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SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 
 
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 'HE MARRIAGE 
 
 .ONDON. WhITTAKER AND C° 
 ^VlNDERMERE. J/GaRNEH. 
 
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 PREFACE. 
 
 "Sketches from Life" is truly the 
 description of these Tales. "Father 
 d'Estelan" is founded on a historical fact 
 nearly two hundred years old. The rest 
 have all fallen within my own cognizance 
 in regard to their leading incidents, 
 thouo:h I have taken liherties in the 
 mode of their presentment, for various 
 reasons, and especially for purposes of 
 disguise, in consideration of the feelings 
 of persons who might otherwise detect 
 the originals of my portraits. In almost 
 all cases, however, the subjects of these 
 sketches are dead; and several have left 
 
 900 
 
11. PREFACE. 
 
 no survivors wliosc feelinirs are in anv 
 
 danger. 
 
 Most of these tales appeared, under 
 the same title, in a weekly newspaper 
 of small circulation a few vears ai?o. 
 They were contributed on the express 
 understanding that they should remain 
 my property, and he re-issued if I should 
 think fit. The time for their republica- 
 tion appears to have arrived; and I hope 
 that their simple and accurate truth of 
 representation of character and conduct 
 may impart to them a quality of interest 
 which may secure their spirited publisher 
 from anxiety or repentance on account 
 of an enterprise planned at his express 
 request. 
 
 n. MARTINEAU. 
 
 T//fj K/io/l, Ambleside, 
 
 Fehruarji \%th, 185(5. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Beide 1 
 
 The Teavellees 25 
 
 The Old Goyeeness 39 
 
 The Despised Woman 55 
 
 The Shopman 67 
 
 Fathee D'Estelan's Cheistmas Moening 83 
 
 The Black Sentinel 90 
 
 The Conteet ... ... ... •.. HI 
 
 The Factoey Boy 130 
 
 The Contict 139 
 
 The Collegian 153 
 
"I must be off," said John Cros- 
 land, rising from the early tea-table, 
 in a January evening of forty years 
 ago. "The coach will be in in half 
 an hour/^ 
 
 " Ah ! I hope you will be at the 
 coach door when it stops/' said his 
 mother. "It is not weather for 
 Agnes to manage for herself in the 
 "^X'^' inn yard. So, get you gone, my 
 boy ! — Stay, you may as well ^ /, V" ,,. 
 carrv mv old cloak over V \ "J^iS^^^C 
 
 ■4^1^ 
 
your arm. It will keep off the snow, and save her 
 dress." 
 
 AVhile INIrs. Crosland was hastily fetching the 
 
 cloak, the postman knocked. He was later than 
 
 usual, the snow impeding the mails in some places 
 
 between London and Durham : but he was in time 
 
 to save John the trouble of going to meet his 
 
 sister. A letter from her announced that she 
 
 would for once spend her Im-thday away from 
 
 home. ]\Ir. and Mrs. Morris quite insisted on her 
 
 staying for a dance the next week. She did not 
 
 feel quite easy about it: she feared there would 
 
 be disappointment at home : she could not fancy 
 
 spending a birthday any where but with her 
 
 mother: but really, Mrs. Morris was so positive 
 
 about it that she had no choice. The Morrises 
 
 would not let her go, — would not send to take 
 
 her place ; and what could she do ? She was glad 
 
 to hear IMrs. Morris say that she meant to write 
 
 soon. Meantime, they all hoped Mrs. Crosland 
 
 would not be displeased, nor too much disappointed. 
 
 The mother and her two sons had therefore to 
 
 keep Agnes' birthday as well as they could without 
 
 luT. Tlu'y drank her health at dinner, and tliev 
 
 talked about her as they sat ronnd the lire at 
 
THE BTIIDE. 
 
 night, after the lads' return from the office and the 
 counting-house. The one was learning to be a 
 law}'er, or a lawyer's clerk ; and the other to be a 
 merchant, or a merchant's clerk. Their father's 
 untimely death had left so small a share of 
 property to each child that that of the boys was all 
 spent, and some of their mother's pittance with it, 
 to prepare them for supporting themselves. Agnes 
 could, by great economy, make the interest of 
 her share supply her with clothes. She was 
 now resolved to be no longer any expense to her 
 mother ; and it was at present a matter of contro- 
 versy in the little household what form the industry 
 of Agnes should take. Her own opinion was that 
 she ought to go out as a governess. Her mother's 
 health and spirits were good; and while her sons 
 remained with her, her home would be an active 
 and cheerful one. It was clearly the season for 
 laying by money, Agnes thought : and it seemed 
 to her of great importance to let her little fund 
 accumulate, and to add to it now, that she might 
 be the better able to return to her mother at some 
 future time, when she would be more wanted. The 
 lads would be going to London, ere long; and 
 sooner or later, her mother must grow old. Surely 
 
Till': JUllDh. 
 
 it would be wise to reserve the luxury of living 
 together for a season when she could be less easily 
 spared. 
 
 " She might at least try my plan," said Mrs. 
 Crosland, on this birthday night. "Her music 
 really is a power in her hands. It is no vanity of 
 oursj — no delusion, — about her playing. It is 
 certainly such playing as is seldom heard : and I 
 am persuaded she would get pupils enough in 
 Durham to ease her mind about my income, with- 
 out our being compelled to part." 
 
 " It is not that," observed Henry. '' She can 
 have no doubt about making her £100 a-year easily 
 enough by music lessons. It is consideration for 
 us that makes her wish to work out of sight of the 
 Durham people. She cannot be certain, she says, 
 that it may never be a disadvantage to John or me 
 to have a sister a music-teacher in Durham." 
 
 " Harry and I should know how to dispose of 
 that objection," said John ; " but she is not certain 
 of another thing, — that it would not be a trying 
 thing to you at times, mother. On rainy days, 
 when she would have to si)lash through the streets, 
 from house to house, meeting my father's old 
 county friends wlicre she is shown in as the music- 
 
THE BIJIDE. 
 
 mistress, — she thinks it would make you more 
 uncomfortable than the general fact of her being a 
 governess, without the details." 
 
 That is just like her/' observed Mrs. Crosland. 
 "I know why it is that she has delayed even this 
 short time making up her mind how to set to work. 
 It is because she remembers my saying one day, 
 when some of our county friends were dining with 
 her father, that no young woman who has been 
 engaged in education can ever again move in 
 society like one who has not. I can't help think- 
 ing so still ; but my impression must not be any 
 embarrassment to her. We must submit to our 
 circumstances : there is no doubt about that. But 
 I must be as considerate about her as she is about 
 me. It is of no consequence whether I feel twinges 
 of silly pride, or what people would call proper 
 satisfaction in seeing my daughter a music-mistress 
 in Durham. I think her too young, too inex- 
 perienced, and, to say the truth, much too pretty 
 to go out as a governess." 
 
 ^' She is excessively pretty, to be sure," said 
 Henry. 
 
 ^^But here is her birthday," said John: '^and 
 we promised we would settle the matter to-day. 
 A :} 
 
THE HltlDE. 
 
 She has made up her miiul, I have no doubt." 
 "Why, I don't know/' observed the mother, 
 
 looking into the fire, absently. 
 
 " I see what you mean," said Henry. " Tliere 
 
 may be something under this delay about coming 
 
 home." 
 
 "Something! \Vliat?" exclaimed John. "Is 
 
 our Agnes going to be married? What a thing 
 
 that would be ! " 
 
 " A most unlikely thing, I am afraid," said her 
 
 mother, " considering the kind of people who are 
 
 to be met at the ]\Iorrise's. But it strikes me that 
 
 there is some reason for Mrs. Morris insisting on 
 her stay so peremptorily. It cannot be merely the 
 dance, — so many dances as they have had since 
 Christmas. —Well : Mrs. IMorris will write." 
 
 Mrs. Morris did write. It was a confidential 
 letter, such as perhaps only mothers of young 
 daughters write to each other. The lady of Oak- 
 bury Park wrote that her position was a somewhat 
 emljarrassing one ; and she feared that she might 
 be doing wrong in any course that she might take. 
 The safest and best was, und(uil)tedly, to write 
 unreservedly to the mother ol" her dear young 
 IViend. It appeared to i\lr. Morris as well as to 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 herself that a valued guest of theirs was captivated 
 by Agnes. Nobody could wonder at this : but it 
 was naturally a matter of some solicitude to the 
 friends who had introduced the young people to 
 each other. She could only say that the Baron 
 de Castile was regarded with high esteem by 
 Mr. Morris, who had become acquainted with 
 him in Italy, and was well pleased to renew the 
 intercourse, first in London, and now in his own 
 house. It was in the country-house, they found, 
 that intimate knowledge of a man^s mind and 
 manners was to be obtained; and every day had 
 deepened their regard for their friend. As for the 
 rest, the Baron de Castile was a little above thirty. 
 He had lost a large portion of his hereditary 
 property by political changes, and by the ravage 
 attending the Peninsular war: but he had saved 
 enough to enable him to go where he liked, and 
 settle where he pleased; and he fully expected 
 to recover at least one estate, — of which he was 
 never tired of talking to Mr. Morris, though it 
 was observable that that was almost the only 
 subject on which he never spoke to Agnes. It 
 appeared as if he were seeking to make himself 
 beloved for himself alone, and kept his recom- 
 
Till-: BRIDE. 
 
 mendations of rank and fortune out of si«i-ht, as 
 far as possible. She liopcd she might truthfully 
 add that Agnes was yet mistress of her own peace 
 of mind : but it did not appear that she disliked 
 the Baron. In conclusion, IMrs. Morris hoped that 
 her old friend would find occasion to rejoice that 
 she had spared her dear girl to Oakbury, and 
 allowed her to remain somewhat longer than had 
 been promised. 
 
 The anxious mother kept this letter entirely to 
 herself, for Agnes' sake. It would be quite time 
 enough for her ambitious boys to hear of the Baron 
 de Castile when it was necessary that they should : 
 and it was not waiting many days. Agnes must 
 have something decisive to say when she returned. 
 
 She had indeed : or rather, Mrs. IMorris for her. 
 Agnes did not travel by the coach. Mrs. Morris 
 made the journey of sixty miles for the sake of 
 a personal consultation with Mrs. Crosland, and 
 of saving Agnes the awkwardness of ev^er again 
 travelling otherwise than in her own carriage. 
 The ladies brought a beautiful letter from the 
 Baron de Castile, requesting the honour of Agnes* 
 hand in marriage, and leave to present liimself at 
 her home, as her suitor, when her mother should 
 
THE iniiDE. 
 
 have satisfied herself, through the Morrises, of the 
 character of his pretensions. 
 
 Who now so happy as the Croslands? The 
 amhitious youths saw in this connexion much more 
 than release from governessing or music-teaching 
 for Agnes, and restoration to the old social stand- 
 ing for their mother. They saw a fair world of 
 promotion, honour and wealth opening before 
 themselves : and gay were their daily and nightly 
 dreams. There was one immediate drawback, felt 
 by every body in the house but Agnes. What 
 would the Baron de Castile think of the small 
 house, the one maid-servant, the humble style of 
 living altogether? Agnes could tell them just 
 what he would think. She had explained and 
 described every thing to him. He had seen life 
 in all its varieties ; and his sympathies were with 
 something quite different from wealth and splen- 
 dour. If it were not so, how could he wish to 
 marry her ? This seemed to be necessarily true : 
 but it was so difficult to imagine, that Agnes had to 
 exert her influence very powerfully to prevent the 
 hiring of more servants for the time, and a world 
 of expensive preparations. She made a point of his 
 seeing her home and family exactly as they were. 
 
10 THE BRIDE. 
 
 Her confidence was justified by the manners of 
 the Baron, from the first moment to the last of 
 bis visit to Durham. He seemed to enjoy each 
 day more than the former, and to miss none of 
 the liixm-ies to which he was known to be accus- 
 tomed. The easy confidence which subsisted 
 between him and the Croslands was the subject 
 of much wonder to the Dm-ham acquaintances of 
 the family, and of the warmest pleasure to the old 
 friends who had grieved for the untimely death 
 of the head of the household, and the reduced 
 fortunes of his widow and children. No engage- 
 ment was perhaps ever so much talked about in 
 Durham; and there teas something remarkable on 
 the face of it. ]\Iany eyes stole towards the lovers 
 as they sat together in the Cathedral, or as they 
 ^\ alked on the hill side above the river, or examined 
 the antiquities of the city. The Baron was learned 
 in antiquities ; and he had explored all great ruins 
 from Athens to Grenada. And then, — how they 
 sang together ! Agnes' playing quite inspired 
 him; and his was so good that it was a treat to 
 hoar lilm. But their singing was something not 
 to l>e forgotten. Old people speak of it to this 
 day. 
 
THE HltiDE. 
 
 Quite as soon as could be expected, the Baron 
 begged for an early day. He had some business to 
 conclude abroad ; and he ventured, in a tentative 
 way, the proposal that Agnes should marry him 
 at once, and go. This was out of the question ; 
 and he presently saw that it was so. It was 
 settled that he should lose no time in going to 
 the Continent, and that he should have Agnes on 
 his return. He was full of hope that he could 
 get back in April; and the wedding was fixed for 
 Mayday. He took occasion before his departure 
 to intimate to Mrs. Crosland, with all delicacy, his 
 wish that Agnes should have the immediate benefit 
 of her pittance of a fortune. He should never 
 touch it, he said ; and she would never need it. 
 Let her indulge herself in spending it at once, in 
 any way she liked best. Of course, the way in 
 which it was spent was providing an admirable 
 outfit. Mrs. Crosland could not be prevented 
 spending something more than her daughter's 
 money in supplying the best wardrobe — the most 
 substantial, the most proper, the most tastefid 
 trousseau, — that had been seen in Durham for 
 many years. There were no expensive ornaments ; 
 and, if Agnes had been ever so rich, that might 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 have been left to her lover. When he returned 
 in April, he brought with hiiu the family jewels, 
 connected in his affections, he said, with the 
 memory of his mother; and if Agnes had cared 
 for jewels, she would have been, on this ground, 
 at the summit of happiness. She was so, for 
 other reasons than those contained in her jewel- 
 case. One of the new gifts was an elegant watch, 
 which the Baron desii-ed that Agnes should ex- 
 change for the clumsy old timepiece which had 
 been her grandmother's. The antiquity of this 
 family watch was its only merit; for it had no 
 beauty to boast of, and it never went well. Yet, 
 such was the delicacy of the Baron towards the 
 family feelings that he valued the watch, and said 
 that nothing should make him part with it. It 
 belonged to Agnes still; but she must indulge 
 him by wearing the modern one which would suit 
 exactly the gold chain which was Miss Morris's 
 wcddinir ffift. The fashion of wearing watches at 
 the waist had just come in ; and a more elegant 
 one than Agnes now wore was not to be seen. 
 
 Everybody thought it a piece of charming con- 
 siderateness in the Baron to invite Mrs. Crosland 
 to accomi)any her daughter to Paris. Slie would 
 
THE BRIDE. 1-5 
 
 feel forlorn at home, he was sure. She had never 
 seen Paris ; — no English ladies had, till the peace, 
 the year before. She might never have such an 
 opportunity again. She really must not refuse 
 him. She did not refuse, when Agnes joined her 
 entreaties to the Baron's; and an expenditure of 
 another fifty pounds improved her wardrobe in the 
 requisite degree. 
 
 There could have been no concealment about the 
 marriage day, if any body had desired to keep it a 
 secret. All Durham knew of it ; and half Durham 
 longed to see the ceremony. The church was ftiU ; 
 and all the serious-minded people were impressed 
 by the providential circumstance that the Baron, 
 foreigner as he was, should be an episcopalian, as 
 naturally, to all appearance, as if he had been born 
 and brought up under the shadow of Durham 
 Cathedral. It was really remarkable that he was 
 neither Romish, nor Mohammedan, nor Jewish, 
 nor Pagan; but as sensible of the privilege of 
 beins: married at an Eno'lish altar as if he had 
 been a native Briton. Very serious and fervent 
 was his demeanour; and his vows were spoken so 
 that all present could hear. As for Agnes, she 
 was lonff the tradition of brides. Ac^nes Crosland 
 
1 1- Tin: HKTDE. 
 
 at the altar was the ideal henceforth of all who 
 had seen her standing there. It was the more 
 impressive from its being supposed to be the last 
 that would be seen of the Croslands as a family. 
 They were leaving their house to-day, one and all. 
 The mother was to pay a round of visits among 
 relations and old friends, when she retui-ned from 
 Paris: and the young men somewhat anticipated 
 the time of their going to London, on account of 
 the breaking up of the household. The one hoped 
 to find employment in a warehouse which should 
 afford him bread, and the other had an ofier of 
 a small clerkship. That night the doors were 
 locked and the shutters closed by an old servant 
 who was to stay in the house till INIrs. Crosland 
 should decide whether to keep or sell the furniture. 
 Neither of the ladies had ever been at sea ; and 
 tlie crossing to Calais was to them the grand event 
 tliat it was to all the English who went to the 
 Continent just after the peace. The Baron was 
 more kind and gentlemanly than ever when his 
 companions were beyond the range of their expe- 
 rience, and glad to rely on his information and 
 guidance. There were others on board who thank- 
 fully accepted his advice about their travels, and 
 
THE BllIDE. 15 
 
 his present good offices. Colonel Alnngdon and 
 his wife and daughters, who were also going to 
 Paris, made a speedy friendship with the Baron^s 
 party ; and it was soon arranged that they should 
 travel together, and take up their abode at the 
 same hotel at the end of their journey. 
 
 For nearly a month they enjoyed themselves 
 prodigiously. They went every where, and saw 
 every thing to the utmost advantage. Mrs. Cros- 
 land^s letters to her sons and friends were read 
 widely, and listened to with generous pleasure : 
 and the confidence which Agnes poured out to 
 the Morrises rejoiced their hearts. But this was 
 only for the first fortnight; for Mr. Morris was 
 suddenly called to the West Indies ; and his family 
 went abroad for a year, — to Germany for the 
 summer, and to Italy for the winter: so that, 
 before the honeymoon was over, Agnes had lost 
 access to her friends for a time. She was dis- 
 cussing with her mother one morning how long 
 it would be before she could have their address, 
 when her husband entered the room. He inquired 
 whether there was no chance of their friends being 
 induced to come to Paris before they decided on 
 their German resting-place ; and he talked and 
 
IG THE liKIDE. 
 
 questioned his wife so much about it that she 
 almost hoped lie might contrive to bring them. 
 He shook his head and smiled, saying that akis ! 
 he could not do every thing, as his little wife 
 seemed to suppose. He had wished to satisfy 
 himself; and he was compelled to admit that 
 there was no chance of seeing the Morrises at 
 Paris. If they could resist the pleasure of coming 
 to witness the conjugal happiness they had created, 
 he must confess he did not see what temptation 
 could be proposed. What he now came in to 
 say, however, was that he expected two friends 
 to dinner to-day, — Prince Luberode and his son. 
 Dinner must be ordered for six o'clock; and he 
 hoped Agnes and her mother would be kind 
 enough to see the maitre d'hotel, and make him 
 understand that it was to be the best and most 
 carefully served dinner that the house could supply. 
 He hoped, if he might be allowed to say so, that 
 Agnes would dress well, and justify his choice in 
 the eyes of his distinguished guests. 
 
 When the arrangements were all made, he pro- 
 posed a sight-seeing morning, and laid out a 
 charming scheme. The Abingdons were gone to 
 Yei*sailles, and would not be back till night : so 
 
THE BRIDE. 17 
 
 tlie three went out together. It was a lovely 
 day at the end of ^lay, and Paris never looked 
 brighter. There could not be a better day for 
 pictures, the Baron observed ; and then it occurred 
 to him that the ladies micrht as well wait for him 
 
 o 
 
 in the Louvre Gallery as any where else, while he 
 went to the watchmaker^s close by. The watch- 
 maker had assured him he could make the old 
 watch go well again; and he would step in with 
 it now, as it was so near. 
 
 " Wait for me in the Louvre," said he. " Wait 
 till I come. I may have to go to another shop; 
 but I shall not be long. Wait tiU I come.''' 
 
 He turned back after he had left them, sapng, 
 '^ My love, just lend me your watch for a minute. 
 I want to show it to the watchmaker. No — not 
 the chain,'' he added, putting it back over her 
 head. "I don't want the chain." 
 
 Agnes unscrewed the swivel clasp, and put the 
 watch into his hand. 
 
 They waited long at the Louvre, and no known 
 face appeared. For two hours, Mrs. Crosland con- 
 tended with her daughter's uneasiness; but when 
 the clock struck the fourth hour, she was herself 
 in dismay. They supposed they must obey the 
 
18 THE BRIDE. 
 
 reiterated instruction, "Wait till I come;'' and 
 they could think of nothing to be done elsewhere ; 
 for they did not know the name of the watch- 
 maker, nor where he lived. At last it was 
 necessary to go home, in order to be dressed to 
 receive the Prince. It was not far to walk; and 
 this was well, as they coidd not hire a carriage. 
 The Baron believed it unsafe for ladies to carry 
 money in Paris, and had taken charge of their 
 purses. 
 
