m afraid I take after him. He w'as employed as a salesman by some of the first houses at Sens, and came on their account to recover money for them in Paris. One day, wffien he had received a pretty large sum, he disappeared, without our ever having been able to get the smallest tidings of his fate. He w'as subject to fits of blood to the head, poor old man ; and no doubt this had happened to him somehow r , and 28 VICTOR DACHEUX. rogues must have taken advantage of it to rob and bury him secretly. But it was the worse for us. The Paris merchants could prove they had paid him the money, and as we had no- thing- to show for it to the wine-growers of Sens, of course we had to sell all to satisfy them, which left us without a sou. My grandmother fretted herself into a palsy, and my poor mother, having no means of living at Villeneuve, had to come to Paris, where she toils hard making shirts for my fellow-workmen ; and I get, when all goes well, three francs a-day ; so that, with the help of God, we manage to live.” “ Pray what might be your grandfather’s age ? ” “ Hard upon seventy.” “ And his height ? ” “ Much the same as mine ; about live feet ten.” “ And his name, if you please?” “ Why, the same I bear after him; Maurice Goddard.” “ And may I ask the amount of the sum which he had drawn, and you were forced to make good ?” “ Just twenty- four thousand francs ; enough to ruin us out and out. But why do you ask me all these questions ?” “ Why, to be useful to you, if I should have opportunity.” “ How you do look at me, Mon- sieur Dacheux !” “Not for nothing, believe me ; you have in- spired me with a lively interest. I have taken a great fancy to know your mother and grandmother likewise.” “ We’re highly honoured, Pin sure ; but if so, you’ll have to take the trouble to call on us, for the poor dear old woman is past moving.” “You may expect me to-morrow: what address?” “Hue Boucher, No. 15, up live pair of stairs. Oh how delighted they’ll be when I tell them of your visit ! They know that to you I owe my cured hand. Good-by, Monsieur Dacheux.” “ Till to- morrow, friend Goddard.” Early next day “The Man of the Shore” was at the house specified, eager to confirm, by authentic proofs, the surmises floating* in his mind. He found the humble abode distinguished by the peculiar neatness of those who have seen better days. The venerable grandmother, seated in her wheeling chair, seemed, in spite of bodily infirmity, in possession of all her faculties. Her daughter-in-law, Maurice’s mother, was busy at her needle, while her son read to both, from an old paper, the report of the honours conferred on Dacheux by his grateful countrymen. His presence gave rise to transports of joy in this worthy family. Madame Goddard blessed him for his care of her son ; and the old palsied woman thanked him for the last bright gleam on her declining years. It was not difficult to turn the conversation to the lost head of the united family — his painful disappearance, and the sad consequences which ensued from it. But the holder of the twenty-four thousand francs had enough to do to conceal his secret emotion, while putting to those, so deeply interested, the questions dictated by prudence. “ Had your husband,” he in- quired of the old woman, “ no mark or token by which he could have been recognised ?” MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. “ Oh dear, yes ! 77 was her ready answer. “ The poor fellow was in the first wars of the Revolution, and had two fingers shot off at the battle of Fleurus . 77 “ From which hand ? 77 “ The left : and then at the great battle of Jemmappes he got a sabre cut from the right ear to the chin, which left such a lovely scar ! 77 “ And may I ask if there was anything remarkable in his dress? what did he usually wear ? 77 “ Oh, at the time he was lost, an old gray greatcoat (for it was cold dirty weather), and under it an old hussar jacket, which he could only wear out so . 77 “ Oh , 77 added Maurice 7 s mother, “you forget he always wore a silver watch with a steel chain . 77 “ Yes ! 77 said the old dame sighing, “ with a gold heart hanging from it, which I had given him the day we were engaged, and which never left him . 77 “ But , 77 abruptly interrupted Dacheux, now almost sure he was right, “ a man in the habit of receiving sums of money must have carried a pocket-book . 77 “ To be sure he did , 77 replied three voices at once. “ And of what colour ? 77 “ Oh, black leather originally, but so worn by use, that you might have half fancied it red . 77 “ And fastened , 77 said the mother, “ with a little steel clasp . 77 “And inside , 77 again sighed the grandmother, “my poor good- man always carried an image of his patron saint, St Maurice, which I gave him, when I was a girl, once upon his birthday. Ay me ! 7 tis a long, long while ago ! 77 “ But, sir , 77 young Maurice could not help saying, “methinks, from your eager looks and anxious questionings, one might almost suppose you had some object in view . 77 “ I have , 77 replied Dacheux, convinced, from all these parti- culars, that the rightful heirs he had sought for so many years in vain now stood before him — “ I have indeed a notion that, about the time you mention, an old man was taken out of the river, on whom a pocket-book was found ; and I should not be at all surprised if you were to get back all it contained . 77 “ You don’t say so ? And wouldn’t it come apropos to let me marry Celestine, whom they wont let have me, because I have nothing ? 77 “ And pray who may Celestine be ? 77 “ The prettiest girl on all the quay, for whom I am dying. Fancy, Monsieur Dacheux, their letting' me fall in love with her, and never hindering her a bit from loving me again ; and then, when I wanted of course to marry her, asking me what I had to marry upon. And when I said just my four quarters, and I am sure they are substantial enough, they laughed in my face, and Celestine cried, and I was like to choke. I VICTOR DACHEUX. appeal to you, Monsieur Dacheux, could a poor fellow be worse used?” “ And who is the father of your bride elect ?” “ Monsieur Aubert, a rich fellow in the cider line.” “Ay! I should have something- to say with him; for last summer, no farther back, I fished out his only son, who was taken with a fit while swimming- at high water in the Seine. I'll see what can be done for you this very evening in that quarter ; and you may come and hear the result at twelve o'clock to-morrow.” “ Oh, I'll be there without fail. But, dear sir, do you think there are any hopes?” “ It would be rash to promise ; but we'll see.” “ Ah ! sir,” said the youth's mother modestly, “ you would be doing us all a great service, for the poor boy neither eats nor sleeps as he used to do.” “ Well, good people, all shall be done that lies in the power of man ; but you have reason to look higher for the possible com- fort and consolation of your latter days. I dare say no more at present ; we shall meet to-morrow.” So saying, he left this interesting family, casting behind him a last look, so expressive of satisfaction, that we need not wonder if it laid the foundation for a thousand fond conjectures. None of them, however, came up in the faintest degree to the series of agreeable surprises awaiting them next day at the hands of the most upright and most friendly of human beings. On Maurice's arrival at the cottage of Dacheux, he found there before him the father of his mistress, the same who had laughed to scorn his former pretensions ; but who, meeting him now with the most cordial frankness, said, “ Excuse me, Mau- rice, for having received somewhat coldly your request for my daughter's hand ; but why did you conceal from me that you were worth four-and-twenty thousand francs, and that you were only waiting an opportunity to purchase warehouses, and set up for yourself ? ” “ What is all this you are saying?” stammered the bewildered Maurice. “ 1 do not comprehend a word of it ! ” “It shall be explained to you,” replied good Dacheux, flying to his desk, and bringing forth the deposit so long and so dis- creetly preserved : “ here is your own. If this pocket-book had contained a single name, the least word of direction to any one, you would have been put in possession of it next day, and your poor grandmother's property have been saved from the hammer. But though long foiled in my researches, it has pleased Heaven to grant me at length the joy of restoring it to its lawful pro- prietors. It can only belong to those who have so w’ell described it ; look at this black leather reddened by long use, this old steel clasp, and, above all, at the image of St Maurice. These twenty- four bank bills make the exact sum drawn by your grandfather, MORAL TALES, FROM THE FRENCH. and which he was no doubt carrying' hack to his employers 'when, surprised by treacherous liquor, he fell into the Seine. Let this be a lesson, young man, to yourself !" “Ah, Monsieur Hacheux, there is little fear of my forgetting it. But are you really quite sure this pocket-book was my grandfather's?” “ Yes ; by the tokens of this silver watch, which was also upon him, and the little steel chain from which still hangs your grandmother's golden heart, and by that of the two lingers of the left hand which were missing from the old man I drew out of the river, and the scar from the tip of the right ear to the chin. Plow could all these marks meet in any but the right person? Nay, my own heart tells me this restitution is the dictate of Heaven. I am too happy in making it, to be under any delusion." So saying, he warmly embraced the delighted young man, whose honest gratitude found vent in the expressions of unsophis- ticated nature, and whose goodness of heart soon prompted him to make his relatives at home the sharers of his joy. Panting and breathless, scarce able to speak for delight, he announced to the two dear maternal friends of his youth the happy change in their circumstances, and thrust into the shaking hand of his grand- mother the well-known pocket-book, saying as he did so, in his turn, “ Here is your own." “Nay, yours, my children!" exclaimed the palsied one, ex- erting*, to transfer it, more strength than she had done for long. “ Methinks I feel reviving already, and as though God might yet g*rant me to see my great-great-grandchildren." The marriage of Maurice with Celestine Aubert took place soon after, and joining his father-in-law, whose experience in the cider trade was very extensive, they were soon at the head of that flourishing* branch of business. The old grandmother quitted her lodging up live pair of stairs, and came to live with her daughter and the young couple on the Quai de L'Ecole, where the good air she breathed, and the sight of her children's happiness, so far restored her, that she could sally forth on crutches, to thank in person the author of all their prosperity. She and the friends and neighbours by whom she was accompanied, found the inde- fatigable friend of humanity engaged in his vocation, having just rescued from a watery grave an interesting young woman, making, with her unborn infant, the two hundred and fifteenth life he had been enabled to preserve ! Every one present crowded round the general benefactor, proclaiming him the honour of his country, and a model for mankind ; and all united in beseeching him to continue, while strength permitted, his heroic career, exclaiming, “ Never will your memory perish from that of your fellow-citizens, or that proudest of titles with which they have thought fit to associate it, when they conferred on you the affecting surname of 4 The Man of the Shore.' " 32 THE GUERILLA. A STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR, I. ROM the year 1807 to 1814, Spain and Portugal were the theatre of one of the most desperate warlike _ struggles recorded in history, and which is usually spoken of in England as the Peninsular War . The origin of this remarkable contest was partly civil dissen- sions, arising from the weakness and incompetence of the reigning powers, but principally the ambition of Napoleon Bonaparte, at that time Emperor of the French, w r ho en- tertained the design of subduing the whole Peninsula to his authority, and forming it into a kingdom for one of his ow r n family. At first, the native forces of Spain and Portugal made an effort to withstand this foreign aggression ; but so far as they were concerned, it would have proved a hopeless struggle. Great Britain, in vindication of her policy in overthrowing the enor- mous, and, as it was believed, dangerous power of Napoleon, plunged into the disturbance, and in 1808 despatched an army to support the Spanish and Portuguese forces. After this event, the contest in the Peninsula became in reality an English and French war. The native or patriot armies, as they were called, were as much an incumbrance as a help ; and in history they are little heard of, and are only alluded to w'ith the contempt which demoralisation never fails to merit. The principal leaders on No. 171. 1 THE GUEBILLA. the part of the British were Sir John Moore, and Lord, after- wards Duke of, Wellington. The chief French generals were Junot, Massena, and N ey. For six years this fearful war raged throughout the Peninsula. On each side there were in arms from 120,000 to 200,000 men. The French gained many victories, but seldom with any per- manent advantage. Succeeding engagements weakened their power; and the fortresses they had taken were captured by sieges and bombardments, the most appalling in their details in the annals of warfare. The French, however, had another kind of foe to cope with besides the English armies, and one which materially contributed to discomfit their projects. This was the guerillas . Guerilla is a Spanish word, signifying a small or petty war, and is applied to persons who lie in ambuscade, to kill whatever enemy comes within reach of their carbines. Spain became an extensive scene of this irregular warfare. While the regular Spanish troops were disgracing themselves by cowardice, and leaving strangers to fight their battles, bands of peasants and others, armed with short muskets, pistols, and daggers — sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback — entered with zeal into the struggle which was going on, and remorselessly cut off every Frenchman who had the misfortune to fall into their hands. In vain did the French endeavour to extirpate the guerillas. Their tactics consisted in never presenting a tangible part to any large body sent out against them. Having effected their purpose in cutting off small detachments, intercepting couriers with despatches, or seizing supplies, they quickly disappeared in the mountains — only to reassemble at a new point, in order to attempt some fresh outrage. Language cannot describe the vindictive- ness, the cunning, and the intrepidity of these men. The greater number had in some way been injured by the invasion : their houses had been burnt; members of their families had been killed or insulted ; and their prospects altogether ruined. Added to these causes of hostility against the French, many of them were fired with an extraordinary patriotic zeal and religious fana- ticism, and counted it a pious service to rid the earth of wretches ■who had deluged their country with blood, and desecrated all that religion taught them to venerate. What may seem more strange, the Spanish women, animated with an equally implac- able hatred of the French, often performed deeds rivalling in atrocity those committed by guerilla marauders. Nowhere were prisoners safe from female poniards ; and thousands of sick and wounded, consigned to hospitals, were ruthlessly murdered. The only hope of safety for the vanquished or disabled French con- sisted in falling into the hands of the British, by whom they were protected, and sent out of the country as prisoners of war. According to regular military maxims, none of these furtive and vindictive measures could be sanctioned by the English 2 THE GUERILLA. commander-in-chief; yet neither was the guerilla mode of war- fare unacceptable in the existing state of affairs. The guerillas ranked as a convenient body of skirmishers, whose fidelity could be reckoned on ; and they were useful in proclaiming, in all quarters, and with almost telegraphic rapidity, any victories achieved by the British forces. It may be supposed that the guerilla system could not have attained to consistency or importance without an acknowledged head. This personage was Juan Martin Diez. He was the son of a peasant, and was born in the district of Valladolid, in Old Castile, in 1775. In his youth he was a soldier, and served some time as a private in a regiment of dragoons. Quitting the army on the restoration of peace, he returned home, married, and betook himself to agricultural employments. Patriotism, and a love of enterprise, drew him from his peaceful labours on the invasion of the territory of Spain by Napoleon. In 1808, he placed himself at the head of a party of four or five of his neighbours, and commenced hostilities against the enemy ; killing their couriers, and thus obtaining a supply of horses, arms, and ammunition. The cruelties of the French having procured him many associates, he prosecuted with uncom- promising rigour his system of annoyance and extermination. At this period he acquired the appellation of the Empecinado , from the darkness of his complexion. With the increase of his band, he extended the sphere of his operations, and per- formed feats of daring and ingenuity which would fill a volume of narrative. The Empecinado was no ordinary man. He possessed great strength and powers of endurance, was ready in device, and although not without some of the imperfections of the Spanish character, he was honest, generous, and grateful. Among' his countrymen he was highly esteemed for his bravery and patriotic ardour ; and it cannot be doubted that, had he been exposed to a more fortunate class of circumstances, he would have attained a world -wide renown, instead of the narrow popularity of a Spanish partisan warrior. It is chiefly of an incident in the career of the Empecinado that we propose to speak in the ensuing historiette. Greatly disinclined to recall the remembrance of military strife — cordially detesting war on principle — anxious to spread sentiments of peace and good-will among men — the relation of any circum- stances connected with the war of independence in Spain is scarcely congenial with our feelings. What we have to say, however, is not a recital of battles and slaughter, calculated to excite the youthful fancy, but an anecdote illustrative of the unhappy condition into which a country may be thrown by military convulsion, and of the grateful emotions which were entertained by one who might almost have been called a house- less outlaw. 