NRLF 
 
 B i| 71M DED 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 ktsfoain lur. ,1-wseler 
 
TALES IN PROSE 
 
 FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 WEEKS, JORDAN & COMPANY. 
 1839. 
 
TUTTLE, DENNETT AND CHISHOLM, 
 
 Printers 17 Sckool Street. 
 
Hi 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 MAW 
 
 VERY little need be said by way of Preface 
 to this volume of " Tales in Prose/' except 
 what is in grateful courtesy due to my friendly 
 critics, who have so cordially and handsomely 
 received its predecessor, " The Tales in Verse ; " 
 and through whom it has at once obtained so 
 extensive a circulation. To my reviewers, 
 therefore, I am extremely obliged ; and, while 
 I tender my thanks, I will take this oppor- 
 tunity of explaining an omission in my last 
 Preface, of which some of them have reminded 
 me. I had no desire to conceal the fact of 
 several of the pieces contained in these volumes 
 having been published before ; and it was 
 my intention to have stated the circumstance. 
 
 '417176 
 
6 ;.;;.':: PREFACE. 
 
 It will, however, be enough to say, that 
 that Preface was written in great haste, on the 
 very last day of my residence at Nottingham, 
 and in the hurry of the time was omitted. I 
 myself was very sorry for the omission when 
 I first saw the Preface in its printed form. 
 
 West-end Cottage. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A POOR MAN ? S HOUSE *..... 9 
 
 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD 19 
 
 CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES 35 
 
 MATTHEW NOGGINS' s LETTER TO HIS COUSIN .... 53 
 
 THE THREE WISHES 58 
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF 69 
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER 74 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS 78 
 
 FIRE-SIDE PHILOSOPHY 86 
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE 89 
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI 108 
 
 MARTHA AND MARY 129 
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR, 144 
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN 155 
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE 163 
 
A NIGHT-SCENE IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 
 
 IT was in the middle of winter, on the night of 
 the twenty-third of January, when the weather was 
 miserably cold ; it neither decidedly froze, nor yet 
 did it thaw ; but between the two it was cold and 
 damp, and penetrated to the very bone, even of 
 those who sat in carpeted rooms before large fires, 
 and were warmly clad. It was on this evening 
 that the seven little children of David Baird, the 
 weaver, stood huddled together in their small room, 
 beside a small fire, which was burning comfort- 
 lessly. The baby lay in a wooden cradle on one 
 corner of the hearth. The fire, to be sure, gave 
 some warmth, because it had boiled an iron pot 
 full of potatoes, but it gave very little cheeriness to 
 the room. The mother had portioned out the 
 evening meal, a few potatoes to each, and she 
 now sate down by the round table, lighted the 
 farthing candle, and was preparing to do some 
 little piece of housewifery. 
 
 " May I stir the fire? " asked David, the eldest 
 boy. 
 
 " No, no," replied the mother ; "it burns away 
 too fast if it is stirred." 
 
10 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " I wish we had a good fire ! " sighed Judith, the 
 second girl. 
 
 " Bless me ! " said the mother, " it is a good 
 fire ! Why, there's Dame Grundy and her grand- 
 child gone to bed because they have no fire at 
 all!" 
 
 " I should like some more salt to my potatoes," 
 said little Bessy; " may I have some, mother?" 
 
 " There is none, child," she replied ; " I put the 
 last in the pot." 
 
 " O dear ! " cried out little Joey, " my feet are 
 so bad ! They get no better, mother, though I did 
 beat them with holly." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " sighed the mother, " I wish you 
 had better shoes/' 
 
 " There's a pair," said Joey, briskly, " at Timmy 
 Nixon's, for fourteen pence." 
 
 " Fourteen pence ! " repeated the mother; "it 
 would take a long time to get fourteen pence." 
 
 " Mat. Willis begged a pair of nice warm boots," 
 replied Joey, experimentally. 
 
 " We will not beg," said the mother, " if we can 
 help it but let me see the shoes; " and Joey put 
 up one of his miserably frost-bitten feet on his 
 mother's knee. " Bless thee ! my poor lad," said 
 the mother ; " thou shalt not go to work again till 
 it is warmer." 
 
 " Mother," interrupted little Susan, " may I have 
 some more ? " 
 
 " There is no more," said she, " but I have a 
 whole loaf yet." 
 
IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 11 
 
 " O dear, O dear, how nice ! " cjied the 
 children, clapping their hands ; " and give Joey the 
 bottom crust," said one, " because of his poor 
 feet ! " 
 
 " And give me a big bit," cried Susan, holding 
 out a fat little hand. 
 
 The mother divided the loaf, setting aside a 
 piece for her husband ; and presently the husband 
 came. 
 
 " It rains, and is very cold," said he, shiver- 
 ing. 
 
 "Please God," rejoined the mother, "it will be 
 warmer after the rain." 
 
 David Baird was a tall, thin man, with an uneasy 
 look not that he had any fresh cause of uneasi- 
 ness his wages had not been lowered ; his hours 
 of work had not been increased ; nor had he 
 quarrelled with his master : but the life of a poor 
 man is an uneasy life a life of care, weariness, 
 and never-ending anxieties. What wonder then if 
 his face have a joyless look ? 
 
 The children made room for their father by the 
 fire ; Susan and Neddy placed themselves between 
 his knees, and his wife handed him the portion of 
 supper which had been set aside for him. 
 
 Mary, the eldest girl, was sitting on a box, feed- 
 ing a squirrel with the bread which her mother had 
 given her she was very happy, and kiss c d the 
 squirrel many times ; Judith was sitting beside her, 
 and David held the cup out of which the squirrel 
 drank. 
 
12 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " Nobody has inquired after that squirrel," said 
 the father, looking at them. 
 
 " No/ 3 replied Mary, " and I hope nobody 
 will." 
 
 " They will not now," said the younger David, 
 " for it is three months since we found it." 
 
 " We might sell it for half-a-crown," said the 
 father. Mary looked frightened, and held the 
 squirrel to her bosom. 
 
 " Joey's feet are very bad," remarked the mother. 
 
 " And that doctor's bill has never been paid," 
 said the father " seventeen shillings and six- 
 pence." 
 
 " 'Tis more money than we get in a week," 
 sighed the mother. 
 
 " I go round by the back lane, to avoid passing 
 the door," said the father ; " and he has asked me 
 for it three times." 
 
 " We will get it paid in the summer," rejoined 
 the mother, hopefully ; " but now coals are raised, 
 and bread, they say, will rise before the week is 
 out." 
 
 " Lord help us ! " exclaimed the father, inter- 
 nally. 
 
 " Mary, fetch the other candle," cried the mother, 
 as the farthing candle burnt low in the stick, and 
 then went out. 
 
 " There is not one," replied Mary ; " we burnt 
 out the other last night." 
 
 " Have you a farthing, David ? " asked the wife. 
 
 " Not one," replied he, rather hastily. 
 
IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 13 
 
 " Nor have we one in the house," said the wife; 
 " I paid all we had for the bread." 
 
 " Stir up the fire then," said David. 
 
 " Nay," rejoined the wife ; " coals are raised." 
 
 " Lord help us ! " again sighed David, and two 
 of the children began coughing. " Those chil- 
 dren's coughs are no better ! " remarked the father, 
 somewhat impatiently. And then the baby awoke 
 
 and so did Bessy, who had fallen asleep on the 
 floor unobserved, crying, " I am so cold, mother ! 1 
 am so cold ! " 
 
 " Go to bed with her, Mary," said the mother, 
 " for you were up betimes, this morning, washing 
 
 put your clothes on the bed, and keep her 
 warm." 
 
 Mary went into the little dark chamber to bed 
 with her sister, and her mother tried to hush the 
 crying infant. 
 
 David was distracted. He was cold, hungry, 
 weary, and in gloom. Eight children, whom he 
 loved, were about him, but he thought of them only 
 as born to poverty, uneasiness, and care, like him- 
 self he felt unhappy, and grew almost angry as 
 the baby continued to cry. 
 
 Cheer up, David, honest man! there is that 
 coming even now coming within three streets' 
 length of thee which shall raise thee above want 
 forever ! Cheer up ! this is the last hour any of 
 you shall want for fire the last hour you shall 
 want for candle-light. Thou shalt keep thy squirrel, 
 Mary ! Bessy, thou shalt have blankets to warm 
 2 
 
14 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 thee ! The doctor's bill shall be paid nor, David 
 Baird, shalt thou ever again skulk by back-ways to 
 thy work to avoid an importunate creditor ! Joey, 
 thou shalt turn the wheel no longer thy feet 
 shall get well in woollen stockings, and warm shoes 
 at five shillings the pair ! You shall no more want 
 salt to your potatoes, nor shall Susan again go short 
 of her supper ! But of all this, as yet, you know 
 nothing, good people ; and there you sit, hopeless 
 and comfortless, and know nothing about the relief 
 and such splendid relief, too, that even now is 
 approaching your door ! Wail, little baby, an' thou 
 wilt nurse thy poor tingling feet, Joey, by the 
 fire ; and muse in sadness on thy poverty, David 
 Baird, yet a few moments longer : it can do you 
 no harm, for the good news is even now turning 
 the corner of your street ! 
 
 Knock, knock, knock ! David started from his 
 reverie. 
 
 " Some one is at the door ! " said the wife ; and 
 up jumped little David. " If it is neighbor Wood 
 come to borrow some meal, you can get her a cup- 
 full," added the mother, as the knock was repeated 
 more hastily. 
 
 Up rose David Baird, and thinking of the apoth- 
 ecary's bill, opened the door reluctantly. 
 
 " Are you David Baird ? " asked the letter-car- 
 rier, who had knocked. 
 
 " I am," said David. 
 
 " This, then, is for you ; and there are twent- 
 
IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 15 
 
 two pence to pay on it," said the man, holding 
 forth a large letter. 
 
 " Is it a summons ? " cried the wife in dismay ; 
 " for what is David Baird summoned ? " and she 
 rushed to the door with the baby in her arms. 
 
 " It is no summons," replied the man, " but a 
 money-letter, I take it." 
 
 " It is not for me," said David, half glad to es- 
 cape his liability to pay the two-and-twenty pence. 
 
 " But are you not David Baird, the weaver? " 
 
 " I am," said David. 
 
 " Then," continued the letter-carrier, " pay me 
 the twenty-two pence, and if it is not right, they 
 will return you the money at the post-office." 
 
 " Twenty-two pence ! " repeated David, ashamed 
 to confess his poverty. 
 
 " One shilling and ten-pence ! " said the wife ; 
 " we have not so much money by us, good man." 
 
 " Light a candle," said the letter-carrier, bustling 
 into the house, " and hunt up what you have." 
 
 David was pushed to an extremity. " We have 
 none," said he; "we have not money to buy a 
 candle ! " 
 
 " Lord bless me ! " said the letter-carrier, and 
 gave David the younger four-pence to fetch half a 
 pound of candles. David and his wife knew not 
 what to think ; and the letter-man shook the wet 
 from his hat. In a few moments the candles 
 came, and the letter was put into David's hands. 
 
 " Open it, can't you? " said the letter-man. 
 
 " Is it for me ? " inquired David again. 
 
16 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " It is," replied the other impatiently, " what 
 a fuss is here about opening a letter ! " 
 
 " What is this ! " exclaimed David, taking out a 
 bill for one hundred pounds. 
 
 "O!" sighed the wife, "if, after all, it should 
 not be for us ! But read the letter, David ; " and 
 David read it. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " You, David Baird, weaver, of , and son 
 
 of the late David Baird, of Marden-on-Wear, lineal 
 decendant of Sir David Baird, of Monkshaughton 
 Gastle, county of York, and sole heir of Sir Peter 
 Baird, of Monkshaughton aforesaid, lately deceased, 
 are requested to meet Mr. Dennis, solicitor, at 
 York, as soon after the receipt of this as possible. 
 It will be necessary for you to bring your family 
 with you ; and to cover travelling and other ex- 
 penses, you will receive enclosed a bill for one 
 hundred pounds, payable at sight. 
 
 " I have the honor to be, 
 
 " Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 " J. SMITH, for Mr. DENNIS." 
 
 " Sure enough," said David, " David Baird, of 
 Marden-on-Wear, was my father." 
 
 " O, O, O ! " chuckled out little David, as he 
 hopped about behind the group, " a hundred 
 pounds and a castle!" 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! " ejaculated the wife, 
 while she hugged the baby in her arms 
 
IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 17 
 
 l< And," continued David, " the great Sir David 
 Baird was our ancestor, but we never looked for 
 any thing from that quarter." 
 
 " Then the letter is for you ? " asked the man. 
 
 " It is. Please Heaven to make us thankful.for 
 it," said David seriously ; " but," hesitated he, 
 " you want the money." 
 
 "No," said the letter-carrier, going out, "I'll 
 call for that to-morrow." 
 
 " Bolt the door, wife," said David, as she shut 
 the door after the man ; " this money requires safe 
 keeping." 
 
 " Mend the fire ! " said the mother ; and her 
 son David put on a shovel-full of coal, and stirred 
 out the ashes. 
 
 " Kiss me, my children ! " exclaimed the father 
 with emotion ; " kiss me, and bless God, for we 
 shall never want bread again ! " . 
 
 " Is the house on fire ? " screamed Mary, at the 
 top of the stairs, " for there is such a blaze ! " 
 
 " We are burning a mould candle! " said Judith, 
 " and have such a big fire ! " 
 
 " Come here, Mary," said the father ; and Mary 
 slid down stairs, wrapped in an old cloak. 
 
 " Father's a rich man ! we're all rich, and 
 shall live in a grand castle ! " laughed out young 
 David. 
 
 " We shall have coats, and blankets, and stock- 
 ings, and shoes ! " cried Joey, all alert, yet still 
 remembering his poor frost-bitten feet. 
 
18 A NIGHT-SCENE. 
 
 "We shall have roast beef, and plum-pud- 
 ding ! " said Susan. 
 
 " We shall have rice-pudding every day ! " cried 
 Neddy. 
 
 " And let me have a horse, father," said young 
 David. 
 
 David Baird was again distracted ; but how 
 different were his feelings ! He could have done 
 a thousand extravagant things he could have 
 laughed, cried, sung, leaped about, nay, rolled on 
 the floor for joy ; but he did none of these he 
 sate calm, arid looked almost grave. At length, 
 he said, " Wife, send the children to bed, and let 
 us talk over this good fortune together." 
 
 " You shall all have your Sunday clothes on 
 to-morrow," said the happy mother, as she sent 
 them up stairs. To bed they went ; and after 
 awhile laughed and talked themselves to sleep. 
 The father and mother smiled and wept by turns, 
 but did not sleep that night. 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 MY mother died when I was so young as to 
 have no recollection of her. My father was 
 captain of an East Indiaman, and was commonly 
 out of England for upwards of two years together. 
 He was not in the least wanting in affection to- 
 wards me, though he saw me so rarely that I used 
 to lose all remembrance of his person in the in- 
 tervals of our meeting, and had, as it were, to 
 commence a new acquaintance with him every 
 time he returned, which was not a difficult thing 
 to do, for he was naturally fond of children, and 
 was fond of me to an extreme. As it happened 
 that there were no nearly-connected branches of 
 our family to whose care I could be intrusted, my 
 father placed me with an old woman who had 
 attended my mother most faithfully during the 
 long illness which ended in her death, and to 
 whose charge she had especially committed me ; 
 and, indeed, a kinder, better nurse never lived 
 than poor Mrs. Bridget. 
 
 My father saw me gradually improving under 
 her care, from the little sickly baby my mother 
 left, to the strong rosy child which he afterwards 
 
20 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 found me. As we lived in a secluded village, 
 remote from any considerable town, but where my 
 mother's property lay, I had not the advantage of 
 attending any good school. Still, as the hamlet 
 consisted of small farmers and their laborers, I 
 was looked upon as no way inferior, in learning or 
 accomplishments, to any of them, though I was so 
 utterly ignorant that now I am frightened to think 
 of it ; for of what was beyond the affairs and objects 
 of our narrow, every-day life, I knew nothing 
 nay, even of these I knew, as it were, only the 
 externals. I never reflected ; I was only a mere 
 animal, using its five senses, but no more ; for of 
 an intellectual or spiritual existence I knew as 
 little as the fowls of the air. We were all as 
 people having eyes, but seeing not ; ears, but 
 hearing not; and hearts, yet without comprehen- 
 sion. I was, in most respects, like Peter Bell 
 and the primrose, which 
 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 To me, however,, a flower had charms beyond 
 the mere outside, and stirred sentiments within 
 me, which came and went, yet were not regarded. 
 Generally speaking, all that surrounded me were 
 but things with names ; I learned their names, and 
 then my knowledge ceased ; but afterwards, when 
 my mind was awakened, I was amazed at the 
 ramifications, as it were, of knowledge which 
 spread-vftorn the commonest things that surrounded 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 21 
 
 me ; and then it was that I found, to my infinite 
 amazement, that glass, for instance, was not the 
 mere letters which spelt the word glass, nor salt 
 mere salt, but involved, in a thousand ways, 
 subjects of the most delightful interest. I was 
 never tired of finding knowledge in common 
 things when I once knew how. But how much 
 more did all this apply to my spiritual nature as 
 connected with religious knowledge ! I had been 
 told that there was a God that I must repeat a 
 form of words, called prayers, morning and night, 
 or that he would be angry ; that I must speak the 
 truth, or he would be angry also ; in short, that 
 I must perform all my moral and religious duties 
 to avert his anger. I therefore had towards the 
 Divine Being no sentiment but that of undefined 
 fear. Here ended all my religious knowledge 
 all was vague, dark, and unpleasing. Of love, 
 gratitude, and the filial reverence which the human 
 family owe to their heavenly Parent, I knew 
 nothing. This, my utter ignorance, my father saw 
 and deplored ; nay, even tried to remedy ; but his 
 visits were either too short, or my nature too 
 volatile, for any permanent impression to be made 
 by his instructions ; and, spite of his earnest en- 
 treaties to Mrs. Bridget, that I might be properly 
 taught in these matters, I made no progress what- 
 ever ; and how, indeed, could I ? for poor Mrs. 
 Bridget, with the best will in the world, was quite 
 inadequate to the task. She was very ignorant, 
 and, having weak sight, could scarcely spell out 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 a chapter in the Bible, which, by , some un- 
 accountable chance, seemed always to open at a 
 chapter of genealogy. Poor dear soul ! what 
 sorrowful confusion she used to make when she 
 tried to enlighten me in things she so dimly com- 
 prehended herself! Again, she was very rheumatic, 
 and as the church had the reputation of being 
 damp, and service was performed in it only every 
 other Sunday, owing to the clergyman living at a 
 distance, I had not the opportunity of attending 
 divine worship, and thereby gaining some knowl- 
 edge of holy things. Mrs. Bridget, moreover, was 
 a rigid churchwoman, and could not by any means 
 have been prevailed upon to enter any of the dis- 
 senters' chapels ; so that, from various causes, we 
 seemed excluded from public worship altogether. 
 She, however, kind soul ! taught me all she knew, 
 and that well. I could knit and sew, and was qual- 
 ified in every respect for a notable housewife. I 
 watched our little meals cooking, when she was 
 otherwise occupied. I neatly mended my own 
 clothes, folded them up, and put them by with 
 scrupulous care. I even tried to wash, mounted 
 in my little pair of pattens to the wash-tub, and 
 was praised for my skill. I could iron without 
 either burning the clothes or my fingers ; and was 
 believed, by my simple-minded guardian, to be as 
 well trained a little maiden as any in the three next 
 counties. 
 
 No child ever loved the most tender mother 
 better than I did my humble friend, and our sep- 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 23 
 
 aration was a bitter pang, for I could not foresee 
 the happy consequences it would produce to us 
 both but I am anticipating events. 
 
 At eight years old I was a tall, robust, ruddy 
 girl, with an immense quantity of curling chestnut 
 hair, dangling into my eyes and hanging about my 
 shoulders. I knew every field in the parish, and 
 every creature, tame and wild, that might be found 
 in them. In the summer I went into the hay-fields 
 to work or play, as I liked best, and to ride in the 
 empty wagons, or tear my frock or my hands in 
 gathering sprays of wild roses, or long, trailing 
 stems of the beautiful blue vetch. I was up with 
 the earliest dawn to pick mushrooms in the old 
 pasture-fields; I went a-gleaning; I gathered 
 blackberries, and spent whole days in picking 
 bilberries on a wide heath some miles off, with the 
 poor children of the village, who gained their living 
 at that season by doing so ; and being instructed 
 by Mrs. Bridget to give my gatherings to my humble 
 associates, I was, wherever I went, an honored and 
 welcome companion. There was not a man, wo- 
 man, or child in the village, that I did not famil- 
 iarly know. Many a baby I had half nursed, and 
 for many a little creature's untimely death I had 
 sincerely mourned. These are small things to 
 write about, and I tell them, not to make my young 
 readers think too well of me, but as traits of my 
 early character, training, and life; and if 1 add that 
 I was generally beloved, let me not be thought vain, 
 but do, my dear young readers, take into consid- 
 
24 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 eration that, among the poor people with whom I 
 associated, there was so much kindness, so much 
 patient endurance of poverty and pain, and such 
 unostentatious sympathizing of poor neighbor with 
 neighbor, that no one could have been, as I was, 
 among them daily, nay, almost hourly, without 
 having the heart improved, and the affections and 
 charities of our nature called into activity, and 
 thereby winning their confidence and love. Mrs. 
 Bridget was a most kind-hearted, benevolent crea- 
 ture ; and was enabled, by the allowance which 
 was made for my maintenance, and our frugal way 
 of living, to be a general benefactor. I was her 
 almoner, and through my intimate knowledge of 
 every household, I became acquainted with all 
 their wants and sorrows, which we had often the 
 means, and always the will, to relieve. O! when 
 I look back to those times, and see their happiness, 
 their simplicity, and their humble usefulness, how 
 do I mourn over the one fault which darkened it 
 all our ignorance of the true nature of the Divine 
 Father even while our practice was often so 
 truly Christian ! 
 
 Although I was a considerable heiress in this 
 country district, I knew little, and thought still less, 
 about it. There was no parade about any thing. 
 The honest farmer, who acted as my father's bailiff, 
 quietly collected his yearly rents, transmitted them 
 to his agent in town, paid our small, though amply 
 sufficient stipend, and there was an end of the 
 matter. Our cottage stood on the farm of this 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 25 
 
 good man. It was a sweet little spot, embosomed 
 in trees, with a large garden, and a small orchard 
 of old mossy trees, which, nevertheless, produced 
 apples so red and so golden, that, in after years, 
 whenever I read of Hesperian apples, I saw, in 
 fancy, those of our own orchard. Among the 
 branches of the trees, ana 1 in their gnarled trunks, 
 the robin, the chaffinch, the missel-thrush, the 
 throstle, and the blackbird, found warm and safe 
 retreat; for in my predatory excursions I never 
 harried the nest of any bird which, as it were, had 
 put itself under our protection. At the bottom of 
 the orchard ran a small winding brook, with broken 
 banks, mossy, and covered with every graceful and 
 luxuriant plant that loves the water-side. The 
 stream was shaded by alders, with here and there 
 an immense, half-decaying willow, which formed in 
 itself a picturesque union of old age and vigorous 
 youth. On the orchard slope grew snowdrops and 
 wild daffodils, flowers which I can never see with^ 
 out the freshness and happiness of my early years 
 returning with the memory of that green, quiet 
 orchard. Under the hedges, among the brown, 
 half-dissected leaves of the holly, sprang up the 
 first violets of the year violets, thickly set as the 
 stars in the sky, white and blue, an almost inex- 
 haustible succession, though my little basket was 
 filled every morning. 
 
 Our garden was as old-fashioned as could well 
 be conceived : we had no flowers but of the most 
 primitive kind, but those in such luxuriant abun- 
 3 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 dance, as quite to make up for their inferior 
 quality. Never did I see such clumps of crocuses 
 as ours, nor such roots of polyanthuses ; never such 
 yellow and lilac primroses, nor elsewhere such 
 roots of that old-fashioned oxlip, called by Mrs. 
 Bridget " dick-in-green-doublets." Poor Mrs. 
 Bridget loved her garden next to myself, and was 
 very particular in the management of her auricu- 
 las, pinks, and carnations. Her horticulture was 
 reckoned the finest in the country ; and many 
 an old neighbor came in on a Sunday evening, 
 dressed in his best, to walk in our garden, and 
 quietly compliment Mrs. Bridget on the extraordi- 
 nary excellence of her favorite flowers, or to beg 
 a cutting or a root of one or the other, which the 
 kind creature never refused. 
 
 It was a happy life I led ! I had tame rabbits, 
 pet robins, and a sparrow so remarkably tame, as 
 to sit perched on my finger, eat from my lip, come 
 at my call, and nestle in my bosom to rest for 
 hours together. I had a cat, and many families of 
 kittens, and a terrier dog, called Badger, wonder- 
 fully ugly, as every body protested, but come, 
 nevertheless, of so good a race, as to be in general 
 request for every rat-catching and otter-hunting 
 within many miles. I had strolled the country 
 over in every direction, and was, in my vagrant 
 and out-of-doors life, as bold and as independent, 
 and as full of adventurous pleasure, as the most 
 arrant gypsy that pitched her tent in our lanes. 
 This life of freedom gave me the full use of all 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. '27 
 
 my limbs, and an energy and independence of 
 character, which I found afterwards to be extremely 
 useful, and which, in some degree, counterbalanced 
 the defects of my early education. 
 
 Such was I, when my father announced his in- 
 tention of visiting us, and for a longer period than 
 usual. The tidings were those of great joy, for 
 dear Mrs. Bridget had always encouraged in my 
 young heart the most ardent affection for my 
 father ; and perfectly believing that she had entirely 
 fulfilled her duty towards me, she anticipated his 
 coming with impatience almost equal to my own. 
 We talked of it morning, noon, and night ; and 
 such had always been the perfect integrity of her 
 conduct, that now nothing was done differently in 
 the prospect of my father's coming, nor was I in- 
 structed to do thus and thus, nor to say this or the 
 other before him ; for Mrs. Bridget believed every 
 thing had been done that he could desire, and ex- 
 actly according to his wishes. 
 
 The first few days of my father's visit were days 
 of unmingled pleasure : he found me grown beyond 
 his hopes, and full of affection and buoyant spirits ; 
 and " all went merrily as a marriage-bell," till 
 Sunday, when, as there was that day no service 
 at church, my father took me by the hand, and, 
 seating me beside him, on a little bench in the or- 
 chard, began to question me on religious subjects. 
 He had been himself most religiously educated in 
 his youth, and, I have heard it said, had performed 
 family worship for many years, with wonderful 
 
28 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 solemnity and propriety, after his father's death, 
 which occurred when he was but nine years old. 
 He had always thought it of the highest im- 
 portance that children should receive very early 
 religious knowledge : it may, therefore, be im- 
 agined what would be his horror to find me, though 
 a Christian's child, as ignorant as a little pagan. 
 My answers to his questions, and my remarks, were, 
 I believe, painfully irrational or foolish ; and I am 
 ashamed to think how the ignorance, which, in the 
 openness of my nature, I fully revealed, must have 
 shocked and wounded his deeply-religious mind. 
 Never shall I forget the agony of my spirit, when I 
 saw him burst into tears, and bewail over me as a 
 lost, neglected creature. The sudden sense of a 
 great calamity fell upon me, and I felt as, if I had, 
 in some way, betrayed a fatal secret, which would 
 bring misery on dear Mrs. Bridget ; for I heard my 
 father couple her name with epithets which, though 
 I could no.t fully understand, I knew to be terms 
 of reproach and displeasure. After some time, he 
 took me again by the hand, and returned with me 
 to the house, where he poured out his great anger 
 against the amazed Mrs. Bridget. She had warm 
 feelings loved me better than her life, and be- 
 lieving me a faultless creature, was no less hurt 
 than angry at my father's reproaches. 
 