 At the hotel, nothing had been heard of the 
 Baron. So they declared at first : but the porter, 
 when questioned, said he had seen him come in 
 about one o'clock ; — that is, just when the ladies 
 were beginning to be uneasy at the Louvre. 
 Before this was ascertained, Agnes was certain 
 that he had been run over in the street, imme- 
 diately after parting with them ; and, choked with 
 terror, she ran up to her own room to be alone, 
 and consider what was to be done. The door of 
 her chamber was locked. Nobody had the key; 
 so it must be in the Baron's pocket. Mother and 
 daughter slmt themselves into llicir drawing-room, 
 and wept together on the sofa. Neither dared 
 to suggest that inquiry should be made at tlie 
 
THE BRIDE. 19 
 
 hospitals. Ill the midst of their sobs, the clock 
 on the mantelpiece struck half-past five. The 
 Prince would come in half an hour. In a sudden 
 rally of courage, Mrs. Crosland was certain that 
 the Baron would appear also. If he should have 
 been merely detained by business, as was no doubt 
 the case, what would he think of finding Agnes, — 
 instead of looking her best, as he had particularly 
 desired, — not dressed, and with swollen eyes ! 
 
 In a moment, the obedient wife was giving 
 directions for her door, and that of her mother's 
 chamber, to be forced. She was in a fever of 
 impatience to bathe her eyes and be dressed. The 
 lock-smith was on the spot presently; but, when 
 the doors were opened, it appeared that every 
 drawer was locked, and the wardrobe, and all the 
 trunks. The hospitable host, who had been re- 
 joicing for nearly a month in his admu-able party 
 of guests, quitted his supervision of the table to 
 see what was going on upstairs. As drawers, 
 wardrobe and trunks were opened before his 
 astonished eyes, they turned out to be all empty. 
 Not an article of dress or use was left ! 
 
 To the horror and disgust of Agnes, the police 
 was the next power called in. She could not 
 B 2 
 
20 THE BRIDE. 
 
 suggest any explanation : Lut not the less vehement 
 was her indignation that her husband, — her gen- 
 erous, considerate, noble, affectionate husband, — 
 should be suspected of any thing wrong. She 
 would appeal to the Prince, his friend. If they 
 would only wait till Prince Luberode could advise 
 them ! And she haughtily commanded the host 
 to take no further steps till she had seen the 
 Prince. The host compassionately shook his head. 
 As he foresaw, no Prince arrived. Nobody arnved 
 till the Abinsrdons retm-ned from Versailles, a little 
 before midnight. Agnes ran out upon the stairs to 
 meet them, and give them, if possible, her impres- 
 sion of the case. But alas ! their doors too were 
 locked ; and their drawers and trunks were ako 
 empty ! TMien Agnes was compelled, the next 
 morning, to see the landlord, and admit the in- 
 quiries of the police, she found that the Abingdons 
 were gone, and that nobody would tell her or her 
 mother where they were. 
 
 Thus left helpless in a foreign city, the unhappy 
 ladies began to regard the police as their best 
 reliance. Agnes persisted for two or three days 
 ill believing that her husband had met with an 
 accident, and that the robbery was the work of 
 
THE BRIDE. 21 
 
 somebody else. But when it was clear that no 
 such person had been taken to any of the hospitals 
 that day, and that a man answering his description 
 had sold both her watches five minutes after he had 
 left her, she could no longer resist the evidence that 
 she had married a swindler. 
 
 The strangest thing was that the police of Paris, 
 who had scarcely ever met with a check before, 
 never unravelled any part of the mystery. They 
 had supposed that they knew every considerable 
 rogue on the Continent : but they were baffled by 
 the Baron de Castile. For many months after, 
 Agnes would recur, with a wistful hope, to this 
 peculiarity in the case, and to the fact that he had 
 refused to possess himself of her gold chain. It 
 appears that there was sufficient compassion left in 
 his cruel soul to induce him to leave his beautiful 
 young victim means to get back to England; and 
 the same considerateness had doubtless suggested 
 the invitation to her mother : and to the last Agnes 
 dwelt upon these facts, even while speaking of him 
 as a swindler. 
 
 The landlord behaved well. As he himself 
 observed, he had nothing to gain by harshness. 
 He was a fool, too, to have left the side door of 
 B 3 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 the house unattended by a porter : and the g^oods 
 must have been carried out that way, with wonder- 
 ful speed and quietness. It served bim right for 
 grudging a second porter : and there was no use in 
 going into a passion now. His conclusion was to 
 put up with his loss, — the cost of the month's 
 board and accommodation, and of sundry valuables 
 which were missed from the apartments, — and to 
 get rid of the poor ladies as soon as possible. He 
 sold the gold chain to the best advantage, and put 
 them in the way of getting home. Henry met 
 them at Dover. 
 
 In the first moments of misery, Agnes could 
 hardly imagine her future life more dreary than it 
 actually proved. She never again heard of the 
 Baron de Castile : but she could never be sure that 
 he would not present himself; and this, which was 
 at first a trembling hope, turned in time to a 
 deadly fear. She never felt wholly free again. 
 
 For a time she earned a little money by teaching 
 masic; but it was not enough to live upon; and 
 the small remnant of her mother's property dwin- 
 dled away till, just as j\Irs. Crosland died, it was 
 all gone. Henry had died some time before; and 
 .John was settled in South America, where he had 
 
THE BllIDE. 2^ 
 
 enough to do to provide for his own family. It 
 was a forlorn birthday that she spent beside her 
 mother's coffin, all alone. There was no choice 
 now between one way and another of getting her 
 living. Having had no means of improvement 
 since her early youth, her quahfications were no 
 longer such as would command an income. Her 
 playing, — her chief accomplishment, and so far 
 unfaiHng as that it was based on natural talent, — 
 grew old-fashioned, and her favomite music was 
 out of date. On the rare occasions when the 
 Baroness de Castile was seen in society, she was 
 asked to play, as a convenient form of notice and 
 compliment : but nobody sought lessons from her. 
 She came at last to depend on her needle, and on 
 the kindness of old acquaintance. A distant cousin 
 invited her once a year, to stay some weeks ; and 
 during that time she was abundantly nourished 
 and entertained; and when she went away, it was 
 with a good new gown and a pretty cap in her 
 trunk, and a dozen of fine shirts to make for some- 
 body. There was something odd in paying a 
 morning visit at that house during those weeks. 
 At the table sat a most undistinguished-looking 
 elderly woman, in a coarse stuff or common print 
 
2i THE BRIDE. 
 
 gowTi, mth dyed ribbons on lier cheap net cap, and 
 a most evident eagerness for the luxury of a good 
 gossip : and this dubious-looking personage was 
 introduced, most punctiliously^ as " the Baroness de 
 Castile ; '' and the Baroness would half-rise, with a 
 long-praeticed bend of the head. This done, she 
 was ready to rush into talking and laughing ; and 
 strangers would cultivate her, to make out what a 
 Baroness of this sort was like. Her hosts used to 
 dwell, in conversation, on her virtues as a daughter, 
 and on her cheerfulness after she was left alone in 
 the world. But they felt that there was something 
 more dreary in the " cheerfulness ^' than in the 
 calamity itself. The Baron de Castile had robbed 
 Agnes of more than her little fortune, — even of 
 her whole life, — in the highest view of life. 
 
 She did not live to be old : and she never knew 
 absolute want. Her friends believed that to the 
 very last she drew critical comparisons in her own 
 mind between the young men she saw and the 
 stranger who formed the grand idea and cii'cum- 
 stance of her life. " Ah ! my dear," she would 
 say, with a little sigh, as she was threading her 
 needle, " you don't see such men now. He was a 
 most accomi)lishcd scoundrel ! '^ 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 Mr. Bryan always found his wife and daughters 
 on the look-out for him at dinner-time, and was 
 wont to say that he had never in his married life 
 found the hearth unswept in winter, or the parlour 
 unshaded or uncooled in summer. The dinner- 
 table was always laid; the ice was in the water- 
 pitcher in hot weather, and the feather-fan was at 
 hand to give him a gentle breeze, and save him 
 from the annoyance of the flies. Mr. Bryan was 
 a New England farmer; and in that country, 
 where the old family aiFections flom-ish as they did 
 when loving wives and sisters braved all to accom- 
 pany the Pilgrim husband and brother, in that 
 pm-est of old Christian countries, there was no 
 head of a household more faithfiilly cherished than 
 Mr. Bryan. He was a farmer, or, what would 
 
20 THE TRAATILLEIIS. 
 
 be called in England, a country gentleman; for 
 land is all freehold in America. His sons had 
 gone southwards and westwards to seek their 
 fortunes — all but Harry, who remained on the 
 old farm, with parents and sisters three. 
 
 Certain as was Mr. Bryan's welcome at dinner- 
 time, it was not alwa^'s so eager as on a certain 
 March day, when the girls were actually in the 
 verandah, ^^'ith shawls over their heads, watching 
 for then- father's return. The moment they saw 
 him Mary held up a letter, whereby he knew that 
 family news had come from south or west. It was 
 from the south — from New Orleans — where his 
 son Nathan was settled in the cotton trade. The 
 letter told that Nathan's expected marriage was to 
 take place in the first week in May; and that he 
 and his bride earnestly wished that two of his 
 sisters should come and visit their brother, be 
 present at the wedding, accompany the bride and 
 bridegroom up the river to the Yii'ginia Springs, 
 where it was necessary to spend the hot season, 
 and then return home under the escort of some 
 of the New England tourists who would certainly 
 be found at the Springs. It was a cai)ital plan. 
 Mr. ]Jryan himself said that if an escort to the 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 27 
 
 south could bo found, two of the girls should go. 
 The great question was, which of the three should 
 stay at home? Kezia wanted to stay at home 
 because she was the eldest ; and Dido, because she 
 was the youngest; and Mary, because she was so 
 deaf that she must be much the least useful and 
 aerreeable to the friends to be visited. Father 
 and mother had to settle the point; and they 
 decided that Kezia should remain at home — a 
 decision which Kezia received as a high honour. 
 It was not difficult to send the girls to New 
 York; and their uncle at New York presently 
 committed them to the charge of a gentleman 
 going to Mobile, where their brother would meet 
 them. There were no railroads in those days, 
 except a short one here and there ; one cut straight 
 through forest and swamp in South Carolina, on 
 which there is a nightly frog-concert, afforded 
 gratis to the passengers, of a grandeur and singu- 
 larity which was mightily imposing to the young 
 ladies; and another through a sandy tract in 
 Georgia, w^here there was nothing to be seen but 
 myriads of pines, with a fertile patch of cotton- 
 fields here and there. After that, all else was 
 slow and weary work. The stage, containing nine 
 
28 TUE TllAVELLERS. 
 
 inside passengers, ambled on amidst alternate mud 
 and sand, with deep holes at short intervals. The 
 scene was varied by a frequent crossing of creeks 
 in the worst of ferry-boats, and by half-a-dozen 
 walks in the com-se of twenty-four houi's, when 
 the stage was '^ mired," and the passengers had 
 to alight and go forward. Then there were 
 snatches of sleep to be had, when the blacksmith 
 was waited for to repair wdieel or spring; and 
 many an hour was there of rare delight in gazing 
 at the beauties of the forest — the new and glorious 
 wdld-flowers, the towering trees, the acres of diver- 
 sified mosses, and the emigrant encampments at 
 night. In the dark hours, and indeed at all 
 intervals, the passengers from the south were 
 ready to satisfy those from the north about southern 
 modes of life. 
 
 Like, most deaf people, Mary could hear in a 
 carriage; and she could never have enough of the 
 conversation she could so rarely enjoy. Every- 
 thing that could be told about New Orleans she 
 ascertained before they got to Mobile. On com- 
 paring notes with Dido afterwards, she found that 
 both had brought away the same impression from 
 these conversations — that life at New Orleans, 
 
THE TKAVKLLElt 
 
 while Ml of cliarms, was one long tension of 
 subdued fear — fear not only of yellow fever, but 
 of discontented slaves — of open violence in the 
 day, and of robbery and murder in the night. 
 There was not a gentleman in the stage during 
 any part of that long fortnight's journey, who had 
 not some tremendous story to tell of adventures 
 at New Orleans — of finding his pistols with the 
 charge drawn ; of having his pocket-book stolen 
 from under his pillow, and seeing the gleam of 
 a knife in the fellow's hand as he sprang after 
 him, and lost him at the branching ofi* of the 
 staircase ; of discovering a stout negro under the 
 bed, as the occupier was about to step into it, and 
 so on. When the girls told Nathan at Mobile 
 what they had heard, he laughed at them for 
 making a great fuss about a small matter; but 
 he could not and did not deny that all the stories 
 might probably be true. "VMiat he said amounted 
 in fact to little more than this — that thieves, at 
 New Orleans as elsewhere, did not want to 
 hurt people; and if any were murdered, it was 
 because they made useless opposition. If they 
 had taken no notice, they would merely have 
 lost their property; all which was less consol- 
 
'M) TJli: TUAVELLEltS. 
 
 atory to his sisters than he perhaps anticipated. 
 And at last, when they were sufficiently rested 
 at ^loLile, Nathan could not proceed with them 
 to New Orleans. He was obliged to run up the 
 river to Cahawba, at the last moment. However, 
 he made excellent arrangements for his sisters' 
 comfort, finding a good escort for them, and com- 
 mitting them to the charge of his partner on their 
 arrival. Mr. Broderick, the partner, had had the 
 house put in order for them ; and, once housed, 
 they would have only too many friends about 
 them, to amuse them during the few days of 
 their brother's absence. And, sure enough, there 
 was j\Ir. Broderick awaiting them when they left 
 the dirty steamer for the railroad, which carried 
 them the remaining five miles, through the beauti- 
 ful swamp (more beautiful than the forest itself) to 
 the city. They had not a wink of sleep in the 
 steamer, which swarmed with cockroaches, so that 
 they could not bring themselves to lie down ; and 
 they were dreadfully exhausted before they reached 
 their resting-place. There, however, breakfast, a 
 batch- of lcttei*s from home, and the abundance of 
 cold water supplied in the chambers of those 
 southern houses, refreshed them so much, that 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 31 
 
 they could keep awake when Nathan's friends 
 came to offer greetings and all sorts of service; 
 and were much amused, during the intervals, with 
 sitting at the windows, or looking out from the 
 balcony upon the novelty that the street presented 
 — a novelty almost as great as if they had been 
 in France, and France within the tropics. 
 
 The habitable part of the house — the floor 
 above the warehouse and office — consisted of four 
 rooms, which formed an oblong square. The two 
 nearest were sitting-rooms, and the two furthest, 
 chambers. The giiis could not sufficiently wonder 
 at the style of the latter — the large baths of cold 
 water placed at opposite corners, in addition to the 
 washstands; and the very large beds, as hard as 
 the boards, for coolness, and with musquito-curtains 
 carefully closed in all round. For coolness and 
 convenience they settled that they would put 
 all then* luggage (which, in consideration of the 
 wedding, was of remarkable bulk) into the one 
 chamber, while they slept together in the other. 
 Mr. Broderick dined with them, left a charge 
 with the slaves to take good care of the ladies, 
 looked in at nine o'clock, to see if he could be 
 of fm-ther service, and then went home. The 
 
girls were excessively tired; Lut ^lary would not 
 go to bed till she had written home; and Dido, 
 therefore, finished the unpacking ; but Mary made 
 her go to bed soon after ten. 
 
 It was past eleven when Mary sealed her letter, 
 and laid it out on the landing for the early post. 
 She returned to the drawing-room to shut the 
 French window which opened on the balcony ; but 
 the spring was broken, and the window would not 
 close. She placed the heaviest arm-chair against 
 it, and heaped up the heaviest books on the chair, 
 put out the candles, and went to her room. Dido 
 was not asleep yet ; and she said from within the 
 enveloping net, that she did not think she could 
 ever sleep on so desperately hard a mattrass. She 
 had often slept on the floor; but the floor was 
 nothing to this mattrass. Mary prophesied that 
 their extreme fatigue would prove more than a 
 match for the hai-dest bed that ever was made. 
 For her part, she did not think any hardship 
 whatever, could keep her awake this night. 
 
 The moment she had put out the light, — and 
 lucifers as yet were not — she said — 
 
 " There ! I have done a silly thing ! Here we 
 arc, in this dreadful New Orleans, without a light. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 33 
 
 and without a bell too. I forgot that there are 
 no house bells in this part of the world." 
 
 ^^And no use for a bell if we had one/' said 
 Dido, into her sister's trumpet. " We forgot that 
 the slaves are in their quai'ter ; and we don't know 
 where that is." 
 
 "Only that it is out of the house/' replied 
 Mary. " Dear me ! here we are, in the midst of 
 this horrible city, alone in the house, with the 
 balcony window unfastened, and no light, and 
 no means of giving an alarm ! Well, I will put 
 my trumpet on the bed, and if you hear anything 
 you don't Hke, wake me. We will manage better 
 to-morrow night." 
 
 Having well tucked in the musquito net, Mary 
 was asleep in two minutes. 
 
 She seemed to herself to have only just closed 
 her eyes when Dido gently pinched her arm, put 
 the trumpet into her hand, and whispered quite 
 into it : 
 
 "There is somebody walking about the room." 
 
 Mary said afterwards that she had never in her 
 
 life experienced such a sensation of forlornness as 
 
 at that moment. The more need for coolness 
 
 and prudence ! After a moment's thought, she 
 
 c 
 
3i THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 whispered into her sister's ear " You remember, 
 tlie safest thing is to be quiet — the safest of all 
 is to be asleep. I have left watch and rings and 
 all on the dressing-table, on purpose. We had 
 better go to sleep." 
 
 '^But — I — can't/' dolefully replied Dido. 
 
 After trying hard for a few minutes, Mary found 
 she could hear nothing, and could therefore be of 
 no immediate use. Not really believing it was a 
 thief in the room so soon, though she afterwards 
 found it must have been past one o'clock, she 
 advised her sister to try to sleep; desired to be 
 awakened if anything more happened; and then, 
 overpowered with fatigue, was presently fast asleep 
 again. 
 
 By and by — Dido said, at least an hour after — 
 Mary felt her arm again pinched, and the trumpet 
 put into her hand ; and Dido said in the lowest 
 available tone, " It is a man without his shoes ; 
 and he is close by your side of the bed." 
 
 Mary experienced another qualm; but it was 
 slighter. No desperate harm had happened yet, 
 and slic was refreshed by sleep. Now convincoil 
 that her method was a sound one, she repeated her 
 advice ; but Dido still said she really could not 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 lie do\Yn. Both sisters fully expected every 
 moment to feel a hand upon their shoulder. 
 
 "I am very sorry that I cannot help you," 
 whispered Mary. " I am very sorry for you ; but 
 pray do not sit up all night in this way. Pray 
 go to sleep; and then they will only take our 
 property. They will let us alone if you will only 
 go to sleep." 
 
 "But — I — can't," again said Dido. 
 
 " Well, I can, and I shall," said Mary, and off 
 she went again. 
 
 A third time Dido roused her, saying, 
 
 " It is the oddest thing ! He has been here 
 all this time — for hours — " 
 
 " Hours ! why, what o'clock is it ? " 
 
 " About four, I should think. He has just gone 
 out by the further door — towards the stairs. Had 
 not I better get up, and drive a trunk against it?" 
 
 " You can, if you think that it will do any good : 
 but there are two other doors; and you know you 
 risk letting in the musquitoes." 
 
 Dido ran the risk, pushed the heaviest trunk 
 against the door, not without expectations of 
 stumbling against somebody, and crept into bed 
 again. She said that the man had taken no pains 
 
36 THE tra\t:llers. 
 
 to avoid noise; he liad mn against the Lath — 
 to judge by the splashing over of the water; and 
 he had jingled the crockery on the wash-stand. 
 He seemed to have been feehng after ever}i:hing 
 in the room. 
 
 '^Except ourselves/' said Mary. ^' I suppose 
 we shall find om- watches and rings gone in the 
 morning. AYell : we shall see when daylight 
 comes. It is da^vning now." And both sisters 
 dropped asleep. 
 
 Broad daylight showed them the room in 
 strange confusion. A good deal of water was 
 spilled : their clothes were pulled off the chaii*s, 
 and were lying in heaps on the floor : their 
 watches were on the table quite safe; and their 
 rings had rolled to all corners of the room. 
 Nothing seemed to be missing. 
 
 "I will tell you what we will do/' said Marg- 
 in the middle of her dressing. "We will not 
 mention this matter before night, because it 
 woidd not do to throw any suspicion on the 
 slaves till we are compelled." 
 
 " I cannot pass such another'night/' said Dido. 
 
 " No, indeed ! not for the world, so little as 
 I can lielj) you/' rei)lied INIary. "It may be mere 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 37 
 
 curiosity in the slaves; or it is possible that it 
 may be somebody else. Do you keep your ears 
 open all day, and I will keep my eyes open, and 
 we may find it out. If not, we will tell Mr. 
 Broderick in the evening." 
 
 The breakfast was a wonderful one. The women 
 had been to market, and had provided young green 
 peas, and other spring dainties ; and they staid in 
 the room, according to negro custom, lolling over 
 the backs of the ladies^ chaii-s, and watching every 
 mouthful that they ate. Mary never pretended to 
 be able to make anything of negro-French jargon ; 
 but Dido talked with them; and presently ^Mary 
 saw that her attention was fixed. A o^-lance and 
 nod told that the mystery was discovered. 
 
 As soon as the women could be got rid of. Dido 
 explained it all. A little black dog jumped up at 
 the table all breakfast-time, for a share of the good 
 thins^s. Dido asked the women if it was their doa\ 
 They said this little one was, but not the big one. 
 