3 THE GUERILLA. II. A couple of hours before sunset, on a fine evening in the month of August 1809, a party of about thirty French dragoons were assembled in the courtyard of a small venta, or roadside inn, in the province of Old Castile. That they were not permanently quartered there, but had merely halted, en route , for the tem- porary refreshment of men and horses, was evident from the travel-soiled appearance of the former, and the fact that the latter stood picketted together, with their housings unremoved, beneath a row of sheds which occupied one side of the quadrangle forming* the courtyard. But that the business which at the moment engaged their attention was of a tragical import, might likewise be inferred from the appearance of three men, one of them clad in the ordinary dress of a householder of the better class, the others wearing the motley garb, half-peasant and half-military, of the Spanish guerilla of the period, who were placed in a kneeling posture, with the hands of each bound behind him ; whilst, at the distance of about ten paces in their front, were drawn up a dozen of the Frenchmen, carbine in hand, evidently waiting but the order to execute the sentence of death which had just been adjudged to the Spaniards by the officer in command of the party. Independently of the profound interest which such a spectacle would naturally excite in a humane mind under any circumstances, the attention of the beholder would, iri this instance, have been powerfully arrested by the striking con- trast exhibited between the demeanour of one of the condemned and that of his two companions in adversity. Whilst the sun- browned countenances of the guerillas darkened into a scowl, which conveyed the combined expression of unyielding* fortitude and inextinguishable hatred, as they fixed their stern gaze on the persons of their executioners and the weapons which were to con- sign them to a bloody grave, the person and deportment of the other presented a spectacle rare indeed in the annals of Peninsular warfare. His countenance was white with fear ; the perspiration which started from his pores stood in large beads on his temples and forehead; his whole frame was convulsed with mortal terror; and had he not been placed in a kneeling posture, as already stated, he would probably have fallen to the ground. He was loud and incessant in his intreaties for mercy, urged with all the eloquence of wo, and addressed in turn to every individual w ithin his hearing, from the officer who commanded the firing party, down to the trumpeter who accompanied the troop. His com- rades in misfortune endeavoured to appear insensible of his pre- sence ; but a close observer might have detected in their bearing something approaching to a consciousness of degradation at the idea of being* assimilated in the estimation of their captors with their craven companion. 4 THE GUERILLA. Two da} r s previously, the Frenchmen had been employed in the escort, from the city of Burgos, where the head-quarters of their regiment were stationed, of a quantity of ammunition for the supply of the garrison at Valladolid. On that occasion they had halted at the little inn in question, for the double purpose of obtaining refreshment, and availing themselves of the shade during a few hours of the hottest portion of the day. When about to resume their march, the sergeant of the party, on paying his score, execrated the quality of the wine with which they had been furnished : adding, in a half-laughing tone, as he nodded to the landlord on turning to leave the house, “ Take care that, when we visit you again, on our return to Burgos the day fol- lowing to-morrow, you furnish us with something better than the sour stuff you have dosed us with to-day, else we may regard you as a rebel who designs to poison the troops of the emperor, and treat you to justice which you may find more summary than satisfactory.” In a few minutes more they were on the road ; and in the evening of the following day, delivered up their charge in safety to the commandant of Valladolid. On the suc- ceeding morning, the party were again in the saddle on their return to head-quarters. They started at an early hour, Captain Dubois, the officer in command, being determined to accomplish the distance in one day, which had previously occupied them nearly two, when encumbered with the wagons they had been sent to escort. They had, therefore, reached the wine-house ere the hottest part of the day had set in, and, according to custom, halted to refresh themselves, and enjoy the shade, with the intention of resuming their march in the cool of the afternoon. Several leagues still remained to be traversed before they could reach Burgos ; but by borrowing a couple of hours from the night, the distance would be easily accomplished, and both men and horses in much better condition than if the march were prosecuted under the tierce blaze of the meridian sun. Having halted in front of the venta, the officer dismounted, whilst the sergeant shouted to the landlord to open the gate of the courtyard for the admission of the troop. No response was given. He dismounted, and entered the house ; but the host, in general its sole occupant, was nowhere to be seen. Having repeatedly called for him in vain within and about the house, the sergeant himself admitted the troop ; who, in a very few minutes, having placed their horses beneath the sheds already alluded to, and furnished them with provender, proceeded to supply their personal wants on the most liberal scale from the food and wine which they found in abundance in the house ; observing that, if the landlord did not choose to remain at home and look after his own interests, that was no reason whatever why they should be regardless of theirs. Some hours subsequently, about a dozen of their number, who, though not by any means intoxicated, had arrived at the state 5 THE GUERILLA. generally described as “ convivial,” were seated round a wine- skin, chanting at the top of their voices a ditty, of which the praises of la Idle France and the glories of the Grand Army formed the burden, when their harmony received an unexpected interruption. The crash of breaking timber was heard ; a slight ceiling, composed of a species of hurdle, forming* the floor of a small loft, and extending over about half the room in which they sat, gave way immediately above them, and a man tumbled head-foremost into the centre of the astonished group. So very sudden and unexpected was his appearance, that it might readily have been mistaken for the commencement of a violent attack. The Frenchmen involuntarily sprang to their feet, and their sabres flashed from the scabbards ; but the individual who had so abruptly intruded on their mirth was himself evidently by far the most startled of the party. Dropping on his knees, he ex- claimed, “ Mercy, senors ! — mercy ! I am your poor servant Jose, landlord of the venta, as you must remember. I have never in- jured any one, and love the brave French ! Mercy, senors ! ” And certainly he was immediately recognised as the host who had supplied them with refreshment two days previously, and whose absence on the present occasion had caused them so much sur- prise. His abrupt and involuntary advent was now greeted with a hearty peal of laughter, and he was pledged in a bumper of his own wine ; whilst inquiries were addressed to him on every side as to the causes which had induced him to seek conceal- ment. Jose seemed for a time considerably puzzled to find a satisfactory reply to this very natural inquiry; but at length succeeded in impressing the Frenchmen with the belief that, whilst he entertained the highest respect and the greatest affec- tion for their nation and themselves, he was at the same time influenced by a very wholesome dread of their martial qualities ; and whilst perfectly willing to afford them all the accommoda- tion which his house could furnish, deemed it much the wiser and better way to retire into private life, so far as his person was concerned, until they should have departed from his premises. He experienced no great difficulty in making these excuses pass current with the body of the Frenchmen, who were perhaps all the more willing to receive them, that his previous absence necessarily involved his ig*norance of the quantity of his property which they had eaten and drunk, and of which, no doubt, they would find the benefit in the reckoning. Compelling him, there- fore, to join their party, they were soon again absorbed in their investigations as to the quality of the contents of the wine-skin. III. Before long, the tidings of Jose’s appearance, after so very novel a fashion, reached the ears of the officer in command of the troop. Captain Dubois was a man who, though little past THE GUERILLA. the middle age, was already a veteran in experience. He had served from boyhood in the army, and had risen from the ranks under the eye of Bonaparte ; and like most of those selected by that general for promotion, he combined great penetration, sagacity, and readiness of resource, with the utmost personal bravery ; but, like them also, to those qualities he united a very considerable degree of unscrupulosity as to the means to be employed for the attainment of any desirable end. Being well aware of the nature of the sentiments with which the French were regarded by the great body of the Spanish people, and of the necessity for exercising the most sleepless vigilance whilst quartered in the heart of a hostile country, he seemed to view the circumstance as affording matter for anything rather than mirth. After pondering for a time, he proceeded to view the place of Jose’s concealment. This was a kind of loft, employed as a receptacle for articles of clothing and lighter lumber, but certainly never intended to sustain the weight of a man. It would, however, in all probability have answered that purpose on the present occasion, had not the dragoons who occupied the room beneath, in relieving themselves of their heavier equip- ments, hung their well-filled cartouch-pouches on the projecting ends of the slight timbers forming the joists, the additional weight of which produced the unexpected catastrophe already described. Having made his survey, the captain returned to the room in which he had been sitting, and ordering the land- lord to his presence, questioned him, at first with apparent in- difference and unconcern, as to his reason for secreting himself on their approach. Jose, having by this time in a great degree recovered his confidence, replied to the captain in pretty much the same terms he had used to the men ; adding, that no doubt he had been in error in entertaining any fear of his very excel- lent friends, and on every future occasion that might lead them that "way, they should find him prepared to pay them all due respect by his personal attendance. He was about to retire, deeming the commander completely satisfied, when the demea- nour of the latter underwent a sudden and entire alteration. He gave way for an instant to a burst of ferocious laughter, which grated most ominously on the ear of poor Jose, checking which, he glared on him with an eye that seemed to read his very soul ; and addressing him in tones, the sternness of which con- trasted strangely with the apparent indifference, and even bland- ness of those he had employed but a moment before, u That silly tale might serve your purpose,” he exclaimed, “ if told to a beardless conscript, but will scarcely deceive a man who has passed through a dozen campaigns. No, no; the motive must be a powerful one indeed which induces a Spanish innkeeper to conceal himself, and leave his property at the mercy of a troop of dragoons. But I am not accustomed to trifle ; nor will I be trifled with. Now, mark me ! ” — and he rose from his chair, and THE GUERILLA. approached the landlord — “ in half an hour I leave this place ; hut HI know your reason for secreting’ yourself from the presence of my men, or before I go. Til hang you from the top- most bough of yonder tree!” pointing* to one which grew before the window. The countenance of the wretched man was instantly blanched with terror. From head to foot he shook as in a palsy ; and at length, dropping on his knees, he poured forth protestations and oaths of his innocence of any act or any design which could possibly prove offensive to his very excellent friends the French ; and appealed to every saint in the calendar for the truth of his statement, that the reason he had already assigned was his only one for seeking to avoid their presence. His declaration, how- ever, might have been addressed with equal effect to the passing breeze as to Captain Dubois. Consigning him to the custody of a couple of his men, that officer continued coolly to enjoy his cigar and wine, until half the period he had named to his captive had elapsed, when he approached, and informing him that but a quarter of an hour now remained, again demanded the reason of his secretion, and again received a similar reply. The cap- tain, without deigning an answer, turned on his heel, and ordered the trumpeter to sound the recall for the men, many of whom were sauntering about the road and fields adjoining the venta. Ten minutes more had elapsed, when he again addressed his prisoner ; and on receiving a similar reply as formerly, ordered the men in whose custody he was to bind his arms and lead him forth. This was accordingly done; and poor Jose, standing on the threshold of his own door, beheld all the preparations for his execution, from the very tree in whose friendly shade he had so often sat, and pledged in the wine-cup the frequenters of his humble hostelry. Here his courage, which had for some time been waxing faint, failed him altogether. “ Mercy, senor ! ” he exclaimed. “ Spare my life, and you shall know all ! ” “ I expected as much by the time we should get thus far,” coolly replied the captain. Whether he really intended to have carried his threat into execution, it is impossible to say. It is probable he merely specu- lated on the effect to be produced by the fear of death, in forcing a confession from the landlord, if indeed he were privy to any plot or project against the French : in which case the result proved the correctness of his calculations. “You will spare my life, senor, if I reveal all?” besought the landlord. “ I shall not hang you, provided you make a candid and full confession ; but should you attempt to conceal anything, tohall certainly discover it, and put you to death upon the spot, was the reply. To enable the reader to understand the revelation which 8 THE GUERILLA. followed, it is necessary to explain some facts concerning* the locality. The city of Burg*os, whither the French were pro- ceeding*, was distant from the venta about five leag-ues by the shortest route. The road, however, was exceedingly hilly, rug- g-ed, and uneven, and seldom or never employed for the transit of vehicles ; though in fine weather horsemen frequently adopted it, -when pressed for time, without experiencing* any very extra- ordinary inconvenience. At the distance of a leag’ue from the venta, another road, leading* to the same destination, diverged from this to the right, very far superior, and consequently much more frequently adopted, though more circuitous than the for- mer, by fully two leagues. By this latter road the dragoons had come from Burg*os two days previously ; but their selec- tion of it then might have been accounted for on the ground •of their having in convoy the heavy ammunition -wagons, to which the shorter one would have been quite impassable ; whilst on the present occasion, being wholly unencumbered, they were free to adopt either route as their commander might decide. The information now afforded by Jose was to the effect, that an attack on the Frenchmen, in the course of their evening march through the mountain-passes, which must be traversed in order to reach Burgos, had been determined on by the leader of a guerilla band — one as yet unknown to the French, but whose name was destined ere long to become a word of terror in the ears of every detached party of their army in the province of Old Castile, and ultimately to survive, in the grateful recollection •of his countrymen, so long* as the records of the war of indepen- dence shall find a place on the page of Spanish history — Juan Martin Diez, the Empecinado. As the greatest number of followers that Diez could muster, however, so little exceeded those of the French, that their supe- riority in discipline, arms, and general equipment would throw the chances of success altogether in favour of the latter in case of an open attack, an ambuscade and surprise were the means which the guerilla chief sought to adopt for their destruction. But in order to effect his purpose in this way, it was absolutely necessary that he should have previous information as to which of the two lines of road already described would be adopted by his enemy. For the purpose of obtaining this information, at an early hour on the morning