 The end of this strange and distressing scene 
 was my father's determination to remove me from 
 her guardianship ; and, spite of my prayers to 
 remain, and Mrs. Bridget's tears, expostulations, 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 29 
 
 and upbraidings, she was ordered to pack up my 
 little wardrobe and prepare me for a journey on 
 the morrow. What an unhappy evening that was ! 
 I sate like one stupefied with some strange sorrow, 
 and many, many times half believed it a painful 
 dream, from which I tried in vain to wake- 
 Nothing in the world, I am sure, could have pre- 
 vailed on poor Mrs. Bridget to make the needful 
 preparations, but the knowledge that I must be the 
 sufferer if she neglected to provide comfortably 
 for the journey, which, she was told, would be a 
 long one. 
 
 I will not attempt to tell my young readers what 
 a melancholy going-to-bed mine was that night 
 how the dear, kind creature wept over me, and 
 kissed me, and folded me in her arms, looking 
 in my face with the most passionate love, and then 
 hiding hers in her apron to conceal her grief. I 
 laid myself down upon the bed where we had so 
 often slept together, and, burying my face in the 
 pillow, cried myself into an uneasy slumber. In 
 the very early morning I awoke. All was still in 
 the house, except the crickets, which I heard 
 chirping on the kitchen hearth but no Mrs. 
 Bridget was in bed ! I started up half terrified, and, 
 drawing the curtain aside, saw, by the light of the 
 moon, the kind creature sitting in the room, her 
 face covered with both her hands, and presently 
 after heard the sobs which she could no longer 
 restrain. She had been busy all the night making 
 preparations for my journey ; and now, while some 
 
30 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 little confectionary was baking in the oven, had 
 stolen up to be near me, while I was yet under the 
 same roof. 
 
 The remainder of the night I did not sleep, but, 
 at my earnest request, I was carried down to the 
 warm kitchen hearth, where, after being dressed 
 with the most solemn care, and wrapped in her 
 best scarlet cloak, we sat down to pass the time 
 together, with protestations of affection, and with 
 many tears, till the early hour which was fixed for 
 my departure. 
 
 In the morning my father seemed softened to- 
 wards my poor friend. He permitted our tediously 
 long parting without impatience, and even wept 
 himself, to witness the vehement sorrow of the poor 
 old woman, to whom, in truth, both he and I owed 
 so much. 
 
 Our journey was a very long one ; and finally I 
 was placed under the care of a widow lady of the 
 name of Herman, an early friend of my father, 
 and who, having lost several young children of her 
 own, was willing to receive me in the place of a 
 little daughter. I am ashamed to confess that I 
 was so wretched at parting from dear Mrs. Bridget, 
 that I closed my heart against any one who might 
 be chosen to supply her place, wiakedly determin- 
 ing not to love her, nor even to miake myself amia- 
 ble to her. But the soul of a child so used to affec- 
 tion as I had been, could not long remain insen- 
 sible to daily and hourly kindness. I felt it instinc- 
 tively in the tone of Mrs. Herman's voice, in the 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 31 
 
 expression of her countenance, and could as little 
 resist its influence, as the opening flower could 
 resist the sunshine. In a few days, therefore, we 
 were better friends than it had been my intention 
 that we ever should become. She knew all the 
 peculiar circumstances of my young life from my 
 father, and, having won my confidence, soon pen- 
 etrated my heart also, and, in so doing, learned 
 much that made her love and admire my poor, 
 humble friend. She encouraged me to talk about 
 her, and on this subject I never was weary. What 
 was my surprise, when, one day, after such a con- 
 versation, she remarked to my father, on his enter- 
 ing the room, that she hoped he would allow Mrs. 
 Bridget to take up her residence with us, and still 
 be my attendant, though under her own inspection. 
 My father seemed amazed, and even for a moment 
 objected, but she pleaded so kindly for the poor 
 woman, urging our many obligations to her, and 
 hoping that we might be the means of instructing 
 her on subjects of which she seemed so ignorant, 
 that in the end my father consented. I was over- 
 powered by this goodness, and clasping my arms 
 round Mrs. Herman's neck, shed tears of joy and 
 gratitude. The next day my father again set off 
 to our village to bring back with him my kind and 
 early friend. 
 
 Mrs. Bridget was still more endeared to me by 
 this short separation ; and never was child so happy 
 in the prospect of any pleasure as I was in this 
 reunion. I fancied to myself how she would look, 
 
32 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 and what would be the dress in which she would 
 arrive the handsome chintz gown and fine linen 
 apron, the scarlet cloak, and the black mode bon- 
 net, trimmed with old-fashioned black lace. I 
 described her over and over again to my new friend, 
 and even told what she would assuredly say at our 
 first meeting. But I was wrong : my father 
 found her ill in bed ill, as the doctor averred, 
 from excessive grief; and although she rose up, as 
 soon as she heard the glad tidings, declaring that 
 she was able to undertake the journey that very 
 day, it was too much for her, and I had to receive 
 her, a feeble invalid. 
 
 All the household was affected by her arrival, 
 and the most unwearied kindness and attention 
 were bestowed upon her. These things all 
 touched the good heart of Mrs. Bridget; and 
 she, who, like me, had entered the house with 
 prejudice against its inmates, could not be proof 
 against their kindness. 
 
 My father did not remain with us long enough 
 to witness her recovery and establishment in the 
 family. To her was intrusted the care of my 
 person and clothes, to which she had so long 
 zealously attended. She had a little room of her 
 own, and the allowance which was made to her 
 formerly being still continued, made her a rich 
 woman. 
 
 Now began, indeed, the golden days of my life. 
 The Bible, which had been hitherto a sealed book 
 to us both, lay open before us, and the y?y of my 
 
MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 33 
 
 life was to sit at dear Mrs. Bridget's knee, and 
 read to her the simple, beautiful, and affecting 
 narratives it contains. In her mind there was 
 nothing to counteract the influence of good ; she 
 received it with the sincerity and simplicity of a 
 little child, and with the knowledge she thus 
 gained, sentiments awoke in her soul of which 
 she had but little idea before. Poor, dear Mrs. 
 Bridget, what an insatiable delight had she in 
 those pleasant ancient stories ! Nor was the pleas- 
 ure I took in them less than hers. With what 
 amazement and love did we read the history of 
 Joseph ! His being torn from his doting father 
 came home to her heart. The exploits of David 
 the lives and deeds of Elisha and Elijah the 
 true-heartedness and affection of Ruth the in- 
 tegrity and wonderful deliverance of the three 
 faithful children from the burning fiery furnace, 
 and of Daniel from the lions' den; but above 
 all, the history of the Shunamite woman and her 
 little son, and of David and the lost child of 
 his affections, were full of the most engrossing 
 interest to her ; and in all she found something to 
 which her own heart and its experience responded. 
 But if I first pointed out these extraordinarily in- 
 teresting histories to the dear old creature, it was 
 she who first awoke my mind to the beauty, the 
 purity, the benevolence, and the heroism, of the 
 character of our Savior. 
 
 It was a pleasant life that we now led ! Mrs. 
 Herman always encouraged me to converse on 
 
34 MRS. BRIDGET AND HER WARD. 
 
 these subjects, and to me they were the most de 
 lightful and the most interesting that we ever 
 spoke upon ; for she made religion so lovely by 
 the cheerfulness of her conversation, that L could 
 not believe any one could ever shrink from it as a 
 gloomy subject. 
 
 Thus passed over several years. In the mean 
 time I was learning a variety of things which it 
 was necessary for me to know geography, and 
 the natural history and manners of the inhabitants 
 of the Eastern countries, among the rest. These 
 I found wonderfully to elucidate my knowledge 
 of the Scripture histories, and I aspired to teach 
 Mrs. Bridget the same ; but here, poor, dear soul, 
 she was as dull as a block, and seemed to compre- 
 hend nothing about them. Her heart was not in- 
 terested by them, and all Mrs. Bridget's knowledge 
 must pass through her affections. I therefore left 
 her to the Bible alone, while I read and studied 
 various other books and histories, and gained as 
 much information as satisfied my friends, if not 
 myself. 
 
 I need not pursue the subject further. My 
 kind young readers, who have gone thus far with 
 me, will be sure that the latter days of poor Mrs. 
 Bridget were made as happy as possible they 
 were so indeed ! She lived to a good old age, 
 and then, full of love and peace, passed to that 
 brighter world, for which the knowledge of her 
 latter years had so worthily prepared her. 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 ANECDOTE I. 
 HOW A MAN WOULD CATCH " WILL-o'-THE-WISP." 
 
 THERE was a man, once upon a time, and with- 
 in the memory of several old people now living, 
 who was bent upon catching Will-o'-the-Wisp, or, 
 as it is sometimes called, Peg-with-her-lantern. 
 Nobody but himself believed he could do this; 
 but he was himself quite sure he could accomplish 
 it ; and whenever he had an extra glass of ale, he 
 was always ready to set out on the expedition. 
 It happened, therefore, one night, as he came from 
 Denby, a village in Derbyshire, (the village where 
 Flamstead, the astronomer, was born,) not remark- 
 ably sober, and yet steady enough to keep his 
 ground, he resolved to make the attempt. What he 
 meant to do with Peg when he caught her, I do not 
 know; perhaps he did not exactly know himself ; 
 nor am I sure that he had any idea what sort of a 
 thing she would prove ; but mystery, some people 
 think, makes things more interesting, and so, I 
 suppose, it was in his case. On he went, there- 
 
OO A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 fore, towards some old fish-ponds, where there was 
 a long arid wide morass ; and immediately, as if 
 fortune would favor him, he descried the object 
 of his desire, glimmering out before him. Off he 
 went, floundering and plunging like a wild horse, 
 through bog and over bush ; but when he had 
 reached the spot, she had vanished, and again 
 gleamed out before him like a little spark, at the 
 distance of a hundred yards. But as he expected 
 to have some trouble in taking her, he was not to 
 be easily daunted, and vowing to make sure of her 
 at last, off he went again. Peg, however, as wild 
 and nimble as her brother Jack-o'-lantern, had 
 set off again as far away to the right hand. To the 
 right, therefore, he went ; but when he got there, 
 through bush, through brake, off she had skipped 
 away to the left, and he, nothing dismayed, went off, 
 like a bold hunter, in that direction. Peg now 
 seemed in a much quieter and steadier humor, 
 and the nearer he came, the brighter she gleamed 
 and glimmered now, for a moment, dimming 
 herself, then again shining out clearer than ever. 
 Our pursuer, certain of the prize, threw off his coat, 
 which had\ somewhat impeded his motions, and 
 chuckling to himself over the prize he was about to 
 win, sprang forward with outstretched arms to 
 seize her, uttering an exultant shout of " Now I 
 have you ! " and plunged his arms up to his shoul- 
 ders in a peat-fire. 
 
A CHAPTER OP ANECDOTES. 37 
 
 ANECDOTE II. 
 OF A RAVEN THAT WENT TO A FAIR. 
 
 THERE was, some fifty years ago, a cunning and 
 mischievous raven, named Ralph, kept at a lone- 
 some farm-house in Derbyshire. He was a great 
 favorite with all the family, though he often created 
 much annoyance and trouble by his thievish tricks. 
 Whatever came in his way, which was not too 
 heavy for him to lift, he carried off; yet, though 
 every one knew who was the thief, he seldom came 
 in for punishment, the servants and different 
 members of the family being blamed instead, for 
 leaving things in his way. Notwithstanding the 
 care, however, which every body took to put things 
 in their places, Ralph found many a little article of 
 which he made prize, and many a one which was 
 never missed at the time. 
 
 After Ralph had practised his thievery, and in- 
 dulged his habit of secretiveness for some years, 
 all his hoard came one day suddenly to light. He 
 had buried it in, as he thought, a cunning hole 
 that he had made in the thatched roof of a barn. 
 His -treasures grew and grew, and the hole had been 
 deepened and deepened, till it was as deep as the 
 thatch itself, and then all his accumulation fell 
 through upon the barn floor. And what a won- 
 derful accumulation there was ! thimbles, small 
 pieces of money, balls of cotton, knitting-needles, 
 4 
 
38 A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 curtain-rings, one or two gold rings, a brooch, 
 sleeve-buttons, two salt-spoons, a mustard-pot lid, 
 a seal and the gold-setting of a seal, combs, little 
 old housewives, pincushions, buckles, hair-pins, 
 and all the multitude of small things that abound 
 in the houses of tolerably well-conditioned people. 
 There was a world of amusement in the owning of 
 Ralph's treasury, and many an old forgotten thing 
 was brought to light, and many another was found 
 of which nobody could give any account. 
 
 The winter after this event, poor Ralph came to 
 an untimely end. The travelling tailor who used 
 to come now and then to the house, to make and 
 mend the clothes of the family, had made him, of 
 scarlet cloth, a comb and wattles, like those of a 
 chanticleer, which he allowed to be put on, and 
 seemed to wear with as much pride as a young 
 soldier wears his new uniform. Not long after 
 being thus accoutred, there chanced to be a fair 
 in the neighborhood, and, as several members of 
 the family went to it, Ralph saw no reason why he 
 might not go also. Off, therefore, he flew after 
 them, and, arriving in the height of the fair, perched 
 upon the roof of a house which stood in the centre 
 of the bustle. The poor fellow had all his bravery 
 on, and was immediately descried, every body 
 taking him for some wonderful bird, and every body 
 being desirous of securing him. 
 
 Unfortunately, a man with a gun was at hand, and, 
 to make sure of so strange a creature while he was 
 within reach, fired at him ; and poor Ralph and his 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 39 
 
 bravery fell together. Hardly had he reached the 
 ground, when his old friends of the farm came up 
 with a crowd that had been drawn to the spot by 
 the firing of the gun, and in the strange, nondescript 
 creature they instantly recognized their old favor- 
 ite. Great was the^lamentation that was made 
 over him, and loud and vehement their indignation 
 at the impatient rabble who had so summarily 
 ended his days. His sagacity was an endless theme 
 of discourse ; story after story was told of him, and 
 so great was the sympathy of all the fair-going 
 people, that for some time they forgot the amuse- 
 ments that surrounded them, to condole over the 
 unfortunate raven that came to the fair in all his 
 finery to meet so tragic an end. 
 
 ANECDOTE III. 
 HOW A BULFINCH DIED OF JOY. 
 
 THERE was once a bulfinch kept by a lady, 
 which was so extremely fond of her as to exceed 
 any instance of attachment I ever heard of before. 
 Her presence created a sort of sunshine to him, and 
 he sung and rejoiced with his whole heart when 
 she was by ; while he drooped in her absence, and 
 would sit silent in his cage for whole days to- 
 
40 A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 The lady fell sick, and was confined to her bed 
 for a week with so severe an illness as to be en- 
 tirely disabled from thinking of the bird. At 
 length, when she was sufficiently recovered to see 
 him, she ordered his cage to be brought and set 
 upon the bed beside her. The poor bird knew 
 her voice in an instant, though it was weak and 
 low with her extreme fever. The cage-door was 
 opened ; he uttered a shrill cry between a song 
 and a scream fluttered from her hand to her 
 cheek, and then fell down, dead! 
 
 ANECDOTE IV. 
 ABOUT A MAN AND A BEAR. 
 
 WHEN I was wandering in the backwoods of 
 North America, (said a traveller,) I came one day 
 upon an old tnan, the most picturesque object 1 
 ever saw : his dress was of coarse home manufac- 
 ture, and was rudely shaped to his large-boned 
 person, probably by the hands of some female 
 tailor. His clothes were torn by wandering among 
 forests, and literally hung about him in shreds and 
 tatters ; and amid the various parts of his wearing 
 apparel, several little articles of Indian manufac- 
 ture were to be seen. Over his deer-skin leggins 
 he wore the curiously wrought moccasins or Indian 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 41 
 
 shoes : in the place of a hat, he had a scarlet 
 wampum-belt bound round his head, and he 
 smoked from an Indian pipe. Notwithstanding 
 this curious costume, his countenance showed at a 
 glance that he belonged to civilized society ; and 
 his friendly salutation, spoken in good English, 
 sounded delightful to me, after having ceased to 
 hear my native tongue for many weeks. 
 
 The old man sat upon a fallen tree, and seemed 
 to have just taken his repast ; for his dried venison 
 and Indian bread, and yet open wallet, lay before 
 him. I needed no second invitation to partake 
 his seat ; and, drawing forth my own store of pro- 
 vision, followed his example. 
 
 My old man of the woods was a surveyor, em- 
 ployed by the American government to measure 
 and set out tracts of land in the back settlements. 
 It was a wild and lonely life that he led, and one 
 which afforded him continual opportunity of gain- 
 ing knowledge of Indian life and character, and 
 of observing the habits of the beasts and birds of 
 the wilderness. 
 
 The bears, he told me, were the most trouble- 
 some neighbors he had in his out-of-doors life; 
 and he said that he was obliged to hang the wallet 
 containing his provisions in a tree while he slept, 
 otherwise these audacious creatures would steal it, 
 even from under his head. He was sleeping, he 
 said, one night, with his wallet for his pillow, 
 when he was awoke by something violently tug- 
 ging at it. He started up, and saw in the early 
 4* 
 
42 A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 dawn a shaggy, black bear : he rose, and, opening 
 his bag, threw him a large piece of his dried veni- 
 son, saying, " There, take that, and welcome ! " 
 The bear snapped it up, and then stood waiting 
 for more : he threw him another piece, saying, 
 " Take that then, and prithee, begone ! " Again 
 the bear stood in expectation. A third time he 
 threw him a slice, exclaiming, "Why, thou'st no 
 conscience; take that, and be satisfied!" But 
 the bear, still insatiable, gulped down the third 
 piece with a great swallow, and again stood wait- 
 ing for more. At this, the man's patience came 
 to an end, and heaving up his great staff, he gave 
 him a lusty blow on his head, bellowing at the 
 highest pitch of his voice, " Take that then, and 
 be off with thee ! " Upon this, the bear, uttering a 
 loud cry, trotted away into the woods, and the old 
 man saw no more of him ; but after this adventure, 
 he took care to hang his provisions far enough out 
 of the reach of the bears. 
 
 ANECDOTE V. 
 
 OP A DOG THAT COULD AND COULD NOT RECKON 
 TIME. 
 
 MANY persons think that dogs, however saga- 
 cious, have no notion of the recurrence of periods 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 43 
 
 of time, unless they are guided by external signs ; 
 as, for instance, the return of the Sunday by the 
 cessation of the week's labor. But there was a 
 dog which was guided by something beyond this 
 in his calculation of times, and of him I am about 
 to give an anecdote. He was a white terrier, of a 
 good race, and his name was Pry ; and, though ac- 
 tive and clever in the pursuit of vermin, not re- 
 markably gifted with any great intellectual powers. 
 He belonged to a family of the society of Friends, 
 who lived in a country place, and who were in the 
 habit of attending their meeting their week-day 
 meeting, as they called it on the Thursday, 
 some two miles off, in a lonely and rather wild 
 place. Pry took it into his head that he, too, 
 would attend the meeting : it was famous sport for 
 him to run up and about the wild hollows, and 
 deep lanes, and water-courses, that lay between his 
 home and the meeting-house ; and such an amuse- 
 ment, once a week, would not have been denied 
 to him, had he been contented to stay quietly in 
 the stable with the horses, or lie outside the door 
 till his master was ready to return home. But Pry 
 had a will of his own, and he chose to lie at his 
 master's feet in summer, and before the warm 
 stove in winter, while the Friends continued their 
 sitting together ; and though it must be acknowl- 
 edged that his behavior was unexceptionable, still 
 it was looked upon as somewhat indecorous to in- 
 troduce a dog into so grave a company. The 
 family, therefore, well knowing the pertinacity of 
 
44 A CHAPTER OP ANECDOTES. 
 
 Pry's temper, gave orders that he should be tied 
 up on meeting-mornings, and thus kept at home 
 perforce. For a week or two this was done to 
 poor Pry's great discomfort, but at length he out- 
 witted them. On these mornings he was never to 
 be found ; so that he secured his own liberty, and 
 then joined his master about half way on the road, 
 or rather kept him in view, and demurely followed 
 him to the place of worship. After a little time 
 longer, when he supposed the discipline to have 
 somewhat relaxed, though he would never venture 
 his liberty within the house on these especial 
 mornings, not even to come for his breakfast, he 
 took his station at the top of the village street, 
 within sight of the door and windows of his mas- 
 ter's house, and there patiently waited till he saw 
 signs of setting out, and then trotted on in great 
 security and good humor. When Pry's master 
 saw, by all these stratagems, and all this doggish 
 wisdom, that he was bent upon his purpose, he 
 made no further opposition, and Pry became a 
 regular and authorized attender of Friends' meet- 
 ings. But now comes the singularity of the story. 
 About once in every two months the meeting was 
 held at a distant place, which the family but rarely 
 attended. The dog knew when the regular day 
 of the week recurred, and invariably set out, trot- 
 ting by himself to the very meeting-house door, 
 which, when he found shut, he examined with a 
 curious kind of canine wonderment: and then, 
 after having walked over the grave-yard, and round 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 45 
 
 and into the stable, without finding any token of 
 arrival, sedately turned back again, and though ap- 
 parently perplexed and disappointed, soon set his 
 nose to the ground, and traced out all the wonders 
 of the homeward way. 
 
 Now, that a dog should know when it was the 
 meeting-day by some external signs, as the bring- 
 ing up of a horse, the putting on of his masters 
 gaiters, or perhaps by the conversation of the 
 family, does not seem so extraordinary, consid- 
 ering the wonderful instances of canine acute- 
 ness which we have on record ; but that he should 
 actually know, without ever mistaking it, when 
 the day came though there was no outward sign 
 of preparation nor even conversation about it 
 certainly was singular. The dog, though he 
 had intellect enough to know the recurring day in 
 seven, had yet not sufficient intellect to discover 
 the regular exception, which happened about 
 every eighth week. 
 
 ANECDOTE VI. 
 OF A RAVEN THAT HAD A DINNER PARTY. 
 
 THERE was a raven kept a few years ago at 
 Newhaven an inn on the road between Buxton 
 and Ashbourn. This bird had been taught to 
 
46 A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 call the poultry, and, like the parrot of Paraguay, 
 could do it very well too. One day, the table 
 being set out for the coach-passengers' dinner, 
 the cloth was laid, with the knives and forks, 
 spoons, mats, and bread, and in that state it was 
 left for some time, the room door being shut, 
 though the window was open. The raven had 
 watched the operation very quietly, and, as we 
 may suppose, felt a strong ambition to do the like. 
 When the coach was just arriving, the dinner 
 was carried in but, behold! the whole para- 
 phernalia of the dinner-table had vanished silver 
 spoons, knives, forks, all gone! But what was 
 the surprise and amusement to see, through the 
 open window, upon a heap of rubbish in the yard, 
 the whole array very carefully set out, and the 
 raven performing the honors of the table to a 
 numerous company of poultry which he had sum- 
 moned about him, and was very consequentially 
 regaling with bread ! 
 
 ANECDOTE VII. 
 HOW A BOY TOOK A FLIGHT. 
 
 THERE is a story, and which I believe is a fact, 
 of two boys going to take a jack-daw's nest from 
 a hole under the belfry window in the tower of 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 47 
 
 All-Saints' Church, Derby. As it was impossible 
 to reach the nest while standing within the build- 
 ing, and equally impossible to ascend to that 
 height from without, they determined to put a 
 plank through the window, and while the heavier 
 boy secured its balance by sitting on the end 
 within, the lighter boy was to fix himself on the 
 opposite end, and, from that perilous situation, to 
 reach the object of their desire. So far the 
 scheme answered according to their wishes. The 
 little fellow took the nest, and, finding in it five 
 fledged young birds, announced the news to his 
 companion. 
 
 " Five are there? " replied he ; " then I'll have 
 three ! " 
 
 " Three ! " exclaimed the other, indignantly. 
 "No, I ran all the danger, and I will have the 
 three ! " 
 
 " You shall not," still maintained the boy in 
 the inside " you shall not ! Promise me three, 
 or I'll drop you ! " 
 
 " Drop me and welcome," replied our little 
 hero ; " but I will promise you no more than 
 two ! " 
 
 The boy inside slipped off the plank, the end 
 tilted up, and down went the lesser boy upwards 
 of a hundred feet to the ground. At the moment 
 of his fall, he was holding his prize by the legs, 
 two in one hand and three in the other, and the 
 birds, finding themselves descending, instinctively 
 fluttered out their pinions. But it was not these 
 
48 A CHAPTER OP ANECDOTES. 
 
 alone which saved the boy. He had on a stout 
 new carter's frock, secured round the neck, and 
 this, filling with air from beneath, buoyed him up 
 like a balloon, and he descended smoothly to the 
 ground, alighting, like a cat, on his legs; and 
 then looking up, he exclaimed to his companion, 
 " Now you shall have none ! " and ran away, 
 sound in limb, to the astonishment of the inhab- 
 itants, who, with inconceivable horror, had wit- 
 nessed his descent 
 
 ANECDOTE VIII. 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 
 
 WHEN I was a little child of five or six years 
 old, I and my sister, rather older than myself, 
 were taken by our father to spend a summer's 
 day in Needwood Forest. We were little wild 
 things, as brown and as hardy as gypsies, and 
 many a long, happy day we had spent under the 
 forest-trees, dining in woodmen's cottages, or, if 
 none were at hand, by the side of a little running 
 stream in some old woodland hollow. 
 
 Towards noon, on one of these happy days, as 
 we were wearied with a long morning's ramble, 
 we were left to recover from our fatigue under 
 the spreading shade of an immense tree, like 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES, 49 
 
 fairies in a fairy-tale ; looking as diminutive as 
 they in proportion to this giant of the forest, 
 and being almost lost among its curled and twisted 
 roots, which were heaved up, old, and mossed, and 
 rugged, and wreathed together like a nest of angry 
 snakes, which had been turned to stone, ages and 
 ages before. Around us lay a small opening of 
 forest glade, covered with short, green grass, upon 
 which the sunshine fell with such soft light as to 
 give it the color of clear emerald ; this was en- 
 closed by thickets of black holly, which, in con- 
 trast with the light fore-ground, looked still more 
 intensely dark : under and among these grew the 
 greenwood-laurel, with its clusters of poisonous- 
 looking berries, and whole beds of the fair, white 
 stellaria, shining like stars (whence its name) 
 among its grass-like leaves of tender green. In 
 other spots grew clusters of the dark, mysterious- 
 looking enchanter's nightshade ; and the singular 
 and rare four-leaved Herb-Paris, or True-love, 
 bearing its berry-like flower at the central angles 
 of its four leaves. 
 
 There was an undefined feeling, half of pleasure 
 and half of pain, in being left alone in so wild a 
 spot. We heard the crow of the distant pheasant, 
 the coo-coo of the wood-pigeon, and the laugh- 
 like cry of the wood-pecker ; and these, though 
 familiar to us, seemed strangely to add to the 
 solitariness of the scene. And yet it was very 
 delightful. We talked cheerfully of every thing 
 around us; watched the hare run past, or from 
 5 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 thicket to thicket ; and the starling creep up the 
 old trees, and the little birds fly in and out from 
 -their woody screens, with more than common in- 
 terest. But at length, after long watching and 
 long observation, we remarked to each other a 
 strange, unceasing, low sound, which we could not 
 comprehend ; it seemed to keep up a perpetual 
 chirr-chirr-r-r-ing, somewhere near us, but exactly 
 where, we could not tell. At times it appeared 
 just beside us, and then half the glade's distance 
 off; now it was high, now low, now on this side, 
 now on that the strangest, most perplexing, and 
 incomprehensible sound we had ever heard. 
 
 In the midst of our wonderment and lack of 
 counsel, up came a stout forest-boy, of twelve 
 years, or thereabouts. He was a brown and wild- 
 looking creature, like a very satyr of the woods : 
 he was dressed in a suit of leather, had a belt 
 Tound his waist, in which he carried his wood- 
 knife, and on his back was a bundle of fagots. 
 As he came up, he seemed amazed to find two 
 children, like the Babes in the Wood, seated hand 
 in hand at the foot of an old tree, and made a 
 pause to look at us. We were not alarmed at his 
 strange appearance, for such figures, in such gro- 
 tesque garbs, were familiar to us in our forest 
 wanderings ; so, hailing him as a friend and coun- 
 seller, we demanded what was that strange, low 
 voice, which we heard somewhere thereabout. 
 