 "What big one?" 
 
 "Why, the great big white dog in the yard. 
 
 Did not the ladies see it chained up in the yard 
 
 yesterday? And did not they hear it in the night ? 
 
 It was always let loose the last thing at night to 
 
 c3 
 
38 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 liiint the rats. Tlie big dog was always hunting- 
 tlic rats all night." The girls now remembered 
 that. New Orleans being built in a swamp, every 
 house in the city was infested with rats. Every 
 night afterwards Dido remarked how exactly the 
 dog's tread was like that of a man^s without his 
 shoes. 
 
 No more adventures happened in this journey, 
 as the girls travelled northwards under the careful 
 guardianship of their brother; but they have 
 since been in situations of danger, both by 
 sea and land. Mary says, to this horn-, that 
 the most desolate moment she ever experienced 
 was when her sister gave her the first alarm : and 
 Dido declares that she would not go through such 
 another night for a sight of any one of the wonders 
 of the world. 
 
THE OLD GOVEENESS. 
 
 The afternoon was come wlien the Morells must 
 go on board. They were going to Canada at last, 
 after having talked about it for several years. 
 There were so many children, that it was with 
 much difficulty they had got on for some years 
 past; and there was no prospect for the lads at 
 home. They had, with extreme difficulty, paid 
 their way: and they had, to a certain extent, 
 educated the children. That, however, was Miss 
 Smith's doing. 
 
 " We shall always feel, every one of us," said 
 Mrs. Morell, with tears, to the elderly homely 
 governess, "that we are under the deepest 
 obligations to you. But for you, the children 
 would have grown up ^vithout any education at 
 all. And, for the greatest service you or any 
 
10 THE OLD GOVERNESS. 
 
 one could possibly render iis, we have never Lcen 
 able to give you your due, — even as regards the 
 mere money.'' 
 
 "I can only say again/' replied the governess, 
 ''that you do not look at the whole of the case. 
 You have given me a home, when it is no easy 
 matter for such as I am to earn one, with my 
 old-womanish ways and my old-fashioned know- 
 ledge." 
 
 " I will not hear any disparagement of your wa3's 
 and your knowledge,'' interrupted Mrs. Morell. 
 '' They have been everything to my children : 
 and if you could have gone with us . . . " 
 
 This, however, they all knew to be out of the 
 question. It was not only that Miss Smith was 
 between fifty and sixty, too old to go so fiir, 
 with little prospect of comfort at the end of the 
 journey; but she was at present disabled for 
 much usefulness by the state of her right hand. 
 It had been hurt by an accident a long time 
 before, and it did not get well. The surgeon 
 had always said it would be a long case ; and 
 she had no use whatever of the hand in tlio 
 meantime. Yet she would not i)art with the 
 baby till the hist moment. She cai-ried liim on 
 
THE OLD GOVEENESS. 41 
 
 the left arm, and stood on the wharf with him 
 — the mother at her side — till all the rest were 
 on board, and Mr. Morell came for his wife. It 
 was no grand steamer they were going in, but a 
 humble vessel belonging to the port, which would 
 carry them cheap. 
 
 "Now, my love,^' said the husband. "Now, 
 Miss Smith,'' taking the child from her. " Words 
 cannot tell . . . '' 
 
 And if words could have told, the tongue could 
 not have uttered them. It was little, too, that his 
 wife could say. 
 
 "Write to us. Be sure you write. We shall 
 write as soon as we arrive. Write to us.'' 
 
 Miss Smith glanced at the hand. She said only 
 one word, " Farewell ! " but she said it cheerfully. 
 
 The steam-tug was in a hurry, and down the 
 river they went. She had one more appointment 
 to keep with them. She was to wave" her handker- 
 chief from the rocks by the fort ; and the children 
 were to let her try whether she could see their little 
 handkerchiefs. So she walked quickly over the 
 common to the fort, and sat down on the bench at 
 the top of the rocks. 
 
 It was very well she had something to do. But 
 
42 TIIK OLD GOVEllNESS. 
 
 the plan did not altogether answer. By the time 
 tlic vessel crossed the bar it was nearly dark, and 
 she was not quite sure, among three, which it was ; 
 and she did not suppose the children could see her 
 handkerchief. She waved it, however, according 
 to promise. How Uttle they knew how wet it was ! 
 Then there was the walk home. It was familiar, 
 yet very strange. Wlien she was a child her 
 parents used to bring her here, in the summer 
 time, for sea air and bathing. The haven and the 
 old grey bathing houses, and the fort, and the 
 lighthouse, and the old priory ruins cro\vning the 
 rocks, were all familiar to her ; but the port had 
 so grown up that all else was strange. And how 
 strange now was life to her! Her parents gone, 
 many years back, and her two sisters since; and 
 now the Morells ! She had never had any money 
 to lose : and the retired way in which the Morells 
 lived had prevented her kno\ving anybody out of 
 their house. She had not a relation nor a friend, 
 nor even an acquaintance, in England. The 
 Morells had not been uneasy about her. They 
 left her a little money, and had so high an opinion 
 of her that they did not doubt her being 
 abundantly employed, whenever lier hand should 
 

 ,^ 54^/-^^-^^^^^- 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 43 
 
 get well. They had lived too much to themselves 
 to know that her French, learned during the war, 
 when nobody in England could pronounce French, 
 would not do in these days, nor that her trilling, 
 old-fashioned style of playing on the piano, which 
 they thought so beautiful, would be laughed at 
 now in any boarding school ; and that her elegant 
 needleworks were quite out of fashion; and that 
 there were new ways of teaching even reading, 
 spelling, and writing. 
 
 She knew these things, and cautioned herself 
 against discontent with the progress of society, 
 because she happened to be left alone behind. She 
 suspected, too, that the hand would not get well. 
 The thing that she was most certain of was that 
 she must not rack her brain with fears and specula- 
 tions as to what was to become of her. Her 
 business was to wait till she could find something 
 to do, or learn what she was to suffer. She 
 thouo^ht she had better wait here. There was no 
 call to any other place. This was more familiar 
 and more pleasant to her than any other — 
 (the Morells' cottage being far away, and out of 
 the question) — and here she could live with 
 the utmost possible cheapness. So here she staid. 
 
44 THE OLD GOVERNESS. 
 
 The hand got well, as for as the pain was con- 
 cerned, sooner than she had expected. But it was 
 in a different way from what she had expected. It 
 was left wholly useless. And, though the time of 
 suspense was not long, it had wrought as time does. 
 It had worn out her clothes; it had emptied her 
 little purse. It had carried away everything she had 
 in the world but the very few clothes she had on. 
 She had been verging towards the resolution she 
 now took for three or four weeks. She took it 
 finally while sitting on the bench near the fort. It 
 was in the dusk; for her gown, though she had 
 done her best to mend it with her left hand, was in 
 no condition to show by daylight. She was alone 
 in the dusk, rather hungry and very cold. The sea 
 was dashing surlily upon the rocks below, and there 
 was too much mist to let the stars shine upon her. 
 It was all dreary enough; yet she was not very 
 miserable; for her mind was made up. She had 
 made up her mind to go into the workhouse the 
 next day. While she was thinking calmly about it 
 a fife began to play a sort of jig in the yard of the 
 fort behind her. Her heart heaved to her tliroat, 
 and the tears gushed from her eyes. In this same 
 spot, fifty years before, she heai'd what now seemed 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 45 
 
 to her the same fife. Her father was then sitting 
 on the grass, and she was between his knees, help- 
 ing to tassel the tail of a Httle kite they were going 
 to % : and, when the merry fife had struck up, her 
 father had snatched up her gay Harlequin that lay 
 mthin reach, and made him shake his legs and arms 
 to the music. She heard her own laugh again now, 
 through that long half century, and in the midst 
 of these tears. 
 
 All that night she pondered her purpose: and 
 the more she considered, the more sure she was that 
 it was right. ^' I might," thought she, '^ get main- 
 tained by charity, no doubt : I might call on any 
 of the clergymen of this place, and the rich people. 
 Or I might walk into the shops and tell my story, 
 and I dare say the people would give me food and 
 clothes. And, if it was a temporary distress, I 
 would do so. I should think it right to ask for 
 help, if I had any prospect of work or independence 
 in any way. But I have none : and this I am con- 
 vinced, points out my duty. Hopeless cases like 
 mine are those which public charity — legal charity 
 — is intended to meet. My father little dreamed 
 of this, to be sure ; and the Morells little dream of 
 it at this moment. But when do our parents and 
 
10 THE OLD GOVERNESS. 
 
 fricutls, when do we ourselves, dream of what our 
 lot is really to turn out ? Those old notions have 
 nothing to do with my duty. The plain fact is, 
 that I am growing old, — that I am nearly helpless, 
 
 — that I am cold and hungry, and nearly naked, 
 
 — that I have no friends within reach, and no 
 prospect whatever. I am, therefore, an object for 
 public charity, and I will ask for what is my due. 
 I am afraid of what I may find in the workhouse ; 
 — the vicious people, the dirty people, the diseased 
 people, — and, I suppose, not one among them who 
 can give me any companionship whatever. It is 
 dreadful; but it can^t be helped. And the worse 
 the case is about my companions — my fellow- 
 paupers — (for I must learn to bear the word) — 
 the greater are the chances of my finding something 
 to do for them ; — something which may prevent 
 my feeling myself utterly useless in the world. 
 This is not being wholly without prospect, after all. 
 I suppose nobody ever is. If it were not so cold 
 now, I could sleep upon mine." 
 
 It was too cold for sleep : and when, in the 
 morning, she od'ered her old shawl in payment for 
 her bed, assuring the poor woman who lot it lliat 
 she should not want the shawl, because she was 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 47 
 
 going to have other clothes, the woman shook her 
 head sorrowfully, — her lodger looked so wan and 
 chilled. She had no fear that there was any 
 thought of suicide in the case. No one could look 
 in Miss Smithes sensible face, and hear her steady, 
 cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any- 
 thing wild or impatient. 
 
 '^ Wlio is that woman with a book in her hand ?" 
 enquired the visiting Commissioner, some months 
 afterwards, of the governor of the workhouse. The 
 governor could only say she was a single woman of 
 the name of Smith, who had no use of her right 
 hand. As to who she was, he could tell no more 
 than this; but his wife had sometimes mentioned 
 her as a different sort of person from those they 
 generally saw there. She could not only read, but 
 she read very well ; and she read a great deal aloud 
 to the old people, and in the infirmary. She talked 
 unlike the rest, too. She said little : but her lan- 
 guage was good, and always correct. She could 
 not do much on account of her infirmity ; but she 
 was always willing to do what could be done with 
 one hand; and she must have been very handy 
 when she had the use of both. 
 
48 THE OLD GOVERNESS. 
 
 " I should have thought her eyes had been too 
 weak for much reading/' observed the Commis- 
 sioner. " Has the medical officer attended to her ? " 
 
 The governor called his wife : and the wife called 
 a pauper woman who was told the question. This 
 woman said it was not exactly a case for the doctor. 
 Nobody that shed so many tears could have good 
 eyes. Ah ! the governor might be sm-prised ; 
 because Smith seemed so brisk m the daytime, and 
 cheered the old people so much. But she made up 
 for it at night. Many and many a time she cried 
 the night through. 
 
 " How do you know ?'' asked the Commissioner. 
 
 "I sleep in the next bed, Sir. I can't say she 
 disturbs anybody; for she is very quiet. But if 
 anything keeps me awake I hear her sobbing. 
 And you need but feel her pillow in the morning. 
 It is wet almost through.'' 
 
 " And does that happen often ?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir. Many a time when she has turned 
 her back, — gone into the infirmary, or been 
 reading to the old people, — I have got her pillow 
 and dried it. And I have seen her do it herself, 
 witli a smile on her face all the time." 
 
 The Commissioner walked away. Before he left 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 49 
 
 the place, the woman Smith was beckoned out by 
 the governor. She went with a beating heart, 
 with some wild idea in her head that the Morells 
 had sent, that some friends had tm-ned up. While 
 still in the passage, however, she said to herself 
 that she might as well look to see her parents 
 risen from the dead. 
 
 The Commissioner had, indeed, nothing to tell. 
 He wanted to ask. He did ask, as much as his 
 delicacy would allow. But he learned nothing; 
 except, indeed, what he ought to have considered 
 the most important thing, the state of her mind 
 about being there. About that, she was frank 
 enoudi. She said over a^ain to him what she 
 had said to herself about this being the right place 
 for one in her circumstances. She considered that 
 it would be an abuse of private charity for her 
 to be maintained in idleness at an expense which 
 might set forward in life some person in a less 
 hopeless position. 
 
 "You speak cheerfully, as if you were in earnest," 
 said the Commissioner. 
 
 " Of course, I am in earnest," she replied. 
 
 And cheerful she remained throughout the con- 
 versation. Only once the Commissioner saw her 
 
 D 
 
50 TUE OLD GOVERNESS. 
 
 eyes fill and a quiver on her lips. lie did not know 
 it ; but he had unconsciously called her " ]Madam." 
 
 Would she prefer the children's department of 
 the House? There was no doubt that she could 
 teach them much. Would she change her quarters ? 
 No. She was too old now for that. She should 
 not be a good companion now for children; and 
 they would be too much for her. Unless she was 
 wanted .... 
 
 By no means. She should be where she pre- 
 ferred to be. 
 
 She preferred to be where she was. The 
 Commissioner's lady soon after dropped in, and 
 managed to eugage Smith in conversation. But 
 there was no result ; because Smith did not choose 
 that there should be. Perhaps she was more in 
 tlie infirmary ; and had oftener a warm seat by the 
 fire, and was spoken to with more deference. But 
 this might be solely owing to the way she made 
 with the people by her own acts and manners. 
 The invalids and the infirm grew so fond of her 
 tliat they poured out to her all their complaints. 
 Slie was favoured with tlie knowledge of every 
 l)ainful sensation as it passed, and every uneasy 
 tliought as it arose. 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 51 
 
 '^ I never thought to die in such a place as this/^ 
 groaned old Johnny Jacks. 
 
 " I wonder at that/' said his old wife ; " for 
 you never took any care to provide yourself a 
 better — to say nothing of me." And she went 
 on to tell how Johnny had idled and drunk his 
 life away, and brought her here at last. Much 
 of Johnny's idling and drinking having been con- 
 nected with electioneering in an abominably venal 
 city, he was a great talker on politics; and the 
 state was made responsible for all his troubles. He 
 said it was a shame that anybody should die in a 
 workhouse ; and appealed to his neighbour Smith, 
 who was warming his broth, whether it was not so ? 
 
 '^ Which is best,'' she answered; "being here, 
 or on a common, or the sea-sands? Because," 
 she added, " there was a time when old people like 
 us were left to die wherever they fell. There are 
 countries now where old people die so. I should 
 not like that." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you or any one 
 likes being here?" 
 
 " Oh, no : I don't mean to say that. But 
 things are better than they were once : and they 
 may be better again." 
 
52 THE OLD GOVEllNESS. 
 
 " I shall not live to see that/' groaned Johnny. 
 
 " No ; nor I. But it is something to think of." 
 
 "D it," said Johnny, "I am not the better 
 
 for any good that docs not happen to me, nor to 
 any body I know.'" 
 
 " Arc not you?" said neighbour Smith. ''Well, 
 now, I am." 
 
 And so she was to the end. She died in that 
 infu'mary, not very long after. When the !Morells' 
 letter came, it was plain that they had enough to 
 do to take care of themselves. So she did not let 
 them know, — in her reply, written by the hand 
 of the schoolmaster, — where she was. The letter 
 was so cheerful that they are probably far from 
 suspecting, at this moment, how she died and was 
 buried. As " from the abundance of the heart the 
 mouth speaketh," there was so much in her letter 
 as rather surprised them about her hope and expec- 
 tation that the time would come when hearty work 
 in the vigorous season of life should secure its easy 
 close ; and when a greater variety of employments 
 would be opened to women. There was more of 
 tills kind of speculation, and less news and detail of 
 facts, than they would have liked. But it was a 
 household event to have a letter from Miss Smith ; 
 
THE OLD GOVERNESS. 53 
 
 and the very little children, forgetting the wide sea 
 they had passed, began shouting for Miss Smith to 
 come to them just (as it happened) when her ear 
 was closing to every human voice. 
 
 d3 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 Mrs. Hepbuen made a mistake early in life, — as 
 most people do in one way or another. Her mis- 
 take was a very serious one ; but she has endured 
 the consequences more bravely and patiently than 
 most of us endure the results of our own errors. 
 She was very religious; and she loved a man who 
 was not rehgious at all; and very far from moral. 
 The best thing he ever did was loving her ; and the 
 wisest thing he ever did was marrying her. She 
 saw, in the midst of her love for him, that he was 
 selfish, fond of his omi indulgence, and of a stm-dy 
 temper. But he had some knowledge, and she 
 had nearly none. She respected his knowledge 
 too much, and was too humble about her own 
 ignorance. She held fast to her religion ; and she 
 loved it so dearly that she could not but believe 
 
5G THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 that he would love it too, when it was brought 
 into his daily life at home. She knew that his 
 brother George was not a good man ; and that 
 George's wife had a very bad temper; but she 
 thouG-ht she could bear with this for her husband's 
 sake; and in this she was not mistaken. One 
 unfavourable circumstance was that her husband 
 was very little at home ; only one day in the week. 
 He was a boatman on a canal in Lancashire : and 
 five-sixths of his time were spent on board the 
 boat, with only too much opportunity, and too 
 many temptations from companions, to drink and 
 play cards, and be dirty in body and mind. 
 
 They began life prosperously, as to money. Her 
 husband set her up in a grocery shop, in a by- 
 street of a town, in the midst of good custom ; and 
 she took pains to learn to manage the business 
 well. The house to which the shop belonged was 
 so large, that it was necessary to let the upper 
 rooms. Mrs. Hepburn thought herself fortunate 
 in obtaining unexceptionable lodgers, as she told 
 her husband with a thankful joy. Two pious 
 ladies encrajred the rooms : and slie served them 
 devotedly, and thanked them incessantly for the 
 opportunity of attending tlie prayer-meetings 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 which they held almost every evening, with their 
 minister and his friends. These ladies did not 
 attend at all to household business. They left 
 it to her to provide their dinners, and the hot 
 suppers which they usually had after their prayer- 
 meetings. They did not even seem to remember 
 their bills ; and when she was short of cash, and 
 ventured to lay the butcher's or baker's bills on the 
 table while they were out, the bits of paper silently 
 disappeared, and were not afterwards spoken of. 
 Once or twice, when she was hard pressed, and 
 when she asked when she might look for a settle- 
 ment, she was put off with gentle promises, and 
 benevolent exhortations to patience. Her faith in 
 them was so strong, and she had so great a dread 
 of losing her reUgious privileges by exciting her 
 husband against the ladies, that she culpably con- 
 cealed their fault, and went on raising money by 
 seUing her stock, and getting in more on the 
 strength of her lodgers' promises, till, at the end 
 of two years, she found all her means exhausted, 
 and discovered that the ladies had never had any 
 means at all. When they found she could no 
 longer put dinners and hot suppers on the table 
 for them, they grew haughty and insolent, and 
 
58 THE DESPISED "VVOMAX. 
 
 went off in a Imff, — leaving licr almost broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 Happily, her religion was a sufRcient stay. She 
 saw that the sins of false professors affected only 
 the profession, and not the religion itself. Her 
 ideas of religion were changed, but her faith was 
 not overthrown. But for this, she must have died ; 
 for she had no other resource. She sat in a bare 
 and desolate house, expecting to be turned out 
 into the street with her child, and dreading her 
 husband's return, because it was her fault that 
 he was ruined. There was somethinfj odd and 
 terrible about the child, too. She was not like 
 other children in her looks and ways : and in 
 fact, the little creature w^as an idiot; probably 
 in consequence of the mother's anxiety of mind 
 before its birth. Dreadful above everything was 
 the husband's return. The scolding at first was 
 quite as awful as she had expected : but there 
 wag yet something worse. He vowed he would 
 never speak to her again. No one interceded 
 with him for her. His vicious brother spurned 
 and insulted her ; and the brother's wife took 
 away her character in all directions. No eye 
 looked Idndly on her : no voice spoke a word of 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. 59 
 
 comfort. She was wholly driven in upon herself, 
 to see what she had best do. She had already- 
 told her husband that she took the whole blame 
 on herself; thatj through ignorance^ she had done 
 things so wrong, that she was bound to work 
 and devote herself all her life long to repair the 
 mischief. He made no answer; gave no sign, 
 but a sneer, that he heard what she said. So she 
 now resolved to say no more, except by actions. 
 She would submit, and toil, and endure; and 
 nobody should ever, with God^s help, have cause 
 to complain of her again. But how could she 
 be sure, — ignorant as she was, — that through 
 ignorance she should not again fall into some 
 fatal error? 
 