of that day he repaired to the venta, accompanied by two of his most trusty and intelligent followers, whom he placed in concealment in a dilapidated granary, or barn, which stood at some distance in the rear of the house, and almost hidden from view by intervening trees. Jose was then instructed to ascertain from the Frenchmen, as soon after their arrival, and in a manner as little pointed as possible, the route which the commander meant to pursue on resuming his march ; which intelligence he was to communicate immediately to the 2 r 9 THE GUERILLA. emissaries of Diez, as it was conceived lie could absent himself for this purpose for a few minutes whilst the dragoons refreshed themselves, without attracting their attention. Having obtained the necessary information, one of the guerillas was to start im- mediately, keeping the wooded ground, to avoid being seen by any straggler of the French party ; and Diez was to await him at the point where the two roads separated, the chief having left the remainder of his men concealed, with their horses, in a sort of natural amphitheatre, about midway between the two lines, whence they could easily gain, by mountain-paths, the most con- venient spot on either long before the Frenchmen could possibly arrive. The second guerilla was still to remain secreted, lest any unforeseen occurrence, up to the moment of the departure of the French troops, should cause a change in the intentions of their officer, which he might still be able to communicate to Diez in sufficient time to enable him to alter the plans he had adopted in conformity with the information previously conveyed by the other. Jose proceeded to state that he had been compelled by the threats of Diez to promise performance of the part allotted him, but that he had no real intention of engaging in any project tending 1 to the injury of his very excellent friends the French ; whilst on the other hand, unprotected as he was, and exposed at all times to the vengeance of the guerillas, he dared not go the length of making the Frenchmen acquainted with the plot, and putting them upon their guard ; and that, under these circum- stances, and hoping, by taking no active part in the transaction, to avoid incurring the direct hostility of either party, he had sought concealment from both for the present, as already de- scribed, leaving them to decide their quarrel among themselves as they best might. Now, so far as the plans and movements of the Empecinado were concerned, the above statement was perfectly correct. But as 66 on their own merits modest men are dumb,” there were some few particulars concerning his own share in the transaction, the mention of which Jose altogether omitted. He did not deem it necessary to inform Captain Dubois that, having learned from the incautious language of the sergeant the period when the troop might be expected to pass on their return, the moment they were out of sight he had despatched a messenger with the intelligence to Diez, well knowing that he would gladly seize the opportunity to waylay, and, if possible, destroy them. There, however, he conceived his part of the performance to have terminated ; and by no means relished the proposition of the guerilla chief, that he should undertake the risk of conveying intelligence of the Frenchmen’s intentions to his emissaries, as they lay concealed actually within pistol-shot of the troop. His habitual dread of Diez, hotvever, left him no resource : and accordingly he gave a reluctant promise of obedience, which he w'ould no doubt have 10 THE GUERILLA. fulfilled, had his courage been equal to his sincerity. But though his hatred of the French was as intense as Diez himself could desire, his dread of them was, if possible, more deeply rooted still. Accordingly, whilst he awaited their appearance" on that eventful day, the little stock of courage he possessed waxed each moment lower and feebler as he contemplated with increasing misgivings the hazards of the enterprise : and when at length the martial band, whose destruction he was plotting, came full in view, the loud ringing of their accoutrements, and the flash- ing of their helmets and sabres in the sunshine, struck such terror to his heart, that he instantly resolved to abandon its pro- secution altogether. In such a case, had he been possessed of ordinary nerve, his obvious course would have been to proceed to the discharge of his regular duties as landlord of the house ; and he would probably have found little difficulty in persuading Diez that he had been unable to extract the desired information from the French. But alas ! that “ conscience,” which u doth make cowards of us all,” whispered to J ose his utter inability to emulate the coolness and unconcern of innocence, and at the same time avoid suspicion ; and acting on its promptings, he made a precipitate retreat, and the abortive effort at concealment, which terminated as already recorded. Having heard his recital to the close with the utmost atten- tion, Captain Dubois inquired, u So, then, the two spies of whom you speak are at this moment concealed in the barn ? ” u Si, senor.” Directing him to lead the way to the building in question, whilst by a gesture he instructed a couple of his men to look sharply after him, the officer easily managed to surround the house with the dragoons ere the unfortunate men within had the slightest intimation that they had been betrayed. Even after the soldiers had passed the doorway, the devoted guerillas, probably regarding them as idle stragglers from the main body, lay still and silent in the place of their concealment ; nor was it until — the faithless landlord having pointed out the spot — they were actually seized and dragged into the light of day, that they attempted to resist or fly. But it was then too late. One fierce struggle, which lasted but a moment, and they were overpowered, securely bound, and conducted to the venta. A brief examina- tion followed, in which Captain Dubois exerted his persuasive powers in vain to induce the faithful fellows to furnish him with any information concerning their leader or his band. They remained silent, or answered his inquiries either with terrible maledictions on the invaders of their country, or with statements grossly and obviously wide of the truth, until their interrogator, discovering the uselessness alike of threats and promises, and recollecting the somewhat critical position he occupied, and the already advanced hour of the afternoon, ordered them to be led out into the courtyard for execution, and then inquired for the 11 THE GUERILLA. landlord. He soon appeared, and claimed the promise given him by the captain, whilst an assumed confidence struggled for the mastery, with ill-dissembled terror in his tones and counte- nance. “ I promised not to hang you for anything you should reveal to me,” replied the captain, “ and that promise I shall keep ; thoug'h I fancy we are indebted more to your fears than your good-will. But there’s a trifling matter you have altogether over- looked in your confession r and concerning which I feel curious to obtain a little information. The troops which march from Burgos to Valladolid generally remain there for several days ; now how came this fellow Diez to know of my intention, con- trary to the usual custom, to return to-day The countenance of the wretched man instantly fell. Such an inquiry he had never anticipated, and consequently was quite unprepared to meet it. He faltered out a denial of any know- ledge on the subject ; but his interrogator was not a man to be so easily deceived. Directing Jose to accompany him, he pro- ceeded to the yard, whither the doomed guerillas had been led for execution, and inquired of them how Diez came to be ac- quainted with his intentions. The result answered his expecta- tions. The Spaniards, believing the landlord to have volunta- rily betrayed them, hesitated not to make an avowal which would involve the betrayer in their doom, whilst it could not possibly injure their leader or his cause. As if actuated by one mind, and making an effort with their pinioned arms to point to the unhappy landlord, they exclaimed together, “ He sent the infor- mation ! 77 “ A lie ! — a lie! 77 exclaimed the trembling wretch. 6C I knew not myself, senor, of your intention to return to-day ; and how, then, could I have informed Diez? 77 “ 7 Tis false ! 77 said the sergeant, who immediately recollected the language he had used to the landlord two days before. 66 1 myself informed you when on our march to Valladolid, and desired you to have better wine for us to-day. 77 u Sergeant, 77 said the captain in a grave tone, “ I had intended forwarding your name with a recommendation for promotion on the next vacancy occurring ; but the man who has so little dis- cretion as to communicate to his majesty’s enemies the intended movements of his troops, is scarcely a fit person to bear his commission. Seize the fellow, 77 he cried, pointing to the land- lord, “ and give him a traitor’s doom ! 77 “ Your promise, senor! — your promise! 77 gasped the miserable man. “ My promise was not to hang you ; and though your having failed to fulfil the conditions might justify me in so doing, my word once passed, I scorn to break it, even to a dog like you ! But I’ll shoot you! Bind him, and place him with the others; though it’s almost a pity that such a craven should fall by a soldier’s 12 THE GUERILLA. weapon, and yonder brave and faithful fellows be compelled to die in the company of so base a hound.” IT. The unfortunate, but certainly treacherous innkeeper, was instantly bound, according* to the command of the officer, and, heedless of his cries, the dragoons placed him in that position described in the opening paragraph of our narrative. A few minutes at most would have sufficed to close the tragedy, when the sentry posted on the road in front of the venta was heard to challenge, and another actor was unexpectedly ushered on the scene. The appearance of the new-comer was striking in the extreme. Though little above the middle height, his limbs and body indicated the possession of gigantic strength ; his broad chest and brawny neck were on a perfectly colossal scale ; his features, which, though large and coarse, were far from disagreeable, conveyed the expression of daring and decision in an eminent degree, their effect being heightened by his long coal-black hair and thick moustache, and bushy whiskers of the same colour, which met beneath his chin, whilst a broad-leafed hat threw on his naturally dark countenance a still more sombre shade. He was clad in the ordinary peasant garb. On being ushered into the yard, he gazed about him with apparently a vacant look, as if he understood not the meaning of the prepara- tions before described. Captain Dubois, however, fancied he perceived a start of surprise on the part of the kneeling guerillas at the moment of the new-comer’s appearance; and as his eve fell upon the stranger, he detected something marvellously like a mute gesture of intelligence on his side. He whis- pered an order to the sergeant, and a moment after, half-a- dozen of the dragoons threw themselves at once upon the man, and despite the amazing strength which he put forth to shake them off, and against which a couple of ordinary men would have had little chance of success, he was soon overpowered, and bound so securely, as to set at defiance all his efforts to regain his liberty. “ Who are you ? ” inquired the captain, when his prisoner was secured, and stood before him. “ I am Nicolas Herastas the woodman,” replied the other ; u and have come to the venta to sell yonder fagots to Senor Jose for firewood. What mischief have I done, that you should seize and bind me thus?” The appearance of an enormous bundle of fagots, which he bore on his shoulder when he entered the yard, seemed to support his assertion. “ Know you this man ? ” inquired the captain of the kneeling guerillas. u We know him not,” was the steady response. “ Know you this man ?” he asked of the landlord. 13 THE GUERILLA. “ Si, senor — si ! ” he replied. “Who is he?” “ Juan Martin Diez, el Empecinado!” “ What ! the fellow whom you described as the leader of the hand to which these belong* ?” “ The same, senor.” Captain Dubois paused for a moment ; then directing* the exe- cution to be stayed till his return, he ordered the new prisoner to be led into the house. The following conversation ensued : — “You are Martin Diez, whom they call the Empecinado?” “If Jose speak the truth, I am; but I should have thought the men who kneel beside him equally entitled to credit.” “ You complained just now of having been seized and bound. Of course you know that your life, as well as your liberty, are in my hands. But I have power also to spare the one, and restore the other ; and I presume of course that you, as a sensible man, would wish me to do so?” “ Life is sweet to most men, and I have no wish to die just yet.” “ Then tell me the number of men whom you command, and conduct me to the place where you have concealed them, and I pledge you the honour of a Frenchman, that when you have performed that service, you shall go unharmed.” Cool and self-possessed as Captain Dubois was, he actually quailed beneath the look of supreme scorn and contempt with which his offer was received. Resuming, however, in a few moments his former calmness of demeanour, the Spaniard replied, “ The Empecinado never betrays his comrades ; and therefore, if I am he, your offer is thrown away. If I am not he, I know nothing, and can reveal nothing.” * “ Then your blood be on your own head ! ” said the French- man, as he rose to give an order for his removal. “ Make your peace with God, for in five minutes you die.” Martin Diez, in truth, it was. Having waited at the place appointed for some hours after the time when he had expected the arrival of his emissaries with the desired information from the venta, and discovering no signs of their approach, he began to fear he should be compelled to abandon the enterprise alto- gether. Resolved, however, not to do so without a further effort, he adopted the bold step of presenting himself in the disguise of a woodman, with the view of obtaining, if possible, the necessary intelligence in person. He conceived, indeed, that he ran but little risk in doing so ; as his person was wholly unknown to the French, and he never contemplated the possibility of treachery on the part of Jose. The result, however, was as we have described. There was present at the conversation between Captain Dubois and Diez, an individual whom we have not hitherto introduced to the reader, the circumstances of the narrative up to this point 14 THE GUEHILLA. not requiring it. This was the captain’s son, a generous and high- spirited youth, about sixteen years of age, who had accompanied his father into Spain, and was generally his companion on the march. Though destined for the profession of arms, he had not yet entered on that career. Still he was looked on by both officers and men as already belonging to the regiment ; and had, in fact, encountered with them not only the discomforts, but the dan- gers of more than one campaign. The youth had felt powerfully interested in Diez from the moment of his appearance ; and now, greatly impressed in his favour from the coolness and boldness of his replies, and the good faith he exhibited in reference to his comrades, he determined on making an effort to avert his fate. u Father,” he said, seizing the captain’s arm as he rose from his seat, “ you will not put him to death ? ” “ Foolish boy ! I must,” replied his father. u Why should I spare him ? Who can say what amount of mischief a determined fellow like that might not do to the emperor’s troops ? If, in- deed, he would consent to deliver up the rebels he commands, and enlist himself into the troop, he might make a tolerable dragoon. But he rushes on his fate.” “ But, father,” pursued the lad, “ you have no proof that he is the person you suspect him to be at all. The only man who states him to be Diez is one whom you have yourself proved to be a traitor and a liar. At least spare him for the present, and take him to head-quarters, as you can easily do.” u I have no doubt whatever that he is Diez,” said Captain Dubois ; u and I cannot encumber myself with prisoners, espe- cially as we have those mountain-passes to traverse after dark, and know not when or where we may fall in with the rebels. His time has come.” So saying he left the room, for the purpose of summoning a guard to convey the prisoner to the courtyard. But Diez had heard words of comfort; and though at all times ready to hazard life, was not the man uselessly to throw away a single chance of preserving it. He was left for the moment alone with young Dubois, and he hastened to improve it. A sentry indeed stood at the door, but a party in the room might speak in a low tone without being overheard. “ Young man,” said the guerilla chief, u you have shown you have a heart. Would you perform the last request, and ease the last moments of a dying man, when it involved no danger or trouble to yourself ? ” “ How can I serve you?” inquired the youth with evident sympathy. The guerilla turned round, so as to exhibit his hands covered w*ith blood; the cords which bound his wrists behind cutting him to the bone, and doubtless inflicting the most exquisite pain. “ Cut these cords,” he said. “ In a few minutes it will signify little whether I am bound or loose ; but release me from this torture, and earn the last blessing of a dying man.” 15 THE GUERILLA. The jmung Frenchman snatched a knife from the table at which he and his father had been partaking of refreshment with the other officers of the troop, severed the cords, and replaced the knife without observation ; the prisoner still keeping his arms in the same position, to conceal the circumstance. A minute after, he was led into the courtyard, and placed, like the others, in a kneeling posture, to receive his death-wound. That the reader may comprehend aright what followed, it is necessary here to explain that the yard, which was quadrangular in shape, was bounded in front by the dwelling-house ; on one side by the sheds, beneath which stood the horses of the troop ; on the other by a high wall and the entrance-gate ; and in the rear by a steep descent of twelve or fifteen feet in depth, nearly to the foot of which reached the thicket, concealing the barn before alluded to, and in reality forming the commencement of a wood some miles in extent. At the open side of the yard, and within a few feet of the edge of the bank, 'were placed the men about to be executed ; the dragoons who were to perform the office being drawn up about ten paces in their front. The officer had taken his place at one extremity of the line formed by the firing party, and a couple of paces in advance of them ; and, save the loud sobbing of the wretched landlord of the venta, all w'as still as death. The word of command was given, and the soldiers came to the “ ready.” Again the word was given, and they came to the u present / 7 A third time its tones were heard ; but as the lips of the officer parted to utter the fatal “ fire ! 