 The boy looked at us for half a moment with a, 
 sort of grin, and then, with a sudden look of fear, 
 
A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 51 
 
 half bending his body and speaking in a low but 
 distinctly articulated whisper " It's my Lord 
 Vernon's blood-hounds," said he ; " they are out 
 hunting, and yon sounds are the chains which 
 they drag after them I " and so saying he dashed 
 off like a wild stag. 
 
 What a horror now fell upon us I The glade 
 was like an enchanted forest : all at once the trees 
 seemed to swell out to the most gigantic and ap- 
 palling size ; every twisted root seemed a writhing 
 snake, and every old wreathed branch a down- 
 bending adder ready to devour us. The holly 
 thickets seemed full of an increasing blackness, 
 which, like a dreadful dream, appeared growing- 
 upon our imagination till it was too horrible to be 
 borne. We felt * r . if hemmed in by a mighty 
 wilderness of gloom that cut us off from our kin- 
 dred, and still the chirr-r-chirr-r of the terrible 
 hounds and their dragging chains sounded through 
 the dreadful silence, and seeming to our affrighted 
 senses to come nearer and nearer, well nigh drove 
 us distracted. What indeed would have become 
 of us, I know not, had we been left to ourselves 
 and our terrors ; but our cry of " Father ! father ! " 
 speedily brought him to us, and the enchantment 
 fled with his presence. The laugh with which he 
 heard our story dispelled the whole terror of it.. 
 " It is the grasshopper, and nothing more," said 
 he, " which has caused all this foolish alarm ; '* 
 and then listening for a moment, he traced it by 
 its sound among the short, dry> sunny grass, ani 
 
O;J A CHAPTER OF ANECDOTES. 
 
 then held it in his hand before us. " And yet he 
 was a wicked boy," continued our father, " who 
 told a falsehood to frighten you thus. But come, 
 now you shall go to your dinner ; " and so saying, 
 and taking one by each hand, he led us from the 
 enchanted glade to a woodman's cottage in the 
 next dell. 
 
TO HIS COUSIN. 55* 
 
 of the world was certainly coming, with thumping 
 and drumming, and running about, the most horri- 
 ble rout with the squall of a cat and the cry of 
 a bird, such a racket as ne'er out of Bedlam was 
 heard 1 
 
 Well, you may be sure this could not endure 
 without in a flurry and very great hurry all running 
 to see what the matter could be. And Martha and 
 Jane, and stout Adam Blane, and old Thomas and 
 I, we determined to try if we could not find out 
 what the noise was about ; so up stairs and down 
 we went over the house, and left not a corner to 
 harbor a mouse. The old clock was ticking, the 
 crickets were clicking ; the little canary hung up 
 in the dairy, and the guinea-pig lay fast asleep in 
 the hay, and there was not a trace of a thing out 
 of place. But just at the moment, when we had 
 got no scent, again it was heard, so loud, on my 
 word, that we started each man, and the women 
 looked wan, with a terrified stare, as they whispered > 
 "'Tis there!" Then old Thomas Baffin did 
 straight fall a- laughing, and bade us all follow ; and 
 off with a " Hollo I " ran up the back stairs, shout- 
 ing, " I'll give you bones, to rattle like stones ! You 
 dog and you cat, what would you be at ? " Says 
 Martha to Jane, " Why, he's mad, and that's 
 plain ! let's go up to Missis', and say how strange 
 this is ! " But I answered, " O no, you shall not 
 do so ; you would frighten my poor mother out of 
 her wits : why, you look as if both were just falling 
 ,in fits what a couple of cowards you are to be 
 
56 MATTHEW NOGGINS'S LETTER 
 
 sure ! Nay, stay by the fire if you dare go no higher, 
 and Adam and I will go up and spy what this 
 horrible riot and racket can be." 
 
 Now mark, you are told that I looked very bold ; 
 but, Peter, my dear, let me say in your ear, that I 
 certainly felt as if going to melt ; for I heard such 
 a battering, such thundering and clattering, and 
 Thomas a-calling, as if for help bawling, that I 
 felt half inclined to alter my mind, and not back 
 the fellow, howe'er he might bellow. 
 
 But on with my letter my pride got the better 
 so bidding my cowardice go to the wall, I up 
 stairs ascended to see the thing ended, and know 
 what old Thomas had found, after all. Well, 
 when I got there, at the top of the stair, I turned 
 round to see where Adam might be ; but, thank ye, 
 no Adam had ventured with me ! However, I heard 
 where old Thomas Baffin was chuckling and laugh- 
 ing, and " Come up," says he, " and then you shall 
 see what this riot and rout has been all about ! " 
 So through his own chamber, I onward did clam- 
 ber, and out on the leads saw a cluster of heads, 
 and 'mong them old Thomas's face with a grin of 
 the merriest meaning that ever was seen. " O 
 master," says he, " come up here to me, and I'll 
 show you a sight worth another such fright ! " 
 Well, I went up, and what do you think I should 
 find ? Old Growler and Vixen the cat, and the 
 raven that's blind ; and betwixt them a great big 
 shin-bone of a horse, which they jumbled about 
 without any remorse and gnawed at, and clawed 
 
TO HIS COUSIN. 57 
 
 at and fought for, like mad ; and a terrible 
 battle no doubt they had had ! 
 
 But ere I have done I must tell you the fun we 
 had in expelling the ghost from the dwelling. Down 
 stairs in a flurry, we drove hurry-scurry, with a 
 " Whist ! " and a " Hey ! " old Vixen away ; then 
 Growler went next, half ashamed and perplexed, 
 with his great dangling tail like a torn windmill 
 sail ;. and after him blundering the big bone went 
 thundering knock knock down the stairs at a 
 terrible rate, and gave our friend Adam a bump on 
 the pate ; but ere he had time for a grunt or a 
 groan, flap, flap went the blind raven over the 
 bone, right into the kitchen both croaking and 
 screeching ! 
 
 Next after the three came down Thomas and 
 me; very great with our glory, as you may con- 
 ceive. So here ends my story, and I take my leave ; 
 and the sooner, the better, you send me a letter. 
 So, Peter, good by : 
 
 -You know well that I 
 
 Am your friend, as of old, 
 
 MATTHEW NOGGINS of Wold. 
 
 June, 1835. 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 "WELL," said George, "if I might choose, Pd 
 rather be Julius Caesar than any man that ever 
 lived ! He was a fine fellow ; he conquered all the 
 then known world from the pyramids of Egypt 
 to the island of Thule from the most remote 
 provinces of Asia Minor to the western shores of 
 the Peninsula. In ten years only, he took eight 
 hundred cities, subdued three hundred nations, 
 and left above a million of enemies dead upon his 
 fields of battle ! Now he was a hero ! And what 
 a glorious thing it must have been, after subduing 
 Britons, Gauls, Germans, and Russians, to return 
 with his triumphant legions, laden with spoil, and 
 leading kings captive, a conqueror through the 
 streets of Rome ! I never think of Julius Caesar 
 without longing to be a soldier. ' He came 
 he saw he conquered ! ' How famous that was ! 
 I wish I had lived in his days ; or, better still, 1 
 wish there was another world to conquer, and I 
 were the Julius Caesar to do it ! " 
 
 " Upon my word ! " said Charles, " mighty 
 grand ! but if I might choose, I would rather be 
 Cicero, Pd rather be an orator ten thousand 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 times than a warrior, though he were Julius Caesar 
 himself. Only think, George, when you came to 
 die, how should you like to have the blood of a 
 million of men on your conscience ? Depend 
 upon it, it's not such a fine thing to be a con- 
 queror, after all ! But an orator ! his is a glorious 
 character indeed. He gains victories over mil- 
 lions, without shedding one drop of blood ! Now 
 let us match ourselves one against the other ; you 
 a warrior, I an orator each, let us suppose, the 
 most accomplished in the world. What can you 
 do without your legions and your arms ? With 
 ten thousand men at your back, armed at all points, 
 where, pray, is the wonder that you take possession 
 of a city or a country, weakly defended perhaps, 
 both by men and means ? But place me among 
 savages, (provided only I can speak their tongue,} 
 
 give me no arms no money ; nay, even strip 
 me of my clothes, and leave me a defenceless, soli- 
 tary being among thousands, and what will follow ? 
 
 I will draw tears from the stoniest-hearted 
 among them ; they shall give me bread to eat, 
 clothing to wear, they shall build a house to 
 cover me, and, if my ambition extend so far, 
 they shall choose me for their king ; and this only 
 by the words of my mouth ! Now who, I ask you, 
 is most powerful, you or I? 
 
 " You think it was a glorious thing for Julius 
 Csesar to pass with his captives through the streets 
 of Rome. I think it was glorious, too, for Cicero, 
 when, after having exposed and defeated the horri- 
 
60 THE THRER WISHES. 
 
 ble conspiracy of Catiline, and driven him from 
 Rome, he was borne by the most honorable men 
 of the city to his house, along streets crowded 
 with thousands of inhabitants, all hailing him 
 * Father and Savior of his country ! ' I wish I 
 could be a Cicero, and you might be a Julius 
 Caesar, and an Alexander the Great, for me. 
 
 " But come, William," said he, addressing his 
 other brother, "who would you choose to be? 
 and what arguments can you bring forward in 
 favor of your choice ? " 
 
 " I," replied William, " would choose to be 
 John Smeaton." 
 
 "John Smeaton?" questioned Charles; "and 
 pray, who in the world was John Smeaton ? " 
 
 "Bless me!" said George, "not know John 
 Smeaton! He was a cobbler, to be sure, and 
 wrote a penny pamphlet, to prove how superior 
 wooden shoes are to Grecian sandals ! " 
 
 "Not he, indeed!" interrupted William, indig- 
 nantly ; " he built the Eddystone Lighthouse ! " 
 
 " O ! yes yes to be sure he did ! I won- 
 der I should forget it," replied George. " He was 
 a stone-mason, and had the honor of building a 
 wall! Upon my word, sir, yours is a noble am- 
 bition! Why, Smeaton only did what any man 
 might do ! " 
 
 " Not so, either, my good Julius Caesar ! There 
 are not ten men in England that could have built 
 that lighthouse as well as Smeaton did. It will 
 stand while the world stands ! It is a noble proof 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 61 
 
 of the power and ingenuity of man. It defies the 
 almost omnipotent ocean itself, and the other ele- 
 ments can never affect it. 
 
 " And now, George, consider Smeaton's case 
 without your soldierly prejudices. Independently 
 of his work being a masterpiece of human skill, 
 its importance will not be lessened by time. Your 
 conquests, most potent Caesar ! are wrested from 
 you in your lifetime, and your successor will 
 hardly thank you for exhausting your country's 
 treasure, and reducing its population, for distant 
 empire, which, as soon as you have left it, rises 
 in insurrection, and almost needs reconquering. 
 Every year, on the contrary, makes that work of 
 Smeaton's additionally valuable ; and as the com- 
 merce of the country increases, the importance of 
 that wall, as you are pleased to term it, increases 
 also. There's not a ship that comes into that sea 
 but owes its preservation, in a great measure, to 
 that lighthouse. Thousands of lives are preserved 
 by it ; and, when I think of it on a tempestuous 
 night, as I often do, shining out like a star, when 
 every other star is hidden, a blessing springs into 
 my heart on the skill of that man, who, when the 
 endeavor seemed hopeless, confidently went to 
 work, and succeeded. 
 
 " But I'll tell you a story now, about neither 
 Julius Caesar, Cicero, nor John Smeaton, and yet 
 which is quite apropos : 
 
 " There was, once upon a time, a little city that 
 stood by the sea. It was very famous it had 
 6 
 
62 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 abundance of treasure twenty thousand soldiers 
 . to defend its walls and orators the most eloquent 
 in the world. You may be sure it could not exist 
 without enemies ; its wealth created many, and its 
 pride provoked more. Accordingly, by some Ju- 
 lius Caesar of those days it was besieged. Twelve 
 thousand men encamped round its walls, which 
 extended on three sides, and a powerful fleet block- 
 aded the fourth, which lay open to the sea. The 
 inhabitants of this little city felt themselves, of 
 course, amazingly insulted by such an attack, and 
 determined immediately to drive their audacious 
 enemies like chaff before the wind. They accord- 
 ingly sallied out, but, unfortunately, were driven 
 back, and were obliged to shelter themselves be- 
 hind their walls. Seven times this occurred, and 
 the enemy had now been seven months encamped 
 there : it was a thing not to be borne, and a coun- 
 cil was called in the city. 
 
 " ' Fight! fight !' cried the orators; ' fight for 
 your homes for the graves of your fathers for 
 the temples of your gods ! ' But in seven defeats 
 the soldiers had been reduced to ten thousand, and 
 the people were less enthusiastic about fighting 
 than the orators expected. Just then a poor man 
 came forward, and, stepping upon the rostrum, 
 begged to propose three things : First, a plan by 
 which the enemy might be annoyed ; second, a 
 means of supplying the city with fresh water, of 
 wikch it began to be much in need ; third but 
 scarcely had he named a third, when the impatient 
 
THE THRETE WISHES. 63 
 
 orators bade him hold his peace, and the soldiers 
 thrust him out of the assembly, as a cowardly 
 proser, who thought the city could be assisted in 
 any way, except by the use of arms. The people, 
 seeing him so thrust forth, directly concluded that 
 he had proposed some dishonorable measures 
 perhaps had been convicted of a design to betray 
 the city ; they therefore joined the outcry of the 
 soldiers, and pursued him, with many insults, to his 
 humble dwelling, which they were ready to burn 
 over his head. 
 
 " Now, this poor man, who had never, in all his 
 life, wielded a sword, and who had no ambition to 
 do so, and who was but an indifferent speaker, was, 
 nevertheless, a wise mathematician, and had won- 
 derful skill in every mechanical science then 
 known, which he had the ability, as is common 
 with such men, to apply admirably to every emer- 
 gency. But he might as well have had no science 
 at all, for any respect it won him ; and though he 
 was a little chagrined that his well-meant proposi- 
 tion had met no better reception, he shut to his 
 doors, sate down in his house, and turned over his 
 schemes in his head, till he was more sure than 
 ever of their success. In the mean time the enemy 
 brought up monstrous battering-rams, crow-feet, 
 balista^, and all kinds of dreadful engines for the 
 demolishing of the walls, setting fire to the houses, 
 and otherwise distressing the inhabitants. A thou- 
 sand men were despatched to cut down a neigh- 
 boring forest, from the trees of which they began 
 
64 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 to build immense wooden towers, whence they 
 could sling masses of rock into the city. There 
 was a deafening noise all day and all night, without 
 the walls, of deadly preparation. The distress of 
 the besieged was now intolerable, and a truce was 
 eagerly desired. A deputation, therefore, of the 
 most honorable citizens, headed by the most elo- 
 quent orators, and preceded by a herald bearing 
 a white flag, went to the camp of the enemy. The 
 orators addressed them in the most powerful, and, 
 as they thought, most soul-touching words ; they 
 craved only a truce for seven days ; but their words 
 fell like snow-flakes upon a rock, they moved no 
 heart to pity, and the orators were sent back to 
 their city with many marks of ignominy. 'Go 
 back/ said they, ' and our answer shall reach the 
 city before you do.' Accordingly every machine 
 was put in motion. Arrows, hurled by the balistae, 
 fell into the streets like hail, and ponderous stones, 
 falling upon the buildings, threatened destruction 
 to all. The rest of that day the inhabitants kept 
 within their houses, for there was no security in 
 the streets, nor, it must be confessed, much within 
 doors. The next day, when the enemy a little 
 relaxed their efforts, the people ventured out, but 
 nothing was heard save lamentations and mur- 
 murs. 
 
 " ' We have no bread,' said the people ; ' we 
 are dying of thirst ; the little corn that remains, 
 and the few skeleton cattle, are reserved for the 
 soldiers, while we are perishing in the streets! 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 65 
 
 We will open the gates to the enemy rather than 
 see our children die thus before our eyes ! ' 
 
 " Upon this the orators again came forth. It 
 was now no use mounting the rostrum ; the people 
 were sullen, and would not assemble to hear them; 
 they therefore came into the streets, and poured 
 forth their patriotic harangues to the murmuring 
 thousands that stood doggedly together. ' Will 
 ye,' they exclaimed, * give up the city of your 
 fathers' glory to their bitterest enemies ? Speak ! 
 will ye, can ye do it ? ' And the people held 
 up their pale and famishing children, saying, 
 ' These are our answer these shall speak 
 for us ! ' 
 
 " Just at this moment, the poor man, filled 
 with compassion for his town's-people, and suffer- 
 ing from want equal to their own, stepped forward. 
 * Fellow town's-men,' said he, ' listen ! There is 
 no need for us and our children to die of hunger ; 
 there is no need for us to deliver up the city. Only 
 do as I say, and we shall have plenty of provision, 
 and may drive our enemies to the four winds.' 
 
 " 'What would you have us do?' asked the 
 people. 
 
 " ' Why,' said he, * for every engine that the 
 enemy brings, bring out one also : defy their 
 battering-rams disable their crow-feet sink a 
 shaft to the river, and have water in plenty ! Give 
 me but seven days, three brave men, and the 
 means I shall ask, and I will pass through the 
 enemy's fleet, visit the cities which are friendly 
 6* 
 
66 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 to us, and return with provisions to stand out the 
 siege yet ten months longer.' 
 
 " ' Try him ! try him ! ' said they ; ' we cannot 
 be worse than we are ! ' 
 
 " There was an instant reaction in favor of the 
 poor man ; all fell to work at his bidding ; 
 every smith's shop rung with the sound of ham- 
 mers ; carpenters worked all day and all night, 
 constructing machines which were enigmas to 
 them. There was such a hum of business for two 
 whole days, that the enemy could not imagine 
 what was going forward. In a short time all was 
 ready. A huge machine, the height of the walls, 
 was raised, furnished with a tremendous pair of 
 iron shears ; and no sooner had the enormous 
 crow-foot of the enemy reared itself to pull down 
 a part of the wall, than the shears, catching hold 
 of it, snapped it in two ! A roar of applause 
 echoed through the city, and this first successful 
 effort assured them all. The poor man at once 
 obtained the confidence of the city; all the 
 enemy's deadly machines he counteracted ; he set 
 fire to their immense wooden tower by balls of 
 inflammable matter, which, he flung in at night ; 
 and these, exploding suddenly, with horrible crack- 
 ings and hissings, terrified the enemy almost out 
 of their senses, and, bursting up into volcano-like 
 fires, threatened to consume not only the tower, 
 but the very camp itself. While this was doing, 
 the poor man and his three colleagues passed 
 through the fleet in the twilight, in a small vessel 
 
THE THREE WISHES. 67 
 
 constructed for the purpose, which, floating on the 
 surface of the water, looked only like a buoy 
 loosened from its hold. No sooner were they 
 outside the fleet than they cut away one of the 
 enemy's large boats that lay moored on the shore, 
 and, hoisting full sail, by help of a favorable wind 
 and good rowing, they arrived, by the end of the 
 next day, at a friendly city. There they soon 
 obtained supplies corn, salted meat, fresh-killed 
 cattle, and every thing of which they stood in 
 need. A large vessel was immediately stored and 
 properly manned ; her hull was blackened ; so 
 were her masts and sails ; and by good rowing, she 
 reached the outside of the harbor by the next 
 evening. There they waited till it was quite dark, 
 and then, with every oar muffled, silently as the 
 fall of night, yet swiftly as a bird, they passed 
 through the midst of the fleet without being de- 
 tected; and by the next daybreak the vessel lay 
 moored upon the quay of the city. 
 
 " That indeed was a morning of triumph ! 
 Men, women, and children, thronged down in 
 thousands. Food was abundant ; they all ate and 
 were satisfied. But the extent of the poor man's 
 service was not known when they merely satisfied 
 their hunger ; he had induced the friendly city 
 to send yet further supplies, with a fleet, which 
 should not only attack the enemy's ships, but land 
 a body of soldiers, whose object would be to fall 
 suddenly upon the camp in the rear, while the 
 soldiers in the city made a sally on the front. 
 
DO THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 Accordingly, the next day, the sea outside the 
 harbor was covered with ships. The enemy was 
 in great consternation. All fell out as the poor 
 man had foreseen. After very little fighting, the 
 enemy had permission to retire, leaving as hostages 
 three of their principal men, till an amount of 
 treasure was sent in, which quite made up the 
 losses of the siege. 
 
 " As you may suppose, after this, nobody 
 thought they could sufficiently honor the poor 
 man ; his deeds were written in the annals of the 
 city, and ever after he was universally called ' the 
 Savior of his country.' 
 
 "And so you see the poor man, by his science 
 and skill, could do more for his city than either 
 soldiers or orators." 
 
 <f Upon my word/' said both the brothers in the 
 same breath, " there's something in it." 
 
BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 THERE was one Barzillai Bunker, a member of 
 the Society of Friends, residing near New Con- 
 cord, in the back settlements of New Jersey. He 
 was of wonderfully staid demeanor, and of such 
 inflexible features that you might have doubted if 
 he could smile ; assuredly, a laugh was beyond 
 the power of his muscles; yet Barzillai had a 
 spice of humor in his composition, and, in a quiet 
 way, enjoyed a joke as much as any man. 
 
 Barzillai was a farmer, and had a small location 
 a short distance from the settlement of New Con- 
 cord. It was in January, or, as Friends call it, 
 the first month, in the year 1795 ; and near Bar- 
 zillai's abode lived one Jonas Familyman, a lazy, 
 good-for-nothing fellow, who had taken a small 
 tract of land, which he managed much as the slug- 
 gard managed his garden in the days of good king 
 Solomon. The cattle of Jonas, as may be im- 
 agined, were not over-well supplied with winter 
 fodder; and, as he was too improvident to have 
 wherewithal to barter, and money was out of the 
 question, after the wolves had devoured his three 
 sheep, there seemed no other way to him of keep- 
 
70 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 ing life in the bodies of his three cows, than by 
 making free with the rich haystacks of his flour- 
 ishing neighbor, Barzillai Bunker. Barzillai, who 
 would have missed a straw had it been taken, soon 
 saw that other than his own people cut the rick, 
 night after night. But Barzillai, if he were quicker 
 sighted than most men, was also less communica- 
 tive ; and not one word did he say of his sus- 
 picions. 
 
 All this time, however, he was thinking to him- 
 self what he should do, and accordingly, having 
 made up his mind, on sixth-day, or, as it is com- 
 monly called, Friday, night, he took a dark lantern 
 in his hand, and seated himself under one of his 
 ricks. Here he had not been long stationed be- 
 fore he perceived his neighbor Jonas quietly steal 
 up, seat himself in a partly-cut rick, and ply the 
 cutting-knife with tenfold the agility he commonly 
 used, on either ordinary or extraordinary occasions. 
 Barzillai was glad to see that his neighbor had 
 the proper use of his arms, and could make them 
 move when it suited his purpose. 
 
 In a short time Jonas had released a handsome 
 truss from the stack, and, heaving it upon his 
 shoulders, quietly, and securely, as he thought, 
 marched off with his plunder, little thinking, poor 
 man, that Barzillai was tracking his heels all the 
 time. A merry thought meanwhile was in Bar- 
 zillai's head, and he advanced upon him until 
 they came to a lonesome piece of unreclaimed 
 swamp, which Jonas had to pass. Barzillai was 
 
BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 71 
 
 concealed from sight by the burden which poor 
 Jonas carried^and just as they were at the entrance 
 of the frozen swamp, he took the candle from the 
 lantern, and set fire to the hay on either side, and 
 then, extinguishing his light, slipped aside to see 
 what would come of it. On Jonas went a few 
 paces, unconscious of the growing conflagration 
 at his back, till it suddenly burst forth into a wild 
 blaze, and seemed to envelop him in fire. Down, 
 in a moment, went the blazing mass, and the poor 
 thief stood revealed by the clear flame through the 
 darkness. In an agony of sudden horror, his hands 
 were extended wildly forward ; his hair lifted his 
 fragment of a hat from his head, and then, after a 
 cry, between a scream and a groan, he darted 
 forward like a maniac, not daring to look behind 
 him till he was totally lost in the blackness of the 
 night. 
 
 After witnessing this spectacle, Barzillai went 
 quietly home and to his bed. The place was so 
 lonesome and inhabitants so few, that there was 
 no probability of the circumstance having been 
 witnessed, and he said not a word to any of his 
 household of what he had done or of what he had 
 discovered. 
 
 The next morning, poor Jonas, pale, and with 
 his lean, melancholy figure looking yet more woe- 
 begone, came to the house of Barzillai. 
 
 " O," he exclaimed, when he found himself 
 alone with his neighbor in his comfortable parlor, 
 " I have been a wicked wretch ; I have been a 
 
72 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 thief good Mr. Bunker, forgive me ! " and saying 
 that, he fell upon his knees before him. 
 
 " What is it thou hast done, friend 1 what is it 
 thou wouldst have of me 1 " asked Barzillai with 
 great serenity. 
 
 " O, worthy, good Mr. Bunker," cried Jonas, 
 " the vengeance of the Almighty has pursued me 
 I have robbed your stacks time after time, but 
 last night fire from heaven consumed my plunder, 
 and it is of the Lord's mercy that I am spared ! " 
 
 " Rise, my friend," said Barzillai ; " thine is a 
 strange confession." 
 
 " It is to you," cried Jonas, still on his knees, 
 " that I must make confession, and from you I 
 must obtain pardon, before I can implore forgive- 
 ness of Heaven ! I have been a sinner all my 
 days, Mr. Bunker, but this Providence of Mercy 
 has redeemed me, and from last night I shall be 
 an altered man! " 
 
 All sense of joke was gone from the mind of 
 honest Barzillai, and he too, like the poor peni- 
 tent, was humbled by the sense of the Almighty's 
 influence,, which had thtfs made him an instrument 
 to reclaim his poor, erring brother. Barzillai 
 leaned against the rude mantelpiece of his parlor, 
 and wept ; and then, taking poor Jonas by the 
 hand, seated him beside him, freely forgave him 
 for what he had done, and began such a conversa- 
 tion with him as strengthened all his good resolu- 
 tions. 
 
 Jonas and Barzillai wept together it was like 
 
&ARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 73 
 
 the repentant prodigal coming back to his father's 
 house ; and Barzillai lived to witness the rich and 
 abundant fruits of the poor man's penitence, in 
 the happy change which took place, not only in 
 his outward circumstances, but in his whole con- 
 duct. Of course he kept secret his own share in 
 the event of the night : he had neither wife nor 
 child to communicate it to, and he learned to love 
 the repentant Jonas too well to hint a word to his 
 discredit. The whole circumstance never would 
 have transpired had he not accidentally related it 
 to an old Friend in England, during one of his 
 religious visits to that country. 
 
 Barzillai has long been dead ; but the descend- 
 ants of Jonas Familyman are a numerous and 
 flourishing colony, in and about New Concord. 
 7 
 
THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 CHILD. " And when the house was burnt down, 
 grandmother, what did you dp then ? " 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " Took shelter in the barn, 
 and were right thankful that our lives were spared, 
 and that a roof was left to shelter us." 
 
 CHILD. " But all the furniture was burnt, and 
 the beds ; and grandfather's leg was broken ? " 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " But there was plenty of good 
 clean straw in the barn ; and one neighbor lent us 
 a mattrass, and another a blanket ; and one brought 
 us a chair, and another a table ; many a one spared 
 us a pan or a kettle, a candlestick or an earthen 
 pot, till we could get together two or three things 
 of our own : it was, besides, a special fine season ; 
 and even in those misfortunes we had much to be 
 thankful for." 
 