 For five years her husband never once spoke 
 to her. He came home once a week, as before, 
 and made himself comfortable, — taking no more 
 notice of her than if she had been a chair. Before 
 the end of that time, the children were old enough 
 to notice this, and to be injured by the sight of the 
 contempt with which their mother was treated. 
 She says now that it was a bitter time, — bitter 
 beyond expression ; but she knew herself to be so 
 wronor that she was determined to bear it. She 
 
GO THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 toiled and saved till she got together money to 
 buy a few groceries ; and, by degrees, she became 
 able to turn her lower room into a little shop, — 
 where she is still selling groceries, while doing 
 more in other ways than almost any other woman. 
 One hard conflict of mind was about what to do 
 with the younger children. Hourly conscious as 
 she was, of the evil of her own ignorance, she 
 desired, above every thing, to send the little ones 
 to school ; but she fancied herself bound to sacri- 
 fice every thing to the eldest, whose idiocy she 
 believed to be her own fault; and she kept the 
 rest at home to make the days amusing and 
 pleasant, as she hoped, to the poor sufferer. She 
 regrets this now as an error; but some good 
 advice and help came to her before the precious 
 years were wholly lost; and her children can 
 now read to her when she 'wants information 
 aljout their education, or any thing else ; and 
 her own poor way of reading is also improved 
 by them. By some such means she became awai-e 
 of the importance of her children's health ; and 
 as soon as she conceived the idea, slie set her 
 earnest mind to work upon it. She besought her 
 husband to have tlicm all vaccinated : but she 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. 01 
 
 got nothing, in answer to lier prayers, but con- 
 temptuous and angry looks. It was a serious 
 thing to do on her own responsibility, possessed 
 as her mind had been with the old notion that to 
 vaccinate a child was to interfere with Providence. 
 She struggled into a purpose at last, and had the 
 thing done. One of the children had smallpox, 
 some years afterwards, but so very mildly that 
 the mother was completely satisfied that she had 
 not been wrong. She learned that fresh country 
 air and thorough washing were good for children ; 
 and she so contrived as that all her children should 
 wash from head to foot in cold water ,daily, and 
 with as much decency as if they were in a gen- 
 tleman's house. She made a yet more striking 
 eflPort. Her only boy was extremely delicate in 
 his infancy. She thought he ought to have good 
 country air, whereas they lived in a narrow street, 
 far away from grass and trees ; and she could not 
 put him out to board, nor could she have trusted 
 him to any care less tender than her own. IMonth 
 after month she rose at four in the morning, or 
 earlier when the sun was up, and carried the child 
 into the country, miles and miles beyond the 
 smoke, returning in time to get the other children 
 
C)'Z THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 up, and the house made neat, before opening shop. 
 It appeared, indeed, as if patience were instead of 
 sleep to her, and her vii'tuous purpose as life itself. 
 She has never sunk. She looks ten years older 
 than she is from being so worn ; but the serene 
 face and cheerful voice show that the mind is in 
 full strength. 
 
 As occasion arose, she found she could under- 
 take a little more, and again a little more. A 
 young widow whom she knew died, leaving one 
 little child. There was a small matter of property 
 left, — not enough to pay for placing the child 
 out under proper care; but, perhaps, just enough 
 for bare clothing and food. Mrs. Hepbm-n took 
 home the infant, carried it on her arm as she 
 went about her business, nm-sed it, cherished it, 
 and now regarded it quite as one of her own. 
 All this while, the brother George had gone on 
 tempting her husband into \4ce; and his wife 
 had continued to rail over her glass of gin and 
 in her many idle hom-s at the patient toihug 
 woman, whose early credulity and imprudence 
 were never to be forgotten; and Mrs. Hepburn, 
 knowing how their tongues were employed, had 
 never any other answer than the first : '^ AVell, 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. G3 
 
 in my ignorance I did so many wrong things, 
 that I must bear whatever happens/^ At last, 
 the railing sister-in-law dropped down helpless in 
 palsy. She could not move a limb. What Mrs. 
 Hepbm-n then said was, ^^I am her sister, you 
 see, after all; and who else should take care of 
 her?" So she looked out the pleasantest corner 
 of her house, and established the palsied woman 
 there, and waited on her night and day, cheerfully 
 and amiably, — apparently without either finding 
 the nursing any burden, or ever remembering to 
 apply to herself a certain text about heaping coals 
 of fire on the head. In her arms the vixen died, 
 and from her house she was solemnly buried. 
 
 For many years she must have had a strong 
 sense of power within herself; and, owing to her 
 husband's almost constant absence, her authority 
 is all in all at home. Yet she is the same humble 
 woman that she was in the days of her deepest 
 humiliation. "Ann," said the Sunday school 
 teacher lately to the beautiful little daughter of 
 twelve years old, " I am sorry to see yom* shoulder 
 gi'owing out so sadly." " Yes, ma'am," said Ann ; 
 " mother knows about it, and she is going to get 
 me some straps." The lady explained why straps 
 
Gl THE DESPISED WOMAN, 
 
 woiild do mischief instead of good, and instituted 
 a set of exercises, and other treatment, under 
 which the shoulder came right in a very short 
 time. The teacher told INIrs. Hepburn in a few 
 weeks that she thought there need be no more 
 anxiety about the shoulder ; when the mother re- 
 plied, "You see ma'am, what a thing it is not 
 to know ! I wish to do the best I can for my 
 children ; and here, in my ignorance, I was going 
 to do the very worst thing I could have done, 
 if somebody had not observed it." She will never 
 grow conceited or authoritative now. 
 
 As her children have grown up, she has had one 
 gi'cat comfort. She can now attend chapel, and 
 hear services which agree with her improved view 
 of religion. She hears what sets her forward safely 
 and soundly in her weekly duty; and dearly she 
 loves to go. Her husband had an illness, — a 
 painful rheumatic illness, — through which, of 
 course, she nursed him as well as she nm-ses all the 
 sick who come under her hand. She had been 
 with him all one Sunday. In the evening he was 
 so far comfortable that she thought she might go 
 to chapel. "Are you going out?" he asked, as 
 she took down her cloak. "Yes, I am going to 
 
THE DESPISED WOMAN. 
 
 G5 
 
 cliapel," slie replied. " O dear ! '' sighed he, " I 
 am sorry you are going out." What words were 
 these from him ! She hung up her cloak, took 
 up one of the childi'en's books, and offered to 
 read to him. She read a little story, as well as 
 she could ; and then they fell into talk ; and they 
 had " such a happy evening ! " Since that, some 
 watchful neighbours have quietly observed that 
 the husband has been seen at chapel more than 
 once. 
 
 Such is their story, so far? Who shall say 
 how it may end ? 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 Russell had been in the estabhshment of Messrs. 
 A. and B., drapers and haberdashers, for two years ; 
 and Mary and he had ahvays supposed that they 
 might marry at the end of two years. Russell had 
 saved every farthing that he could; yet he was 
 unable to furnish a room. Rather than wait the 
 long time that it would take to save money enough 
 for that purpose, the young people decided that an 
 appeal should be made to Messrs. A. and B. for 
 an improved position. If it was granted, Russell 
 would take some nice furnished room for his bride. 
 If it was not granted, why — he would take a room 
 of some kind; for they had waited a long while. 
 Messrs. A. and B. were not migracious. They 
 would consult together. The tmth was they were, 
 on the whole, glad to find that Russell was more 
 e2 
 
68 THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 in their power than they had known him to Le. 
 He was an able young man. They wdshed to 
 retain him; hut then, it must be under circum- 
 stances of close dependence upon them. They had 
 often wished to take him into the most dehcate 
 and difficult department of their business ; but 
 they had not ventm-ed while there was fear that 
 he would not accommodate himself to their plans, 
 but go off to some other establishment where his 
 cleverness would make him acceptable, and where 
 he might tell tales. Once married, he lost his 
 chance of being so w^ell received elsewhere; for 
 married shopmen have no chance against single 
 ones. Russell was told, w4th great cordiality and 
 much sympathy, that he might get married now 
 when he liked, as IMessrs. A. and B. would give 
 him higher employment, 'and a salary of seventy 
 pounds a-year, as he would henceforth breakfast 
 and sup at home. 
 
 It was only at the second or third supper that 
 he was so grave as to alarm Mary. When pressed 
 with questions, lie said lie did not like his new 
 employment. Mary was silent, for this sounded 
 rather selfish. The place was underground ; tlie 
 ])lace was dark; it was a horrid business. 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 G9 
 
 Dark ! How could haberdasliery business be done 
 in the dark? The place was dark, however; and 
 it was silent too. Messrs. A. and 33. had a fine 
 trade, and sold cheap; so cheap, that for a long 
 time, innocent observers had been expecting a 
 crash. The reason why they could sell cheap 
 without coming to a crash, lay in that dark, 
 silent underground room, and the dark passage 
 adjoining. 
 
 The door of that passage quietly opened of itself 
 whenever a particular kind of knock was given : 
 and immediately after, some parcel of silks, or 
 muslins, or laces, or ribbons, or stockings was 
 thrust in at a sort of hatch, where it was now 
 Russeirs business to receive what came, and carry 
 it to a Hght inner room for examination. There 
 was always a ticket on the parcel, to tell its 
 value without the necessity of speech. If the 
 goods were not approved, they were handed back 
 through the hatch. If purchased, the money was 
 laid down on the sill. Russell's charge also was 
 to examine the goods; not only their quaUty when 
 the decision was to be made, but their quantity 
 afterwards, that only the buyers in the shop 
 might be cheated, and not the buyers in the 
 e3 
 
70 THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 counting-house. He soon found tliat all was 
 considered right if the trimmings and tapes were 
 not more than six 3'ards short in the piece, and 
 the pins not more than eight short in each row. 
 Before Ilussell became Mly aware that his employ- 
 ment was neither more nor less than that of a 
 receiver of stolen goods, he had become so far 
 implicated that he was perplexed to know what 
 to do. At length, at the end of some weeks, 
 he told Mary the whole. She was decided enough 
 as to what he ought to do. 
 
 "Give up your situation to-morrow morning/' 
 said she. She would not believe it so fatal a 
 thing to do. She did not see how Messrs. A. 
 and B. could stand in his way, if he chose to 
 go elsewhere. It seemed to her that they were 
 rather in Russell's power than he in theii-s. If his 
 being married was an obbtacle to his being engaged 
 elsewhere, why need he say, unless expressly asked, 
 that he was married ? For a time, they would be 
 content with his spending at home the only hour 
 in the day he had in his own power; — the hour 
 after closing. When his value became understood, 
 the marriage might be avowed. Anything was 
 better than going on with his new employment. 
 
THE SHOPMAN. '^ ^ 
 
 When Russell gave notice of his intention to 
 quit, the partners were extremely surprised, and 
 inquired whether he had any complaint to make of 
 Mr. Elmot,— his superior in the underground 
 department. He had not ; and he now felt obUged 
 to him; for, when the partners were evidently 
 disposed to threaten him, a few whispered words 
 from Elmot seemed to change their mood. They 
 wished him well; said he had given them satisfac- 
 tion on the whole; and they had little doubt they 
 should see him back before long. 
 
 "Yes,'^ said Elmot to Russell, "we shall be 
 working together again one of these days.'' 
 
 As a matter of prudence, Russell made his next 
 application at a distance of so many streets as not 
 to be under the observation of the people belonging 
 to Messrs. A. and B. Mary said that, if he settled, 
 nothing would be easier than for her to change her 
 lodging; and, if he was to pass for a single man, 
 it was better that she should be out of reach of his 
 evening hour for the first week or two. There was 
 Sunday, meantime. 
 
 Mr. C, of the firm of C. D. and E., did not 
 happen to ask whether Russell was married. AVhcn 
 he had heard that Russell's salary as shopman had 
 
 t 
 
7 'I THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 been too small, and that he wished to see a superior 
 kind of Lusiness, he seemed quite satisfied ; for the 
 next thing he did was to take down a bible, and 
 question Russell about his religious opinions. Now, 
 llussell happened to be a Dissenter, while Messrs. 
 C. D. and E. were very strong membei-s of the 
 tlien-called Clapham, or Simeon Church, which in 
 its early days was talked over for good or for evil 
 whenever men met together. Mr. C. turned over 
 the leaver of his bible, and began a series of cate- 
 chetical inquiries. But Russell, retreating towards 
 the door, observed that he came to offer himself for 
 a situation in the shop, and not to discuss theolo- 
 gical questions, — about which, he added, he felt too 
 strongly to enter upon them lightly with strangers. 
 Mr. C. beckoned him back, put the bible on the 
 shelf, and proceeded to engage the young man on 
 the understanding that the engagement was 
 dissoluble at a minute's notice. 
 
 Russell found that this intimation was one of 
 the few true things that were said in that establish- 
 ment. On the ih'st rainy Fridiiy nKjrning lie found 
 himself dismissed, with lialf-a-dozon other young 
 men, on some slight pretence, which had evaporated 
 on Monday morning, when he was taken on again, 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 73 
 
 after the loss of two days^ salary, and three days' 
 board. It would not do to move Mary yet. 
 Moreover, he was losing the power of doing so ; 
 for he was beginning to be in arrear for her lodg- 
 ing. He was growing very unhappy. He thought 
 the Friday dismissals, which he found were no 
 unusual thing, very immoral; yet there was no 
 end to the religion in the estabHshment. There 
 were not only prayers, very long and precise, in the 
 evenings, but expoundings of Scripture, at which 
 every member of the household was expected to 
 be present. These were so offensive to him, so 
 ignorant, as he, with his small knowledge, was 
 aware, that he soon absented himself, repairing to 
 a news-room, to get a sight of the papers. He 
 was no longer what he was. His conscience was 
 ill at ease, for he was growing corrupt. Under 
 strong temptation, under the fear of losing his 
 situation, he had said that he was a single man ; 
 and, having said it once, he said it again. When 
 questioned about where he went in his evening 
 hour, he at first fought off the inquiry ; but, when 
 he had once been to an evening service, under an 
 evangelical clergyman, and it had become kno^^^l, 
 and had brought him praise, he let it be supposed 
 
71. THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 that he often went — that it was his object in going 
 out ; and that difhculty, too, came to the issue 
 of a downright lie. Soon everything conspired 
 to make him careless, and then disgusted, about 
 matters on which he had so lately felt too strongly 
 to speak of them to a stranger. His internal 
 uneasiness, and the religious tone of the house, 
 tended alike to ruin his religious sensibilities. 
 When he had found himself unable to dispose of 
 a box of ribbons of a fashion that was passing 
 away, he was rebuked; and, when he declared he 
 could not help it, he was asked solemnly, — 
 "Have you made it the subject of prayer? How 
 can you expect success, if you do not seek a 
 blessing?^' And he was compelled to hear, when 
 on his knees with the rest, an earnest "wrestling" 
 in prayer for a blessing on the destiny of a lot of 
 ginghams which did not strike the fancy of pur- 
 chasers. And then, in the midst of the most 
 sanctified conformity, the young men indulged in 
 such infamous talk ! and the bickering among 
 the young women, their vanities, and theii' fibs 
 to purchasers, made his very soul sick. His heart 
 swelled when lie thought of his Mar}', growing 
 thin in the face, and shabl)y in clothing, while 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 75 
 
 these girls, unworthy to hear her name, were 
 flaunting in finery; and he bitterly reproached 
 himself for having married her, and for becoming 
 unworthy of her, --faster and faster every week. 
 He was truly unhappy. It came to an end. By 
 slow degrees some lace, of a pecuhar fabric, made 
 its appearance from the cellar. Some of it was 
 sold; but some was not, when the agent of the 
 house where alone it was manufactured, caught a 
 sight of it in passing. A call, and some extensive 
 business transactions, were the consequence. The 
 lace had been stolen from a cart, some years 
 before, and had lain a long while in the cellar. 
 There were no legal proceedings. It was more 
 convenient to all parties to arrange the affaii- in 
 a quieter way. The pillaged firm made extensive 
 sales to Messrs. C. D. and E., paying themselves 
 for their loss by large profits on their sales. The 
 truth oozed out among the shop people; and 
 Russell was so disgusted that he held on only 
 till the next rainy week, when, being dismissed 
 once more, he did not return. 
 
 One great inducement to change was his desire 
 to be near Mary again, her confinement being 
 close at hand; and he thought he might ventm-e 
 
7G THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 into the neighbourhood of Messrs. A. and 13., 
 especially as there had been a "smash" there, 
 after all, and they were resuming business in a 
 very humble style. He applied at the great house 
 of Messrs. F. and G., and was taken on at once. 
 IMessrs. F. and G. employed three hundred young 
 men; and they were glad to see new applicants, 
 and to have as many opportunities as possible 
 of exchanging their duller shopmen for brighter. 
 Russell was to be in the ribbon department; and 
 he had notice that it was the rule of the house 
 to dismiss every assistant who could not suit a 
 purchaser. There was nothing, he knew, to pre- 
 vent his being taken on again the next morning, 
 but it was galling to know that he would be 
 turned off if any lady could not match or please 
 herself with a ribbon. He soon found what a 
 snare as well as bondage it was. Now he would 
 press upon a customer things that she had not 
 asked for, and now he would steal away, hoping to 
 be unrecognized, among two hundred and ninety 
 nine young men, all in black, with white cravats, 
 and appear to be in a hurry with some other article 
 in his hand. His case was worse than that of any 
 of his comrades, for the shop-walker in this great 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 77 
 
 establishment was no otlier tlian Mr. Elmot ; and, 
 as they both knew, Mr. Elmot had reasons for 
 keeping his eye upon Russell. That eye seemed 
 to be ever upon him. Yet it did not appear to 
 be Mr. Elmot's wish to get rid of him, but rather 
 to retain and torment him. 
 
 INIr. Elmot appeared in a new character here. 
 The partners often called on the young men to 
 be thankful that they were under the care of one 
 who had so remarkable a gift of prayer. It was 
 always Mr. Elmot who offered prayer; and, if 
 Russell was ever relieved from his eye for half- 
 an-hour, it was because (as was told all along the 
 vast series of shops) he was praying by the bed- 
 side of some sick comrade. Russell soon became as 
 well aware that Mr. Elmot knew he was married 
 as Mr. Elmot was that Russell remembered the 
 dark room and the hatch : and the oppression 
 became well-nigh intolerable to the least guilty 
 party. On Sunday nights Russell was sure to be 
 met with the inquiry, uttered with holy severity, 
 "Where have you been worshipping to-day? 
 It is ten hours since we parted. You are ten 
 hours nearer to heaven or hell. AYhere have you 
 been?^^ 
 
78 THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 And ill these days Russell had not been, as 
 of old, to chapel. Mary was not now so dressed 
 as that she could appear at chapel. And there 
 was the baby. She could go nowhere but where 
 she could carry her infant. And, alas ! she had 
 but little strength to carry her infant at all. How 
 very unhappy was Russell now ! He had thought 
 his own fatigue great, standing for sixteen hours, 
 with the exception of a quarter of an hour for each 
 meal; and often had he complained of being too 
 weary to enjoy even a newspaper at the end of 
 the long day; but what was this to seeing Mary 
 wan and drooping over her thin baby ! He could 
 hardly bear the sight of the long tables, loaded 
 with good cheer, excellent tea, streaming from 
 handsome m-ns, hot joints by the dozen, with 
 variety of vegetables, and frothing cans of porter, 
 when he well knew that Mary was not above half 
 fed, though he carried her every shilling he could 
 spare from his clothes. And those clothes ! Here 
 be was, in a handsome black suit, with white cravat, 
 obliged to be as spruce every day as he was on 
 
 his wedding morning; while Mary Here 
 
 was the fatal temptation. And ^Ir. Elmot well 
 knew in what direction to look for it. 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 79 
 
 When the three hundred left the shops at 
 nightj to supper, after putting on the ^vrappers 
 and clearing away, they passed out through a 
 doorway which admitted only one at a time, 
 hands down by the sides, that it might be seen 
 that they carried nothing; and Mr. Elmot's eye 
 was upon each, but more hawklike upon the 
 married men than the single; and like nothing 
 but an eagle when Russell was passing through. 
 It was known that the married men could not 
 support a family on their earnings ; and, if they 
 did support a family, they lay under continual 
 suspicion of theft. One wonders how three hun- 
 dred men could be found who would go through 
 that doorway on such conditions. They affected to 
 laugh at it as an inevitable bore ; but many were 
 chafed by it, and some grew reckless. Russell 
 would probably have grown reckless at all events ; 
 but this indignity hastened the process. It made 
 him childish enough to long to baffle Elmot's 
 eye. He thought he had done it; but he was 
 mistaken. He had carried stockings to Mary in 
 her great need of them ; and she had been pleased, 
 supposing them to be a bargain, such as shopmen 
 can often obtain. He had carried her a remnant 
 
80 THE SHOPMAN. 
 
 of camLric for caps for the cliild ; and again slie 
 had been pleased. "\Mien her last gown was really 
 past mending, he took the more dangerous step 
 of buttoning up, under his coat, on Saturday- 
 night, a gownpiece, which made him look stouter 
 than he was aware of. Elmot^s hand was on 
 his shoulder in a moment, and a policeman was 
 within call. 
 
 Russell had no mercy to expect. The great 
 object was to be rid of him ; to send him so far 
 as that no saintly character might be tarnished 
 by his breath, no great house, rising again from 
 " a smash," be kept in alarm about any secrets that 
 he could tell. He was transported for fom'teen 
 years. 
 
 !Mr. Elmot offered to pray with him in prison, 
 but was relieved by the offer being declined ; 
 taking care, the while, that the olJbr and refusal 
 should be known. 
 
 Poor Maji)', with her baby in her arms, pleaded 
 hard for mercy for her husband. She was told that 
 it was wholly impossible to spare her husband ; but 
 that Messrs. A. and B., moved by Mr. Elmot, had 
 offered to send her and her infant after him ; an 
 oiler which, of course, she woidd gratefully accept. 
 
y/^(^..z^ 
 
 fZAytiS^^-^tc^. 
 