77 Diez, who had intently watched the motion of the muscles of his countenance, threw himself flat upon his face ; the volley pealed, three men rolled lifeless on the ground, the three balls intended for the fourth whistled harmlessly nearly a yard above his head: he bounded to his feet; and with one wild shout of “ Yenganza ! 77 he sprang from the top of the bank, and in a few seconds w^as lost to view in the adjoining thicket. For a moment the whole band of Frenchmen, officers and pri- vates, were literally paralysed 'with astonishment at the ruse of the Spaniard, and the success which seemed likely to attend it. The loud voice of their commander speedily aroused them to exertion. “ Follow ! 77 he shouted in tones hoarse with rage at having* been thus baffled and defeated by an unarmed captive in the centre of his troop — “follow, and shoot or cut him down upon the spot : no quarter to the rebel ! 77 To follow him, however, promised to be no very easy task ; whilst either to shoot or cut him down, seemed one of still more difficult achievement. The firing party had already emptied their carbines, and Diez exhibited no disposition to wait until they should have reloaded. The remainder of the troop, who were grouped around the yard on foot, had of course left their firearms attached to their saddles : to rush to the sheds and detach them necessarily occupied some time, before the expiration of which the THE GUERILLA. fugitive had disappeared among: the hushes. Few of the troopers were inclined to take the leap from the top of the bank which he had done, and considerable ground was necessarily lost in going round through the house into the road, and seeking some easier method of descent. Even when fairly started on his track, the incumbrance of their long spurs, sabres, and heavy dragoon equipments, so ill adapted for a chase on foot through bushes and brushwood, threw the odds completely against the pursuers ; the result of which was so evident to Captain Dubois, that within a few minutes from its commencement, he ordered the recall to be sounded, and directed his men to prepare for the road. He pro- bably reflected on the difficulties he might yet have to contend w ith before reaching Burgos ; and though individually as gallant a soldier as any in the imperial army, he had too much good sense to undervalue the danger attendant on fighting an enemy of whose numbers he was ignorant, in a country to which he was a stranger, and labouring under all the disadvantages of exposure to an ambuscade in the dark, and at any point his enemy might think fit to select. After sorqe deliberation, he decided on taking the longer road to Burgos, which being by far the better one, would afford him the greatest facilities for availing himself of the advantages of superior discipline on the part of his troop in case of an attack. Adopting the precaution of throwing out strong advanced and rearguards, he pushed forward at a smart pace. The Empeci- nado probably was unable to reach his band in time to intercept them ; or, seeing that a surprise was now out of the question,, g’ave up the enterprise as hopeless. At all events, no symptoms of the presence of the guerillas were discovered by the French- men, who reached Burgos about midnight, without any further adventure requiring a place in this narrative. Y. Three years had almost passed away since the occurrence of the events just related, and the setting sun was pouring down his softened glories, bathing in a flood of molten gold, as if in cruel mockery, the mass of mangled and lifeless, as well as still suffering humanity, which thickly strewed the hard-fought field of Salamanca, when the curtain rose on the second act of this drama of real life. In the interval, young Dubois had entered the army, and now commanded the troop of which his father had previously been captain. The latter had been promoted to the rank of colonel, and now went forth at the head of his regi- ment to battle. The details and results of that memorable day have long been matter of history, rendering it unnecessary, even were it not foreign to our purpose, to record them here. Though the fight- ing had not actually ceased, the battle was already decided : the 17 THE GUERILLA. wrecks of what, a few hours previously, had been a splendid French army, was in full flight — their general, Marmont, being himself among the wounded ; and the remnant of the cavalry had been hastily got together, for the purpose of attempting to protect the rear and cover the retreat, Colonel Dubois selecting, and occupying with his regiment, the rearmost position, as, in retreat, the most honourable, because the most dangerous of all. Before turning to quit the field, the colonel determined on an effort to rescue a battery of four guns which had been captured by the British, and were already turned against, and hurling destruction on their former masters. Though always foremost in the charge, and loudest in the cheer, he had hitherto passed unscathed through the dangers of that bloody day. The ranks of his men had indeed been fearfully thinned ; but — ■ “Few, and faint, but fearless still” — they responded, as ever, with ardour to their gallant leader's battle-cry. The word was given : on they came, “ like a mighty rushing* wind,” the pace increasing’ at every stride. The British artillerymen, cool as on a field-day in the Park, allowed them to approach so near, that a few bounds more would have placed them beside the guns ere they applied the matches. The mur- derous discharge took place ; the leading files were literally ex- terminated ; men and horses went down by dozens before the iron storm ; and the same round shot, first passing through the neck of the charger of Colonel Dubois, and then perforating the body of its rider, closed the career of both for ever. An infantry regiment, posted immediately in the rear of the guns, now poured in a shattering volley ; and before the smoke had cleared, the British cavalry came thundering down the slope, tore like a whirlwind through their broken ranks, emptying many a saddle, and converting the attempted retreat into a disorderly and terrified flight. Stunned by a grape-shot which had grazed his temple, and with the blood welling forth at every movement from a deep sabre-wound in his side, young Dubois was borne along by the crowd of fugitives, almost involuntarily, and had reached some distance from the field of slaughter and blood ere he arrived at a thorough consciousness of his position. Then, indeed, the scene which presented itself was disheartening in the extreme. In front, as far as the eye could penetrate amid the thickening shades of evening, the road was covered with the wreck of the beaten army ; from the rear, the scattered discharges of musketry, the hoarse thunder of the drums, and the shrill music of the bugles, proclaimed the vigour of the pursuit with which the victors were following up their triumph ; whilst every moment, along the line of retreat, some mangled wretch, whom love of life had stimulated thus far to exertion, sunk upon the road, to be trodden into the mud beneath the feet of his former comrades, or 18 THE GUERILLA. the hoofs of their chargers, or else crawled into some neighbour- ing ditch, to expire in comparative tranquillity. Increasing weakness from loss of blood warned Captain Dubois of his inability much longer to retain the saddle. But what was his alternative ? He dared not await the arrival of the victorious troops, animated as they were with the first ruthless ardour of the pursuit ; whilst to seek an asylum in the dwellings of any of the native inhabitants of the country, would be to throw himself into the hands of those whose very mercy towards his countrymen was cruel. Casting a despairing glance around, he observed what seemed to be a half-ruined shed, and about which no appearance of life was visible, at some distance from the road. Approaching it, a closer investigation showed it to have been originally intended as a place for cattle; but as it bore no appearance of having been used for some time, he gladly availed himself of the shelter and seclusion it afforded ; and having led his horse through the doorway — the floor having been removed, if indeed it had ever had one — prepared to pass the night. Having stanched the wound in his side in the best manner his means permitted — that in his head not being serious — he came to the determination, if unable to continue his retreat on the following day, to seek, and surrender himself to the first party of British soldiers he could discover ; certain that, as the ardour of the pursuit would then have slackened, he would be treated with attention and humanity as a prisoner of war. Having come to this resolution, he yielded to the drowsiness produced by his utter exhaustion, and was soon buried in a profound slumber. Several hours had passed away, during which, despite his wounds, he had enjoyed deep and refreshing sleep, when he was suddenly aroused by the tramp of horses, and the sound of human voices. The moon had gone down, and morning had not yet dawned ; consequently, though the new-comers were grouped together immediately without the open doorway, his sense of hearing furnished his only clue to their character. Friends he could not expect them to be; and the most sanguine hope he ventured to indulge was, that they might prove a party of the British. The first articulate sounds which met his ear dissipated even this faint expectation : the Spanish language was~ that which was spoken: and too well did the unfortunate young Frenchman know, that to be a Spaniard was to be his deadly enemy. He felt, therefore, that his only chance of concealment and escape depended on the departure of the Spaniards without entering the building. A short time sufficed to decide this point. A light was struck, and a man bearing a torch entered the house. His shout of surprise, as the brilliant accoutrements of the Frenchman reflected the light, and glittered through the gloom, brought his comrades to the spot; and Dubois found him- self — his worst fears realised — in the centre of a guerilla band. 19 THE GUERILLA. Summoning his courage to meet, with the boldest front he could assume, the fate he now deemed inevitable, he replied with composure to their inquiries as to the circumstances which had led him there; after which the party retired some paces, and conversed for a time in a tone so low, that few of their remarks were audible to their prisoner. They then dispersed themselves in various attitudes about the building, and appeared to wait the approach of day ; the captive meanwhile feeling’, it may be presumed, little further disposition to sleep. The sun had fairly risen when the guerillas again bestirred themselves. They led forth the charger of Dubois, and ordered him to follow and mount. He had reached the open air, and was feebty endeavouring to comply with the latter command, the slight exertion having already caused the blood to flow from his wound afresh, when another individual rode rapidly up to the party, and sprang to the ground. In the strongly-marked fea- tures, and powerful and massive frame of the new-comer, Dubois thought he discovered a resemblance to some one he had seen before ; but when, or where, he could not recall ; nor indeed, in such an emergency, did his mind dwell much on the circum- stance. His costume and general equipment differed but slightly from those of the men who had previously arrived. He carried, like each of them, a sabre and carbine, but of somewhat more elegant and expensive workmanship : he had also holsters at his saddle-bow, of which they were destitute ; and his garb partook somewhat less of the peasant, and more of the military character than theirs. The greeting with which he was received having subsided, he inquired where they had taken the Frenchman, and for what purpose they were permitting him to mount. tc We found him here, whither he had crawled after the battle of yesterday , 77 replied a tall swartlty-looking fellow, whose dark eyes burned like live-coals in their sockets as he glared upon his victim ; and we are taking him to hang him on the same tree from which the hounds his countrymen hung my father at his own door last week, for refusing to become their guide . 77 u But don 7 t you see he wont live to accomplish half the journey ? 77 said the other. “ Besides, there 7 s better game on foot ; and I want you all just now for more active service than to escort a wounded man a dozen leagues . 77 “ Stand clear, then , 77 cried the former to his comrades, “ and let me exterminate the accursed Francese ! 77 The group gave way, and left the man standing face to face with his intended victim, at the distance of half-a-dozen feet. In leading* the latter from the house, his shako had been for- gotten or overlooked ; and as he now stood with uncovered head, waiting to receive his death wound, the bright rays of the early sun shone full on his features, rendering every muscle and line of his countenance visible with the utmost possible distinctness. The Spaniard unslung the carbine which he carried at his back, 20 THE GUERILLA. glared at the countenance of Dubois for an instant, and raised the weapon to his shoulder. For a moment, as he levelled at the fair forehead of the young- Frenchman, the piece and the arm which sustained it were immovable, as if hewn in marble ; already his fing-er contracted on the trigger, and in another moment the contents would have penetrated the brain of his victim, when the new-comer, who stood beside him, shouted, with a suddenness and energy which thrilled the hearts of those who heard him, “ Hold ! 77 Even this interference would have come too late had he not at the same instant seconded the word by striking- up the weapon with his hand, which caused the contents to pass several feet above the prisoners head. “ What mean you, Juan Martin Diez? 77 angrily exclaimed the baffled Spaniard. “ Why do you interrupt the course of my vengeance, and compel me to waste a second eartouch when the first would have sufficed ? 77 “ It strikes me, 77 quietly replied Diez — for the new-comer was indeed the Empecinado — u that this young gentleman and I are old acquaintances — old f riends, for that matter, in case my con- jectures prove correct ; and if so, not a hair of his head shall be injured. Your name, young man? 77 he continued, turning to the Frenchman. u Dubois. 77 “ Ha ! I thought as much. Does your father bear a commis- sion in the French army ? 77 “ He did till the evening of yesterday. His was a nobler fate than that reserved for me. He died on the field of battle. 77 u How long have you been in the army? 77 “ I have accompanied my father with the army for many years, but have actually borne a commission for little more than two. 77 “Enough, 77 said Diez, grasping his hand ; and he related briefly to the attentive group the obligation he had incurred to the young man nearly three years previously, concluding by stating his determination to befriend him to the utmost of his power. The Spaniard who had attempted the life of Dubois heard him to the end with ill-concealed impatience. “ And think you, 77 he exclaimed, as the other ceased to speak, u that I will suffer you, or any man, to defraud me of my just revenge? The prisoner belongs to me — not to you ; and I shall dispose of him as I please, without asking your permission. 