 CHILD. " But grandfather could not work ; and 
 there were five children ; and there was the doctor 
 to pay, and the house to build up again." 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " Sure enough ! yet after the 
 first shock of the misfortune, we did better than 
 one might have thought. Thank God ! at that 
 time I was not an ailing woman; I was able to 
 
THE GRANDMOTHER. 75 
 
 work, and every body was ready to give me a job. 
 Your grandfather, through the blessing of Heaven, 
 soon began to mend ; and, saving that he never 
 had the right use of his leg again, was not much 
 worse for his accident. I was soon able to leave him 
 to the care of the three biggest children, and to go 
 out washing and doing daily work as usual ; and 
 many was the time I brought home more than a 
 day's wages, for every body was kind to us : the 
 farmers' wives often sent us a little bag of meal, or 
 a bit of bacon, or a pitcher of milk; and the 
 butcher sent us a Sunday's dinner, for seven weeks 
 all the time your grandfather was, as one may 
 say, helpless." 
 
 CHILD. " And then the children had the small- 
 pox?" 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " But, by the time they were 
 all down, your grandfather was well enough, though 
 he could not work, to take care of them, as they 
 lay on the straw he had just risen from. He was 
 a kind, handy man, and the children all did well, 
 which was a great mercy, seeing what a frightful 
 malady it was, and how many died, among the 
 neighbors' children, that same season ; then, before 
 winter set in, what with twenty pounds the squire 
 lent us, and by making over a bit of common allot- 
 ment that had come to us, and with the help of 
 our neighbors, we got the house raised, and the 
 roof on before the hard weather set in." 
 
 CHILD. " But it was then, grandmother, that 
 
76 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 you got the rheumatism so bad, and that makes 
 you always so lame ? " 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " Ay, to be sure ; we got into 
 the house before the walls were well dry, and I 
 fell ill of a rheumatic fever, that kept me down 
 fourteen weeks ; but by that time the children were 
 all well again, and your grandfather could begin to 
 work." 
 
 CHILD. " But he could not dig as he used 
 to do?" 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " Why, no ; he took to weav- 
 ing; and though at first, to be sure, seeing it was 
 a new trade in his fingers, he could not get much, 
 yet there's nothing a man cannot do if he's bent 
 on doing it, nor a woman either ; so before the 
 spring was over, he got full journeyman's wages ; 
 and then, soon after, in a year or two, or so, as it 
 happened, poor old John Mudge died : why, he 
 fell into his business as pat as could be ; and weav- 
 ing was a good trade then. There was not a 
 farmer's wife in all the country but had a wheel 
 going, may be two or three, arid there was a power 
 of yarn spun, both of linen and woollen, which it 
 was soon thought nobody could weave into cloth 
 like your grandfather. I'll warrant ye there's bed 
 and table linen of his weaving in every decent 
 family twenty miles round, though it's twenty ye: 
 since he died, poor man! ay, and his weavi 
 will be remembered through this generation." 
 
 CHILD. " And that was the way grandfather 
 came to be a weaver ? " 
 
 iara 
 
 r 
 
THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 77 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. " That it was ! and it was a 
 good day's work for him when he first took the 
 shuttle between his fingers. We got our debts 
 paid off before three years were over, and then we 
 were able to lay something by for our children, or, 
 may be, help a poor neighbor. 
 
 "But now finish the chapter ; you left off where 
 the prophet sat by the brook Cherith, and the ravens 
 fed him." 
 
 CHILD. " I will, grandmother." 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 EDWARD and William were friends from boy- 
 hood ; their ages were nearly the same, and their 
 stations in life similar. Edward was an orphan, 
 brought up by his grandfather, the proprietor of a 
 small farm. The father of William was a small 
 farmer also, a respectable, worthy man, whose only 
 ambition and such an ambition was laudable 
 was to leave to his son the heritage of a good name. 
 
 Both boys were destined by their natural guar- 
 dians to fill that station in society to which they 
 were born ; but it happened, as sometimes it will 
 happen in such cases, that the boys, though trained 
 up in hard-working and pains-taking families, 
 where the labor of the hand was more thought of 
 than the labor of the head, were, nevertheless, 
 very bookishly inclined ; and, as they were both 
 of them only children, their fancies were generally 
 indulged, and no one took offence that their pence 
 and sixpences were hoarded up for the purchase*^ 
 of books, instead of being spent in gingerbread 
 and marbles. And partly to gratify their o^jgf 
 tastes for learning, and partly to fall in with the 
 wishes of the village schoolmaster, who took no 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS. 79 
 
 little pride and pleasure in his docile and book-lov- 
 ing pupils, they attended the grammar-school long 
 after their village contemporaries were following 
 the plough. At fifteen they appeared less likely 
 than ever voluntarily to lay down Homer, and Vir- 
 gil, and our English divines and poets, for any 
 pleasure it was probable they would ever find in 
 growing turnips or selling fat cattle. 
 
 Perhaps this taste for letters might be also stim- 
 ulated by the grammar-school having in its gift, 
 every five years, a scholarship in one of the uni- 
 versities ; and which was awarded to the youthful 
 writer of the best Greek and Latin theme. The 
 term was about expiring, and one of the two 
 friends was sure of the nomination, there being 
 no other candidate. 
 
 It was now Christmas, and the decision took 
 place in March. The themes were in progress, 
 and every thought of both youths seemed to turn 
 itself into good Greek and Latin. Just at this 
 time, the father of William suddenly died ; and 
 what made the trial doubly afflicting was, that his 
 circumstances had become embarrassed, and the 
 farm must, of necessity, be sold to pay his debts. 
 This was a great sorrow ; but young as William 
 was, his mind was strengthened by knowledge. 
 He turned his philosophy to the best account ; he 
 faced his adverse circumstances with manly cour- 
 age, and, with a clear head and an upright heart, 
 assisted in straightening his father's deranged af- 
 fairs, and in providing that every one's just claim 
 
80 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 should be satisfied. Yet it was with a heavy heart 
 that he left the comfortable home of former inde- 
 pendence, and retired with his drooping mother to 
 a small dwelling, with the remnant of their fortune, 
 barely sufficient to support her above want. 
 
 When William saw his mother's melancholy 
 prospects, he, for a moment, almost lamented that 
 he could not turn his hand to labor ; and at times 
 the gloomy thought crossed his mind, that, perhaps, 
 had he been a humble ploughman, he might have 
 saved his father from ruin. But youth is strong, 
 and so is intellect ; and the force of a well-stored 
 and active mind buoyed him up ; and he felt that 
 within him which would not let him despair, nor 
 even murmur ; and he knew, besides, that were the 
 scholarship but once won, the way would then be 
 opened to honorable advancement, and even com- 
 petency. Vehemently, then, did he bestir himself; 
 what before was interesting he now pursued with 
 ardor, and what before he had done well, he now 
 did better ; for the intellect, like a rich mine, 
 abundantly repays its workers. 
 
 Sometimes the idea, almost in the form of a 
 wish, crossed his mind, that Edward, knowing his 
 altered circumstances, might relinquish the field, 
 and thus secure to him what had become so doubly 
 desirable. 
 
 It was now the end of January, and, during a^ 
 hard frost, the two friends met every evening to 
 recreate themselves in skaiting an exercise in 
 which both excelled. But William seemed at thi' 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS. 81 
 
 $| 
 
 time the sport of misfortune ; for, as he was per- 
 forming, almost for the twentieth time, a chef 
 d'ceuvre in the exercise, his foot caught a pebble 
 in the ice he was flung forward to an immense 
 distance with terrible velocity, and in his fall broke 
 his leg. Edward, unconscious of the extent of the 
 injury, with the assistance of a cottager, conveyed 
 him home, insensible. The poor widow's cup of 
 sorrow seemed now full to the brim ; and William 
 vainly endeavored, amid the agony of suffering, to 
 console her. Edward was like a ministering angel ; 
 he spoke words of comfortable assurance, and sup- 
 ported his friend in his arms while he underwent 
 the painful operation of the bone being reset. 
 
 In a short time, the doctor pronounced William 
 out of danger ; but he was unable to use the least 
 exertion : even exercise of mind was forbidden, 
 and days and weeks were now hurrying February 
 into March. 
 
 " Alas ! " said he, one day, to his friend, 
 " there is no hope of the scholarship for me ; but 
 why should I regret it, when it only secures it to 
 you ! And yet, for my poor mother's sake, I can- 
 not resign it, even to you, without sorrow; and, 
 dear Edward," he added, his whole countenance 
 kindling up at the idea, "I would have striven 
 against you like a Dacian gladiator, had it not 
 pleased Heaven to afflict me thus ! " 
 
 Edward was a youth of few words, and after a 
 pause, he replied, "If your theme is finished, I will 
 copy it for you ; mine I finished last night." 
 
82 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 " No," said William, " it is mostly in its first 
 rough state, and wants yet a few pages in conclu- 
 sion ; yet you can see it read it at your leisure ; 
 and, since it is impossible for it to appear, if any 
 ideas or phrases appear to you good, you are wel- 
 come to them. But I beg your pardon," added 
 he, correcting himself; " yours, I doubt not, is 
 already the best." 
 
 Edward did as his friend desired ; he took 
 from William's desk the various sheets of the un- 
 finished theme. He carried them home with him, 
 and without any intention of appropriating a sin- 
 gle word to his own benefit, sat down to its perusal. 
 He read, and, as he read, grew more and more 
 amazed : were these thoughts was this lan- 
 guage indeed the composition of a youth like 
 himself? 
 
 He was in the generous ardor of unsophistica- 
 ted youth, and his heart, too, was devoted to a noble 
 friendship, and the pure and lofty sentiments of his 
 friend's composition aided the natural kindness of 
 his heart. It was midnight when he had finished 
 the half-concluded sentence which ended the man- 
 uscript ; and before morning he had drawn up a 
 statement of his friend's circumstances, accom- 
 panied by the rough copy of his theme, which he 
 addressed to the heads of the college : he also 
 made up his own papers not now from any de- 
 sire or expectation of obtaining, the scholarship, 
 but to prove, as he said in the letter with which he 
 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS. 83 
 
 accompanied them, how much worthier his friend 
 was than himself. 
 
 All this he did without being aware that he was 
 performing an act of singular virtue; but believ- 
 ing merely that it was the discharge of his duty. 
 O, how beautiful, how heroic is the high-minded 
 integrity of a young and innocent spirit ! 
 
 Edward did not even consult his friend the 
 schoolmaster about what he had done, but took 
 the packet, the next morning, to the nearest coach 
 town, and called on his friend William on his re- 
 turn, intending to keep from him also the knowl- 
 edge of what he had done. 
 
 As soon as he entered the door, he saw, by the 
 countenance of the widow, that her son was worse. 
 He had been so much excited by the conversation 
 of the evening before, that fever had come on ; 
 and before the day was over, he was in a state of 
 delirium. Edward wept as he stood by his bed, 
 and heard his unconscious friend incoherently 
 raving in fragments of his theme; while the 
 widow, heart-struck by this sudden change for 
 the worse, bowed herself, like the Hebrew mother, 
 and refused to 'be comforted. 
 
 Many days passed over before William was again 
 calm, and then a melancholy languor followed, 
 which, excepting that it was unaccompanied by 
 alarming symptoms, was almost as distressing to 
 witness. But the doctor gave hopes of speedy 
 renovation as the spring advanced, and, by the 
 
84 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 help of his good constitution, entire, though per- 
 haps slow, recovery. 
 
 As soon as Edward ceased to be immediately 
 anxious about his friend, he began to be impatient 
 for an answer to his letter; and, in process of time, 
 that answer arrived. What the nature of that an- 
 swer was any one who had seen his countenance 
 might have known; and, like a boy as he was, he 
 leaped up in the exultation of his heart, threw the 
 letter to his old grandfather, who sate by in his 
 quiet decrepitude, thinking that, " for sure, the lad 
 was gone mad ! " and then, hardly waiting to hear 
 the overflowings of the old man's joy and astonish- 
 ment, folded up the letter, and bounded off like a 
 roebuck to his friend's cottage. 
 
 The widow, like the grandfather, thought at 
 first that Edward had lost his wits ; he seized her 
 with an eagerness that almost overwhelmed her, 
 and compelled her to leave her household work 
 and sit down. He related what he had done ; and 
 then, from the open lettefhvhich he held in his 
 hand, read to her a singularly warm commendation 
 of William's theme, from the four learned heads 
 of the college who accepted it, imperfect as it 
 was nominated him to the scholarship and 
 concluded with a hope, which, to the mother's 
 heart, sounded like a prophecy, that the young man 
 might become a future ornament to the university. 
 
 It is impossible to say which was greater the 
 mother's joy in the praise and success of her son, 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS, 85 
 
 or her gratitude to his generous friend, who ap- 
 peared to have sacrificed his prospects to those of 
 his rival. But while she was pouring out her full- 
 hearted torrent of gratitude, Edward put the letter 
 into her hand, and desired her to read the rest, 
 while he told the good news to William. The 
 letter concluded with great praise from the reverend 
 doctors of what they styled Edward's " generous 
 self-sacrifice ; " adding that, in admiration thereof, 
 as well as in consideration of the merit of his own 
 theme, they nominated him to a similar scholar- 
 ship, which was also in their gift. 
 
 Little more need be added : the two friends took 
 possession of their rooms at the commencement 
 of the next term ; and, following up the course of 
 learning and virtue which they had begun in youth, 
 were ornaments to human nature, as well as to the 
 university. 
 
 8 
 
FIRE-SIDE PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 *' You are but a little fellow, Frank," said the 
 philosophical Philip to his younger brother, " and 
 yet you live in a better and more commodious 
 house than a king had formerly. There are ships 
 crossing the sea in every direction, to bring what 
 is useful to you from every part of the earth. The 
 elephant-hunter of Ceylon has dug his traps, and 
 with difficulty and danger taken his prey, that you 
 may have a cup and ball, and play with ivory 
 dominoes. By the shores of the frozen rivers, in 
 the uninhabited regions of the north, hunters have 
 taken the industrious beaver, or the little arctic 
 fox, that you may have a cap or hat made of their 
 fur. The seal-fisher, in the same dreary seas, 
 wrapped up in skins, has gone on his hazardous 
 voyage, that you may wear shoes made of fine and 
 elastic leather. 
 
 "In China, they are gathering the tea-leaf for 
 you. In America, they are planting cotton for you. 
 In the West India Islands, the poor negro is toiling 
 in the sun, to provide you with sugar, and rice, 
 and coffee. In Italy, they are feeding the silk- 
 worms for you. In Saxony, they are shearing their 
 
FIRE-SIDE PHILOSOPHY. 87 
 
 sheep, to make you a nice, warm jacket. In Spain r 
 they have grown and dried various kinds of fruits, 
 that you may enjoy a plum-pudding or a mince* 
 pie ; and merchants, coming in ships from the 
 same country, have brought oranges and nuts for 
 your eating. And at this very time, travellers and 
 voyagers are exploring new and wonderful regions, 
 that you may know all respecting them, and benefit 
 by their productions, without you, yourself, stirring 
 one mile from home. 
 
 " In England, steam-engines are spinning and 
 weaving, and grinding and thumping, and tearing 
 and driving for you ; some stationary, like old- 
 world giants and others whirling along rail- 
 roads by twenties and thirties together, like pon- 
 derous dragons, each carriage like a vertebra of 
 its enormous spine ; others are pumping in mines, 
 drawing up with their monstrous arms all metals 
 and minerals that can be useful to you coal to 
 warm you and iron, and tin, and lead, and salt. 
 Fleets are stationed round our happy country to 
 protect and defend it, and that you may sleep and 
 wake without fear of invasion. 
 
 " And, little boy as you are, no one could injure 
 you, nor steal you from your parents, without 
 lawyers, judges, nay, even the king himself, were it 
 necessary, interfering in your behalf. Besides all 
 this, at this very moment, men of learning and 
 talent are employed in writing you delightful and 
 instructive books; and printers, engravers, and 
 book-binders, are all working for you, and schem- 
 
88 FIRE-SIDE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ing how they can best please and surprise you. It 
 is a famous thing to live in England grand Old 
 England, in, these days ! " 
 
 " Well, master Philip," said his sister, who had 
 been listening to his harangue, " may I inquire 
 where you gained all this learning ? " 
 
 " Not out of my own head, I assure you, Katy; 
 but I heard papa read some remarks, a great deal 
 like what I have said, from the introduction to Dr. 
 Arnott's clever book, and because I was much 
 pleased with them, I wanted to make Frank feel 
 the same pleasure." 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 IN the fourteenth century, Florence was gov- 
 erned in a singular manner ; not by a king, nor a 
 seriate, but by twelve men, chosen from the trades 
 and professions of the city the lawyers, the 
 apothecaries, the druggists, the linen-drapers, &,c., 
 excluding the lower class of tradesmen, as shoe- 
 makers, wool-combers, carpenters, and such like, 
 from any participation in the government. This, 
 of course, led to continual contention between the 
 people and the privileged parts of the community, 
 while, at the same time, both these lived in per- 
 petual hostility with the nobles, who, notwithstand- 
 ing their exclusion from any share in the gov- 
 ernment, contrived to tyrannize over all. Besides 
 these causes of discontent, the whole of Italy was, 
 at that time, divided into two great political parties 
 called Guelphs and Ghibelines something like 
 our Whigs and Tories. All these causes concur- 
 ring, occasioned more animosity, family feuds, and 
 bloodshed, than can be conceived, except by those 
 who know any thing of the histories of those times. 
 The character of Michel Lando, the wool- 
 8* 
 
90 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 comber, is known to the readers of Florentine 
 history. Though a conspirator, he was a virtu- 
 ous man, and distinguished himself in the insur- 
 rection which makes part of the subject of the 
 following little drama, by his wisdom and modera- 
 tion. 
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 MATTEO LANDO, the son of Michel Lando. 
 LORENZO SCALA, the son of the Marquis Scala. 
 MICHEL LANDO, the wool-comber, the head of the 
 
 conspirators. 
 
 The MARQUIS SCALA, a proud Florentine noble. 
 PAOLO, a Genoese carpenter, uncle to Matteo. 
 FATHER BATISTA, tutor of Lorenzo. 
 
 Boys, Conspirators, Soldiers, fyc. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. Morning. An open space before the 
 Scala Palace. Matteo and three Boys throw- 
 ing with white stones for chestnuts. 
 
 IST BOY. I won't make another throw ! 
 MATTEO. Come, don't be angry, you shall 
 have two throws for my one. 
 
 IST BOY, (throwing again.) There again! It's 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 91 
 
 all cheatery ! You got seventeen, and I only 
 three ! I say you're a cheat ! 
 
 %D BOY. It's my turn now ! and I've lost ! 
 
 3o BOY. And so did I ! I say he is a cheat 
 and a Ghibeline ! 
 
 MATTEO. I'm neither ! I played fair. If you 
 throw badly, I can't help it! 
 
 3o BOY. You're a Ghibeline ! 
 
 2o BOY. So he is ! Down with him ! 
 
 (They fall upon him.) 
 
 STRANGE BOY. Heyday, what's up now ? 
 
 ALL. Only beating a Ghibeline. 
 
 STRANGE BOY. That's right, down with him! 
 
 LORENZO SCALA, (opening a gate in the wall.) 
 How now, fellows ! Four against one ! Shame 
 on ye for a cowardly crew ! 
 
 THE FOUR. Down with the Scala ; he's a Ghi- 
 beline too ! 
 
 LORENZO, (throwing off his cloak.) Touch me 
 if you dare ! ( To Matteo.) Stand by me, boy, 
 and I'll stand by you ! 
 
 (Theyjiglit, and the four boys are driven off.) 
 
 And now, boy, who are you, and what ? 
 
 Guelph or Ghibeline ? If Ghibeline, stand to it ! 
 
 (He puts himself in an attitude of defence.) 
 
 MATTEO. Nay, noble sir, we'll never fight ! 
 I'm a Guelph, and the son of a Guelph ; my 
 father is Michel Lando, the wool-comber, as brave 
 and as honest a man as any in Florence. And 
 now, gracious sir, accept my humble thanks ; 
 you are a noble young gentleman ! 
 
92 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE* 
 
 FATHER BATISTA. My lord ! my lord ! what 
 
 in the name of the seven angels are you doing? 
 
 (He pulls Mm in, and shuts the gate violently.) 
 
 MATTEO. He has left his cloak. Shall I 
 knock, and give it to the porter ? No, if that 
 grim monk sees me, he will suspect me of treason, 
 and will say I have polluted the cloak by touching 
 it. I will find some means of delivering it to that 
 noble young lord myself, for I have not half 
 thanked him. He is a fine youth what an eye ! 
 what a manly carriage ! what a brave, gen- 
 erous spirit ! I will give him the cloak myself, 
 and carry with it some little token of my gratitude. 
 Let me see what can I give him 1 O, I 
 know I don't believe he ever saw such a thing. 
 But stay before I go I must roll up this fine 
 purple cloak, and keep it out of sight, or I shall 
 have a mob at my heels, and be beaten for a Ghi- 
 beline. 
 
 (He rolls up the cloak, and runs off.) 
 
 SCENE II. A Carpenter's shop. PAOLO at work. 
 
 PAOLO, (wiping his forehead with his apron.) 
 What a stupid city is this Florence 1 A man may 
 well be thirsty not a drop of water but what 
 is in that little river Arno ! Why, the air's as 
 hot as fire no sea-breeze like that at Genoa! 
 But here comes my nephew. Well, Matteo, what 
 do you want ? 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE, 9 
 
 MATTEO, (with a little ship in his hand.) I 
 want you to help me with this ship ; will you, 
 uncle? I began it six months ago, when I was 
 with you at Genoa. 
 
 PAOLO. Finish it, and welcome, yourself, 
 but you will get no help from me to-day, I promise 
 you! 
 
 MATTEO. Why not, dear uncle ? are you 
 busy ? 
 
 PAOLO. Why, no, not busy exactly, but Fia 
 killed with heat, I don't like Florence. 
 
 MATTEO. Well, but, uncle, don't let that vex 
 you. Look at this little ship, good uncle ; it only 
 wants masts, just look at it, to please me. 
 
 PAOLO. Why, now, what a gimcracky concern 
 this is! Your rudder won't work; and what a 
 prow I Did you ever see a prow like this ? It 
 should be small, you know, to cut the water like 
 an arrow ! Ay, they've merry times at Genoa, 
 I warrant, this fine summer weather! I shall 
 never like Florence, that's certain more fool I 
 for leaving Genoa! Now take your ship, and off 
 with you ! 
 
 MATTEO. Well, but, uncle, will you lend me 
 your tools then 1 and I'll finish it. I did it all 
 myself. 
 
 PAOLO. And pretty work you've made of it!' 
 But if I must do it, why I must and I may as 
 well do it at first as at last. But why do you want 
 it just now ? 
 
i)4 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE, 
 
 MATTEO. To tell you the truth, uncle, I'm 
 going to give it away. 
 
 PAOLO. Give it away ! and that's the value you 
 set on my work, is it ! And pray, to whom are 
 you going to give it ? 
 
 MATTEO. Why it's to nobody in particular 
 to nobody that you know, dear uncle only to 
 the Marquis Scala's son. 
 
 PAOLO. Only to the Marquis Scala's son ! No, 
 no, sir, if you keep company with nobles, it's 
 below you to ask favors of a poor carpenter. Take 
 your ship ; I'm not going to spend my time in 
 making presents for people who will trample on 
 me in return ! 
 
 MATTEO. Nay, uncle, nay, you're altogether 
 mistaken Lorenzo Scala will trample on no man ! 
 You see this black eye you see this gash on my 
 arm too they were given me by my equals, be- 
 cause they said I was a Ghibeline, and young 
 Scala stepped in threw off his cloak rescued 
 me fought himself against four, and drove 
 them off. They would have killed me, uncle, if 
 he hadn't come ! 
 
 PAOLO. Indeed ! That's more than I should 
 have looked for, and I'll take it as a sign that the 
 generation is mending. And so you want to repay 
 him well, that's only right doing as you 
 would be done by, as Father Nicolo says. Now 
 for the ship ; and let's see what we can make of it. 
 O, O, I see it'll do; a little trimming here, and 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 95 
 
 trimming there, and I'll make it as pretty a thing 
 as ever left Genoa. 
 
 MATTEO, Thank you, dear uncle, thank you 
 a thousand times but let me say one thing ; I 
 don't think I can repay him by giving him this 
 ship. I only want to show that a poor boy can be 
 grateful. 
 
 PAOLO. Well, well, that's the same thing, isn't 
 it ? But come, my tools are at home so don't 
 stand prating there. 
 
 (They go out.) 
 
 SCENE III. Afternoon. The garden of the 
 Scala Palace. MATTEO and LORENZO before 
 the basin of a fountain, the cloak lying beside 
 them. 
 
 LORENZO, (holding the ship in his hand.) And 
 so you have brought me this beautiful ship ! and 
 you say you mean to give it me you are very 
 good indeed ! But how did you get in ? was the 
 door in the wall open ? 
 
 MATTEO. No but I am known to the por- 
 ter ; he often comes to my father's. 
 
 LORENZO. And you say this is like a real ship ; 
 you know I have never been to Genoa, nor Na- 
 ples. And these are the masts, and these the 
 sails ? 
 
 MATTEO. Yes, noble sir; and I call it the 
 Scala, in honor of you. Ah, if you had but seen, 
 as I have, at Genoa, a whole fleet of their grand 
 
96 THE TWO BOYS OP FLORENCE. 
 
 merchant-ships going out, and seen thousands of 
 people out on the quay, and heard them shout till 
 the very sky rang again, you would never forget 
 it as long as you lived ! 
 
 LORENZO. Have you another ship like this ? 
 
 MATTEO, No. Why ? 
 
 LORENZO. Because you must be sorry to part 
 with it ; I'm sure I should. I wish I could give 
 you something. I'll give you this sword. 
 
 MATTEO. No, no, thank you ! You did enough 
 for me this morning. No, I'll not take your 
 sword ; you know I could not wear it plebeians 
 cannot wear swords. But I hope you'll live to be 
 a man, and then you'll treat the poor kindly; and 
 when you see the poor oppressed, help them as 
 you helped me this morning ! 
 
 LORENZO. By the faith of a nobleman, I will ! 
 But why do you smile 1 
 
 MATTEO. Because I know, there are many 
 who would say that was a bad pledge, 
 
 LORENZO. Do people doubt that I Nay, boy, 
 I tell you solemnly, that if I make a promise, 
 Til die sooner than break it! But will this ship 
 sail? 
 
 MATTEO. To be sure it will ! Try it in this 
 b^ 3in ; you will find it as good a sailer as ever 
 left Genoa. I'll push it where the water is 
 roughest. 
 
 LORENZO. No, let me ! Huzza, little ship ! 
 Huzza! Success to the Scala! Is that the way 
 they shouted ? 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 97 
 
 MATTEO. Yes, but a thousand times louder; 
 and waved their caps, and shouted thus. 
 
 (He shouts ; Lorenzo joins Mm.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS SCALA, (suddenly coming for- 
 ward.) And pray what riot is this? Lorenzo, 
 what low companion have you chosen? Have 
 you so far forgotten the dignity of our house as to 
 bring a fellow like this into our palace garden ? 
 
 LORENZO. Father, he's a noble-hearted boy, 
 the son of an honest man, and a true Guelph, 
 father ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS, (to Matteo.) How dared you, 
 audacious villain, enter this place ? The very air 
 is contaminated with your breath ! Out with you ! 
 
 LORENZO. Be gentle with him, father; he is a 
 generous youth ; he gave me this ship, father. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. And have you, mean-spirited 
 boy, taken a present at the hand of a plebeian ? 
 Out of my sight, ignoble as you are ! 
 
 (He offers to strike him.) 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, you shall not strike him ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Base son of the earth, dare 
 you defy me ? (He thrusts him out of the gate, 
 and throws the ship after him.) And now, craven- 
 spirited boy, begone, lest I forget that you are my 
 son ! 
 
 (Lorenzo goes hastily; his father slowly follows.) 
 9 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. A wool-comber's shop. MICHEL LANDO, 
 a stout-built, well-looking man, at work; MAT- 
 TEO at work also ; three of the CONSPIRATORS 
 come in. 
 