 -;f 
 
 '^z^ <^ L6^^^^:cJo^^ 
 
THE SHOPMAN. 81 
 
 " Accept it, Mary/' said Russell. " There is no 
 chance for us here. I could almost be glad I am 
 going. If I have you, we may do well, even yet. 
 But, as for being grateful ....'' 
 
 " O ! don't, Russell ! Don't say we ought not 
 to be grateful ! " 
 
 "Well; perhaps Messrs. A. and B. know best 
 about that." 
 
PATHEE D'ESTELAN'S CHUISTMAS 
 MOENING. 
 
 One of the happiest men in Paris about a hundred 
 and fifty years ago was Pere d'Estelan. Though 
 he was called Father d'Estelan, he was quite 
 young; not more than four or five and twenty. 
 He was a Jesuit priest; and this vocation suited 
 well his passion for travelHng. He had read all 
 the voyages and travels he could lay his hands on 
 from a very early age; and he liked no hooks so 
 well, except the rehgious books which were dearer 
 to him still. Nature and education thus clearly 
 pointing him out as a missionary, and it being 
 the practice of his church to make education and 
 destiny correspond with nature, it is no wonder 
 that the young priest received orders to prepare 
 himself to go to China. The rcigiiing Pope, 
 Clement the Eleventh, was exceedingly worried 
 
81 
 
 by the accounts lie received of the way tliat 
 matters were goinp^ on in China, where some of 
 the missionaries coukl not agree about their work, 
 and the Emperor of China could not greatly respect 
 relij^ious teachers who quarrelled with one another. 
 So the pope lost no time in looking out for some 
 messenger who might be the bearer of authority 
 from him to decide all disputes, and to settle how 
 the work of conversion was to be carried on hence- 
 forth. Father d'Estelan was exactly the man : so 
 he was sent to the Chinese college in Rome, to 
 study some Eastern languages till the season for 
 the voyage should arrive; and when the season 
 arrived, he was admitted to the presence of the 
 Pope, to receive his blessing, and a good deal 
 besides. He received the privilege of confessing 
 to any Roman Catholic priest of any order, rank 
 or ago, whom he might meet; and of gaining 
 plenary indulgence as often as he could obtain it. 
 He was empowered to bless live thousand imple- 
 ments of worship, and to absolve the dying without 
 a crucifix, if necessary, lie was also himself, then 
 and there, permanently absolved by his Holiness, 
 in case of his dying out of the reach of that aid 
 in his last moments. He was appointed Viear 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. ^^ 
 
 Apostolic, supplied with a packet which was of 
 such value that nothing but the human soul could 
 be more precious ; and he was therefore to sacrifice 
 everything to its safety, except the salvation of any 
 human being. This packet contained the Pope's 
 letter to the mission in China; and there was a 
 duplicate of it ; so that in any pressing danger the 
 bearer might have a double chance of forwarding 
 it to its destination. Thus furnished, the young 
 priest went to Paris, on his way to the port of 
 sailing, to say farewell to his family. They could 
 hardly grieve to part with him, dearly as they 
 loved him; for he was their joy and crown, thus 
 invested with the papal confidence and religious 
 honours; and, as for him, he was elate of heart, so 
 that his very eyes shone with joy. He knew that 
 he might be destined to menial offices about the 
 court "at Pekin, and that the best part of his 
 nature would be oppressed by crushing restraint; 
 his holiest feelings wounded ; his life always hang- 
 ing by a thread; and success, after all, perhaps 
 most improbable: but the stake was a glorious 
 one. If he could save but one soul he would be a 
 happy man. If he could convert but one heathen 
 temple into a church, he should be the happiest of 
 f3 
 
80 
 
 men. So lie entered Christian churches fur tlie 
 last time in a mood of glorious joy, and bade fare- 
 well to his family with a smile which illuminated 
 their lives to their latest day. 
 
 It always takes longer than sanguine people 
 expect to go those immense roundabout voyages ; 
 and it took very much longer at the beginning of 
 the last century than now. Father d'Estelan was 
 very near sighing with impatience sometimes, 
 when a week of dead calms, or the idleness of 
 the people in the ports the vessel touched at, 
 seeemed to threaten that it would take years to 
 get to China. 
 
 Several times they were driven back a good way 
 by storms; and then he was tempted to use his 
 powers of blessing, to throw some sacred thing into 
 the boiling sea, and obtain a calm ; but he remem- 
 bered that his power extended only to five thousand 
 cases, whereas in China there were many times five 
 thoiLsaud heathens in peril; so he reserved tliat 
 resource till a moment of extreme danger, such as 
 did not occur westwards of Ceylon. The more he 
 longed to be at his post, the more diligently he 
 prepared himself fur it. lie studied the Asiatic 
 languages fur several hours every day, and learned 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 87 
 
 to talk Malay with two sailors from Singapore, 
 who happened to be among the crew. Being 
 aware that the Emperor of China was fond of 
 keeping people about him who could draw and 
 engrave, he practised drawing ; and even engraved 
 in times of calm, when it now and then became 
 possible. Besides this, he was at everybody's 
 service, endeavom-ing to awaken a better mind 
 among the lowest of the sailors, learning from 
 some merchants on board whatever he could about 
 Eastern commerce, and freely giving knowledge 
 in return to such of them as sought it, and being 
 always ready for any innocent amusement that could 
 beguile so long a voyage. His merry laugh was 
 heard on deck in the early morning, and at the 
 card-table in the evening ; and when the ship was 
 entering the Eastern Archipelago, he was as eager 
 as anybody to find out the new sights that were 
 to be seen on the wondrous shores that opened on 
 them, and were then left behind. 
 
 As time had passed on, a certain wish of his had 
 strengthened into a passionate desire. He longed 
 to plant his foot on heathen land on Christmas 
 Day, and to tell some heathens what a day it was. 
 He longed that to some new nation Christ should 
 
88 FATHER d'eSTELAN's 
 
 that clay be born. He liad liopctl at first tliat he 
 might have arrived in China by that day — some 
 part of China where his faith had not been heard of. 
 Then, when he saw that that could not be, he 
 hoped it might be one of tlie PhiHppine Islands, or 
 perhaps Borneo. But December wore on, and the 
 ship was yet far on this side Singapore. On the 
 20th of that month, indeed, he and all the forty- 
 one other persons on board, doubted whether they 
 should ever again set foot on any shore. As they 
 were entering the Straits of Malacca, a tremendous 
 tropical storm met them suddenly, and their danger 
 was extreme. AVith a kind of shriek, every one but 
 the officers of the ship called on Father d'Estelan 
 for help; and he saw that it was no time for econo- 
 mising his means of safety. He rushed to his 
 cabin, and brought forth the holy water, and a 
 candle that had been blessed by tlie Pope. He 
 blessed the sea, poured out holy water on each side, 
 and broke the candle into four parts, which he 
 cast out at stem and stern, and on both sides, and 
 prayed with faith ; and the tempest slunk growling 
 away into tlie west, and they saw no more of it. 
 
 On Christmas Eve, the merchants and Father 
 d*Estelan a<rreed that the scene was so lovely that 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 89 
 
 they should never lose the impression of it, if they 
 lived a thousand years. They were coasting an 
 island in the ^Malacca straits, so near that they 
 could see how silvery white was the beach on 
 which the clear green waves were gently breaking. 
 They saw a meadow of vivid verdure, which sloped 
 upwards into a grove of cocoa palms, through 
 whose stems might be seen thatched dwellings, 
 now sunny and now flecked with shade as the 
 palms swayed over them in the evening breeze. 
 There was a group of dwellings in the meadow too; 
 houses lifted on poles, to which it was necessary 
 to ascend by a ladder, or a stout rope, and which 
 reminded the voyagers that they were in a land of 
 constant warfare, where the people could not go 
 to sleep in peace within easy reach of the ground. 
 They saw a man riding a buffalo, with a shield on 
 his arm and a spear in his hand. They saw, a 
 little further on, a long thatched building, not 
 raised on poles ; and when the Malay sailors said 
 it was a mosque, the tears suddenly filled Father 
 d'Eotelan's eyes — so earnestly did he long to land 
 and perform a midnight mass on that holiest of 
 nights. It could not be, however, and they sailed 
 by — the INIalays saying that night would be fatal 
 
00 
 
 to strangers in that spot, from tlic air in the 
 meadows, and the tigers in the jungle behind, even 
 if there were no foes in ambush in the creeks of 
 the shore. A little further on, and the same sailor 
 said there would be fish to be had presently, if 
 the captain desired any ; and he pointed to where 
 strange sea-bu'ds were swooping and alighting and 
 floating on the blue sea, pulling at something 
 which the sailor said was the offal throwTi out 
 of fishing boats ahead. Accordingly, there 
 was presently a boat in sight, with two men 
 Tovnng. 
 
 Some of the passengers were eager to speak 
 the boat and get some fish; but the captain was 
 unaccountably slow about it. The truth was, he 
 had been in these seas before, and knew something 
 of the character of certain natives of the region 
 who hail strangers, and crowd about a foreign ship 
 w ith tempting fmits and vegetables and fish ; and 
 he chose to sail past this boat, and observe the 
 behaviour of the fishermen. As they showed no 
 eagerness to sell their cargo, and appeared to have 
 no followers, the captain slackened sail, and let 
 them come up. The moon was now high, and 
 shining as thu moon docs shine over those seas 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 91 
 
 when near the full. The captain swept the wide 
 expanse with his glass, and saw nothing but the 
 tranquil waters heaving under the moonlight with 
 the gentlest swell, and the far distant island they 
 had passed, the ship and the boat. Below the 
 starry heaven nothing else was visible. He really 
 was anxious for a native pilot, so dangerous as is 
 the navigation of that sea. He requested Father 
 d^Estelan to interpret for him, after having listened 
 to the talk between the Malay sailors and the 
 fishermen. There was not much use in listening, 
 for the conversation was too rapid to be easily 
 followed by a novice in the language; but the 
 priest could interpret, and the result was, that 
 one of the fishermen declared himself perfectly 
 acquainted with the navigation as far as Poulo 
 Penang, where an accredited pilot could be had 
 on to Singapore. The bargain was soon made, 
 the pilot came on board, and the boat with his 
 comrade followed in the wake of the ship. The 
 captain did not choose this, having ascertained 
 that the pilot's home was on Poulo Penang. At 
 a sign from him the boat dropped astern, and the 
 ship floated gently on under the lightest of tropical 
 night-breezes. Father d'Estelan w^atched till the 
 
[H 
 
 vessel was alone upon the sea, and then was called 
 down to supper. 
 
 He had no intention of slecpin^^ on this holiest 
 of nights. Christmas Eve was always a vigil with 
 him; and never had his spirit been so impressed 
 with those traditions of the heavenly Land and 
 their divine words to the shepherds as now, when 
 the starry host came forth in such glory as he had 
 dreamed of, but never witnessed. "When midnight 
 came he was on his knees on the deck, welcoming 
 the morn of mornings ; and he felt that though he 
 might have desired to be on shore, telling some 
 wild and perishing people that a Saviour was come 
 unto them, he was yet very happy to be here — 
 with silence about him, except the ripple of waters 
 at the bows of the ship, and with the solemn light 
 of tlie moon scarcely disturbed by a yellow gleam 
 from tlie cabin. He paced tlie deck, murmuring 
 holy things to himself, and believing himself alone, 
 except the watch and the pilot, when he felt a 
 slight twitch at his cassock. It was the captain, 
 who silently drew liim to the ship's side, and 
 signed to hi in to look over. There was the boat, 
 with now three men in it, stealing along with 
 muflled oars in the shadow of the vessel. Before 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 93 
 
 the captain could hail the rowers, Fatlier d'Estelan 
 turned towards the helm, and saw the pilot just 
 throwin^T himself over the side. The priest sprang 
 upon him, and caught him by his clothes, so as to 
 detain him till he was hauled back again. The 
 man laughed, declared he had only changed his 
 mind because the pay was not enough, and seemed 
 satisfied with the promise that he should be paid 
 as much as was reasonable when he had finished 
 his task. The captain, however, left his side no 
 more ; and the priest kept as good watch as any of 
 the sailors for the rest of the night. 
 
 The sun rose gloriously, showing land far away 
 to the north-east. This was Poulo Penang; and 
 the pilot's tongue seemed loosened by the distant 
 siirht of his home. He talked about the island 
 caves, where so many strangers came for the edible 
 birds' nests that are clustered there. He had 
 much to tell of the commerce of the place, and 
 freely answered questions about the people ; — their 
 religion especially — about which the priest was 
 naturally most interested. The Father began to 
 hope that it might even yet be possible to bear 
 testimony on this day to the Gospel in a heathen 
 land. Neither captain nor pilot in the meantime 
 
01 FATHER d'eSTELAN's 
 
 waa negligent. To the captain's vigilant eye all 
 appeared plain sailing, so unbroken was the surface 
 of the sea ; and the Malay was incessantly glancing 
 up, down, and around, as if not for a moment 
 unmindful of his charge. More sail was hung out 
 at his desire, and again more, till every sail was 
 set, and the vessel cut rapidly through the waters, 
 so that they seethed and foamed in the sunshine 
 very gloriously. There was more seething and 
 foaming a-head, when the sun was two hours high. 
 The captain saw, heard, sprang to the side, sprang 
 back again to seize the pilot, and was one moment 
 too late. The wretch made a long leap into the 
 sea, was picked up by a boat which came from 
 somewhere, and rowed away beyond the reach 
 of a bullet at the very moment that the ship 
 grounded on a reef with a terrible shock. 
 
 There was scarcely a minute's doubt of the 
 deadly mischief done. The water rose in the hold 
 a foot per minute, as the cool and composed captain 
 immediately ascertained, while the boat was got 
 out. There was but one boat ; it could not keep 
 afloat with more than thirty-four persons in it; 
 and there were forty-two on board. While Father 
 d'Estelan was gone below — for a moment, to fetch 
 
CHRISTMAS MOENING. 95 
 
 the papal packet — the captain briefly announced 
 that there was no time to lose ; that he should be 
 the last to leave the ship, and that the Vicar 
 Apostolic, the bearer of the papal brief, must be 
 the first. Father d'Estelan would not hear of this 
 when he returned to the deck: neither would he 
 permit one moment^s delay. Putting forth his 
 utmost authority, he committed the papal letter 
 to one of the merchants, and the duplicate to 
 another, charged them with the care of their 
 lives for the sake of this commission, and fairly 
 turned them overboard into the boat. Between 
 him and the captain, thirty-two persons w^ere sent 
 over while the vessel was sinking. Before the 
 thirty-third could be received, it was absolutely 
 necessary to push ofl"; and, as it was, the boat 
 narrowly escaped being drawn into the eddy of 
 the sinking ship. With starting eyes and bursting 
 hearts, those who were saved saw the vessel go 
 domi, with the ten doomed men in her. When 
 she had settled, with her masts just visible, and 
 the rush of the eddy was past, those ten were all 
 counted, first scattered on the surface near the 
 reef, and then borne away fast and far by a current 
 unperceived before. Conspicuous among them was 
 
90 
 
 the priest, with liis shaven crown; and wh^it he 
 did is happily preserved, for the solace and joy 
 of a future generation. It must be remembered 
 that the absolution he received from the Pope 
 relieved him from all personal anxiety. His sal- 
 vation was secure; and he was not solicitous 
 about life. 
 
 He was a strong swimmer; and, in this crisis, 
 when souls might be in peril, the strength of 
 many men seemed to be in his right arm. He 
 swam from one to another of the drowning men, 
 upheld each, receiving his confession, holding up 
 fur an instant the crucifix hung round his neck, 
 and then laying each gently down in his watery 
 bed, and making his way to another. So great 
 was his power that no one of those nine men cluug 
 to him, as drowning men convulsively do cling. 
 He laid them all quietly to their rest. He felt 
 as their shei)herd, abiding with them in the field 
 of waters, with the heavenly host singing around 
 them of Peace on earth and good-will to men, 
 and of eternal safety when earth and sea should 
 give up their dea<l. 
 
 He, strong in his last charge, was left when all 
 the rest had disappeared. He gave liimself up 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 97 
 
 to death witliout struggle or difficulty. Down 
 and down lie sank. A bright light flashed for an 
 instant across his brain; and then he wandered 
 in fancy for a moment in the woods he had seen 
 at eve. Sinking, and still sinking, he seemed 
 to cling to a palm. The branch broke; but it 
 remained in his hand. He still bore the palm 
 branch when his dreaming ear caught the welcome 
 of the angels at heaven gate. Stretched among 
 the pearl shells on the sandy floor of the ocean, 
 he heard, half- conscious, the anthem of the day, 
 as it is sung in heaven, till he lost even that in 
 the depth of his rest. 
 
 Thus w^as fulfilled Father d'Estelan's desire to 
 be permitted to save souls on the day of the 
 Redeemer's birth; and, amidst the cruelties of 
 the heathen, to speak of peace on earth, and to 
 manifest o^ood-will towards men. 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 There was a youth living in the Southern States 
 
 of America, some five-and-twenty years ago, who 
 
 had been told from his infancy upwards, that he 
 
 belonged to an inferior race from the white people 
 
 whom he saw about him. He even heard the 
 
 white people speak to strangers of him and other 
 
 black people as a sort of baboons, — hardly to be 
 
 considered human at all. He wondered that, in 
 
 that case, any representation in Congress was 
 
 allowed on account of the black population; and 
 
 that texts in the Bible, inculcating obedience and 
 
 submission to the authorities, were m-ged upon 
 
 neo-roes, — just as if they had been as human as 
 
 everybody else. Moreover, he was impressed with 
 
 the notion that his thoughts and feelings were 
 
 veiy like those of real men ; and he had a mind 
 
 g3 
 
lUO THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 to try what his chance was in a society where he 
 could be his owii master. So he escaped from the 
 slavery into which he had been born^ and amidst 
 wliich lie had been reared. 
 
 After many hardships and dangers, James 
 Duncan stood on the soil of Canada a free man. 
 After obtaining work, the first thing he did was 
 to put himself to school. He lived in the most 
 meagre way, to have money enough to pay for 
 his schooling. He felt no shame, tall man as he 
 was, at going to school to learn his letters. He 
 felt the injury of having been debarred from 
 learning them before, and justly attributed the 
 shame to his oppressors, without keeping any for 
 himself. He learned fast, soon became fond of 
 reading for pleasm-e, and was so apt at figures 
 as to become qualified for a clerkship in a com- 
 mercial house. 
 
 When he had been so long free as to suppose 
 all danger of recapture to be over, he crossed the 
 frontier and settled at Buffalo, on Lake Eric, 
 within an easy row of tlie Canadian shore. His 
 cliief reason for settling there was, that he might 
 aid in the escape of other runaway slaves, who 
 mifrht choose that road to Canada. He was 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 101 
 
 diligent in his business — so diligent that he rose 
 to be head-clerk to Messrs. Johnson, Barker and 
 Co. (as the firm shall be called here). But his 
 eye was ever watchful, his ear ever open, that no 
 fugitive slave should arrive in Buffalo without 
 finding a greeting from him, and such help as 
 he could give. It was pretty well known that 
 six of the stoutest men of colour in the place 
 were his rowers, — ready to obey his call at any 
 hour when a rescue from slavery was in hand. 
 Some remarkable deeds were done by these men 
 of inferior intellects — some which would have 
 been called very clever in whites. 
 
 One autumn day James Duncan was told that 
 there was a slave girl on board a schooner in the 
 lake — off the port of Buffalo. He went on board, 
 and found it was so. The mulatto girl on deck, 
 with a yellow handkerchief twisted about her head, 
 and an infant in her arms, was the slave nursery- 
 maid of a Carolina planter, who, with his lady 
 and their child, was about to return home, after 
 spending the hot months in New England. 
 
 James Duncan asked the girl whether she 
 wished to be free, to which she at first replied 
 "Yes." When James went further, however, she 
 g3 
 
102 THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 cried a little, and said she should be sony to 
 leave her mistress, who had always been kind to 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, well,'' said he, "please yourself about 
 going or staying. I don't want to persuade you 
 to anything. Only, if you had wished for free- 
 dom, I could have helped you to it; and I just 
 came to say so." 
 
 The girl, as yet ignorant and feeble, would 
 have detained him while she considered the matter ; 
 but he said he had a little further to go, and would 
 have another word with her as he returned. The 
 " little further " was on board another vessel, with 
 whose captain he had some acquaintance. In the 
 course of conversation he asked the captain whether 
 the chain of his boat was always locked — invari- 
 ably every night. The captain replied, with a 
 gaze as meaning as his own, that it was usually 
 well taken care of, but that carelessness would 
 happen sometimes; and perhaps he might forget 
 to lock the chain that very night. When James 
 drew near the schooner, on his return, the girl was 
 leaning over. She had decided to be free, but she 
 had no bonnet to go in ! lie begged her to make 
 herself easy about that ; desired her to be dressed 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 10-3 
 
 and ready in the middle of the night to come 
 away without a word, and enjoined her to look 
 meanwhile as if nothing was going to happen. 
 
 At an hour after midnight the boat was found 
 merely hooked on to his friend^s vessel. His six 
 rowers rowed softly; the girl was ready on the 
 deck of the schooner : but again she shed a few 
 tears about her mistress and the baby. James 
 said not a word in persuasion, and was going 
 away, when she finally resolved to accompany 
 him. In the boat she put on a bonnet and shawl 
 that he had brought. They were seen to land; 
 for her master said afterwards that the description 
 was of a woman in a shawl and bonnet landing, 
 and taking the arm of a black man who seemed 
 to command the rest. 
 