77 “ Why, Tomas, 77 replied the Empecinado, “ you have heard that I owe him a life, and I am determined to repay the obliga- tion. True, he is your prisoner ; but resign the poor boy to me, and I 7 11 take and hand over to you half-a-dozen of his country- men before the week is out, to deal with as you list. 77 A brief altercation ensued, in which the mildness of Diez con- trasted strangely with the increasing ferocity of Tomas. The latter at length, with a bound, brought himself almost in contact 21 THE GUERILLA. with Dubois; and at the same moment the long two-edged knife, which, like most of the Spanish guerillas, he carried at his girdle, glittered in his uplifted hand. Before it could descend in execu^ tion of his bloody purpose, his arm was seized by Diez, and held as in a vice. “ Tomas,” he said, in calm but stern tones, whilst an ominous frown gathered on his brow, “ for old acquaintance’ sake I recom- mend you to drop that knife.” An ineffectual struggle to release his arm from the iron grasp that held it was the only reply. “ Tomas,” said Diez in a some- what higher key than before, u we have been companions from childhood, and I should be sorry to do you an injury. Again I say drop that knife : I’ll not tell you a third time.” “ Never!” shouted his antagonist, u until it finds a sheath in the Frenchman’s heart.” A slight turn of the wrist of Diez was followed by a shriek of mingled rage and anguish from the lips of the other, whilst the knife dropped from his nerveless grasp. Diez loosened his hold, and the arm of Tomas, dislocated at the shoulder , fell helplessly against his side. “ Now, my friend,” said Diez to the Frenchman — who might be said not merely to have stood on the brink of the abyss of eternity a few minutes previously, but actually to have gazed into its giddy depths — “ what shall I do to serve you ? Com- mand me, and to the utmost of my power it shall be done.” When the latter was able fully to master his emotions — emo- tions that will be readily understood, and his experience of which involved no imputation on his manhood — he replied, “ Take me to the nearest station of the British army. There I shall be safe, and my wounds will be cared for.” “ Ay, but there you will be a prisoner also,” replied his pre- server. “ Trust yourself in my care for the present. You shall be well attended to ; and when able to travel, conducted to any station of your own troops you please on this side the Pyrenees. Nay, never fear these men,” observing and interpreting aright the look of distrust and dread which Dubois cast on the fierce- looking band that surrounded them ; “ there’s not a man among them who will not be ready to risk his life in defence of the man whom the Empecinado calls his friend.” Shouts of u Viva el Empecinado ! ” u Viva el Francese ! ” at- tested the truth of his statement. Dubois no longer hesitated ; but submitting himself to the guidance of his new and powerful friend, was conveyed, with all the tenderness which his state required, to a farm-house at no great distance from the spot on which the transactions just detailed had taken place, whose inha- bitants prepared, with the utmost alacrity, to meet the wishes of the Empecinado. His wounds having been attended to, and having' partaken of such simple food as alone was suited to his debilitated and suffering condition, he was conducted to the 22 THE GUERILLA. chamber prepared for him, where, on a humble yet comfortable couch, the recollection of the exciting* scenes of the previous twenty-four hours was speedily effaced by the oblivion of sound and refreshing* slumber. Ere he retired to rest, however, Diez made particular inquiry of him as to the part of the field, and the period of the conflict of the foregoing* day in w'hich his father had fallen ; then wringing his hand, informed him that he was about to leave him for the present, but would see him again before long, and had meanwhile taken all necessary precautions to insure his safety during his temporary absence. YI. An act of gratitude had thus saved the life of young Dubois, and so far the Empecinado may be said to have cleared scores with his friend. But he still felt that something more was wanting. At an early hour in the forenoon of the following day, the rapid clatter of a horse’s hoofs along the paved causeway conduct- ing to the farm-house caused a quickened circulation of the blood in the veins of the young Frenchman, who had not yet been able so completely to divest himself of his apprehensions as to feel per- fectly at ease while surrounded by Spanish guerillas. A heavy footstep, in connexion with which his practised ear distinguished the ringing of spurs and the clank of a sabre, was heard in the passage which led to his room, announcing the approach of the new-comer ; and the next moment the homely but manly coun- tenance and stalwart form of the Empecinado appeared in the doorway. Having greeted his guest with a cordial frankness, which thoroughly reassured him, and inquired with evident soli- citude concerning his wounds, he acquainted him that, after having left him on the previous day, he had proceeded to the scene of conflict, and, acting on the information with which the young man had furnished him concerning the locality, had suc- ceeded without much difficulty in discovering the body of his father, which was readily recognised by the uniform, and some other particulars, having hitherto escaped spoliation by those human vultures who invariably hang on the skirts of an army in the field, and prey alike on the wounded and the dead. He had already caused the remains to be removed to an adjacent hamlet ; where, having undergone the simple preparations which the peasantry were accustomed to employ on such occasions, they lay in a house contiguous to the village graveyard, and, when the state of Captain Dubois’s health would permit him to attend, should be placed in the consecrated earth. The French- man was deeply affected by this touching and delicate attention on the part of the rude and fiery guerilla, and signified his wish that, if convenient, the ceremony should take place that evening. This was done ; and the body of the late colonel was committed 23 THE GUERILLA. to its final resting-place in accordance with the rites of the Roman Catholic church, of which he had been a member. In the course of conversation subsequently, Diez informed his guest that he had made a solemn vow of dire vengeance to be inflicted on the head of the deceased, in consequence of the affair already described as having’ occurred at the venta. Chance, however, had never throwrn in his way an opportunity for its fulfilment. The Frenchman had, since that period, been occupied with duties which detained him principally at head-quarters ; and even when detached, the guerilla chief had ample employment to engage his attention, and demand his resources, elsewhere ; and thus they had never met since the eventful day first described, until, amid a heap of slain on the field of Salamanca, the Empe- cinado recognised in the bloody corpse before him the once martial figure, and still stern features, of his former foe. “ Nor do I now regret,’ 7 said he, “ that it has not happened otherwise. Falling as he did, he has died like a brave and gallant man — a fate from which no soldier shrinks — w’hilst his death has released me from my vow, and fully balanced the account between us. And for your sake, therefore, young man, notwithstanding that he deprived me of tw*o of my most faithful followers, and sought my own ? life, I rejoice that it has terminated so ; for had it been otherwise, I could scarcely have expected the son to grasp in friendship the hand which had shed his father’s blood.” For a period of three weeks, during which Captain Dubois remained at the farm-house, he continued to experience the un- remitting attentions which his state required — attentions spring- ing’ from no motive of sordid interest, and characterised by a delicacy and considerateness which excited his astonishment, as proceeding from the untutored peasants, who were its permanent inhabitants. The guerilla leader spent much of his time in his company ; and during the periods of his occasional absence — occasions on wdiich, in all probability, he w r as employed in ope- rations against the French troops; but of which fact, with judi- cious forbearance, he omitted all mention to Dubois — a guard of three or four of his most stanch and trusty adherents was con- stantly maintained to watch over the safety of his protege. In the course of the intimacy w'hich such a state of things naturally produced, the Frenchman had casually expressed a desire to be made acquainted with the facts of some of the many stirring adventures in which the other had been engaged, and the “ hair- breadth escapes” he had experienced, the reports of which had frequently reached his ears through the medium of his military friends. These reports, though distorted no doubt in many of their particulars, were yet sufficiently invested with the wfild and 'wondrous characteristics of romance to interest the feelings and most powerfully stimulate the curiosity of his youthful and imaginative mind, especially when he- remembered that he had himself been in personal contact with the daring partisan. The 24 THE GUERILLA. latter, on his part, exhibited little reluctance to comply with his request ; for though, notwithstanding all his dash and gal- lantry, the Empecinado was really and essentially a modest man/ never disposed to dwell ostentatiously on his own exploits, and wholly free from that tendency to braggadocio which at- taches so largely to the character of his countrymen in general, it required little of his usual penetration to discover that the inquirer felt a real interest in the events of his career, and would derive a high degree of gratification from his compliance. Dubois having particularly referred to a case in which an officer of his acquaintance, who had been despatched with a party to arrest the guerilla some two years previously, had subsequently been tried by court-martial, and broken for misconduct and failure in the enterprise, the Empecinado immediately proceeded to meet his wishes, by relating as follows the real circumstances of the affair In the northern extremity of Old Castile, and at a distance of some eight or ten leagues from the city of Burgos, was a moun- tain of peculiar form, which rose from the plain by a gentle and gradual ascent on all sides save the south. In that direction it terminated abruptly in a sheer precipice of six hundred feet in depth, smooth and perpendicular as a wall, presenting, from the base to the summit, a gaunt and grim sterility of barren rock, and without a solitary twig to intercept the course or break the fall of any object thrown from above. Projecting from the top of the cliff into mid air, at about the central point between the two extremities, at which the broad platform of the summit of the mountain commenced gradually to slope downwards towards the east and west, was a portion of the rock which, had it been sur- rounded with water instead of empty space, would have been called a peninsula on a diminutive scale. It was about six feet in diameter at top, and nearly the same extent in depth, and connected with the main cliff by an isthmus , so to speak, of the same material, of rather more than three feet in length, by per- haps eighteen inches in breadth, and of a depth which had origi- nally been equal to that of the peninsular rock it supported, but which, either by the hand of man, or by some strange convul- sion of nature, had been deprived of fully two-thirds of its sub- stance from the upper surface downwards. To one standing a few yards from the edge of the cliff, therefore, the outer and larger portion of the rock — generally called by the inhabitants of the adjacent district “ the Devil’s Crag ” — presented the appearance of a mass of matter self-suspended in space, or sup- ported by some invisible agency, as it was only on a nearer approach to the brink of the frightful gulf that gaped below than would prove agreeable to the nerves of most persons, pro- fessional chamois hunters excepted, that the connecting fragment was revealed, from the fact that its upper surface, as already stated, was fully four feet below’ the level of the adjoining cliff' at 25 THE GUERILLA. both ends. But it was necessary to proceed some distance, either east or west, along’ the top of the cliff, in order to appre- ciate aright the apparent frailty of the connecting link, and its seeming' disproportion to the comparatively vast weight of solid rock which it sustained, as it was from such a point of view only that the limited depth of the mass became apparent. Then, indeed, especially if viewed from a point somewhat lower than itself, when it would stand out in bold relief against the bright southern sky, it presented an aspect striking and impressive even to sublimity; seeming as if the gentlest sighing of a zephyr would sweep it at once from its precarious position, and forcing on the spectator the belief that any object one atom weightier than thistle-down alighting on the surface of the Devil’s Crag, must inevitably bring the whole huge mass crashing into the abyss, which apparently yawned for its reception beneath. And yet its frailty existed much more in appearance than in reality. The hurricanes of a hundred winters had careered around that lone and stern crag, and it had scowled unmoved upon them all : within the memory of man it had undergone no change ; and more than once or twice had the youthful mountaineers who dwelt in the neighbourhood dared to test the truth of the superstitious legend, which told that he who should venture on the eve of All-Hallows along the narrow isthmus, and stand- ing erect on the flat surface of the Devil’s Crag, repeat towards each quarter of the compass the formula prescribed, should be permitted to behold the features of the maiden whom fate had destined to be his partner through life. It is necessary further to state, that in every other quarter the sides of the mountain were clothed with olive and other trees, from the plain below to within a short distance of the summit, leaving merely at the top a clear open platform, of about two acres in extent, bounded on the southern side by the precipice alluded to above. On a certain bright forenoon, in the spring of 1810, the Empe- cinado was seated on this platform, within a few feet of the edge of the cliff, and immediately opposite the Devil’s Crag, intently scrutinising, with the aid of a telescope, a road which wound among the hills, and swept the base of the mountain on which he had taken his station, and every object on which, to the distance of a couple of leagues, was visible from the spot he occupied. He had received intelligence, through the medium of his spies, that a valuable convoy of treasure and arms for the supply of the French troops would pass on that day, for an attack on which he conceived the guerilla force then under his command sufficiently strong, and had made his dispositions accordingly. He had his followers placed in a convenient situation, and, accompanied by a single individual, ascended the mountain, to watch for the approach of the anticipated prize. But treachery had been at work. The principal fault in the military character 26 THE GUERILLA. of Diez was a tendency to rasli and reckless hardihood, and a reliance so unbounded on his personal resources in emergency, as to lead him habitually to disregard all those precautions which prudence would have suggested, and the adoption of which would have implied no imputation whatever on his courage. Accordingly, on this occasion, as on many others, never conceiv- ing the possibility of a traitor being found among his band, he had made no secret of the nature of his arrangements ; and for some days previously, it had been generally known by the men composing it that it was his intention to be on the look-out from the summit of the hill at an early hour in the morning, they having received instructions to repair to the appointed place of rendezvous, and there await his coming, which would be immediately after he had discovered the approach of the con- voy. Among the number, however, was one who had already accepted French gold, and who, stimulated by the price which the commander of the imperial troops had offered for the capture or destruction of Diez, had for months previously been watching for an opportunity to betray his unsuspecting leader to a felon’s death. That opportunity seemed at length within his grasp. He managed, without incurring suspicion, to put himself in communication with the French authorities ; and some hours before sunrise, a company of soldiers, which the traitor conducted by secluded by-paths to the spot, was placed in concealment in a thickly-wooded hollow at the foot of the mountain, in an opposite quarter to that by which Diez was expected to arrive, thereby avoiding' all risk of his discovering them before he should be completely in their toils. The faithless caitiff, who had thus sold his gallant and confiding chief, then departed to take up his position at a spot which commanded a view of the course which the apparently doomed guerilla must adopt in his ascent. The forenoon was already considerably advanced, when he again appeared with the intelligence that the Empecinado, accompanied by a single in- dividual, had passed up the mountain, and was in all probability at that time on the summit. The soldiers were instantly in motion, and the officer in command repeated to them the orders he had received from his superior, to the effect that the Empeci- nado was, if possible, to be taken alive, with the view of making of him an example so public and terrible, as to awe into submis- sion the peasantry of the province, and thus secure the homage at least of their fear, since that of their respect and attach- ment was not to be obtained. With his companion, he added, they might make short work, as the least troublesome method of disposing of him was the best — the dress and general appearance of the Empecinado being accurately described to them, so as to prevent the possibility of the one being mistaken for the other. The hill, though precipitous on the southern side, being in reality of very limited extent, a circle was easily formed by the men, 27 THE GUERILLA. which enclosed all its accessible portion, and which necessarily contracted as they advanced, its parts naturally approaching nearer to each other as they approached the summit. Diez was intently gazing- on the road by which he expected the convoy, when a loud shout from his companion causing him to turn his head, he beheld a sight well calculated to try the strength of even liis iron nerves. Within fifty yards of him were double that number of French sharp-shooters, all armed to the teeth, and each one thirsting for his blood, forming, in extended order, an almost unbroken line between him and the wooded portion of the mountain, and still steadily advancing, and completely surrounding him on all sides, save the one bounded by the precipice, which was naturally considered a sufficient barrier to his escape