 IST CONSPIRATOR. Good morrow, friend ! At 
 work, as usual. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. To be sure ; sitting still wins 
 no man's bread. But I think I know your errand. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. If you do not, you soon 
 will. We are come to tell you, Lando, that we 
 don't choose to stir unless you'll take the manage- 
 ment of affairs, as usual. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. I say now, what I said then. 
 Be determined as you will, but be moderate. Let 
 not plunder and revenge be the only end for which 
 we strive. Our rights, as citizens and as men, are 
 what we contend for; let our friends remember 
 this, and I shall not again desert you. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. But, Lando, we have agreed 
 to obey you. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Let the nobles enjoy their 
 palaces and their treasures let the present privi- 
 leged classes partake in the government of the 
 city, and only such be incapable of holding offices 
 in it who have been, or shall be, guilty of crime 
 Let us contend like men for our rights but le* 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 99 
 
 us be temperate. If you will swear to these re- 
 strictions, I will go with you ; and, hand and heart, 
 there shall be no truer man than Michel Lando ! 
 
 SD CONSPIRATOR. We have agreed to obey you 
 in all things. But you must go with us, Michel : 
 we can do nothing without you. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Let me finish this wool, and 
 then I will attend you. In the mean time, what 
 has been done since I left? 
 
 IST CONSPIRATOR. Ay, Michel, you bore with 
 them lilce a saint. You heard what I said ; says I, 
 Of all the men 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Yes, good friend, I heard it;, 
 but never mind it now. The soldiers had joined 
 us to a man so had the households of the nobles 
 the question was, whether the shoe-makers and 
 leather-dressers would join us, or 'make a party of 
 their own. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. They have sworn to join 
 us, if you take the lead, as usual, and then all will 
 be ready. We've chains prepared for the end of 
 every street; arms for every man; torches ready 
 for lighting ; many hundred tons of stones to de- 
 fend ourselves with, in case the nobles are rash 
 enough to face us. The palaces of the Malatesti, 
 the Ubaldi, and the Scala, are to be set fire to 
 all is ready you know you consented to that. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Yes, because some sacrifice 
 of this kind is necessary to terrify the proud nobles 
 into reason ; and because from the tyranny of 
 these houses the people have suffered most. You 
 
100 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 understand me no man but myself must give 
 orders to-night and my orders shall be implicit- 
 ly obeyed. 
 
 ALL. They shall, Michel. We understand 
 you. But come, your work is finished, and our 
 friends will be impatient. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. I am ready. 
 
 (They all go out.) 
 
 MATTEO. They never thought about me, 
 well, I am possessed of their secret, but I will not 
 betray it. I will, however, save the life of Lo- 
 renzo. This will be a terrible night ! And poor 
 Lorenzo is doomed to perish for the tyranny of his 
 proud father but he shall not I will save him ! 
 They said the households of the nobles had joined 
 them ha! this accounts for the porter's inti- 
 macy with my father ; yes, yes, I see it all now 
 but I will save Lorenzo ! (He goes out.) 
 
 SCENE II. Tivilight. MATTEO, with great pre- 
 caution and anxiety, looking out from a pavilion 
 in the garden of the Scala Palace. 
 
 MATTEO. I wish he would come ! I feel as if 
 I were just by the jaws of a lion ! But hush, 
 here he is. (Enter Lorenzo.) 
 
 LORENZO. Why are you here? and why have 
 you sent for me ? O do not -stay ; if my father find 
 you, he will kill you. And Father Batista is as 
 bad ! But what is it you want with me? 
 
 MATTEO. There is no time for explanation ; 
 
THE TWOBOYS OF FLORENCE. '1(}JL 
 
 you must come with me : if you would be living 
 by this time to-morrow, you must come with me. 
 Put on this cloak of mine, that you may not be 
 known nay, are you afraid of touching it? it 
 will not pollute you ! 
 
 LORENZO. No, I am not afraid of touching it 
 
 but why must I go with you, and whither ? 
 MATTEO. The whole city is in insurrection 
 
 against the nobles your palace will be burnt this 
 night, and you must perish unless you fly with me ! 
 I can save your life ! 
 
 LORENZO. What, and let my father perish ! 
 No, I cannot I cannot leave my father; if you 
 can save him too, your offer will be noble ; but 
 I cannot leave my father ! 
 
 MATTEO. But if I save him, he must see me 
 
 and you said he would kill me if he saw me. 
 Besides and yet, noble Lorenzo, for your sake, 
 I will save him. 
 
 LORENZO. Now, that's a fine fellow ! 
 
 MATTEO. Run hastily and prepare your father. 
 Tell him I, the poor boy whom he thrust forth this 
 morning, must see him. 
 
 LORENZO. I will. If he be calm, I will bring 
 you before him if not, I will even take my 
 chance with him he is my father! And now, 
 the good saints be with you, boy, if we never meet 
 again. (Lorenzo goes out.) 
 
 9* 
 
J03 TIJE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 ' 
 
 SCENE III. The Saloon of the Palace. The 
 MARQUIS seated in a large chair. LORENZO 
 leads in MATTEO. 
 
 THE MARQUIS, (after eyeing Matteo very stern- 
 ly.) Arid you bring report of an insurrection in 
 the city ! Our lives, it seems, are threatened 
 our palaces to be burnt we are to die like slaves, 
 and all this without being able to make one effort 
 to save ourselves ! Do not think to impose upon 
 us by your idle threats and false alarms you 
 shall not go unpunished ! 
 
 MATTEO. Do not talk of idle threats, my lord 
 for these threats of yours are such pardon 
 me that I speak plain your life, and the life of 
 many another noble of Florence, is even now in 
 danger ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Young man, you seem to have 
 forgotten that nobles can command both servants 
 and soldiers ! 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, it is impossible now ; both 
 your soldiers and servants have joined the conspir- 
 acy against you. There is no one in this palace 
 but looks forward impatiently to the burning and 
 plundering of it to-night there is no one who 
 would not willingly take my life, because I have 
 sought to save yours ! You are encompassed on 
 all sides fagots, my lord, lie under your feet 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 103 
 
 ready to be kindled the tapestry conceals com- 
 bustibles. 
 
 (He lifts the tapestry and shows fagots and 
 straw.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Gracious heavens ! we are 
 betrayed ! 
 
 MATTEO. Trust in me, my lord, and you shall 
 be safe ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. What can have induced you to 
 volunteer so much in our service? 
 
 MATTEO. Gratitude, my lord, to this young 
 nobleman, your son. He rescued me from danger : 
 I owe him more than my service can pay he was 
 the first nobleman that I have seen do a noble 
 action. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Young man, your services shall 
 be rewarded. 
 
 LORENZO. Dear father, let us fly ! Let us con- 
 fide in this generous youth why do you hesi- 
 tate? 
 
 MATTEO. In two hours the attempt will be 
 vain ! I will go and provide means for securing 
 your flight. Pack up, as speedily and secretly as 
 possible, your most portable treasure : but what- 
 ever is done, let it be done unknown to your ser- 
 vants. If they suspect your flight, all is lost. I 
 will return in half an hour ; but let me find you in 
 the pavilion. (He goes.) 
 
104 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 SCENE IV. Two hours before midnight. The 
 Pavilion. Enter MATTEO with a large bundle, 
 a basket, and a dark lantern ; the MARQUIS and 
 LORENZO, with two caskets, enter directly after- 
 wards. 
 
 MATTEO, (opening the bundle.} These clothes 
 you must put on. Pardon them, my lord, they are 
 very humble, but in them your life will be secure. 
 This c^oaij you must throw over all, and this hood 
 too, if you please. You must personate my aunt, 
 who lives out of Florence, and regularly brings to 
 the city eggs and poultry ; she has come in this 
 day : and you, being taken for Michel Lando's 
 sister, will be safe. She has a son too, about the 
 age of yours; the night is dark, my lord, and 
 we shall not be detected. Your treasure I will put 
 in this basket, and carry for you. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. And must I, indeed, submit to 
 this mummery ? 
 
 MATTEO. Call it not mummery, my lord; 
 your life, and the life of your son, depend upon it. 
 Trust to me, noble sir, and you shall be safe. 
 
 ( They put on the disguises. Matteo darkens 
 the lantern, takes up the basket, and goes out 
 they follow.) 
 
 MATTEO. This way, my lord ; we musf;4 escape 
 by the garden wall, or your servants will discover 
 us. ( They all go out.) 
 
THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 105 
 
 SCENE V. Street. Crowds of men collected to- 
 gether. A chain drawn across the street, guarded 
 by soldiers. Enter MATTEO, the MARQUIS, and 
 LORENZO. 
 
 SOLDIER. Who comes here 1 Ay, a woman at 
 this time of night ! Good lady, haven't you heard 
 that no woman is to stir out on the penalty of 
 Lando's displeasure? 
 
 MAN, (rushing forward.) 'Tis a man in dis- 
 guise ! 
 
 SECOND MAN. Stop him ! Pull off madam's 
 hood! 
 
 MATTEO. Townsmen ! Do you know me ? 
 
 MAN. Ay, sure. Michel Lando's son. 
 
 MATTEO. Well, then, let us pass! 
 
 THIRD MAN. It is Lando's sister I saw her 
 come in this morning. 
 
 MATTEO. Let us pass, good people. 
 
 ( The Soldiers undo the chain.) 
 
 MAN. The order about the women was Lando's 
 own. One would think he should not have been 
 the first to break it ! 
 
 ( The midnight bell tolls. A sound like thunder 
 bursts forth, and the darkness becomes suddenly 
 illuminated. The crowd thickens.) 
 
 MAN. Hurrah ! hurrah ! Now dawns a new 
 day for Florence! Down with the Malatesti! 
 down with the Scala ! 
 
106 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. It, indeed, was too true ! un- 
 fortunate Florence ! 
 
 MAN. What voice was that ? Who bewails 
 Florence ? 
 
 MATTEO. Silence, my lord, or we are undone ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. That's the woman ! stop 
 her she bewails Florence ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. 'Tis a noble in disguise 
 stop him ! bring hither a torch ! 
 
 ( The people gather about the Marquis, and lay 
 hands upon him.) 
 
 MATTEO. Pray you, good people, peace ! I 
 am Michel Lando's son let us pass, I beseech 
 you ! Can you not trust the son of Michel Lando? 
 
 MAN. Michel Lando's son shall go free ! for 
 shame, townspeople ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. Who's for the plunder of the 
 Scala's palace ? 
 
 MATTEO. Let us on let us on ! 
 
 MAN. The Ubaldi palace is in flames come ! 
 come ! 
 
 (Matteo, the Marquis, and Lorenzo go forward.) 
 
 SCENE VI. A bowshot without the gate of Flor- 
 ence. MATTEO gives the basket to the MARQUIS, 
 and taking from under his coat the dark lantern, 
 puts it into LORENZO'S hand. 
 
 MATTEO. Now, my lord, you are safe. There's 
 many a noble life will be lost this night in Flor- 
 ence but you are safe ! 
 
THE TWO BOYS OP FLORENCE. 
 
 107 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Unfortunate Florence ! 
 
 MATTEO, (to Lorenzo, aside.) God bless you ! 
 remember the promise you made me this morning 
 always to take the part of the poor when you 
 see them wronged. 
 
 LORENZO. I will ! And by the faith of a true 
 nobleman, most worthy Matteo, we will reward 
 thee for this ! will we not, father ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. My son, we will ! Give me thy 
 hand, young man : thou hast taught me one thing, 
 for which I thank thee thou hast taught me that 
 there is virtue among the poor ! Good night ! 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, good night! Noble Lo- 
 renzo, good night ! ( They separate.) 
 
A BRIEF MEMOIR OF 
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 BY THEIR SISTER. 
 
 - near Bath, 1829. 
 
 WE were three orphans, Constantine, Giovanni, 
 and myself. There were two years difference in 
 all our ages ; and Giovanni, the youngest, was only 
 a year old when my mother died ; my father had 
 then been dead about six months. He was a paint- 
 er, a man of fine imagination ; and the few pictures 
 he left at his death are now fully estimated by the 
 public. Hundreds of pounds are paid eagerly for 
 one of his female heads ; and one of his landscapes 
 sells for more than he ever obtained, during his life- 
 time, for all the paintings he sold. 
 
 My mother was a young Florentine lady, whom 
 my father had married while pursuing his studies 
 in Italy. I remember her ; a vision of grace 
 tender and kind ; but my recollection of the 
 expression of her countenance, and the beauty of 
 her features, has been assisted by her portrait 
 painted by my father ; which, with his own, were 
 the only ones reserved, when, after his death, the 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 109 
 
 rest of the pictures were sold. They were un- 
 framed, and hung in our little room, and with them 
 constantly before my eyes, I seem never to have 
 forgotten my parents. My mother's countenance 
 is /one of the tenderest and most feminine beauty 
 long, rich, dark hair ; a high forehead, pure as 
 the finest marble ; features well defined, but ex- 
 tremely delicate, and perhaps most striking, from 
 an expression of deep melancholy and thought. 
 It was in itself a study, and might have passed as 
 such, had it not been known as a portrait. No 
 wonder was it that my father loved her ! Hers was 
 the face from which he drew his female counte- 
 nances, and they had all the spirituality and tender- 
 ness so conspicuous in hers. Besides her beauty, 
 she possessed a rare and glorious gift the gift of 
 music in the highest perfection ; and, full of the 
 intense poetry of her own land, she had, like a few 
 of her countrymen, the power of improvisation. 
 I remember her singing, in a low tone, strains so 
 sweet, that, young as I was, I felt as it were 
 chained to the spot. Constantine remembered her 
 well : he said she most frequently sang when my 
 father painted ; he said, too, that she very rarely 
 sang excepting in her native tongue, which, in- 
 deed, my father and she so commonly used, that 
 Constantine and myself spoke it more fluently than 
 English. With such a woman, possessing at the 
 same time the kindest affections and most amiable 
 dispositions, could my father be other than happy ? 
 They lived in a country beautiful as their own 
 10 
 
110 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 imaginations, and each indulging their favorite 
 tastes ; and surrounded by us, whom they most 
 tenderly loved, their lives passed on, if not splen- 
 didly, at least happily. From a few circumstances, 
 however, which Constantine could remember, I 
 fear they knew what it was to be poor. But the 
 sorrows of poverty we never experienced ; we lived 
 amidst affection, in the free exercise of our limbs 
 in the open air. Green hills, sweet, clear waters, 
 beautiful flowers and butterflies, these fill the 
 recollection of those early years. 
 
 But my father died. I know nothing of the 
 particulars of his illness ; I only remember my 
 mother's utter distress, her weeping for days, 
 the funeral, a sad but incomprehensible scene, 
 and a silence and gloom in our house, from 
 which we fled to our favorite resorts in the 
 fields. 5 ,v 
 
 What my mother's family was I did not at that 
 time know ; we were too young to be made con- 
 fidants in these things ; but I have often wondered 
 she did not return to Italy. My father had no 
 near connections ; none to whom she could fly, 
 either for comfort or assistance. She was a widow 
 in a strange land ! 
 
 Soon after my father's death, her health began 
 to droop ; a deep melancholy settled on her spirits, 
 but the sweetness of her character won the love 
 and kind attentions of all around her poor and 
 uneducated though they were. Fortunately, too, 
 at this time she became known to the pastor of 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. Ill 
 
 the mountain district in which we resided a hum- 
 ble, kind, and most excellent man. Through his 
 agency, she was enabled to sell a few pictures 
 which remained at very considerable prices ; for 
 their value, on account of the death of the artist, 
 was greatly increased. By this means she became 
 possessed of a little independence, which, while it 
 raised her above want, tended, but in a small de- 
 gree, to remove her anxieties on our account. To 
 the good man she unburdened her heart. He 
 voluntarily took upon himself the character of a 
 parent towards us which character he faithfully 
 sustained to the last day of his life. 
 
 Six months after my father's death, as I said 
 before, we lost our beloved mother. Alas! then 
 we first knew sorrow. In six months, the under- 
 standing of a child makes great advance ; and 
 death, which in the first instance may be little felt, 
 is an event too awful not to become deeply im- 
 pressive by its repetition. Thus, insensible perhaps 
 as we might be to the loss of my father, we deeply 
 mourned now Constantine and myself at least : 
 we knew that we were orphans that most 
 melancholy of all conditions. God, however, had 
 provided a protector in the excellent man who had 
 been as a father also to our poor mother, and 
 by whom she had indeed been regarded as a 
 daughter. 
 
 After my mother's death, our kind friend ar- 
 ranged our little affairs. Our small property was 
 invested advantageously, and produced a sum, 
 
112 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 though abundant for our maintenance, totally in- 
 adequate to procure us an education better than 
 could be obtained in our humble district ; but this 
 was a loss of less importance, since we were every 
 day with our pastor. Kind, worthy old man, how 
 more than parental was his care over us ! He was 
 a widower, and his had been a childless house till 
 he adopted us ; then he bestowed upon us all ih^ 
 love of his affectionate heart. He taught us all 
 that we knew; he studied our tastes, and cultivated 
 our understandings, and gave us a self-dependence 
 of character, which, circumstanced as we were, 
 was of great service to us in after life. And all 
 this was done by a man nearly seventy years of age, 
 for the children of strangers ! He read with us, 
 walked with us, partook of our sports ; and we, in 
 return, venerated, nay, almost adored him. So 
 passed nine years of our life. 
 
 Constantine was the noblest-looking boy I ever 
 saw, and his spirit accorded with his person : gen- 
 erous, kind-hearted, and daring, no adventure was 
 too perilous for him ; he was the companion of 
 the shepherds in their mountain rounds; he had 
 climbed every cliff, swam across every lake, and 
 knew every glen and lonely dwelling in our wild 
 and sequestered country. He was a favorite with 
 all ; for he was manly, clever, and full of humor 
 and wit. Giovanni was formed in a different 
 mould; he strongly resembled my mother; had 
 the same features, the same sweet, sad expression 
 of countenance. He was delicate, too, in constitu- 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 113 
 
 tion, and was incapable of partaking the boisterous 
 sports and daring adventures of his brother. So 
 framed and so constituted, he was much less gen- 
 erally a favorite than Constantine. The truth was, 
 there were none, save our pastor, who could un- 
 derstand and appreciate him ; he was too full of 
 natural refinement for common minds, and he 
 shrunk from their coarse manners, nay, from their 
 rude kindness, with a morbid delicacy which was 
 often mistaken for pride, and, sometimes worse, 
 for ingratitude. With his personal resemblance to 
 my mother, he also inherited her talent for music. 
 His ear was quick and correct ; he seemed to un- 
 derstand it scientifically before he could speak a 
 word ; and his dear mother,, to the very last, sang 
 to him the sweet and plaintive airs of which she 
 was so fond. Dear child ! his whole soul was love 
 and music. Had we lived much in society, he 
 would have been shown off as a prodigy ; as it was, 
 he drew little attention, for our good friend had no 
 taste for music, and consequently but little respect 
 for the art or its professors; and though he in- 
 dulged Giovanni's talent to the utmost in his power, 
 it was only as a childish propensity which he hoped 
 he would outgrow as he approached manhood. 
 
 I possessed my father's talent. I cannot recol- 
 lect the time when I did not attempt to draw every 
 object that pleased me. I made copies of animals' 
 heads, and occasionally designs from my own im- 
 agination ; nor did I ever hear of any scene, oc- 
 currence, or person, which did not immediately 
 10* 
 
114 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 present itself to my mind as a picture : these I 
 often struck off at the moment, and the praise 
 they frequently obtained from our partial friend was 
 all the encouragement and reward that I coveted. 
 My early drawings covered, and I doubt not still 
 cover, the walls of the rooms, not only of the par- 
 sonage, but of many neighboring cottages, whose 
 inmates looked upon me as a prodigy of the pic- 
 torial art. But enough of myself; I will return to 
 my brothers. 
 
 Gonstantine was now fourteen, and our worthy 
 friend proposed that he should be brought up to 
 the ministry ; entertaining, I believe, the fond hope 
 of his succeeding him in the care of his simple 
 flock. But my brother's earnest wish was to be 
 a soldier. The quiet life of a country pastor had 
 no charms for an active, and not unambitious 
 mind like his ; it therefore was with great self-sac- 
 rifice that he gave up all his pleasant visions of a 
 most enterprising and conspicuous life. But his 
 studies were scarcely begun when our protector 
 was suddenly snatched from us by death. 
 
 He had gone on a visit to a sick man in a neigh- 
 boring valley ; when, on his return, feeling himself 
 faint, he sat down upon a piece of rock by the 
 way-side. Constantine, who was with him, sup- 
 ported him in his arms ; but the hand of death 
 was upon him, of which the good man was con- 
 scious. 
 
 " I am dying," said he to Constantly; " yet be 
 not alarmed : death has no terrors for me no 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 115 
 
 pang saving the separation from you, the children 
 of my old age but God will be a father to you, 
 and will raise you up friends when I am gone ! " 
 
 Constantine, composed and courageous as he 
 naturally was, was yet inexpressibly shocked and 
 distressed at this sudden event, and wept bitterly. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear son ! " faintly exclaimed 
 the excellent old man, feeling Constantine's tears 
 falling upon his hand : " give my love to them at 
 home ! " 
 
 These were his last words ; and the spirit, all 
 purity and love, ascended to its great reward ! 
 
 Some shepherds, happening to pass by shortly 
 afterwards, assisted poor Constantine to convey 
 the body home. Now, indeed, were our sorrows 
 renewed ; now again were we orphans ; and 
 not we alone, but the whole district were mourn- 
 ers. A being more beloved never went down to 
 the grave ; nor had one of purer life ever ex- 
 isted. His life had been a series of well-doing ; 
 he was a sincere, humble Christian, and one of 
 the kindest, most cheerful of human beings: this, 
 indeed, was a part of his Christianity. 
 
 A gloomy time succeeded a long, dreary 
 winter ; and when spring came, our minds had 
 not recovered their usual tone. The successor of 
 this excellent man was one of a totally different 
 character. He resided at a great distance, and 
 held this with several other livings. He was a 
 stranger to all his flock, and had no sympathies in 
 common with them. He visited the church twice 
 
116 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 in the year ; at other times, service was performed 
 by the minister of a neighboring parish, who, 
 having the duties of his own church to attend to 
 also, was only seen once on the Sunday, and, of 
 course, he had no time to bestow upon the people 
 individually. This was a melancholy time, and 
 our forlorn situation excited the kindest sympathy 
 of our poor neighbors, some of whom offered to 
 initiate Constantine in their humble callings, like 
 one of their own children, free of cost. But a 
 high-spirited boy, like Constantine, could not sub- 
 mit himself to a common handicraft trade ; for, 
 poor as we were, we had always an idea that we 
 were of superior birth to those among whom our 
 lot had fallen, and had an undefined belief that we 
 should, in the end, take that place in society 
 which, had our gifted parents lived, their talents 
 would have obtained for us. After Constantine's 
 refusal of the well-intentioned kindness of our 
 neighbors, we were much less objects of compas- 
 sion than formerly ; we were called proud, and the 
 opinion which was entertained of us, but more es- 
 pecially of Gonstantine, led to an event which made 
 a most painful change in our circumstances, and 
 which I will relate. 
 
 Constantine was one day assisting a shepherd 
 in removing his flocks from the hills during a 
 storm, and, in the course of the day, was desired 
 to remain for a short time at a house of refresh- 
 ment by the way-side. A party of country people, 
 returning from market, were seated within the 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 117 
 
 wooden screen round the fire, and Constantine, 
 unseen by them, found, to his surprise, himself 
 the subject of their discourse. He had no idea 
 till then that he had given such serious affront 
 to his former friends. He was charged with 
 pride, ingratitude, and idleness; with being a 
 burden to the honest people with whom we dwelt. 
 And even the memory of our revered friend was 
 censured for bringing him up with notions so 
 unbefitting his station. Poor Constantine ! how 
 little either he or our lost friend deserved these 
 censures ! 
 
 All this he heard, and his heart rose to his lips, 
 and his cheek flushed with indignation, but he 
 restrained both his anger and his emotion ; and 
 when he returned home in the evening, it was 
 with more than his usual vivacity. He related to 
 us ail that he had heard. " And now," said he, 
 " I have fixed my plans, and am sure they will 
 succeed." 
 
 " What plans, dear Constantine ? " asked I im- 
 patiently, for I dreaded his leaving us. 
 
 " Since you do not like me to be a soldier," 
 replied he, for I had always opposed his sol- 
 dierly propensities, "I will be a sailor and 
 here I will not be opposed. I feel the utmost con- 
 fidence in myself; I could fancy myself many 
 years older since I have come to this determina- 
 tion. I shall set off for Liverpool to-morrow ; and 
 in a few weeks I shall be in the way to make a 
 fortune a fortune for you also ! " 
 
118 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 Constantine finished his speech without interrup- 
 tion : had a sudden dumbness fallen upon me, I 
 could not have felt less capable of replying. 
 
 " I, too, dear brother," said Giovanni, " will 
 go; I am not the sickly boy they take me for; 
 you shall not run all risks for us ; I can do more 
 than you suppose/' argued Giovanni, laying his 
 beautiful small hand upon his brother's arm. 
 
 " No, no ! " said Constantine, with decision, 
 " no, Giovanni, you must stay with Magdeline ! 
 When I am gone, there will be but two to be sup- 
 ported, and there will be plenty. Every sixpence 
 of my share in our little property, from this mo- 
 ment, I give up to Magdeline and you ! " 
 
 I threw myself on his neck I wept as I had 
 never wept before I besought him to stay with 
 us to let us labor altogether to let us submit to 
 any thing, rather than be separated : but he was 
 unmoved his conduct appeared unaccountable 
 to me ; he not only appeared firm, but, I thought, 
 stern in rejecting our prayers ; and commanded 
 us, as a father might have commanded his chil- 
 dren, to drop the subject, and let us finish the even- 
 ing in joy. "Come, Giovanni," said he, "let us 
 hear some music ! " 
 
 Giovanni took up the instrument, but he played 
 feebly ; and when he raised his voice to sing, sobs 
 choked his utterance. " I am wretched ! " said 
 the dear boy, " and I cannot give expression to 
 my feelings. Dear, dear Constantine," continued 
 he, '< if you go, I shall never see your face again ! " 
 
CONStfANTINE AND GIOVANNI, 119 
 
 and he wept as if his heart would break. Con- 
 stantine, too, covered his face with his hand, and 
 we were silent for many minutes. 
 
 At length, " Come, come," said he, endeavoring 
 to look calm, " come, Giovanni, have done, this 
 is all folly ! and, Magdeline," continued he in a 
 gayer tone, " since we cannot have music, let us 
 see your folio. Have you any thing new to show 
 me ? Will you give me this ? " said he, selecting 
 one from the many sketches, (it was a head of 
 Giovanni.) 
 
 " Yes," said I, " and this, and this, if you will only 
 promise not to go to sea ! " Alas ! I little thought 
 why he was asking for one ; it was in the fixed 
 resolution of leaving us, and for a parting token. 
 
 The next morning, to our utter consternation, 
 he was gone. He had packed up his few clothes 
 unknown to any one, and leaving a few kind 
 words of farewell on a scrap of paper, which Gi- 
 ovanni found on his pillow, was many miles dis- 
 tant ere we discovered his flight. 
 
 In three weeks' time he wrote to inform us of 
 what, he called his good fortune. He had made 
 an engagement with the master of a merchant 
 vessel, and was on the point of sailing for the 
 East Indies. The letter was in a strain of gayety, 
 little in accordance with our feelings, but full of 
 ardent affection, and breathing his own cheerful 
 and sanguine spirit, which always looked forward 
 to the future with confidence. Since then we have 
 heard no tidings of him, saving that the ship in 
 
120 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 which he sailed arrived safely at her destination, 
 Dear Constantine ! would that it had pleased 
 Heaven to reward his virtuous intentions with 
 the success which, according to our human rea- 
 soning, they so well merited ! Time went on ; 
 and though we became in some degree reconciled 
 to his absence, we never ceased mourning for him 
 whom we could consider but as one dead. Still, 
 occasionally we had hope, and we talked over his 
 happy return ; the more happy for our uncertainty 
 and fear. But, alas! now my hope is over. I 
 have seen Giovanni laid in his grave, and I feel 
 that I am alone in the world ! 
 