 James took her to his apartment in the ware- 
 house. At the door he said : — 
 
 "You will find within biscuits and fresh water. 
 You will see that there is a bar that fastens across 
 the door. Bar yourself in immediately, and mind 
 this — whoever comes, and whatever they may say 
 or do, be you silent. Make not the slightest noise 
 all day. Let no creature know that the room is 
 not empty. At night I will come for you, if the 
 
1(^1 THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 coast is clear. If not, it must Le to-morrow 
 niglit ; but anyway, don't answer, more or less, 
 to anybody but me.'' 
 
 Slie i^romised, and she kept her promise. 
 
 In the forenoon, the planter came into the 
 counting-house, accompanied by one of the part- 
 ners, Mr. Barker. Mr. Barker looked severe : the 
 planter was fiu'ious. He charged James Duncan 
 with having aided the escape of a slave of his : 
 he would know where she was ; and he would 
 have her back. He had induced the master of the 
 schooner to wait until the afternoon — whereas 
 he ought to have sailed in the morning. He 
 would have the girl back in three hours, or leave 
 the case in the hands of some one who would be 
 harder upon her than he would have been. 
 
 James was adding up a very long row of figures 
 wlien the gentlemen entered; and he did not stop 
 on their account. AVliile the planter shouted at 
 him, stamped, paced vehemently up and down the 
 apartment, threatened and swore ; and wliile Mr. 
 I5arker remonstrated, and admonished him to show 
 better manners, James went on as if he had been 
 entirely deaf. His pen moved up the columns and 
 set down the figures at the bottom, as quickly 
 

 ^i<z.7?7>e<^ .^J:^i<!>?z<asZ'^zX,,e2;^/^%<e^ yC'i:?t?^. 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 105 
 
 and as steadily as if nobody was present. At last 
 the contrast between the storming planter and 
 the imperturbable clerk became too much for Mr. 
 Barker's gravity. He could not help laughing, 
 and then observed that this deafness and dumb- 
 ness plainly meant, ^^Ask me no questions, and 
 I will tell you no lies:^^ and he continued: — 
 
 "Well, Duncan, I shall advise our going away 
 and leaving you to your figures, which are, in 
 truth, the only business I have with you, now I 
 come to think of it. You do our business well; 
 and I don't see that my partners and I have any 
 right to call you to account for what you do in 
 your leisure hours. Come, Sir," he said to the 
 planter, " shall we walk ? '' 
 
 Mr. Barker departed. The planter walked up 
 and down the room, and scolded for some time 
 longer, and then disappeared. In the evening 
 James had certain information that the schooner, 
 with the planter and his family, had sailed, and 
 was almost out of sight when the twilight fell. 
 In the darkest part of the night he hurried his 
 charge to the water-side, at a point less likely to 
 be watched; and there lay a boat with six rowers 
 in waiting. By daylight James was at home 
 
10() THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 again, having left the girl with a rcspeetahle 
 family within tlie Canada frontier, with a strict 
 charge on no account to set foot over the border. 
 
 The gii-1 was, however, not strong-minded. She 
 prospered well ; working diligently, obtaining good 
 wages, and valuing instruction, as escaped slaves 
 are usually found to do. But she was fond of 
 amusement, and after many months, she fell into 
 a trap laid for her by parties in Buffalo, who 
 were promised a reward in case of her recapture. 
 A public-house, just on the American side of the 
 frontier, was kept by some bad people, who made 
 money by kidnapping incautious runaways. Often 
 had they invited this girl to parties, and for many 
 months she had refused. At last she yielded. She 
 went to a dance, and accepted a bed at the house. 
 In the middle of the night she was seized, conveyed 
 to Buffalo, and put into jail by order of the sheriff. 
 
 In the course of the next day, James Duncan 
 heard of the incident. At night, he was at the 
 door of the jail. 
 
 " I find you have Milly, the mulatto girl, here, " 
 lie said to the warden. 
 
 Tlie warden assented, and told tlic particulars 
 of her recapture. 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 107 
 
 "Show me the commitment/' said James. 
 
 ^' Commitment ! I have no commitment," de- 
 clared the warden. " The sheriff sent her to me." 
 
 "And you hold her imprisoned without warrant ? 
 I have a right to demand her liberty ; I do demand 
 it; and you know you dare not refuse." 
 
 It was even so. The warden yielded her up : 
 James offered his arm ; and the six rowers appeared 
 from under the shady side of a wall. The party 
 went out of their way to pass the sheriff's house. 
 There James knocked with a loud rap. The sheriff 
 was in bed ; but he presently put his head out of 
 the window to learn who was there. 
 
 " I am James Duncan," was the reply, " and 
 this woman is Milly, from Canada, whom you put 
 into jail without a commitment. I have, accord- 
 ing to law, demanded her of the warden. I am 
 now going to place her in safety in Canada; and 
 when I return I shall bring an action against you 
 for false imprisonment." 
 
 The party were in the boat and off in a trice. 
 The girl wept bitterly all the way. Before they 
 had landed, James said gravely, but kindly — 
 
 "Now, you must expect nothing more from 
 me. What help I can give must be given to 
 
108 THE BLACK SENTINEL. 
 
 those wlio can take care of themselves wlien they 
 are once rescued. If you can't keep on the safe 
 side of the border, you must take your chance, 
 as far as I am concerned.^^ 
 
 The girl uttered thanks and promises as fast as 
 her tears would allow. She had experienced the 
 blessings of freedom, and she never wished to lose 
 them again. She married respectably, and is 
 probably still pursuing the occupation in which 
 she was prosperous twenty years ago. 
 
 James Duncan brought his action against the 
 sheriff; and earnest was the speculation whether 
 ^^y j^iiy in the United States would give a negro 
 a verdict against a sheriff. The case was so clear, 
 however, that the sheriff succumbed to the nejrro. 
 The verdict awarded two hundred dollars to jMilly. 
 The money was not paid ; for the sheriff appealed, 
 and declared his determination to protract the case 
 to the utmost. James had gained his point, and 
 done his best to secure legal treatment for future 
 fugitives ; so he let the matter drop. One of the 
 natural consequences of the whole affiiir was that 
 a good many people, besides James himself, became 
 convinced that a negro's intellect may prove very 
 serviceable, and that there was every appearance 
 
THE BLACK SENTINEL. 100 
 
 of James Duncan being as thoroughly human as 
 any man in Buflalo. 
 
THE CONVERT. 
 
 Theee were no prettier or pleasanter girls to meet 
 at parties^ and dance with at balls, than the 
 Warrens. There were three of them; — the eldest 
 of a languid style of beauty, accompanying a 
 sluggish uninformed intellect, amiable temper, and 
 manners dutiful at home and courteous abroad. 
 Miss Warren could laugh, — even through a whole 
 evening ; but it must be at other people^s ideas, — 
 not her own. Jane was less handsome; but her 
 rosy, animated face was a very pleasant one; and, 
 though not very clever, and far from weU-informed, 
 she was sprightly and eager enough to be the most 
 interesting of the three. The third, Lucy, had 
 fine eyes, was a good dancer, and fond of visiting ; 
 and that was all. Little Harriet was too young, 
 as yet, to be noticed. When she came home for 
 
11:2 TIIK CONVERT. 
 
 the holidays, ladies observed in a morning call that 
 she was grown, and thought no more about her. 
 
 Mr. Warren ought to have been a rich man ; 
 for his practice as a solicitor had been large and 
 of long standing. He was now sixty ; he was a 
 magistrate, and in his station altogether one of 
 the first men in the town in which he had passed 
 his whole life. He had a good county connection : 
 he gave three or fom* dinners a year to his county 
 friends ; and his daughters were welcome at county 
 balls. His wife was an invalid, and went no 
 where. Her ideas, which were those of a pre- 
 ceding century, expanded into placid prejudices at 
 home, where they were a perpetual amusement to 
 her husband, and to her sons when they paid 
 her a visit, which was not often. "While they 
 were at their rubber in the evenings, she enter- 
 tained them with her views of the naughtiness 
 of the Americans in presuming to set themselves 
 up against the jMothcr-country, and her tender 
 hopes that they would repent at last. She liad 
 heard that they were about to divide their comitry 
 into four parts, to be governed by four kings; 
 and she trusted they woidd yet remember that 
 there was a king at home, who would forget the 
 
THE CONVERT. 113 
 
 past, and receive them again, on being intreated ; 
 and that would be much better than setting up 
 four new kings. She had no fear in the world but 
 that the Catholics would, some day, after all, blow 
 up the King and the Parliament; and she, who 
 never gave money to low beggars, was always 
 ready with her silver, on the 5 th of November, 
 for the Guy and his comrades. She had a plan 
 for the payment of the National Debt, by a weekly 
 penny subscription from house to house. If her 
 house paid fourteen pence per week she was sure 
 it might soon be done : and she earnestly intreated 
 her sons to take the matter in hand, and get it 
 done. It was very odd that they would not. She 
 was sure they would not laugh, if they would once 
 think seriously about it ; and she could tell them 
 that to pay such taxes as they would soon have 
 to pay was a very serious thing to Mr. Warren. 
 He must keep up appearances, and his mode of 
 living. His sons had been expensive to him. His 
 daughters' yearly allowance was reduced to a sum 
 which obliged them to use their needles diligently, 
 to keep up appearances on their part; and they 
 well knew that they would have no fortunes. 
 Among the county famihes visited by the 
 
1 1 1. THE CONVERT. 
 
 AVarrens were some who were Catholics. Mrs. 
 "VYarren simply commiserated them while they 
 (lid not come in her way; but she entertained 
 a stronger feeling when it appeared that her 
 daughter Jane had in consequence become well 
 acquainted with a Catholic priest in the town, 
 and that she would like to have him invited to 
 the house. The mere mention of this brought 
 on such scorn, such expressions of personal con- 
 tempt, that Jane fired up in his defence. \Mien 
 appealed to, her eldest sister said she thought him 
 a very agreeable man ; but he was a Catholic : 
 and Lucy thought him so agreeable a man that 
 it was a pity he was a Catholic. Jane's own 
 family ought to have known her well enough to 
 be aware that it would be prudent to drop the 
 subject. Instead of this, the parents spoke ill of 
 Catholics generally, and priests in particular, at 
 almost every meal : and almost as often as the 
 ladies sat together, sewiug and talking, the mother 
 worked away at the point, till Jane's face grew 
 hot, and, at times, her speech tart, or her manner 
 muodv. AMien the summer came on she carried 
 lier W(nk to her own room, or staid there to read : 
 but in a (piarter of an hour she was sure to be 
 
THE CONVEllT. IL 
 
 sent for, and told that she must hear the reading, 
 that she was growing quite illiterate, and that her 
 mother liked being sociable, as a family should 
 be. By degrees, and not slow degrees, she was 
 more from home, — she went out by herself, and 
 was absent for hours. She had new friends, and 
 spoke of them too much and too warmly ; and in 
 return, " Jane's friends '^ were talked of, sometimes 
 in her hearing, and often, as she well knew, 
 behind her back, in a way which excited her 
 generous feelings for them, and some very pettish 
 feelings towards those at home. 
 
 One day she announced to her parents that she 
 had become a Catholic. Miss Warren raised her 
 head from her work. Lucy bent her head lower 
 over her's. Mr. Warren stirred the fire vehemently, 
 beating the coals as he would have liked to beat 
 the priest. He was astonished at her presumption 
 in setting herself up against all the wise men, 
 and all the learned men who had established 
 Protestantism. Did she think herself wiser than 
 all of them together ? A pretty figure she would 
 cut if she was set to argue matters of doctrine 
 with them ! Did not she think so ? Yes, she 
 did, she said. She had nothing to say about 
 
 IT 2 
 
IK) THE CONVERT. 
 
 doctrines, for she was ver}^ ignorant about them. 
 Her father stared; and she went on to explain 
 that the time had not come for the doctrines of 
 the Church to be explained to her. She must 
 become a member of the Church before she could 
 beffin to learn its doctrines. Mr. Warren had 
 never heard such nonsense in his life. Mrs. 
 Warren gazed over her spectacles, and said, 
 
 " But, Jane, love, you have always been a 
 member of the Church, you know. We have all 
 gone to church, always: that is, I did, as long 
 as I was well enough. I am sure I would go 
 now, if I could. And yet you talk as if we 
 were Dissenters.'^ 
 
 Jane laughed; and, being asked why, said the 
 family were certainly Dissenters. ^Irs. Warren 
 laid down her spectacles, and assured her daughter 
 that she was never more mistaken : that Dissenters 
 were a low sort of people that met in places called 
 conventicles; and that, to the best of her belief, 
 no member of her family had ever been in a con- 
 venticle in llic'ir lives. 
 
 " Hush ! my dear," said Mr. Warren : " you don't 
 understand. I'll tell you what*, Jane, I will have 
 no Catliolic talk and nonsense in my house, — 
 
THE CONVERT. 117 
 
 mind you that. I will not have my neighbours 
 point to my house to show what I have come 
 to ; I who was a Protestant magistrate before 
 any Catholic in England was allowed to take the 
 oaths. Mind what I say.^' 
 
 '^Very well, father." 
 
 She did mind what he said, encouraged thereto 
 by her priest. She made no attempt to teach or 
 convert; but she took her o^vn way more and 
 more. She sat more in her own room, and was 
 often joined there by a fellow-convert or two. She 
 was much wanted in the hall, after the single 
 knocks at the door, which were frequent between 
 breakfast time and noon. When the rubber was 
 proceeding in the evening, she would, perhaps 
 unnecessarily, come to the table to light the little 
 lantern which was to light her to chapel; and 
 she was then muffled up, as her father observed, 
 like a servant-maid going to a conventicle. More 
 than once, when forgetting the time in conver- 
 sation with her sisters, she would look at her 
 watch, say "just stop a minute," drop on her 
 knees and tell her beads, and when her lips had 
 done moving, rise and go on where they had 
 broken off. When there was a party at home^ 
 h:3 
 
118 THE CONVERT. 
 
 slie would do what slie called her duty, — super- 
 intend the tea-making in the study, and then 
 appear in the drawing-room, dressed with con- 
 spicuous plainness, and confining her attention to 
 seeing that no elderly person sat in a draught, 
 and that no young one was neglected. It was 
 obviously a piece of duty-work, with no geniality 
 in it. She did not go to the wedding, when the 
 eldest brother was married ; for she could not 
 think of setting foot in a Protestant church; and 
 her sister consoled her parents b}^ observing that, 
 perhaps, it was very well, as Jane really had 
 nothing to wear that was fit to appear in at a 
 wedding. 
 
 The new daughter-in-law happened, curiously 
 enough, to be a Dissenter. But she was of a 
 good family, and was a sensible and agreeable 
 woman; and, especially, not a convert. She was 
 of an old Dissenting fixmily, and that, as they 
 said, " made a great diflcrence.'' She was made 
 the depository of "the family annoyance about Jane; 
 and, if she could not make matters better, she at 
 least did not make them worse, though, as she 
 told them, she was further removed from the 
 Catholic; Church than thev were. 
 
THE CONVEllT. 110 
 
 " But, my dear/' said Mrs. Warren, '' you don't 
 know how inconvenient it is — Jane's conversion. 
 In the first place, the hall gets so dirtied." 
 
 They all laughed. 
 
 "Yes, -indeed,'' she continued, earnestly, "every 
 morning there are some of Jane's poor people 
 coming : and I hardly like to cross the hall, for 
 fear of seeing some of them on the mat. And 
 the hall never was so dirty, even in the depth of 
 winter. The servants do not Hke it, nor having 
 to answer the door so often. And I am afraid 
 it will do us serious injury with our opposite 
 neighbours. They cannot but observe it." 
 
 "I don't think I should much mind that," 
 said the new daughter, who was expected to say 
 something. 
 
 " Indeed, but you would, if you were of my age, 
 though you are a Dissenter yourself. And then, 
 the seeing; her look so unUke her sisters ! I assure 
 you, I had to exert all my authority the last time 
 they were trimming their bonnets, to make Jane 
 put on a bow, like her sisters. She cried the 
 whole morning, up in her own room, when I 
 insisted upon it. What do you think of that ? " 
 " I think it was a matter not worth contending 
 
•20 THE CONVERT. 
 
 about . I think Jane would have been wiser to 
 put on the Low cheerfully at once. But I would 
 not have pressed the matter." 
 
 "Well, I shall not press such a thing agnin, 
 for I see it is of no use. But, as I have been 
 telling her, she cannot expect to have the same 
 allowance as her sisters if she will not make 
 herself look nice with it, as they do. Her father 
 has taken off a quarter of her allowance." 
 
 " But, oh ! ma'am, that is religious persecution !" 
 
 "My dear, you don't understand." And she 
 explained it over again, adding, " you know she 
 cannot want the money if she will not spend it 
 for what it is given to her for. Don't you see ? " 
 
 " I think that is for her to judge of. Is not 
 this fining her for religious opinions ? and is not 
 that religious persecution ? " 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no, that is quite a mistake. I am 
 sure I would not bui-n Jane under any circum- 
 stances. It is much more likel}- — among those 
 priests and all — that they should burn us. It 
 is the Catholics that burn people, you know. Or, 
 rather, as you are a Dissenter, you may not know. 
 But I can show you in the Uhtorij of Knglaml. 
 Lucy, my dear . . . ." 
 
THE CONVERT. 121 
 
 And she pointed to the bookshelves^ but was 
 assured that Dissenters read about Bloody Mary 
 as much as Church people. 
 
 It would have been unnatural for this state of 
 things to go on much longer. It came to an 
 end by some accident discovering at once to Mr. 
 Warren and Jane that it was the desire of both 
 that she should go and live somewhere else. The 
 other members of the family started when they 
 heard of it ; but soon they, too, saw that it was 
 best. Jane proposed to keep a school in a distant 
 city. She would not be burdensome to her father. 
 The proposal made him more angry than anything 
 yet. It would be the ruin of his family, he said. 
 How should his three other daughters marry if 
 he was known to be the father of a poor school- 
 mistress? If she had any feeling for her family 
 she would change her name and go abroad. She 
 should consider her three sisters, if she did not 
 care for her father and mother. 
 
 Lucy here tried to speak. Her voice failed her 
 at first; but she gained strength as she went on. 
 If her papa pleased, she wished to go with Jane, 
 and help her to keep school. She did not wish 
 to be burdensome, either. 
 
l:l'Z THE roxvEiiT. 
 
 " You liavc turned Catliollc, too, I suppose," 
 said lie, in a sort of despair. But this was 
 disclaimed by all three sisters. Miss Warren had 
 seen the letters which had opened the new prospect 
 to Jane; and among the inducements held out 
 was one which made Mr. Warren laugh, in spite 
 of himself, though Miss Warren was quite serious 
 in telling it. Jane's friends were sorry, of course, 
 that !Miss Lucy had not the happiness of belonging 
 to their communion ; but they hoped the residence 
 in a cathedral town might attract her, as she would 
 be surrounded with pious clergymen of her own 
 church. The idea of his Lucy surroimded by pious 
 clergymen tickled the fancy of Mr. Warren; but 
 he carried it off by saying that she would follow 
 her sister, he had no doubt, and soon be a Catholic, 
 in spite of all the clergymen. 
 
 " What a testimony that is to the power of the 
 truth ! '^ observed Jane. 
 
 " Ah ! that is the way you catch me up,'' re- 
 plied her father ; " and next you will go on to call 
 tlie clergy the gates of hell, I suppose, that shall 
 not prevail against you." 
 
 A saucy little smile of Jane's seemed to show 
 that he had met her thou<rht. ^Ir. Warren askod 
 
THE CONVERT. 1:23 
 
 Lucy wliat could make her want to leave such a 
 home as she had, and go into a lower rank in 
 society. With much trembling, and doing little 
 justice to her thought by her faltering speech, 
 Lucy explained that a frivolous life did not satisfy 
 her; that she wished to be useful, and to have 
 freedom to be as religious as Jane, if not in the 
 same way. She saw that Jane was much happier 
 than she used to be, and, she thought better .... 
 
 " Happier ! '' cried her Mher. " I know better 
 than that. I have marked her ; and I know when 
 she is going to confession as well as she knows it 
 herself. Look at her red face on those mornings, 
 and see her bite her lips; and . . . .''^ 
 
 " Ah ! but papa, when she comes home, how 
 happy she is ! ^' 
 
 "Yes; like a person who has had a tooth out.^' 
 
 " And,^' Lucy went on, " I think she has cured 
 herself of so many faults in a short time. She 
 used to be so satirical and censorious ; and now she 
 never says an illword of anybody. And if you saw 
 her among the poor people, how they love her, I 
 am sure it would please you. And when we are 
 dancing at a ball at two in the morning, she is 
 sitting in a shawl by some sick person^s bedside. 
 
HI 
 
 THE CONVKUT. 
 
 without any fire, and with only a dim candle. 
 Indeed, papa, you don't know how good she is 
 grown." 
 
 " When she shows any of her goodness to me, 
 who have the best right to it, I may begin to 
 believe in it ; but Jane's charity seems to begin 
 anywhere but at home." 
 
 Even Miss Warren was sure her father did not 
 quite mean this. She thought that, though Jane 
 unhappily differed from them, she was truly helpful 
 and kind in the family. !Mr. AYarren rose and 
 left the room. At dinner he did not appear. He 
 had gone into the country, as often happened, on 
 business. 
 