in that direction. In these circumstances, a man of ordinary mind would have either sur^- rendered at discretion, or sought to reach by instant flight the cover of the adjoining plantation. The companion of Diez was a man of this stamp. To surrender, he must have been well aware, was but to yield himself up to the infliction of certain death, and probably a much more painful and protracted one than that which he should otherwise experience in case even of the failure of an attempt to escape. Adopting, therefore, the latter alternative, desperate as it was, he rushed forward, and made for the wood. Before he had run twenty yards, a few of the nearest files had fired, and half-a-dozen rifle bullets had closed his career for ever! But the Empecinado was-a man of extraordinary mind ; and it was on the occasion of such emergencies as the present that his wonderful facility of resource, and promptitude in its display, shone forth in their unrivalled pre-eminence. For a few seconds, indeed, as he afterwards acknowledged, he believed escape to be utterly impracticable, and felt convinced that his hour had come. The idea of escape by flight, whilst a hundred riflemen were pre- pared to pour in their fire within less than pistol-shot distance, was so absurd, that he disdained to attempt it, not choosing to give his enemies the certain triumph of defeating the effort. For the moment, his only resolution was, in any event, neither to be taken alive, nor to fall unrevenged ; and drawn up to his full height, and steady and motionless as the hill on which he stood, he maintained his position close to the verge of the precipice, whilst the circle of military, gradually contracting, closed around him on every other side, and reached within twenty feet of the spot on which he stood. At this moment the officer in command of the party, in his exultation at the capture of the far-famed guerilla, which he considered already effected, and which no doubt would have procured his promotion at least a step, rushed before his men, and placed his grasp on the collar of the Empe- cinado. The latter, it has been already stated, was possessed of strength perfectly colossal ; but his superioritv to ordinary men 28 THE GUERILLA. was not one whit greater in muscular power than in activity and skilfulness in its exercise, whilst he was appropriately aided in the development of both b} r the possession of a hardihood that actually knew not how to quail at danger. Never did he more greatly need those qualities than now, and never did they stand him in better stead. Throwing his right arm round the waist of the officer, who was of a short, slig'ht figure, he lifted him from the ground with apparently as much ease as a girl lifts her doll, turned on his heel, and cleared at a bound, which was accom- panied by a shriek of terror from the affrighted Frenchman, the chasm between the face of the precipice and the Devil’s Crag; and the next moment, standing erect on its narrow surface, shouted to the soldiers in the deep stern tone which he assumed when highly excited, and which resembled rather the loud bray of a trumpet than a sound proceeding from human organs, “ Halt ! ” The command was unnecessary. At the moment of his plunge, the whole body, believing he had really thrown himself over the precipice, and carried their officer with him, had, paralysed at the sight, involuntarily halted as suddenly as if transformed into stone by the touch of a magician’s wand, whilst a cry of horror broke from every lip. Ere they had recovered from their astonishment and inaction, he again spoke — “ Advance but a step, point but a rifle, and down I go, and carry your officer along with me ! ” Turning- to the latter, he inquired, u Know you who I am?” “ Yes,” faintly replied the Frenchman ; “ you are Martin Diez, called the Empecinado.” “ And you have come hither to arrest me ; is it not so ? ” pursued Diez. “ Yes,” was the reply. u Then,” said the guerilla, “ I need scarcely inform you that it is not my intention either to be taken alive or to die alone. Now look below you.” The appalled soldier, who probably had never shrunk from the prospect of death amid the roar of battle, cast a shuddering glance on the awful abyss over which he found himself in effect hair-hung and breeze-shaken, and then, in utter agony, clung even more closely than before to the terrible man in whose hands he felt his fate to be. u I perceive you don’t admire the prospect,” coolly resumed Diez. “ Now mark my words : I leave this hill by the way I came, unharmed, and free ; or I leave it by the shorter route , and take you in my company. But do as I direct you, and not a hair of your head shall be injured. First order your men to face towards the wood, and discharge their rifles.” 61 What security have I that you will keep your promise should I do as you direct?” inquired the Frenchman. “ For security,” said Diez, “ you have only the -word of a man 29 THE GUERILLA. who never broke his pledge to friend or foe ! But then what other choice have you than to trust me ? Your only alternative is one which you don ; t appear to relish much. Do as I direct you,” he continued, raising* his voice as the other still hesitated, u or we take the leap together ! ” The officer complied. The men, whose training and discipline would have insured their obedience even had they been less powerfully influenced by the contemplation of his danger, at once faced round in the opposite direction, and in another second every rifle in the company was empty. “ Now order them to pile their arms, and retire a hundred paces to the right,” said Diez. Again he was obeyed. The men piled their arms in silence, and retired to the prescribed distance. “ One word more,” said tie Empecinado. u Have I been be- trayed by any Spaniard?” “ Yes,” said the Frenchman, who in his heart abhorred a traitor, though willing* to profit by the treachery ; “ by a mem- ber of your own band.” 66 His name?” asked Diez. “ His name is Pedro Velascas,” was the reply. u He awaits me at the fountain where the three roads meet, near the foot of the hill, where he expects to receive the reward offered for your apprehension.” u He has earned his reward ; and he shall have it ! ” said the guerilla in a stern tone. He bounded lightly from the crag to the top of the cliff, and called on the Frenchman to follow. This, however, he feared to attempt, though the distance was little more than a lengthened stride; and it was only after grasping the stout belt of Diez, the end of which he threw him for the purpose, that he could bring himself to adopt even the apparently less bold, though in reality more hazardous, method of scrambling down upon the connecting fragment, and thence to the top of the precipice at the opposite side. When at length he stood in safety on the firm ground, his bolder companion wished him a laughing good-morning, and started for the wood in a direction opposite to that in which the military were still drawn up. The latter, on perceiving him run, followed his example, and made for their arms. Before they had traversed the hundred paces, however, the Empecinado had traversed a hundred and fifty ; and long before the most expert soldier amongst them had reloaded his rifle, the fugitive was completely lost to view in the plantation. A brief pursuit took place, which was one in name rather than reality ; for, if the truth were known, the French officer had little desire to hold further communication with Martin Diez for that day. Diez, however, continued his headlong course until he had reached the foot of the hill, w*hen, turning from the path he had previously pursued, he proceeded in the direction of the fountain so THE GUERILLA. where he had been told his betrayer waited to receive the reward of his treachery. Yelascas was stretched beneath a tree, but started to his feet on hearing* a heavy body crashing* through the bushes, and the next moment found himself face to face with the man whose confidence he had so grossly violated, and whose person he had sought to betray to a cruel and shameful death. He would have turned to fly, however fruitlessly ; but his limbs refused to perform their office. He would have spoken ; but, conscience-stricken, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The Empecinado uttered but one word : “ Traitor ! ” he shouted in a voice of thunder, as he grasped him by the throat. They ■were the last human accents that ever fell upon the wretch's ear : the blood gushed in torrents from his mouth and nose ; Diez maintained his grasp for a few seconds, then hurled him to the earth, and again was lost among the trees. On passing the spot an hour subsequently, the Frenchmen found it difficult to recognise, in the blackened and distorted features of the corpse which lay across the path, the countenance of Pedro Yelascas, their guide of the morning. The relation of such adventures as this, in a simple and unos- tentatious manner, by the hero of them himself, possessed an interest for the young and ardent Frenchman which may be more readily conceived than described. So thoroughly at ease did he feel himself before long in his novel position, that he almost regretted when, his wounds having healed, the period arrived when he could no longer honourably remain in retire- ment whilst the army to which he belonged was actively engaged in the field. Faithful to his promise, Diez escorted him in person to the lines of his countrymen, and bade him farewell only when almost within musket-shot of the French outpost, farther than which he could not have ventured in safety. They parted with genuine feelings of mutual regard ; and often after- wards did Dubois entertain his companions in arms, on the march or in the mess-tent, with his reminiscences of the heroic Empecinado. A word may be added on the result of the Peninsular war, and the fate of the Empecinado. Under Wellington, the British army drove the French from Spain; and in 1814 the war was closed by the fall of Napoleon. Spain being now free to re- establish a native government, recalled Ferdinand VII., who had for some years been a prisoner in France ; on the understanding, however, that he confirmed the constitution established by the cortes, and which *was wished for by the nation. As soon as Fer- dinand had securely fixed himself on the throne, he repudiated the constitution, and resumed a despotic and tyrannical sway. A protracted civil war followed this invasion of the liberties of 31 THE GUERILLA. the people, in which monstrous barbarities were perpetrated by the royalists. The Empecinado placed himself at the head of a body of constitutionalists, and he struggled manfully for national freedom ; but in vain. On the faith of a treaty, he laid down his arms; notwithstanding* which he was seized, and executed at Rueda, August 19, 1825, with circumstances of insulting cruelty highly disgraceful to his persecutors. What Spain has been ever since, everybody knows — a scene of contention and disaster; nor is any change for the better likely soon to ensue. Prosperity and happiness are ever denied to national disorganisation. And such are the consequences of the great struggle made by Britain for the sake of this naturally line country ! The Peninsular war — with all its glory , bloodshed, and expenditure of means — has ended in putting Spain into a ten times worse position than it w r ould in all likelihood have been under the rule of a Bonapartean king. In relieving Spain from the authority of an invader, England delivered up the people to the domination of an imbecile dynasty, without the slightest guarantee that the new wmuld be any better than the expelled government. A great act of heroism has gone for nothing, as far as the parties immediately concerned are interested. What a lesson to those who would heedlessly plunge into foreign quarrels, and pour out the blood and treasure of Britain in wars with w r hich it has no proper concern ! AN IRISH TALE, BY MRS HOARE. I. thirty years ago there lived, in a wild district wjj of the south of Ireland, a widow named Cronin and her M 7 family, consisting of two sons and a daughter. She fjXj was what is called u well to do in the world/’ being in dispossession of a small farm, stocked with three cows and m^some sheep, and for which she paid merely a nominal rent. At the time our tale commences, her eldest son James was O ten years old, his brother Daniel nine, and little Ellen six. One fine morning in the month of May, Mrs Cronin and her children had finished their breakfast of milk and potatoes, and the pig was enjoying his, consisting of the skins, politely given to him on the floor, when the mother addressed her eldest boy : u Come, Jemmy, ’tis time for you to be off to yer school.” “ I wont mind going to-day, mother ; ’tis Inchigulah fair, and I want to see the fun.” “ Oh, thin, the never a step you’ll go to the fair to-day. Is it to be kilt entirely you want in the fight they’ll have wid the Kilmichael boys?” a That’s the very reason I want to go and the undutiful boy prepared to move in the forbidden direction. His mother did not exert her authority to restrain him, but turning to her youngest son, w r ho was leaning against the door, lazily biting a straw, “ Dan,” said she, (( you’ll be a good boy, I No. 176. l JIM CRONIN. know, and go to school to-day; and next day I go to Macroom, I’ll bring you a fine new cloth cap to wear to chapel on Sunday, and Jim will have to go in his dirty ould caubeen, because he ■wont do my bidding.” James turned round, his face flushed with anger. “ Mother,” said he, “ that’s always yer way : you care more about Dan than you do about me.” “To be sure I do. Isn’t his little finder worth your whole body?” “ Thin keep him, and make much of him, for it’s little of me you’ll see this day ;” and off he set, leaving his mother in a most unenviable state of mind. She was far from meaning ■what she said when she spoke of preferring Dan to James; on the con- trary, her eldest son was her favourite, and having spoiled him in infancy by foolish indulgence, she now tried to govern his wayward temper by exciting the fiendish passion of jealousy. The result of this most pernicious plan will be seen in the sequel. II. At that time the hedge-schools were the only means of educa- tion which the country afforded ; and wild and uncouth as were both masters and scholars, and primitive as was their place of assembly — for, as the poet says, “ Its roof was the heaven, its wall was the hill” — yet a considerable share of learning was often acquired by the pupils, more, perhaps, than in some polished seminaries. To one of these schools Mrs Cronin sent her children as regularly as she could induce them to go, and thither Daniel and his little sister proceeded this morning. Mister Dogherty’s rustic establishment was rather a favour- able specimen of its class. Some of the head boys were well versed in the higher branches of arithmetic, could write “ copper- plate,” and the broad Doric intonation of their reading was abundantly compensated, at least in the opinion of most of their auditors, by the gallant speed and reckless rapidity with which the most jaw-breaking polysyllables were cleared in a flying gallop. True, this sporting pace constantly left both reader and hearers perfectly innocent of the meaning of the text. But this was a trifle, and Irishmen never stick at trifles. “ Why, thin, Dan, it’s time for you,” said Mister Dogherty, as the boy entered the school; “ and where’s James this fine morn- ing?” u He’s gone to Inchigulah fair, though my mother tould him not to go.” “ Oh, it’s like him, the young scamp ! Never fear, when I catch him toiinorrow I’ll wattle him w T ell, to tache him obedience in future.” 