 But let me proceed with my narrative. 
 
 Shortly after Constantine's departure, Giovanni 
 became ill ; and though, after the lapse of several 
 months, he appeared perfectly recovered, I could 
 not avoid remarking, that the resemblance to my 
 mother was stronger than ever, and the resem- 
 blance not to her in her strength and health, but 
 in her declining state. This mournful resem- 
 blance filled my spirit with inexpressible sadness. 
 
 With his weakness, the sweetness of his affec- 
 tionate nature yet more revealed itself; he leaned 
 on me as on the sole hope of his life ; I was mother, 
 brother, and sister, all in one, and my tender af- 
 fection for him increased more and more. He 
 was dearer because so dependent upon me ; and, 
 weak and feeble as he was, I would not have ex- 
 changed him for any living brother in the uni- 
 verse. 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 121 
 
 1 omitted to mention before, that the cottager 
 with whom we resided was the organist of the 
 little church of our hamlet. The organ was a 
 fine instrument for so remote and rarely frequented 
 a place. It had been the gift of a gentleman of 
 great taste and musical talent, who was born and 
 resided many years there, but who had now re- 
 moved to a distant part of the kingdom. The 
 organist had been trained under his direction, and 
 would often speak of those times as of a golden 
 age, when people came far and near to hear him 
 perform. "But now," he would say with a sigh, 
 " the church is, deserted, nobody cares for music 
 now-a-days ! " With the old organist Giovanni 
 was a favorite, and he used, in his most flattering 
 moments, to predict that he should be his succes- 
 sor. The organ was, as may be supposed, Gio- 
 vanni's delight, and my heart has ached many a 
 time to think that the cause of his delicate health 
 might be attributed to colds he took in practising 
 in the church, even in the severest weather, and 
 from which he could not be deterred, except by 
 extreme indisposition. 
 
 When Giovanni was about fourteen, Mr. B , 
 
 the patron of the parish, after an absence of 
 twenty years, suddenly made his appearance at 
 his native village late one Saturday evening. 
 Whether it was that the good old organist feared 
 to perform again before the critical ear of his 
 patron, or that a sudden indisposition did indeed 
 seize him, I cannot say ; but on the following 
 11 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 morning he declared himself unable to leave his 
 bed, and lamented that the organ must go un 
 played, which he knew would be a great disap- 
 pointment to Mr. B . 
 
 But the organ did not go unplayed upon. " I 
 have practised upon it too often," said Giovanni to 
 me secretly, " not to succeed now." No one but 
 myself knew his design, and at his request, I seated 
 myself with him at the instrument, concealing our- 
 selves with the curtains. I saw Mr. B enter 
 
 the church, and place himself immediately opposite 
 to the organ, and, fixing his eyes upon it, appar- 
 ently wait with impatience for the performance. 
 Giovanni played with beautiful precision and feel- 
 ing, and I knew by the gentleman's countenance 
 that he was both surprised and pleased. The 
 sermon was done, a concluding psalm was played, 
 and then I saw by Giovanni's eye his state of mind, 
 he had forgotten time and place, and he poured 
 forth a voluntary, composed at the moment to his 
 own inspired feelings, with which he mingled the 
 clear yet low tones of his sweet voice. The whole 
 congregation was electrified. Simple and unedu- 
 cated as they were, the expression of that wonder- 
 ful music touched every foul ; and a silence, like 
 that of the grave, succeeded its conclusion, and 
 then a universal whisper, and then a loudly-mur- 
 mured applause ; but when they looked for the 
 strange musician, he was not to be found. Short 
 as the effort had been, I saw it had exhausted him, 
 -and therefore led him immediately home. 
 
eONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 All who knew Giovanni readily conjectured 
 that it was he. Of course Mr. B.'s curiosity was 
 intense; and scarcely stopping to make any rec- 
 ognitions among his old acquaintance, he hurried 
 to the organist. The tidings of the strange per- 
 formance had already reached him ; and as, during 
 the service, he had found himself much better, and 
 had left his bed, he went forth to meet his old 
 patron. " You are come," said he, meeting him 
 at the door, " to inquire who played the organ this 
 morning ; you do not think it was I you are 
 right, but it was a youth of whom I, in some 
 sort, may be said to have had the teaching : he 
 has a fine ear, sir, and understands the organ as 
 well, pretty near, as myself! " 
 
 "And where is he, and who is he?" asked 
 Mr. B. 
 
 "Poor lad/' replied the organist, "he is an 
 orphan, and as delicate as a crushed flower ; he is 
 
 the son of , a great painter, they tell me, 
 
 who died under this very roof, some fourteen years 
 ago. But come in, sir, and you shall see him ! " 
 
 It was a fortunate day for us ; and from that 
 time forward We never wanted either home or 
 friends. Mr. B. was one who could understand 
 Giovanni's excitable nature, and sympathize in his 
 feelings^ the first person beside his lamented 
 brother, the pastor, and myself, from whom he 
 did not shrink, as from a nature totally different 
 to his own. 
 
 I will not detail the particulars of the month that 
 
124 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 followed : in that time our circumstances had un- 
 dergone an entire change. We had left, with 
 many regretful feelings, it must be confessed, the 
 cottage among the hills, and its kind and worthy 
 inmates, from whom, in our afflictions, we had 
 ever received the kindest sympathy. We were 
 become the adopted children of a new friend ; we 
 had found a mother in his wife ; and were estab- 
 lished amid abundance and ease, in a quiet man- 
 sion, near Bath. A new life had opened to us; 
 but it was too late for Giovanni to enjoy any 
 change, however favorable. The most skilful phy- 
 sicians were consulted on his case, but the more 
 skilful they were, the less hope they gave. Ex- 
 citement, they all agreed, would kill him ; and it 
 was impossible to keep a nature like his free from 
 it. The stimulus was within ; and things which 
 would not have moved an ordinary mind, a fine 
 sunset, the rich odor of a flower, the pictures that 
 surrounded him, all produced that very state 
 of mind which was death. A dreadful, incessant 
 palpitation of the heart, burning cheeks, a more 
 beautifully brilliant eye, these were the out- 
 ward and visible signs of his malady ; and it was 
 impossible not to see, from week to week, what 
 havock it was making in his bodily powers. There 
 was an extraordinary interest excited about him, 
 constant and anxious inquiries after him, from 
 hundreds of persons ; for his singular story, which 
 had been made known, and his striking exterior, 
 had attracted much attention ; but alas ! his days 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI, 125 
 
 were numbered. Music was now forbidden, and 
 a state of profound rest enjoined as a last hope. 
 
 All, this time, while his strength was rapidly 
 declining, he could scarcely be made sensible of 
 his danger ; his spirits were generally high, and he 
 took great delight and interest in all that surround- 
 ed him ; and had music been permitted him, fatal 
 as it must have been, he would have been perfect- 
 ly happy. Occasionally, however, a presentiment 
 of death came over him, and his affectionate heart 
 indulged a natural grief in the prospect of leaving 
 us. Still, the hope of meeting again, and con- 
 versing with our beloved Constantine, made the 
 prospect of death less appalling. But why should 
 I prolong so sad a story? He died. On the 
 last day of his beautiful and innocent life, when all 
 hope for him was over, he begged for an instru- 
 ment ; it was permitted to him, for, said the phy- 
 sician, it may allay his irritation and it cannot 
 produce a worse state than that from which he is 
 now suffering. Alas! he did not know how frail 
 was his thread of life how fatal that indulgence 
 would be ! 
 
 There were only Mr. and Mrs. B- and my- 
 self with him : he was reclininor on a couch. 
 
 ' O 
 
 When he heard that the use of his instrument 
 would be permitted him, on condition of his com- 
 posing himself for the rest of the day, his counte- 
 nance assumed an expression of almost angelic 
 delight, and with tears in his eyes he thanked us, 
 and promised implicit obedience. He took the 
 11* 
 
126 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 instrument, struck a few feeble tones paused a 
 moment, and then, slightly raising himself, poured 
 forth the whole of his pent-up feelings in a tide 
 of the most soul-touching music. At length he 
 stopped. 
 
 " I can play no more," exclaimed he, and laying 
 his head upon my shoulder, seemed gradually to 
 sink into a deep sleep. I believed he had thus 
 composed himself, when I observed a glance of 
 sorrowful meaning pass between Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 B . I understood it too well ! My beloved 
 
 brother was no more ! 
 
 I cannot proceed ; the remembrance of that 
 time overcomes me : three years have passed since 
 then; but we never speak of Giovanni without 
 tears. 
 
 1830. 
 
 My dear brother Constantine still lives! A 
 letter from him has arrived. What a joyful letter ! 
 and yet sorrowful iri one respect, since it is ad- 
 dressed both to Giovanni and myself. Colonel 
 
 Allan, too, of the regiment, mentioned in the 
 
 letter as returning to England, we have seen. He 
 knows Constantine well. What a delight to con- 
 verse with one that knows him and has seen him 
 but lately ! What a delight, too, to hear the hon- 
 orable manner in which he speaks of him ! O 
 how my heart overflows with gratitude to that good 
 Providence that has sustained him, and preserved 
 him to me ! 
 
CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 127 
 
 The following is the brief outline of his history 
 since he left England, as given by Colonel Allan. 
 
 He sailed to Calcutta, and thence to New South 
 Wales, and on his return the vessel was driven out 
 of her course and wrecked on one of the Molucca 
 islands, and all the crew perished excepting five,, 
 one of whom was Constantine. They were de- 
 tained three years in hard captivity, from which, 
 after a series of adventures almost as romantic as 
 those of Robinson Crusoe, they were delivered 
 through the aid of Major Downing of Madras, 
 who had heard, accidentally, of a small number 
 of English sailors being captive in the Moluccas. 
 By this means Major Downing became acquainted 
 with Constantine, and presented him with a cadet- 
 ship in his own forces. Thus he honorably com- 
 menced his military career. He has since served 
 in two campaigns up the country, and, according 
 to the mode of promotion in the India service, 
 held, at the time of his writing, a captain's com- 
 mission. All this, it appears, we ought to have 
 known, for Constantine, his friend says, to his own 
 knowledge, wrote to us but his letter we never 
 received. Speaking of himself, my brother writes 
 thus in the letter now before me. 
 
 " I am not the little Constantine you knew me. 
 I am twenty-one years old ; my brown hair is be- 
 come black as jet, and I am t^ie color of old ma- 
 hogany ; but I am well and happy ; the climate 
 agrees with me ; I have not been ill for a single 
 
128 
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 day. I have a house of my own ; three-and-twenty 
 servants, and a stud of elephants; we live on rice 
 and currie, are as temperate as Bramins, and yet 
 lead lives like princes. I only want you, my little 
 Magdeline, and Giovanni, (would that he had been 
 spared to know these joyful tidings,) with his sweet 
 music, and saint-like countenance, to make me 
 perfectly happy. I want you to come here and 
 I send by my friend, Colonel Allan, about five hun- 
 dred pounds this will enable you to do so. 
 Allan will tell you all that is needful to be done, 
 and has the goodness to undertake the manage- 
 ment of every thing." 
 
 My kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. B , will not 
 
 consent to my departure ; but instead of myself, 
 Constantine will receive tidings both, of joy and 
 sorrow ; and the time may come, if so Heaven 
 wills it, when we may meet again in England, 
 and talk over the varied events of our singular 
 histories. 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 IT was when the persecution of the people called 
 Quakers had, for a short season, somewhat abated 
 its rigor, and they ventured to attend their religious 
 assemblies without fear of injury to their families 
 in the mean time,, that Walter Pixley and his wife 
 a staid and respectable couple belonging to that 
 despised community, rode eleven miles to their 
 county town of Stafford, to be present at a meet- 
 ing, at which that apostle-like young man, Edward 
 Burrough, was to preach, leaving their little daugh- 
 ter, Martha, under the care of an aged woman, 
 who was, at that time, their sole female domestic. 
 
 Martha was a grave child, though but seven 
 years of age : her young mind had taken its tone 
 from both of her parents. She had been born in 
 a season of persecution, had been cradled, as it 
 were, in anxiety and sorrow, and as she grew old 
 enough to comprehend the circumstances that sur- 
 rounded her, she saw her parents constantly filled 
 with apprehension for the safety of their lives and 
 property. She had heard them talk over the 
 grievances, spoiling of goods, the maimings, the 
 whippings, and the horrible sufferings of their 
 
130 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 persecuted brethren persecuted even to the 
 death ; had heard of little children enduring, with 
 the steadfastness of early martyrs, imprisonments 
 and pains, which would overcome even the strong 
 man ; till, unlike the ordinary child of her years, 
 her countenance habitually wore a look of gravity, 
 and her heart bled at the least thought of suffering 
 or sorrow. 
 
 Martha's home was in a country place, sur- 
 rounded by fields a pleasant, quiet valley, the 
 patrimonial heritage of her father. It was harvest 
 time, and in the course of the morning the old 
 servant went out with the reapers' dinners, leaving 
 little Martha to amuse herself in her usual quiet 
 way. She had not been long alone before a beg- 
 gar-woman presented herself with a young child 
 in her arms. Martha knew that it was her moth- 
 er's custom to relieve distress in whatever shape 
 it presented itself, and the story the woman told, 
 whether false or true, touched her to the soul ; she 
 gave her, therefore, the dinner which had been set 
 aside for herself, and compassionated her in words 
 of the truest sympathy, and when the child in the 
 woman's arms wept, like Pharaoh's daughter, her 
 heart yearned towards it. Strange it may be to 
 all, but so it was, for our story is true, when the 
 beggar-woman saw the affection with which little 
 Martha regarded the child, she proposed to sell it 
 to her, and Martha, innocent of all guile, readily 
 accepted the proposal. All her little hoard of 
 money was produced, the bargain was struck, 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 131 
 
 and the two parted perfectly satisfied with the 
 transaction. The child was beautiful as the He- 
 brew boy himself; and Martha sat down with it 
 upon her knee> and lavished upon it all the eiv 
 dearing tenderness which her most affectionate 
 nature suggested. 
 
 In a short time the child fell asleep ; and as she 
 sat gazing upon it, a half-defined fear stole into 
 her mind, that perhaps she had done wrong in 
 taking upon, her this charge unknown to her par- 
 ents, that perhaps they would be displeased. 
 She rose up in haste, and looked from door and 
 window for the beggar-woman, but neither across 
 the fields, nor down the valley, nor upon the dis- 
 tant highways, was she to be seen; and then, with 
 that sentiment,, which, from the time of the first 
 error in Paradise, has become apart of our human 
 nature, she was afraid, and thought to hide the 
 child. She made it a comfortable, warm bed, with 
 a blanket, in a large press, and kissing its sleeping 
 eyes, and wishing that she had no fear, she left it 
 to its repose, and began with great anxiety to look 
 out for the return of her parents. To the old do- 
 mestic she said not one word of what she had 
 done. 
 
 After two hours, all which time the child slept 
 soundly, Walter Pixley and his wife returned. 
 The good mother, who was accustomed to help in 
 all the domestic business, employed herself in pre- 
 paring the early afternoon meal, and Martha sat 
 down with her parents to partake of it. While 
 
MARTHA AND MARY, 
 
 Walter Pixley and his wife were in the midst of 
 their review of the events of the morning of 
 Edward Burrough's extraordinary sermon, and of 
 the concourse to whom it was addressed they were 
 startled by what seemed to them the cry of a child. 
 Martha's heart beat quick, and her sweet face 
 grew suddenly pale ; but her parents were not ob- 
 serving her. The good man stopped in the mid- 
 dle of a sentence, and both he and his wife turned 
 their heads towards the part of the house whence 
 the sound proceeded, listened for a second or two, 
 and then, all being again still, without remarking 
 upon what they supposed was fancy, they went on 
 again with their conversation. Again a cry louder 
 and more determined was heard ; and again they 
 paused. ' Surely," said the wife, " that is the 
 voice of a young child." 
 
 The critical moment was now come conceal- 
 ment was no longer possible ; and Martha's affec- 
 tion mastering her fear, as the infant continued to 
 cry, she darted from the table and exclaimed, 
 " Yes, yes, it is my child ! " and the next moment 
 was heard audibly soothing her little charge, in 
 the chamber above, with all the tenderness of the 
 fondest mother. 
 
 Mrs. Pixley was soon at her daughter's side, 
 full of the most inconceivable astonishment, and 
 demanded from her whence the child had come, 
 or how it had been consigned to her charge. 
 Martha related the story with perfect honesty. 
 The old domestic was then summoned, but she 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 133 
 
 knew hothing of the affair. They were not long 
 deliberations that followed. The family could 
 not conscientiously burden themselves with another 
 dependant, and one especially who had no natural 
 claim upon them, in these perilous and anxious 
 times, when they could not even insure security 
 for themselves ; and, besides this, how did they 
 know but this very circumstance might be made, 
 in some way or other, a cause of offence or of 
 persecution? for the world looked with jealous 
 and suspicious eyes upon the poor Quakers. 
 Father Pixley, therefore, soon determined what 
 he had to do in the affair, to make the circum- 
 stances known at the next village ; to inquire after 
 the woman, who, no doubt, had been seen either 
 before or after parting with the child ; and also to 
 state the whole affair to the nearest justice of the 
 peace. 
 
 Within an hour, therefore, after the discovery 
 of the child, the good man might be seen making 
 known his strange news at the different places of 
 resort in the village, and inquiring from all if such 
 a person as the little girl had described the woman 
 to be, had been seen by any ; but to his chagrin 
 and amazement, no one could give him infor- 
 mation ; such a person had evidently not been 
 there. He next hastened to the justice's. It was 
 now evening, and Walter Pixley was informed that 
 his worship very rarely transacted any business 
 after dinner, and that especially " he would not 
 with a Quaker." Walter, however, was not easily 
 12 
 
134 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 to be put by ; he felt his business was important, 
 and, by help of a gratuity to the servant, he 
 gained admittance. 
 
 The justice was engaged over his wine, and he 
 received Walter Pixley very gruffly, and in the end 
 threatened him with a committal to jail for his 
 pains. The poor Quaker had been in jail the 
 whole of the preceding winter, and he remembered 
 too wofully the horror of that dungeon to bring 
 upon himself willingly a second incarceration. It 
 was of no use seeking for help at the hands of the 
 justice ; therefore he urged his business no fur- 
 ther, and returned quietly to his own house. 
 
 Against the will, therefore, of the elder Pixleys, 
 the child was established with them ; and it was 
 not long before the father and mother as cordially 
 adopted it as their little daughter had done from 
 the first beholding it. " For who knows," argued 
 the good Walter Pixley, "but the child may be 
 designed for some great work, and therefore re- 
 moved thus singularly from the ways of evil, for 
 our teaching and bringing up ? Let us not gain- 
 say or counteract the ways of Providence." This 
 reasoning abundantly satisfied the pious minds of 
 the good Friends, and the little stranger was reg- 
 ularly installed a member of the family by the 
 kindred name of Mary. 
 
 At the time little Mary was first received under 
 this hospitable roof, she might be about six months 
 old a child of uncommon beauty ; nor as the 
 months advanced into years was the promise of 
 

 MARTHA AND MARY. 135 
 
 her infancy disappointed. She was, in disposition* 
 and tone of mind, the very reverse of her grave 
 and gentle elder sister, as Martha was now con- 
 sidered ; she was bold and full of mirth ; full of 
 such unbroken buoyancy of heart as made the 
 sober mother Pixley half suspect that she must 
 have come of some race of wild people. Certain 
 it was, the subdued and grave spirit of the Pixleys 
 never influenced her ; and as Martha grew up into 
 womanhood, and the quietness and sobriety of her 
 younger years matured into fixed principle, she 
 embraced with a firm mind the peculiar tenets in 
 which she had been brought up, and would have 
 stood to the death for the maintenance of them. 
 Mary also advanced past the years of girlhood, but 
 still remained the gay, glad, bold-spirited being 
 that she had ever been. She revered all the mem- 
 bers of the persecuted body to whom her friends 
 belonged, and would have suffered fearlessly for 
 their sakes ; still their principles and practices she 
 never would adopt. Her beautiful person was 
 adorned, as far as she had opportunity, in the pre- 
 vailing fashion of the times; and she often grieved 
 the sober minds of every member of the family, 
 by carolling forth " profane songs," as Mrs. Pixley 
 called them ; while how she became acquainted 
 with them remained forever a mystery. Often did 
 the conscientious mind of father Pixley question 
 with himself, whether it was quite right to main- 
 tain so light a maiden under his roof; but then the 
 affectionate being, who had no friends save them 
 
136 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 in the world, had so entwined herself round the 
 hearts of all the household, that the good man 
 banished the idea as inhuman, and never ventured 
 to give it utterance. Martha and her mother, mean- 
 time, strove to win over this bright young creature 
 to their own views, and for a few moments she 
 would settle her beautiful face to a solemn expres- 
 sion, try to subdue what her friends called " her 
 airy imagination," and attend the preaching of 
 some eminent Friend. But it would not do, the 
 true character burst forth through all, Mary wat 
 again all wit and laughter, and, though her friends 
 reproved, they loved her, and forgave all. 
 
 On the accession of James II., which is the 
 period at which our little narrative is now arrived, 
 persecution raged again with greater violence than 
 ever ; and the Pixleys, along with seventeen other 
 Friends, both men and women, were dragged from 
 their meeting-house by a brutal soldiery, under the 
 command of the justice we have before mentioned, 
 to the dungeon-like county jail, in the depth of 
 winter. The hardships they endured were so 
 dreadful that it is painful to relate them. They 
 were kept many days without food, and allowed 
 neither fire nor candle ; their prison was damp and 
 cold, and they were furnished with straw only for 
 their beds; they were also forbidden to see their 
 friends, who might have procured them some of 
 the necessaries of life ; nor were they allowed to 
 represent, by letter, their case to any influential man 
 of the county, who might have interested himself 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 137 
 
 in their behalf. And to all this was added the 
 brutality of a cruel jailer, who heaped upon them 
 all the ignominy he could devise. In these dread- 
 ful circumstances lay the gentle Martha Pixley and 
 her parents. Mary, not having accompanied them 
 to their place of worship, did not share their fate. 
 
 Poor mother Pixley's health had long been de- 
 clining, and this confinement reduced her so low 
 that in a few days her life was despaired of; still, 
 no medical aid could be procured, and the cloaks 
 and coats of nfany of her suffering companions 
 were given up to furnish covering for her miser- 
 able bed. 
 
 When the news came to Mary of the c6mmittal 
 of her friends to jail, the distress of her mind ex- 
 pressed itself in a burst of uncontrollable indigna- 
 tion ; and then, asking counsel of no one, she 
 threw on her hat and cloak, and taking with her an 
 old man who lived in the family as a laborer, she 
 hurried to the justice's ; and, as she did not appear 
 with any mark of the despised Quaker, either in 
 dress or manner, she soon obtained admittance. 
 The magistrate was somewhat startled by the sud- 
 den apparition of so fair and young a maiden, and 
 demanded her pleasure with unwonted courtesy, 
 seating her in the chair beside him, and removing 
 from his head the laced hat which he was wearing 
 at her entrance. Mary made her demand for the 
 liberation of her friends, the Quakers. The jus- 
 tice stared, as if doubting his senses, and rallied 
 her on the strangeness of her request, charging 
 
138 
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 upon the Quakers all those absurd and monstrous 
 things which were alleged against them in those 
 days. Mary, nothing abashed, denied every charge 
 as false, and demanded, if not the liberation of her 
 friends, at least the amelioration of their sufferings. 
 As Mary pleaded, the justice grew angry, and at 
 length the full violence of his temper broke forth, 
 and the high-spirited girl, even more indignant than 
 terrified, rushed from his presence. 
 
 What was next to be done ? She ordered her 
 old attendant to saddle the horset, and mounting 
 one, and bidding him follow on the other, she set 
 off to the county town. There she found great 
 numbers of Friends surrounding the prison with 
 baskets of provisions, bedding, warm clothing, and 
 fuel, begging for admittance to their perishing 
 brethren. Little children, too, there were, weep- 
 ing for their imprisoned parents, and offering their 
 little all to the jailer, so that they might be per- 
 mitted to share their captivity. JMary made her 
 way through this melancholy crowd, peremptorily 
 demanded access to the jailer, and was admitted, 
 her garb, unlike that of the persecuted Quakers, 
 obtaining for her this favor, as at the house of the 
 justice. But here again her errand debarred her 
 further success ; the jailer would neither allow 
 her to see her friends nor would he convey a mes- 
 sage to them. Mary could have wept in anger and 
 vexation, and from intense sympathy with the grief 
 she had witnessed outside the walls, but she did 
 not ; she retorted upon the jailer the severity of 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 139 
 
 his manner, and, bidding him look to the conse- 
 quences, folded her cloak round her, and walked 
 forth again into the circle of Friends who sur- 
 rounded the gate. The jailer laughed as he drew 
 the heavy bolts after her, and bade her do her 
 worst. 
 
 Among the Friends collected in the street be- 
 fore the prison, Mary heard that William Penn, 
 who had just returned from his new settlement in 
 America, was now in London. As soon as she 
 heard this, she determined upon her plan of con- 
 duct. She knew his influence with the king, who, 
 when Duke of York, had induced his brother, 
 Charles II., to bestow on him that tract of land called 
 Pennsylvania. To him, therefore, she determined 
 to go, and pray him to represent to the king the 
 deplorable sufferings of Friends in those parts. 
 
 When her old attendant heard of her meditated 
 journey, he looked upon her as almost insane. 
 To him the project was appalling. It would re- 
 quire many days to reach London, and who must 
 take charge of the farm in his absence, seeing his 
 worthy master was in prison ? And then, too, 
 though he had been willing to attend her as far as 
 the next town, would it be right for a young maiden 
 and an old man to endanger their lives by so long 
 and so strange a journey ? 
 
 Mary was uninfluenced by his reasoning, nor 
 was she to be daunted by his fears. " If," she said, 
 " he would not accompany her, she would go 
 alone." She bade him, therefore, to have her 
 
140 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 horse saddled by break of day, and retired to her 
 own apartment, to prepare for the journey. 
 
 " Of a surety," said the old man to himself, 
 " she is a wilful young thing." 
 
 In the morning, however, she found not only 
 her horse prepared, but the old man and his also ; 
 for, wilful as she was, the old man loved her ; and, 
 though he could not conjecture the object of so 
 strange a journey, " he would," he said, " go with 
 her to the end' of the world." 
 
 Mary had ventured to make use of the stores 
 in Walter Pixley's coffers, for she considered 
 the lives of her friends were at stake. She was, 
 therefore, sufficiently supplied with money for their 
 journey. 
 
 For this time the wild gayety of Mary's spirits 
 was gone, but, instead, was a strong energy and 
 determination of character, which supported her 
 above fatigue, or the apprehension of danger ; and 
 day after day, from town to town, in the depth of 
 winter, did she and her attendant journey onward. 
 They had no intercourse with travellers on the 
 road, nor did they make known to any one the ob- 
 ject of their journey. 
 
 When she arrived in London, she went straight 
 to the house where William Penn had his tempo- 
 rary residence, and, without introduction, apology, 
 or circumlocution, laid before that great and good 
 man the sad condition of her suffering friends. 
 She then made him acquainted with her own pri- 
 vate history, her obligations to the family of the 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 141 
 
 worthy Walter Pixley, and the anxiety she now felt 
 for the life of her who had been as a mother 
 unto her. 
 
 William Penn heard her with evident emotion, 
 and promised to do all that lay in his power for her 
 benefactors ; though he assured her she had over- 
 rated his influence with the king. He then desired 
 Mary to take up her abode under his roof; and 
 bidding an attendant call in his mistress, he gave 
 her into the hands of his fair and gentle wife, 
 briefly relating to her upon what errand the young 
 maiden had come. 
 