 Instead of returning, he sent a packet to each of 
 his two " rebellious " daughters, as he called them. 
 He enclosed five hundred pounds to each ; notified 
 that this was all they would ever have from him; 
 and desired that the house might be cleared of 
 them, and of all traces of them, before his return, 
 that day week. 
 
 He was obeyed in this ; and also in his com- 
 mand that the names of Jane and Lucy should 
 never be spoken in his hearing, nor in his liouse. 
 The whole town was soon acquainted with this; 
 
THE CONVEllT. 
 
 and strangers who came to the town w^re enter- 
 tained with curious stories of Mr. Warren's two 
 outcast daughters, who were nuns and w^ent bare- 
 foot, flogged themselves all night, and other things 
 equally probable. 
 
 AVhen Miss Warren married, which was the 
 next year, the parents' hope rested on the little 
 Harriet, who was brought from school to be the 
 solace of home. A governess was selected for her 
 with extreme care; and her quietness and docility 
 were such that she would no doubt turn out 
 exactly what it was intended she should. 
 
 "We wish her to be an Englishwoman, in 
 every sense of the word," the governess was told. 
 "A Protestant Englishwoman, with the ideas and 
 manners of her station, is what we desire to see 
 her." So the governess set to work to make 
 little Harriet a Protestant Englishwoman, care- 
 fully guarded from all ideas not already held by 
 her father and mother. 
 
 Meantime, Jane and Lucy were more happy 
 than they had ever been in their lives before, 
 though they had many a sorrowful talk about home 
 and friends. They had objects in life, freedom 
 and independence, and the blessing of an anima- 
 
12G thp: convert. 
 
 ting faith. Before the glow of recent conversion 
 had subsided, Lucy, who, of course, became a 
 Catholic, married, and settled at some distance 
 from her sister. She sometimes wished that it 
 was not at a distance; for she did not quite like 
 the growth of Janets enthusiasm, and the turn 
 that it took. She was too much employed on 
 secret services for her church. During: the half 
 year, of course, she could not leave home; but 
 witli the first day of the holidays she more than 
 once disappeared, and returned at the end of a 
 month or six weeks, a good deal sunburned, and 
 with a bonnet of decidedly foreign make; and it 
 once slipped out, in conversation, that she had 
 been in a town, in an odd unfrequented corner 
 of France; and again, that she had been met in 
 Rome. There was something wild about this; 
 but wlien Lucy told her so she laughed, and 
 said she was in the hands of people who could 
 take better care of her than her own dear sister. 
 If she surprised others, she once met with a sur- 
 l)rise herself in one of these foreign jom*neys. In 
 a travelling carriage she saw, handsomely dressed, 
 a blooming young woman, the very image of little 
 Harriet, — only grown up: and by her side was 
 
THE CONVERT. 1~7 
 
 a gentleman of foreign appearance. It was odd 
 that the lady put her head out of the window 
 eagerly^ as if to see Jane again. No, — it was 
 not really odd: for it was Harriet. Lucy had 
 seen, in a late newspaper, a paragraph which she 
 pointed out to her husband with mingled astonish- 
 ment and amusement. The paragraph told how 
 Count Somebody mth a long German name, and 
 a list of titles, ancestral and military, had led to 
 the altar Harriet, the youngest child of Ambrose 
 
 Warren, Esq., of ; the service being performed 
 
 first in the CathoHc chapel, and then in the parish 
 church. It was even so. She, the safe and 
 petted daughter, who was to be the Protestant 
 Englishwoman of the family, with no ideas beyond 
 her station (above or below), was married, with 
 her parent's joyful consent, to a Catholic noble- 
 man in the Austrian service. 
 
 The daughters now wrote home, supposing that 
 their conversion would be forgiven. But no notice 
 was taken of their letters. Their conversion might, 
 perhaps, have been forgiven ; but not their having 
 kept a school and '^ disgraced their family." Their 
 mother died, and they were not summoned. When 
 the time drew near for their father to follow, they 
 
12y THK CONVERT. 
 
 learned liis state by constant enquiry; and at 
 length Jane ventured to go. 
 
 He was sinking, but quite sensible. His eldest 
 daughter, — an excellent nurse, — had fully done 
 her duty by him, aided by her husband. Towards 
 Jane he seemed to have no strong feehng of any 
 kind : certainly no remorse or shame. When she 
 waited on him, he thanked her : he found no fliult, 
 and said to the physician that everybody was very 
 kind. On the last night, when it was evident that 
 the end was very near, Jane called the servants 
 into his room, and lighted some wax candles in 
 one corner, and made everybody kneel, and kneeled 
 herself, repeating prayers aloud. Her sister re- 
 monstrated, but Jane was positive. "What she 
 was doing could do her father no harm, and she 
 must neglect no chance for his soul. Hour after 
 hour she went on. It seemed, indeed, as if the 
 dying man was too far gone to be disturbed; but, 
 at last, it was clear that he wished to speak. 
 His eldest daughter bent down her ear. Jane 
 sprang to the bed. What he said was — 
 
 " Mind, now — do you hear me ? Mind, — take 
 notice, — I die a Protestant. I have not been as 
 good a one as I might have been, perhaps, though 
 
THE CONVERT. 129 
 
 I have always endeavoured to do my duty; but 
 I die a member of the Church of Enrrknd." 
 
 ^^We hear you, dear father. You die a Pro- 
 testant^ — a member of the Church of England." 
 
 This settled, he closed his eyes and died; — 
 died almost before Jane could resume her efforts 
 for his safety. She vowed that while she lived 
 she would pray for his soul. 
 
 She had henceforth one object of her own ; and 
 only one — to save money enough to secure her 
 reception in a convent, where, free from worldly 
 cares, she might devote her energies, before they 
 began to fail, to the service of her Church, with- 
 out stint or drawback. 
 
 As Harriet soon embraced her husband^s religion, 
 tlie eldest of the family could not visit any of her 
 sisters. She would have liked to stay with them 
 all; and especially with Harriet, in her Austrian 
 castle; but she was afraid of the priests she must 
 meet, and the ^^ mummeries" she must see. She 
 observed to her husband that people had much to 
 answer for who changed their opinions, — it was 
 so inconvenient to their flimilies, and in society; 
 and her husband, as usual, placidly agreed to 
 what she said. 
 
THE PACTOEY BOY. 
 
 Ix the middle of a dark night, Joel, a boy of nine 
 years old, heard his name called by a voice which, 
 through his sleep, seemed miles away. Joel had 
 been tired enough when he went to bed, and yet 
 he had not gone to sleep for some time ; his heart 
 beat so at the idea of his mother being very ill. 
 He well remembered his father's death; and his 
 mother's illness now revived some feelings which 
 he had almost forgotten. His bed was merely 
 some clothes spread on the floor, and covered with 
 a rug ; but he did not mind that ; and he could 
 have gone to sleep at once but for the fear that 
 had come over him. AVlieii ho did sleep, his sleep 
 was souud ; so that his mother's feeble voice calling 
 him seemed like a call from miles away. 
 In a minute Joel was up and wide awake. 
 
THE FACTORY BOY. 131 
 
 ^^ Light the candle/^ he could just hear the voice 
 say. 
 
 He lighted the candle, and his beating heart 
 seemed to stop when he saw his mother's face. 
 He seemed hardly to know whether it was his 
 mother or no. 
 
 '^Shall I caU . . . .?'^ 
 
 "Call nobody, my dear. Come here.'' 
 
 He laid his cheek to hers. 
 
 "Mother, you are dying," he murmured. 
 
 "Yes, love, I am dying. It is no use calling 
 any body. These little ones, Joel." 
 
 " I will take care of them, mother." 
 
 "You, my child! How should that be?" 
 
 "Why not?" said the boy, raising himself, 
 and standing at his best height. " Look at me, 
 mother. I can work. I promise you . . . . " 
 
 His mother could not lift her hand, but she 
 moved a finger in a way which checked liim. 
 
 "Promise nothing that may be too hard after- 
 wards," she said. 
 
 "I promise to try then," he said, "that little 
 
 sister shall live at home, and never go to the 
 
 workhouse." He spoke cheerfully, though the 
 
 candle-hght glittered in the two streams of tears 
 
 i2 
 
THE FACTORY liOY, 
 
 on his clieeks. '^AVe can go on living here; and 
 we shall he so ... . " 
 
 It would not do. The sense of their coming 
 desolation rushed over him in a way too terrible 
 to be borne. lie hid his face beside her, murmur- 
 ing, " O mother ! mother ! " 
 
 His mother found strength to move her hand 
 now. She stroked his head with a trembling 
 touch, which he seemed to feel as long as he 
 lived. She could not say much more. She told 
 him she had no fear for any of them. They 
 would be taken care of. She advised him not 
 to waken the little ones, who were sound asleep 
 on the other side of her, and begged him to lie 
 down himself till daylight, and try to sleep, when 
 she should be gone. 
 
 This was the last thing she said. The candle 
 was very low ; but before it went out, she was 
 gone. Joel had always done what his mother 
 wished; but he could not obey her in the last 
 thing she had said. He lighted another candle 
 wlion the first went out ; and sat thinking, 
 till the grey dawn began to show through the 
 window. 
 
 A\'hen he called the neighbours, they wimv 
 
THE FACTOllY BOY. 133 
 
 astonished at his quietness. He had taken up 
 the children, and dressed them, and made the 
 room tidy, and lighted the fire, before he told 
 any body what had happened. And when he 
 opened the door, his little sister was in his arms. 
 She was two years old, and could walk, of course ; 
 but she liked being in JoeVs arms. Poor Willy 
 was the most confounded. He stood with his 
 pinafore at his mouth, staring at the bed, and 
 wondering that his mother lay so still. 
 
 If the neighbours were astonished at Joel that 
 morning, they might be more so at some things 
 they saw afterwards; but they were not. Every 
 thing seemed done so naturally; and the boy 
 evidently considered what he had to do so much 
 a matter of coui'se, that less sensation was excited 
 than about many smaller things. 
 
 After the funeral was over, Joel tied up all his 
 mother's clothes. He carried the bundle on one 
 arm, and his sister on the other. He would not 
 have liked to take money for what he had seen 
 his mother wear ; but he changed them away for 
 new and strong clothes for the child. He did not 
 seem to want any help. He went to the factory 
 the next morning, as usual, after washing and 
 i3 
 
131 THE FACTORY EOY. 
 
 dressing the cliildrenj and getting a breakfast of 
 Lread and milk with them. There was no fire; 
 and he put every knife, and other dangerous thing 
 on a high shelf, and gave them some trifles to 
 play with, and promised to come and play \vith. 
 them at dinner time. And he did play. He 
 played heartily with the little one, and as if he 
 enjoyed it, every day at the noon hour. ]\Iany 
 a merry laugh the neighbours heard from that 
 room when the three children were together; and 
 the laugh was often JocFs. 
 
 How he learned to manage, and especially to 
 cook, nobody knew ; and he could himself have told 
 little more than that he wanted to see how people 
 did it, and looked accordingly, at every op}X)r- 
 tunity. He certainly fed the children well; and 
 himself too. He knew that every thing depended 
 on his strength being kept up. His sister sat 
 on his knee to be fed till she could feed herself, 
 lie was sorry to give it up; but he said she must 
 learn to behave. So he smoothed her hair, and 
 washed her face before dinner, and showed her 
 how to fold her hands while he said grace. He 
 took as much pains to train her to good mannei-s 
 at table as if he had been a governess, teaching 
 
2^ ^n.<P'?n..^ 
 
THE FACTORY BOY. 113." 
 
 a little lady. "While she remained a "Laby/^ he 
 slept in the middle of the bed^ between the two, 
 that she might have room, and not be disturbed; 
 and, when she ceased to be a baby, he silently 
 made new arrangements. He denied himself a 
 hat, which he much wanted, in order to buy a 
 considerable quantity of coarse dark calico, which, 
 with his own hands, he made into a curtain, and 
 slung up across a part of the room, — thus shutting 
 off a third part of it. Here he contrived to make 
 up a little bed for his sister; and he was not 
 satisfied till she had a basin and jug, and piece 
 of soap of her own. Here nobody but himself 
 was to intrude upon her without leave; and, 
 indeed, he always made her understand that he 
 came only to take care of her. It was not only 
 that Willy was not to see her undressed. A neigh- 
 bour or two now and then lifted the latch without 
 knocking. One of these, one day, heard some- 
 thino: from behind the curtain which made her 
 call her husband silently to listen ; and they always 
 afterwards treated Joel as if he were a man, and 
 one whom they looked up to. He was teaching 
 the child her little prayer. The earnest, sweet, 
 devout tones of the boy, and the innocent, cheerful 
 
136 THE FACTORY BOY. 
 
 imitation by the little one were beautiful to hear, 
 — tlie listeners said. 
 
 Though so well taken care of, she was not to 
 be pampered. There would have been no kindness 
 in that. Very early, indeed, she was taught, in 
 a merry sort of way, to put things in their places, 
 and to sweep the floor, and to wash up the 
 crockery. She was a handy little thing, well 
 trained and docile. One reward that Joel had 
 for his management was that she was early fit 
 to go to chapel. This was a great point; as he, 
 choosing to send Willy regularly, could not go 
 till he could take the little girl with him. She 
 was never known to be restless; and Joel was 
 quite proud of her. 
 
 AVilly was not neglected for the little girl's 
 sake. In those days children went earlier to the 
 factory, and worked longer than they do now; 
 and by the time the sister was five yeai's old, 
 AVilly became a factory boy; and his pay put the 
 little girl to school. When she, at seven, went 
 to the factory too, Joel's life was altogether an 
 easier one. He always had maintained them all, 
 from the day of his mother's death. The times 
 must have been good — work constant and wages 
 
TUE FACTORY BOY. 137 
 
 steady, — or he could not have done it. Now, 
 when all three were earning, he put his sister to 
 a sewing school for two evenings in the week, 
 and the Saturday afternoons; and he and Willy 
 attended an evening school, as they found they 
 could afford it. He alwa3^s escorted the little 
 girl wherever she had to go; into the factory 
 and home again, — to the school door and home 
 again, — and to the Sunday-school; yet he was 
 himself remarkably punctual at work and at 
 worship. He was a humble, earnest, docile pupil, 
 himself, at the Sunday-school — quite unconscious 
 that he was more advanced than other boys in 
 the sublime science and practice of duty. He 
 felt that every body was very kind to him ; but 
 he was unaware that others felt it an honom' to 
 be kind to him. 
 
 I linger on these years, when he was a fine 
 growing lad, in a state of high content. I linger, 
 unwilling to proceed. But the end must come ; 
 and it is soon told. He was sixteen, I think, 
 when he was asked to become a teacher in the 
 Sunday-school, while not wholly ceasing to be a 
 scholar. He tried, and made a capital teacher; 
 and he won the hearts of the children while trying 
 
138 THE FACTORY 150Y. 
 
 to open their minds. By this he became more 
 widely known than Lcfore. 
 
 One day in the next year a tremendous clatter 
 and crash was heard in the factory where Joel 
 worked. A dead silence succeeded, and then 
 several called out that it was only an iron bar 
 that had fallen down. This was true ; but the 
 iron bar had fallen on JoeFs head, and he was 
 taken up dead. 
 
 Such a funeral as his is rarely seen. There is 
 something that strikes on all hearts in the spectacle 
 of a soldier's funeral — the drum, the march of 
 comrades, and the belt and cap laid on the coffin. 
 But there was something more solemn and more 
 moving than all such observances in the funeral 
 of this young soldier, who had so bravely filled 
 his place in the conflict of life. There was the 
 tread of comrades here, for the longest street was 
 filled from end to end. For relics, there was his 
 brother and sister; and for a solemn dirge, the 
 uncontrollable groans of a heart-stricken multitude. 
 
THE CONVICT. 
 
 Reuben's father was a farmer. The farm was a 
 small one ; but there was more work to be done 
 than the father and son could easily get through. 
 When Eeuben was a child he had worked by his 
 father's side; and as diligently as he could, because 
 he was told that his two elder brothers must go 
 away, and work for themselves when they became 
 men; and he must qualify himself to supply the 
 place of one of them. The brothers did go away; 
 and the two sisters married ; so that lleuben and 
 his father were the only ones left in the old house. 
 The remembrance of the dead wife and mother 
 seemed to revive then, and become very painful; 
 for the lad saw how his father's spirits drooped. 
 The sighs that came from him in the evenings, 
 and the disheartening words that he dropped. 
 
110 THE CONVICT. 
 
 made the poor lad's heart very heavy; and at 
 times he wondered how it was all to end, or 
 whether their home was to Le like this for ever. 
 The end showed itself at last. The intimation 
 came one day in the field that theii' home was 
 no longer to be like this. His father was going 
 to marry the widow Robertson. Reuben did not 
 know whether to be glad or sorry. His father's 
 happiness would be taken out of his charge : and 
 this, as he had found his insufficiency to make 
 his father happy, was a relief; but, then, he did 
 not like the widow Robertson, and his father was 
 aware that he did not. None of the family had 
 kno\vn much of her, but they did not admire her 
 face, and report said that she was very '^near'' 
 about money matters. "When his father read a 
 joke in the newspaper one day, about a woman 
 in America who had such a sour countenance, 
 that she made a profit of it, and hired herself out 
 by the day to make pickles by looking at cucum- 
 bers, Reuben and one of his sisters had exclaimed, 
 at the same moment, " Widow Robertson ! " and 
 Reuben now feared that his father had not forgot- 
 ten this. However, she was thoroughly respectable, 
 neat, housewifely, and said to be clever. In a 
 
THE CONVICT. Ill 
 
 comfortable home she might prove more amiable 
 than she looked. Reuben made many resolutions 
 that she should have no reason to complain of 
 him ; and he told his father, in all sincerity, that 
 he would do all in his power towards the happiness 
 of the household. 
 
 Nobody, however, could make any happiness 
 there after the new wife crossed the threshold. 
 The state of things was worse than anybody had 
 anticipated. Reuben was the chief victim of the 
 woman^s tongue and temper, and of her virtues, 
 such as they were. She could not bear to see 
 dirty shoes; she could not bear the smell of the 
 stable; she could not bear to see his clothes wear 
 out under field labour. She was perpetually vaunt- 
 ing her making and mending, and cleaning, and 
 complaining that she saw no end to her toils. 
 Sometimes her husband protected Reuben, even 
 to the point of silencing her ; but then she sulked ; 
 and for so long a time together that the poor 
 man became discouraged, and let her have her 
 own way. Then Reuben began to give way in 
 spite of all resolutions. When in the field, he 
 could not help thinking of the sharp replies, true 
 enough, that he might make to her insufferable 
 
112 TIIK CONVICT. 
 
 speeclies : he thought them over, again and again, 
 till they were at his tongue's end so that they 
 would come out when the taunts were repeated. 
 She shamed him before the neighbours ; she scolded 
 hira till in the summer evenings he burst out of 
 the house, and in the ^\inter evenings he plunged 
 into bed, and muffled his ears in the bed-clothes. 
 "The voice of scolding was even as the voice of 
 a waterfall." But we will not dwell on an afflic- 
 tion which is at once one of the commonest, and 
 one of the most unendurable of human troubles. 
 
 It went on for two years, by which time Reuben 
 was eighteen. One afternoon, his father, who had 
 been absent all day at market, came home, and 
 found Reuben at the gate of the farm-yard looking 
 for him impatiently. 
 
 " Good bye, father,'' said he. " I have milked 
 the cows ; aud Jackson will look to them in the 
 morning, and till you can find somebody to do 
 my work ; and . . . ." 
 
 " My boy, what do you mean ? " said his father. 
 " Come in, and tell mo all about it." 
 
 No, — Reuben never would enter the house 
 again while his stepmother was in it; and when 
 liis lather heard how she had been insultinir him. 
 
THE CONVICT. 11'3 
 
 he did not wonder^ and indeed could hardly ask 
 him to remain. Reuben declared that he knew 
 of a place, in a somewhat distant county, where 
 it was probable that he should find work. Seeing 
 him bent upon this, and having really nothing 
 better to propose at the moment, his father told 
 him he might take the old grey mare and the 
 old saddle; and went into the house to see how 
 much money he could spare. 
 
 It was very little ; — so little that the father's 
 heart sank; but the son's did not. He was con- 
 fident he should do very well; gave his father a 
 hearty grasp of the hand, and rode off. 
 
 The grey mare was terribly old. She stumbled 
 and jogged along over the rough moorland roads 
 till her rider was almost as much tired as herself; 
 and it was late before he, having walked a great 
 part of the way, got to a house where he could 
 obtain food and a resting-place for both. The 
 next morning she was so lame that the boys in 
 the road laughed as Reuben led her away. It 
 was a weary day. After alternate walking, riding, 
 and resting, he found himself, late at night, in 
 a wild moorland country, under a lowering sky, 
 miles from any known resting-place, and the mare 
 
1 1 i THE CONVICT. 
 
 utterly unaLle to proceed. Unhappily, a tempta- 
 tion too strong for his virtue presented itself at 
 the moment of his deepest depression. No one 
 who had ever looked in Heuben's open face, and 
 known his simple habits, could have supposed him 
 capable of being a thief. But he now became one ; 
 and by a single act ruined his life. Through the 
 gathering dai'kness he saw, within a mde enclosure, 
 a considerable number of horses — this being a 
 season when they ranged the fells in the day-time, 
 and were brought together at night. Reuben led 
 in the poor mare among them, put her saddle on 
 the back of one of the best horses he could find, 
 and rode off, striking fire on the stony road for 
 miles. 
 