2 AN IRISH TALE. The scholars were now examined on the subject of their lessons, and having* acquitted themselves very much to Mister Dog- herty’s satisfaction, he proceeded, as was not unusual with him, to tell them one of his drollest stories. The happy frame of mind in which the recital never failed to put the worthy master, was quickly disturbed by sounds of cla- mour and crying* among the more juvenile of his pupils. Seiz- ing* his formidable wattle (Anglice, cane), he loudly demanded what was the matter. “ It’s little Ellen Cronin, sir, that’s roaring because Dan is pinching her, and saying his mother doesn’t care about her, and that he’s the white-headed boy at home.” ‘ Come up here, Dan.” The summons was slowly and sulkily obeyed. “ Take that, sir,” said the master, giving him a few smart blows, u and I hope ’twill tache you to have more nature for yer sister. ’Twas one mother bore you both, and in place of tormenting, you ought to love one another.” He then dismissed the school, and little Ellen, glancing fearfully at Dan, went up to a pleasant-looking boy of twelve years old, named John M 1 ‘Carthy, who, taking her hand, said kindly, “ Never fear, Aileen, Dan shan’t touch you : I’ll walk home with you to yer mother’s door.” The children then dispersed in different directions, Dan walk- ing gloomily apart, and John talking cheerfully to Ellen till they reached her home. They found Mrs Cronin in a state of fretful anxiety about James, who had not yet made his appearance. Several of the neighbours were passing on their return from the fair, driving a few lambs, or a cow, or a pig before them. One man, who was trying to quicken the pace of a peculiarly refractory specimen of the last-named animal, was accosted by the widow. u God save you, Jerry!” u God save you kindly, ma’am ! ” u Was there a good fair to-day?” u There was, ma’am, a power and all of people in it, but there wasn’t to say much in the way of buying and selling.” u Would you see that gorsoon of mine anywhere there?” “ I did thin, ma’am, see him in the thick of all the fun ; for there was a dickens of a scrimmage between the Walshes and Cotters ; and never fear, Jemmy was wheeling his bit of a stick, and shouting for the bare life as well as the best.” u Oh yea, wisha ! I wouldn’t doubt him : he’s an active boy anyway.” And, strange to say, a kind of pleased pride at her son’s courage and daring spirit mingded with anger at his dis- obedience and fears for his safety. u Was he hurt at all, Jerry?” “ Myself didn’t see ; for as I had this slip bought, I thought ’twas better to make the best of my way home without waiting to see how ’twould end.” Then giving the pig a significant cut JIM CRONIN. of his whip, he moved on, wishing 1 Mrs Cronin good-evening*, and saying-, “ Oh, thin, wont I airn this one before I have her home to-night ! ” Evening beg’an to close in, and still no sig-n of James. At leng-th a man appeared, driving* a donkey-car, at the bottom of which the truant boy lay stretched on some straw. His mother ran out to receive him, and albeit the nerves of Irishwomen in her rank of life are pretty well steeled against fears connected with broken heads and bruised limbs, yet when she saw her son’s pale face, and his fair curls matted with blood, escaping from beneath a bandage which was bound tightly round his head, she burst into a passionate cry of grief and terror, not unmixed with rage. The neighbour who had kindly brought him home raised him in his arms, and assisted her to lay him in bed, at the same time say- ing, “ Don’t fret yerself, Mrs Cronin, you’ll find the boy will be none the worse to-morrow. To be sure ’twas well I found him whin I did, for he was down on the ground, and a boy of the Walshes lickin’ him at no rate ; but still Jimmy showed the thrue blood, for he kept bating the cowardly spalpeen, that was twice his size, as long as ever he could stand.” “ Oh the murtherin’ villain, to dar touch my child! Never fear, he’ll sup sorrow for it yet.” So saying, she went to prepare some whey for James, who just then opened his eyes, and asked feebly for a drink. Her neighbour wished her good-niglit, and went home; and she, having settled the sick boy as comfortably as she could, retired to rest with her other children. James passed a sleepless night, and next morning was in a high fever. His mother, in great alarm, sent Daniel with all haste to summon Dr Handley to see him. III. Let not our English readers imagine for a moment that the gentleman whom we have mentioned had ever in his life attended a school of medicine or taken out a diploma. He belonged to a class of men who are every day becoming more rare in Ireland, and will probably soon be nearly extinct, owing to the now universal establishment of dispensaries, and the consequent resi- dence in the country of regularly qualified practitioners ; but at the time of which we write, the rural population might be said to be totally destitute of licensed medical assistance ; for the expense attendant on bringing a physician fifteen or twenty miles into the country was of itself an insurmountable obstacle ; besides, that the people in general entertained a strong preju- dice against the regular practice, and much preferred their own unlicensed pretenders. Medical advice, such as it was, was offered by three classes of practitioners. The first w r ere the “ fairy-men,” who undertook to charm away the diseases both 4 AN IRISH TALE. of men and cattle ; and although the effect of their prescriptions was of course purely imaginary, yet they were regarded throughout the country with much respect, not unmixed with, awe; and if any one got a “ blast 77 (the name for every kind of illness whose origin was unknown), these men and their charms were always had recourse to. The second, and most numerous division, were the “ old women / 7 who, besides their prescriptive right to usher all the thumping young Paddies into a land of fighting and potatoes, were also called on for advice in various cases of disease. Here, it must be confessed, their prac- tice was often most destructive, being characterised by a bold disregard of the plainest rules in medicine. Turning the head of a patient in typhus fever towards a blazing turf fire, heaping blankets on his bed, and administering copious libations of whisky punch, u to drive the cold from his heart / 7 and which, for fear of any mistake, usually first paid toll at the lips of the good lady herself — these formed part of their standing rules. Still, somehow, the patients often recovered, thanks to the ever- open door, the wide chimney, and creviced roof, which served to admit plenty of fresh air, and also to the hardy constitution with which the rural Irish are happily endowed. 9 The “ old women / 7 long life to them ! still flourish. I very lately, when visiting the district where the scene of our story is laid, met with some amusing specimens of the tribe. They look on the encroachments of the dispensary physicians pretty much as the aboriginal dogs of New Holland regard those of their European brethren, condescending to emulate them to a certain extent, but jealously excluding them, as far as may be, from their lovely sylvan haunts. The practitioner who was sent for on the present occasion belonged to the third class, who were a degree more learned ; men who had picked up a smattering of medical knowledge, and assumed the grave title of “ doctor . 77 The doctor was regarded with much respect, and his advice sought on various matters — agricultural, political, domestic, and matrimonial ; in fact, in each parish he was usually esteemed second in wisdom only to the priest. Dr Handley, who held this proud position in the parish of Inchigeela, had formerly been gardener to a gentleman’s family. While living in service, he was in the habit of uniting surgical with horticultural employments; and the younger members of his master’s family found much amusement in conversing with him. For their edification, he would invent the wildest and most ludicrous adventures, of which he would gravely assure them he had been the hero. With all this extravagance, he possessed much shrewdness of character, of which I will give an instance. Just before he retired from service, the law forbidding to inoculate with the natural small-pox was passed, and emissaries were sent through 5 JIM CUGMIN. tlie country to detect and prosecute any who did so. An apothe- cary from the neighbouring city of C came into this dis- trict, and as he was known to Handley’s master, he was hos- pitably received, and entertained at his house. Having strong suspicions that the old gardener was a transgressor, he endea- voured to ascertain the fact by searching inquiries among the country people ; but in vain — not a man, woman, 91* child would inform or give him the slightest clue; and many a time that day did the town Galen find himself humbugged after the most approved fashion. The next morning, accompanied by one of his host’s sons, he went into the garden to try what he could do with the delin- quent himself. The old man was busily engaged in digging a border ; and, giving* one knowing glance of the eye as he re- turned the apothecary’s civil salutation, he quietly continued his employment. “ This is a fine morning, doctor.” u It is indeed, sir ; glory be to God ! ” u And ’tis fine healthy weather for the country ; I suppose there are but few sick persons in the neighbourhood just now?” u I know whosomever ’tis healthy for : it agrees wonderful with the caterpillars ; bad luck to ’em, if they aren’t ating up my earl} r cabbages, just as the Moths and Sandals ate up Julius Casar.” Mr , nothing daunted, returned to the charge. He wanted to establish the fact of the doctor’s practising medicine in anyway, hoping afterwards to detect the inoculation business ; but Handley was thoroughly up to him, and turned his flank in masterly style. After an immensity of what our old friend, had he lived in the days of Sam Slick, would have termed “ soft sawder,” had been lavished in vain, the apothecary continued. “ Now, Dr Handley, I have heard a great deal of your medical skill ; in fact you are better known and more esteemed in town than you think, and I should like to have your opinion on a diffi- cult case. Suppose a man came to consult you, affected in such and such a manner” (detailing a variety of imaginary symptoms), u what would you do for him ? ” The old gardener stuck his spade in the ground, and leaning his arms on the handle, looked keenly at his questioner. “ I’ll tell you, sir. If he was a good fellow, I’d do the best I could for him ; but if he was a bad fellow, that would talk friendly to your face, and turn agin you afterwards — maybe I wouldn't give him a pill ! ” Not another word from the crestfallen apothecary. He turned on his heel and walked off ; while his young host, with a loud laugh, exclaimed, “ I think, Mr , the next time you’re ill, you may as well not mind consulting Dr Handley ! ” The old doctor had now retired, with the savings of his years of labour, to a neat cottage and small farm about a mile distant from Mrs Cronin’s dwelling*. Here, as his practice was exten- AN IRISH TALE. sive, he picked up many small sums among 1 the farmers, together with various fees in kind, consisting chiefly of eggs, butter, meal, and chickens ; but he was always ready to prescribe gratuitously for the very poor, by whom he was much beloved. He united a thorough contempt for town-bred physicians to a most comfort- able assurance of his own superior skill. From this digression on an almost extinct class in Ireland, we return to the subject of our story. IY. Dr Handley, summoned by Mrs Cronin, soon appeared at her son’s bedside. Having bled the boy pretty copiously, he ordered a fomentation of simples to be applied to his temples ; and whether his prescriptions were secundum artem or not, cer- tain it is that after a few days his patient became convalescent. The mother, who had been terrified at her son’s danger, now lavished on him the most foolish caresses, indulging every wayward fancy, and straitening herself to gratify his whims. Instead of calmly reproving his sin and disobedience, she spoke only of vengeance to be taken on Tom Walsh, the boy who had beaten James; and she even promised Dan a new jacket as a reward for having thrashed Mickey Walsh, a younger brother of the offender, but who was himself quite guiltless of the affray. Daniel returned one day from school with a black eye and bloody nose, which would have excited his mother’s displeasure, had they not been satisfactorily accounted for in the manner above- mentioned. While James’s illness lasted, his brother and sister were made subservient to him in everything. If he pettishly complained of them, the mother cuffed them without mercy, telling them that Jim was of more consequence than ten brats like them. The old doctor often remonstrated with her on the subject. “ Mrs Cronin,” he would say, u I seen a dale of childher rared in my time, and I never yet saw good come of setting up one above another. ’Tisn’t in the nature of things but that they’ll always be fighting and vieing with each other ; and sure ’twould give you a sore heart-scald in your latter days to see them that you rocked in one cradle, and fed at your bosom, taring and desthroy- ing one another like them hathen Romans, Romulus and Ramus.” These well-meant admonitions were in vain : blindly did the infatuated mother continue to minister to the worst passions of her children, reckless of the rapid growth of evil in their hearts. Little Ellen was a child of a naturally sweet and yielding dis- position; she had true w r omanly feeling, and, under different training, would have grown up all that was. amiable and lovely. Even as it was, she received much less injury from her mother’s misrule than did her jealous, turbulent brothers. 7 JIM CRONIN. She had a beautiful white hen with a top-knot, which he? aunt had given her, and which she dearly loved. Every day the fresh egg* which Snowy laid was brought in for James’s break- fast ; but not satisfied with this, the selfish boy declared he must have the hen for his own. u Ah, Jimmy,” said his little sister, u don’t take Snowy from me : sure you know how fond the crathur is of me, and I of her. She flies up on my shoulder, and picks the bit of praty out of my mouth ; and she’s quite strange to you and Dan. Sure you wont take her, Jimmy?” The boy was that day more than usually ill-tempered, and, without replying, he tried to snatch the bird from Ellen, who held it closely in her arms. Enraged at meeting resistance, he seized the hen furiously, and wrung its neck. Its poor little mistress threw herself on the ground, sobbing in an agony of grief. Just at that moment their mother came in ; and when she understood the cause of the uproar, what course did she pursue ? She blamed Ellen for trying to retain her bird, telling her she deserved to lose it for going to vex Jim ; and merely told the latter he was a fool for having killed such a nice laying hen ; never adverting to the cruelty and injustice he had shown towards his sister. Scenes of this kind were of daily occurrence, and tended to foster every bad and jealous feeling in the children’s minds. Their mother really loved them, and fancied she had their interests at heart; but truly it was a false kindness, a cruel love. What availed her care for their bodies, while, by a perverse system of fondling one at the expense of the others, she filled their young* souls with envious discontent? Jealousy of a brother stained with blood the hand of the first murderer. Six thousand years have rolled on since then, and of all the sanguine torrents which, during their course, man has drawn from the veins of his fellow- men, who can say how many may have flowed from the same fratricidal , source ? Parents, if you would have your sons and daughters grow up a blessing and a praise, a crown of rejoicing to your old age, teach them, while they are yet “ little children,” to u love one another ! ” y. Twelve years rolled on, and brought with them many changes. Mrs Cronin’s bright dark eye began to wax dim, and her raven hair was streaked with gray ; but time, which robs youth of its beauty, clothes childhood with matured grace and vigour. James and Daniel had growm up to be stout handsome young men, while their sister Ellen was, beyond dispute, the fairest maiden in the country. Time did its work in developing their persons : their mother did hers in perverting their minds. But let us say, once for all, it was done in ignorance. She was a weak-minded 8 AN IRISH TALE. woman, possessing* undisciplined passions and affections ; wishing' to rule her sons, and finding herself without either physical or moral power to effect it. She therefore, as wiser politicians have done before her, tried to establish a balance of power, shifting the scale as the hasty fancy or irritated feeling of the moment might chance to dictate. But a plan which may answer indif- ferently well in the government of a nation, is often destructive when applied to the regulation of a family ; and so it proved in this instance. Did Daniel offend his mother by betting at a horse-race, and losing his money, she would threaten to make his brother’s share of the farm, at her death, treble his ; did James spend the night at a wake or pattern, and return towards morning intoxicated, she would promise to make a settlement on Daniel, whenever he chose to marry, and leave her eldest son unprovided for. In the commencement of our narrative we mentioned a boy named John McCarthy, who good-naturedly protected Ellen from Dan’s unkindness. This lad, now become a fine stout young farmer, possessing some acres of good land, did not lose sight of his former little playfellow. It is not my object to write a love story : indeed, as the man said when asked if he could play the organ, “ I don’t know whether I could do it, for I never tried.” It will therefore suffice to mention that a strong attachment had sprung up between them ; and as soon as Ellen attained the age of eighteen years (an uncommonly advanced period of life for a pretty Irish pedsant girl to remain unmarried), John, with his parents’ entire approbation, sought her for his wife. Mrs Cronin at first demurred. It would be necessary to give her daughter a portion, and she did not like to diminish her stock, now consist- ing of six cows. She told her proposed son-in-law that she would take a night to consider, and give him an answer in the morn- ing. That evening, when James and Dan came in from work, they found the house neatly swept up, a bright turf fire blazing on the open hearth, and their supper of potatoes and salt fish ready and smoking hot. As soon as they entered, Ellen went out to milk the cows, and their mother drawing her seat near the fire, began — “ Why, thin, boys, you wouldn’t guess who was here to-day ? ” “ Maybe ’twas the tithe-proctor, bad luck to him ? ” u No, Jim, it wasn’t the tithe-proctor, but a dacenter boy than ever he was. What do you think of young John McCarthy ?” “ I’ll engage, then, he wanted to buy them three sheep I got last Candlemas, but the never a one of ’em will he get till I see what price they’ll bring at the fair.” u ’Tisn’t them sheep he wants at all, but the nicest and purtiest lamb in the flock : he came to ax me would I give him your sister to be his wife.” “ She might get a worse husband than Shawnage, there’s no 9 JIM CRONIN. doubt of that,” said James; u and I suppose the bo y wont be looking* for fortune, lie’s so well to do in the world ? ” u As to that,” said the mother, “ I think I ought to g*ive her three cows, half-a-dozen sheep, and a couple of feather-beds.” “•Are you mad, mother?” was her son’s energetic rejoinder; “ that would be the party bargain in airnest ! To lave us all depinding on the other three cows to make our butter, while Miss Ellen is sitting like a lady in John M‘Carthy’s parlour; for no less would do him in the new house he built.” u Foolishness, boy. Ellen was ever and always the good daughter to me, and I’ll give her what I plase, and as much as I plase. Maybe you and Dan will be sorry yet that