 When Mary found her mission thus far so happily 
 accomplished, and the door shut upon herself and 
 her kind hostess, the overstrained energy of her 
 spirit for a moment relaxed, and she wept like a 
 feeble child. The fair wife of William Penn un- 
 derstood her feelings, soothed her with sympathy, 
 and encouraged her to open her heart freely. 
 Never had Mary seen goodness so graceful and 
 attractive as in the high-minded and gentle being 
 before her. Her very soul blessed her as she 
 spoke ; she could not doubt but that all would be 
 well ; and with her heart comforted, assured, and 
 filled with gratitude, it seemed as if a new life had 
 been given to her. 
 
 The next day William Penn obtained an audi- 
 ence of the king, and so wrought upon him by 
 the story of the heroic young creature under his 
 roof, and the sufferings of her friends, that he de- 
 sired she might be brought, before him, and receive 
 
142 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 from his own hands the order for their enlarge- 
 ment. 
 
 Mary was accordingly arrayed in the best gar- 
 ments her scanty wardrobe permitted, by the 
 elegant and gentle hands of Guilelma Penn, who 
 surveyed her beautiful face and figure with admi- 
 ration, and then kissed her and blessed her, as an 
 affectionate mother might bless a beloved daughter. 
 
 Leaning upon the arm of her protector, she was 
 conducted through a great chamber of lords and 
 ladies, assembled for the occasion, into the pres- 
 ence of his majesty. Mary's heart beat violently, 
 as her companion, drawing her arm from his, pre- 
 sented her to his sovereign, who graciously bade 
 her speak her wishes without fear. Reassured by 
 the kindness of the king's manner, almost forget- 
 ting the presence in which she stood, for what 
 seemed to her the greater importance of her er- 
 rand, she made her petition gracefully and well. 
 She related all she had told William Penn of the 
 great kindness of the Pixleys to her, and her other- 
 wise desolate condition; she told of their domestic 
 virtues, of their piety, and their firm loyalty ; and 
 lastly, of their wretched condition in the jail, with 
 that of many others ; and of the cruelty of the 
 justice and the jailer; and then, almost uncon- 
 sciously falling on her knees, she prayed so elo- 
 quently that they might be released, that the king 
 turned aside to wipe away a tear before he put 
 forth his hand to raise her. 
 
 The petition was granted. The king himself 
 
MARTHA AND MARY. 143 
 
 put into her hands the order for their release, and 
 then, praying God might bless her, and taking leave 
 of William Penn very kindly, passed out of the 
 presence-chamber. Many of the lords accom- 
 panied the king, but the rest, closing around the 
 almost terrified maiden, overwhelmed her with 
 compliments. William Penn, who saw her confu- 
 sion, apologized for her with all the grace of a 
 courtier, and extricating her from the admiring 
 company, conveyed her, like a being walking in a 
 dream, to his own house. 
 
 Not a moment was lost in sending down by ex- 
 press the order for the Friends' enlargement, and, 
 together with that, a dismissal from his office for 
 the jailer. Rest was now absolutely necessary for 
 Mary, after those extraordinary exertions ; William 
 Penn detained her, therefore, a few days under his 
 roof, and then conveyed her himself in his own 
 comfortable carriage to the house of her friends. 
 It is impossible to describe the joy which her re- 
 turn afforded, and which was not a little increased 
 by the presence of her illustrious companion. 
 
 The troubles and persecutions of the Pixleys 
 here came to an end, for they went over to Penn- 
 sylvania with its distinguished founder, on his re- 
 turn, and became noted among the most worthy 
 and influential of the settlers there. Mary, how- 
 ever, returned to England, being affluently married ; 
 and I myself, several years ago, was possessed of a 
 piece of needle-work said to have been of her 
 doinor 
 
* 
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 ELIZABETH BROWN, or, as she was always called 
 at home, Bessy, was ten years old when we shall 
 first introduce her to our readers. She could at 
 this time knit, sew, and read ; she could also write 
 a little, and cast accounts rather less in fact, 
 she could just add an easy addition sum, and tell 
 how many farthings make a penny, how many pence 
 a shilling, and how many shillings a guinea, a 
 pound, or a sovereign. She knew, moreover, the 
 church catechism, the ten commandments, the 
 Lord's prayer, a few hymns, and a few songs, the 
 names and order of the twelve months, the number 
 of days in a year, and that she was born in the 
 year 1815 ; and consequently, in the year 1825, 
 the time at which we are arrived, she was ten 
 years old. 
 
 With this small stock of learning, she was never- 
 theless a happy child, and was tractable and useful 
 in her father's house. She could wash the floor, 
 prepare the small meals of the family, put the 
 dinner things aside, rub the tables and chairs, and 
 then carry out the baby into the sunshiny fields, 
 without endangering it in either life or limb. She 
 
A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 145 
 
 was a great help to her mother, who, when fretted 
 by having to provide for a large family, out of the 
 scanty earnings of her husband, a laboring man, 
 used sometimes to scold her for playing at hop- 
 scotch and burn-ball with the neighboring children, 
 when she wanted her to mend stockings and nurse 
 the baby ; yet, at the same time, she internally ad- 
 mitted her good little daughter's usefulness, and 
 often said to herself, that she should be at her wits' 
 end without the help of little Bessy. 
 
 Bessy was a strong girl of her age, rather robust 
 than tall, and was brown with being exposed to all 
 weathers; her hair was parted in front, and put 
 behind her ears, and turned up behind into a little 
 knot with a sixpenny comb which she had bought 
 at the last fair. She wore dark cotton frocks, 
 made up to the neck, but with short sleeves, 
 because her mother said it saved stuff, and was 
 more convenient for washing and cleaning ; ex- 
 cepting, however, her Sunday frock, of smart pink 
 and green print, which had long ones, and in 
 which Bessy felt herself in full dress. She wore a 
 stuff petticoat, black worsted stockings, and thick 
 shoes ; indeed, she was the pattern of a tidy, little 
 old woman. When she went to the town, she had 
 on a black bonnet, made out of an old mode cloak 
 of her grandmother's, and a cotton shawl, in which 
 she folded her gloveless arms. She could make a 
 very good bargain for potatoes, but with the pur- 
 chase of the little piece of meat intended for the 
 Sunday dinner, she was not intrusted, being, as 
 13 
 
146 A COTTAGE MliMOIli. 
 
 her mother said, too young and too inexperienced 
 to be employed in a matter of such importance. 
 She, however, bought the flour, and made the bread, 
 which was an accomplishment she took as much 
 pride in as many a fashionable young lady does in 
 the execution of a difficult piece of music, or the 
 painting of a smart pair of hand-screens ; and this 
 bread she carried to the bakehouse and fetched 
 back again ; and soon grew a connoisseur in 
 loaves, and could tell at a glance which would be 
 light and which heavy, and which, like her own, 
 would be very excellent bread indeed. 
 
 People who were out early in a morning used 
 to see Bessy Brown with her frock pinned up, in a 
 pair of pattens, with a little canvass apron, mop- 
 ping the red bricks of the floor, and the pavement 
 before their cottage door. About half past twelve 
 she was again outside the door, but at the end 
 of the house by a bench under the great pear-tree, 
 with a round iron pot filled with hot water, and a 
 wooden lid, with a nail driven into it for a handle, 
 standing beside her, washing up the dinner things. 
 In an afternoon, which was Bessy's holiday time, 
 she might be seen wandering out with the baby 
 in her arms, in its cotton bonnet and blue hand- 
 kerchief, into the pleasant fields, gathering butter- 
 cups and daisies for her little charge, or blackberries 
 for herself; or else sitting on the grass, or at the 
 house door, singing, and talking, and putting her- 
 self into all sorts of odd, entertaining attitudes, to 
 amuse the infant ; and then again in an evening, 
 
A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 147 
 
 when it was wearied out, she rocked it to sleep, 
 and gave it to the mother for the night, or else, as 
 it grew older, took it to her own little bed, and, 
 even in her deep and healthy slumbers, watched 
 over it with a love as true and tender as that of a 
 mother. 
 
 One day of Bess's life was a sample of her days 
 for four years ; for, as one baby grew into a chubby 
 child, that ran about independently and amused 
 itself, another little brother or sister succeeded to 
 his place, and kept her always nursing. But when 
 she was fourteen years old, her mother began to 
 think it was time that Bessy was earning her own 
 living ; and, as her next daughter was growing up, 
 and was able to take Bessy's place in the house, 
 she began to inquire if any family in the neigh- 
 borhood wanted a tidy girl, to help in the kitchen 
 or take care of a child. 
 
 There seemed something very pleasant and in- 
 dependent to the little girl's mind, at first, in the 
 idea of going to service : she thought of the wages 
 she should get, of the things she should buy ; talked 
 of it all day, and dreamed of it all night. At 
 length a place was found she was to be little 
 nurse-maid, at the Green Dragon, in her native 
 village. 
 
 Her mother thought that they would see Bessy 
 very often, and how they should pass the door every 
 Sunday, as they went to church ; and beside, Mrs. 
 Martin was reckoned a very good sort of woman, 
 and would, she did not doubt, prove a kind 
 
148 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 mistress ; and the baby, though a great, heavy boy, 
 to be sure, had a little yellow coach to ride in, and 
 Bessy could draw him up the road to their cottage, 
 as well as any other way, and might perhaps meet 
 her father, or one of her brothers, and they should 
 thus have a chance of news of her during the 
 week. And, though the landlord of the Green 
 Dragon was a stern man, a very dragon himself in 
 temper, it was well known that Mrs. Martin had 
 the management of the whole establishment, in- 
 cluding men and maids ; and, therefore, poor Mrs. 
 Brown persuaded herself that it was very well for 
 a first place, as times went. 
 
 It was accordingly agreed upon by all parties. 
 Although Bessy's aspirings were a little humbled, 
 in living only at the Green Dragon, instead of the 
 parsonage, or at the 'squire's, as she had hoped, 
 she tried to fancy it would be very grand to see the 
 mail-coach stop every morning with all its fine 
 passengers, and its four fine horses. On the 
 Monday morning, therefore, it was fixed that she 
 was to go. 
 
 Her poor mother had laid out all the money she 
 could save, ever since it was concluded that Bessy 
 was to go to service, in completing her little ward- 
 robe for the last time ; in future she must supply 
 it herself from her own earnings. Her few clothes 
 were put in good repair, and her heart was made 
 to overflow with gratitude, by one present from 
 her poor mother, who felt more regret in parting 
 with her good little daughter than she chose to 
 
A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 149 
 
 express and that present was her own white 
 dimity petticoat ! that beautiful garment, as 
 Bessy thought, which her mother wore and washed 
 once in a summer, to keep it a good color ; and 
 in which she was married ! the first white petti- 
 coat Bessy ever had possessed, and which was 
 tucked up and altered for her own wear : poor 
 Bessy was grateful, even to tears. All her clothes 
 were neatly put up in a small oaken chest, which, 
 together with a prayer-book, was her father's 
 present ; and on Sunday evening they sat down to 
 take their last meal all together at least for 
 some time. 
 
 This first going out to service is a great event 
 in the life of the poor ; the rich have nothing like 
 it. It is a practical going forth of a young creature 
 to seek her fortune, and often a very hard fortune 
 it turns out ; and Bessy, though a stout-hearted 
 girl, felt some natural misgivings of spirit, as to- 
 morrow, with its untried life, stood before her, at 
 the distance of but a few hours. Much was the 
 good counsel given to her by her simple-hearted 
 parents, this evening ; and many the warnings 
 drawn from the experience of her mother, who 
 herself had lived fourteen years in various ser- 
 vices. The supper things stood long unmoved 
 from the little table, before Bessy could find 
 courage to put them away, as she said to herself, 
 " for the last time." 
 
 Her sleep this night was less profound than usual ; 
 and, for the first time in her life, since the baby 
 13* 
 
150 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 died, she awoke with a depression of spirits. Long 
 and tearful was the leave-taking between her and 
 her mother and the little ones, before she had the 
 courage to follow her father, who, laden with her 
 worldly possessions, was waiting to accompany her 
 to the Green Dragon to conduct her, as it 
 were, across the threshold on her entrance into 
 life. 
 
 Bessy's first place was a very hard one. The 
 child was cross, heavy, and spoiled ; she had to 
 nurse him, to obey the petulant, fat landlord, and 
 to wait on the impatient Mrs. Martin and her 
 twenty guests at the same moment. The child 
 would not be drawn up the road in his yellow 
 coach, nor would Mrs. Martin allow her to speak 
 to her parents at the door, as they passed on their 
 way to church. Poor girl ! she began to think 
 service was very hard, and to remember, with 
 almost painful pleasure, the happy days of wander- 
 ing in the fields with her good little baby brother, 
 when she used to peep into birds' nests and gather 
 blackberries. Many a time did she cry herself to 
 sleep ; but then she remembered that her mother's 
 first service had been hard also ; that she lived with 
 a mistress who had even beaten her, and, therefore, 
 she supposed it was all in the order of things for 
 " first places" to be bad ones, and she endured her 
 troubles without complaint 
 
 Bessy, however, staid only twelve months at the 
 Green Dragon. She had been seen by the draper 
 of the next town, as, in making his round among 
 
A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 151 
 
 his country customers, he had stopped at the Green 
 Dragon, and had recommended her to his wife as 
 the neatest, quickest-handed little maiden he had 
 ever seen. Therefore, when she was out of place, 
 she was hired by the lady in question, as an attend- 
 ant upon her smart little daughter, just turned 
 three years of age. 
 
 But, in the twelve months of Bessy's hard ser- 
 vitude, she had gone through a useful discipline ; 
 she had strengthened her mind by patience and for- 
 bearance, and her unparticipated sorrows, if for a 
 time they had made her a sadder, had in the end 
 assuredly made her a wiser girl: She had also 
 grown much taller and fairer, and had altogether a 
 more trim, cultivated look. Her small wages had 
 been laid out in the supplying her wardrobe with 
 better apparel ; her hair had lost its sun-burnt look, 
 had now grown long, and was put up with- some 
 degree of taste, and she wore long-sleeved gowns 
 in an afternoon, and white cotton stockings on a 
 Sunday. Bessy was certainly bidding fair to be a 
 very comely young maiden. 
 
 She lived at the draper's for four years ; and 
 then she was nineteen years old, arid wore caps 
 and frills, and had a silk shawl, a variety of printed 
 gowns, and blue ribands in her bonnet ; besides 
 this, she had four pounds in money saved out of 
 her earnings, a smart red leather housewife, a paper 
 work-box, and a silver thimble. Poor Bessy ! she 
 began to feel how pleasant it was to have some 
 little property of her own. After she had lived 
 
152 
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 four years at the draper's, Miss Mary Ann was 
 sent to a boarding-school, and her services were 
 no longer wanted either to accompany the little 
 girl in her walks, or to get up her white muslin 
 dresses when they were washed ; Bessy was there- 
 fore again out of place. 
 
 This latter, unlike Bessy's first situation, had 
 been one of comparative ease; for her mistress, 
 who loved and lived in all bodily comforts herself, 
 took care that her servants, were it only for the 
 credit of the house, should not have great cause 
 of complaint; nevertheless, she was a cross-tem- 
 pered, exact woman, and her servants obeyed her as 
 much in fear as love. Still Bessy always thought 
 herself extre'mely well off: she had been indulged 
 with a journey to the sea-side when her mistress 
 and Miss Mary Ann went there for the benefit of 
 sea-bathing, and had always the reputation of being 
 a favorite in the family. Occasional troubles, it is 
 true, Bessy had, but these left no unpleasant memo- 
 ries behind ; and she parted from her mistress with 
 tears in her eyes and a true sorrow at her heart : 
 in return she received, as a parting present, a gown 
 of one of the best prints in her master's shop. 
 
 When, on leaving this place, Bessy paid a visit 
 to her parents, and, in her very best apparel, a 
 tall and comely young woman, made her first ap- 
 pearance at church, all her old companions looked 
 upon her as a person whose acquaintance would 
 be very creditable to them. Her mother, too, with 
 a very pardonable pride, when the service was over, 
 
A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 153 
 
 stopped on purpose that the clergyman and his wife 
 might see her. A proud and happy woman was 
 she, when they acknowledged her deepcourtsey and 
 that of the daughter, with a very gracious smile, 
 of which she gave half the credit to Bessy's re- 
 spectable appearance. The 'squire's lady, too, 
 waited to see them pass, and then turned and 
 spoke to her handsome daughter, something which 
 Mrs. Brown was sure, in her own mind, was to 
 Bessy's advantage ; and the poor woman walked 
 home, the happiest mother in the whole congrega- 
 tion. " I always thought she would be a credit to 
 us," she said to herself; " such a tidy, notable 
 girl! I hope Mary, and Jane, and little Sarah, 
 will turn out as well ! " 
 
 The next day, to the great joy of Bessy's mother, 
 the clergyman's pony-chaise stopped at their cot- 
 tage door, and in a few minutes his lady entered, 
 to make inquiries respecting her. If she could 
 have a good character from her last place, she said, 
 she could offer her a situation, in her own family. 
 Bessy's good conscience assured her, in a moment, 
 all would be right; and blushing, and full of ill- 
 concealed joy, she thanked the kind lady for the 
 X)ffer a thousand times. A favorable character was 
 soon received from her late mistress, and in two 
 weeks' time the dream of Bessy's childhood was 
 realized, and she and her personal property, now 
 occupying two tolerably large paper trunks, beside 
 the little oaken chest before mentioned, were re- 
 moved to the beautiful parsonage. Here she lived 
 
154 
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 five years, a happy and respectable servant, fulfil- 
 ling every duty, and with a conscience void of of- 
 fence ; and at the end of that time only left it to 
 be married to her fellow-servant, the gardener, 
 as steady arid industrious a young man as even 
 Mrs. Brown herself could desire for her dutiful 
 daughter. 
 
THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 IT came to pass, in the days of old, that the men 
 of Holland found themselves straitened in their 
 habitations ; for who knows not that they were, 
 from the first, a sober, hardy, and industrious race, 
 tilling the ground, buying and selling, eating and 
 drinking in humility 1 and therefore they lived to a 
 good old age, and " sent forth their little ones like 
 a flock, and their children danced ; " so that, their 
 land being small, they filled it brimful of inhabit- 
 ants, till they were ready to overflow all its borders. 
 And they looked this way, and that way, and they 
 said, " What shall we do? for the people are many, 
 and the land is small, and we are much straitened 
 for room?" So they called together the chief 
 men of their nation, and they held a great council, 
 to consider what they must do. And, behold, there 
 arose amongst them a man unlike the men of the 
 land ; for they were short, and broad, and well- 
 formed in body, of a solemn and quiet counte- 
 nance, and clad in peaceable garments; but he 
 was tall, and bony, and of a grim and hairy aspect. 
 He had a great, hard hand, and a fiercQ eye ; his 
 clothes had a wild look ; he had ' a sword by his 
 
156 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 side,, a spear in his grasp, and his name was Van 
 Manslaughter. 
 
 With a glad, but a savage gaze, he looked round 
 upon the assembly, and said, " Fellow citizens ! I 
 marvel at your perplexity. You sit quietly at home, 
 and know nothing of the world ; but I and my fol- 
 lowers have pursued the deer and the boar far away 
 into the forests of Germany. We have fought 
 with the wolf and the bear, and, if need were, 
 with the men of the woods ; and enjoy our hunt- 
 ing, and to eat of our prey with joy and jollity. 
 Why sit ye here in a crowd, like sheep penned in 
 a fold ? We have seen the land that is next to 
 ours, and we have been through it to the length of 
 it, and to the breadth of it, and it is a good land. 
 There are corn and wine ; there are cities, towns, 
 and villages ready built to our hands. Let us arise 
 and come suddenly upon them, and we shall not 
 only get all these possessions, but we shall get 
 great glory." And when he l^d so said, he looked 
 round him with much exultation, and a crowd of 
 dark, hairy faces behind him cried out, " Ay, it is 
 true ! Let us arise and get great glory ! " 
 
 But at that word, there stood up Mynheer Kinder- 
 mann, an old man, a very old man. He was of 
 low stature, of a stout, broad frame, and his hair, 
 which was very white, hung down upon his shoul- 
 ders: and his beard also, as white as driven snow, 
 fell reverently upon his breast. That old man had 
 a large and tranquil countenance; his features 
 were bold, and of a very healthful complexion ; 
 
THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 157 
 
 his face, though of a goodly breadth, was of a 
 striking length, for his forehead was bold and high, 
 and his eyes had a pleasant fire-side expression, as 
 though he had been used only to behold his chil- 
 dren and his children's children at their play, or to 
 fix them on the loving forms of his wife or his 
 friend. As he arose, there was a great silence, and 
 he stood and sighed ; and those who were near 
 him heard him mutter, in a low tone, the word 
 "Glory," but those afar off only saw his lips move. 
 Then he said aloud, " My brethren ! I am glad 
 that you are called upon to get great glory ; but 
 what is that glory to which Mynheer Van Man- 
 slaughter calls you ? In my youth, as some of you 
 well know, I travelled far and wide with my mer- 
 chandise; I have sojourned in all the countries 
 that adjoin ours, and they are truly good countries, 
 and full of people ; but what of that ? It is not 
 people that we lack ; it is land ; and I should like 
 to know how we are to take this land, that is full 
 of people, and yet do those people no wrong ! If 
 we go to take that land, we shall find the people 
 ready to defend their homes and their children ; 
 and if we fight in a bad cause, we shall probably get 
 beaten, like thieves and robbers, for our pains ; 
 and is that glory ? But if we are able to take that 
 land, we must first kill or drive out those that cul- 
 tivate it, and make it fit to live in ; and is that 
 glory? And if we take those cities, and towns, 
 and villages, we must kill those who built them, or 
 have lived pleasantly in them, with God's blessing. 
 14 
 
158 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 O! what honest, inoffensive men, what good, 
 kind-hearted mothers, what sweet and tender 
 brothers and sisters, what dear little babes we must 
 murder and destroy, or drive away from their warm 
 homes, which God has given them, and which are 
 almost as dear to them as their lives, into the dis- 
 mal forests, to perish with cold and hunger, or to 
 be devoured by wild beasts, and, in their anguish, 
 to curse us before the Great Father who made us 
 all ! My brethren, I cannot think that is glory, 
 but great disgrace and infamy, and a misery that, 
 I trust, shall never come upon us. 
 
 " I have long looked about me, and I see that 
 Heaven has given all those countries round us to 
 whom he would, and they are full of people; they 
 are full of rich fields and vineyards ; they are full 
 of towns for men, and temples for God ; they are 
 full of warm, bright, happy homes, where there 
 are proud fathers, and glad mothers, and innocent 
 children, as amongst ourselves j^ind cursed be he 
 who would disturb or injure them. 
 
 " But, my brethren, how shall we get glory ? and, 
 what is of more immediate necessity, how shall we 
 get land to live in ? I have been thinking of this, 
 and it has come into my mind that it has been too 
 long the custom for men to call themselves warriors 
 when they desire to be murder ers, and to invade 
 the property and the lives of their neighbors ; and 
 I have thought, as all the land is taken up, and as 
 we cannot without great sin invade the land, that 
 we had better invade the sea, where we can take, 
 
THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 159 
 
 and wrong no man. And who does not know, 
 that has looked towards the sea, that there is much 
 ground which seems properly to belong neither to 
 the sea nor the land? Sometimes it is covered 
 with the waters, and sometimes it is partly bare, 
 a dreary, slimy, and profitless region, inhabited 
 only by voracious crabs, that make war upon one 
 another, the stronger upon the weaker, and 
 sea-fowl, which come in like conquerors and subdue 
 them, and devour them, and get what Van Man- 
 slaughter calls ' great glory.' My brethren, let 
 us invade the sea, let us get piles, and beams, 
 and stones, and dig up the earth, and make a large 
 mound which will shut out the sea, and we shall 
 have land enough and to spare." 
 
 As he finished his speech, there arose a deep 
 murmur, that grew and grew, till it spread among 
 the people collected in thousands without, and at 
 length became like the sound of the ocean itself; 
 and then the people cried out, " Yes, we will in- 
 vade the sea ! " and so it was decreed. Then 
 began they with axes to fell wood ; with levers and 
 mattocks to wrench up stones ; and with wagons, 
 horses, and oxen, to lead them to the sea. Now, 
 it being the time of low water, and the tide being 
 gone down very far, they began to dig up the earth, 
 and to make a mighty bank. So when the sea 
 came up again, it saw the bank and the people 
 upon it in great numbers ; but it took no notice 
 thereof. And it went down, and came up again, 
 and they had pushed out the bank still further, and 
 
160 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 raised it higher, and secured it with beams, and piles, 
 and huge stones, and it began to wonder. And it 
 went down, and came up again, and they had pushed 
 the bank still further, so that, in great amaze, 
 it said within itself, <4 What are these little insig- 
 nificant creatures doing ? Some great scheme is 
 in their heads, but I wot not what ; and one of 
 these days I will come up and overturn their banks 
 and sweep both it and them away together." But, 
 at length, as it came up once on a time, it beheld 
 that the bank was finished. It stretched across 
 from land to land, and the sea was entirely shut 
 out. Then was it filled with wonder that such 
 little creatures had done so amazing a deed ; and 
 with great indignation that they had presumed to 
 interrupt the progress of itself the mighty sea, 
 which stretched round the whole world, and was 
 the greatest moving thing in it. Retreating in 
 fury, it collected all its strength, and came with all 
 its billows, and struck the bank in the midst as 
 with thunder. In a moment there appeared on 
 the top of the mound, on the whole length of it, 
 a swarm of little stout men, thick as a swarm of 
 bees. Marvellous was it to see how that throng 
 of little creatures was all astir, running here, and 
 running there ; stopping up crevices, and repair- 
 ing damages done by that vast and tremendous 
 enemy, that, roaring and foaming, repeated its 
 blows like the strokes of a million of battering- 
 rams, till the faces of the men were full of fear, 
 and they said, " Surely the mound will fall ! " 
 
THE HONEST DUTCHMAN, 161 
 
 Then came the sea, swelling and raging more 
 dreadfully than ever, and, urged by the assistance 
 of a mighty wind, it thundered against the bank 
 and burst it ! The waters flowed triumphantly 
 over all their old places, and many men perished. 
 
 Then went Van Manslaughter amongst the 
 people with great joy, and many loud words, say- 
 ing, " See what has come of despising my counsel ! 
 See what glory your old counsellor has brought 
 you to ! Come now, follow me, and I will lead 
 you to possessions where you need not fear the 
 sea. Let us leave it to people this bog with fish. 
 I am for no new-fangled schemes, but for the good 
 old /plan of fair and honorable war, which has 
 been the highway to wealth and glory from the 
 beginning of the world." 
 
 Then began the people to be very sad, and to 
 listen to his words ; but Mynheer Kindermann 
 called them again to him, and bid them be of good 
 heart, and to repair the bank ; to make it strong- 
 er, and to build towers upon it, and to appoint 
 men to dwell in them, that they might continually 
 watch over and strengthen it. So the people took 
 courage and did so ; for they said, " Let us take 
 no man's goods, and let us do no murder." There- 
 fore they renewed the mound, and the sea came 
 up in tenfold wrath, and smote it worse than be- 
 fore ; but it was all in vain. It failed not, save a 
 little here and there ; and the people, seeing it, set 
 up a great shout, and cried, " The mound will 
 stand ! " 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 Then did they begin to dig and drain, to plant 
 trees, to build towns, and to lay out gardens ; and 
 it became a beautiful country. Then the inhabit- 
 ants rejoiced, saying, " Others have invaded lands 
 and killed people, but we have hurt no man. We 
 have only invaded the sea, and Heaven has made 
 us out of it a goodly heritage ! " 
 
 These are the people whose wealth and indus- 
 try are known through the whole world. They 
 have sent out colonies to the ends of the earth, 
 and have got themselves the name of the Honest 
 Dutchmen: Would that they had always been as 
 wise and merciful as they were on that day ! 
 
 W. H. 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE* 
 
 PART 1. 
 
 HOW EVIL WAS DONE THAT GOOD MIGHT COME 
 OF IT. 
 