 Before he was out of the county he was caught. 
 His surname was a common one, and he had been 
 christened John as well as Reuben; and he was 
 tried under the name of John. He afterwards 
 said that he would not have been tried under a 
 false name; he had done badly enough in stealing 
 a horse, and he was not going to add a He to the 
 mischief. For the same reason he withstood all 
 arguments about his plea, and chose to plead 
 "guilty." lie was anxious to the last degree 
 
THE CONVICT. 145 
 
 that his father should not hear of this terrible 
 failure at the outset of his scheme of life ; and 
 not a word could be got out of him as to where 
 he came from, or anything about his former life. 
 The police of the district knew nothing of him, 
 of course. He was put into prison (no matter 
 where) for a long term. 
 
 No matter where : but it matters much that it 
 was a good prison. The officers were good, and 
 the system worked well for Eeuben at least. He 
 was kept separate from all other prisoners; and 
 so effectually that no one of his unhappy comrades 
 knew of his existence ; and he had no knowledge 
 of any one within the walls but the officers and 
 the chaplain. They were kind to him, and he saw 
 them often; but he said little to them. The 
 chaplain lent him books; but he did not care to 
 read them; he was provided, at his own request, 
 with work — shoemaking, in which he was properly 
 instructed; but he worked listlessly at first. The 
 person to whom he opened his heart at last was 
 a lady, to whom the prisoners had occasionally the 
 opportunity of speaking, if they liked, or being 
 silent, if they chose. To this lady he never told 
 his father's residence ; but he soon became perfectly 
 
1 10 THE CONVICT. 
 
 open about everything which could not involve 
 disclosures about his family. 
 
 At first there was a painful listlessness, sho\\ing 
 deep heart-sickness. He made only three shoes 
 a-week; he did not know why he did not make 
 more. Soon it was evident that there was some 
 great idea in his mind, which annihilated his 
 interest in everything else; and in a httle while, 
 out came this idea. With his head drooped on 
 his breast, and his face red and pale by turns, ho 
 whispered his question whether the lady thought 
 he should get out soon. At first she did not 
 understand; but she found that poor Reuben had 
 not the remotest notion what law was, and what 
 punishment was for. He knew that people " got 
 punished ^^ for offences; but he thought it was all 
 hap-hazard whether they went to prison or over 
 the seas, or whether they got off, at any day or 
 hour, or remained under punishment for their lives, 
 or for terras. Nobody had ever told him what 
 society was, — what law was, — nor, of course, his 
 duty to society and under the law. He o\\Tied 
 that he could not sleep at night, nor settle his 
 mind in the daytime, for listening to the footsteps 
 of some one coming to let him out. It was at 
 
THE CONVICT. 117 
 
 once clear what was the best mercy in such a case. 
 The lady had a long conversation with him ; and, 
 by the time it was done, he was convinced that 
 as he was guilty, by his own admission, and 
 actually undergoing the punishment to which he 
 was sentenced, there was not the shghtest ground 
 for expecting any change before the expiration of 
 his term. She put the question plainly to him 
 whether he did not see this ; and, pale as was his 
 face, and quivering as were his lips, he manfully 
 answered "Yes.'' He wished her to understand, 
 however, that, while he admitted the act, and that 
 he knew it to be wi'ong, in a vague sort of way, 
 he had not seen it in a serious light at the time. 
 Here were so many horses, probably belonging to 
 well-to-do people, and he was so very much in 
 want of one, that he had not thought the exchange 
 a great sin. He believed, too, that he had some 
 idea of returning the stolen horse, some day. Still, 
 certainly, he knew he was wrong, because he 
 would not have done it if anybody had been 
 within sight. He had felt very uncomfortable, 
 too, — unlike anything he had ever felt before. 
 He had turned twice, before he rode away; but 
 the old mare was lying down, — much as if 
 K o 
 
148 THE CONVICT. 
 
 she would never get up again; so he made ofT. 
 
 "And this was the first time/' said the lady; 
 "your first serious ofience, you say. I wonder 
 what you think now of being driven to it in such 
 a wa}\" 
 
 Reuben looked up. 
 
 " Some of the quarrels at home/' said the lady, 
 ^' seem to have come from your insisting that you 
 were a man, and would be treated like one, while 
 your stepmother would have it that you were a 
 child. You are nineteen, are not you ? '' 
 
 "Nineteen last Candlemas.'' 
 
 " You insist on being a man at home, and then 
 you let a woman's tongue drive you to do \\Tong. 
 Is that so very manly?" 
 
 Reuben's head sank as suddenly as if he had 
 been shot. 
 
 Here were two new ideas for him to ponder — 
 enough for one time. As for the lady, she had 
 to ponder the strangeness of their being new. So 
 they parted. 
 
 The next time she entered the cell Reuben 
 started up eagerly, for he was full of things to 
 say. He looked wonderfully better. He now slept 
 well, and could settle his mind to his business in 
 
THE CONVICT. 149 
 
 the day. When the lady asked him how ho got 
 on now, he answered that he made seven shoes 
 a- week ; and it was not a bad measure of his 
 welfare. He had some very odd questions to ask 
 about law and punishment, and society, and a very 
 striking observation to make on his own case. He 
 was glad that he was caught when he was, for it 
 really was so very easy to take that horse that he 
 thought that, if pressed by difficulty at any time, 
 it was more likely that he would have gone to 
 the same place for another good horse than for 
 the old grey mare; and that he should have gone 
 '^ deeper in.'^ Another idea was that he had better 
 go home, when free, and stay by his father. He 
 did not think he could ever let him know what 
 had happened; and he would not ventm-e to say 
 that he could bear with his stepmother : but 
 perhaps she would not think him a boy by that 
 time. He would be sorry to bring disgrace on his 
 father; but, if nobody knew what had happened, 
 and if he went to be safe from temptation, perhaps 
 
 The lady filled up the pause of doubt. 
 
 She thought he had better go home, — hoped he 
 
 might lift up his head again there, in time — but 
 
 strongly advised his telling his father everything. 
 
 k3 
 
150 THE CONVICT. 
 
 This was the one thiug which he felt ceiiain he 
 never coiild do. 
 
 The third time the lady went, Reuben was in a 
 soft, and serious, and gentle mood — for which 
 there was abundant reason. The chaplain had 
 told him, two days before, what nobody else but 
 the lady was to know, that the anxious father had 
 privately traced his son, and found out the whole 
 matter, of which neither neighbours, brothers and 
 sisters, nor stepmother knew a word. The father 
 had written to the chaplain (not venturing to 
 come, for fear of observation), and had implored 
 him to tell Reuben that he did not beheve him 
 wicked, though he had done a wicked thing ; that 
 he knew he had been hard-driven at home; that 
 he begged him to bear his punishment patiently, 
 and when it was over to come straight home ; 
 that he should never hear a word of reproach from 
 him, and should be protected from ill-treatment 
 by any body else ; and he might make a good 
 and ha})p3' life of it yet. 
 
 '^ Well, what do you mean to do?" inquired 
 the lady. 
 
 " Go straight home," he answered, with spark- 
 ling eyes. '^ I'll see if I can stand a woman's 
 
THE CONVICT. 151 
 
 tongue, and .... But I said so once before," 
 he continued, in a saddened tone ; ^' and I couldn't 
 stand it. And then, there's another thing — I 
 shall have a heavy secret all my life. Fm glad 
 father knows it; but, for his sake, nobody else 
 ever must. I never carried a secret before, and 
 this will be a heavy one.'' 
 
 The lady thought that it might be useful as a 
 warning, and, if taken cheerfully in that way, 
 and as a thing that could not be helped, it 
 would not be very burdensome. But now, and in 
 subsequent interviews, Reuben's conclusion, from 
 every point of view of his own affairs, was — 
 ^^ First thing, when I get out, I'll go straight 
 home." And the lady's doctrine, which won its 
 way into his mind by degrees, was that his safety 
 was to be sought, not in place and circumstances, 
 but in a renewed mind. 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 One day during the war, wlien tlie Orders in 
 Council were producing more mischief in our manu- 
 facturing districts than those decrees of Napoleon 
 upon which they were meant to retaliate, the city 
 
 of was thrown into consternation by the 
 
 news that Mr. Woodcock had failed. Bad news 
 had become so frequent of late that any ordinary 
 mishap would have been received with a sigh and 
 a few shakes of the head, and then have been 
 foro-otten in the next incident that occurred ; but 
 that Mr. Woodcock should fail came upon the city 
 like a great fire, or an earthquake, or the news 
 that Napoleon had really landed on the neighbour- 
 ino- coast. The ladies wept, as when the news 
 came of Lord Nelson's death; the gentlemen met 
 at one another's houses to see if anything could be 
 
15i THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 done. The poorest people iii tlie street spoke of 
 it as of a personal misfortune. And so it was 
 to them: for Mr. Woodcock had always been as 
 kind a neighbour as he was an upright magistrate. 
 He had been sheriff and alderman; and then his 
 portrait, in his robes, had been hung up among 
 those of the mayors in the city-hall. In that hall 
 his mayoralty feasts had been of the highest order 
 ever given ; and his balls in the assembly rooms 
 were talked of years after others were forgotten. 
 Liberal as his expenditure had been, well as his 
 wife was always dressed, and large as were his 
 benefactions in the city, there was no sign of 
 extravagance in himself or his household ; but, on 
 the contrary, so much prudence and sagacity, that 
 he was as much consulted for his wisdom as 
 appealed to for liis benevolence. Therefore, when 
 the news spread from house to house that !Mr. 
 Woodcock had failed, the first remark made by 
 every hearer was that there could be no fault in 
 the case. 
 
 There was no fault. A sudden depreciation in 
 the value of his stock — a fall which no ^visdom 
 could have foreseen or guarded against, was the 
 cause of the misfortune. And the mischief done 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. 15. J 
 
 was small to any but the Woodcocks themselves. 
 There were no tradesmen's bills. The deficiency 
 was small; for Mr. Woodcock had stopped the 
 very hour that he had reason to fear that he was 
 insolvent; and his few creditors were those who 
 had profited largely by their preceding engage- 
 ments with him. Not an ill word was known to 
 be spoken against him or his; but many a kind 
 and sorrowful one when the family removed from 
 their sunny house near the cathedral, and went, 
 with one servant, into a small "right up," just 
 outside the city; and when the phaeton was laid 
 down, and yomig master Edward's pony was sold, 
 and Mrs. Woodcock was seen going to market^ 
 dressed as plainly as any Quaker. 
 
 Hitherto they had never been thought proud. 
 Now people began to think them so — Mrs. Wood- 
 cock certainly — and perhaps her husband too. He 
 grew very grave, and more retired and dignified 
 than formerly. Mrs. Woodcock had always been 
 remarkably clever. But for the high principle and 
 sound judgment which gave moral weight to what 
 she said, her sayings would have been sharp and 
 satirical. Now there was more sharpness and 
 satire : and they showed the more, from her saying 
 
156 THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 less, and carrying herself in a higher manner. 
 Her intimate friends knew that a single mortifi- 
 cation lay heavy at her heart, and made her more 
 unhappy than she acknowledged to herself. She 
 was grieving for the blight which had come upon 
 the prospects of her only child — "niy Edward/' 
 as she was wont to call him — she, from whom 
 tender words were very rare. 
 
 Her Edward was a clever boy — a very clever 
 boy ; and such a wag that other boys did not care 
 about his cleverness in any other direction. He 
 had his mother's keen, observant — one might say, 
 experienced, eye, under his curly light hair. He 
 was not a handsome boy, but he had a bright, 
 healthy face, brows that he knit very close when 
 he was learning his lessons ; and a mouth so 
 incessantly working with fun that the question 
 was how he ever kept grave while within the 
 cathedral walls on Sundays. He had been des- 
 tined, however, to spend a good many hours of 
 gravity in a church, in the course of his life ; for 
 he was to have been a clergyman. It was the 
 overthrow of this aim which was the heavy morti- 
 fication to Mrs. Woodcock. Her husband thought 
 they must give up the idea of a university education 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 157 
 
 for Edward, and prepare him for trade. The 
 mother tried to remember that we do not know 
 what is good for us, and that it might possibly 
 be better for her son to be in trade; but when 
 some such reflection was immediately followed by 
 a few sarcasms on human life or human beings, 
 her husband knew that she had been thinking how 
 her Edward would have been sure to distinguish 
 himself at Oxford, if he could have been allowed 
 to show what he could do. 
 
 Before many years all was bright again. A 
 good fortune was unexpectedly left to Mr. Wood- 
 cock. Eirst,. he paid all his creditors, — debts, 
 interest, and compound interest. Then he went 
 into his old house again; and his old servants 
 came back to him joyfully. His fellow-citizens 
 made him mayor again; and the guild-feast was 
 as handsome as before. There are many now who 
 remember Edward's curly head in the mayor's 
 carriage, and the wonder of his school-fellows as 
 to how the boy would behave at the great dinner, 
 among all the grown-up people. He sat beside 
 his mother; and she would not laugh, say what 
 he might, more than became her position as hostess 
 to six hundred people. He asked the young ladies 
 
158 THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 to dance very properly at the ball afterwards ; but 
 he amused them so excessively that they were 
 almost glad at last to change partners, and rest 
 from laughing. What a thing this would be to 
 remember when he became a bishop ! Of course 
 the university was again before him; and his 
 mother was now as gracious and right-minded in 
 her shrewdness as ever. 
 
 Before Edward went to Oxford his father died. 
 The honest and benign face, under the brown wig, 
 was no more seen in the market-place, nor was 
 the cheerful voice, with a reasoning tone, heard 
 in the magistrates' hall ; nor, for -a while, were 
 pleasant parties assembled in the bright and hand- 
 some drawing-room, before whose windows the 
 cathedral tower and spire uprose in the sunset, 
 like a sculptured mountain reflecting the western 
 lijT^hts. In those summer evenin<xs the mother 
 was seen, leaning on her son's arm, taking the 
 last walks with him before his going to Oxford. 
 
 There was less gossip about the Woodcocks than 
 might have been expected by those who hear mucli 
 of the vulgarities of provincial towns. Edwavtl 
 gave such fair occasion for talk, that it is surprising 
 there was not more of it. When he came home 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. 159 
 
 for the first vacation it was remarked — it could 
 not but be remarked — that he and his mother 
 were rarely seen together. When once she had 
 his arm, he did not at all condescend to her short 
 stature; he twirled his cane about, fidgetted, and 
 struck the pebbles as he walked. But he was 
 often seen galloping out of the city on a spirited 
 horse, or lounging near the newsroom, or lolling 
 out of the window of the billiard-room there. His 
 mother walked alone. She was seldom visible 
 when neighbours called ; and, when found at home, 
 she appeared to be growing caustic again. With 
 this there was a slight affectation about her son ; a 
 little ostentation about deriving all her information 
 from Oxford, or from Edward^s lips. '^My son 
 writes^^ — "My son tells me^^ — was the preface 
 to most things she said. One incident which 
 occurred during this vacation could not escape 
 remark. She was now just out of mom-ning, and 
 had declared her intention of inviting her friends 
 again, as soon as Edward should come home. She 
 had one party the week after his arrival. He did 
 not appear. Flushed, fidgetty, and with that knit 
 of the brow which in her countenance told so 
 much, she exerted herself to the very utmost. 
 
ICO THE COLLEGIAN. 
 
 talking and setting everybody talking, moving 
 about and letting nobody sit still too long. Some of 
 the party had to return home through the market- 
 place that summer night. The windows of the 
 bilHard-room were open, and it was well lighted ; 
 and among the moving figures within they per- 
 fectly distinguished Edward Woodcock. 
 
 After that vacation, it was long — I think it 
 must have been three years — before he appeared 
 again at home. Little was said, but much was 
 understood, of the weariness of those years to his 
 mother. It was known that there had somehow 
 been losses. Her great charities were much con- 
 tracted. She went out so little that she had no 
 occasion for any kind of carriage; but the livery- 
 servant disappeared. If any stranger called or 
 met her, she still said, when college or church 
 was mentioned, " My son is intended for the 
 Church ; '* but it was as if she was stung to say 
 it. It was said so tartly that the conversation 
 never lingered upon the Church. As for old 
 acquaintances, they found it required some resolu- 
 tion now to go to the house — Mrs. Woodcock's 
 manner had become so sharp, and her eye so 
 siLspicious. One autumn she was going to the 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. lOl 
 
 sea. It was only twenty miles off; but it was long 
 since she had gone from home at all. A family 
 of neighbours were there too, and they saw what 
 they can never forget. Now and then she walked 
 alone, frowning, and lost in thought, along the 
 cliffs. Sometimes she sat on a bench below, 
 glancing up and down the sands, and turning 
 restlessly when any footstep approached. Oftener 
 she sat at an open window, in a little common, 
 ugly cap and cheap gown, gazing at the jetty 
 below. 
 
 And why at the jetty? Because he was there. 
 Hardly any one would have known it was he, but 
 for the dii-ection of his mother's gaze. His bright 
 eyes were hidden under green goggles; his once 
 curly hair was lank and thin; it is impossible to 
 fancy the cheeks of a living person more hollow, — 
 the whole face more ghastly. He walked with 
 two sticks ; but his time was spent chiefly in 
 sitting at the end of the jetty or the window of 
 the billiard-room, quizzing, giggling, and striving 
 after a mirth which brought tears from some who 
 were within hearing. His giggle was a convulsion ; 
 his quizzing was slander; his mirth was blasphemy. 
 He once or twice appeared in his native place, 
 
 L 
 
1G2 THE COLLEGIAN, 
 
 painfully making his way to the billiard-room; 
 and once with his mother on his arm : but it is 
 thought that they met such looks in the streets 
 — such astonishment — such involuntary grief — 
 that they could not bear it ; at least, she could 
 not; and he ceased to appear. 
 
 He was heard of for two years more. Not in 
 connection with the Church. No one could, for 
 shame, join the ideas of Edward Woodcock and 
 the Church. In connection with Oxford he was 
 often spoken of. Mothers of sons trembled, and 
 even fathers doubted, when they were told that 
 Edward Woodcock^s case was by no means a 
 remarkable one. He had lost his ability altogether 
 under the exhaustion of disease and dissipation. 
 He had lost his health in debauchery ; he had lost 
 his money and his mother's fortune in gaming : 
 but so had many other young men of promise 
 equal to his. If any asked how such things could 
 be common in such a place, some answered that 
 they did not know, and others had always been 
 told that they could not be helped. 
 
 At last Mrs. Woodcock's door was closed against 
 all visitors except the physicians. Edward was 
 there; and he was dying. Great decorum and 
 
THE COLLEGIAN. 1G3 
 
 tenderness were observed al^out the secrets of that 
 dreary house ; but it was known to those who most 
 cared to know that there was no solace to the 
 mother^s heart, — no softening of the son's. He 
 treated lier like a servant ; and in the way that 
 goodnatured people never treat servants. He 
 repelled her affection; he mocked .... But I 
 cannot dwell on this. 
 
 One summer morning the hearse and two 
 mourning coaches were seen moving from the 
 door under the shady trees in the close. Old 
 friends hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry 
 that all was over. They would have been glad 
 if there had been any domestic resource for the 
 mother; any other survivor to make the old home 
 somewhat like itself. But was ever any worn-out 
 being more lonely ? One old acquaintance, — by 
 no means an intimate friend, — saw that it would 
 now be right to go. She went; and she shed a 
 lapful of tears when she came home. 
 
 She found Mrs. "Woodcock immeasurably more 
 haughty than ever before. She could scarcely rise 
 at first from the rheumatism she had caught by 
 night watching; and when she sat down on her 
 faded old sofa she worked her thumbs and twitched 
 l2 
 
101 THE COLLKGIAN. 
 
 her fmgors, as if impatient of her visitor, and cut 
 short or contradicted everything that was said. 
 She still harped on Oxford ; on which, however, 
 it was impossible to say an}'thing to please her. 
 At last, — whether it was that the effort was of 
 itself too much for her, or that old tones of voice 
 and a kindly expression of countenance touched 
 the spring of tears, I do not know, — hut she 
 was overtaken by such a passion of weeping as it 
 was heartrending to witness. She wellnigh choked 
 before she would acknowledge her ovm tears; but 
 when she laid her head against the back of the sofa 
 her sobs shook the very room. She did not stop 
 speaking for this. She said but one thiug, but 
 she said it iucessantly. " Don't pity me, Mrs. 
 
 A . I cannot bear to be pitied. I am not at 
 
 all unhappy. I cannot bear to be pitied. You 
 must not pity me," and so on. 
 
 Such a life could not last long. I forget exactly 
 how long it was. Probably, in the suspense of 
 our compassion, it seemed longer than it would 
 now in the retrospect. It could not, T tliiuk, 
 have been many months before the lu'arso was 
 again moving away from the door under the trees, 
 and we felt that the household which had been once 
 
rilK COLLEGIAN. 165 
 
 SO much to the city was extinguished. Nothing 
 was left but that which still remains, — the portrait 
 of the mayor in his robes in the great hall, and 
 the aching remembrance in many hearts of the 
 fate of his wife and only child. 
 
 WINDEEilERE: FEINTED BY JOHN GAENETT. 
 
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