you didn’t thry to contint me better than you do.” James returned a violent answer, and the dispute waxed very warm. It ended in the sons’ going sulkily to bed, while their mother persisted in her intention, and threatened to give an additional gratuity of twenty pounds. Mrs Cronin was really piqued into acting thus, for her disposition was far removed from liberality; but she enriched her daughter in order to vex her rebellious sons. VL After a reasonable delay, John and Ellen were married, and removed to a comfortable farm, which he had lately taken in conjunction with his brother, who was to live with them. Here, in the society of a husband whose sunny temper and cheerful countenance knew no sullen cloud, Ellen enjoyed such happiness as she had never yet known. Her young heart and mind seemed to expand and brighten beneath the influence of domestic kindness ; and there was not a prouder or happier wife than herself in the whole parish of Inchigeela, when she put on her lace-cap with pink ribbons, and her fine dark-blue cloth cloak on Sunday, and accompanied her husband to chapel. Mrs Cronin was a provident woman, and from her savings she soon contrived to replace the three cows which she had given to Ellen. Among her stock there was one red cow, a very line animal, which yielded an immense quantity of milk, and was quite an object of admiration in the country. James had long wished to possess it for his own, and frequently importuned his mother to give it to him. This, however, she constantly re- fused. She had been left by her husband sole possessor of his farm, having power to divide it among her children during her life, or to will it to them after her death, in whatever shares or proportions she pleased. She was most tenacious of her property, and, generally speaking, could with difficulty be induced to part with any of her stock. This cow, however, was employed as a powerful assistant in controlling the domestic economy. If the mother was pleased with James, she held out vague and uncertain 10 AN IRISH TALE. promises that the animal should be his ; did he displease her, he was told that Tiney should be forthwith presented to Daniel ; or, were both brothers defaulters, she was to be driven to the next fair, and sold for whatever she would bring; till at length the poor innocent cow had become the cause of more envy and heart- burnings than the sacrifice of a hecatomb of oxen could in ancient days have appeased. At length James contrived to extract from his mother a defi- nite promise that from the 1st of the approaching month of June the coveted animal should be his; and all the profits derived from her were thenceforth to be appropriated to his sole use and benefit. About the middle of May a great horse-race was to come off in the neighbourhood, and Mrs Cronin, knowing that much gam- bling and cheating would be likely to go on, peremptorily for- bade her sons going there. They both, however, disobeyed ; and going to the race-course, not only betted and played away all the little money they could collect, but James staked the precious promised cow, and lost her. When their mother found they had gone in defiance of her positive injunctions, her rage knew' no bounds ; she stormed and raved aloud against her rebellious children. In the midst of her invectives her son-in-law, who was coming to pay her a visit, walked into the house. “ Good morning, ma’am,” he said ; Ci I thought I heard you talking to some one as I was lifting the latch, but I see you’re all alone.” “ Oh, thin! thrue for you, John; I am all alone, and cold and lonely is my heart this day afther the tratement of them ungrateful boys that I tuk such care of, and such pride out of. The villains of the world ! to go off agin my orders ; but I’ll pay them for it yet.” J ohn, who was a most amiable, good-natured young man, and a great favourite with his mother-in-law, tried to soothe her and calm her anger ; and to all appearance he succeeded. She talked quietly of Ellen, and asked many questions concerning the wel- fare of their household ; but the bitter feeling still rankled in her bosom, and her thoughts were brooding over the undutiful con- duct of her sons. After some time John rose to depart, and Mrs Cronin follow r ed him a few steps from the door. “And so you tell me,” said she, “ that Ellen is well in health, and happy, and con- tent with everything about her. God keep her so ; she was ever and always a good daughter to me ; and now, Sham, darling, I’ll send her a purty little present, that maybe you wont see the likes of agin in a hurry.” So saying, she led him into the field where Tiney was feeding, and desired him to drive her home at once, and give her to Ellen with her mother’s love and blessing. J ohn was as much pleased as surprised at his mother-in-law’s 11 JIM CRONIN. unwonted generosity ; and knowing nothing* of the cow having been promised to James, felt of course no scruple in taking' her. He accordingly drove her home, thinking, as he went along, what a pleasant surprise it would be to his dear Ellen. Tiney was indeed greatly admired by her new mistress, who had often fed her when a calf ; and John’s brother pronounced her to be “ a rale beauty, worth almost any money ! ” My readers may perhaps imagine the miserable state of James’s mind when he returned that evening to his mother’s house. His conscience told him that he had been guilty of a great sin in dis- obeying his parent, and his selfish feelings reproached him with having thrown away every farthing he possessed ; and last, and worst of all, he knew that, on the 1st of June, he would have to part with his cow, or ransom her with a sum which he had no means of raising. He walked into the cottage, and sat down by the fire without uttering a word. His mother, who, now that her passion had in some measure cooled, felt rather apprehensive of the storm so soon to be awakened in his breast, was equally taciturn. Daniel had remained outside, to attend to the horse which they had ridden in turn, and there was no one else within doors. Presently the girl entered with a pail of milk. u Arrah, misthress,” said she, u I felt as quare and as lonely to-night without having poor Tiney to milk ; and see yerself, the milk looks nothing since hers is taken out of it.” u Tiney !” said James ; “ what’s the matter with her ?” “ Ah, you may go whistle for Tiney ! ” said his mother ; u I gave her to-day to a boy that’s worth ten of you, and that I heartily wish was my son in your stead.” “ Mother!” said James, clenching his fist furiously, “ you wouldn’t dare do it ! ” It would be needless and painful to dwell on the scene that followed. Dan having come in, joined in the war of words ; and at length the wearied and enraged mother retired to bed, and her sons, breathing curses and threats, also sought their place of repose. Dan, who had not so much cause for excitement, and who, besides, was of a more apathetic disposition than James, slept soundly ; but his brother did not close his eyes all night, and at four o’clock in the morning he awoke Daniel. In jfhr- suance of a plan which they had concerted on the previous evening, they dressed themselves quickly, and stole noiselessly out of doors. They each carried a gun, and walked along rapidly for some time in silence. At length Daniel, looking earnestly at the inflamed features and bloodshot eyes of his brother, said, u Jim, what are you going to do at all at all ?” “ I’m going* to make that sneaking spalpeen give me up my fine cow, that he wheedled that foolish ould woman out of.” u And what’ll we do if he wrnnt give her up paceably ?” “ Maybe I have a thrifle of logic here that’ll persuade him,” 12 AN IRISH TALE. said James, touching 1 the lock of his gun significantly. u Them M‘Carthys never had much pluck in them.” On they walked, but the fresh morning breeze and glorious sunshine, which awakened all living things, and summoned them to joyous activity, had no soothing or softening influence on a heart consumed by its own restless fire. After a walk of six miles, the brothers arrived at McCarthy’s farm, and in a meadow at some distance from the house they saw Tiney quietly grazing. “ Now for it, Dan,” said James ; u we’ll drive her off, and let me see if one of the M ‘Car thy s dare touch her agin.” So saying, he proceeded to throw down the gap which had been built up to prevent the cattle in the field from straying beyond its precincts. At this moment John and his brother appeared advancing to- wards him. “ Good morning, Jim,” said the former ; u you’re out early to-day.” “Not a bit too early to disappoint thieves and robbers,” v/as the courteous rejoinder. “ Ho ! you thought you’d have my fine cow all to yerself ; but ’twas aisy wid ye, my boy. I’m come to take her back, and the never a hair of her will you see agin, if ’twas to save yer life.” “ James, I don’t understand all this. Your mother gave me the cow freely, without me ever axing her, many thanks to her for that same; and I wont have her taken back by you on a suddent without rhyme or rason.” “ You wont, wont you?” said James; “see jf you dare p re - vint me.” And he immediately proceeded to drive the animal out of the field. John ran to intercept him, and stood in the gap, at the same time saying quietly, “ Now, Jim, leave off this nonsense: you know I don’t want to fight with you, but the cow shan’t leave this field to-day.” In a transport of passion James raised his gun, fired it with deadly aim, and down fell the stout and manly youth before him a bleeding corpse at his feet. The wretched murderer and Daniel, when they saw what was done, began to fly with speed ; but the victim’s brother, uttering a loucl cry of horror, ran to lay hold on James. The latter, as if possessed by a demon, seized Daniel’s gun and fired at his pursuer. He, too, fell mortally wounded. James stopped for a moment, raised him up, placed him with his head leaning against a tree, and then, with such a yell as might have resounded through earth’s primeval valley when Cain stood a convicted and sentenced criminal before his Righteous Judge, the guilty being and his brother fled. VII. In less than an hour afterwards the Widow Cronin was stand- ing in her house preparing the morning meal, when her eldest JIM CRONIN. son rushed in. His face, notwithstanding his rapid flight, was colourless ; his eyes red, and glowing with a fiendish glare. “ Mother,” said he, extending his hand, “ look there ! ” The wretched woman gazed at the blood-stained fingers. u Oh, James, for the love of God tell me what yon were doing !” “ That’s blood, mother,” answered he with frightful calmness ; Ci the blood of an innocent man : it was you made me shed it, and on your soul be the guilt.” He then rushed from the house, and ran wildly up the mountains, where Daniel had already found a place of concealment. Of course the fearful hue-and-cry of murder was soon raised, and notice sent to the nearest police station : but the faction of the Cronins was numerous and powerful, and in those days the arrest of a criminal in the remote parts of Ireland was almost impracticable. It was, and indeed is still, a point of honour among the peasantry never to deliver up a man to justice, even though he may have been guilty of the most atrocious crimes. That this point of honour rests on a false foundation, every lover of his country must grievously lament. The officious disclosure of circumstances of little moment may be neither honourable nor justifiable, but the concealment of murderers, of men who have outraged not only the law, but every just and holy feeling, is, to say the least of it, dishonourable — a crime too despicable to deserve any degree of sympathy. Yet, with feelings warped by prejudices of various kinds, the Irish, as we have said, give no aid in bring- ing malefactors to justice. In the present instance, notwith- standing the reward offered by government, and the vengeful watchfulness of the M'Carthys, the murderer remained for several weeks undiscovered in the wild mountain fastnesses, being fed, lodged, and concealed by the farmers who inhabited these remote regions. Who may attempt to picture the state of his mind during* this period ? He passed from the extreme of wild fiendish rage to the dull apathy of despair. This again gave way to a sense — oh, how keen and thrilling ! — that all was lost. There he stood, a murderer ! his hand dyed in the blood of those who had never wronged him. And when he thought of Ellen, u Oh, my sister ; my own darling sister ! ” he would say, “ bright were your eyes, and glad was your heart, till the dark cloud of sorrow came over you. ’Twas I that tuk him from you, that loved you better than his life ; and now you’re down in the dust, aileen, never to lift your eyes again to the face that was brighter to you than the sun, and more gentle than the moonbames on the river. Oh that I could buy back his life with my own ; but this w’orld and the next are shut up from me in darkness for ever ! ” This mental conflict did not last long. The unhappy man one day set off for the nearest town, in order to surrender himself to justice, and while on the way, w r as suddenly surprised and seized by the officers of police, who were in quest of him. For a mo- 14 AN IRISH TALE. m.ent the instinct of self-preservation led him to make a show of defence, but all regular determination to oppose the demands of the law was gone; and the feeling, that whatever should befall him, could not be worse than the fearful remorse in which he was plunged, caused him speedily to submit to his fate. He was lodged in the county jail, and in due time brought to trial. He'made no defence, confessed his crime, and sought no mercy. The fearful sentence of the law was passed on him, and he was remanded to his cell. During his imprisonment, and now in the brief interval that remained until the fatal day, he was constantly visited by the prison chaplain, and the priest of his own parish, a kind good old man, 'who had known him from his childhood. He remained apparently unmoved by their pious admonitions, always saying there was no hope for him either in this world or the next. On the morning of his execution, as he was leaving the cell, he turned to his old friend and said, “Tell my mother I forgive her ; and may she and my Maker forgive me ! ” These were the last words he uttered. In a few moments the young and stately form of James Cronin lay a distorted and dis- honoured corpse. Fearfully had the soul it enshrined been warped by unwitting error : fearfully was that error avenged. VIII. We return to the unfortunate mother whose mistaken prefer- ence and indulgence had led to such a dismal domestic tragedy. On the day of her last interview with her son she fell into a state of stupor, which was followed by a raging fever. From this she slowly recovered ; but her reason was fled for ever. After a time, as she was perfectly harmless, though impatient of restraint, the person who 'was appointed to take care of her allowed her to wander at will through the country. Nothing seemed to agitate her save the sight of a red cow . At this she would stop, and say with a shudder, “ Oh ! don’t you see she’s stained with blood, and all the water in the sea can’t wash out that colour ? ” And Ellen — what of her? There are woes over which, like the artist of old, we must draw a veil. They are too deep for utterance, too sacred for description. From the day of her hus- band’s death she never looked up, nor smiled ; she languished like a wounded bird, the vigour of her young life struggling against the arrow whose death-thrust was in her heart. At length, on the day that the tidings of her brother’s execution reached Inchigulah, she expired, rejoicing in the hope of meet- ing her beloved husband in that world where no sin nor sorrow can enter. Daniel continued for a time to wander about the country ; but as no active exertions were used to bring him to trial, he ven- tured to return to the farm, which had now become his. We 15 JIM CRONIN. — AN IRISH TALE. may mention that the late tragic events, in which he had been a guilty participator, seemed to have wrought a favourable change in his character. He watched tenderly over his mother while she lived ; and after her death, he married the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, and led a quiet domestic life. He still survives ; but it seems as if an evil destiny dogged his footsteps. Nothing appears to thrive with him; no doubt from the spirit- less manner in which he conducts his affairs. His property has thus dwindled away, so that he now possesses only one or two fields, and supports his family by daily labour. I have often seen him ; and without knowing his history, even a casual ob- server would remark the settled dejection and spiritless expression of his countenance. One fine summer evening, about a year after the events we have narrated, a group had assembled at the door of Mr Dogherty the schoolmaster, consisting of several farmers and Dr Handley, then verging on eighty years. While they smoked their pipes, and talked over the politics of the country, the Widow Cronin passed by. Her hair had become perfectly white, and her eye was lighted up with a restless fire which nothing but the hand of death could extinguish. She walked quickly by, looking vacantly at her old acquaintances, but not seeming’ to recognise any of them. “ Poor woman ! ” said the old doctor when she was gone, “ sorely you supped the cup of sorrow. You had two as fine lads as ever brightened a mother’s eye or gladdened her heart. ’Twas a good soil to work on, but sadly ’twas misused. You thought to reap whate where you sowed nothing’ but hemlock!” This, in its chief incidents, is an u owre true tale.” The records of the county Cork prison contain the memorial of James Cronin’s crime and execution ; and it was from an old man in the country, who was present at the trial, that I lately heard the fatal history. *