 AT a great public school, conducted by the 
 learned Dr. Reader, and many ushers and masters 
 of many varieties and branches of knowledge, 
 there were three notable boys the tallest boy 
 in the school, the least boy in the school, and the 
 fattest boy in the school, Charles, Harry, and 
 George, who, from their remarkable names of 
 Salmon, Lion, and Sparrow, were jestingly called 
 Fish, Flesh, and Fowl. They had nomen, preno- 
 men, and cognomen. Charles was also called 
 King, because he was above his fellows; Harry, 
 Lord, because he possessed the fat of the land ; 
 and George, Commons, because of his spare per- 
 son and somewhat meagre aspect. Others again 
 distinguished them as Thread-paper, Apple-dump- 
 ling, and Lean Kine. They, however, there being 
 a sworn league of amity amongst them, had given 
 themselves the title of " The Triangle : " we, 
 
164 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 therefore, will adopt their own appellation, and 
 thus style them. So much for their names. 
 
 Now, the Triangle, besides their remarkable exte- 
 riors, possessed rare accomplishments ; they were 
 the b'est sliders, kite-flyers, top-spinners, and crick- 
 eters, in the school. They had, moreover, each 
 his own peculiar gift, which was exercised for 
 general edification. Charles Salmon, the tall boy, 
 had a wonderful talent for singing ; his voice was 
 clear, melodious, and full of power and expression, 
 and his performances in this way often electrified 
 the whole play-ground, when the learned head of 
 Dr. Reader himself, in his white wig, had been 
 seen popping out of the study-window, with an air 
 of abstraction, or else nodding time to the tune, 
 while it was very shrewdly conjectured, especially 
 by those who had seen them, that many an usher 
 likewise sought out such commodious nooks and 
 corners, as would give him the melody without 
 making him visible to the urchin crew over whom 
 he exercised authority. 
 
 Henry Lion, the lean boy, was a prodigious 
 mimic, and acted with inimitable humor every 
 whimsical character from Punch to Sir John Fal- 
 staff, to whom, however, he was in bulk a singular 
 contrast. Nevertheless, he contrived, by some 
 cunning of his own, to swell himself forth, and 
 appear no Jack Straw in the performance. 
 
 The talent of George Sparrow was that of tale- 
 telling. A very Scheherazade was he in this ac- 
 complishment. Grave or gay, horrible, fantastical 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 165 
 
 or pathetic, George Sparrow had a tale for all 
 times and humors. Happy was the boy who was 
 his bed-fellow, to whom he would tell tales till the 
 morning bell rang ; and yet it must be confessed to 
 his shame, that into one little fellow, who had for 
 three months this honor, he instilled so much terror 
 by his tales of ghosts, hobgoblins, and bloody mur- 
 ders, that he fell into what is called a low way, and 
 only recovered by the intervention of his mother, 
 who took him home and nursed him for a whole 
 winter. 
 
 Other circumstances made the Triangle not 
 less remarkable than respectable; they had never 
 known the infliction of chastisement from either 
 cane or ferula. Each had been at school three 
 years, and, though they came from different coun- 
 ties, had all entered the same day. They had all 
 gone honorably and speedily forward with their 
 school-learning, each first in some particular 
 branch of knowledge, so that with mathematical^ 
 classical y and English tutors, as with the head- 
 master himself, they stood high in estimation. It 
 was a singular Triangle, all the three sides so 
 various, yet, as a whole, according so perfectly ; 
 and it may be questioned, whether ever a friend- 
 ship was formed between two persons, but, as- 
 suredly, seldom among three, in which there was 
 a greater unity of purpose and affection. They 
 were the David and Jonathan the Orestes and 
 Pylades of the school ; and from the solemn Dr. 
 Reader himself, down to -J$& little Hans Fuggen- 
 
166 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 felt, the Dutch boy, who was the most ineffable 
 blockhead in the school, every body gave them 
 fair words and favor. 
 
 So stood the Triangle after the midsummer 
 holidays, when a great boy, half knave and half 
 dunce, one Nathaniel, or, as he was commonly 
 called, Nat Simpkins, became a scholar, and, ac- 
 cording to his abilities, which were prodigious in 
 this line, proceeded to set the school by the ears. 
 The Triangle, being most conspicuous for general 
 favor, was the first object of his jealousy. He 
 drew a party of weak-minded boys to his side, and 
 began by artfully insinuating suspicions of under- 
 hand proceedings on the part of the Triangle ; 
 plainly expressing his belief that they were only 
 spared punishment, corporal punishment especially, 
 from the partiality of Dr. Reader ; while he, the 
 exemplary Nathaniel Simpkins, who was, accord- 
 ing to his own showing, superior to them in every 
 respect, and who had been at the school but two 
 months, had been flogged a dozen times, had 
 learned two dozen tasks, and had been otherwise 
 publicly disgraced seventeen times. The thing, 
 he said, was as plain as daylight ; and half the 
 school began to give him credit for great sagacity 
 in the discovery. The next thing he did, was to 
 caricature the doctor, by painting him in his bag- 
 wig and gown, wearing triangular spectacles, and 
 flogging the whole school with birch-rod and ferula. 
 This took prodigiously : any novelty soon wins 
 partisans; and such a thing as a division, or two 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 167 
 
 sides, in this little community, was so new, that, 
 before many days were over, half the school joined 
 his party, and were violent accordingly. Simpkins 
 and his party resolved never to be reconciled to 
 the Triangulars, till their leaders had undergone 
 some disgraceful punishment ; they therefore art- 
 fully went to work, reproached them with being 
 favorites, and cast endless reflections on the 
 doctor for blind partiality. The Triangle vio- 
 lently resented these reflections on the doctor, vin- 
 dicated him from the charge of partiality, and 
 maintained that if they, or any of them, were 
 worthy of punishment, punishment they would 
 receive. 
 
 " Prove it ! prove it ! Show us that the doctor 
 is impartial, and we will be friends ! " was the 
 reply. 
 
 The Triangle were but boys ; they meant well, 
 but they argued ill. 
 
 " We will prove it I " cried the first. 
 
 " We will be the champions of Dr. Reader's fair 
 fame ! " responded the second. 
 
 " We will make ourselves worthy of punishment, 
 to show you that the good doctor is incapable of 
 injustice ! " echoed the third. 
 
 It was at the extremity of the play-ground, under 
 the dim shade of the old yew trees, that this 
 singular knight-errantry was sworn, with twenty 
 boys on either side as witnesses. At the conclu- 
 sion of the ceremony, Arthur Meynell, a firm ad- 
 herent of the Triangulars, so renowned for the 
 
168 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 general correctness of his conduct and opinions, 
 that he was commonly surnamed " The Con- 
 ^cience," boldly stepped into the midst, warned 
 the Triangle of their folly and danger, and con- 
 cluded by saying, that "The Triangle ought to 
 have more sense than to displease the doctor, and 
 disgrace themselves, for a set of idle fellows like 
 those ! " 
 
 " Coward, fool, meddler ; pitiful and sneaking ! " 
 these were the best words that " The Con- 
 science" got from Simpkins and his party; and 
 the Triangulars were all too busy to listen to him. 
 
 The next day the Triangle held a cabinet council 
 which lasted three hours and three quarters. The 
 result of their deliberations was a plan, according 
 to the best authority, suggested by Sparrow, some- 
 what improved upon by Salmon, and finally put 
 into accomplishable form by Harry Lion. 
 
 What that plan was, and how it was executed, 
 we will proceed to relate. 
 
 PART II. 
 THE HISTORY OF TWO DAYS. 
 
 IT was a fine September morning, warm and 
 glowing ; the harvest was mostly got in, the orchard 
 and gardens were full of beautiful fruit, as the 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 169 
 
 Triangle, having escaped at three o'clock in the 
 morning from an upper window, walked briskly 
 along a wooded lane, three miles from the school 
 village. 
 
 They had undertaken a three days' ramble round 
 the country, intending no where to exceed nine 
 miles distance from their centre, the school ; being 
 whimsically determined to direct all their move- 
 ments, in these three days, by their own number. 
 Each boy had three shillings in his pocket ; they 
 were to live as merrily as might be, to turn to 
 account each his own peculiar gift in gaining their 
 daily bread and their night's lodging, and what 
 they could not obtain for love they were to buy 
 with money. At all events, they determined, as 
 far as in them lay, that these three days should be 
 merry ones, come what would afterwards ; and all 
 along they made their minds easy by persuading 
 themselves that they were champions in the best 
 cause in the world. 
 
 At six o'clock, they came to a milkmaid who 
 was singing ; from her they obtained a draught of 
 milk, and then proceeded onward, passing through 
 a little town, where they bought bread and cheese, 
 upon which they dined. Leaving the town then, 
 they saw, to the right of the road, a pleasant hollow 
 overshadowed by trees ; they entered it, and, ther<? 
 lying down, Charles sang " Barbara Allen's Cruel- 
 ty," after which they all three went very comfort- 
 ably to sleep. When they awoke, they found tne 
 sun beginning to sink, and, looking round, they 
 15 
 
170 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 saw a farm-house below them, half buried in rich 
 orchard trees, loaded with bright, golden apples. 
 No schoolboy can resist an apple, and therefore, 
 if they had not wanted something more substantial, 
 as they did, they would instinctively have gone 
 down. 
 
 At the door they met a stout, rosy-faced, loud- 
 spoken dame, stripped to her stays and green- 
 quilted petticoat, who accosted them cheerfully. 
 They told her they wanted their supper, and a 
 night's lodging ; she laughed merrily, and called 
 them " impudent beggars," and " lazy varlets," 
 and yet said they were welcome to all her house 
 contained. She then brought them into the large 
 kitchen, set them down to a black oak table, and 
 gave them whey and new bread, fresh laid eggs, 
 and broiled bacon. It was an excellent feast ; they 
 never had been so hungry in all their lives before, 
 and never had enjoyed any thing half as much. 
 When they had finished this luxurious meal, as the 
 good dame had said nothing about the night's 
 lodging, they rose up to depart ; but she stopped 
 them, saying, " O no ! after such a meal's meat as 
 that, she must have some work out of them, and 
 therefore they must stop and help her son in apple- 
 gathering ; " adding, that " it was lucky they had 
 come, for if they were only half as ready with 
 their hands as they had been with their mouths, 
 they would be a famous help for poor Ned ! " 
 
 The Triangle was very well pleased, and before 
 long poor Ned made his appearance ; a great 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 171 
 
 gawky lad of seventeen, walking like a cart-horse, 
 and looking as shamefaced as an owl in the sun- 
 shine, when he saw the three " young gentlemen " 
 whom his mother proposed to him as his asso- 
 ciates in the apple-gathering. The apple-gathering, 
 however, soon made them very good friends, and 
 then they were merry altogether. Merry in the 
 orchard ; merry too in the house into which they 
 carried baskets full and bags full, bags full and 
 baskets full, of the most delicious apples, until the 
 good dame herself was tired of reckoning them ; 
 she all the while laughing and talking, praising 
 the Triangle, praising the apples, and praising her 
 Ned. 
 
 After this labor, or rather pastime, and a second 
 hearty supper of roasted apples and new milk, they 
 all sate down by the great kitchen fire, which was 
 made of logs laid on the hearth. And a jovial 
 party they were ! There was the dame ; poor 
 Ned ; his father, a quiet old man, who said nothing 
 at all, and yet seemed to enjoy every thing ; two 
 round-faced, laughing country girls, and two sleepy, 
 slow-footed lads, ten times duller and heavier th-ni 
 poor Ned himself, and the merry Triangle in the 
 midst, singing songs, telling tales, and acting all 
 humorous and whimsical characters whatever. 
 There they sate at nine o'clock at night; and 
 there they sate at two o'clock in the morning , 
 and then the good woman, who had laughed and 
 cried alternately for so many hours, hurried her 
 three strange guests up stairs into her best chamber, 
 
172 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 in which were also deposited cheese, spun flax, 
 fleeces, and woollen Wares ; and wishing them a 
 good night's rest, left them to sleep between the 
 blankets, three in a bed. 
 
 The Triangle slept as sound as a top. The 
 cock had long done crowing; poor Ned and his 
 father were out in the fields, and the dame and her 
 maids busy at their household work, when the 
 Triangle made its way once more into the spacious 
 kitchen. And then what a breakfast they had ! 
 The supper over night was nothing to it i There 
 was milk and coffee, and oat-cakes and barley- 
 cakes, eggs and honey, wheaten bread and spice 
 bread, and various sorts of country dainties, with 
 and without names. Thus having banqueted, they 
 again set forth ; their merry and kind-hearted 
 hostess leaving her cheese-pans to see them across 
 farm-yard and orchard, and over two fields, a 
 croft and meadow, before she could make up her 
 mind to part with them. 
 
 " Fortune has hitherto favored us!" said the 
 Triangle ; " what will be our fate to-day ? " 
 
 But that day brought a thunder-storm which 
 lasted, from the first heavy drops that came before, 
 to the skirts of the storm that came after, from 
 eleven o'clock till three ; and the poor Triangle, 
 sadly against its will, took shelter under an oak- 
 treo. Do what he would to prevent it, all sort 
 of dismal tales of men struck blind by lightning, 
 and women and children struck dead with thunder- 
 bolts, came into the head of George, and for his 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 173 
 
 life he could not help telling them ; so there they 
 stood, expecting every flash of lightning to leave 
 them blind or dead! But the storm passed over 
 without injuring them; and, excepting being wet 
 to the skin, they were no worse for it. 
 
 On, therefore, they proceeded, out of the old 
 pasture fields where they had sheltered, into a long, 
 wooded, and pleasant lane ; and here they had not 
 gone far before they were overtaken by their quon- 
 dam schoolfellow, Dick Deriton, now called Mr. 
 Richard Deriton, or the young 'Squire. He was 
 mounted on a fine racer, and was riding gayly 
 along, giving the reins to his horse, and letting it 
 go at its own pace ; he checked it, however, when, 
 to his astonishment, he saw his old companions. 
 
 " Heyday, Triangle !" cried he; "what brings 
 you here? " 
 
 It was soon told. Deriton enjoyed the joke 
 amazingly, leaped from his horse, and throwing the 
 reins on its neck, joined them, and the sagacious 
 animal walked leisurely after its master. 
 
 " You shall sleep at our house to-night," said 
 Deriton ; " my father is gone to the races, and 
 doesn't return till to-morrow; so I'll invite my 
 friends, the Wigtons, and we'll have for once a 
 merry night of it ! " 
 
 " Excellent ! " said the Triangle. 
 
 " You shall sing songs, and tell tales, and per- 
 form comedy," continued Deriton, " and you shall 
 be encored till the house rings ! " 
 
 And they were encored till the house rang ! 
 15* 
 
174 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 There they were, in the great dining-room, where 
 they had had an excellent dinner, the chandeliers 
 lighted, the large table drawn to one end for a stage, 
 and steward, butler, groom, stable-boy, gardener, 
 house-keeper, and half-a-dozen women servants, all 
 for audience ; and poor little Harry swelled out 
 for Sir John Falstaff, hectoring and killing a hun- 
 dred men at a blow, when O unlucky mis- 
 chance ! in came no other than the old 'Squire 
 himself, all fire and fury, swearing and blustering 
 like ten troopers ! Here began a second act in 
 the comedy; out hurried one at one door, and 
 another at another ; one got behind a screen, and 
 another under a table ; and the old asthmatical 
 butler, as ill-luck would have it, behind the chim- 
 ney-board, where, on account of his terrible cough, 
 which the dust he disturbed set a-going, it was vain 
 to think of concealment. 
 
 The storm of thunder and lightning was nothing 
 to the 'Squire's storm of passion ; the Wigtons 
 were sent home instanter, with orders to wait for 
 his invitation before they came again : every ser- 
 vant had orders to leave, from the old steward 
 who had served the family for fifty years, to the 
 kitchen girl who came but the day before. Young 
 'Deriton was threatened with being disinherited, (a 
 threat which had been too often repeated to be 
 much dreaded,) and the Triangle locked up in a 
 chamber, with a promise of being sent back in the 
 morning to Doctor Reader, with such a character 
 as the 'Squire thought they deserved. All this 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 175 
 
 being done, he sate himself down to his bottle, which 
 he did not leave till twelve o'clock. 
 
 The Triangle deliberately consulted on the state 
 of affairs, and thought it best to be stirring early, 
 at least if they could but get their chamber-door 
 unlocked, for the key was at the other side. But 
 they were helped out of this dilemma by young 
 Deriton, who made his appearance in their cham- 
 ber by daybreak, and bade them begone, giving 
 each of them a small loaf, and praying them to 
 walk softly. The Triangle thought itself very 
 happy when it was safely out at the back door, and 
 walked hastily forth through the dewy shrubbery, 
 and among the sweet-smelling and aromatic trees 
 and flowers of the garden, and then took leave of 
 the young 'Squire at the park gate, who, in spite 
 of his assumed carelessness, they could not help 
 suspecting, wished that his father had found them 
 less jocose than they were at his entrance. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OP THE THIRD DAY, AND THE END OF THE 
 ADVENTURE. 
 
 A LITTLE sobered perhaps with the catastrophe 
 of the last evening, the Triangle walked on over 
 hills and by wood sides, and across a wide, open 
 
176 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 common, crimsoned with the beautiful heath- 
 flowers, and along the hollows of which ran a 
 bright, living rivulet, murmuring like a sweet voice, 
 and glittering in the sunshine. The Triangle went 
 across the heath and by the water-side before 
 meeting with any adventure, or seeing any thing 
 more extraordinary than the brisk little furze 
 wren, and the green and golden beetles of the com- 
 mon, and the quick-darting trouts that were seen 
 for a moment and then gone, in the clear water of 
 the beautiful little brook. At the other end of the 
 common stood a small hamlet, which they entered, 
 and where they purchased a good supply of pro- 
 vision ; for, after all this rambling in the fresh morn- 
 ing air, they were hungry enough. Leaving the 
 village, they struck into some quiet, retired fields, 
 in every one of which stood a new haystack, and, 
 seating themselves under one of them which stood 
 in the prettiest sylvan nook imaginable, they began 
 eagerly to discuss the contents of their wallet. 
 
 Now it happened that about two fields' distance 
 from the place where they sate, and directly op- 
 posite to it, were three little hills, and, as their 
 eyes were ever on the watch for occasion of merri- 
 ment, or for subjects of curious speculation, they 
 beheld three men standing, one upon each of these 
 eminences, evidently looking around them in quest 
 of something. North, south, east, and west, they 
 turned, with spyglasses in their hands, to enable 
 them to perceive any small or distant objects, which 
 they ever and anon applied to their eyes, looking 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 177 
 
 round them with great assiduity. They stood up, 
 clear and distinct in the bright light, the morning 
 sun behind them, and were not for a moment to 
 be mistaken ; Mathematical, Classical, and Eng- 
 lish teachers in the renowned school of Dr. Reader. 
 Away went the Triangle behind the rick, intending 
 from this post narrowly to watch, and for the 
 present to elude their pursuers. 
 
 In a short time the three men of learning, having 
 satisfied themselves, came down from their eleva- 
 tion, and before long entered the very meadow in 
 which the Triangle lay concealed ; and presently 
 afterwards, thus came the words of Rhomboid, the 
 mathematician, as they passed by : 
 
 " Twenty-seven miles have I walked ; forty-five 
 miles and a half have I ridden ; at eleven houses, 
 and from a hundred and three persons, have I made 
 inquiries ; and yet all my labor has been in vain." 
 
 " So it is," replied Remus, the master of the 
 classics ; " fag in doors, fag out of doors ; a school- 
 master's life is like a dog's ! " 
 
 " Grumble as you will," rejoined Lemuel Pros- 
 ody, " I hope they've enjoyed their ramble as much 
 as I've enjoyed mine. Sparrow is a prodigy of 
 learning, and if my good word will save them from 
 a flogging, they shall have it for his sake." 
 
 " Now, Heaven bless you ! " whispered Sparrow, 
 when the three wise men had passed by, unwitting 
 of their auditors. 
 
 " They may fag on, poor dogs," said Salmon ; 
 " but they'll not hunt us out for all that ! " 
 
178 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 " There they go," said Lion, " due north, and 
 we'll go south, and meet to-morrow morning at 
 breakfast." 
 
 It was now past noon ; and the Triangle had 
 entered within the bounds of their occasional 
 rambles ; and being three miles from the school, 
 were as near as they deemed it safe to venture. 
 They, therefore, turned on to a wild extent of hilly 
 and open land, the remains of an ancient chase. 
 It was full of deep, quiet hollows, the steep banks 
 of which were covered with tall, green bracken 
 and crimson betony. No pleasanter place could 
 be imagined for a summer-day stroll than this, and 
 to this they came ; and lay down all their lengths, 
 in one of its most secluded hollows. After they 
 had lain here for about half an hour, and when 
 Sparrow was in the middle of one of his most di- 
 verting stories, they beheld what, to their startled 
 imaginations, appeared no other than the veritable 
 Doctor Reader himself, mounted on a strong gray 
 horse, riding up the hollow directly opposite to 
 them. 
 
 It perhaps was cowardly to fly, and yet fly they 
 did, up one hollow, and down another, winding 
 about, so as, if possible, to escape pursuit. The 
 horseman spoke not a word, for, trusting to his 
 strong, well-trained horse, he was sure of the 
 chase. Salmon and Lion cleared the ground like 
 greyhounds ; the one helped by length of limb, the 
 other by lightness of body, soon distancing poor 
 Sparrow, who was memorably deficient in these 
 
Tin: TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 179 
 
 two particulars, and who felt himself already in the 
 clutches of the angry doctor. 
 
 " Stop, you terrified fool ! " cried the horseman, 
 suddenly wheeling his horse round so as to inter- 
 cept Sparrow ; " stop, in the name of common 
 sense, and direct me the way to Wimbleton ! " 
 
 These words restored Sparrow at once to his 
 senses, and, out of breath as he was, he gave the 
 required information, Wimbleton being the village 
 where they had last stopped. The stranger laughed 
 till he almost bent to his saddle-bow, called him 
 "a cowardly blockhead" for his pains, and rode 
 briskly back again. 
 
 By this time Salmon and Lion had returned to 
 their companion, intending to give themselves up 
 also to justice, expecting to find him with his hands 
 tied behind his back, laid across the horse like a 
 sheep taken for slaughter. 
 
 Despite now all their endeavors to resist the 
 enemy, a feeling of despondency crept over their 
 spirits. They sat down again, intending to wait 
 till the moon rose before they proceeded home ; 
 but no song was sung, no tale told, and, which was 
 strange even to themselves, they sat in silence for 
 a quarter of an hour. 
 
 At eleven o'clock that night, either by popping 
 in at the keyhole, or scaling the walls, or walking 
 in at the hall-door in invisible jackets, the Triangle, 
 unknown to the whole household, (at least so it 
 seemed,) entered their chamber, and lay down in 
 
180 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 their respective beds, in which they soundly slept 
 till the morning-bell rang. 
 
 " Now, Simpkins," said they, as they entered the 
 room, where the boys were drawn up rank and file 
 for prayers, waiting the entrance of the masters^ 
 " now, Simpkins, for a proof of the doctor's im- 
 partiality ! " 
 
 In came the solemn doctor; in came every 
 tutor and usher. Not a word was said; pray- 
 ers were regularly gone through, and a silence 
 like death followed. 
 
 Presently an under-master went out, and re- 
 turned with three chains, each having, at its ex- 
 tremities, manacles, as if to enclose the wrist and 
 ankle. Some of the little boys shuddered ; some 
 turned pale; but the Triangle stood firm, and 
 looked neither ashamed nor terrified. 
 
 " Young gentlemen," said the doctor, ad- 
 dressing the three offenders in a deep, stern voice ; 
 "young gentlemen, you have been three years 
 under my care, during which time you have not 
 needed punishment, hardly reproof; the conse- 
 quence of this has been, that I have boasted of 
 you publicly and privately ; I have honored your 
 industry and sobriety ; I have held you up as ex- 
 amples to your companions ; I have confided in 
 you; but I have been deceived! Gentlemen, 
 I say it with pain I have been deceived ! I can 
 boast of you, I can honor you, I can confide in 
 you no longer ! Is it possible that, from the favor 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 181 
 
 you have received from me, and which you only 
 received because you appeared to deserve it, 
 you supposed I should pass over your delinquen- 
 cies, or permit you to infringe the laws of order 
 without punishment? Corporal punishment by 
 stripes, however, you shall not receive at my hands ; 
 so far I will still respect your former unblamable 
 conduct ; but since you have forfeited my confi- 
 dence, I must secure your persons, and also make 
 you a public example to the school. 
 
 " You, perhaps, imagine me ignorant of your 
 idle wanderings, for these three days : you are 
 mistaken. I know where you have been ; what 
 company you have kept ; and how you have de- 
 meaned yourselves. 
 
 " Again I repeat it, my confidence has been 
 abused, and with deep sorrow I leave you for the 
 present to your own reflections ! Mr. Beetham, 
 do your duty." 
 
 The fetters were put on, and the Triangle, 
 bound hand and foot, went out, somewhat grave, 
 yet, nevertheless, unsubdued in aspect. As soon 
 as they entered the play-ground, a stunning shout 
 greeted them from their own party. Doctor Read- 
 er was sitting in his little back-parlor, when these 
 sounds of triumph reached him, and very much 
 disconcerted was he to hear them. There was 
 something very unaccountable to him in the whole 
 proceeding. He was mortified and amazed at 
 what seemed to him the obstinate temper of the 
 three offenders, who, to say the truth, he loved as 
 16 
 
182 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 well perhaps as he would have loved children of 
 his own, had he possessed any; and more than 
 this, for the first time in his life, he began to ques- 
 tion the power of his own eloquence, or to suspect 
 that his mode of punishment was injudicious, 
 since it produced so strange a result. Grieved, 
 therefore, and a little out of humor, he walked 
 into his study, intending to make silent but exact 
 observation on all that went forward in the play- 
 ground. Great, therefore, was his amazement, 
 when he beheld the three culprits seated on a 
 platform, and borne upon the shoulders of many 
 boys, while others ran before, waving caps and 
 handkerchiefs, and shouting " Victory ! victory ! 
 Justice, the good Doctor Reader, and the Trian- 
 gle forever ! " 
 
 o 
 
 The doctor was more amazed and bewildered 
 than before. He hastened, therefore, to the scene 
 of action, determining to have it explained, and 
 followed the triumphal procession to the yew-tree 
 walk, and there found the victors seated upon a 
 rude sort of throne, under the trees. 
 
 The unexpected appearance of the doctor 
 rather disconcerted the Triangle, who, feeling that 
 this defiance, as it were, of punishment, might 
 very justly still further displease him, wished in- 
 ternally that the whole affair were explained; but 
 as no one of the three did explain it, Arthur 
 Meynell, otherwise called "The Conscience," 
 who saw it in the same light as themselves, stepped 
 forward, and in an astonishingly short time laid: 
 
THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 183 
 
 open the whole plot ; declaring that the triumph 
 he now witnessed was only the Triangulars -re- 
 joicing that the justice and the impartiality of 
 the good doctor was unquestionably established. 
 This being said, he was so led away by his en- 
 thusiasm, that, even in presence of that grave per- 
 sonage himself, he shouted, te Justice ! the good 
 Doctor Reader, and the Triangle forever ! " in 
 which shout every boy joined, till the poor doctor 
 was half deafened by the uproar. 
 
 At length, when silence was obtained, with 
 some severity of countenance, which amazed his 
 vehement young partisans, he ordered them quiet- 
 ly to assemble in the school-room. They did so ; 
 and then he again harangued them; and not 
 only the Triangle and its party, but Nat Simpkins 
 and his. It was a long and a grave harangue; 
 and, to the doctor's satisfaction, all the school 
 looked serious ; half were in tears ; and the Tri- 
 angle felt, for the first time, and was not slow to 
 acknowledge it, how improperly and unwisely they 
 had acted; and never, while they remained at 
 school, nay, nor afterwards through the whole 
 course of their lives, did they again " do evil that 
 good might come of it." 
 
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